Point Blank

trees whose thick branches were weighed down with snow. All the walkways were neatly shoveled. The sounds of a Bach Brandenburg Concerto wafted out of the main auditorium, Van Cliburn Hall, named after the famed pianist, whose trust had given a large grant to the school fifteen years before. They all paused, taking in the scene and those beautiful sounds.
    “It’s nearly four o’clock,” Sherlock said. “I hope Dr. Holcombe will still be here.”
    “He should be,” Dix said. “He’s a pretty remarkable musician, a flautist and pianist. He’s run the school for the past ten years. Before that he toured, primarily in Europe, and lived in Paris for a couple of years. His daughter, Dr. Marian Gillespie, also teaches here.”
    “Is Dr. Gillespie also a musician?” Savich asked.
    Dix nodded. “She plays the viola, though Christie told me she didn’t have anywhere near her father’s talent, or his ability to deal with people or do administration. She’s something of an old hippie—you’ll see what I mean when you meet her.”
    Ruth asked Dix as they walked up the wide sidewalk to Blankenship Hall, the administration building, “
    What does Marian’s husband do?”
    “Marian’s husband left her before we moved down here from New York so I never met him.” He added to Sherlock and Savich, “I was with the NYPD, a detective in homicide for four years. When we moved here, thanks in part to Christie’s father, I was elected sheriff of Maestro. The boys and I don’t see Marian much, maybe once every couple of months over at Tara for dinner. Rob and Rafe call it circus night.”
    “Families are such fun,” Ruth said. “So did your boys get any of this talent?”
    “Rob plays the drums in a band put together by one of his high school friends, a mixed blessing. Rafe plays a bit of piano. Whenever I mention taking lessons, though, he won’t have any of it. We’ll see.”
    Dix led them to a gorgeous walnut semicircular information desk where two women watched them approach with a good deal of curiosity. Dix nodded to them both, said, “Mavis, I’m here to see my uncle.”
    “He’s in, Sheriff Noble,” Mavis said, eyeing Savich, “although he did say he wanted to leave early today. I think Peter Pepper nabbed him.”
    Mary Parton rolled her eyes. “If he’s with Peter, I know he’ll appreciate being rescued. Ah, who are these people, Sheriff? Wait, you’re the woman the sheriff found next to his house, right?”
    Ruth smiled really big and nodded. “Yes, I’m Special Agent Ruth Warnecki.”
    “Ah,” Mary said, nodding, “so you work in private security? In Richmond?”
    “Well, not really,” Ruth said, “I’m a special agent with the FBI.”
    “Oh goodness, oh my, how very thrilling. Does a pretty girl like you have a gun and body armor? Well, I suppose that’s top secret, isn’t it? All right then, Sheriff, you take these people right ahead.”
    Dix thanked Mavis and Mary and turned to lead them down a long carpeted hallway. “I would have thought they’d have heard all about you by now, Ruth, down to that mole behind your left knee.”
    Her eyebrow went up. “You must be thinking of the one behind my right knee.”
    They stared at walls covered with large autographed photos of famous musicians, singers, and conductors.
    “Quite a rogue’s gallery,” Ruth said. “Goodness, is this Pavarotti? In the flesh? Right here? Yep, it sure is. Would you look at that signature. Not shy, is he?”
    Sherlock said absently as she studied Luciano Pavarotti’s photo, “Looks like this photo was taken in summer, maybe fifteen years ago, right here at Stanislaus, with a bunch of excited faculty and students. Hmm. I don’t think Pavarotti has anything to be shy about. Did you know he’s considered the only living operatic lyric tenor who’s really mastered the whole of the tenor’s range?”
    Ruth said, “How do you know about his tenor’s range?”
    Savich said, “Sherlock was on her way to Juilliard to become a concert pianist once upon a time.”
    Ruth said, “I had no idea. I would love to hear you play.”
    Sherlock nodded. She seemed to draw herself up. “It was a long time ago, Ruth, but I’d love to play for you. Sorry, Dix, you were taking us to Dr. Holcombe’s office?”
    “It’s right at the end of the hall. We have to get past Helen Rafferty, his personal assistant-slash-secretary. She guards him like the Secret Service guards the president.”
    Ms. Rafferty was