Twice Dead (54 page)

“Don't forget the condos he's planning, too—Golden Sunset.”

“Yes, lots of potential profit from those as well. Elcott Frasier has lots and lots of bucks already invested. I wonder if they ran into more road-blocks. Maybe that's why they wanted Lily out of the way. They were in deep financial trouble again. Now, let's get you guys packed up and out of this house.”

But Lily didn't cooperate. She was awake, she still didn't hurt very much at all, and she was very clearheaded. She smacked her palm to the side of her head and announced, delight and wonder in her voice, “Would you look at me—I'm not depressed. In fact I can't imagine being depressed. Nope, everything inside there is rattling around clockwise, just as it should be.”

They were in the hallway outside her bedroom. Lily was dressed in loose jeans and a baggy sweater, hair pulled back in a ponytail, no makeup, hands on hips, reminding Savich of his once sixteen-year-old sister who stood tall and defiant in front of their parents, who were dressing her down but good for her latest bookie scheme. “No, Dillon, I won't turn tail and leave. I want to read everything MAX has come up with so far. I want to speak to Tennyson, confront him with all this. It's my right to find out if my husband of eleven months married me only to kill me off. Oh, dear. There's a big problem here. Why would he do it? I don't have any money.”

“Unfortunately, sweetheart,” Savich said, his voice gentle, “you are very rich. All us kids tend to forget what Grandmother left us.”

“Oh, my Sarah Elliott paintings. You're right, I forget about them, since they're always on loan to a museum.”

“Yes, but they're legally yours, all eight paintings, willed to you. I e-mailed Simon Russo in New York. You remember him, don't you? You met him way back when he and I were in college.”

“I remember. That was way back in the dark ages before I started screwing up big time.”

“No, you were screwing up then, too,” Savich said, lightly punching her arm. “Remember that point spread you had on the Army-Navy game? And Dad found out that you'd gotten twenty dollars off Mr. Hodges next door?”

“I hid out in your room, under your bed, until he calmed down.”

They laughed. It sounded especially good to Sherlock, who beamed at both of them. Lily depressed? It was hard, looking at her now, to believe that she'd ever been depressed.

Lily said, “I remember Simon Russo. He was a real pain in the butt and you said yeah, that was true enough, but it didn't matter because he was such a good wide receiver.”

“That's Simon. He's neck-deep in the art world, you know. He got back to me right away, said eight Sarah Elliotts are worth in the neighborhood of eight to ten million dollars.”

Lily stared at him blank-faced. She was shaking her head. “That's unbelievable. No, you're pulling my leg, aren't you? Please tell me you're kidding, Dillon.”

“Nope. The paintings have done nothing but gain in value since Grandmother died seven years ago. Each of the four grandchildren got eight paintings. Each painting is worth about one million dollars right now, more or less, according to Simon.”

“That's an enormous responsibility, Dillon.”

He nodded. “Like you, I think the rest of us have felt like we're the guardians; it's our responsibility to see that the paintings are kept safe throughout our lifetimes and exhibited so that the public can enjoy them. I remember yours were on loan to the Art Institute of Chicago. Are they still there?”

Lily said slowly, rubbing her palms on the legs of her jeans, “No. When Tennyson and I married he thought they should be here, in a regional museum, close to where we lived. So I moved them to the Eureka Art Museum.”

Savich said without missing a beat, “Does Tennyson know anyone who works in the museum?”

Lily said very quietly, “Elcott Frasier is on the board of the museum.”

“Bingo,” Sherlock said.

 

WHEN Tennyson Frasier walked through the front door of his house that evening, he saw his wife standing at the foot of the stairs, looking toward him. She watched his eyes fill with love and concern. But it didn't take him long to realize that something was up. He sensed it, like an animal senses danger lying in wait ahead. His step slowed. But when he reached Lily, he said gently, as he took her hands, “Lily, my dear, you are very pale. You must still be in pain. After all, the surgery wasn't long ago at all. Please, sweetheart, let me take you up to bed. You need to rest.”

“Actually, I feel fine, Tennyson. You needn't worry. Mrs. Scruggins has made us a superb dinner. Are you hungry?”

“If you're sure you want to eat downstairs, then yes, I'm hungry.” He sent a wary look to his brother- and sister-in-law, who had just walked into the entrance hall from the living room. “Hello, Sherlock, Savich.”

Savich just nodded.

“Hope you had a good day, Tennyson,” Sherlock said and gave him a sunny smile. She hoped he couldn't tell yet that she wanted to strangle him with his own tie.

“No, I didn't actually,” Tennyson said. He took a step back from Lily and stuck his hands in his pockets. He didn't take his eyes off his wife. “Old Mr. Daily's medication isn't working anymore. He talked about sticking his rifle in his mouth. He reminded me of you, Lily, that awful hopelessness when the mind can't cope. It was a dreadful day. I didn't even have time to come visit you before you left the hospital. I'm sorry.”

“Well, these unpleasant sorts of things occasionally happen, don't they?” Sherlock patted his arm and smiled at the disgusted look he gave her.

Savich winked at her as they walked to the dining room.

Tennyson tenderly seated Lily in her chair in the long dining room. Lily loved this room. When she'd moved in, she had painted it a light yellow and dumped all the heavy furniture. It was very modern now, with a glossy Italian Art Deco table, chairs, and sideboard. On the walls were five Art Deco posters, filled with color and high-living stylized characters. Tennyson was no sooner seated than Mrs. Scruggins began to serve. Normally, she simply left the food in the oven and went home, but not this evening.

Tennyson said, “Good evening, Mrs. Scruggins. It's very nice of you to stay.”

“My pleasure, Dr. Frasier,” she said.

Sherlock, who was watching her pile food onto Lily's plate, knew Mrs. Scruggins wasn't about to leave unless she was booted out. “I couldn't very well leave when Mrs. Frasier was coming home, now could I?”

Savich nearly smiled. Mrs. Scruggins wanted to hear everything. She knew the air was hot, even if she didn't know the reason, and would become hotter.

Lily took a small bite of a homemade dinner roll that tasted divine. She said to her husband, “Oh yes, Tennyson, you'll be pleased, I hope, to hear that I didn't try to kill myself by running the Explorer into the redwood. Actually, neither the brakes nor the emergency brake worked. Since I was on that very gnarly part of 211, I didn't stand a chance. Doesn't that relieve your mind?”

Tennyson was silent, frowning a bit over a forkful of lasagna, beautifully flavored, that was nearly to his mouth. He swallowed, then said slowly, his head cocked to the side, “You remembered, Lily?”

“Yes, I remembered.”

“Ah, then you mean that you changed your mind? But it was too late because then the brakes failed?”

“That's it exactly. I realized that I didn't want to kill myself, but then it didn't matter, since someone had evidently disabled the brakes.”

“Someone? Come on, Lily, that's absurd.”

Savich said easily, “Unfortunately, the Explorer was compacted the very next day after the accident, so we can't check it out to see if it is or isn't absurd.”

“Perhaps, Lily,” Tennyson said very gently, “perhaps you're wanting to remember something different, something that could alleviate the pain of the past seven months.”

“I don't think so, Tennyson. You see, I remembered while I was under hypnosis. And then when I came out of it, I remembered the rest of it, all by myself. All of it.”

A thick eyebrow went straight up. Savich had never before seen an eyebrow do a vertical lift like that. Tennyson turned to Savich and spoke, his voice low and controlled, but it was obvious to everyone that he was very angry. “You're telling me you took Lily to see a hypnotist? One of those charlatans who plant garbage in their patients' minds?”

“Oh, no,” Sherlock said, taking Lily's clenched fist beneath the table. “This doctor didn't plant anything, Tennyson. She simply helped Lily to remember what happened that evening. Both Dillon and I were there the whole time, and he and I are very familiar with hypnotists as part of our work. It was all on the up-and-up. Now, don't you think it's strange that the brakes didn't work? Don't you think it's at least possible that someone disabled them from what Lily said?”

“No, what I think is that Lily disremembers. I'm not sure if she's doing it on purpose or if she's simply confused and wants desperately for it to be this way. Don't you see? She made up the brakes failing so she wouldn't have to face up to what she did. I don't think the brakes failed. I certainly don't think anyone cut the lines. That's beyond what is reasonable, and her saying that, claiming that that's what happened, well, it really worries me. I don't want Lily to even consider such a thing; it could make her lose ground again.

“Listen, I'm a psychiatrist—a real one—one who doesn't use hocuspocus on people to achieve some sort of preordained result. I am not pleased about this, Savich. I am Lily's husband. I am responsible for her.”

Sherlock pointed her fork at him and said, her voice colder than a psychopath's heart, “You haven't been doing such a good job of it, have you?”

SEVEN

Tennyson looked as if he wanted to throw his plate at Sherlock's head. His breathing was hard and fast.

Sherlock continued after a moment of chewing thoughtfully on a green bean, “I've also wondered at the timing. You remember, don't you, Tennyson? You called to ask Lily to deliver those medical slides to Ferndale, knowing it would be dusk to dark when she was on 211. Then the brakes failed. That sounds remarkably fortuitous, doesn't it?”

“You both went behind my back, did something you knew I wouldn't approve of? Lily is fine now. She no longer needs you here. I repeat, I am her husband. I will take care of her. As for your ridiculous veiled accusations, I won't lower myself to answer them.”

“I think you should consider lowering yourself,” Sherlock said, and in that moment, Tennyson looked fit to kill.

Savich waited a moment for him to regain some calm, then said, “All right, let's move along. Let's suppose, Tennyson, that Lily does remember everything exactly as it happened. That raises a couple of good questions. Why did the brakes fail? Perhaps it was simply a mechanical problem? But then the emergency brake failed, too. It's rather a difficult stretch to make if there's also a second mechanical problem, don't you think? And that means someone had to have disabled the systems. Who, Tennyson? Who would want Lily dead? Realize, too, that if she had died, why then, everyone would have declared it a clear case of suicide. Who would want that, Tennyson?”

Tennyson rose slowly to his feet. Sherlock could see the pulse pounding in his neck. He was furious, and he was also something more. Frightened? Desperate? She couldn't tell, which disappointed her. He was very good, very controlled.

Tennyson said, the words nearly catching in his throat, “You are a cop. You see bad things. You deal with bad people, evil people. What happened wasn't caused by someone out to kill Lily—other than Lily. She's been very ill. Everyone knows that. Lily knows that; she even accepts it. The most logical explanation is that she simply doesn't remember what happened because she can't bring herself to admit that she really tried to commit suicide again. That's all there is to it. I won't stand for your accusations any longer. This is my home. I want you both to leave. I want you both out of our lives.”

Savich said, “All right, Tennyson, Sherlock and I will be delighted to leave. Actually, we'll leave right after dinner. Mrs. Scruggins made it for me, and I don't want to miss any of it. Oh, yes, did I tell you that we know all about Lynda—you remember, don't you? She was your first wife who killed herself only thirteen months after marrying you?”

They hadn't told Lily about Lynda Middleton Frasier. She froze where she sat, her mouth open, utter disbelief scored on her face, any final hope leached out with those words. When her husband had spoken so calmly, so reasonably, she had wondered if it was possible that her mind had altered what really happened, that her mind was so squirrelly that she simply couldn't trust any thought, any reaction. But not any longer. Now she knew she hadn't disremembered anything. Had he killed his first wife? It was horrible, unbelievable. Lily was shaking from the inside out—she couldn't help it.

She said slowly, holding her knife in a death grip, her knuckles white from the strain, “I remember that you told me you'd been married for a very short time, Tennyson, a long time ago.”

“A long time ago?” Sherlock said, an eyebrow arched. “Sounds like maybe it was a decade or more, doesn't it? Like he ran away with a girl when he was eighteen? Actually, Lily, Tennyson's first wife, Lynda, killed herself two years ago—eight months before you came to Hemlock Bay and met him.” She looked over at Tennyson and said, her voice utterly emotionless, “However, you didn't say a word about your wife having killed herself. Why is that, Tennyson?”

“It was a tragic event in my life,” Tennyson said calmly, in control again, as he picked up his wineglass and sipped at the Napa Valley Chardonnay. It was very dry, very woody, just as he preferred. “It is still painful. Why would I wish to speak of it? Not that it was a secret. Lily could have heard it from anyone in town, from my own family even.”