Point Blank
Page 70
Gordon Holcombe was standing by the fireplace, a cup of coffee in his hand. He looked like an Italian fashion plate in a dark gray suit, white shirt, and a perfectly knotted pale blue tie. He looked sad and also somehow stoic, a strange combination, Ruth thought. Was he really sorry Helen was dead? Or relieved?
Gordon didn’t say a word when they walked into the living room, and merely stood watching them.
Dix said, “Gordon, I’m very sorry about Helen.”
“Why are you telling him you’re sorry?” Chappy bellowed, waving his fist in his brother’s direction. “This mewling little psychopath probably killed her. I already told you he did. Go on. Ask him!”
Ruth asked, “Did you kill Helen Rafferty, Dr. Holcombe?”
Gordon sighed, set his coffee cup on the mantel. “No, Agent Warnecki, I most certainly did not. I was very fond of Helen. I’ve known her since I first came to Stanislaus. She was a remarkable woman. I don’t know who killed her.” Suddenly, he looked spiteful. “Why don’t you ask Chappy while you’re at it? He’s the loose cannon around here. How do you think he got so rich? He’s stepped over some bodies. Ask him!”
“Ha! That was weak, Twister, real weak. As if I’d kill your former mistress. The good Lord knows you’re the only one with a motive, not me. Er, what was your motive?”
Dix said, “How did you know she was dead, Gordon?”
“I called Helen because I wanted to ask her about some details concerning Erin Bushnell’s memorial service. I got her answering machine, and I thought that was strange because everyone knows Helen is always at her desk by seven-thirty, so I called the reception desk in Blankenship and asked to speak to her. Mary said she hadn’t seen her. When I called her home, her brother answered. He was crying, poor man. He told me she was dead, that she’d been murdered, said you guys had just left.
“I was upset, bewildered. I didn’t know what to do so I came here.” He shot his brother a vicious look. “Am I an idiot or what? No sympathy from Charles Manson here, the cold-blooded old bloodsucker.”
Savich stepped right in. “When did you last see Helen, Dr. Holcombe?”
“Yesterday afternoon, for only a moment after I got back from Gainsborough Hall. I was upset because they’d had to replace Erin with another student who simply isn’t in her league. Usually Helen would stay if I did, but this time she didn’t. She left, barely spoke to me at all. Naturally, I thought she was troubled over Erin’s murder.
“I remember watching her walk to where her Toyota was parked, thinking she’d gained a little weight. I watched her get in and drive away.” His voice broke. “I never saw her again.”
Chappy made a rude noise. “That was real affecting, Twister, gloomed my innards right up.”
Mercifully, Mrs. Goss appeared in the doorway carrying a large silver tray.
Sherlock found herself staring at the lovely Georgian silver service, so highly polished she could see her face in the surface. When Mrs. Goss left, she turned to Chappy, who looked as satisfied as could be, sprawled in his chair, his long legs crossed. “Why did you say your brother was crying, Mr. Holcombe? I don’t see a single tearstain.”
Chappy only shrugged. “Because he was crying before you showed up, croc tears. Twister never cries about anything in his useless life unless it’s over something he wanted and didn’t get.”
“Well, I didn’t want Helen dead,” Gordon said, his voice flat and too calm. “And well you know it, Chappy. You’re trying to cause trouble for me, nothing new in that, but this isn’t a joke. You little sadist, Helen’s dead, Erin’s dead. Even Walt’s dead. Someone tried to kill Special Agent Warnecki. Don’t you understand, you old geezer—everything’s gone to hell!” His voice had risen steadily until he was shouting. Chappy merely grinned at him.
Ruth asked, “Dr. Holcombe, where were you last Friday afternoon?”
“What? What is this? Erin—You think I had something to do with her murder, too? God almighty, this can’t be happening.”
“What were you doing Friday afternoon?” Savich repeated.
Gordon waved his hand. “I don’t know. I don’t remember—Wait, wait. I was stuck counseling a procession of idiot students all afternoon. They were driving me wild.”
Gordon turned on Dix. “I didn’t kill anyone! You’re the bloody sheriff. Who is going to be next? What are you doing to catch the monster who’s doing these things? I’ll tell you, it’s someone who hates me, who wants to destroy me and Stanislaus.”
Gordon didn’t say a word when they walked into the living room, and merely stood watching them.
Dix said, “Gordon, I’m very sorry about Helen.”
“Why are you telling him you’re sorry?” Chappy bellowed, waving his fist in his brother’s direction. “This mewling little psychopath probably killed her. I already told you he did. Go on. Ask him!”
Ruth asked, “Did you kill Helen Rafferty, Dr. Holcombe?”
Gordon sighed, set his coffee cup on the mantel. “No, Agent Warnecki, I most certainly did not. I was very fond of Helen. I’ve known her since I first came to Stanislaus. She was a remarkable woman. I don’t know who killed her.” Suddenly, he looked spiteful. “Why don’t you ask Chappy while you’re at it? He’s the loose cannon around here. How do you think he got so rich? He’s stepped over some bodies. Ask him!”
“Ha! That was weak, Twister, real weak. As if I’d kill your former mistress. The good Lord knows you’re the only one with a motive, not me. Er, what was your motive?”
Dix said, “How did you know she was dead, Gordon?”
“I called Helen because I wanted to ask her about some details concerning Erin Bushnell’s memorial service. I got her answering machine, and I thought that was strange because everyone knows Helen is always at her desk by seven-thirty, so I called the reception desk in Blankenship and asked to speak to her. Mary said she hadn’t seen her. When I called her home, her brother answered. He was crying, poor man. He told me she was dead, that she’d been murdered, said you guys had just left.
“I was upset, bewildered. I didn’t know what to do so I came here.” He shot his brother a vicious look. “Am I an idiot or what? No sympathy from Charles Manson here, the cold-blooded old bloodsucker.”
Savich stepped right in. “When did you last see Helen, Dr. Holcombe?”
“Yesterday afternoon, for only a moment after I got back from Gainsborough Hall. I was upset because they’d had to replace Erin with another student who simply isn’t in her league. Usually Helen would stay if I did, but this time she didn’t. She left, barely spoke to me at all. Naturally, I thought she was troubled over Erin’s murder.
“I remember watching her walk to where her Toyota was parked, thinking she’d gained a little weight. I watched her get in and drive away.” His voice broke. “I never saw her again.”
Chappy made a rude noise. “That was real affecting, Twister, gloomed my innards right up.”
Mercifully, Mrs. Goss appeared in the doorway carrying a large silver tray.
Sherlock found herself staring at the lovely Georgian silver service, so highly polished she could see her face in the surface. When Mrs. Goss left, she turned to Chappy, who looked as satisfied as could be, sprawled in his chair, his long legs crossed. “Why did you say your brother was crying, Mr. Holcombe? I don’t see a single tearstain.”
Chappy only shrugged. “Because he was crying before you showed up, croc tears. Twister never cries about anything in his useless life unless it’s over something he wanted and didn’t get.”
“Well, I didn’t want Helen dead,” Gordon said, his voice flat and too calm. “And well you know it, Chappy. You’re trying to cause trouble for me, nothing new in that, but this isn’t a joke. You little sadist, Helen’s dead, Erin’s dead. Even Walt’s dead. Someone tried to kill Special Agent Warnecki. Don’t you understand, you old geezer—everything’s gone to hell!” His voice had risen steadily until he was shouting. Chappy merely grinned at him.
Ruth asked, “Dr. Holcombe, where were you last Friday afternoon?”
“What? What is this? Erin—You think I had something to do with her murder, too? God almighty, this can’t be happening.”
“What were you doing Friday afternoon?” Savich repeated.
Gordon waved his hand. “I don’t know. I don’t remember—Wait, wait. I was stuck counseling a procession of idiot students all afternoon. They were driving me wild.”
Gordon turned on Dix. “I didn’t kill anyone! You’re the bloody sheriff. Who is going to be next? What are you doing to catch the monster who’s doing these things? I’ll tell you, it’s someone who hates me, who wants to destroy me and Stanislaus.”
