Point Blank by Catherine Coulter
Sherlock said, “If I were you, I’d tell Dr. Himple to threaten all his techs with pain and dismemberment if any of them open their mouths about finding embalming fluids in her.”
Dix shook his head. “Unbelievable, the loony actually performed an embalming rite on her. That is something her parents will never find out about.”
Sherlock said, “You should go personally and speak to the techs, Dix. That might keep it under wraps longer, particularly if you guilt them about the parents finding out, and what it would do to them. Dillon will get MAX on the embalming process, and find out if this MO has ever appeared before.”
Dix stretched his back, crossed his legs at the ankles. “When I left New York, I thought I’d left the crazies behind. Was I wrong, or what? If Ruth hadn’t gone into Winkel’s Cave treasure hunting on that particular day, Erin Bushnell would have simply disappeared forever. No one would have had a clue what happened to her—did she pick up and leave with no word for anyone, or run off with some guy no one ever saw, or—did someone take her away?” He stopped dead, looked down at the floor, his hands frozen in fists on his thighs. Ruth saw he was pale, markedly so. There was something very wrong here. Then she knew. “Dix, what happened to your wife Christie?”
Dix didn’t answer for the longest time, didn’t move, didn’t look at any of them. Finally, he looked up at Ruth standing beside him. “My wife—Christie—she disappeared nearly three years ago.”
“And you don’t know what happened to her, do you?”
He shook his head. “She was simply gone one day, like Erin Bushnell would have been if you hadn’t happened along. We conducted a huge criminal investigation, did everything humanly possible—I even hired a private detective I’d heard about out of Chicago—but no one ever found a single clue, a single lead, nothing. For nearly three years.”
He looked up then at Savich and Sherlock. “From the minute Ruth found Erin Bushnell, I’ve been asking myself if this was what happened to Christie.”
Savich cleared his throat and glanced briefly at his wife. “I can’t imagine what it would be like to live with that uncertainty, the pain of not knowing. It’s got to have been really rough for you and your boys. But you’ve done a remarkable job with them. And I’ll tell you the truth: I’d be thinking along the same lines as you if it were Sherlock. But the fact is, I think it’s highly unlikely that Christie’s disappearance had anything to do with Erin Bushnell’s murder.”
Ruth felt tears burn her throat and swallowed them. She smiled at him. “Dix, did I ever tell you how very grateful I am that they dumped me in your woods? Hey, I never would have met your boys otherwise and had the opportunity to bleach the blue out of your boxers.”
There was quiet laughter. Ruth thought it felt very good.
As he helped Sherlock on with her jacket, Savich said, “We have a very unbalanced individual here, guys, but someone functioning normally enough to send those two men here to the house after you. It would behoove all of us to be very careful, you in particular, Ruth. He’s tried to kill you once, and he may try again.”
“What would be his reason now?” Ruth asked. “We found his cave, we found Erin, and I’ve told you everything I know. Why would he mess with an FBI agent now?”
Dix said, “Savich is right. You’re being logical, Ruth. I doubt we can say the same thing about someone who pumped embalming fluid into Erin’s body. Fact is, we can’t be sure about anything he might do.”
“That’s a cheery thought,” Ruth said.
Dix said, “Savich, what are the chances of your profilers at Quantico taking a shot at this?”
“I’ll call Steve in the morning.”
After Savich and Sherlock left, Dix walked Ruth to Rob’s bedroom. He paused by the closed door of Rafe’s room to listen. “It’s too quiet,” he said. “Usually I can hear at least one of them snoring.”
She lightly laid her hand on his arm. “I am very, very sorry about Christie. You believe she’s dead, don’t you?”
He nodded. “Yes, I know she is. There is no way Christie would leave me and the boys. Not willingly. Someone took her, someone killed her. I just don’t know who.”
There was nothing she could say, and so Ruth simply pressed against him, held him for a very long time.
When she finally stepped back, she kept her hand on his arm for a moment. “You don’t think there’s any danger from me staying here tonight, do you?”
He heard the hint of fear in her voice and shook his head. “I’m thinking you could kick your way out of a bar fight, Special Agent. But I’m not about to take any more chances with you or the boys. I’ve got my deputies on a rotating schedule. They’ll be checking the house every hour, not to worry.”
She nodded. “I need to pick up some clothes tomorrow, Dix. Rob needs his stuff back.”
“No problem,” Dix said, and turned away. He paused, turned back. “You okay, Ruth?”
“Sure, I’m fine. Are you okay, Dix?”
He said nothing, merely nodded.
When he lay in his bed, Dix listened to the familiar sounds of the night and wondered what was happening to his peaceful town. And he thought of Christie. He’d never before spoken of her as he had tonight. Somehow he felt comforted, a bit freer of the numbing pain, a bit more open to life again. He still had Christie’s photo on his desk at work, taken with his boys only a month before she vanished. He looked at her every day, and every day he wondered what had happened to her.
CHAPTER 16
MAESTRO, VIRGINIA
TUESDAY MORNING
IT WAS TEN-THIRTY Tuesday morning before the four of them met for a late breakfast at Maurie’s Diner on Main Street. Savich sipped tea, set down his cup. “MAX found us instances of stabbing and gassing, of course, even embalming, by a parade of psychopaths you don’t want to know about, but never all together, at least that we know about. I make that caveat because if not for Ruth, we might never have found Erin Bushnell.”
“You don’t sound surprised,” Dix said as he spread butter on wheat toast.
Savich shook his head. “I’ve learned that the killers among us have limitless imagination.”
Ruth laid down her fork, leaned her chin on her laced fingers. “And that’s the whole point. It’s his own special deal, his way of making himself unique, his own creation.”
Savich said, “I agree, Ruth. It’s usually a script the killer must follow to the letter if he’s to consider his act a success. He didn’t want his handiwork discovered, that isn’t what he’s about, what he’s after. It’s the process—that’s what’s important to him.”
“More tea, Special Agent?”
Savich smiled up at Glenna, the waitress. “Yes, thank you.” When she’d left, looking over her shoulder at him several times, Savich asked Dix, “Did you meet with the techs at the morgue this morning?”
“Yep. I threatened them with whatever I could think of.” He shrugged. “They all agreed, but who knows? None of my deputies know a thing about it, either. Only the four of us, Dr. Himple, and the three techs. I also called Dr. Crocker at Loudoun County Community Hospital.” Dix’s cell phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket, said, “Sheriff Noble here.”
His expression lightened as he listened, and then darkened, and his hand fisted on the tabletop. He looked very angry. “Is this your idea of good news, bad news, Emory?” He listened for quite a while, the three agents sensing the deputy calling was trying to calm his boss. He looked ready to eat nails when he flipped off his cell phone.
Ruth said, “Well?”
“My deputies found your Beemer in the shed behind Walt McGuffey’s house, Ruth. Remember the house we passed on the way to Lone Tree Hill? And I saw that the snow didn’t look like it had been disturbed at all, and called to have my people check on Walt?” He paused, and there was such a look of helpless rage on his face that Ruth laid her hand on his arm.
“What happened, Dix? What’s the bad news?”
“They didn’t stop by until
“How was Mr. McGuffey killed, Sheriff?”
Dix got ahold of himself at the sound of Savich’s voice. “Stabbed through the heart with one of his own kitchen knives.”
Sherlock said, “Walt wasn’t part of his ritual. It was expediency, nothing more than that. Maybe the old man saw something he shouldn’t have.”
Dix nodded. “Maybe he needed very badly to hide Ruth’s car in a hurry, and simply dispatched Walt quickly because he was in the way. Maybe we’ll find something in the car.”
Dix dropped a twenty alongside Savich’s money on the table. He helped Ruth on with Rob’s old leather jacket. She said, “I’m really sorry about this, Dix. This Walt McGuffey, have you known him for a long time?”
He nodded. “As long as I’ve lived here. Walt was eighty-seven years old, bragged about it, lived here all his life. Chappy told me he used to be the finest furniture maker in the state, liked to build with bird’s-eye maple the best. His wife, Martha, died in the seventies, cancer, I believe. Christie used to invite him over for Thanksgiving dinner, and—well, I’ve had him over myself for the past two years.”
Since Maurie’s was across the street from the sheriff’s office, Dix walked right over, ready to ream out Emory for waiting so long to get out to McGuffey’s place.
Penny Oppenheimer was sitting behind the information desk, a large bandage wrapped around her head. Dix was surprised to see her at work. She was supposed to rest for the next few days.
Before he could say a word, Penny said, “The reason Emory didn’t send deputies out to the old McGuffey place sooner, Sheriff, is because we’ve all been working overtime guarding your house and working on the three deaths we already had, not to mention the downed power lines from the storm. Emory’s also been dealing with the hundreds of calls we’ve had from people asking about all this, not to mention fending off the press, and three DUIs, all of them teenagers.”
“The press?”
“Yes, sir. Milton has been bugging us every five minutes for updates, said it’s the public’s right to know and he wants up-to-date details for his deadline on Wednesday.”
Dix snorted, said to the three of them, “Milton Bean owns and operates the Maestro Daily Telegraph. He’s seventy-four, hacks nonstop because he smokes cigars. He hasn’t had a byline in fifteen years.”
Penny said helpfully, “He swears he’s writing one right this instant, if only our office would cooperate—”
“I’m surprised the real press hasn’t arrived yet. Then you’ll really have your hands full. Where is Emory?”
“In the men’s room, I think,” Penny said. “On top of everything else, he was talking about diarrhea. He’s really sorry, Sheriff, feels really bad.”
“Yeah, I’m gonna make him feel a lot worse.”
Ruth grinned. “But you, Penny, did a great job breaking all this to the sheriff. Everyone knew he wouldn’t get mad at a poor deputy whose head is all bandaged up from risking her life for him.” She added to Dix, “You’ve got a pretty smart staff here, Dix.”
Dix asked abruptly, “How is your head, Penny? Maybe you should still be home. Did Emory get you in here to keep me from kicking his butt?”
Penny shook her head. “Believe me, I want to be here. At home Tommy makes me lie on the sofa and watch TV. I couldn’t take it anymore. I’m only doing desk duty—taking calls, that’s all, answering questions if anyone comes in, I promise. Hey, everyone’s really upset about this. Walt was a neat old guy.”
“He sure was,” Dix said, and stomped away to his office.
Sherlock said to Deputy Penny Oppenheimer as she walked by her desk, “Nice touch, that lovely huge bandage. No man could withstand that. No man would have even thought of it.”
“Thank you,” Penny said. “I figured I had to do something or the sheriff would kick in Emory’s kneecaps. Hey, he doesn’t seem to mind you guys being here. I guess you’re not trying to tromp him under your big Federal shoes.”
“An occasional toe nudge is all,” Sherlock said. She nodded at the large room through a glass partition behind Penny, where half a dozen deputies were trying to look busy, but naturally were focused on the three interlopers. And Ruth in particular, who was dressed in Rob’s jeans, a flannel shirt, and an old leather jacket. She followed Dillon into the sheriff’s office.
“Nice office,” Sherlock said.
Ruth was surprised, truth be told. Covering an entire wall was a photographic pictorial of Virginia, from the old town in Alexandria to the sweeping white paddocks of horse country. There was a large black-and-white print of the fog-shrouded mountains and color blowups of incredible green valleys, wildly beautiful in the middle of summer with thick pines, maples, and oaks. They were framed in black like the photo on his desk of a woman and two boys. It must be Christie, she thought. She saw he was looking at her and smiled. “She’s lovely, Dix.”
“Thank you.” Dix tucked some papers in his pocket he’d pulled out of his desk drawer. “Okay, let’s go out to Walt’s place.”
Fifteen minutes later, after Dix had spoken to four of his deputies who had marked off the perimeter of the McGuffey property from sightseers, they stepped into Walt McGuffey’s 1940s bungalow that looked like it hadn’t been updated since it was built. The furniture, though, was amazing. Walt had kept his best pieces, all of bird’s-eye maple and exquisitely made—a sofa, a table, six chairs, several side tables. The unfortunate 1970s burnt-orange shag carpet, however, didn’t enhance the setting. Dr. Himple was there with the forensic team from Loudoun, the county seat. The forensic folks looked tired. Dr. Himple stretched as he stood up, and nodded in their direction, but his eyes were on Dix. “I’m really sorry, Dix. Walt died easily, if it makes any difference. The knife killed him fast; he probably hardly felt it. There aren’t any defensive wounds. He probably didn’t even see it coming. But that’s preliminary, you understand. I’ll do an autopsy immediately and let you know.”
Savich said, “So Mr. McGuffey knew his murderer—he let him in, welcomed him.”
Dr. Himple nodded. “Yes, I would say so.”
Sherlock said, “Mr. McGuffey probably invited him into the kitchen, say for a cup of coffee. The murderer knew he was going to kill the old man, probably looked around for a weapon, saw the knife on the counter, and used it.”
Dr. Himple looked from Sherlock to Savich and slowly nodded. “That could be about right.”
“Fingerprint everything,” Dix said to Marvin Wilkes, head of the forensic team. “Especially around the kitchen.”
Dix knelt down next to the old man, who, in truth, resembled a bundle of old clothes wrapped around bones. He lightly laid his hand on the old man’s shoulder and closed his eyes for a moment. He pictured Walt grinning up at him with his six remaining teeth, asking if those gall-derned boys of his had given him any gray hairs yet. Now there was a look of surprise on the old man’s face, no pain, only blank surprise.
He felt tears sting his eyes and swallowed. He rose quickly, said to Dr. Himple, “Treat him well, Burt, he was a grand old man. My boys are going to be very upset by this.”
“I’ll take care of him now, Sheriff.”
“He doesn’t have any family. I’ll set up his funeral myself.”
They searched Walt McGuffey’s house, but found nothing of note except an ancient wooden box that held photos of Walt and his wife, and a young boy, taken in the forties. “His son?” Savich asked.
Dix shook his head. “I don’t know. If so, he must have died real young. Walt never mentioned any children.” Dix paused, then tucked the box under his arm. “I think Walt might want to be buried with this.”
In the old shed at the back of the house they found Ruth’s Beemer, nice and clean since the murderer had hidden it there before the snow started. Her wallet lay on the front seat, her duffel bag on the passenger-
You’ll have to leave all this here for a while, Ruth,” Dix said. “The forensic team needs to go over everything.”
“Of course, no problem.”
“The boys will probably bug you to drive them around in it later,” Dix added wearily. “All right. If everyone wants to pile back into the Range Rover, we’ll go to meet the famous violinist.”
GLORIA BRICHOUX STANFORD lived on Elk Horn Road, not a quarter mile from the Stanislaus campus, in a one-story ranch-style house with a very big footprint, surrounded on three sides by woods. The three-car garage was tucked away in the back and connected to the kitchen. It was in a lovely setting that once belonged, Dix told them, to an old gentleman who’d been the head book-keeper for Chappy at the Maestro First Independent Bank before he retired. He’d inherited the property and house from his great-aunt. When he died, his heirs sold it to Gloria when she retired from public life and accepted a position at Stanislaus.
“What’s she like, Dix?” Ruth asked as they walked up a well-shoveled front walkway.
“I told you she and her daughter moved here about six months after Christie, the boys, and me. Her daughter is a lawyer here in Maestro, does primarily wills, trusts, and estate planning. Christie said Ginger always bragged about not having a lick of musical talent, thank the Lord.”
“Why was she happy about that?” Sherlock asked.
Dix turned to Sherlock. “Ginger felt like her life was in constant upheaval, with her mother always traveling, always performing, leaving her at home. When Gloria wasn’t touring, she was down for the count with exhaustion or shot through with adrenaline about her next performance. Ginger’s father took off when she was about ten. Ginger says all she needs is a will to draw up in peace and quiet and she’s a happy camper.”
The front door was opened by a plump older woman who appeared to be the housekeeper. They were shown to the living room and politely asked to be seated. They were all speaking quietly and looking out over the beautiful front lawn when Gloria Brichoux Stanford made her entrance. She was wearing ratty old sweats, sneakers, and a headband, and was toweling off her face. “I see Phyllis gave you the formal treatment,” she said in a deep, booming voice. She tossed the towel on the floor and walked to where they stood, her hand outstretched.