Hemlock Bay

by Catherine Coulter

  As for Tennyson, he paid no attention to either Savich or Sherlock, just marched directly to Lily’s bed, grabbed her hand, and held on tightly.

  “Come home with me, Lily. I need you.”

  “Hello, Tennyson. Hello, Charlotte. What more could we possibly have to say to each other? Dillon thought you would come by this evening, but I have to admit I’m very surprised.” Lily finally got her hand back and asked, “Oh yes, where is your father? Isn’t he well?”

  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 just go back to Washington and fight criminals, you know, people who have really done bad things, not innocent people you’ve just taken a dislike to. That’s what you’re paid to do, not rip apart a loving family! Leave us the hell 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 just 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, God, 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.”

  “Just maybe,” Tennyson said now, his voice all soft and gentle, his patented shrink’s voice, “just 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 just 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 just 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 gnomes 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 that I was so 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.

  11

  Washington, D.C. Three days later

  “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 just 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 just like his father, but he had his mother’s dreamy blue 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 baby-sit 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 just 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 just 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 the devil 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.”

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

  “Get a grip, Simon. Come along. Hey, guys, look who just 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.

  Red lights flashed in her brain. No, she wouldn’t let herself even see him as a man. He was an expert who wanted to see her Sarah Elliott paintings for some reason. He was Dillon’s friend. She wouldn’t have to worry about him. Still, she found herself drawing back into the big chair, just in case.

  “Simon!” Sherlock was across the living room in under three seconds, her arms thrown around him, laughing and squeezing him. She came barely to his chin. He was hugging her, kissing her bouncing hair. She pulled back finally, kissed his scratchy cheek, and said, “Goodness, you’re here in a hurry. Yes, I know it isn’t us you want to see, it’s those paintings. Well, you’ll just have to wait until morning.”

  Lily watched him hug her sister-in-law close once again, kiss her hair once again, and say, “I love you, Sherlock, I’d love to keep kissing you, but Dillon can kill me in a fair fight. The only time I ever beat him up, he was sick with the flu, and even then it was close. He also fights dirty. I don’t want him to mess up my perfect teeth.” He lifted her over his head, then slowly lowered her.

  Savich said, crossing his arms over his chest, “You kiss her hair again and I’ll have to see about those teeth.”

  Simon said, “Okay, I’ll stay focused on the paintings, but, Sherlock, I want you to know that I wanted you first.” He started to kiss her again, then sighed deeply. “Oh, what the hell.”

  Then he turned those dark blue eyes on Lily, and he smiled at her, far too nice a smile, and she wished she could just stand
up and walk out of the room. He was dangerous.

  “Why,” she said, not moving out of her chair, actually pressing her back against the cushions, “are you so hot to see my paintings?”

  Savich frowned at her, his head cocked to one side. She sounded mad, like she wanted to kick Simon through a window. He said easily, “Lily, sweetheart, this is Simon Russo. You’ve heard me talk about him over the years. Remember, we roomed together our senior year at MIT?”

  “Maybe,” Lily said. “But what does he want with my paintings?”

  “I don’t know yet. He’s a big-time dealer in the art world. He’s the one I called to ask how much Grandmother’s paintings are worth in today’s market.”

  “I remember you,” she said to Simon. “I was sixteen when you came home with Dillon on Christmas your senior year. Why do you want to see my paintings so badly?”

  Simon remembered her, only she was all grown up now, not the wily, fast-talking teenager who’d tried to con him out of a hundred bucks. He didn’t remember the scheme—some bet, maybe, but he did remember that she would have gotten it out of him, too, if her father hadn’t warned him away and told him to keep his money in his wallet.

  Simon wasn’t deaf. He heard wariness, maybe even distrust in her voice. Why would she dislike him? She didn’t even know him, hadn’t seen him in years. She didn’t look much like that teenager, either. She still looked like a fairy princess, but this grown-up fairy princess looked ground under—alarmingly pale, shadows beneath her eyes. Her hair was pulled back in a ratty ponytail and badly needed to be washed. She also needed to gain some weight to fill out her clothes. Antipathy was pouring off her in waves, a tsunami of dislike to drown him. Why?