“Yes, yes, I did. It was bad, everyone was talking about it, speculating, you know? It was scary. She was gone.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that. I’m sorry, man, did you ever find out what happened to her?”
Ruth saw that Dix had stiffened up, his way of controlling pain, she knew, and so she said, “May we sit down, Mr. Caldicott?”
He turned to Ruth. “Sure, go ahead. Anywhere you like. The chest isn’t very comfortable, though. When Whitney and I get married, I plan on inviting her mother to sit there.”
They chose the Victorian sofa with the big red cabbage roses.
David Caldicott sat on the floor in front of them and leaned back against the Spanish chest. “Hey, you guys want anything to drink? I think Whitney opened some wine. Oh, sorry, you’re cops, you can’t drink.”
Ruth smiled down at him. “We’re fine, Mr. Caldicott. You have a lovely home.”
He beamed, relaxed a bit. “Thank you. I bought it three years ago when I moved here. I’m fixing it up myself and decorating it myself. The upstairs is still pretty empty, needs some work, especially the bathrooms, but I’m taking my time, finding exactly the right pieces, the right tile and design, you know?” Dix said, “Did you know my wife, Mr. Caldicott?” He nodded and said, “Well, yeah, most of the students knew her or knew who she was. She was awful pretty and really nice. She came to most of the concerts. I know her uncle was Dr. Golden Holcombe, the director of Stanislaus, and a lot of the students tried to kiss up to her, but she’d just laugh and tell them how marvelous they played. I remember after one of my recitals she came up to me and told me how much she’d enjoyed my performance. She even said I was a natural for a symphony orchestra, even spoke about the Atlanta Symphony. I know she was real good friends with Gloria Standard Brichoux—you know, she’s that really famous violinist who came down to teach at Stanislaus after she retired from the stage—and her daughter Ginger, who’s some kind of lawyer, not a musician—go figure that. Ginger didn’t like me much. I don’t know why.” He stopped and looked hopefully at Dix.
“Were you interviewed at the time of my wife’s disappearance?”
“Yes, all the students were. I told the investigator what I told you. I’m really sorry, Sheriff Noble, I mean, she was your wife. You’ve got kids, right?”
“Right. Now, Mr. Caldicott, I understand you have a sister. She’s what, four years older than you?”
“Oh yeah, Char—” His voice dropped off a cliff. He swallowed and looked ready to bolt.
Ruth pinned him with her voice. “Of course you knew that Christie Noble and your sister, Charlotte, looked practically like twins.”
“No, well, maybe. They’re close in looks, but I never really paid all that much attention. You see, I really never saw that much of Charlotte while I was growing up. We weren’t together, hardly ever. I do remember she used to call me a geek when I saw her. Your wife was always very sweet to me, Sheriff Noble. Charlotte’s nice to me now.”
Neither Dix nor Ruth said anything.
“Yeah, okay, maybe they do look a lot alike, well, maybe a whole lot alike.”
“At the time of my wife’s disappearance, Mr. Caldicott, you never mentioned this to anyone. Why?”
“Why should I? She’s my sister. She wasn’t anywhere around at that time.” He paused and looked to be concentrating hard. “It’s really hard to remember now, Sheriff, how close in looks they were.”
Dix pulled a five-by-seven color photo out of his pocket. “Is this your sister, Mr. Caldicott?”
“Well, sure, that’s Charlotte.”
“Actually, it’s my wife, Christie Noble.”
David Caldicott began shaking his head back and forth. “Man, no, that’s not possible. I swear I never realized—” He gulped, stilled, and Dix could see that he was scared now, and for good reason. What was it?
“Mr. Caldicott, when exactly did your sister marry Mr. Thomas Pallack?”
David Caldicott’s head jerked up. “What? Mr. Pallack? You want to know about that old dude?”
“Yes,” Ruth said. “When did they marry?”
“About three years ago.”
“The date, Mr. Caldicott.”
“I don’t remember—well, let me see.” He jumped to his feet, nearly ran to the fireplace and pulled down a photo album from atop the mantel.
“Here, Charlotte sent this to me.” He flipped it open. “They were married on August third, yes, almost three years ago.”
Ruth held out her hand, took the photo album from David Caldicott. She thumbed through it. There were only six photos in it. She paused. So this was Charlotte Pallack, Christie’s twin, this vibrant beautiful woman standing next to a man twice her age. He was beautifully dressed, but even his Savile Row suit couldn’t hide the belly growing there. Still, he looked fit, his color good, his once-black hair receding, and laced with white. No jowls, no bags beneath his eyes—good cosmetic surgery. She thought he looked smart and ruthless, like he could snap his fingers and make a small nation crumble. She said, “Mr. Caldicott, how did your sister meet Mr. Pallack?”
“How should I know, Agent Warnecki? I mean—” Dix was looking at him as if he was ready to tear his heart out. He swallowed, retrenched. “My sister has this thing for older guys. Well, not specifically older, but they had to be rich, really rich so she could have anything she wanted. She hated poverty— we were raised in foster homes after our mom died. I was lucky, but Charlotte wasn’t, she couldn’t fit, I guess, always wanted to get out. Mr. Pallack is very rich, he’s powerful, and he adores her. So I guess it’s all good with her now.” He shrugged, tried a smile. “Old, young—hey, I like Whitney and she looks like jailbait. She still gets carded, and she’s over thirty. Now that makes me laugh.”
“You were telling us how your sister met Mr. Pallack.”
“I’m sorry. I really don’t know, just that they got married shortly after they met. That’s what Charlotte told me. Love at first sight, she said.”
“Did your sister ever visit you at Stanislaus, Mr. Caldicott?”
“No, Agent Warnecki, I don’t think she ever did.” He jumped to his feet, waved his hands around a bit. Ruth looked at those hands, the beautiful long thin fingers, the short buffed nails. She wanted to hear him play the violin.
“What’s wrong, Mr. Caldicott?” Dix said as he too rose. “Nothing, really. I have to go grovel, tell Whitney I’ll barbecue the steaks tonight.” He looked desperate. “She won’t let me touch her until she forgives me, that’s what she does when she’s really pissed at me.” He moaned.
Dix said, “Did you ever speak to my wife other than the time she complimented you after a recital?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, sure. I went into Maestro to buy stuff, like every other student. She’d be around. I remember I saw her once with you. She kissed you and pushed you into the sheriff’s office. I remember she was laughing. She was real pretty.”
Dix studied his face. Caldicott seemed too young, yet he wasn’t more than three or four years younger than Dix himself. He seemed immature somehow, not yet fully adult. Who knew the roads he’d trekked, where they’d led him? He was a musician, evidently a very good one. Maybe that was it. Why not spend the night, go listen to him play? It would give Dix more time to think of another way to approach him.
“The symphony is playing tonight?”
“Yes.” He beamed. “I’m playing Rachmaninoff’s 1890 Romance for Violin and Piano.”
“We would like to hear you perform.”
“Oh man, that’d be great. Please do. I really don’t have anything else to tell you guys. I hardly ever speak to Charlotte, only the occasional e-mail, and never to Mr. Pallack. Please, I need to go find Whitney before she turns me into a eunuch.”