“The press?”
“Yes, sir. Milton has been bugging us every five minutes for updates, said it’s the public’s right to know and he wants up-to-date details for his deadline on Wednesday.”
Dix snorted, said to the three of them, “Milton Bean owns and operates the Maestro Daily Telegraph. He
’s seventy-four, hacks nonstop because he smokes cigars. He hasn’t had a byline in fifteen years.”
Penny said helpfully, “He swears he’s writing one right this instant, if only our office would cooperate—”
“I’m surprised the real press hasn’t arrived yet. Then you’ll really have your hands full. Where is Emory?”
“In the men’s room, I think,” Penny said. “On top of everything else, he was talking about diarrhea. He’s really sorry, Sheriff, feels really bad.”
“Yeah, I’m gonna make him feel a lot worse.”
Ruth grinned. “But you, Penny, did a great job breaking all this to the sheriff. Everyone knew he wouldn’t get mad at a poor deputy whose head is all bandaged up from risking her life for him.” She added to Dix, “You’ve got a pretty smart staff here, Dix.”
Dix asked abruptly, “How is your head, Penny? Maybe you should still be home. Did Emory get you in here to keep me from kicking his butt?”
Penny shook her head. “Believe me, I want to be here. At home Tommy makes me lie on the sofa and watch TV. I couldn’t take it anymore. I’m only doing desk duty—taking calls, that’s all, answering questions if anyone comes in, I promise. Hey, everyone’s really upset about this. Walt was a neat old guy.”
“He sure was,” Dix said, and stomped away to his office.
Sherlock said to Deputy Penny Oppenheimer as she walked by her desk, “Nice touch, that lovely huge bandage. No man could withstand that. No man would have even thought of it.”
“Thank you,” Penny said. “I figured I had to do something or the sheriff would kick in Emory’s kneecaps. Hey, he doesn’t seem to mind you guys being here. I guess you’re not trying to tromp him under your big Federal shoes.”
“An occasional toe nudge is all,” Sherlock said. She nodded at the large room through a glass partition behind Penny, where half a dozen deputies were trying to look busy, but naturally were focused on the three interlopers. And Ruth in particular, who was dressed in Rob’s jeans, a flannel shirt, and an old leather jacket. She followed Dillon into the sheriff’s office.
“Nice office,” Sherlock said.
Ruth was surprised, truth be told. Covering an entire wall was a photographic pictorial of Virginia, from the old town in Alexandria to the sweeping white paddocks of horse country. There was a large black-and-white print of the fog-shrouded mountains and color blowups of incredible green valleys, wildly beautiful in the middle of summer with thick pines, maples, and oaks. They were framed in black like the photo on his desk of a woman and two boys. It must be Christie, she thought. She saw he was looking at her and smiled. “She’s lovely, Dix.”
“Thank you.” Dix tucked some papers in his pocket he’d pulled out of his desk drawer. “Okay, let’s go out to Walt’s place.”
Fifteen minutes later, after Dix had spoken to four of his deputies who had marked off the perimeter of the McGuffey property from sightseers, they stepped into Walt McGuffey’s 1940s bungalow that looked like it hadn’t been updated since it was built. The furniture, though, was amazing. Walt had kept his best pieces, all of bird’s-eye maple and exquisitely made—a sofa, a table, six chairs, several side tables. The unfortunate 1970s burnt-orange shag carpet, however, didn’t enhance the setting. Dr. Himple was there with the forensic team from Loudoun, the county seat. The forensic folks looked tired. Dr. Himple stretched as he stood up, and nodded in their direction, but his eyes were on Dix. “I’m really sorry, Dix. Walt died easily, if it makes any difference. The knife killed him fast; he probably hardly felt it. There aren
’t any defensive wounds. He probably didn’t even see it coming. But that’s preliminary, you understand. I
’ll do an autopsy immediately and let you know.”
Savich said, “So Mr. McGuffey knew his murderer—he let him in, welcomed him.”
Dr. Himple nodded. “Yes, I would say so.”
Sherlock said, “Mr. McGuffey probably invited him into the kitchen, say for a cup of coffee. The murderer knew he was going to kill the old man, probably looked around for a weapon, saw the knife on the counter, and used it.”
Dr. Himple looked from Sherlock to Savich and slowly nodded. “That could be about right.”
“Fingerprint everything,” Dix said to Marvin Wilkes, head of the forensic team. “Especially around the kitchen.”
Dix knelt down next to the old man, who, in truth, resembled a bundle of old clothes wrapped around bones. He lightly laid his hand on the old man’s shoulder and closed his eyes for a moment. He pictured Walt grinning up at him with his six remaining teeth, asking if those gall-derned boys of his had given him any gray hairs yet. Now there was a look of surprise on the old man’s face, no pain, only blank surprise. He felt tears sting his eyes and swallowed. He rose quickly, said to Dr. Himple, “Treat him well, Burt, he was a grand old man. My boys are going to be very upset by this.”
“I’ll take care of him now, Sheriff.”
“He doesn’t have any family. I’ll set up his funeral myself.”
They searched Walt McGuffey’s house, but found nothing of note except an ancient wooden box that held photos of Walt and his wife, and a young boy, taken in the forties. “His son?” Savich asked. Dix shook his head. “I don’t know. If so, he must have died real young. Walt never mentioned any children.” Dix paused, then tucked the box under his arm. “I think Walt might want to be buried with this.
”
In the old shed at the back of the house they found Ruth’s Beemer, nice and clean since the murderer had hidden it there before the snow started. Her wallet lay on the front seat, her duffel bag on the passenger-side floor. The Beemer’s keys were in the ignition.
You’ll have to leave all this here for a while, Ruth,” Dix said. “The forensic team needs to go over everything.”
“Of course, no problem.”
“The boys will probably bug you to drive them around in it later,” Dix added wearily. “All right. If everyone wants to pile back into the Range Rover, we’ll go to meet the famous violinist.”
GLORIA BRICHOUX STANFORD lived on Elk Horn Road, not a quarter mile from the Stanislaus campus, in a one-story ranch-style house with a very big footprint, surrounded on three sides by woods. The three-car garage was tucked away in the back and connected to the kitchen. It was in a lovely setting that once belonged, Dix told them, to an old gentleman who’d been the head bookkeeper for Chappy at the Maestro First Independent Bank before he retired. He’d inherited the property and house from his great-aunt. When he died, his heirs sold it to Gloria when she retired from public life and accepted a position at Stanislaus.
“What’s she like, Dix?” Ruth asked as they walked up a well-shoveled front walkway.
“I told you she and her daughter moved here about six months after Christie, the boys, and me. Her daughter is a lawyer here in Maestro, does primarily wills, trusts, and estate planning. Christie said Ginger always bragged about not having a lick of musical talent, thank the Lord.”
“Why was she happy about that?” Sherlock asked.
Dix turned to Sherlock. “Ginger felt like her life was in constant upheaval, with her mother always traveling, always performing, leaving her at home. When Gloria wasn’t touring, she was down for the count with exhaustion or shot through with adrenaline about her next performance. Ginger’s father took off when she was about ten. Ginger says all she needs is a will to draw up in peace and quiet and she’s a happy camper.”