Sherlock nodded. “When we get back to the B-and-B, we’ll get MAX started on finding this woman.”
She rose to her tiptoes, kissed his mouth. “Okay, don’t be too long, there are two growing boys in there. No telling how long that corn on the cob’s going to last.”
“One more thing, Sherlock. Moses said I hurt a woman he cared for. That’s why he hates me.”
BUD BAILEY’S BED & BREAKFAST TUESDAY NIGHT
SAVICH GOT THE call that the roadblocks hadn’t turned up anyone resembling Moses Grace or Claudia. The cell phone belonged to a woman in Hamilton whose purse had gone missing. He wanted to kick something.
Instead, he put MAX to work. When Sherlock came out of the bathroom fifteen minutes later, Savich said, “Her name is Elsa Bender, forty-five, divorced a little over a year, kids grown. About two months ago, she was kidnapped right out of the parking lot at her local supermarket—only one witness. The guy said he heard a woman scream, saw a dirty white van screech into the street. Elsa was found the following morning by a farmer driving a tractor on a country road only three miles from her home in Westcott, in western Pennsylvania. She was naked, dumb with pain, her eyes gone. There’d been a warm spell, thank God, or else she’d have died. As it was, she nearly died from shock.
“She’s now living in Philadelphia with her ex-husband, who’s evidently been a stand-up guy since this happened. I think we need to go see her, Sherlock. I called the chief of police in Westcott, finally convinced him I was for real and asked him to read her description of the kidnappers. He said he didn’t have one; she couldn’t remember what had happened from the moment she drove into the supermarket parking lot until she woke up in the hospital. He didn’t know if she was telling the truth or was just scared, and he couldn’t do any follow-up interviews because the ex-husband took her out of the local hospital and his jurisdiction and back to Philadelphia. The Philadelphia police know about it, but so far, the chief said, they’ve got squat. The last time the local police spoke to her was four weeks ago. There’s been nothing since.”
Sherlock was excited. “How lovely of that mad old man to tell you about her. We could be there tomorrow.”
He nodded slowly, rose and stretched.
“Hey, sailor, you wanna dance?”
He laughed, pulled her to him, and hugged her hard. He said against her ear, “We can be back in Maestro by tomorrow evening. Maybe we’ll want to dance again.”
“What if Moses and Claudia do—”
“It’s okay. If they act, we’ll deal with it. I’ll be surprised if they don’t do something. Old Moses called me to brag, and he needs something new to brag about. He’s not well, Sherlock. I’m thinking this may be his last hurrah.”
CHAPTER 18
MAESTRO, VIRGINIA
WEDNESDAY MORNING
“HOLD UP A minute, Ruth,” Dix said. He and Ruth waited by the Range Rover for Tony Holcombe to cross Main Street. He was focused on Dix, looking straight ahead ignoring the slushy ground, nearly sending an old Ford Fairlane skidding into a parking meter to avoid hitting him. Ruth watched the beautifully dressed man hurrying toward them. He was tall and fit, probably in his early forties. He looked like a fashion plate out of GQ, his thick light brown hair beautifully styled, shining in the morning sun.
“Hey, Tony,” Dix called out. “What’s up?”
Tony Holcombe came to a stop not a foot from Dix’s face. “I—I heard about Erin—that is, Dad told me what happened. I can’t believe it, Dix. Erin was the sweetest girl, never did anything to anybody, only wanted to play her violin, there was nothing else in the world for her but her music.”
Ruth came around the Range Roger and nodded to the man bundled up in the thousand-dollar black leather coat and soft leather gloves.
Tony Holcombe turned his large dark eyes to her face. “You’re the woman Brewster found in Dix’s shed, aren’t you? Are you still staying at Dix’s house? I was wondering how it might look if my sister—”
“That’s enough, Tony.”
“Sorry. Yes, all right. Dix, do you know anything about who killed Erin?”
Dix said, “Why don’t you come into my office, I’d like to warm up a bit.”
Tony had the Holcombe body—long bones, no extra flesh, a strong jawline. His dark eyes were a dramatic contrast to his light hair. He looked remarkably like Chappy, his father, but wasn’t as graceful as he, a man as lithe as a dancer despite his age. Tony walked awkwardly, his arms moving in a different rhythm from his legs. It was curiously charming.
In the sheriff’s office, Dix spoke to half a dozen people before he opened his office door and ushered the two of them inside.
“Now, let’s get official here. Ruth, this is my brother-in-law, Tony Holcombe, Chappy’s son. He runs the local Holcombe bank. Tony, this is Ruth Warnecki, FBI.”
They shook hands. Tony had a nice firm grip along with his well-manicured nails, and his beautiful eyes met hers directly. She wondered if his sister’s eyes were that color, her coloring that dramatic. She hadn’
t been able to tell from the photo on Dix’s desk.
“Call me Tony, please. Why are you still here in Maestro?”
“I’m here to find out who tried to kill me. It appears that the same person also killed Erin Bushnell.”
His face tightened. “I can’t believe she’s dead. My dad told me and my wife, Cynthia. She’s really upset. She and Erin were like sisters.”
This was odd, Dix thought. To the best of his knowledge Cynthia Holcombe had never liked anyone of her own sex, beginning with her own mother and two sisters, whom he’d heard Cynthia refer to as the old bitch and her two whining whelps. Her dislike had extended to her sister-in-law Christie, whom she’d called a gun-toting right-wing redneck. Christie a redneck—it still boggled his mind. As for what Cynthia thought of him, he wasn’t about to go there. She was like a sister to Erin Bushnell?
“How is Cynthia?” Dix asked, holding out a mug of black coffee with two sugar cubes to his brother-in-law, and waiting for him to pull off his gloves.
“Distraught, as I said. She wanted me to find out what you’re doing, what you know. I heard you found her in Winkel’s Cave. Do you have any idea who might have done this?”
“Yes, Tony, we found her in Winkel’s Cave, where her killer left her. How did Cynthia meet Erin Bushnell?”
“At a concert at Stanislaus last year, but that’s not important now. Dix, if you hadn’t gone to Winkel’s Cave, if my father hadn’t shown you that back entrance, no one would ever have known she was dead.”
“Very true.”
“She would have simply disappeared, like Christie.”
Dix’s face was impassive. He nodded.
Tony turned to Ruth, who was sipping her own coffee. She’d laced it liberally with cream, realizing quickly if she didn’t, it would clot blood. “I heard you were hunting some kind of treasure, that you found a cave chamber no one knew was there.”
“That’s right,” Ruth said. So bits and pieces had gotten out, which wasn’t too bad as long as it didn’t go any further.
Chappy had given Tony a few facts, Dix thought, but not everything, thank the good Lord. Chappy never could keep his mouth shut, except when it came to money. He could tell Ruth was assessing Tony, like a cop would a suspect in a crime. He watched her push her hair behind her ear, a habit of hers. It took only a moment for her hair to swing back again. Thick, dark hair, with a bit of a curl to it. Dix watched Tony focus all of his bred-to-the-bone intensity on Ruth, then he eyed both of them in frustration. “Dad asked me to drop by and invite the two of you over to lunch, said you wouldn’t be available for dinner because the other two FBI agents are coming back this evening.”
“How does your father know that?” Ruth asked. Without thinking, she took a sip of coffee, and shuddered.