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Suddenly, the man who’d hunched over his drink, desperate and pleading, was gone. In his place was Dr. Gordon Holcombe, director of Stanislaus, back in all his dignity, his patrician face set in arrogant lines again. He looked at each of them in turn with disdain and a superior’s patience. “I will tell you the truth about Erin. I first became involved with her on Halloween when she showed up at my house to trick-or-treat, dressed like Titania from Midsummer Night’s Dream. She called me her Oberon later that night.”

The expression on Ruth’s face never changed, although Dix fancied he saw her shudder.

“Erin was the most talented violinist I’ve heard in a very long time. Gloria Stanford was convinced she’d be known the world over someday. She had glorious technique, could make you weep listening to her play. The three violin sonatas composed for Joseph Joachim by Brahms—she was transcendent. I was blessed by her company, I reveled in it. But I did not kill her, there was no reason. I didn’t kill Helen Rafferty, either. I loved both of them, in different ways.

“Whatever you may believe about my personal ethics and behavior, none of it concerns you unless I did something criminal, which I did not. Dix, you are the sheriff of Maestro. Everyone says we are lucky to have you. Well, prove it. Find out for all of us who killed two citizens of our town in under a week.”

“You forgot Walt McGuffey, that kind old man who never harmed a soul in his life.”

“I heard about him. You want to lay the old man’s death at my door, too? Fact is, I didn’t know him well, he meant nothing to me. Why would I kill him?”

“His house is on the way to Lone Tree Hill and the other entrance to Winkel’s Cave. Ruth’s car was hidden in his shed. That’s why someone murdered him.”

“I don’t know anything about her car! I haven’t seen Walt in months.”

Dix said, “When did you last see Erin alive?”

“On Thursday afternoon, at Stanislaus. She was working hard rehearsing for the upcoming concert, and we had no plans to see each other over the weekend.”

“But you did see her on Friday, didn’t you, Gordon? You took her to Winkel’s Cave, to murder her.”

Gordon looked like he might faint. He paled, and his eyes nearly rolled back in his head. Ruth stuck her coffee cup under his nose. “Drink.”

Gordon was babbling now, waving his hands at them like a drunk conductor. “I didn’t, really, there’s no way I could do anything like that. I didn’t—”

Dix splayed his hands on his seat cushion and leaned toward his uncle. “Let me tell you what you’re going to do for us, Gordon. You’re going to give us written permission to search your home, your office, and your studio. If you cooperate, we’ll do it discreetly as part of the investigation. If not, we’ll get search warrants and post flyers on every tree on campus about the women you slept with, then subpoena each of them to come back to Stanislaus and talk to us—and the board of directors.

“You know now that you can’t expect to keep your affair with Erin under wraps for long, but they might let you keep your job, or help you get another one somewhere, if you tell them yourself. Think about it.

“And you’re going to tell us all about your other affairs—the names of the students and how we can reach them. We can turn the records at Stanislaus upside down to find them if we have to. Don’t make us do that, Gordon.”

Ruth pulled out a pen and a small notebook. “All right, I’m ready, Dr. Holcombe. Tell us about your talented Lolitas.”

“It wasn’t like that! You make them sound like teenagers, and they weren’t. They were all accomplished musicians. No, it was never like that. I loved all of them, in their time.”

“In their time,” Savich repeated slowly, his eyes steady on Gordon’s face. “Who lasted longest, Dr. Holcombe?”

Gordon froze. “I don’t want to talk about this. Dix, make them stop. I haven’t done anything.”

“Ruth has her pen ready, Gordon. Give her names. Who was before Erin Bushnell?”

There was a moment of tense