Soon, he was spooning Sherlock, who was spooning Sean, Astro tucked close. But, despite his exhaustion, he had trouble falling sleep, with Sherlock and Sean in the crosshairs.
When he finally slept, he dreamed he saw the shadow of a woman staring at his house. Even though he couldn’t see her face, he knew she was smiling. He called to her, but she didn’t turn to him, only laughed and pointed. He saw a match burst into flame and watched her hold it up. He yelled at her to stop. But she threw the match, and the house exploded.
He jerked away when Sherlock shoved him. “Wake up, Dillon. You’re having a bad dream, and no wonder. Keep close, all right?”
He fell back asleep, breathing in the smoky smell of Sherlock’s hair.
35
SAVICH HOUSE
TUESDAY MORNING
Savich looked at his burned-out kitchen and smelled the acrid odor of charred paint and wood coming off the walls and appliances. He actually wished he could still feel some of the heat he’d felt last night, since it was a cold morning, hovering in the low forties, but there wasn’t a trace. He, Sherlock, and Gabriella, Sean’s nanny, had already gone through the rest of the house, accompanied by Flash Randy, the fire department arson investigator. The water damage wasn’t as bad as it might have been, according to Flash, though it looked bad enough to Savich and Sherlock. He’d seen her staring at the soaked furniture and sodden rugs in the living room and taken her hand, squeezed it. He’d looked at the empty spot over the fireplace where Griffin had taken down his grandmother’s painting. Griffin’s act was a debt he’d be hard-pressed to pay back.
Upstairs, there was a light veil of soot on the walls where the smoke had hovered near the ceiling. “The walls will need a thorough cleaning and some paint,” Flash said. “Pack what you need, but be careful. Stay away from any damage you see. You never know. I’ll be right here.”
They collected clothes, badly in need of washing, and gathered bathroom essentials. The smell was the worst in Sean’s room, directly above the kitchen. They packed his clothes in his Captain Corbin roll-on and gathered his favorite games and, of course, his beloved basketball and Steph Curry sneakers. When Savich walked into his office, the foul mixture of burned wood, smoke, and water nearly overwhelmed him. At least MAX was safe, thanks to Sherlock.
They met with the fire forensic team, huddled in a small group, not that there was much of a mystery—someone had smashed a kitchen window, tossed gasoline into the kitchen and onto the walls, and left the can outside the kitchen door, announcing what he’d done.
Savich’s cell sang out “Zombie” by the Cranberries. “Excuse me.” He turned away from a Metro fire investigator. “Savich here.”
“Agent Savich, it’s Candy. You’ve got to come. Zoltan’s gone. She might be dead. There’s blood, I don’t know, I don’t know—”
Savich blinked, dialed in. Candy was Zoltan’s assistant. “Candy, take a deep breath. That’s right. Now, go slow and tell me exactly what happened.”
He heard her take some deep breaths, heard her panic slowly lessen, and waited. Finally, she gulped and said, her voice a bit less shaky, “I got here maybe ten minutes ago. I sang out hello, like I always do, but Zoltan didn’t answer. That’s not unusual, a late client, a late night. She could still be in bed or she went out early to the store, or whatever, so I went to my office and started to work. Then it hit me. She had a client coming this morning—a strange time, I know—but she should be getting ready, making her special tea. I thought maybe she was sick and went looking for her. When I went in the living room, I found blood on the floor, a lot of it, black and horrible. She’s dead. I think she’s dead, and someone hauled her away—”
He heard hysteria bubbling back and interrupted her. “Breathe, Candy. Settle yourself.” He settled himself, too. Savich knew that to a layperson, a lot of blood could mean anything from a cut finger to an artery fountaining. He said, “Candy, was the house alarm on or off when you arrived?”
Silence, then, “Oh goodness, I didn’t think anything of it, only that Zoltan must have already gotten up, you know, for a cup of tea, maybe an early muffin—she loves blueberry—and she’d turned it off for me. But she usually doesn’t go back to bed. The alarm’s off, Agent Savich. Off.” She hiccupped. “Is she dead?”
“Candy—what’s your last name?”
“Spindler, I’m Candace Spindler. What’s happened, Agent Savich?”
“Candy, stay near the front door. I’ll be right there.” He turned to Sherlock, who simply nodded at him.
“She was really upset. I heard her clearly.” Sherlock turned to Gabriella. “Gabriella, please take all this stuff over to Dillon’s mom’s. Sean’s in school, so you’ll have enough time to unpack everything.” She gave Gabriella a hug, told her to be careful, and thanked her again.
Gabriella said, “I still can’t believe it. Imagine, someone wanting to hurt you and Sean.” Her voice cracked, and Sherlock pulled her close. “We weren’t hurt, and everything here is fixable. It will be all right.” She stepped back and took Gabriella’s pretty face between her palms. “Everything would be so much harder without you, so thank you. There’s not enough room for all our stuff in your sexy little Mazda, so take my Volvo. I won’t need it today. We’ll pick up your car later.”
They watched the firemen help Gabriella load the suitcases into Sherlock’s Volvo. She said, “Dillon, there’s nothing more we can do here. We can come back later to get more stuff if we need it. Our insurance agent has assured us he’s taking care of everything. Let’s just go. I want to meet Candy.”
When Savich pulled the Porsche into Zoltan’s driveway, Sherlock was staring out of the windshield, looking at nothing he could see.
“Sweetheart?”
“Oh, we’re here? Sorry, Dillon. I was thinking about last night. It all happened so fast I didn’t have time to be scared, but I’m scared now. Believe me, I’m really working on being mad instead. But then I think maybe it’d be better if you and I were insurance brokers or veterinarians. It’d have to be a safer life.”
What could he say? “Well, you’d make a great vet, but since we’re FBI agents, you and I, we need to suck it up and find the maniac who did this.”
She whooshed out a breath, nodded. “Yeah, okay, but he’s not a maniac, Dillon. Whoever did this isn’t crazy; he’s evil. You know it has something to do with the red-box puzzle. You know it. I know it.”
Before Savich could answer, they heard a shout and saw Candy Spindler standing in the open front doorway, waving wildly at them.
“Time to let the red boxes go for the moment. Let’s see what this blood is all about. Then we’ll give Ben Raven a call at Metro.”
Sherlock climbed out and said over the roof of the Porsche, “You warned her, Dillon, but she didn’t listen. You know, I don’t think Zoltan’s dead. I can’t think of a reason why the attacker would haul her body away. Maybe someone did try to kill her, to snip off a loose end, and she managed to run. Either way, it proves she was in on this up to her ears.” She paused. “I hope she managed to run.”
They walked toward Candy Spindler, who was wringing her hands like Lady Macbeth. She was in her late twenties, small and lithe as a gazelle, with short wavy black hair. She was wearing pink sweats and pink sneakers.
Candy grabbed Savich and leaned up, her voice a mix of anger and fear. “I told her, Agent Savich. I told her trying to fool Mrs. Manvers wouldn’t work. Zoltan knew Mrs. Manvers wasn’t a believer, but still she went along with it.”
“Went along with what, exactly, Candy?” he asked, rubbing his hands up and down her arms.
“She didn’t tell me, if only she had. All I know is she got a call from someone—she wouldn’t tell me who—and she set up a séance with Mrs. Manvers right away. She was excited about seeing her, really upbeat. She said we’d make enough money to maybe go to France, to Cannes, lie on the beach, hold a séance once in a while, order up French spirits. She was so pleased with herself, but now look.” She put her face in her
hands and sobbed. “I told her. I told her.”
Sherlock said, “Candy, show us to the living room, to the bloodstain.”
Candy let them into the house, but she stopped at the living room doorway. “It’s blood. I don’t want to see it again. I can’t. It’s hers, I know it. Agent Savich, she was usually so careful, researched all her clients down to when they had their last cavity filled.”
The blood was on the edge of the Oriental carpet, next to one of the sofas. It looked hours old, smudged and streaked at one edge where someone had struggled to stand or was pulled up. They found two slugs. Nothing else seemed disturbed or damaged. Savich called Ben Raven at Metro and the FBI forensic team, then he asked, “Candy, do you know where Zoltan’s cell phone is?”
“Her purse is gone, and her cell isn’t charging, I checked. They took her car, too. But maybe it makes more sense Zoltan took her own cell phone and her car? Not some stranger who didn’t know where she kept her car keys? Well, they were always in her purse, but still. Zoltan isn’t dead, please, she can’t be.”
Sherlock walked back to Candy and lightly touched her hand to the woman’s arm. “Candy, we’ll do DNA testing and know soon enough if that’s Zoltan’s blood. Tell us, do you think Zoltan was the real deal? Not with Mrs. Manvers, but with her other clients? Do you believe she really could contact the dead?”
Candy blinked up at her. “Good heavens, no, Agent Sherlock. She even told me once if she died, the last thing she’d want would be to have to deal with any idiots she left behind.” She paused a moment. “But you know, she thought she was helping some of her clients deal with their grief and their loneliness, and some of them certainly left happier. But sometimes she took advantage, charging clients too much, and too often. She had no qualms about that, especially those clients who wanted to find something the dead person left behind, like money or jewelry.” Candy paused, huffed out a breath. “She was very upset when someone attacked Mrs. Manvers. I know she made some calls about it on her cell, but I don’t know who she called. Then you made her go to the Hoover Building to talk to you, Agent Savich. She was even more upset when she came home. She tried to hide it, but I know her very well. She even canceled some clients. She’s never done that before.”
Sherlock said, “How long have you worked for her?”
“Zoltan and I have been together since I graduated with a degree in human studies with nothing but debt to show for it. I was waitressing in the Village in New York when she found me. She always paid me well—I mean, she pays me well. I refuse to believe she’s dead. I’ve always admired her for how well she put on a show. She laughed when I called it performance art.”
Savich asked her to wait outside for the FBI forensic team while he and Sherlock went upstairs to search Zoltan’s office. There were drawers of meticulous files on her clients going back more than a decade, their personal histories, their likes, their dislikes, their relationships with both the living and the dead, but there was nothing they could find on Rebekah Manvers.
36
ST. LUMIS
TUESDAY MORNING
Pippa hugged herself against the cold as she hurried into Major Trumbo’s B&B, Chief Wilde behind her. Mrs. Trumbo was coming out of the dining room with only a small stack of plates in her arms. Most of her Halloween crowd had left St. Lumis.
“Ms. Cinelli! I was worried when you didn’t come down for breakfast. I was going to go up and check on you—” She broke off and stared at Chief Wilde, an eyebrow rising nearly to her hairline. She said slowly, smiling, “But I see if I’d knocked on your door, I wouldn’t have gotten an answer.” She looked at each of them. “Chief, what are you doing here with Ms. Cinelli this early on a chilly Tuesday morning, as if you’re just now bringing her back? You only met on Saturday night, isn’t that right?”
Mrs. Trumbo was teasing them about sleeping together? Talk about fast work. Well, maybe his bed would have been more comfortable than the rock with a thin mattress in his small guest bedroom. “Good morning, Mrs. Trumbo. It’s very kind of you to be concerned about me. You’re right. I didn’t sleep in my beautiful honeymoon suite last night. You see, yesterday someone hit me on the head and tied me up in that old abandoned grocery store on the edge of town. I escaped to the chief’s house.”
Mrs. Trumbo blinked, laughed, and wagged her finger at Pippa. “You’re making that up, Ms. Cinelli. Not that it’s any of my business who you want to play with. Why, I remember my first husband, he—well, that’s not important. No need to spit out a wild story. Someone hit you and tied you up? That wouldn’t be funny, young lady, though I suppose it makes a fine tale.”
“To be totally accurate, he hit me on the head twice, ma’am.”
Mrs. Trumbo shifted the plates in her arms. “I know young people hook up faster nowadays—that’s what you call it, isn’t it? Like fish? No reason to be ashamed about it, but I am surprised at you, Chief Wilde. Don’t you have rules about not fraternizing with the community whenever you’re tempted? A reputation to uphold? Aren’t you supposed to be our moral beacon, as our mayor claims to be?”
Wilde stared at her. “I don’t recall being a moral beacon listed in my job description, Mrs. Trumbo, and no, our fine mayor didn’t mention it, either.”
Pippa realized the conversation was rapidly deteriorating and raised her hand.
“Mrs. Trumbo, Chief Wilde and I did not hook up, and believe me, that tale I told you is true, though I wish it weren’t because I still have a headache. And look at my wrists, all bandaged up.” Mrs. Trumbo simply looked at her, a thick salt-and-pepper eyebrow raised. What was she thinking? Bondage? Surely not. If only Pippa had her creds, she’d have a better chance of convincing her. But she didn’t, so she shut up. Let Wilde handle Mrs. Trumbo.
He said easily, “We sure would like a cup of coffee, Mrs. Trumbo. I don’t suppose—”
Trumbo stared between them, amused, and nodded. “Very well. You two go into the dining room. Ignore the two tables we used for breakfast. I’ll clean them up soon enough. Ms. Cinelli, I have your breakfast warming since I was expecting you any minute. Chief, I’ll have to see about you. I know I have a couple of scones left. I hear you’re a strawberry preserves man?”
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am, that’d be very kind of you.”
My scones were Major Trumbo’s favorite.”
Mrs. Trumbo gave Pippa a last look and a wink and walked back toward the kitchen.
Once they were seated in the dining room, Pippa sat back in her chair and sighed. “I know she was teasing us, but I still feel like I have a scarlet letter on my forehead. She didn’t believe me, not for a second.”
“I wouldn’t have believed you, either. It sounds like a tale a seriously embarrassed person would dream up. I liked your effort at a frontal assault, though, Cinelli, right out there with the truth.”
Pippa shrugged. “Yeah, yeah, but it didn’t work out well, did it?” She began drumming her fingernails on the table. “When it’s a question of who’s sleeping with whom, why is it always the woman who’s the instigator, not the man?”
“Excuse me? I was the one she accused of moral turpitude.”
“When everyone in St. Lumis hears about our wild night, it’ll be me who jumped poor Chief Wilde. You wait and see. How I wish I had my gun and my creds. I feel half-dressed.”
Wilde grinned. “Know what you mean.”
Pippa sighed. “Dillon called me about the fire, said he drove back to Georgetown in record time last night. Thank heaven Sherlock got Sean out in time and the fire stayed in the kitchen. Can you imagine someone breaking one of your windows and throwing in gasoline?”
“I’ve been giving the situation a lot of thought and I have to agree. The arson at Savich’s house last night has to connect to someone here in St. Lumis.”
Pippa sat forward. “Otherwise the red boxes and the puzzle showing Major Trumbo hanging out of a burning window right here in town make no sense. If no one here is involved, why did they pick St. Lumis, and w
hy attack me here?”
Wilde said, “Maybe St. Lumis is part of some larger scheme they’re betting none of us can solve. The only clue we really have is the puzzle, and that means we start with Maude Filly.”
He paused, fiddled with a salt shaker.
“What?”
“I was remembering when I was a cop in Philadelphia. I investigated murders, faced off with violent drug dealers, you name it, but I never came across something this—well, convoluted. It’s like some madman with a hate on for Savich has come up with a weird kind of revenge, daring us to catch him.”
Pippa unfolded a napkin and spread it in her lap. “It makes me think of a fat spider weaving a web. No, I do not want to think about spiders. Everyone agrees it could be some kind of payback, revenge, whatever you want to call it by someone Agent Savich arrested or harmed, or maybe someone close to them.” She shook her head. “Okay, after I’ve had a shower and changed, we’ll go see Mrs. Filly. Don’t forget, I’ve got to meet with your sketch artist.”
“It’s all set up. Lisa Trout’s her name. She’s excited.”
“The more I try to remember him…” She shrugged. “We’ll see what pops out.”
They heard Mrs. Trumbo’s heavy tread even before she appeared in the dining room doorway, two big platters held expertly on her arms. “Chief Wilde, I figured I should always be generous to our local police, no matter what you’ve been up to, so I brought you some scrambled eggs and bacon. Might keep you from stealing some of Ms. Cinelli’s.” She carefully set down the plates, straightened the silverware, finally nodded to herself. She paused, looked at each of them again. “Tell me, is this love at first sight? Or do you young people not believe in that anymore?”
“I don’t know,” Pippa said. “Love at first sight has never landed at my door.”
Mrs. Trumbo smiled at Chief Wilde, but when he only smiled back, she walked out of the room and returned with a tray of coffee and cups. As she poured out their coffee, Pippa said, “Why do you think Mrs. Filly has a puzzle with Major Trumbo hanging out of a window in the old Alworth Hotel?”
Deadlock Page 17
