Point Blank

Dix shook his head. “Everyone in this town hears everything.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Ginger said and waved an elegant hand toward the sofa. “I heard Brewster found you behind the woodpile at the side of Dix’s house.”

Once seated again behind her desk, Ginger steepled her fingers in front of her and said thoughtfully, “Mother is miserable about Erin, Dix. I spent last night with her, she was so upset. She couldn’t stop crying. Please tell me you’ve discovered who’s responsible. And now Walt McGuffey. What’s going on here, Dix?”

He shrugged. “I’d really like you to tell us about Erin Bushnell, Ginger.”

Ginger sat back in her chair, closed her eyes for a moment, snapped them open, and blinked as her mouth formed a slow smile. Ruth wondered how that series of attention-getters played with a jury. Probably drove the guys wild. She finally said, “Other than the fact that she had the hots for Dr. Holcombe, she was pretty smart.”

“What?”

“I know, I know. He’s old enough to have been her daddy, but there it is. She was always hanging around him, offering to do things for him—put new reeds in his wood-winds, tune his harpsichord, polish his French horn, whatever. She audited all the classes he taught, even went mooning over to his house a couple of times, or so my mom told me.”

“Your mother didn’t say anything about this to us.”

“She wouldn’t. She just waved it off, said it was infatuation, nothing more, and that’s why it didn’t bother her. She saw Dr. Holcombe as being a safe lover who understood his role and could easily be left behind when Erin was ready to hit stardom road. I tried to tell her Erin was gone over Dr. Holcombe, that she’d lie down in front of his car to get his attention, but Mom didn’t buy it. 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.”