The front door was opened by a plump older woman who appeared to be the housekeeper. They were shown to the living room and politely asked to be seated. They were all speaking quietly and looking out over the beautiful front lawn when Gloria Brichoux Stanford made her entrance. She was wearing ratty old sweats, sneakers, and a headband, and was toweling off her face. “I see Phyllis gave you the formal treatment,” she said in a deep, booming voice. She tossed the towel on the floor and walked to where they stood, her hand outstretched.
Dix accepted a kiss from her on his cheek and made the introductions. She said to the rest of them, “
Welcome, all of you. You’re here about my poor Erin. Gordon called me right after you left him, Dix. I’
ve been running my feet off on the treadmill trying not to think about it.” She pressed her palm over her mouth for a moment, as if catching a sob, and turned back to them. “Forgive me. She was like a daughter to me. She had such talent, such passion and life in her music, but none in her own life—a very strange thing, I always thought. She poured everything out of herself into her music. She was acquainted with a lot of men, but rarely dated, and no, she wasn’t involved closely with anyone. I would know if she had been.
“I hope you don’t mind, Dix, but I called Ginger. She’ll be over soon, after she finishes up composing one of her very important wills.” She rolled her eyes and wandered to the fireplace, fingering the Hummel figures that stood in a line across the mantel. “Gordon said you would want me to tell you everything I know about her. Well, as I said, she didn’t talk about any men in her life. She had no time for them; every bit of her passion went into her music. I could close my eyes while she played a violin solo from Schumann or Edvard Grieg and be reminded of Yehudi Menuhin or myself playing it. She could be that good.”
Gloria paused, pulled the headband off her forehead, and ran her fingers through her thick, sweaty salt-and-pepper hair. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, or she’d sweated it all off. She’d always worked out, taken good care of herself, Dix thought. She was big-boned, firm, her color excellent. What a change from how he remembered her years before. She’d been much thinner, drawn so tightly she could snap at you like a violin string.
Gloria said, looking off at nothing in particular as far as Ruth could tell, “Erin always wanted to study here at Stanislaus, never Juilliard. She hated New York, thought it was dirty, too big and loud, and didn’t like some of the people who lived there.” She paused for a moment, sighed. “Her idol was Arcangelo Corelli, though of course she never heard him play since he performed in the seventeenth century. She read a contemporary poet’s description of his playing and swore she wanted nothing else.”
She turned suddenly, and there were tears in her eyes. “Gordon is devastated. I am devastated. When Erin graduated, she would have been one of the top violinists to come out of Stanislaus in many years. In time, she would have taken her place as first violinist in one of the finest orchestras in the world. I do not understand why anyone would want to snuff out her life and her immense talent.”
“How old was she when she began to study violin, Ms. Stanford?” Ruth asked.
“Three, I believe, the usual age if the parents are intelligent and observant.”
“Was she close to her family? To her siblings?” Sherlock asked.
“She was an only child. Before you arrived, her parents called me. I could hardly understand her mother she was crying so hard, poor woman.”
“You know of no one who was jealous of her? Hated her because she played so well? Saw her as competition to be eliminated?”
She looked at Agent Savich, who’d asked the question in a deep, soft voice but looked so hard and competent, and dangerous. She saw the wedding ring on his finger and felt a moment of disappointment.
“I’m sorry, Agent Savich, what did you say?”
“Jealousy, ma’am. Can you think of anyone who could have gone over the edge because of jealousy?”
Gloria said matter-of-factly, “Let me be clear here. Schools like Stanislaus and Juilliard have only exceptionally talented young people, and every student is in competition with every other student. There aren’t that many occupational avenues open for violinists other than performing unless one wants to teach in some high school in Los Angeles. It is cutthroat, sometimes heartbreaking, and it can bring out a person’s darkest passions. But musicians learn to focus on themselves and the music when they are challenged, not on each other.
“I cannot imagine a single one of the dozen violin students here at Stanislaus who would have considered Erin such a threat to their own future that they would consider killing her. I’ve never heard of such a thing. How strange it is that she died in a cave. Do you know she once visited a cave near her home in Iowa so she could hear how her violin sounded deep underground?”
Dix asked about Erin’s professors, if she knew anyone living in Maestro. He told her to call him if she thought of anything at all, and because he realized she needed it, he spoke to her of Rob and Rafe, about their sledding on Breaker’s Hill and Rafe’s double helix project. She was smiling when they left ten minutes later.
Sherlock rose on her tiptoes and said into Savich’s ear, “I thought there for a while that she was going to jump you.”
He looked startled, automatically shook his head. “You are such an innocent.” Sherlock squeezed his arm, and then she noticed the twinkle in his eyes. “Dillon, I’m going to have to punish you for pulling my chain like that.”
“How long have they been married?” Dix asked Ruth as he opened the passenger-side door for her.
“Forever,” Ruth said. She watched Dix looking at Savich and Sherlock, his gaze unreadable.
CHAPTER 17
AT SIX O’CLOCK, as everyone filed into Dix’s kitchen to eat his homemade meat loaf, mashed potatoes, green beans, and a Boston cream pie from Millie’s Deli, Savich’s cell phone sang the opening lines of “Georgia on My Mind.”
Savich excused himself and walked to the kitchen doorway. He looked down at his cell phone screen. It read Private. He said, “Savich here.”
“Hello, boy, been too long since I checked in with you, now ain’t it? Hey, you miss me and my little pranks?” Moses Grace’s scratchy old voice sounded happy and so clear he could have been at Savich’s elbow.
Savich quickly stepped over to his laptop, MAX, sitting open on the sideboard in the dining room, and pressed ENTER.
Savich had been waiting for this, had expected Moses Grace to call again, and here he was, only four days since Savich had first heard the old man’s voice. He walked into the entrance hall, not wanting anyone to overhear the conversation. “So, you’re blocking Caller ID, Moses. That’s cute. Did you kill someone else for this phone?”
An obscene laugh sounded in his ear, ending in a phlegm-filled cough. “Hey, you’re the cop, boy, you’re the one who’s supposed to be able to pinpoint a flea on a sand dune. But you know what? You couldn’t find me if I drove up and waved in your face. You want a hint?”
“Yes, give me a hint.”
“Maybe I will. Hey, how’s that precious little wife of yours?”
A flash of rage poured through Savich. “She’s well out of your reach.”
“You really believe that? I was thinking about taking that little wife of yours and giving her a shove off a nice steep cliff, watch her roll over and over and pound herself into pieces, watch her sprawl out dead at the bottom. You can watch, too, from the top, boy.”
Savich hated this, hated it to his soul. But words couldn’t kill and he needed Moses Grace to keep talking. “You still sound pretty bad, Moses. I suppose you’re too far gone for any drugs to help you?”