Twice Dead (60 page)

Savich said easily, “Maybe they don't think they need him. They're hopeful they can talk you around by themselves.”

Lily said to her husband, “You can't.”

Charlotte said in her rich-as-sin Savannah-smooth voice, “Elcott wanted to come tonight, but he had a slight indigestion. Now, listen to me for a moment, Lily. My son loves you very much. Since he's a man, it's difficult for him to speak from his heart—that's a woman sort of thing to do, so I am telling you for him that he really does need you.”

“Actually, Charlotte, Tennyson can speak very eloquently. However, I don't think his heart has anything to do with it. No, Charlotte, what Tennyson really needs is my Sarah Elliott paintings.”

“That's not true.” Tennyson whirled about to face Savich. “You have filled her head with suspicions, doubts, with lies about me and my family and my motives. I don't have any ulterior motives! I love my wife, do you hear me? Yes, that is from my bruised and bleeding heart! I wouldn't do anything to harm her. She's precious to me. Why don't you and your wife go back to Washington and fight criminals, you know, people who have really done bad things, not innocent people you've taken a dislike to. That's what you're paid to do, not rip apart a loving family! Leave us alone!”

“That was a very impassioned speech,” Sherlock said, smiling and nodding in approval. She knew from the furious pulse pounding in Tennyson's neck that he would cheerfully murder her.

Charlotte's voice was still as silky and soft as gently flowing honey. “Now, now, my dears, all of you need to calm down. Lily dearest, you're a grown woman. My Tennyson is as protective of his own younger sister as your brother is of you. But your brother and his wife have gone over the line. They dislike my son, for whatever reasons I'm sure I can't say. But there can simply be no proof to any of their accusations, not a shred. Mad accusations, all of them. Lily, how could you possibly believe such things of my son?”

Sherlock said, “I wouldn't call them particularly ‘mad accusations,' but, yes, ma'am, you're right about proof. If we had proof, we'd haul his butt to jail.”

Charlotte said, “So, then, why are you continuing to poison poor Lily's mind? You're doing her a disservice. She's really not well, you know, and you're pushing her farther down a road none of us want her to travel.”

“Mother—”

“No, it's true, Tennyson. Lily is mentally ill. She needs to come home so we can take care of her.”

Lily said in a loud, clear voice that brought everyone's eyes back to her, “A young guy tried to murder me this morning.”

“What? Oh, no!” Tennyson nearly jerked her up into his arms, but Lily managed to press herself against the headboard and hold firm. Even as she was struggling, she said, “No, Tennyson, I'm quite all right. He didn't succeed, as you can see. Actually, I beat the stuffing out of him. The cops know who he is. Do back away now before my sister-in-law bites you.”

Sherlock laughed.

“That's right,” Savich said. “His name is Morrie Jones. Ring a bell, Tennyson? Charlotte? No? Well, you certainly got to him quickly enough, set everything in motion with nary a wasted moment. The cops will catch him anytime now and he'll spill his guts to them, and then we'll have our proof.”

Tennyson said, “It's another lie, Lily. The guy must have mistaken you for someone else; that, or more likely, the guy was just a mugger. Where did it happen?”

“That's right, you couldn't have known where he'd find me, could you? He got on a local city bus that was empty except for me and the bus driver, because of the funeral.”

“Yes,” Charlotte said. “Dear old Ferdy Malloy died, probably poisoned by his wife. Everybody knows it, but no one was about to insist on an autopsy, least of all the coroner.”

“Yes, yes, but that's not important, Mother. Someone tried to hurt Lily.”

“A sharp knife probably meant he was planning to do more than hurt me,” Lily said. “Lucky for me that Dillon had taught me how to protect myself.”

“Maybe,” Tennyson said now, his voice all soft and gentle, his patented shrink's voice, “maybe there was this young guy who came on to you, maybe even asked you out. I know Dr. Rossetti believes that a young woman, vulnerable like you are, uncertain, her mind clouded, can imagine many different things to disguise her sickness—”

Lily, who'd been staring at him like he had sprouted a TV antenna from his head, said, “Why did I ever think I loved you? You're the biggest jerk.”

“I'm not, I'm just trying to understand you, to make you face things. Besides, that's what Dr. Rossetti thinks.”

Lily began laughing, rich, deep laughter that didn't stop for a good, long time. Finally, wiping her eyes, she said, “You're really good, Tennyson, both you and Dr. Rossetti. You combined all your shrink analysis with some pills to drive me over the edge, and no wonder I wanted to do away with myself. So I made the guy up to assuage my guilt. Do you know what, Tennyson? I think I'm just about over blaming myself.”

Charlotte said, “Lily dearest, I'm glad to hear you say that, actually—”

Lily interrupted her mother-in-law. She was waving Tennyson away even as she said, her voice light, amused, “Please go now, both of you. I hope that I'm lucky enough never to see either of you again.”

Sherlock said, “Oh, I hope we do see them again, Lily. In a courtroom.”

Savich said suddenly, “Your first wife, Tennyson. I don't suppose Lynda's fondest wish was to be cremated?”

Tennyson was shaking so much from rage, Sherlock was sure he was going to go after her husband, a singularly stupid thing for him even to consider. She stepped quickly to him, laid her hand on his forearm and said, “Don't even think about it. You couldn't take me and I'm half your size. Even five days after surgery, I doubt you could take Lily either. So please leave, Tennyson, and take your mother with you.”

“I am appalled that you have relatives who are so very close-minded and obnoxious, Lily,” Charlotte Frasier said, her words smooth out of her mouth. They left, not another word out of either mouth, but Tennyson did pause to give Lily a tormented look over his shoulder.

Sherlock said thoughtfully, “He was trying to reproduce a patented Heathcliff look there, all down-in-the-mouth and pathetic. He didn't do it well, but he tried.”

Lily said, “Did you notice that lovely black turtleneck sweater Tennyson was wearing? I gave it to him for Christmas.”

“You know what I think, Lily?” Savich asked, shaking his head at her. “I think the next time a guy appeals to you, red lights need to flash in your brain. Then we need to take him in for questioning.”

“I was thinking about that this morning. Maybe I'm too gullible. Okay, no more good-looking men; actually, no more men at all, Dillon, or I'll kick myself from here to Boston. Nothing but nerds with pocket protectors for me in the future, and they'll just be friends.”

That was going overboard, Sherlock was thinking, but for the time being, not a bad way for Lily to think about the opposite sex.

Lily said, “I wish I had a beer so I could drink to that.”

Savich said, “No beer. Here's more iced tea.”

“Thanks.” Lily sipped the tea and laid her head back against the pillow. “I wonder where my father-in-law was. You think they really thought he'd be a liability?”

“Evidently so,” Savich said. “What amazes me is they don't seem to realize what a liability the both of them are.”

“I've never heard such a charming Southern accent,” Sherlock said. She sat down on the bed beside Lily and lightly rubbed her arm. “Talk about candy coating.”

“She frightened me more than Tennyson.” She gave both of them a fat smile. “I held up,” she said, gave a deep sigh, and said again, “I held up. He never guessed I was scared.”

Savich felt her pain in his gut. He gathered her against him, very careful with her stitches. He kissed the top of her head. “Oh no, sweetheart, there isn't a reason for you to be afraid of him, ever again. I was proud of you. You held up great.”

“Yes, you did, Lily, so no more talk about being scared. Remember, you've got your two bulldogs right here. You know something? I don't know what they thought they could gain by coming here. They didn't try to be very conciliatory. Are they stupid or was there some method to their approach?”

“I surely hope not,” Lily said and closed her eyes.

Savich's cell phone rang.

ELEVEN

 

“You go to bed now, Lily. No arguments. You look like a ghost out of
A Christmas Carol.”

Lily managed a small smile and did as she was told. She was still weak, and the long plane trip back east had knocked her flat. She awoke an hour later to hear Dillon and Sherlock talking to Sean. They cuddled, hugged, and kissed him until finally he was so exhausted he hollered big-time for about two minutes. Then he was out like the proverbial light. His nursery was right next to the guest room, where she lay quietly in the dim light. She didn't realize she was crying until a tear itched her cheek. She wiped it away.

She closed her eyes when she heard her door open slightly. No, she wasn't ready to see anyone yet, although she loved them both dearly for caring about her so very much. She pretended to be asleep. When she heard them go downstairs, she got up and went into the baby's room. Sean was sleeping on his knees, his butt in the air, two fingers in his mouth, his precious face turned toward her. He looked like his father, dark hair, dark eyes. She lightly rubbed her fingers over his back. So small, so very perfect.

She cried for the beauty of this little boy and for the loss of Beth.

Late that evening, over a good-sized helping of Dillon's lasagna, she said, “Have you checked back with your office? Did they find Marilyn Warluski?”

Savich said, “Not yet. They found the boyfriend, Tony Fallon, but he claims she hasn't contacted him. But there were a couple of folk in Bar Harbor who identified a photo of her, said they'd seen her recently. They're going back to put his feet to the coals. We'll know something soon.”

“We hope,” Sherlock said. Then she smiled. “You should have seen Dillon's mother when we picked up Sean—she didn't want us to take him. She said we'd promised her at least a week with him all to herself, but we'd lied; it was barely a week. She was shouting ‘Foul' even as we were pulling out of her driveway.”

Savich shook his head. “Now he'll be so spoiled that we'll actually have to say no to him a couple of times to get him grounded back into reality.”

“I bet Mom would love to babysit him on a regular basis,” Lily said.

“Well,” Savich said, “she's got her own life. She's his treat; two or three times a week he gets big doses of Grandma. It works well that way. Our nanny, Gabriella Henderson, is the best. She's young, so she's got the energy and stamina to keep up with him. Believe me, he can wear you down very fast.”

Lily was laughing, looking over at Sean, who was seated in his walker, a nifty contraption that let him scoot all over the downstairs. If he ran into something, he just changed directions.

Savich said, “Those wheels are bad for the floor, but Sherlock and I decided we'd have them refinished when he moves on to crawling and walking.”

Lily said slowly, “Isn't it strange? I never imagined you with a kid, Dillon.”

Savich smiled and helped her down on his big stuffed chair. “I didn't either, but here came Sherlock, blasted right into my comfortable life, and it seemed like the right thing. We're very lucky, Lily. Now, sweetheart, we've been traveling all day and you're jet-lagged, probably really bad what with the surgery a week ago. I want you to sleep at least ten hours before you face the world here in Washington tomorrow.”

“You and Sherlock have to be jet-lagged too. Even though you travel a lot and you are FBI agents, you—”

The front doorbell rang.

Savich walked around Sean, who was speeding toward the front door. It was Simon Russo. Savich knew him as a man of immense energy and focus, a man who just didn't quit. And now Simon was looking beyond him to the living room.

“Simon, it's good to see you. What are you doing here?”

Simon grinned at his friend, shook his hand, and said, “Yeah, good to see you, Savich. I came to see the paintings. Where are they? Not here, I hope. You don't have the kind of security to keep the paintings here, even overnight.”

“No we don't. Come on in. No, the paintings are in the vault in the Beezler-Wexler Gallery, safe as can be.”

“Good, good. I'd like you to arrange for me to see them, Savich.”

“So you said. First, however, you need a cup of tea and a slice of apple pie. My mom made it.”

“Oh, not your blasted tea. Coffee, please, Savich, I'm begging you. Coffee, black. Then we can see the paintings.”

“Simon, come on in and say hello to Sherlock and meet my sister, Lily. You can see the paintings tomorrow.”

Simon shook his head and asked, “Not until tomorrow? How early?”

“Get a grip, Simon. Come on in. Hey, guys, look who flew through our front door? Simon Russo.”

Lily's first impression of Simon Russo was that he was too good-looking, that he was a man who looked like a Raphaelesque angel, hair black and thick and a bit too long. Yeah, the angel Gabriel, probably, the head angel, the big kahuna. He was taller than her brother, long and lean, his eyes brighter and bluer than a winter sky over San Francisco Bay, and he looked distracted. He hadn't shaved. He was wearing blue jeans, sneakers, a white dress shirt, a yellow and red tie, and a tweed jacket. He looked like a gangster academic, an odd combination, but it was true. Or maybe a nerd gangster, what with a name like Simon. He also looked like he knew things, maybe dangerous things. Lily was sure all the way to her bones that she wouldn't trust him if he pledged his name in blood.