Ruth closed Erin’s apartment door behind them. “The only thing really personal about the place was her music and her violin.”
“I think we’ll have to look elsewhere for why she died,” Dix said. As he pulled away from the old house, he added, “Okay, we’ll have to knock off for the night. The boys will be wondering where I’m hiding you guys. I hate to have them at home alone for too long after school. They’re beyond excited that you FBI agents will be at the house again.”
“Yep, I guess they’re the Big Dogs now at school,” Ruth said. “Bet they promised all their friends they’d dig secrets out of us tonight.”
Dix honked his horn to alert a car turning in front of him. He said to Ruth, “Be careful Brewster doesn’t pee on you again.”
Ruth grinned. “I know to be careful now. I couldn’t go out to dinner with any of my admirers if he did. And I may be wearing the last of Rob’s clothes.”
Dix’s cell rang as he was negotiating the Range Rover through a three-foot pile of snow blocking the middle of Stumptree Lane. Someone had put a ball of snow on top of it with a carrot for a nose. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Rob and Rafer were involved in that stunt.” He answered, “Yeah? Sheriff Noble here.”
He listened for a moment, pulled the Range Rover to the side of the road, and said, “Tell me you’re kidding. I really need you to.” He listened awhile longer, rang off, and slid the phone back in his jacket pocket. He said, “That was the medical examiner, Dr. Himple. He says Erin Bushnell had a drug in her system that he identified with his spectroscopy unit. He thinks it’s a chemical called BZ, and it may have incapacitated her. Then the murderer slid a thin blade or a needle into her chest.” Dix drew a deep breath. “But it’s what he did to her after he killed her—damnedest thing I’ve ever heard of.”
Ruth leaned over and touched his arm. “What, Dix, what did he do?”
“He embalmed her.”
CHAPTER 15
SAVICH SPRINKLED SALT on his corn on the cob, bit into it, and sighed with pleasure. “Rob, we liked the snowman you guys built in the middle of Stumptree Lane. That old carrot was a good touch—it would have brought most cars, except your dad’s, to a humiliated stop. He plowed the Range Rover right through it, probably would have eaten the carrot if it hadn’t looked so gnarly.”
The boys exchanged looks before Rob cleared his throat. “Well, it was a whole bunch of us, you know? A lot of kids from the sophomore class walk home near there,” he said with a look toward their father. “It really wouldn’t be fair to single any of them out, Dad. The thing is, they closed down school at three and none of us wanted to go sledding again. The snow on Breaker’s Hill is really trashed, you know?”
“You guys want another hot dog?” Dix asked them, and both boys smiled at him, limp with relief.
Rob asked carefully, a potato chip suspended an inch from his mouth, “You’re not pissed, Dad? You’re not going to ground us?”
“Hey, Earth to Dad,” Rafe said, and snapped his fingers toward his father.
“What? Oh sorry, the snow pile. I remember we did the same thing once only it was in Queens, and the beat cop took half a dozen of us down to the precinct house to scare us. My dad tanned my butt. You know, you guys aren’t too old for me to hide.”
Rob said, “We’re too old, Dad, really. Besides, you always say that then never do.” He grinned. “If you really want to teach us a lesson, why don’t you toss us in jail for a night? That would be the ultimate punishment, you know?”
“Punishment as in really cool?” Ruth asked.
Dix rolled his eyes. “You were lucky I was the first one through your little snow fort and flattened it out for everybody else.”
“Bummer,” Rob said around a hot dog loaded with French’s mustard and sweet relish.
“We had our test on Othello today, Dad,” Rafe said. “I think I did really well. I think I knew the answers to all the questions.”
“I’m not surprised,” Dix said. “I’ve told you you have your mother’s brains.”
“Yeah, well,” Rafe continued, “if I get at least a B minus can I take that after-school job at Mr. Fulton’s hardware store?”
Dix’s cell phone rang, and he stepped away to answer it. When he returned, he pointed his finger at Rafe. “No part-time job until you have at least a B in biology and a B in English, as we agreed. Not a B minus, a good, solid B. Your report card’s out in three weeks, so you’ve got a goal. And don’t whine about it. Sherlock and Savich have a little boy a lot younger than you guys, and we don’t have to show them what’s in store for them.”