“We’ll find one. Tomorrow morning, if Lily’s still feeling fine, we’ll go get the kinks out and lower our stress levels.”
She stretched a bit more, rubbing the back of her neck. “You think Tennyson was giving her pills to make her depressed, don’t you? You think he changed the pills back, just to be on the safe side since her big brother Fed was here.”
“Sounds good to me. After Dr. Chu couldn’t get anything conclusive about Lily’s so-called attempt to commit suicide right after Beth’s funeral, I’m thinking that maybe she never tried to kill herself at all.”
“It was strange how Lily sort of remembered, but she didn’t really. If she didn’t do it, then it had to be Tennyson, and that was the bastard’s first try. They’d been married all of four months, Dillon. That’s incredibly cold-blooded. It makes me really mad. Let’s prove it so we can pound him.”
“We’ll try, Sherlock. Here we go. Good work, MAX.”
Both of them read the small print on the screen, as Savich slowly scrolled. A couple of minutes later, Savich raised his head and looked up into Sherlock’s blue eyes.
“Not really all that much of a surprise, is it? So, our Tennyson was married once before, just like he told Lily. Only thing is, he didn’t bother to mention that his first wife committed suicide only thirteen months after they’d tied the knot.”
Savich hit his palm against his forehead. “I’m an idiot, Sherlock. I shouldn’t have given him the benefit of the doubt, shouldn’t have respected his privacy. Some brother I am after that bastard first husband of hers. After Jack Crane, I should have opened every closet in his house, checked his bank statements for the past twenty years. You know something else? All I had to do was flat-out ask Tennyson just how his first wife died.”
“He probably would have lied.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered. You know I can tell when someone’s lying. Also, I could have done then what I’m doing now. My holding back, my respecting Lily’s decision, could have cost Lily her life. I want you to flay me, Sherlock.”
Sherlock was twining one curly strand of hair round and round her finger, a sure sign she was upset. He immediately took her hand between his two large ones. She said, “I’d just as soon flay myself, Dillon. Do you think Lily would still have married him if she’d known that the first wife killed herself?”
“We can ask her. You can bet she’ll be asking herself the same question, over and over. But the thing is that this is now, and her eyes are wide open. Eleven months ago she believed she loved him, thought she’d found a really wonderful father for Beth. If Tennyson had told her, she’d probably have felt sorry for him-poor man-losing his wife like that. She probably would have married him anyway. If I’d told her, it probably would have pissed her off, she’d have resented me, and she would have married him.”
“Okay, so no flaying. You know, Dillon, sometimes we women do think with our hearts, not like you men, who think with your… well, that’s better left unsaid, isn’t it?”
He grinned up at her. “Yep, probably so.”
“All of it was an illusion. Look, the first wife-her name was Lynda-was rich, Dillon, had a nice, fat trust fund from her grandfather. Oh, my, she was only twenty-five.”
“Ah, just read this, Sherlock.” Savich stroked his fingers over his jaw and added, disgust thick in his voice, “That immoral bastard. It usually comes down to money, doesn’t it? Daddy got himself into a mess and so his son tries to bail him out. Or maybe it was both of them in the mess up to their necks. That sounds more likely.”
“Yes,” Sherlock said. “It’s so mundane, really, just a couple of greedy men trying to get what they want.”
Savich nodded as he read to the end of MAX’s information. He sat back a moment, then said, “It seems very likely to me that Tennyson killed his first wife as well as trying to kill Lily. Was Daddy in on it with him? Very likely. Doesn’t matter. I don’t want to take any more chances. I want Lily out of here. I want you to take her to that very nice bed-and-breakfast we stayed at once in Eureka. What was it?”
“The Mermaid’s Tail, just off Calistoga Street. It’s late fall. Tourist season is over so they’ll have room. What will you do?”
“I’m going to have a nice vegetarian dinner with Tennyson. I love lasagna. I’m going to see if I can get him to admit to anything useful. I really want to nail him. I’ll join you and Lily later.”
He rose and pulled her tightly against him. “Take MAX with you. Keep after him to find out all he can about Daddy Frasier’s efforts to get that public road built to the lovely resort spot on the coast he’s so hot to build. Without the state legislature passing it, the project would be doomed. He’s having trouble. Maybe they ran out of bribery money.”
“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 roadblocks. 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 just 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 very 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 just 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, “Yes, 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 Chicago Art Institute. 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 just 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 just 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 that 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, “just 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 hocus-pocus 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?”
7
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?”
“Damn you, 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, no lowering right now. Let’s just 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 that 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 just 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 just 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. Oh, God, 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.”
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