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 drumming her pencil on a neat stack of papers in the middle of her desk, her eyes on the closed door to Dr. Holcombe’s office. Dix cleared his throat. “Helen?”
“Sheriff Noble! You’re with all these people I don’t know. Well, er, all of you, sit down, please.”
“Helen, could you please give us Erin Bushnell’s address?”
“Why? I see, you don’t want to tell me. Just a moment, I have a directory of all the students right here. I hope she’s not in trouble. Not drunk and disorderly. Ah, yes, here it is.” Helen Rafferty wrote down the address and handed it to Dix.
“Now we’d like to see Gordon.”
“Oh dear, Dr. Holcombe is meeting with a student—but you know what, I’m sure he’s had enough of that. It’s time for Peter to hang it up for the day.” She rose to her feet and marched on three-inch heels to a lovely mahogany door and knocked loudly several times. Without waiting for an answer, she opened the door, stuck her head in, and said in a loud voice, “I’m sorry to disturb you, but the sheriff is here to see you, Dr. Holcombe. He said it’s very important.”
A man’s easy, deep voice said, “Thank you, Helen. I’ll be right out.”
Dix said over Helen’s shoulder, “I’ve got three FBI agents with me, Gordon.”
“One moment,” Dr. Holcombe called out.
Helen stepped out of his office and turned to face them, her hand over her heart. “Oh my, you’re FBI agents? Really? Here at Stanislaus? Oh yes, you’re that woman Dix found huddled against his front door, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ruth said.
“Don’t worry about people staring at you, dear, you can barely make out that bandage beneath all that nice thick hair. You’re really FBI agents? All of you?”
Sherlock said, “Would you like to see our IDs?”
“It’s really not my place to, but I’ve never seen FBI badges before.”
“They’re actually called shields, ma’am,” Sherlock said, “or ‘creds,’” and she handed over her ID. Helen studied it for several moments. “Oh my, isn’t this the neatest thing? Ah, could you please arrest the young man who will be coming out of Dr. Holcombe’s office very shortly?”
“Sure,” Savich said. “Do you want us to haul him out in handcuffs, maybe rough him up a bit first?”
“That would be a treat,” Helen said. She listened for a moment, then stepped back as a thin young man with a starkly ascetic face, a rumpled shirt, and close-cropped hair walked through the office door, his shoulders slumped. Dr. Holcombe followed him, saying, “There’s no such thing as name discrimination, Peter. You must rid yourself of this notion that if a conductor doesn’t like your name, he won’t hire you. Dix, I’ll be with you in a moment.”
Peter didn’t appear at all interested, and continued in a loud voice, “Dr. Holcombe, you can’t overlook this. Two rejections. I’ve brought them to you so you can see the truth. The rejections are nice, certainly, but both of them don’t want me. Both! You know very well it’s because of my unfortunate last name. You put my two names together, and everyone busts a gut laughing, particularly conductors and those snotty folks on their boards. You have to read between the lines, but it’s there. No one wants a violinist whose name is Peter Pepper. Can you begin to imagine how many rejections I’ll get after I earn my Ph.D.?”
Helen said in a helpful voice, “I know I’ll think you’re rich from all the money you make on soft drinks. That’s a good start, isn’t it?”
“Enough, Helen, please,” said Dr. Holcombe, unable to suppress a small snort of laughter. “Peter, this has nothing to do with name discrimination; it has to do with their collective opinions that someone played better than you, nothing more, nothing less. I read both letters very carefully, there is no ‘between the lines.’”
Ruth said, “Hey, why not change your name?”
Peter Pepper stared over at her. “I can’t. My mother would kill me, cut me out of her will, then I couldn’t afford the tuition here.”
“Okay then, use a different first name when you next audition, then everyone will be happy. What’s your middle name?”
“Princeton. That’s where my mom went to college.”
“Hmm. Okay, then, how about simply reversing the two names. You’d be Pepper Princeton. Now, that sounds extraordinary. They’ll love it.”
Peter, aka Pepper Princeton, looked deeply thoughtful, then he began to nod slowly, never taking his eyes off Ruth. “No one’s ever admitted before that it was my name that was the problem, but of course I
’ve always known. Pepper Princeton. Now that’s different, and it won’t make anybody laugh. Hello, my name is Princeton, Dr. Princeton. That has a ring to it. It sounds like someone famous. Hey, can I take you to dinner tonight?”
Ruth patted his shoulder. “I’ve already got a date tonight, but thank you. Good luck.”
Dr. Gordon Holcombe watched the young man walk down the corridor, shoulders squared, lively now, a snap to his step. He said to Ruth, “That was brilliant. If only I’d thought of that six months ago. But it was better coming from you. May I take you to dinner tonight?”
Dix ushered them all into his uncle’s office.
“Hey, what about me?” Helen Rafferty called after them. “Would someone like to take me out to dinner?
”
CHAPTER 14
DIX HAD ALWAYS thought that Gordon’s office proclaimed the man. Sheet music littered every available surface, musical instruments leaned against three walls, and a black Steinway baby grand jutted out from the corner, lid closed, loaded down with music scores. The desk, Ruth saw with a smile, was there only as a delivery system for the computer and printer and still more sheet music. There were half a dozen chairs scattered around the room, probably so Dr. Holcombe could pick up random instruments with his students and play. There was no area to sit, only chairs and music stands. A French horn sat on one of the chairs, and others were covered with reviews from newspapers and more sheet music. It was a warm office, Ruth thought, reflecting what was important to the man and not the administrator of Stanislaus School of Music. She found she was smiling at Dr. Holcombe when she said, “Maybe I will have dinner with you, sir. Do you like Italian?”
Dix frowned. “Not dinner, Ruth, it’s not possible. I told the boys I was making all of us hot dogs, baked beans, and corn bread for dinner tonight. They’re expecting you.”
Dr. Holcombe started to say something, but Dix rolled right over him. “We need to speak with you about something serious, Gordon.”
“Why? Is this about Chappy, Dix? What is that old peckerhead up to now? Did you know Cynthia came to see me last week, afraid Chappy was going to kick Tony out of his position at the bank? The boy should simply pick up stakes and leave here, he’d be much better for it. So has Chappy accused me or the school of something and sent you here to arrest me? You know he’s always hated me, Dix. It’s jealousy, all of it; he wants me dead or in jail, anywhere he can’t see me and be reminded that all he’s ever accomplished was making mo
ney.”
Dix was the only one not appalled by this show of vitriol coming from the talented and sophisticated Dr. Holcombe’s very nicely sculpted mouth. Dix grinned, shook his head. “Nope, not everything’s about Chappy or his trying to make your life miserable, Gordon.”
Dr. Holcombe leaned against his desk, arms crossed over his chest, looked from one to the other of them. “All right then, Dix, tell me what’s going on. First off, why don’t you introduce me to all these people?”
Dix made the introductions, Dr. Holcombe’s left eyebrow rising each time the letters FBI were repeated. He shook hands with each of them, paused when he took Ruth’s hand. “I realize now that you’re the woman Dix found Friday evening, sleeping in his Range Rover, nearly dead of the cold, but how about these other two FBI agents? Are you all investigating together? How on earth can I help you?”
“How well do you know Erin Bushnell?”
Dr. Holcombe looked momentarily startled, then said to Dix, “Why, Erin Bushnell—very talented, plays the violin with extraordinary verve and bombast. I’ve been working with her on her control and spontaneity, which sounds weird, doesn’t it? After all, music is learned; music is practiced. But that’s what a true artist does—he sounds like the piece of music is bursting out of him, like he’s never played it before, but for these people, here is his gift, his blessing. You should hear Erin play Bartók’s Sonata for Solo Violin. She’s absolutely brilliant. You’ll feel like you’re the first human being to ever hear it.
“How else do I know her? She’s in her fourth year, due to graduate with her bachelor of music in May. I believe she wants to remain for her master’s. What’s going on, Dix? Has Erin done something? I know she doesn’t do drugs, maybe some marijuana, there’s some of that on campus, but never anything stronger. She likes to drive that little Miata of hers real fast, too. Oh no, she didn’t have an accident, did she?”
Dix said, “It’s not drugs, Gordon, and it’s not a car accident. I’m sorry to tell you this, but Erin Bushnell is dead. We found her body in a chamber in Winkel’s Cave. As of yet, we don’t know the cause of her death, but it looks like she was murdered and entombed in that cavern. The exits were covered up, the murderer probably hoping she’d never be found.”
Gordon looked ready to faint, his sharp-boned aristocratic face as white as his knuckles clutching the edge of the desk. His mouth moved, but all that came out was “No, that can’t be possible. No, Dix, not Erin. She was so very talented, you see, so fresh and young and promising. You’ve got to be mistaken. No, that can’t be right. Are you sure it’s her you found?”
Dix lightly laid his hand on his uncle’s shoulder. “I’m very sorry, Gordon, but we’re sure. We think she was killed shortly before Ruth entered that chamber on Friday. The killer probably dragged her in there right before Ruth arrived.”
“Erin in Winkel’s Cave? Why in heaven’s name would she be there? I was thinking about calling her this weekend, arranging for her to give another concert before she graduates, but I got caught up writing this new sonata I’m working on, and I forgot. Oh, that poor child.”
Ruth said to him, “We all feel very badly about it, Dr. Holcombe. But we need your help. Erin needs your help. Someone killed her. We need you to tell us about her—her friends, her instructors, boyfriends, her habits, whatever you can to help us. We need to know where she was on Friday.”
Ruth saw he wasn’t ready to deal with it yet. She couldn’t really blame him. Violent death was always a shock if one knew the victim.
Gordon covered his eyes with his hands. “This is very difficult to accept. A student, one of my students, murdered. Things like that simply don’t happen at Stanislaus. Oh dear. What will this do to our school, to our funding? You’re not thinking that another student murdered her, are you? We breed musicians here, not murderers.” He lowered his head, trying to get ahold of himself. When he looked up again, he was still remarkably pale, but his voice was steady. “Erin studied with Gloria Brichoux Stanford, an older woman, immensely talented, flamboyant, with a razor tongue. She’s given a dozen performances at Carnegie Hall over the years, made many recordings, played with a number of orchestras around the world. You and Christie knew her in New York, Dix.”
Dix explained. “Christie and Gloria’s daughter went to school at Carnegie Mellon at the same time. Gloria accepted a position here at Stanislaus about six months after we left New York, which surprised and pleased us. Her daughter also moved here with her. So Erin studied closely with her, Gordon?”
“Since the beginning of the fall term in September, Erin studied with Gloria two hours a day, at a minimum. I’d say no one on the faculty knows Erin better than Gloria. She may be able to tell you, well
…I don’t know, but wouldn’t she know about Erin’s boyfriends, people she didn’t like, if she’s been worried about something, things like that?” His voice fell off and he stood silent, leaning against his desk, staring down at his lovely Italian loafers. “Erin was so very young, twenty-one, twenty-two? Have you spoken to her parents, Dix?”
“Yes, I did. It was very difficult. They couldn’t think of anyone who disliked their daughter, much less enough to kill her. No recent boyfriend problems they were aware of. They’ll be coming here to take her back home to Iowa. Helen gave us Erin’s address. Do you know if she had roommates? Lived alone?”
Gordon shrugged. “I have no idea.”
“No matter. Thank you, Gordon, for your help. I’m very sorry about this. I’m sure you’ll have a lot to do now. Especially when this gets out to the media.”
“Oh yes, the media will see to it everyone at Stanislaus is crucified over this. I’ve got to take steps to protect my students from them. Well, we’ll deal with it, no choice.” He was no longer Gordon, he was Dr. Holcombe again. “Please keep me informed if you learn anything. I will call Erin’s parents myself. We
’ll set up a memorial here for her.”
Helen was silent when they came out. There were tears in her eyes. “This simply doesn’t seem possible. Erin, dead. I’m so very sorry. She was a fine young woman, really nice at least around me. I was at a couple of faculty parties where she was present. She didn’t drink much, I remember, seemed rather shy, but friendly if anyone made the effort. This is tragic, Sheriff, it really is.”
Ruth lightly patted her arm. “Thanks for your help, Helen.”
Helen said, “Erin didn’t have any roommates. She lived alone.” She handed Dix a card. They watched her walk into Dr. Holcombe’s office and speak quietly to him for a moment as they left. The air outside felt heavy, and cold.
“What’s on the card Helen gave you?” Savich asked Dix when they’d climbed back into the Range Rover.
“Gloria Brichoux Stanford’s cell phone number and address. We’ll visit her tomorrow. Let’s take thirty minutes now to stop by Erin Bushnell’s apartment, see if we can find anything.”
“Some torn-up love letters, signed, might be nice,” Ruth said.
“I’ll settle for some nice clear fingerprints,” Dix said. A couple minutes later he turned onto Upper Canyon Road, only three blocks from campus. It was an old neighborhood lined with brightly painted wooden houses, some of them Victorians. Ancient snow-laden oak trees filled the deep yards.
“She lives on the second floor. There it is,” Dix said.
There was no answer when Dix rang the bell. He knocked, waited, and knocked again. He yelled out his name. Still no answer. He tried the doorknob, and it opened.
He said over his shoulder, “This trust in your fellow man is good for us. Let’s go.”
It was a large house, an apartment on each of three floors. There was no number on the second-floor apartment. He turned the knob. The door opened. “I can’t believe she didn’t lock her door,” Ruth said. “
The front door’s one thing, but this is asking for trouble of a bad kind.”
Sherlock said, “Maybe the killer took her here and he was the one who left the door unlocked.”
They walked into a large, high-ceilinged living room with cushioned window seats lining a turret to the right, facing the street. The living room connected to a dining alcove and a kitchen on the other side of a long serving counter.
Even though no lights were on, it was bright and made brighter by colorful throw pillows and pastel walls covered with huge posters, mostly of Brad Pitt.
“Okay,” Dix said. “Let’s split up and check it out quickly. My deputies will be here to check for fingerprints when they’re done at the crime scene.”
They all knew what they were doing, and in ten minutes they were together again in the living room.
“She needed to go food shopping,” Ruth said. “There was a packet of carrots and a carton of nonfat milk in the refrigerator. I didn’t want to smell it. Only junk in the junk drawer, no memos, no notes.”
The living room, the single bedroom, and the bathroom looked almost unlived in. But not Erin Bushnell’s music room. It was shuttered and small, but they could tell this was the room where the young woman spent all her time. There were piles of neatly arranged musical scores for violin and orchestra. On a chair sat an open violin case with her violin tucked snugly inside it. Sherlock eased it out of its case, held it in her open hands. She said, “It was made by Hart and Sons in London in the nineteenth century. You rarely see these. It’s exquisite.”
Sherlock glanced through the music, didn’t see anything that didn’t belong. There was no address book, no diary, no stray pieces of paper with notes or names for appointments. She did have a small laptop and Dix took it with him. “I’ll have our resident Weenie check it out.” At Ruth’s raised eyebrow, he smiled. “His name is Allen. Everyone calls him Weenie. He actually likes it.”
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.”
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