Double Take ft-11

by Catherine Coulter

  Dix said, “How old are you?”

  She gave him a huge grin through the bubble gum, pulled it off her face and suddenly she didn’t look like a teenager anymore. “Goodness, I love you, whoever you are. I’m thirty-three. You did think I was really young, right? If not, please lie. My ego needs a boost right now. David’s being a real jerk and I’m ready to drop-kick him out the window except it’s his damned house.” She shrugged. “Come on in. You want to see him, right?”

  “Right,” Ruth said. “I’m Special Agent Ruth Warnecki, FBI, and this is Sheriff Dixon Noble.”

  They badged and shielded her as she popped another bubble, looked startled, then shook their hands. “Hey, I’m Whitney Jones. You here to arrest David? Was he smuggling violins from Russia? A stolen Stradivarius maybe?”

  “Not that we know of,” Ruth said. “No, we need to speak to him about another matter. We’ll keep the smuggling in mind, though.”

  “I know the FBI has this stolen art section, right? He’s guilty as sin, I know it. David! Come on down, you’ve got cops here to speak to you or arrest you, or something.”

  Ruth laughed, couldn’t help herself. “What’d he do, Ms. Jones?”

  “He was supposed to cook out steaks with me last night, but he got caught up in a jam session with some of the other musicians in the orchestra, played in this sleazy dive, and forgot.”

  “A real jerk, all right,” Dix said. “You want me to knock some of his teeth loose?”

  “Nah, I couldn’t French kiss him then. No, I’ll get him where it really hurts—he loves sex and that’s easy enough to withdraw from his diet. He’ll be going cold turkey.” She laughed and waved them into a living room filled with an assortment of eclectic furnishings, from a huge overstuffed red velvet brocade Victorian sofa to a heavy, highly ornate, nearly black Spanish chest that looked to be five hundred years old, with every year showing on its highly shined battered surface. Dix supposed David Caldicott used it for a chair since there was a twisted retro hippie table with a chipped lava lamp sitting next to it. Persian carpets covered the banged-up oak floor, many of them so old they were nearly in tatters. Paintings and photos covered most of the walls—highly romanticized pre-Raphaelite copies and dozens of photos, all of them of famous composers and performers going back to daguerreotypes from the nineteenth century, showing men with bushy whiskers, wiry beards, and fanatical eyes.

  Sunlight poured through the wide front windows, the only spot where a huge magnolia wasn’t pressing in.

  She turned when she heard David’s voice calling out from the top of the stairs, “Whitney, I’m sorry! Come on, we’ll do the steaks tonight after I get home from the performance. Wait!”

  “Forget it,” she yelled up at him. “I’m outta here, soon-to-be gone. I’m going out with that bank president.” She winked toward Ruth and Dix, leaned close to whisper, “That drives him nuts. He still thinks it’s a believable threat, even the bank president part. I’ll probably marry him, but not until he shapes up first. See you.” Whitney Jones sashayed out of the room. They heard her pop her gum just before the front door slammed.

  A few minutes later a tall thin man appeared in the living room doorway, panting, but evidently he hadn’t run fast enough to catch Whitney. He was wearing baggy shorts, a ratty light blue T-shirt, and nothing at all on his long narrow feet. He had a lovely big diamond stud in his right ear, about halfway up.

  “Was Whitney putting me on? Are you guys really cops or are you selling something? You aren’t from a bank, are you? I’d sure like to meet a banker, I need another home improvement loan.”

  Dix introduced them, told him they weren’t here to help him fix up his house, showed David Caldicott their I.D.s. He didn’t offer to shake his hand.

  Caldicott studied Dix’s badge. “Maestro, Virginia? Oh man, this is too much—I went to Stanislaus. You’re the sheriff, Dixon Noble?” He grabbed Dix’s hand, pumped it, then began to shake his head. He didn’t say another word, just suddenly looked afraid, and began to back away. Now that was interesting, Ruth thought, as Dix said calmly, “I understand you attended Stanislaus at the same time my wife, Christie Noble, disappeared, Mr. Caldicott.”

  “Yes, yes, I did. It was bad, everyone was talking about it, speculating, you know? It was scary. She was gone.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that. I’m sorry, man, did you ever find out what happened to her?”

  Ruth saw that Dix had stiffened up, his way of controlling pain, she knew, and so she said, “May we sit down, Mr. Caldicott?”

  He turned to Ruth. “Sure, go ahead. Anywhere you like. The chest isn’t very comfortable, though. When Whitney and I get married, I plan on inviting her mother to sit there.”

  They chose the Victorian sofa with the big red cabbage roses.

  David Caldicott sat on the floor in front of them and leaned back against the Spanish chest. “Hey, you guys want anything to drink? I think Whitney opened some wine. Oh, sorry, you’re cops, you can’t drink.”

  Ruth smiled down at him. “We’re fine, Mr. Caldicott. You have a lovely home.”

  He beamed, relaxed a bit. “Thank you. I bought it three years ago when I moved here. I’m fixing it up myself and decorating it myself. The upstairs is still pretty empty, needs some work, especially the bathrooms, but I’m taking my time, finding exactly the right pieces, the right tile and design, you know?” Dix said, “Did you know my wife, Mr. Caldicott?” He nodded and said, “Well, yeah, most of the students knew her or knew who she was. She was awful pretty and really nice. She came to most of the concerts. I know her uncle was Dr. Golden Holcombe, the director of Stanislaus, and a lot of the students tried to kiss up to her, but she’d just laugh and tell them how marvelous they played. I remember after one of my recitals she came up to me and told me how much she’d enjoyed my performance. She even said I was a natural for a symphony orchestra, even spoke about the Atlanta Symphony. I know she was real good friends with Gloria Standard Brichoux—you know, she’s that really famous violinist who came down to teach at Stanislaus after she retired from the stage—and her daughter Ginger, who’s some kind of lawyer, not a musician—go figure that. Ginger didn’t like me much. I don’t know why.” He stopped and looked hopefully at Dix.

  “Were you interviewed at the time of my wife’s disappearance?”

  “Yes, all the students were. I told the investigator what I told you. I’m really sorry, Sheriff Noble, I mean, she was your wife. You’ve got kids, right?”

  “Right. Now, Mr. Caldicott, I understand you have a sister. She’s what, four years older than you?”

  “Oh yeah, Char—” His voice dropped off a cliff. He swallowed and looked ready to bolt.

  Ruth pinned him with her voice. “Of course you knew that Christie Noble and your sister, Charlotte, looked practically like twins.”

  “No, well, maybe. They’re close in looks, but I never really paid all that much attention. You see, I really never saw that much of Charlotte while I was growing up. We weren’t together, hardly ever. I do remember she used to call me a geek when I saw her. Your wife was always very sweet to me, Sheriff Noble. Charlotte’s nice to me now.”

  Neither Dix nor Ruth said anything.

  “Yeah, okay, maybe they do look a lot alike, well, maybe a whole lot alike.”

  “At the time of my wife’s disappearance, Mr. Caldicott, you never mentioned this to anyone. Why?”

  “Why should I? She’s my sister. She wasn’t anywhere around at that time.” He paused and looked to be concentrating hard. “It’s really hard to remember now, Sheriff, how close in looks they were.”

  Dix pulled a five-by-seven color photo out of his pocket. “Is this your sister, Mr. Caldicott?”

  “Well, sure, that’s Charlotte.”

  “Actually, it’s my wife, Christie Noble.”

  David Caldicott began shaking his head back and forth. “Man, no, that’s not possible. I swear I never realized—” He gulped, stilled, and Dix could see that he was scared now,
and for good reason. What was it?

  “Mr. Caldicott, when exactly did your sister marry Mr. Thomas Pallack?”

  David Caldicott’s head jerked up. “What? Mr. Pallack? You want to know about that old dude?”

  “Yes,” Ruth said. “When did they marry?”

  “About three years ago.”

  “The date, Mr. Caldicott.”

  “I don’t remember—well, let me see.” He jumped to his feet, nearly ran to the fireplace and pulled down a photo album from atop the mantel.

  “Here, Charlotte sent this to me.” He flipped it open. “They were married on August third, yes, almost three years ago.”

  Ruth held out her hand, took the photo album from David Caldicott. She thumbed through it. There were only six photos in it. She paused. So this was Charlotte Pallack, Christie’s twin, this vibrant beautiful woman standing next to a man twice her age. He was beautifully dressed, but even his Savile Row suit couldn’t hide the belly growing there. Still, he looked fit, his color good, his once-black hair receding, and laced with white. No jowls, no bags beneath his eyes—good cosmetic surgery. She thought he looked smart and ruthless, like he could snap his fingers and make a small nation crumble. She said, “Mr. Caldicott, how did your sister meet Mr. Pallack?”

  “How should I know, Agent Warnecki? I mean—” Dix was looking at him as if he was ready to tear his heart out. He swallowed, retrenched. “My sister has this thing for older guys. Well, not specifically older, but they had to be rich, really rich so she could have anything she wanted. She hated poverty— we were raised in foster homes after our mom died. I was lucky, but Charlotte wasn’t, she couldn’t fit, I guess, always wanted to get out. Mr. Pallack is very rich, he’s powerful, and he adores her. So I guess it’s all good with her now.” He shrugged, tried a smile. “Old, young—hey, I like Whitney and she looks like jailbait. She still gets carded, and she’s over thirty. Now that makes me laugh.”

  “You were telling us how your sister met Mr. Pallack.”

  “I’m sorry. I really don’t know, just that they got married shortly after they met. That’s what Charlotte told me. Love at first sight, she said.”

  “Did your sister ever visit you at Stanislaus, Mr. Caldicott?”

  “No, Agent Warnecki, I don’t think she ever did.” He jumped to his feet, waved his hands around a bit. Ruth looked at those hands, the beautiful long thin fingers, the short buffed nails. She wanted to hear him play the violin.

  “What’s wrong, Mr. Caldicott?” Dix said as he too rose. “Nothing, really. I have to go grovel, tell Whitney I’ll barbecue the steaks tonight.” He looked desperate. “She won’t let me touch her until she forgives me, that’s what she does when she’s really pissed at me.” He moaned.

  Dix said, “Did you ever speak to my wife other than the time she complimented you after a recital?”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah, sure. I went into Maestro to buy stuff, like every other student. She’d be around. I remember I saw her once with you. She kissed you and pushed you into the sheriff’s office. I remember she was laughing. She was real pretty.”

  Dix studied his face. Caldicott seemed too young, yet he wasn’t more than three or four years younger than Dix himself. He seemed immature somehow, not yet fully adult. Who knew the roads he’d trekked, where they’d led him? He was a musician, evidently a very good one. Maybe that was it. Why not spend the night, go listen to him play? It would give Dix more time to think of another way to approach him.

  “The symphony is playing tonight?”

  “Yes.” He beamed. “I’m playing Rachmaninoff’s 1890 Romance for Violin and Piano.”

  “We would like to hear you perform.”

  “Oh man, that’d be great. Please do. I really don’t have anything else to tell you guys. I hardly ever speak to Charlotte, only the occasional e-mail, and never to Mr. Pallack. Please, I need to go find Whitney before she turns me into a eunuch.”

  Dix shook his hand. Ruth nodded at him, smiled. “We might be seeing you this evening, Mr. Caldicott.”

  Damned if his eyes didn’t light up. Dix saw the first hint of resemblance between him and Charlotte and between him and Christie. It was the tilt of his eyes, how his smile widened and lightened them.

  When Dix pulled out of the Caldicott driveway in the rented Taurus, Ruth said, “I’d wager my knickers he’s lying. I just don’t know about what and why.”

  “I don’t know,” Dix said. “I simply don’t know.” Dix and Ruth didn’t get to hear David Caldicott play Rachmaninoff’s 1890 Romance for Violin and Piano that night. At six o’clock, they got a call from Savich.

  CHAPTER 23

  SAN FRANCISCO

  Monday

  It took Cheney twenty minutes to realize that the SFPD believed the two attempts on Julia Ransom’s life were evidence of a falling-out between her and her partner in the murder of her husband. He’d talked to the inspectors, read the files Frank had given him early that morning at headquarters. The investigation hadn’t been superficial, exactly, but neither had he seen any sign of real dogged grit—the kind of persistence that should have been there in the case of a murdered celebrity. The initial focus was on the widow, and it never wavered. There were several references to an “accomplice,” since the cops didn’t believe she’d done it herself. Nope, she must have had a man do the deed, though they never found one. They still believed it, only they were smart enough not to come right out and say it to her face. Or to his face.

  Cheney knew Julia hadn’t killed her husband, hadn’t had a partner, it was as simple as that. So while the police were trying to find the man they believed was her cohort and now her enemy, he had to start at the beginning to solve the murder of her husband.

  He looked up when she came into August’s study, where Cheney was seated at the desk, reviewing copies of the files. “Why were the cops so convinced you killed your husband?”

  “Oh, they still are, you know that as well as I do.”

  “Okay, yes. Why?”

  “Because they believed—believe—I was tired of being tied to an old man, yes, a very rich old man, they thought, no matter his fame or the esteem in which he was held. And I wanted his money. There were rumors about a lover, of course, but I’m not telling you anything new, am I? You’re reading all about that, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have no idea where those particular rumors came from, who started them, or why.” She splayed her fingers in front of her. “The tabloids even tossed out names, one of them poor Zion Leftwitz, August’s civil attorney, a very unassuming man who starts at his own shadow. And, naturally, most of the psychics in the area—Wallace Tammerlane, Bevlin Wagner, and Soldan Meissen. They didn’t mention Kathryn Golden, I suppose because they didn’t want to reach that far, and besides, she probably didn’t have the strength needed to kill August. For a while they leaned toward Bevlin Wagner simply because in the entire lot of psychics in August’s circle, he’s the one closest to my age. I have to tell you, Bevlin was bewildered.” She actually laughed, hiccupped, and said, “Sorry.”

  “Bewildered? He wasn’t flattered?”

  “Oh no. He worshipped August. He would have cut off his hands for August. He looked at me but didn’t really see me, all he saw was his god. Well, not until after. As I told you, Bevlin proposed to me. I’m not sure if it was because of a newly discovered passion for me, or whether he wanted to protect August’s widow, but I was as nice as could be when I turned him down. I’m glad the police didn’t find out about the marriage proposal, otherwise they would probably have homed in on poor Bevlin again.”

  “I’ve read there were also rumors August planned to divorce you—another motive.”

  She nodded. “Yes, I know. Another part of the lover angle— but they didn’t find a scintilla of evidence there was a lover. Still, even when they couldn’t find anyone to fit the bill, they were still clinging to it when they came to the house Thursday night, and early Sunday morning.”

  “Did
you volunteer to take a lie detector test?”

  “No. My lawyer advised me against it, said there was no benefit to me, just risk.”

  “Maybe your lawyer believed you were guilty too.”

  She said slowly, “No, I can’t accept that. His name is Brian Huff. He and August had been friends for twenty-odd years, and I liked him. He liked me. When I told him I was innocent, he said, ‘Of course you are.’ I can’t imagine his insisting on representing me if he believed I’d killed his friend and client, the man who kept him on a nice fat retainer in case of litigation.”

  “I’ve heard of him. He’s a very big gun. Okay, would you take a lie detector test now? Get the cops focused on the here and now, and dump the baggage they’ve been mired in for the last six months?”

  “Do you honestly think that would change their minds?”

  “They’re a cynical bunch, so probably not, but still, it couldn’t hurt.”

  “Then I’ll do it.”

  Cheney sat back in August Ransom’s big leather chair, leaned his head back in his hands. “Julia, tell me about your boy.”

  She looked as if he’d struck her. “The files,” she said. “That’s in the murder files?”

  “Yes, of course. Tell me about him, Julia.” He rose and walked to her, took her hand in his. “Please, Julia, it’s important I know everything.”

  She sighed, felt his hand squeeze hers. “It’s hard.”

  “I imagine it is, but you need to let me in, all right? You ready to do that?”

  She gave him a long look, saw the concern in his eyes, felt the caring in him, the need—to help her? Yes, she thought, he really did want to help her. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. Lincoln— Linc—was his name. He was six years old when one of his friends ran him over on his skateboard and knocked him into the sidewalk. He hit his head, fell into a coma, and never woke up.

  “I stayed with him for the three weeks it took him to die.”

  He frowned a moment, looking down at the files that hadn’t included something important. He asked her, “His father was with you?”