“Spooks, hmmm,” Sherlock said as Savich pulled away from the curb. “Cute kid. So Mama’s afraid of the Backmans?”
“So it appears,” Savich said, and gave a nod toward a couple of old geezers who appeared to be playing checkers in front of The Genesis Spirit, the lettering stenciled in gold against black glass.
“Wonder what that’s all about?” Sherlock said.
“There’s a little sign beneath. Looks like it’s a tarot card and palm-reading place. I wonder how a town this size can support them?”
“We’ll ask Mrs. B.,” Sherlock said, and gave a little wave to the two checkers players, who seemed more interested in them than in their game.
41
THE DRIVEWAY TO THE Backmans’ house was long and graveled, curving first around two enormous oak trees, then threading between wildly blooming red rhododendron bushes. Oaks and maples lined the sides, full branches forming a lush canopy overhead. It was a royal approach to the palace.
The house was set in the best spot in the valley, at the eastern end of the bowl. It glistened beneath the hot sun like a wedding cake, lavishly decorated with blue and green accent colors. The house was surrounded by thick stands of oak trees. The front yard was beautifully manicured, with undulating green lawns and small yews lining flower beds filled with azaleas, petunias, and fuchsia. Rosebushes and jasmine trekked up the sides of the house on trellises. It was extravagant and romantic and utterly unexpected in a valley like Bricker’s Bowl.
Savich’s first thought was, Where is the cemetery?
“Wowza,” Sherlock said, and whistled. “Would you look at that place, Dillon. I didn’t get the impression of anything this grand from Joanna. She said it was a mansion and left it at that. Would you look at the accent colors—those dark blues and greens are gorgeous. I don’t think I’ve seen more colors on the Painted Ladies in San Francisco.”
The place gave Savich a headache. It was too big, too in-your-face, just too much, period, except for all the flowers. He particularly liked the iceberg roses with white blossoms so thick they looked to weigh down the bushes.
He parked the Camry in the driveway leading to the six-car garage, behind a new dark blue Cadillac that matched the blue on the house trim. Were there more cars inside? And if there were, then why had Blessed borrowed an SUV to drive to Titusville?
Sherlock said, “The Caddy looks like Mrs. Backman’s wheels, I’d say, so hopefully she’s home. Any idea where the cemetery is?”
He gave her a quick smile. “Probably in the back. We’ll get to it.”
“You know, Dillon, this place is incredible, the flowers look like they’re on steroids, the grounds are lush and neat as a pin—it creeps me out.”
They walked up the ten deep-set wooden steps onto a wide veranda with an inviting porch swing, white rattan table, and four matching rattan chairs, the cushions the same blue and green of the house trim. It was blessedly cool on the porch, a breeze coming from the west.
Beautiful Italian ceramic pots filled with overflowing azaleas and petunias and other flowers Savich couldn’t identify hung from lacy black wrought-iron hangers, each set precisely two feet apart.
“The flowers,” Sherlock said. “I wonder what Mrs. Backman uses to get them so glorious? Maybe some sort of spell or incantation?”
He laughed. “Our garden is just as spectacular.”
“I wish,” Sherlock said, and breathed in. “Even though I can smell the roses and jasmine giving off that lovely perfume, it still creeps me out. I don’t know why.”
“You know too much about the residents.”
The door opened before they could knock. The proverbial little old lady in a flowered cotton housedress stepped out in beaded mules, her sturdy legs bare. She looked like a benign grandmother, fluffy white hair done up in an old-style knot on the top of her head, pearl studs in her drooping earlobes, a huge diamond on her ring finger. There was nothing frail about her. They knew she was seventy-eight years old because Joanna had told them. Otherwise they could have only guessed because officially, Shepherd Backman didn’t exist. She didn’t have a birth certificate, a Social Security number, a driver’s license, or a recorded marriage license. Her husband had filed taxes in his name alone. Blessed filed now, showing a yearly income of about forty-five thousand dollars from driving a delivery truck, this verified by a manager of a local mailing distribution company who had been paid off at least that much. Or maybe Blessed simply stymied him every year at tax time.
Mrs. Backman said nothing, merely stared at them, not moving, her pale brown eyes darting from one to the other. They came to rest on Savich. “Who are you, young man, and what do you want?” Her voice didn’t sound like it belonged to an old lady. It was deep, on the gruff side, as if she’d smoked for many years, and had authority, the voice of a person who always drove the bus she rode in. Savich wagered that Blessed, who was utterly terrifying, bowed to her orders without hesitation.
Savich smiled at the old woman and held out his creds. “I’m Agent Dillon Savich, FBI, and this is Agent Lacey Sherlock.”
She studied his creds, gave them back, then held out a surprisingly youthful hand to Sherlock, who placed her own creds in her wide palm. Her fingernails were dirty. From gardening? Or maybe from digging up graves?
She studied Sherlock’s ID for a very long time. Finally she handed the shield back. “Now I know who you are. What do you want?”
“We would like to speak to you and your son, Grace, since Blessed isn’t here.”
“Neither is Grace.”
At her words, Savich went on full alert. He smiled at her. “Where is Grace?”
“I imagine he’s with his brother, since they left together. They’re rarely apart, those two.”
“Do you know where they went, Mrs. Backman?”
“My boys are all grown up, Agent Savich. They come and go as they please. I’m only their mother. I’m always the last to know.”
Yeah, right, Sherlock thought.
“Excuse me a moment, please,” Savich said, nodded to Sherlock, and walked to the end of the veranda. He called Ethan’s cell. Ethan answered on the second ring. Savich said, “Grace is in Titusville. Evidently both he and Blessed went to fetch Autumn. I don’t know what to expect from him, Ethan, but he’s close by, and maybe as dangerous as his brother. Maybe they work together or Blessed uses Grace in some way to help him focus. Remember you told me when Ox was stymied, he sounded like himself, only not quite? Was it Blessed’s voice?”
“He didn’t sound all that different, but what he said and how he said it, that wasn’t Ox. You’re thinking it might have been Grace’s voice?”
“That sounds so bizarre it gives me a headache even to think about it. More likely Blessed does it all by himself, but the fact is, we don’t know for sure. But Grace is there, so take care.”
When Savich walked back he heard Sherlock say, “You have a lovely home, Mrs. Backman. The blue and green accent colors are perfect, and show an amazing attention to detail. They draw you right in. And the flowers—I like to garden myself.”
“Thank you,” said Shepherd Backman. She didn’t bend at the praise of her home or gardens, nor did she budge from where she stood, blocking the front-door entrance. Well, maybe she’d slathered it on a bit too thick, Sherlock thought. She wanted to tell the old crone that even though it looked well-kept, the place still creeped her out, just to see what she’d say.
Savich picked it up. “We wondered where all the money came from to build and maintain this lovely property. Your husband’s dead, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, a mugger got to him outside Harrah’s in Reno on November seventeenth, 1999, killed him dead.”
“Your husband gambled?”
“Well, yes, he spent a good deal of time in the casinos. He was a man of many talents, Agent Savich. I have little knowledge of his financial dealings, but he always provided well for us. I built this house from the legacy he left.”
Not quite the story you told Joanna, Savich
thought.
Shepherd said, “The damned mugger took all Theodore’s money too after he whacked him on the head, money Theo would have wired to me the next morning, nine o’clock on the dot. The local police were useless. If our own Sheriff Cole had been in charge, they would have found the murdering little pissant and hung him.”
Now this was quite an outpouring.
Sherlock said, “That’s a long time to go without an influx of cash, Mrs. Backman. Has Blessed been providing for you since then, stymieing your local bank manager, for example, to replenish your checking accounts and your investment portfolio, or the car dealer to get you that new Cadillac? Incidentally, the Caddy sure matches the blue accent well.”
Shepherd showed no reaction; she remained poised, well in control. Maybe she’d paled a little bit? No, unfortunately Savich didn’t think so. She was a tough old duck.
Shepherd said matter-of-factly, “Blessed doesn’t stymie for money in Bricker’s Bowl. That wouldn’t be right. We would not take from our neighbors. Those huge Mob-run casinos are a different matter entirely.”
Sherlock said, “I would very much like to see the inside of your lovely home, Mrs. Backman.”
“Most people would.”
“May we come in?”
They could see that Shepherd Backman desperately wanted to show off her masterpiece, garner more envy and praise. But should she keep out the FBI agents or appear to cooperate? She was obviously torn about that. They could see her wheels spinning—let the enemy in or not?
“Very well, but I won’t show you all the house, it’s too big. You may see the living room. Then you will leave.”
42
SAVICH AND SHERLOCK followed her inside to an immense oak parquet entrance hall. There were fresh flowers in a huge pink vase on an antique table, an ornate Victorian mirror hanging over it, both looking as if they were straight out of Buckingham Palace. An antique umbrella stand, a grouping of several paintings—and then the Victoriana stopped. They stared at four paintings that were raw and elemental, painfully modern. Their constant subject was storm clouds, churning water, and black rocks. In each, there appeared to be a person drowning, pale arms flailing, mouth open in a scream. A terrifying glimpse into the artist’s soul?
“Incredible paintings; who’s the artist?” Savich asked.
“They are incredible, aren’t they? My son Grace painted them. I believe they are museum-quality.”
“Is this a common theme for Grace?”
“I suppose you’re wondering if Grace nearly drowned in a storm? It’s called artistic rendering, it’s a statement of the powers and forces beyond a mortal’s control.” She smirked at both of them, there was no missing it. She turned on her heel and they followed her into the first room on the right, dominated by a Carrera marble fireplace with an imposing portrait of an elderly gentleman above it. The look in his pale eyes was happily mad. It had to be Theodore Backman, her dead husband.
Mrs. Backman walked spry and straight, the cotton housedress falling straight to her calves, her mules sliding over the beautiful polished oak floor. She pointed to an authentic Victorian settee.
They sat, watched her ease into a high-backed chair opposite them. She looked complacently around the large room. “It took five years to build this house and decorate it the way I wanted it. It is now perfect. But my sons, Blessed and Grace, have no interest in anything other than the pork chops on their plates and their nightly dessert of strawberry cheesecake, made for them by Marge at Phelps’s Bakery every day.” She waved her hand around her. “This lovely house, all the flowers, the antiques, it’s all wasted on them. It is not right nor fair. I have asked them what they plan for it when I’m dead.”
“And what did they say?”
“They looked furtively at each other and made up the story that they will marry as soon as they bury me so their wives can keep up my shrine. That’s what they call this beautiful house—my shrine. This is a work of art, I told them, not a ridiculous shrine, and they just looked at each other and shrugged. There is nothing to be done.”
Savich said, “Is that why you want your granddaughter to come live with you, Mrs. Backman? You want Autumn to grow up here and take over your place when you die? Keep up your beautiful gardens, buy more antiques?”
“That would be nice, if that is what she wished,” Mrs. Backman said comfortably, not at all surprised they knew about Autumn. “However, there is no need for more antiques. She is only a little girl, and she wasn’t here long enough for me to determine if she is worthy of such a gift. She carries half her mother’s common blood, after all.”
Whoa. Sherlock said, “Why do you believe your son’s wife is common, ma’am?”
“I had only to speak to her to know what she was.”
Savich said, “You must have been greatly saddened to hear of your youngest son’s death. A shock.”
Sherlock saw her fist tighten in the folds of her housedress. She shook her head as she said, “Poor Martin. He was confused, as are many young men. He would have come home, but that woman, she lured him away and convinced him to keep away from us. I didn’t even know where he lived until she called me, but by then it was too late. He was already dead. Do you know she didn’t preserve his body to be buried here beside his father?” Her voice was high now, and angry. “She had the gall to bring him home in a cheap urn. I wanted to see my boy, touch him one last time, but he was nothing but ashes.”
Sherlock said, “I understand his wife had to make an effort to notify you at all, Mrs. Backman. Actually, she didn’t even know you existed; she didn’t know anything about you. Her husband never spoke of you or his brothers, you see. He was the one who cut all ties to you, not his wife. I understand you called him the Lost One?”
“He was lost, but he would have come home to me. Now it doesn’t matter. His death was all her fault. She seduced my boy and kept him away from his family. She wouldn’t even tell me how or where he died. But how do you know about Martin? Has that woman been telling you tales?”
Savich said, “But your granddaughter, Mrs. Backman, you found Autumn to your liking?”
“I told you, that woman took her away too quickly for me to judge.”
“We know about Autumn’s gift, and you do too, don’t you, Mrs. Backman? Didn’t she tell you she spoke often to her father when they were apart? Isn’t that why you sent Blessed and Grace to Titusville, to fetch Autumn back to you?”
“That, young man, is quite absurd.”
Savich said, “Did you tell Blessed and Grace to murder Joanna while they were at it?”
Her eyes revealed arrogance nearly off the scale. The old woman believed herself invulnerable, believed no one could touch her. She was dangerous, Savich thought, despite her age, a woman who could kill without a moment’s hesitation and feel not a moment’s remorse. Like Blessed. What about Grace?
If Autumn was right about the bodies Mrs. Backman and her boys had buried, then this little old lady had already killed many times. He said again, “Did you tell Blessed to kill Joanna when he got ahold of Autumn?”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about, Agent Savich. For you to accuse Blessed of all this, it only shows what a small, common mind you have. You will leave now. I have cooperated with you; I have told you Blessed and Grace aren’t here. I don’t know when they’ll be back.”
“Then let me tell you about Blessed,” Sherlock said, sitting forward on the settee a bit. “He is currently in a hospital, a blindfold over his eyes. His wrists are strapped to the bed railing so he can’t remove the blindfold and stymie anyone.”
She didn’t look at all surprised. “Why is my boy in the hospital?”
Savich said, “I shot him. He had surgery last night. But Grace called you, didn’t he? He told you how Blessed broke into Sheriff Merriweather’s house to kidnap Autumn. Maybe Grace is afraid of what you’ll do to him because Blessed was caught? Maybe Grace is afraid you’ll blame him? Did you give him further instructions, Mrs. Backm
an? Would you like to tell us what you told him to do?”
“You’re telling me you shot Blessed? You are despicable! You tried to kill my boy!” Her voice rose an octave, and rage pumped red into her parchment cheeks. Her eyes darkened to almost black.
“You will be punished for that,” she said. “I will see to it that you are punished.”
Sherlock said pleasantly, “If that happens, I will kill you myself so you won’t know the pleasure of it. Now let’s get to it.” She pulled a warrant out of her jacket pocket. “This is a warrant, Mrs. Backman, to search your family cemetery for the bodies Autumn saw you and your sons burying.”
The old woman wanted to blight them, they saw it in her eyes, and they saw it in her white-knuckled fists. She said finally, “That is nonsense, and you know it. You actually believe a little girl’s nightmare because her mother wants you to? What, are you sleeping with her, Agent Savich?”
“Take the warrant, Mrs. Backman,” Savich said. Still, she didn’t reach for the warrant in Savich’s outstretched hand, merely looked at them both without emotion. “I will call Sheriff Cole if you do not leave immediately and take that ridiculous warrant with you.”
“But the sheriff already called you, didn’t he, ma’am? About fifteen minutes ago? Telling you we were looking for you?”
“I’m going to call Sheriff Cole,” she repeated. “He’ll deal with you two.”
Savich looked down at his watch, then up again when he heard a car outside.
“If that isn’t the sheriff, then it’s our forensic team here to go over your family cemetery.” He stood and put the warrant in her lap. “Feel free to read it. Feel free to call Sheriff Cole again, tell him he’s too slow.”
“I’m calling my lawyer too.”
“You might as well call Caldicot Whistler.”
It was a hit, they could see it. She sucked in a breath, but she held herself together and remained quiet.
Sherlock smiled at Mrs. Backman. “I believe it’s our forensic team.”
The FBI Thrillers Collection: Vol 11-15 Page 86
