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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?”
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?”
