Double Take
Page 40
Ruth laughed, couldn’t help herself. “What’d he do, Ms. Jones?”
“He was supposed to cook out steaks with me last night, but he got caught up in a jam session with some of the other musicians in the orchestra, played in this sleazy dive, and forgot.”
“A real jerk, all right,” Dix said. “You want me to knock some of his teeth loose?”
“Nah, I couldn’t French kiss him then. No, I’ll get him where it really hurts—he loves sex and that’s easy enough to withdraw from his diet. He’ll be going cold turkey.” She laughed and waved them into a living room filled with an assortment of eclectic furnishings, from a huge overstuffed red velvet brocade Victorian sofa to a heavy, highly ornate, nearly black Spanish chest that looked to be five hundred years old, with every year showing on its highly shined battered surface. Dix supposed David Caldicott used it for a chair since there was a twisted retro hippie table with a chipped lava lamp sitting next to it. Persian carpets covered the banged-up oak floor, many of them so old they were nearly in tatters. Paintings and photos covered most of the walls—highly romanticized pre-Raphaelite copies and dozens of photos, all of them of famous composers and performers going back to daguerreotypes from the nineteenth century, showing men with bushy whiskers, wiry beards, and fanatical eyes.
Sunlight poured through the wide front windows, the only spot where a huge magnolia wasn’t pressing in.
She turned when she heard David’s voice calling out from the top of the stairs, “Whitney, I’m sorry! Come on, we’ll do the steaks tonight after I get home from the performance. Wait!”
“Forget it,” she yelled up at him. “I’m outta here, soon-to-be gone. I’m going out with that bank president.” She winked toward Ruth and Dix, leaned close to whisper, “That drives him nuts. He still thinks it’s a believable threat, even the bank president part. I’ll probably marry him, but not until he shapes up first. See you.” Whitney Jones sashayed out of the room. They heard her pop her gum just before the front door slammed.
A few minutes later a tall thin man appeared in the living room doorway, panting, but evidently he hadn’t run fast enough to catch Whitney. He was wearing baggy shorts, a ratty light blue T-shirt, and nothing at all on his long narrow feet. He had a lovely big diamond stud in his right ear, about halfway up.
“Was Whitney putting me on? Are you guys really cops or are you selling something? You aren’t from a bank, are you? I’d sure like to meet a banker, I need another home improvement loan.”
Dix introduced them, told him they weren’t here to help him fix up his house, showed David Caldicott their I.D.s. He didn’t offer to shake his hand.
Caldicott studied Dix’s badge. “Maestro, Virginia? Oh man, this is too much—I went to Stanislaus. You’re the sheriff, Dixon Noble?” He grabbed Dix’s hand, pumped it, then began to shake his head. He didn’t say another word, just suddenly looked afraid, and began to back away. Now that was interesting, Ruth thought, as Dix said calmly, “I understand you attended Stanislaus at the same time my wife, Christie Noble, disappeared, Mr. Caldicott.”
“Yes, yes, I did. It was bad, everyone was talking about it, speculating, you know? It was scary. She was gone.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that. I’m sorry, man, did you ever find out what happened to her?”
Ruth saw that Dix had stiffened up, his way of controlling pain, she knew, and so she said, “May we sit down, Mr. Caldicott?”
He turned to Ruth. “Sure, go ahead. Anywhere you like. The chest isn’t very comfortable, though. When Whitney and I get married, I plan on inviting her mother to sit there.”
They chose the Victorian sofa with the big red cabbage roses.
David Caldicott sat on the floor in front of them and leaned back against the Spanish chest. “Hey, you guys want anything to drink? I think Whitney opened some wine. Oh, sorry, you’re cops, you can’t drink.”
Ruth smiled down at him. “We’re fine, Mr. Caldicott. You have a lovely home.”
He beamed, relaxed a bit. “Thank you. I bought it three years ago when I moved here. I’m fixing it up myself and decorating it myself. The upstairs is still pretty empty, needs some work, especially the bathrooms, but I’m taking my time, finding exactly the right pieces, the right tile and design, you know?” Dix said, “Did you know my wife, Mr. Caldicott?” He nodded and said, “Well, yeah, most of the students knew her or knew who she was. She was awful pretty and really nice. She came to most of the concerts. I know her uncle was Dr. Golden Holcombe, the director of Stanislaus, and a lot of the students tried to kiss up to her, but she’d just laugh and tell them how marvelous they played. I remember after one of my recitals she came up to me and told me how much she’d enjoyed my performance. She even said I was a natural for a symphony orchestra, even spoke about the Atlanta Symphony. I know she was real good friends with Gloria Standard Brichoux—you know, she’s that really famous violinist who came down to teach at Stanislaus after she retired from the stage—and her daughter Ginger, who’s some kind of lawyer, not a musician—go figure that. Ginger didn’t like me much. I don’t know why.” He stopped and looked hopefully at Dix.
“He was supposed to cook out steaks with me last night, but he got caught up in a jam session with some of the other musicians in the orchestra, played in this sleazy dive, and forgot.”
“A real jerk, all right,” Dix said. “You want me to knock some of his teeth loose?”
“Nah, I couldn’t French kiss him then. No, I’ll get him where it really hurts—he loves sex and that’s easy enough to withdraw from his diet. He’ll be going cold turkey.” She laughed and waved them into a living room filled with an assortment of eclectic furnishings, from a huge overstuffed red velvet brocade Victorian sofa to a heavy, highly ornate, nearly black Spanish chest that looked to be five hundred years old, with every year showing on its highly shined battered surface. Dix supposed David Caldicott used it for a chair since there was a twisted retro hippie table with a chipped lava lamp sitting next to it. Persian carpets covered the banged-up oak floor, many of them so old they were nearly in tatters. Paintings and photos covered most of the walls—highly romanticized pre-Raphaelite copies and dozens of photos, all of them of famous composers and performers going back to daguerreotypes from the nineteenth century, showing men with bushy whiskers, wiry beards, and fanatical eyes.
Sunlight poured through the wide front windows, the only spot where a huge magnolia wasn’t pressing in.
She turned when she heard David’s voice calling out from the top of the stairs, “Whitney, I’m sorry! Come on, we’ll do the steaks tonight after I get home from the performance. Wait!”
“Forget it,” she yelled up at him. “I’m outta here, soon-to-be gone. I’m going out with that bank president.” She winked toward Ruth and Dix, leaned close to whisper, “That drives him nuts. He still thinks it’s a believable threat, even the bank president part. I’ll probably marry him, but not until he shapes up first. See you.” Whitney Jones sashayed out of the room. They heard her pop her gum just before the front door slammed.
A few minutes later a tall thin man appeared in the living room doorway, panting, but evidently he hadn’t run fast enough to catch Whitney. He was wearing baggy shorts, a ratty light blue T-shirt, and nothing at all on his long narrow feet. He had a lovely big diamond stud in his right ear, about halfway up.
“Was Whitney putting me on? Are you guys really cops or are you selling something? You aren’t from a bank, are you? I’d sure like to meet a banker, I need another home improvement loan.”
Dix introduced them, told him they weren’t here to help him fix up his house, showed David Caldicott their I.D.s. He didn’t offer to shake his hand.
Caldicott studied Dix’s badge. “Maestro, Virginia? Oh man, this is too much—I went to Stanislaus. You’re the sheriff, Dixon Noble?” He grabbed Dix’s hand, pumped it, then began to shake his head. He didn’t say another word, just suddenly looked afraid, and began to back away. Now that was interesting, Ruth thought, as Dix said calmly, “I understand you attended Stanislaus at the same time my wife, Christie Noble, disappeared, Mr. Caldicott.”
“Yes, yes, I did. It was bad, everyone was talking about it, speculating, you know? It was scary. She was gone.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that. I’m sorry, man, did you ever find out what happened to her?”
Ruth saw that Dix had stiffened up, his way of controlling pain, she knew, and so she said, “May we sit down, Mr. Caldicott?”
He turned to Ruth. “Sure, go ahead. Anywhere you like. The chest isn’t very comfortable, though. When Whitney and I get married, I plan on inviting her mother to sit there.”
They chose the Victorian sofa with the big red cabbage roses.
David Caldicott sat on the floor in front of them and leaned back against the Spanish chest. “Hey, you guys want anything to drink? I think Whitney opened some wine. Oh, sorry, you’re cops, you can’t drink.”
Ruth smiled down at him. “We’re fine, Mr. Caldicott. You have a lovely home.”
He beamed, relaxed a bit. “Thank you. I bought it three years ago when I moved here. I’m fixing it up myself and decorating it myself. The upstairs is still pretty empty, needs some work, especially the bathrooms, but I’m taking my time, finding exactly the right pieces, the right tile and design, you know?” Dix said, “Did you know my wife, Mr. Caldicott?” He nodded and said, “Well, yeah, most of the students knew her or knew who she was. She was awful pretty and really nice. She came to most of the concerts. I know her uncle was Dr. Golden Holcombe, the director of Stanislaus, and a lot of the students tried to kiss up to her, but she’d just laugh and tell them how marvelous they played. I remember after one of my recitals she came up to me and told me how much she’d enjoyed my performance. She even said I was a natural for a symphony orchestra, even spoke about the Atlanta Symphony. I know she was real good friends with Gloria Standard Brichoux—you know, she’s that really famous violinist who came down to teach at Stanislaus after she retired from the stage—and her daughter Ginger, who’s some kind of lawyer, not a musician—go figure that. Ginger didn’t like me much. I don’t know why.” He stopped and looked hopefully at Dix.
