Double Take - Catherine Coulter [15]
Bernard said with reverence, “Lord of the Isles. She said she gave it to her husband for an anniversary gift, then he up and died the next week. She hoards it. I think it must be about thirty years old now, almost as many years as she’s been the house-keeper here!”
Dix nodded. “Maybe she’ll break it out this once.”
“Doubtful,” Bernard said, then blurted out, “Do you think it’s Christie, Dix?”
So Bernard had been listening at the door. Dix would have been, too. He looked Bernard straight on, saw the concern in his dark eyes. Bernard had been with Chappy since the two of them were in their twenties. “No, it can’t be. It’s some sort of mistake. Bernard, like I told Chappy, this has to stay among the three of us. You understand? Not even Mrs. Goss.”
Bernard nodded. “Last thing I want is for Rob and Rafe to hear about this.”
“That’s good,” Dix said. “I’ll see you again soon, Bernard.”
CHAPTER 8
Two hours later, at the dinner table, Dix slipped Brewster, his four-pound white toy poodle, a sliver of chicken breast after he’d stripped off the deep-fried crust. He checked to see that both boys had eaten some of the fresh green beans on their plates, and lied cleanly. “I’ve got this meeting up in San Francisco that will last a couple of days. The FBI called me today, said they wanted me to talk on a panel about crime scenes. Truth be told, there’s still lots of interest about our bizarre murder in Winkel’s Cave. That’ll be what everyone will want me to talk about.”
“Sure is short notice, Dad,” Rafe said, frowning down at his crispy chicken leg. Rafe was fourteen, still skinny as a rail, with eyes dark like Dix’s. He was going to be a lady-killer, as Chappy told Dix whenever he saw his grandson. Just like Rob. Have you given them The Talk, Dix? Dix rolled his eyes now, remembering how he’d given them both The Talk, though they were as embarrassed as he was. It gave him a headache to think about it. Why wasn’t Rafe eating? He was always eating. Dix saw the huge pile of bones on his plate and realized Rafe’s tank was full. Dix pointed to the pile of green beans still on his plate, and watched his son pick one up and began chewing on it. “It’s not like San Francisco is just across the state or something.”
“No, it’s a long trip.”
“Isn’t Ruth coming tomorrow?” Rob asked. “She said she wanted to see me pitch against the Panthers.”
Ruth Warnecki, a former Washington, D.C., cop and now an FBI special agent, worked in the Criminal Apprehension Unit at the Hoover Building. He’d known her since he’d saved her life a little more than two months ago. She was smarter than she had a right to be, as obstinate and persistent as he was, and she was endlessly kind. Fact was, he was crazy about her. Thinking about her made him grin at odd moments and sing in the shower, particularly when he pictured her on her back beneath him, her strong legs wrapped tight around him.
So much had happened since he’d found her, so very much, but now Ruth was his; he knew his boys felt the same way, though they also felt guilty about it when they thought of their mother. But they’d allowed Ruth into their lives in a way they had no one else. They laughed with her, worried with her, confided in her.
The four of them had become a solid unit, if not a legal one. Dix had a missing wife, no actual proof of death. If he sought a divorce, he’d have to do it on stated grounds of abandonment. The thought of accusing Christie of abandonment made him sick. No way would he allow that word to come out of his mouth, out of anyone’s mouth for that matter, or have it recorded on any document. So what sort of plans could they make? So far it hadn’t seemed to matter. He and the boys visited Ruth at her home in Alexandria and she visited them here in Maestro, usually for three-day weekends if she could talk her boss, FBI Unit Chief Dillon Savich, into it, which she usually could. She hadn’t spoken recently of reassignment to the Richmond Field Office. Actually, they’d spoken hardly at all about