Deadlock

by Catherine Coulter

  “Mother? She’s like she always is, spends more time with the downtrodden than she does with her own family.” She turned back to Pippa. “Of course you know my name, everyone knows my name, but I don’t remember yours.”

  Mrs. Filly tried, she really did. Pippa appreciated her effort. “And your dear brother? How are he and his sweet family?”

  “Sweet? How very nice for us. So, what’s your name? And why are you here?”

  “I’m Special Agent Pippa Cinelli, FBI.”

  Freddie stared hard at her. “You, FBI? An agent? Are you joking?”

  Wilde said, “No, she’s not, Freddie. Actually, Agent Cinelli grew up here in St. Lumis. Are you also here to look at puzzles? We were studying Major Trumbo’s puzzle.”

  Freddie spared half a glance at Major Trumbo’s puzzle, shook her head. “That ridiculous old man was disgusting. I hate it that my dad has his puzzle in his study at home.”

  Wilde said, “If you didn’t come to buy a puzzle, then why did you come in, Freddie?”

  Freddie grabbed up a puzzle of Saint Patrick surrounded by snakes. “Anjolina has a birthday next week. This will do.”

  “Anjolina’s too young for this puzzle, Freddie. It would give her nightmares. And isn’t her birthday in March?”

  “Anjolina’s age is irrelevant. No puzzle in this store would frighten her. No, her birthday is next week. Gift wrap it, Mrs. Filly.”

  Mrs. Filly took the puzzle. “Agent Cinelli, let me check how many Major Trumbo puzzles are left. I’ve remembered a couple more people, and I’ll make up a short list.” She turned on her heel and was through the door at the back of the shop fast, as if escaping.

  Wilde said, “Freddie, have you seen any men around St. Lumis you didn’t recognize?”

  “What is this all about?” She pointed a sharp fingernail at Pippa. “If you are an FBI agent, then why are you all over Chief Wilde? It’s unprofessional. And no, I haven’t seen any strange men. What does that have to do with Major Trumbo’s puzzle?”

  This young woman, either a born pain in the butt or spoiled to death since the cradle, was the last thing Pippa needed. Pippa didn’t think she’d ever been considered a threat before. If not for everything being at a critical point, she might be amused. But not now.

  Pippa said, “Of course you have lots of questions, Ms. Sleeman, but I don’t have time to answer them right now. Tell you what, would you entertain Chief Wilde while I speak to Mrs. Filly?” Pippa turned on her heel and walked toward the back of the shop.

  Freddie yelled after her, “You won’t get Wilde, do you hear me? He’ll get tired of you really fast, and you’re not even pretty. That French braid of yours looks ratty, probably because you slept with him last night at his cottage, didn’t you? I know the truth, so don’t lie.”

  That brought Pippa up short. She slowly turned back.

  Wilde raised a dark brow. “And how do you know Agent Cinelli was at my cottage last night, Freddie?”

  “Davie told me.”

  Davie Hauck, his night deputy, was normally a clam, but Wilde had heard Davie really liked Freddie Sleeman. He probably tried to impress her by telling her how he’d cruised the chief’s neighborhood, keeping watch for a suspicious character who was after a woman. He said, “Actually, we did spend the night at my house, then went back to Major Trumbo’s B&B for a good breakfast this morning.”

  “My father will make sure you’re gone soon enough.” And Freddie gave Wilde nothing short of a steaming look, turned on her heel, and left the shop, slamming the door.

  Mrs. Filly came out of her office, holding the wrapped Saint Patrick puzzle in one hand and a piece of paper in the other. She said blankly, “Sorry, I have to admit I waited until I heard her leave. Freddie can be such a trial. You should marry her, Chief, put her out of her—and our—misery. But wait, you’re a good boy, you’d suffer too much. Here’s the list, very short, as you can see. I wonder if I should keep the puzzle wrapped?”

  “You should make it a surprise puzzle, charge a dollar more for it,” Pippa said. “Just one more question, Mrs. Filly, and we’ll leave you alone. Have you noticed any strangers around town who’ve stayed on after the Halloween bash at Leveler’s Inn?”

  “Of course, but not many, mostly older people and a couple of families, like the one you saw when you came in.” She rolled her eyes.

  “How about men who came into your shop? Any strangers you noticed, wondered about?”

  Mrs. Filly thought a moment, then shook her head. “I’m sorry, Agent Cinelli, but no. You’re thinking about the man who hit you, aren’t you?”

  When Pippa and Chief Wilde left the shop, the weather had turned even colder. Pippa pulled her leather jacket close and carefully pulled on leather gloves over her bandaged hands. She said, “Well, we did learn some interesting history.” She poked his arm. “And Ms. Sleeman certainly enlivened the morning.”

  “She always does.” Wilde looked down at his watch. “The sketch artist should be arriving at the station. Let’s go see what you can remember. Oh yeah, your French braid looked ratty last night, not today.”

  41

  SINACK, MARYLAND

  TUESDAY AFTERNOON

  Sherlock looked up from her tablet when Savich turned off at the Sinack exit. “Apparently Sinack’s known for its early American antiques and its six white church spires.” She put down her tablet and turned to face him. “Enough about Sinack. Dillon, what I’m really worried about is my Steinway. I called Ian—you remember Mr. Phipps—and he’s coming today to check out how bad the water damage is.” She sighed. “There’s so much we have to do. We haven’t even finished sorting through all our clothes, Dillon. We’ll have to rebuild the kitchen, and once that construction is done, we’ll need all new appliances.” She groaned. “Every time I think about what needs to be done, something new pops up, and the list gets longer. Bless your mom for dealing with the cleanup crew today, but I don’t want her doing too much.”

  Savich reached over and took her hand. “I’ve got a surprise for you, Sherlock. It’s a secret weapon. Senator Monroe called this morning when you were in the shower. He gave me the name of a woman here in Washington, Janet Mickelson. She’s a logistics expert. She specializes in the aftermath of home fires, from determining what needs to be replaced to dealing with contractors for any necessary rebuilding, the kitchen in our case. I didn’t know such a person existed. Robert said he didn’t, either, until his home caught fire three years ago, said the logistics expert earned every dime he paid her. And yes, Mickelson will get our approval at every step. She’ll do as much or as little as we want.” He gave her a big smile. “Best thing? She works directly with insurance companies and makes sure they don’t try to slither out of their responsibilities. She gets their approval as she goes along.”

  Sherlock shook her head at him, smiled. “I wish you’d stuck your head in the shower and told me about this fire fairy godmother while you washed my hair. Janet Mickelson sounds amazing. Dillon, I think I’ll make Senator Monroe an apple pie—when I have my kitchen back and my new appliances. Knowing we’ll have our own personal rottweiler really changes the landscape.” She gave him a huge smile. “All right, now we can talk about Miranda Stirling. I thought you’d have asked Griffin to interview her.”

  He was silent a moment as he smoothly passed a Chevy Silverado. “Rebekah needs protection, and that means Griffin has to stick close. Also, Griffin and Rebekah are going to see her grandmother in Clairemont.”

  “Yes, yes, all true, but you know what I think? You’re hooked. What with Zoltan disappearing, and all the drama from so many years ago. You want to stay right in the middle of it, don’t you?”

  He shot her a smile. “Miranda Stirling was right in the middle of everything back in 1995. She and Rebekah’s grandmother are the two people closest to whatever happened to Nate Elderby. I’m hoping she’ll tell us what she thought actually happened at the time, and what she thinks now after so many years have passed.”

&n
bsp; They drove through Sinack’s charming colonial downtown, turned on East Jacobs Street. Savich carefully steered around an ancient pale-blue-and-white Cadillac, a gray head barely visible above the steering wheel.

  Three blocks later, they turned onto Elm Street, into an older settled neighborhood with big houses and bigger yards, shaded by maples and oaks. Savich found himself thinking the neighborhood would be a great place to bring kids on Halloween. He pulled in behind a white Lexus. “Mrs. Stirling seemed excited we were coming to see her. I didn’t tell her what it was about, and she didn’t ask.”

  “I wonder why she didn’t ask. I mean, the FBI calls you, wants to come over, and you don’t ask what it’s all about? Maybe she already guessed.”

  They were met at the freshly painted dark blue front door by a tall, very fit woman wearing a big fuchsia shirt, black leggings, and black ballet slippers on long narrow feet. They’d called up photos of her and knew she was forty-eight, good-looking, and stylish. But Miranda Stirling in person was more, lots more. Her high, sharp cheekbones and her sloe-eyed dark looks were striking. Sherlock imagined she’d still be beautiful at ninety. She wore her dark brown hair in a bob around her face, not a single gray hair showing. But it was her nearly black eyes that were the draw—mysterious and compelling. Sherlock imagined she’d been a knockout as a young woman, probably got whatever she went after.

  “Mrs. Stirling?”

  She nodded. “Agent Savich?” At his nod, she looked at Sherlock, blinked, then smiled really big. “Of course I know who you are, Agent Sherlock. It’s an honor to meet you. Do come in.”

  They showed Mrs. Stirling their creds and followed her into a large entry hall, its wide-oak-plank floor scattered with early American carpets, all dark colors and patterns that should have made the space dim, but didn’t. It looked rich. The living room, like the entrance hall, was right out of the colonial period, with a dark-beamed ceiling, cream-painted walls covered with an assortment of stylized colonial paintings, and inset dark mahogany bookshelves. A brick fireplace sat between two long, narrow windows, facing an arrangement of sofas and comfortable chairs. An old, dark-patterned carpet covered most of the living room floor. There was even an antique broom leaning against the fireplace.

  Sherlock said, “I feel like I’ve stepped back in time.”

  Mrs. Stirling smiled, very pleased. “I found a print of the colonial living room I wanted, and my husband, Frank, helped me bring it to life. I had the interest and the contacts, and in addition to taking great care of people’s teeth—he’s a dentist—he has quite the eye. As for stepping back in time, it’s all quite lovely until it’s too hot or too cold, like today, and then I’m grateful for the central heating. Do sit down.” She pointed to a brown rolled-arm sofa.

  Mrs. Stirling sat opposite them in a high-backed chair, her incredible eyes intent on their faces. She said without hesitation, “I was very surprised and pleased to hear from you. I have to say, it’s about time. Are you here about Nate’s murder or about the money? Or both?”

  Savich didn’t get surprised easily, but Miranda had managed it. He’d planned to steer her slowly back in time, help her recall memories and details. He smiled at her. “Yes, you’re right. I imagine you’d think it is about time. Your thoughts about Mr. Elderby and what happened to him are exactly what we’d like to know. And, of course, anything you know about stolen money.”

  She paused a moment. “When I heard about John’s death last month, I wondered if what happened back in 1995 would resurface. I’m very pleased to see it has. And no, I didn’t go to the funeral. I didn’t want to have to see Gemma, John’s widow, again. To be blunt, I know she would have hated seeing me.”

  Miranda drew a deep breath, cocked her head to one side. “Where to start?” She sat forward and looked back and forth between them. “I was only twenty-three when I married Nate, who was some twenty-five years my senior. I know how that sounds, but when you’re twenty-three, you don’t think about him being on Social Security by the time you’re forty. All you see is a man in his prime, well-known, smart, successful, and the biggie? He loved me.” She rolled her eyes. “Ah, one’s optimism at twenty-three. As you know, Nate was a big-time criminal lawyer, really talented in the courtroom. I knew firsthand about some of his clients since I’d seen him in court a dozen times. That’s how we met. I’d been assigned to spend a year on the court and the crime beat with a senior reporter at the Richmond Tribune, so I was well aware he defended some scary people. As I said, he was a big name locally, a beautiful man, really. We were married three months later.

  “We’d been married maybe six months when he told me in bed one night we were leaving the country in two days. He said money wouldn’t be a problem, we’d live anywhere I liked. I said Bali, thinking he was joking, but of course, he wasn’t. When I realized he was perfectly serious, I asked if one of his criminal clients had threatened him, and he said yes. I knew he was concerned about one particularly vicious client’s criminal father, a man named Showalter. Nate lost the son’s murder case. The son had stabbed his wife, and the evidence was overwhelming. I had no trouble believing someone like Showalter, the father, could kill him as well as me in retribution. I asked Nate if it was Showalter, but he only wanted to talk about how perfect the timing was for us, how we’d have a lifelong honeymoon. He grinned really big, kissed me, and made me promise I’d only wear bikinis on the beach in Bali.”

  She paused, splayed her hands in front of her. “Agents, I was in love with my husband, still had stars in my eyes. Leave the country? It sounded like pure romantic adventure to me. I still had my mom, but we could certainly keep in close touch. So I readily agreed to leave the country with him. I remember before I fell asleep, Nate told me I was to pack only the clothes I needed, to leave the rest. It was then he dropped the money bomb. He said he was getting a lot of money due to him the next day. I asked him what money, where was it coming from, but he wouldn’t tell me anything else. I knew he was very well-to-do, no money problems, but the way he talked about that money, his excitement mixed with fear, it seemed like a very big deal to him. I wondered if he had stolen some of that money, but I couldn’t ask him, I simply couldn’t. He was my husband, and the fact was, I wouldn’t believe he was a crook. But Nate never got that money, and he drowned the next day while fishing by himself, they said, something he rarely did. John Clarkson was usually with Nate. I never found out why they weren’t together that day, but I do remember John was home and not in Washington the day Nate drowned.”

  42

  Savich said, “Nate and John Clarkson had been friends since they were boys, isn’t that right, Mrs. Stirling?”

  Miranda looked toward the fireplace when a big spurt of flame shot up from the stacked logs. She sighed. “Actually, once we were married, I soon came to realize I didn’t know the half of it. It didn’t take long for me to feel like I was married to both men. They were inseparable when John was home from Washington. He and Gemma were always with us, always. I was the last part of a foursome, the very young newcomer. I started to wonder whether Nate married me for the sex and because I looked good on his arm. But he kept saying he loved me, easy enough words to say.

  “As for John Clarkson, I liked him, and he liked me. He seemed larger than life like Nate, sexy like Nate, and powerful in Congress, serving on important committees, a really big deal.” She shook her head. “The problem was Gemma. She couldn’t stand me. I thought it was because she’d been close to Lorna, Nate’s first wife, but when I mentioned it to Nate, he said Gemma hadn’t particularly liked Lorna, either, that Lorna never paid her any mind and neither should I. The three of them had such a long, rich history together that it never occurred to him Gemma’s not liking me might change that.

  “I suppose Gemma thought I was a gold digger. She was old enough to be my mother, just as both John and Nate could have been my father. When my own mother met Gemma, she pulled me aside and told me it had to be difficult for her, having someone her daughter’s a
ge marrying her husband’s best friend. She told me to be patient but to hold my own. Then my mother, bless her, never said another word.

  “Of course, Gemma and Nate were also very close, had been for years, and she was very protective of him. Sure, in front of Nate and John, she’d be civil, but no matter what I tried, complimenting her, asking her advice, nothing worked. She always kept me in my place, always treated me like a little sexpot with fluffy hair.”

  Savich said, “When we arrived, you said you thought Nate was murdered. Could you tell us why you believe that?”

  “Let me say right away I heard all the rumors about John killing his best friend. After all, didn’t they always fish together? I don’t know who started those rumors, but wondered if it was the woman running against John for his congressional seat. Let me be very clear about this, though: John didn’t murder Nate. That’s ridiculous. They were closer than brothers; they shared most everything.

  “Of course, I was the first person the police focused on. It would have been so easy, so convenient for them if I was guilty—the young wife bored with her older husband, wanting his money. But alas for them, I was out of town that day, saying goodbye to my mom. As you know, the police ruled Nate was drunk and fell overboard. He did have alcohol in his blood, and the M.E. decided it was enough to debilitate him, so they ruled accidental drowning. It’s true Nate liked to drink, but he held his liquor well. It never made sense to me he’d be falling-down drunk in the middle of the day by himself. Let me add, the local police owed John a lot of favors—he helped their new police station get funded. They wanted to protect him from those silly rumors in his upcoming election, and I believe that’s the main reason they were so fast to rule accidental death by drowning. I told them Nate said he’d been threatened, probably by a criminal named Showalter, that we’d been planning to leave because of the threat. They looked at Nate’s client list, especially those he failed to get off at trial, but it didn’t lead anywhere.”