Ruth asked, “Did Helen call you last night, Dr. Holcombe?”
“Helen call me? Why, no, she didn’t. As a matter of fact, I considered calling her, but I didn’t, more’s the pity.”
“Why did you think to call her?”
Gordon shrugged. “I was depressed. I suppose I wanted her to cheer me up, but I didn’t call. I don’t remember why I didn’t.”
Dix waited a beat, then asked, “Do you know Jackie Slater, Gordon?”
“Jackie Slater? No, I don’t. Why should I? Who is he?”
“How about Tommy Dempsey?”
“No, dammit. I don’t recognize either name. Why are you asking me?”
“They’re very likely the men who tried to murder Special Agent Warnecki Saturday night.”
“Wait, Dempsey—that name sounds familiar…”
“Jack Dempsey was a famous boxer, you ignoramus.”
“Shut up, Chappy. Why are you asking me these idiot questions? For God’s sake, Dix, get out there and do your job!”
Savich said, his voice suddenly hard as nails, his face as hard as his voice, “Tell us where you were last night, Dr. Holcombe.”
Gordon stopped in his tracks at that voice. He looked at Savich, turning even paler. “You want me to give you an—alibi? Me? That’s ridiculous, I—I—Very well, I’m sorry, it’s just—Okay, I understand, this is standard procedure and I did know her very well. I had dinner with my daughter, Marian Gillespie, at her house. We dined alone, I stayed until around nine o’clock, played the piano while she tried to sight-read a clarinet solo composed by George Wooten, a musician from Indiana who sent it to her yesterday. She got through it before I pulled out my fingernails. It was perfectly dreadful.”
“Marian plays like a dream,” Chappy said. “Twister here is a snotty perfectionist. No one can do anything well enough to suit him.”
“The music was dreadful, you fool, not Marian’s playing. Wooten believes anything dissonant means genius—you know, like those modern artists who smear anything at all on a canvas. Before you croon to me about being a perfectionist, Chappy, look how you treat Tony, who’s doing so well running your bank.”
Sherlock cut him off. “What did you do then, Dr. Holcombe?” She pointedly ignored Chappy, looking intently at Gordon.
“What did I do? I didn’t do anything. I went home, that’s what people usually do when they’re ready for bed. They go home. Like I said, I was depressed and angry because some maniac murdered Erin. I kept thinking of her, couldn’t get her out of my mind. It really hit me that I’d never see her again, and never hear her play again.”
Savich’s voice sharpened even more. “Please tell us what time you got home and what you did.”
“Okay. All right. I got home at around nine-thirty. I looked through my mail since I didn’t have time to do it before I went over to Marian’s. I watched the news on TV, drank a scotch, went up to bed. I tried not to think about Erin. I had trouble sleeping so I watched a bit more TV, but I couldn’t get Erin out of my mind. And now Helen is dead, too.”
“Can anyone verify this, Gordon?” Dix asked.
“No, I live alone, as you well know. The help isn’t waltzing in and out after five o’clock in the afternoon.”
There was a moment of silence, broken by Ruth as she looked from one brother to the other. “The two of you look remarkably alike. Bear with me, but I’m new here, and I’ve never seen two brothers treat each other the way you do. Why, Chappy, are you accusing your brother of murder? Can you explain this to me?”
Chappy laughed, clutching his hands over his belly. “Come on, Agent Ruth, look at that pompous, affected academician. Can you blame me? The pathetic liar’s never done a decent thing in his life, except play the fiddle.” He hiccupped, slapped his hand over his mouth, and hiccupped again. Gordon said flatly, “Please disregard that jealous baboon, Agent. After our parents died, he decided he’
d be my daddy, and did he ever do a job of it, until I could get away from him. The only thing that means anything to him is money.” He jerked his head in his brother’s direction. “I plan to bury you in a casket filled with one-dollar bills, Chappy, let them keep you company.”
“Now, make that thousand-dollar bills and you might have something, you cheap bastard,” Chappy said, kicking the toe of his loafer toward his brother.
Ruth cleared her throat. “Yet you came here, Dr. Holcombe, when you didn’t know what else to do.”
“Even though I’ve had to put up with this overbearing jackass all my life, the fact is, I like his coffee.” He saluted his brother with his coffee cup.
CHAPTER 23
MARIAN GILLESPIE DIDN’T answer the knock on her door, a young man did. He was barefoot, dressed in jeans and a gray sweatshirt with STANISLAUS across the front.
“Yeah? Who are you?”
Dix smiled as he stepped forward, pushing him back into the house. “I’m Sheriff Noble. Who are you?”
“Hey—”
“Who are you?”
“Sam Moraga.”
“This is Professor Marian Gillespie’s house. What are you doing here?”
“Marian is giving me private tutoring,” the young man said, and yawned so wide his jaw cracked.
“In what?”
“I play the clarinet, among other instruments. I had to come over late last night because Dr. Holcombe—
he’s her father—was here and she couldn’t get rid of him before nine o’clock.”
“You saw Dr. Holcombe leave?”
“Yeah, that’s right. He drives this stuck-up silver Mercedes, thinks he’s better than all the peasants. Thing is, though, he’s got the talent to pull it off.”
“Where is Dr. Gillespie?” Dix asked him.
“She left a little while ago, said she had to e-mail this composer who sent her some clarinet music. She thought it was great. She’s at her office at school.”
Dix continued, “You must be the only sentient human being in the area who doesn’t know. Helen Rafferty was murdered last night.”
Sam Moraga nearly fell over. Dix grabbed his arm. “You knew her, I gather.”
“Oh man, sure I knew Ms. Rafferty. Man, everyone is dying. I can’t believe this. She was nice, wouldn’t hurt anyone, always great with Marian’s dad—Murdered? She was like a mother to Marian, to all the students. Who killed her?”
“We’re working on it,” Dix said. “I gather you and Dr. Gillespie are sleeping together?”
Sam Moraga nodded absently. “Helen is dead. I can’t get my brain around that. It’s horrible. First Erin, and now Helen. What’s happening, Sheriff?”
“Come into the living room.”
They spoke with Sam Moraga for another thirty minutes. He was nervous about the FBI agents, stammering the answers to their questions. Sherlock thought he might be spooked about having some marijuana in the house. They left him at the kitchen table, a mug of cold coffee between his beautifully shaped hands.
Dix and Ruth walked toward the Range Rover ahead of Savich and Sherlock, who’d slowed to confer.
“Sam was frightened about you Feds, and he probably thought I was a joke,” Dix said. “You guys got to see me bumbling around.”
“Dix, you realized as well as I did that Sam’s not a player in this. Whoever’s doing this is smart, and so far he’s playing us like a pro.”
He called out to Savich and Sherlock, “Let’s go track down Dr. Gillespie.” Suddenly he smiled at Ruth. “
Hey, wanna go skating when this is over? Honeyluck Pond’s been frozen for the past two weeks.”
“Skating? Well, sure, I’d like that. I haven’t skated in years but I used to be pretty good.”