Point Blank

She’d always shake her head and say no, Erin was going to tour the world, nothing would stop her.” Ginger paused, looked at one of the African masks on the opposite wall. “She won’t now, Dix.”
    “You think you could be wrong about the depth of Erin’s feelings for Dr. Holcombe?”
    “Me? Of course I’m not wrong, I’m a lawyer.”
    Ruth laughed, couldn’t help it. “That was good,” she said.
    Ginger gave her a gracious nod, but her eyes weren’t at all friendly. “When are you going back to Washington, Agent Warnecki?”
    “If I can keep her here, she’s staying until we catch the murderer,” Dix said. Ginger wasn’t happy with that news. She pushed her chair back and crossed her legs. “I heard you found Erin in Winkel’s Cave. I also heard that’s where you’d been, Agent Warnecki. So you think the two men who shot at you killed Erin?”
    “Could be. Maybe not.”
    “That’s very proficient cop talk, Agent.”
    Ruth smiled, nodded, and said, “Thank you. I’m very good at it.”
    Dix asked, “What else should we know about Erin, Ginger?”
    “She was a dream on the violin. Incredible, but you know that.” Then she gave Dix The Look, though he didn’t appear to pick up on it. Instead he frowned down at his short black boots and said, “Did she go out with any guys her own age? Classmates?”
    “Nary a one, as far as I know, and believe me, I know everything about Erin because of Mom. When Erin woke up to the guy factor, it was Dr. Holcombe from the get-go.”
    Ruth sat forward in her chair. “Did Dr. Holcombe reciprocate her feelings?”
    “I don’t know. You’d have to ask Gordon’s dragon, Helen Rafferty. She knows all, and I mean that literally. The word is that she and Dr. Holcombe had a hot thing going maybe five years ago, and he was the one who called it off. Evidently he’s quite a smooth talker, convinced her to stay on as his personal assistant, which indicates to me he’s pretty selfish, and she’s got the self-esteem of a rug. She’d know exactly what his feelings are—were—toward Erin.”
    They left ten minutes later to drive out to Chappy’s house for lunch. Ruth said as she buckled her seat belt, “Curiouser and curiouser. What do you think about Erin Bushnell, age twenty-two, in the throes of unrequited passion for Chappy’s brother, a man more than twice her age?”
    “We need to find out if it was unrequited,” Dix said.
    “Maybe what he felt was lust for her talent—the guy might have a thing for talented women, sees himself as a Svengali. No, that doesn’t work. There’s Helen Rafferty, his personal assistant, in the mix.”
    Dix said, “Helen Rafferty plays the piano beautifully.”
    “Hmm. I wonder what Dr. Holcombe will tell us about this.”
    “It’ll be interesting. Chappy told me one of the reasons he calls his brother Twister is that he can wriggle out of anything.”
    Ruth looked out the window at the lovely expanse of white pristine snow. Two hawks cruised overhead, their wingspan impressive against the clear blue sky. When she lost sight of them, she said, “If I’ve got this right, Erin Bushnell wasn’t only a brilliant music student at the Stanislaus School of Music, she was also in love with the director and was the best friend of the director’s niece-in-law.”

CHAPTER 19
    CHAPPY HOLCOMBE SAT at the head of the spit-polished Chippendale dining table. “Well, how about it, Cynthia, do you think Twister was sleeping with your good friend Erin Bushnell?”
    Cynthia Holcombe finished chewing her breadstick, swallowed, and regarded her father-in-law as if he’d made a tacky joke. “No, I don’t,” was all she said. She picked up another breadstick, as if in self-defense.
    Chappy waved his fork at his daughter-in-law. “Fact is, I don’t, either. Cynthia, you’re the one I’d swear old Twister wants to sleep with, given all those lusty looks he tosses your way.”
    “Dad, please,” Tony said, but his voice was more resigned than angry or embarrassed.
    “All right, all right,” Chappy said. “Mrs. Goss, where’s our lunch?”
    “Yours is right here, Chappy.” Mrs. Goss, fiftyish, was blessed with striking, heavy black hair she wore loose and curling down her back, like a gypsy. A long bright yellow velvet skirt swished gracefully around her ankles, a peasant blouse, cut low, the final touch. She leaned down to set a platter of shrimp salad at Chappy’s right hand, her cleavage not three inches from his