mean, the guy is older, andâif thatâs so then naturally she wouldnât recognize Jules. She had to have a name, so she called herself Charlotte. Dix, Jules is so certain. Youâll go to San Francisco, wonât you? Hell, no problem, both of us will go.â
Dix didnât pause, simply walked to the door of Chappyâs study, and said over his shoulder, âChappy, Iâll tell you what. Iâll go to San Francisco, find out what this is all about. Iâll meet this Thomas Pallack and his wife. I donât want you to come with me, Chappy. I need you to stay here, see to the boys.â Then he stopped, turned. âChappy,â he said very quietly to Christieâs fatherânot to the man whose soggy morals sometimes drove him nuts, the man who wouldnât lift his foot off his own sonâs neckââplease donât get your hopes up. It simply canât be Christie. Deep down you know it. You know Christie is dead.â
Chappy didnât say a word.
âAnd donât say anything about this to anyone, all right? Not even to Tony or Cynthia. The last thing I want is for the boys to hear their mother might be alive, have them go through this pain again when I know it simply canât be true.â
âYou got it, Dix. I wonât say anything.â
When Dix reached the double front doors, Chappyâs white face still stark in his mind, Bernard appeared at his elbow. Dix said, âMake sure you see to Chappy, Bernard. I think he needs a good shot of something. I know Mrs. Goss keeps a bottle of twenty-five-year-old single malt Scotch whisky. Whatâs it called?â
Bernard said with reverence, âLord 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 sheâs been the house-keeper here!â
Dix nodded. âMaybe sheâll break it out this once.â
âDoubtful,â Bernard said, then blurted out, âDo you think itâs Christie, Dix?â
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. âNo, it canât be. Itâs some sort of mistake. Bernard, like I told Chappy, this has to stay among the three of us. You understand? Not even Mrs. Goss.â
Bernard nodded. âLast thing I want is for Rob and Rafe to hear about this.â
âThatâs good,â Dix said. âIâll see you again soon, Bernard.â
CHAPTER 8
Two hours later, at the dinner table, Dix slipped Brewster, his four-pound white toy poodle, a sliver of chicken breast after heâd 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. âIâve 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, thereâs still lots of interest about our bizarre murder in Winkelâs Cave. Thatâll be what everyone will want me to talk about.â
âSure is short notice, Dad,â Rafe said, frowning down at his crispy chicken leg. Rafe was fourteen, still skinny as a rail, with eyes dark like Dixâs. 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 heâd given them both The Talk, though they were as embarrassed as he was. It gave him a headache to think about it. Why wasnât Rafe eating? He was always eating. Dix saw the huge pile of bones on his plate and realized Rafeâs tank was full. Dix pointed to the pile of green beans still on his plate, and watched his son pick one up and