Bombshell by Catherine Coulter Page B

know.”
    Dix’s cell phone buzzed. When he punched off a moment later, he said, “Grandma’s jewelry box was sitting on top of your dresser, still locked, didn’t look to have been touched.”
    “That’s a relief.” Delsey squeezed her eyes shut. “But if not robbery, then why was the dead man there? I wish I could think of another reason why someone would do this. Do you know, it’s dumb, but it’s even worse to think the man might have been killed in my bathtub.”
    The amount of blood, Dix thought, he very likely was killed right there. He said, “Did you plan on getting home about one o’clock, Ms. Freestone?”
    “I would have been a lot later if I hadn’t gotten sick.”
    “Which means you surprised them,” Griffin said. “Whoever was there probably wanted to be long gone by the time you got home.”
    Delsey said, “Goodness, I write music, sing, and play the piano and guitar and not much else. I’m boring and predictable, everyone knows that.”
    Dix pulled out a notebook from his jacket pocket. “Tell me about this party you went to last night. They had to find out from someone that you weren’t home.”
    “Dr. Salazar’s secretary emailed me a couple of weeks ago, said I’d been invited to his lovely new-semester get-together. I didn’t want to go, so I told her I had a long-standing date with my best friend, Anna, to go ice-skating here in Henderson. Before I knew it the great man himself called me and didn’t leave me any graceful way I could get out of going.
    “I’d already heard what his parties were like—booze-laden, bawdy Spanish fiestas. Henry Stoltzen, you know, the cellist and my upstairs neighbor, was right. Most of the students there were women, with a few straight and gay men sprinkled in along with some faculty. And, of course, Dr. Hayman, Professor Salazar’s brother. Yeah, I know, more different last names. That’s because the mom took Professor Salazar to Spain and left Dr. Hayman behind with the dad. New name for one brother when she remarried, and the dad’s name for the other.”
    Dix said, “I’ll need a list of all the faculty you remember being there, Ms. Freestone.”
    She grinned up at him. “Since your wife and my brother are colleagues, please call me Delsey.”
    “Delsey, not a problem.” He eyed her for a moment. “Call me Dix. A booze-laden Spanish fiesta with the students? Stanislaus is a world-renowned institution. What is wrong with these people?”
    “Well, the fact is the students at the party were older, graduate students, anywhere from, say, my age—twenty-five—to Marjorie Hendricks, an incredible flautist, who’s in her forties. Stanislaus is a rather isolated environment, and Maestro is a small town, so I suppose it’s more accepted here that, ah, friendships spring up between some of the faculty and the older students.”
    “Maybe so, Delsey,” Griffin said, “but what I saw at Salazar’s this morning was something different.”
    “Not so different. The reality of it is, Griffin, that a small group of women enjoy being groupies to the great Professor Rafael Salazar himself. He’s visiting Stanislaus for a year, he’s in the boondocks, hardly knows a soul, and he wants companionship, so he finds it where he can—namely, at Stanislaus. Why are you smiling, Dix?”
    “My uncle-in-law, Dr. Gordon Holcombe, who was director at Stanislaus until circumstances forced him to leave last year, would agree completely with you. I remember he called some of the undergraduate students he slept with his muses.”
    “I’ve heard some stories about Dr. Holcombe,” Delsey said. “Usually with whispers and rolled eyes.”
    “Whatever their age,” Griffin said, “the faculty is in a position of power over all of them. Salazar pressured you into coming to his party, for example.”
    “And why, I wonder? I remember thinking—before I got so drunk I couldn’t see straight—that Professor Salazar didn’t seem all that involved. I mean,