“She knew enough to tell me you don’t like children. As for my poor son, he’s at his wit’s end, said you were lying to him, taking the pill on the sly and telling him you’re all excited about getting pregnant.”
“I’m not on the bloody pill! Why do you keep making these things up? Are you that bored? Why don’t you consider getting yourself a life? At least go spew your venom on someone else for a change.”
“Your mother insisted I couldn’t trust a thing you said, she—”
There was the sound of glass crashing against a wall, then Chappy chuckling. Cynthia was panting as she yelled, “Anyone who listens to my mother deserves what they get, you hear me? You want the truth, old man? I’m beginning to wonder if I want to have a child with your weak-willed son! I can’t believe he’s even able to walk since he has no backbone. He lets you kick him around until I want to scream.”
“Oh dear,” Ruth said.
Dix said, “Not quite what I expected. Time to break it up before she connects a vase to Chappy’s head. Then I’d have to arrest her, and that thought scares me.”
Ruth put a smile on for Cynthia when she jerked the front door open. “Well, what do—Dix, hello. Do come in. Oh, you. So you’re still here? Sorry, but I don’t remember your name. You’re some kind of police officer, too, aren’t you?”
“Some kind, yes,” Ruth said agreeably. “Agent Ruth Warnecki. I believe we had lunch together, what was it, two days ago? They say memory is the first to go.”
Cynthia said, “Yes, I’ve heard that, too. But why would I even want to remember you?”
“Good one,” Ruth said.
Dix said, “Ruth and I heard you and Chappy fighting from outside. You should have closed the library window.”
Cynthia shrugged, looking completely unconcerned. “Well?”
Dix walked right at her, and she moved at the last instant so he wouldn’t mow her down. He headed toward the library, Ruth at his side, Cynthia reluctantly trailing after them. The thing about the library, Ruth thought, looking around, was that it wasn’t a room for books, it was a room for CDs, hundreds of them, scrolled labels categorizing them—jazz, blues, three or four dozen classical composers listed by name. What books there were appeared to be the oversized coffee table sort. Dix waved her to a deep burgundy sofa. He sat on a hundred-year-old pale green brocade chair next to her. Cynthia sat opposite them, looking like she’d rather be in a dentist’s chair. Chappy wasn’t in the room. Dix said to her, “You and Chappy developed some new material. I never heard you insult Tony before. I
’m sorry it’s come to that, Cynthia.”
“You’re not married to him, Dix. You don’t see him fold whenever Chappy so much as frowns at him. He can’t imagine losing his position at the bank, as if that would ever happen.”
“What’d you throw at Chappy?”
“Just some stupid blue bowl someone sent him from China.”
Chappy said from the doorway, “The blue bowl was a very valuable ceramic fashioned during the Kangxi period of the Qing Dynasty, circa 1690.” He strolled in as if he hadn’t a worry in the world. “She shattered a three-hundred-year-old work of art that cost me more than a divorce from this viper would cost Tony.”
“I suppose you’re going to tell him what I said,” Cynthia said, her expression a study of anger, frustration, and something Dix couldn’t pinpoint. He pictured the bowl in his mind, remembered how exquisite it was. If he were Chappy, he’d be cussing mad about it. He said only, “Was the bowl insured?”
“Sure, but who cares about the money?”
Cynthia jumped out of her seat, waving her fist at him. “That’s the only thing you do care about, Chappy
—money and control over everyone you know. Don’t pretend to be a martyr and a victim.” She turned to Dix. “He wants me out of Tony’s life and away from here.”
Dix shrugged. “So why don’t you and Tony leave? You have alternatives, Cynthia. Do you really want to raise a child here at Tara?”
Cynthia shuddered as she said, “No, of course not, but what I want doesn’t matter. Tony won’t leave.”
Chappy said, “No, my son isn’t going anywhere, Cynthia.” He turned to Dix and Ruth. “If this harpy won
’t give him a child, she can take off herself as far as I’m concerned, maybe screw Gordon’s brains out on her way out of town.”
“I don’t think Gordon has the time,” Ruth said. “He’s pretty much occupied right now.”
“Twister was never too busy for sex.” Chappy studied his fingernails. “Do you know Gordon can tell you the name of any perfume a woman wears, his nose is that sensitive? Always amazed me.” Chappy shook his head. “Tony’s going to attend that memorial at Stanislaus, said it wouldn’t look good if the local bankers didn’t pay their respects.”
Dix said, “We’re going as well.”
“Well, I’m not. Why should I? Twister will be there, some young sweetie sitting beside him, I’ll bet, holding his hand and squeezing it while he cries. He can cry on demand, which always pissed me off.”
Cynthia said, venom as thick as cream in her voice, “You’ve got to have a heart to cry, Chappy.”
Chappy ignored his daughter-in-law. He said to Dix, “Are you going to take Twister off to jail?”
“We’ll see.”
“If I thought you were serious, I’d get him a lawyer.” Chappy rubbed his hands together. “Twister wouldn’t mind having some deep pockets in the family then, would he? What do you think, Dix? One of those O.J. lawyers? What about that little Shrek guy from Boston? Hmm, I could start checking this out, tell Twister what I’m doing.” Chappy walked from the room whistling. He turned in the doorway and gave Ruth a little wave. “I’m going to find a new vase, maybe Japanese this time. Hey, Agent Ruth, I hear Twister asked you out to dinner. You going to go?”
“Depends on the restaurant,” Ruth said easily.
“Wear pants,” Chappy said. “It’s your best defense.” He strolled past the shards of the ceramic bowl without a glance.
“He’s insane,” Cynthia said. “Really, Dix, the old fool is quite mad. Imagine claiming I’m taking birth control pills when Tony and I are trying to have a baby. Imagine me sleeping with Gordon. Hasn’t Chappy looked at his own son? Tony is very handsome, don’t you think?”
“Handsome and weak?”
“I guess I shouldn’t have said that, but Chappy makes me so mad and I mouth off just to get back at him. The reason he won’t let Tony go is that he’s Chappy’s only ticket to immortality now that Christie’s gone
—” Cynthia shrugged, looked away from Dix.
“She’s not merely gone, Cynthia, as in off finding herself or on an extended vacation. She’s dead. And you know it.”
Cynthia nodded slowly. “Yes, I suppose she is.”
“As I said, the two of you should move away from this house and from Chappy.”
“The thing is, I really don’t want to leave Tara. Maybe Chappy will kick off soon and Tony will inherit all this.”
“Don’t hold your breath. I’d give him another twenty years. You and Tony should move to Richmond. Tony could head the bank there, hire a manager for the bank here in Maestro, and let Chappy torment him. When Chappy’s out of the picture someday, you can move back to Tara, if you like.”
Cynthia strolled over to the front windows, pulled back the heavy brocade curtain and looked out. Cold air flooded the room. She closed the window as she said over her shoulder, “Tony’s afraid to leave, afraid he’ll fall on his face if he does, or that Chappy will disinherit him.”
She shrugged. “Christie could have talked him into leaving, but I can’t. I wish she wasn’t dead, Dix, I really miss her.”
“You didn’t appear to appreciate her all that much when she was here, Cynthia. Why the change of heart now?”
“I know better now, I guess.” Cynthia turned away from the window and paced the full length of the twenty-five-foot library before she turned back again. “Are you
here for lunch? Mrs. Goss didn’t say anything to me.”
“No, we’re not here for lunch. For one thing, I wanted to ask you some questions about Chappy’s whereabouts last Friday night.”
“Goodness, that was when you found Ruth, wasn’t it? Chappy was here late, that’s all I know. What did he tell you?”
“That he was here, working in his office,” Dix said. “How about Tony? Where was he?”
“Making me a very happy woman, at least after about ten o’clock Friday evening. He was at the bank all day, I suppose. He usually is. He left for a couple of hours after dinner. He didn’t say where he was going and I didn’t ask. When he came back, he had a bottle of champagne under his arm, a big smile on his face. He wanted to be with me right away, so we went upstairs to bed. I remember Chappy was home because he knocked on our bedroom door about eleven o’clock, demanding to know what I was doing to his son. I was glad I’m always careful to lock the door. That wasn’t the first time he did that.”
Dix didn’t think Chappy had been interested in sex since his wife died so many years before. “He probably wanted to give the two of you grief. Tony didn’t tell you where he went after dinner?”
“He probably went back to the bank. He tries to be anywhere his father isn’t. I’d had another fight on the phone with my mother and I was fuming, not really paying attention to anyone.” She yawned. “Fighting with Chappy always exhausts me. Maybe I’ll drive to Richmond, do some shopping; it’ll help me forget.”
“You’re not going to Erin’s memorial?” Ruth asked.
“I really didn’t know her all that well, now did I?” Cynthia yawned and rose.
“I DON’T KNOW why I bother,” Dix said some minutes later as they walked to the Range Rover. “Oh yes, Tony did work late at the bank last Friday evening, according to the security guard, and he was there all day, according to the employees and Tony’s secretary. As for Chappy, Mrs. Goss claims he was gone during the day on Friday, but she doesn’t know where he went. He never explains anything to anyone. I’ll ask him about it directly.”
“Have you heard anything from Richmond about who might have hired Dempsey and Slater to kill me?”
“Not a thing from either the field agents or the Richmond PD. I’ll give Detective Morales a call, maybe promise him you’ll have dinner with him if he comes through. You like Italian, don’t you?”
Ruth grinned. “It’s a toss-up, Dix, between your stew and spaghetti Bolognese.”
ERIN BUSHNELL’S MEMORIAL was held in the large auditorium in Gainsborough Hall. A dozen lavish wreaths were set up around the stage, and a two-by-three-foot color photograph of Erin playing her violin hung from the ceiling. She looked so young, Ruth thought. The auditorium was filled to capacity. Dix would bet every student and professor at Stanislaus was there. Those who couldn’t find seating were huddled against the walls and sitting on the steps in the aisles. He saw a lot of townies, too, sprinkled throughout the auditorium.
He and Ruth got lots of looks, some of them frowns, some tentative greetings. Erin’s parents were a conservative-looking couple, pale and silent, unable, he imagined, to come to grips with their daughter’s violent death. He’d met them, expressed his sympathy, when they first arrived. He had lost his wife, but he couldn’t imagine what it would be like to lose a child. He thought of Rafe and Rob, and losing them would be the biggest hit life could dish out.
They would never find out exactly what was done to their daughter, if he could help it. Drugged and stabbed, that was horrible enough without adding the rest. Dix could only hope the half dozen people who knew the truth would never have to let it out.
He spent the memorial studying the faces around him, and knew Ruth was doing the same thing. There were half a dozen eulogies, including a very moving one by Gloria Stanford, and another by Gordon, who looked barely able to control his tears. The Presbyterian minister from Maestro focused on God’s providence and his belief in God’s own justice for Erin, an idea that seemed to resonate with the six-hundred-plus people in the auditorium.
Dix saw Tony and Gloria Stanford sitting on either side of Gordon, Gloria holding his hand. He saw Milton Bean from the Maestro Daily Telegraph.
No one acted unexpectedly. The fact was, Dix felt brain-dead. He was tired of seeing everyone as potential suspects, and though he mourned Erin Bushnell’s passing, he grew tired of hearing her praised beyond what most human beings would justly deserve at the age of twenty-two. He thought of Helen, her body released by the coroner to her brother, who finally agreed to a memorial at Stanislaus the following week, and of old Walt, seemingly not important enough for a formal memorial, buried now in the two-hundred-year-old town cemetery on Coyote Hill. Dix had been surprised to see a small crowd of townspeople, his real friends, at the graveside service. Walt would have been pleased by that.
After the memorial Dix drove to Leigh Ann’s Blooms for All Occasions and bought a bouquet of carnations. He and Ruth drove to Coyote Hill, and together they walked to Walt McGuffey’s grave, a raw gash in the earth. Dix went down on one knee and placed the carnations at the head of the grave. “I ordered a stone to be carved for him. It should be here next week.”
Ruth said, “I would have come to his funeral with you yesterday if you’d only asked me.”
“You were on the phone to Washington. I didn’t want to disturb you. And you’re tired, Ruth, we both are. You’ve been through an awful lot. Now, it’s cold out here. I don’t want you to get sick. Let’s go home.”
She nodded, and it struck her that he’d called it home—for both of them. That was odd, and a little scary, yet it made her feel very good. She’d lived with him and his boys for a week now, and it felt more natural every day. Dix was an honorable man, and he cared—about his boys foremost, about his town, about doing the right thing. As for how that long, fit body of his looked in low-slung jeans, she didn’t want to think about that.
She wanted to talk to him more about Christie, but knew now wasn’t the time. Not yet. She might not have known him for all that long, but she knew in her soul that if Christie was at all like her, she would never have left him or the boys. Not willingly. Something very bad had happened to Christie Noble, and everybody knew it.
As they walked back to the Range Rover, Dix felt her looking at him, but he couldn’t see her eyes through the opaque black lenses of her sunglasses. She huddled in her bulky black leather jacket next to him on the front seat, her purple wool scarf around her neck, and pulled her matching purple wool cap nearly to her ears. Dix noticed she was wearing her own socks, not the nice thick ones Rafe had loaned her. He turned up the heat.
CHAPTER 30
THEY GOT HOME just before six o’clock. As Dix unlocked the front door, Ruth’s cell phone rang and she turned away to answer it. After a couple of minutes, she punched off. “That was Sherlock. Things are coming together. She and Dillon are going to stay in Washington, unless, she promised me, we needed them in any way. I told her we’re fine here.”
He hurried since Brewster’s nails were scraping madly against the front door.
“Brewster, hold on! Don’t forget, Ruth, if he jumps on you, hold him away.”
“Nah, Brewster won’t pee on the person who fed him some hot dog under the kitchen table last night.”
When Dix opened the front door, Ruth grabbed Brewster before he could climb her leg. She held him close, laughing and kissing his little face. He never stopped barking or wagging his tail.
“Oh dear,” she said. “Brewster, how could you?”
Brewster looked up and licked her jaw.
“We’ll get the coat to the cleaner’s tomorrow. They’ll be able to get the smell out—I happen to know this for a fact. And the leather won’t stain.”
Ruth laughed. “You little ingrate, what did you want that I didn’t give you? A bun with your hot dog?
Some mustard, maybe?”
“Well, hang it up,” Dix said, pulled her against him, Brewster between them, barking his hea
d off, and kissed her.
Dix pulled back almost immediately and pressed his forehead to hers. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to
—Well, yes I did.”
He pulled Brewster away from Ruth, hugged him, then set him on the floor. To his surprise, Brewster didn’t take offense. He sat looking up at them, his head cocked to one side, tail wagging. Ruth felt a bit shell-shocked. She swallowed, cleared her throat. “Ah, I’m not sorry, either. Actually, I
—”
“Dad!”
“What’s that smell? Oh, Brewster got you, Ruth?”
“Yeah, he did, Rafe. Hi, guys. What’d you make for dinner?”
Rafe and Rob looked at each other. “Well, we were sort of waiting for you.”
“Pizza,” Rob said. “I can put frozen pizza in the oven.”
“You mean,” she said slowly, looking back and forth at them, “you guys let your father do all the work?”
“Well, sometimes ladies bring us food.”
“We do laundry and clean our rooms.”
“He doesn’t have to cook so much, really. We’d be happy to eat pizza more often,” Rob said. Dix said, “I’m going to broil some fish and bake potatoes. Rob, Rafe, finish up your homework in the next hour.”
“Oh yeah, sure, Dad.”
“I don’t have any.”
“Like I’m going to buy that one. I want you both in your rooms, studying. No TV, no earphones.”
“Dad?”
Dix heard a thread of something in Rafe’s voice he hadn’t heard in a long time. He wondered if the boys had seen him kiss Ruth. Better if they hadn’t; it was too soon. “What is it, Rafe?”
Rafe shot a look at his brother, then looked down at his sneakers. “Mrs. Benson, my math teacher, was crying today. You know, she knew all three of the murdered people.”
Dix picked up Brewster, stuffed him into his coat, zipped it halfway up, and brought both boys against him. “I know this is tough. You can bet it’s tough for Ruth and me, too. I told you straight last night—I will catch the person behind these murders, I promise you that.”
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