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They walked into a large, high-ceilinged living room with cushioned window seats lining a turret to the right, facing the street. The living room connected to a dining alcove and a kitchen on the other side of a long serving counter.

Even though no lights were on, it was bright and made brighter by colorful throw pillows and pastel walls covered with huge posters, mostly of Brad Pitt.

“Okay,” Dix said. “Let’s split up and check it out quickly. My deputies will be here to check for fingerprints when they’re done at the crime scene.”

They all knew what they were doing, and in ten minutes they were together again in the living room.

“She needed to go food shopping,” Ruth said. “There was a packet of carrots and a carton of nonfat milk in the refrigerator. I didn’t want to smell it. Only junk in the junk drawer, no memos, no notes.”

The living room, the single bedroom, and the bathroom looked almost unlived in.

But not Erin Bushnell’s music room. It was shuttered and small, but they could tell this was the room where the young woman spent all her time. There were piles of neatly arranged musical scores for violin and orchestra. On a chair sat an open violin case with her violin tucked snugly inside it. Sherlock eased it out of its case, held it in her open hands. She said, “It was made by Hart and Sons in London in the nineteenth century. You rarely see these. It’s exquisite.”

Sherlock glanced through the music, didn’t see anything that didn’t belong.

There was no address book, no diary, no stray pieces of paper with notes or names for appointments. She did have a small laptop and Dix took it with him. “I’ll have our resident Weenie check it out.” At Ruth’s raised eyebrow, he smiled. “His name is Allen. Everyone calls him Weenie. He actually likes it.”

Ruth closed Erin’s apartment door behind them. “The only thing really personal about the place was her music and her violin.”

“I think we’ll have to look elsewhere for why she died,” Dix said. As he pulled away from the old house, he added, “Okay, we’ll have to knock off for the night. The boys will be wondering where I’m hiding you guys. I hate to have them at home alone for too long after school. They’re beyond excited that you FBI agents will be at the house again.”

“Yep, I guess they’re the Big Dogs now at school,” Ruth said. “Bet they promised all their friends they’d dig secrets out of us tonight.”

Dix honked his horn to alert a car turning in front of him. He said to Ruth, “Be careful Brewster doesn’t pee on you again.”

Ruth grinned. “I know to be careful now. I couldn’t go out to dinner with any of my admirers if he did. And I may be wearing the last of Rob’s clothes.”

Dix’s cell rang as he was negotiating the Range Rover through a three-foot pile of snow blocking the middle of Stumptree Lane. Someone had put a ball of snow on top of it with a carrot for a nose. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Rob and Rafer were involved in that stunt.” He answered, “Yeah? Sheriff Noble here.”

He listened for a moment, pulled the Range Rover to the side of the road, and said, “Tell me you’re kidding. I really need you to.” He listened awhile longer, rang off, and slid the phone back in his jacket pocket. He said, “That was the medical examiner, Dr. Himple. He says Erin Bushnell had a drug in her system that he identified with his spectroscopy unit. He thinks it’s a chemical called BZ, and it may have incapacitated her. Then the murderer slid a thin blade or a needle into her chest.” Dix drew a deep breath. “But it’s what he did to her after he killed her—damnedest thing I’ve ever heard of.”

Ruth leaned over and touched his arm. “What, Dix, what did he do?”

“He embalmed her.”

CHAPTER 15

SAVICH SPRINKLED SALT on his corn on the cob, bit into it, and sighed with pleasure. “Rob, we liked the snowman you guys built in the middle of Stumptree Lane. That old carrot was a good touch—it would have brought most cars, except your dad’s, to a humiliated stop. He plowed the Range Rover right through it, probably would have eaten the