“If he’s not at Stanislaus this morning, we’ll have to find him and bring him in,” Dix said. “Now we can’t break Helen’s alibi for him on Friday.”

He saw Sherlock speaking with Dr. Himple. She nodded, shook his hand, and walked over to them. “The doctor says she was strangled. There are no defensive wounds because whoever killed her probably crept up on her while she was asleep, garroted her, and it was over quickly. I’ll bet she called Dr. Holcombe, Dix. Out of love or loyalty?”

Savich nodded. “That’s what we were saying. We need to trace her movements, Dix, after you left her yesterday. You got a couple of good people to put on this?”

Dix nodded. “When we saw her at Stanislaus, Uncle Gordon wasn’t there, as I told you. He was over in Gainsborough Hall, the big performing auditorium, listening to some pieces to be played at the concert next month. We’ll find out who saw her before she left the campus. We can check her phone records—maybe she called him at the auditorium.”

Ruth said, “Maybe Helen called someone else, maybe she couldn’t remember all the names and she knew of someone else who knew, or she called one of the women.”

Dix pulled out his cell and punched in his office. He said to his dispatcher, “Amalee, get Penny, Emory, and Claus in. I’ll meet them at the office in twenty minutes.” He paused for a moment, listening, then flipped his phone shut, and pocketed it. “Amalee already knew,” he said. He shook his head. “Of course she knew.” He scuffed the toe of his boot against the living room rug and cursed under his breath.

They searched Helen Rafferty’s small three-bedroom house thoroughly. There wasn’t much to see because she’d simplified her life some time ago, according to her brother, preferring to have few possessions. But she loved photos. They were everywhere, on every surface. Mostly family. They did find some five-year-old notes Dr. Holcombe had written to her in a little box with a ribbon tied around it in her underwear drawer. Not hot and heavy love notes, but things like Dinner tonight, at your place? or Meet me at my house at six o’clock.

It was all incredibly sad, Ruth thought.

Helen Rafferty’s empty desk at Stanislaus was pristine, not a loose paper anywhere. Her computer screen looked polished. Since Dr. Holcombe wasn’t there, they took the time to go through all her desk drawers, but found nothing of interest. Soon everyone on campus would want to know what had happened. Everyone would be upset and confused—first Erin Bushnell, now the director’s personal assistant. Soon, Dix thought, everyone would be scared.

Dix was starting up the Range Rover when his cell phone rang. He hung up a moment later. “That was Chappy. He said Twister is at Tara, drinking his Kona coffee, eating Mrs. Goss’s scones, and is of no use to anyone at all. He said Twister told him about Helen being strangled, and now Twister is crying and sniffling. Chappy sounded disgusted.”

The sun wasn’t shining. The sky was steel-gray, heavy snow-bloated clouds dotting the horizon, and it seemed as cold as the South Dakota plains Dix had visited years ago with Christie and the boys.

Dix kept to the back roads and pushed the Range Rover well beyond the speed limit. Seeing Ruth hug herself, he turned the heat on high. “Snow,” he said to no one in particular. “Probably by afternoon.”

They pulled into Tara’s long drive twelve minutes later. “I wonder where my law enforcement officers are,” Dix said. “I was over the limit the whole way. Usually if there’s someone speeding, they know it.”

“You’re the sheriff,” Ruth told him. “They gonna pull you over? I don’t think so. When was the last time one of your deputies came after you for speeding?”

“Point made.”

As Dix pulled the Range Rover to a stop, he said, “If you guys will bear with me, I want to hold off asking my uncle about his affairs with Erin and the others in front of Chappy. He’d probably howl with laughter, say he thought Twister was impotent or something, and go on forever. We really can’t interrogate him here. I want to confront him about Erin and Helen when he’s away from his brother.”

“He’s your uncle, and it’s your investigation, Dix,” Savich said. “Your call.”

Chappy answered the doorbell again, wearing a pale blue cashmere sweater, black wool slacks, and loafers.

“Is Bertram still sick?” Dix asked him.

“Yeah, he’s still sniffling around her house, his sister told me, complaining he hurts all over when he gets out of bed. Not a good patient, is Bertram. It’s about time you got here, Dix. I know Twister killed Helen. Come in and hand-cuff this pathetic wuss, get him out of here, he’s making me sick. I see you’re still towing the Feds around.” He stepped back, waved them all in.