Point Blank
Page 42
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
“Hello, people, it’s me, Ruth. I’m right here. I’m alive.”
Dix said, “And all of us are real happy about that, Ruth.”
“You’re going to go see that twerp-ass Twister now, aren’t you?” Chappy asked.
“Yes. We also need to find out where she lived. Sorry, Chappy, but you can’t come with us. Hey, why don’t you go finalize a buyout of the Bank of America, okay?”
Chappy shook his head. “I know Twister, Dix, know him down to the molecules that make that shifty little pissant tick. You can’t believe a word he says. I’ll be able to tell you if he’s trying to cover up, to protect that precious school of his. I knew every one of his tricks by the time he was ten.”
“Chappy,” Dix said, “Why don’t you tell our FBI agents how you really feel about Uncle Gordon.”
“He’s a sly, twisted little weasel.”
Sherlock asked, “Why on earth would your brother hide anything, sir? We’re only seeing him first because he’s the big cheese at Stanislaus, nothing more, and he can direct us to her friends and teachers.”
Chappy opened his mouth, shut it, then gave a deep sigh. “I can’t acquire the Bank of America. I tried a couple of months ago, but they’ve got a stranglehold on all the stock options and the CEO is more shark than human—hey, that was a joke. Damn, what a day. All right, I’m going, but I want you to keep me in the loop on this. You promise, Dix?”
Dix nodded. “I promise. Deputy Moran is going to drive you home. Ah, Chappy, don’t get on the phone to Uncle Gordon, all right?”
THE CAMPUS OF Stanislaus School of Music was set some four miles east of Maestro, sprawled in its own private wilderness. Mountains formed a line to the north, with thick forests of oak, maple, and pine climbing their lower slopes. Closer in were low hills, little humps of land really, covered mostly with thick blackberry bushes that thinned toward the east into a wide, flat valley hidden under snow.
In the late Monday afternoon light, the campus looked like a precious stone in a matching setting, its red brick buildings clustered around a large main quadrangle, surrounded by trees whose thick branches were weighed down with snow. All the walkways were neatly shoveled. The sounds of a Bach Brandenburg Concerto wafted out of the main auditorium, Van Cliburn Hall, named after the famed pianist, whose trust had given a large grant to the school fifteen years before. They all paused, taking in the scene and those beautiful sounds.
“It’s nearly four o’clock,” Sherlock said. “I hope Dr. Holcombe will still be here.”
“He should be,” Dix said. “He’s a pretty remarkable musician, a flautist and pianist. He’s run the school for the past ten years. Before that he toured, primarily in Europe, and lived in Paris for a couple of years. His daughter, Dr. Marian Gillespie, also teaches here.”
“Is Dr. Gillespie also a musician?” Savich asked.
Dix nodded. “She plays the viola, though Christie told me she didn’t have anywhere near her father’s talent, or his ability to deal with people or do administration. She’s something of an old hippie—you’ll see what I mean when you meet her.”
Ruth asked Dix as they walked up the wide sidewalk to Blankenship Hall, the administration building, “What does Marian’s husband do?”
“Marian’s husband left her before we moved down here from New York so I never met him.” He added to Sherlock and Savich, “I was with the NYPD, a detective in homicide for four years. When we moved here, thanks in part to Christie’s father, I was elected sheriff of Maestro. The boys and I don’t see Marian much, maybe once every couple of months over at Tara for dinner. Rob and Rafe call it circus night.”
“Families are such fun,” Ruth said. “So did your boys get any of this talent?”
“Rob plays the drums in a band put together by one of his high school friends, a mixed blessing. Rafe plays a bit of piano. Whenever I mention taking lessons, though, he won’t have any of it. We’ll see.”
Dix led them to a gorgeous walnut semicircular information desk where two women watched them approach with a good deal of curiosity. Dix nodded to them both, said, “Mavis, I’m here to see my uncle.”
“He’s in, Sheriff Noble,” Mavis said, eyeing Savich, “although he did say he wanted to leave early today. I think Peter Pepper nabbed him.”
Mary Parton rolled her eyes. “If he’s with Peter, I know he’ll appreciate being rescued. Ah, who are these people, Sheriff? Wait, you’re the woman the sheriff found next to his house, right?”
Dix said, “And all of us are real happy about that, Ruth.”
“You’re going to go see that twerp-ass Twister now, aren’t you?” Chappy asked.
“Yes. We also need to find out where she lived. Sorry, Chappy, but you can’t come with us. Hey, why don’t you go finalize a buyout of the Bank of America, okay?”
Chappy shook his head. “I know Twister, Dix, know him down to the molecules that make that shifty little pissant tick. You can’t believe a word he says. I’ll be able to tell you if he’s trying to cover up, to protect that precious school of his. I knew every one of his tricks by the time he was ten.”
“Chappy,” Dix said, “Why don’t you tell our FBI agents how you really feel about Uncle Gordon.”
“He’s a sly, twisted little weasel.”
Sherlock asked, “Why on earth would your brother hide anything, sir? We’re only seeing him first because he’s the big cheese at Stanislaus, nothing more, and he can direct us to her friends and teachers.”
Chappy opened his mouth, shut it, then gave a deep sigh. “I can’t acquire the Bank of America. I tried a couple of months ago, but they’ve got a stranglehold on all the stock options and the CEO is more shark than human—hey, that was a joke. Damn, what a day. All right, I’m going, but I want you to keep me in the loop on this. You promise, Dix?”
Dix nodded. “I promise. Deputy Moran is going to drive you home. Ah, Chappy, don’t get on the phone to Uncle Gordon, all right?”
THE CAMPUS OF Stanislaus School of Music was set some four miles east of Maestro, sprawled in its own private wilderness. Mountains formed a line to the north, with thick forests of oak, maple, and pine climbing their lower slopes. Closer in were low hills, little humps of land really, covered mostly with thick blackberry bushes that thinned toward the east into a wide, flat valley hidden under snow.
In the late Monday afternoon light, the campus looked like a precious stone in a matching setting, its red brick buildings clustered around a large main quadrangle, surrounded by trees whose thick branches were weighed down with snow. All the walkways were neatly shoveled. The sounds of a Bach Brandenburg Concerto wafted out of the main auditorium, Van Cliburn Hall, named after the famed pianist, whose trust had given a large grant to the school fifteen years before. They all paused, taking in the scene and those beautiful sounds.
“It’s nearly four o’clock,” Sherlock said. “I hope Dr. Holcombe will still be here.”
“He should be,” Dix said. “He’s a pretty remarkable musician, a flautist and pianist. He’s run the school for the past ten years. Before that he toured, primarily in Europe, and lived in Paris for a couple of years. His daughter, Dr. Marian Gillespie, also teaches here.”
“Is Dr. Gillespie also a musician?” Savich asked.
Dix nodded. “She plays the viola, though Christie told me she didn’t have anywhere near her father’s talent, or his ability to deal with people or do administration. She’s something of an old hippie—you’ll see what I mean when you meet her.”
Ruth asked Dix as they walked up the wide sidewalk to Blankenship Hall, the administration building, “What does Marian’s husband do?”
“Marian’s husband left her before we moved down here from New York so I never met him.” He added to Sherlock and Savich, “I was with the NYPD, a detective in homicide for four years. When we moved here, thanks in part to Christie’s father, I was elected sheriff of Maestro. The boys and I don’t see Marian much, maybe once every couple of months over at Tara for dinner. Rob and Rafe call it circus night.”
“Families are such fun,” Ruth said. “So did your boys get any of this talent?”
“Rob plays the drums in a band put together by one of his high school friends, a mixed blessing. Rafe plays a bit of piano. Whenever I mention taking lessons, though, he won’t have any of it. We’ll see.”
Dix led them to a gorgeous walnut semicircular information desk where two women watched them approach with a good deal of curiosity. Dix nodded to them both, said, “Mavis, I’m here to see my uncle.”
“He’s in, Sheriff Noble,” Mavis said, eyeing Savich, “although he did say he wanted to leave early today. I think Peter Pepper nabbed him.”
Mary Parton rolled her eyes. “If he’s with Peter, I know he’ll appreciate being rescued. Ah, who are these people, Sheriff? Wait, you’re the woman the sheriff found next to his house, right?”
