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.”
“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—just 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.”
Sherlock leaned forward, her food forgotten. The gauntlet was thrown. This was fascinating. She smiled at Tennyson Frasier. “Still, doesn’t it seem like it would be on the relevant side, Tennyson, for her to know, particularly after Lily tried to kill herself seven months ago? Wouldn’t you begin to think, Oops, could there be something wrong, just maybe, with me? Two wives trying to do away with themselves after they’ve been married to me only a short time? What are the odds on that, do you think, Tennyson? Two dead wives, one live husband?”
“No, that’s all ridiculous. None of it was at all relevant. Lily isn’t anything like Lynda. Lily was simply bowled over by her child’s death, by her role in her child’s death.”
“I didn’t have a role in Beth’s death,” Lily said. “I realize that now.”
“Do you really believe that, Lily? Just think about it, all right? Now, as for Lynda, she had a brain tumor. She was dying.”
This was a corker, Savich thought. “A brain tumor?”
“Yes, Savich, she was diagnosed with a brain tumor. It wasn’t operable. She knew she was going to die. She didn’t want the inevitable pain, the further loss of self, the deterioration of her physical abilities. Her confusion was growing by the day because of the tumor. She hated it. She wanted to be the one to decide her own end, and so she did. She gave herself an injection of potassium chloride. It works very quickly. As for the tumor, I saw to it that it was kept quiet. I saw no reason to tell anyone.” He paused for a moment, looked at Savich, then at Sherlock. “There are, of course, records. Check if you want to, I don’t care. I’m not lying.”
“Hmmm,” Sherlock said. “So you think it’s better for a woman to be known as a suicide for no good reason at all?” Sherlock sat back in her chair now, arms crossed over her breasts.
“It was my call and that’s what I decided to do at the time.”
“Thirteen months,” Savich said. “Married the first time only thirteen months. If Lily had managed to die in that accident, then she would have beaten Lynda to the grave by two months. Or, if she had died in her first attempt, right after Beth’s death, then she would have really broken the record.”
Tennyson Frasier said slowly, looking directly at his wife, “I don’t find that amusing, Savich. You have judged me on supposition, on a simple coincidence, no evidence that would stand up anywhere, and surely a cop shouldn’t do that. Lily didn’t die, thank God, either time. If she had died in that accident, I doubt I would have survived. I love her very much. I want her well.”
He was good, Savich thought, very good indeed. Very fluent, very reasoned and logical, and the appeal to gut emotion was surefire. Tennyson was certainly right about one thing—they didn’t have any proof. He was right about another thing—Savich had already judged him guilty. Guilty as sin. They had to have proof. MAX had to dig deeper. There would be something; there always was.
Sherlock chewed on a homemade roll that was now cold, swallowed, then said in the mildest voice imaginable, “Where did Lynda get the potassium chloride?”
“From her doctor, the one who diagnosed her in the first place. He was infatuated with her, which is why, I believe, he assisted her. I knew nothing about any of it until she was dead and he told me what had happened, what he had helped her do. I didn’t file charges because I’d known she’d wanted to end her life herself, on her own terms. Dr. Cord died only a short while later. It was horrible, all of it.”
Lily said, “I heard about Dr. Cord’s death from a woman in Casey’s Food Market. She said he shot himself while cleaning his rifle, such a terrible accident. She didn’t mention anything about your wife.”
“The townspeople didn’t want to
see me hurt any more, I suppose, particularly since I had a new wife, so I guess they just kept quiet.” He turned to his wife and said, his voice pleading, his hand stretched out toward her, “Lily, when you came to town, just over a year and a half ago, I couldn’t believe that someone else could come into my life who would make me complete, who would love me and make me happy, but you did. And you brought precious little Beth with you. I loved her from the first moment I saw her, just as I did you. I miss her, Lily, every day I miss her.
“What you’ve been going through—maybe now it’s over. Maybe what happened with the Explorer, maybe that snapped you back. Believe me, dearest, I just want you to get well. I want that more than anything. I want to take you to Maui and lie with you on the beach and know that your biggest worry will be how to keep from getting sunburned. Don’t listen to your brother. Please, Lily, don’t believe there was anything sinister about Lynda’s death. Your brother is a cop. Cops think everyone has ulterior motives, but I don’t. I love you. I want you to be happy, with me.”
Savich, who’d been finishing off his lasagna during this impassioned speech, looked only mildly interested, as if he were attending a play. He laid down his fork and said, “Tennyson, how long has your dad been on the board of the Eureka Art Museum?”
“What? Oh, I don’t know, for years, I suppose. I’ve never really paid any attention. What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“You see,” Savich continued, “at first we couldn’t figure out why you would want to marry Lily if your motive was to kill her. For what? Then we realized you knew about our grandmother’s paintings. Lily owns eight Sarah Elliotts, worth a lot of money, as you very well know.”
For the first time, Savich felt a mild surge of alarm. Tennyson was a man nearing the edge. He was furious, his face red, his jaw working. He readied himself for an attack, just in case.
But what Tennyson did was bang his knife handle on the table, once, twice, then a really hard third time. “You bastard! I did not marry Lily to get her grandmother’s goddamned paintings! That’s absurd. Get out of my house!”
Lily slowly rose to her feet.
“No, Lily, not you. Please, sit down. Listen to me, you must. My father and I are familiar with the excellent work of the folk at the Eureka Art Museum. They have a splendid reputation. When you told me your grandmother was Sarah Elliott—”
“But you already knew, Tennyson. You knew before you met me that first time. And then you acted so surprised when I told you. You acted so pleased that I had inherited some of her incredible talent. You wanted so much to have her paintings here, in Northern California. You wanted them here so you could be close to them, so you could control them. So that when I was dead, you wouldn’t have any difficulty getting your hands on them. Or maybe your father wanted the paintings close? Which, Tennyson?”
“Lily, be quiet, that’s not true, none of it. The paintings are great art. Why should the Chicago Art Institute have them when you live here now? Also, administration of the paintings is much easier when they’re exhibited locally.”
“What administration?”
Tennyson shrugged. “There are phone calls coming in all the time, questions about loaning the paintings out, about selling them to collectors, the schedule for ongoing minor restoration, about our approval on the replacement of a frame. Endless questions about tax papers. Lots of things.”
“There was very little of what you just described before I married you, Tennyson. There was only one contract with the museum to sign every year, nothing else. Why haven’t you said anything about any administration to me? You make it sound like an immense amount of work.”
Was that sarcasm? Savich wondered, rather hoping that it was. “You weren’t well, Lily. I wasn’t about to burden you with any of that.”
Suddenly, the strangest thing happened. Lily saw her husband as a grayish shadow, hovering without substance, his mouth moving but nothing really coming out. Not a man, just a shadow, and shadows couldn’t hurt you. Lily smiled as she said, “As Dillon said, I’m very rich, Tennyson.”
Savich saw that his brother-in-law was trying desperately to keep himself calm, to keep himself logical in his arguments, not to get defensive, not to let Lily see what he really was. It was fascinating. Could a man be that good a liar, that convincing an actor? Savich wished he knew.
Tennyson said, “It’s always been my understanding that you simply hold the paintings in a sort of trust. That they aren’t yours, that you’re merely their guardian until you die and one of your children takes over.”
“But you’ve been in charge of their administration all these months,” Lily said. “How could you not know that they were mine, completely mine, no trust involved?”
“I did believe that, I tell you. No one ever said anything different, not even the curator, Mr. Monk. You’ve met him, Lily, up front, so pleased to have the paintings here.”
Savich sipped at the hot tea Mrs. Scruggins had poured into his cup. “None of us hold the paintings in trust,” he said. “They’re ours, outright.” He knew Mrs. Scruggins was listening to everything, forming opinions. He didn’t mind it a bit. Just maybe she’d have something more to say to him or to Sherlock when this little dinner meeting was over. “If Lily wants to, she can sell one or two or all of the paintings. They’re worth about one million dollars each. Maybe more.”
Tennyson looked stunned. “I…I never realized,” he said, and now he sounded a bit frantic.
“Difficult not to,” Lily said. “You’re not a stupid man, Tennyson. Surely Mr. Monk told you what they’re worth. When you found out I was Sarah Elliott’s granddaughter, it would have been nothing at all for you to find out that she willed them to me. You saw me as the way to get to those paintings. You must have rubbed your hands together. I left everything in my will to Beth, at your urging, Tennyson, if you’ll remember, and I named you the executor.”
“As it happened,” Savich said, “Beth did predecease Lily. Who inherits?”
“Tennyson. My husband.” She continued after a moment, so bitter she was nearly choking on it. “How easy I made everything for you. What happened? Big money troubles? You needed me out of the way, fast?”
Tennyson was nearly over the edge now. “No, no, listen to me. I suppose I just saw the paintings as your grandmother’s, nothing more than that. Valuable things that needed some oversight, particularly after you became so ill. All right, I was willing to do that work. Please, Lily, believe me. When you told me that she was your grandmother, I was very surprised and pleased for you. Then I just dismissed it. Lily, I didn’t marry you for your grandmother’s paintings. I swear to you I didn’t. I married you because I love you, I loved Beth. That’s it. My father—no, I don’t believe there could possibly be anything there. You’ve got to believe me.”
“Tennyson,” Lily said, her voice low, soothing, “do you know that I’ve never been depressed in my life until I married you?”
“Dammit, before Beth’s death, you had no reason to be depressed.”
“Well, maybe I did. Didn’t I tell you a bit about my first husband?”
“Yes, he was horrible, but you survived him. But, Lily, it was completely different when your daughter was killed by a hit-and-run driver. It’s only natural that you’d be overcome with grief, that you would experience profound depression.”
“Even after seven months?”
“The mind is a strange instrument, unpredictable. It doesn’t always behave the way we would like it to. I’ve prayed and prayed for your full recovery. I agree it’s been taking you a long time to recover but, Lily, you’ll get well now, I know it.”
“Yes,” she said very slowly and pushed back her chair. “Yes, I know I’ll get well now.” She felt her stitches pull, a tug that made her want to bend over, but she didn’t. “Yes, Tennyson,” she said, “I fully intend to get well now. Completely well.”
She pressed her palms flat on the table. “I will also love Beth for the rest of my life, an
d I will know sadness at her loss and grief until I die, but I will come to grips with it. I will bear it. I will pray that it will slowly ease into the past, that I won’t fall into that black depression again. I will face life now and I will gain my bearings. Yes, Tennyson, I will get well now because, you see, I’m leaving you. Tonight.”
He rose so quickly his chair slammed down to the floor. “No, dammit, you can’t leave me…Lily, no! It’s your brother. I wish my father hadn’t called him; I wish Savich hadn’t come here to ruin everything. He’s filled your mind with lies. He’s made you turn on me. There’s no proof of anything at all, just ask him. No, none of it’s true. Please, Lily, don’t leave me.”
“Tennyson,” Lily said very quietly now, looking directly at him, “what sort of pills have you been feeding me these last seven months?”
He howled, literally howled, a desperate, frightened sound of rage and hopelessness. He was panting hard when he said, “I tried to make you well. I tried, God knows, and now you’ve decided to believe this jerk of a brother and his wife and you’re leaving me. Dammit, I’ve been giving you Elavil!”
Lily nodded. “Actually, even though there doesn’t seem to be any solid proof to haul you to the sheriff. The sheriff is something of a joke anyway, isn’t he? When I remember how he tried so hard to apprehend Beth’s killer.”
“I know he did the best he could. If you’d been with Beth, maybe you would have made a better witness, but you—”
She ignored his words and said, “If we find proof, then even Sheriff Bozo will have to lock you away, Tennyson—no matter what you or Daddy say, no matter how much money you’ve put in his pocket, no matter how many votes you got for him—until we manage to get some competent law enforcement in Hemlock Bay. The truth of the matter is, I would leave you even if you didn’t kill your first wife, if you hadn’t, in truth, tried to kill me, because, Tennyson, you’ve lied to me; from the very beginning you lied to me. You used Beth’s death to make me feel the most profound guilt. You milked it, manipulated me—you’re still doing it—and you very likely drugged me to make me depressed, to make me feel even more at fault. I wasn’t at fault, Tennyson. Someone killed Beth. I didn’t. I realize that now. Were you planning on killing me even as you slid the ring on my finger?”
The FBI Thrillers Collection Page 8
