“He’s done some real estate development in Virginia, Washington, D.C., and Maryland. Nothing big or splashy here in the sticks.”
Dix hit the bell and they waited about half a minute before one of the mammoth oak front doors swung inward.
“Hi, Chappy. Where’s Bertram?” Dix asked.
“Damned butler’s got a bug in his gut, was puking up all over himself, so I sent him to stay with his doctor sister in Belleville.
“And who are these people, Dix? Oh, are you the young lady Brewster found in Dix’s woods? You’re the talk of the town.” At Ruth’s nod, he put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “You and Dix hooking up like that—and that wild Saturday-night truck chase with Dix and his deputies hanging out the windows of the cruiser like Dirty Harry; it’s the only thing folks are talking about in town. I guess that makes you celebrities, Dix. How does it feel?”
“Chappy,” Dix said pleasantly, “let me introduce you to FBI Special Agent Ruth Warnecki.”
“Yeah, so I heard, Miss Warnecki. What a kick to meet a female FBI agent.”
Ruth stuck out her hand to the old man still standing in the doorway in front of her. “Yes, a kick is a good way to describe it.” She pumped his hand.
“Chappy Holcombe, at your service, ma’am. What do you think of my grandboys?”
“Well, I’m wearing Rob’s sweatshirt, jeans, and coat, and Rafe’s socks. I’d say that at this point in my life they’re pretty indispensable to me.”
Chappy showed lovely white teeth when he grinned at her. “You know, Agent, you have the look of my little sister, Lizzie. It was sad though. Died of leukemia when she was fifteen.” He looked at Savich and Sherlock. “And who are these folks?”
After the introductions, Chappy stepped back and waved them into an immense entrance hall covered in twelve-inch black-and-white marble squares that gleamed even in the dull winter light. Because he’d kept them all standing in the open doorway for five minutes, it was ten degrees colder in the house than it should have been. They watched him push the great door closed.
“Three FBI agents in my house all at once,” he said as he waved them into the living room, which was, surprisingly, very cozy. It was filled with family photographs, many of them going back to the turn of the twentieth century. “We get some of Dix’s deputies visiting from time to time, but this is a first.”
Dix said, “Where is everyone?”
“God knows where Cynthia is, probably at the new shopping mall over near Williard. Tony’s at the bank.”
“You’re retired, Mr. Holcombe?” Savich asked.
“Nah, I won’t hang it up until I start drooling on our big-gun bank clients. I can do most of my stuff here at home. Ah, here’s Mrs. Goss. Would you bring some scones and drinks, dear? Everyone sit and you can tell me what this is all about.”
CHAPTER 12
TARA
MONDAY AFTERNOON
“AND WHAT IS it you want to know about Winkel’s Cave, Dix?”
Dix said, “Christie told me you’ve explored every cave in the area, Chappy. She said Winkel’s Cave is your favorite, that you know every square inch of it. So I’m asking you to tell us whether there are any other entrances, other caves that communicate with Winkel’s besides the main entrance?”
Ruth sat forward in a lovely Louis XV chair, her scone cupped in a napkin so no crumbs would fall on the green satin chair cover. “It’s very important to us, sir,” she added. Chappy looked at each of them in turn and put his coffee cup down on the small table beside him, a very old and elegant antique, Sherlock noted, that shone with the high gloss of excellent care. He said, “
Maybe there are. There are dozens of small caves around here, and some larger ones, too, but I never found any I could get through to Winkel’s Cave. Of course, those limestone and dolomite caves are incredibly complex, and some of them might communicate with each other through channels you’d never know about, much less get through. I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why you want to know something like that. Why the devil do you want to get into Winkel’s Cave through a back door when there’s a perfectly good main entrance?”
Ruth realized in that instant that the arched opening she’d found probably hadn’t been known to any other human being in a hundred and fifty years. She heard Dix say in that calm, measured voice of his, “I’
d just as soon keep that close to my vest for the moment, Chappy, if you could bear with us.”
Chappy chewed on his lower lip a moment, absently picked up a scone, and eyed it as he said, “Well, why shouldn’t I help you? I could show you openings to some of the caves I know near there. It’s not like I have to nail down my takeover strategy for Citibank in the next ten minutes. Hey, don’t sputter your coffee on that pretty sofa, Dix—I was joking. But still, I don’t understand any of this. These caves, why do you want to get into them?”
Savich said, “We’re following up on what happened to Ruth down there, Mr. Holcombe. She got into one of those caves somehow, through Winkel’s Cave.”
“So there may be both a front and back door,” Ruth said.
“Maybe there’s one that passes through to Winkel’s Cave. I remember I stumbled across an opening into a large cave near there when I was a boy looking for arrowheads. Only thing was, it was a dead end, only the one cavern. But then again I don’t remember if I looked all that closely through there, and I haven’t been back in forty-odd years. The entrance I’m thinking about is over near Lone Tree Hill, in the steep side of a gully.” He paused, pulled on his earlobe. “I’ll have to show you, what with the snow covering everything.”
Dix shot a look at Savich, who shrugged and nodded.
Ten minutes later, the five of them climbed into Dix’s Range Rover pressed in between the caving equipment along with four lanterns from Chappy’s stash of camping gear.
“A lantern and a flashlight is all you need. I never liked those built-on headlights,” Chappy said to no one in particular.
“This is a sweet car,” Chappy continued, patting the dashboard. “Christie loved this car, said the Brits got it right with this one. I bought it for her for Christmas three years back. It’s the Westminster Edition, only three hundred of them imported that year. She liked this soft black leather, said she loved to get it up to ninety just to watch your face go red, Dix, and your fingers turn white clutching the chicken stick.”
Chappy saw the closed look on Dix’s face, the same look he’d worn for nearly a year now. At least it was better than the blank despair Dix had shown that first year.
Dix didn’t respond. They both looked out at the road in silence, and Ruth was left to wonder where Christie was. If she’d left, why hadn’t she taken her prized car?
After a couple of minutes, Dix said, as he wiped his gloved hand over the bit of fog on the windshield, “
You guys okay back there? Enough room?”
Savich laughed. “I’ve been trying to talk Sherlock onto my lap, but no go. Yes, there’s plenty of room for us and all the lanterns, too.”
Ruth said, “Hey, Dillon, when I get my driver’s license replaced, will you let me drive the Porsche?”
“You think I’d let someone drive my Porsche who didn’t even know who she was until yesterday?
Forget it, Ruth.”
Sherlock said, “Your amnesia has nothing to do with it, Ruth. He won’t let anyone drive that car.”
Chappy turned in the seat. “A Porsche?”
“Yes, sir, a 911 Classic. Red, nearly as old as I am.”
“You’re a big guy—you fit in that thing?”
“He fits great,” Sherlock said. “I have to beat the women off with a stick.”