Sherlock leaned down to kiss the back of his neck, then just grinned at him as she did some stretching. “It really is time for the gym. Do you think there’s one here in Hemlock Bay?”
“We’ll find one. Tomorrow morning, if Lily’s still feeling fine, we’ll go get the kinks out and lower our stress levels.”
She stretched a bit more, rubbing the back of her neck. “You think Tennyson was giving her pills to make her depressed, don’t you? You think he changed the pills back, just to be on the safe side since her big brother Fed was here.”
“Sounds good to me. After Dr. Chu couldn’t get anything conclusive about Lily’s so-called attempt to commit suicide right after Beth’s funeral, I’m thinking that maybe she never tried to kill herself at all.”
“It was strange how Lily sort of remembered, but she didn’t really. If she didn’t do it, then it had to be Tennyson, and that was the bastard’s first try. They’d been married all of four months, Dillon. That’s incredibly cold-blooded. It makes me really mad. Let’s prove it so we can pound him.”
“We’ll try, Sherlock. Here we go. Good work, MAX.”
Both of them read the small print on the screen, as Savich slowly scrolled. A couple of minutes later, Savich raised his head and looked up into Sherlock’s blue eyes.
“Not really all that much of a surprise, is it? So, our Tennyson was married once before, just like he told Lily. Only thing is, he didn’t bother to mention that his first wife committed suicide only thirteen months after they’d tied the knot.”
Savich hit his palm against his forehead. “I’m an idiot, Sherlock. I shouldn’t have given him the benefit of the doubt, shouldn’t have respected his privacy. Some brother I am after that bastard first husband of hers. After Jack Crane, I should have opened every closet in his house, checked his bank statements for the past twenty years. You know something else? All I had to do was flat-out ask Tennyson just how his first wife died.”
“He probably would have lied.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered. You know I can tell when someone’s lying. Also, I could have done then what I’m doing now. My holding back, my respecting Lily’s decision, could have cost Lily her life. I want you to flay me, Sherlock.”
Sherlock was twining one curly strand of hair round and round her finger, a sure sign she was upset. He immediately took her hand between his two large ones. She said, “I’d just as soon flay myself, Dillon. Do you think Lily would still have married him if she’d known that the first wife killed herself?”
“We can ask her. You can bet she’ll be asking herself the same question, over and over. But the thing is that this is now, and her eyes are wide open. Eleven months ago she believed she loved him, thought she’d found a really wonderful father for Beth. If Tennyson had told her, she’d probably have felt sorry for him-poor man-losing his wife like that. She probably would have married him anyway. If I’d told her, it probably would have pissed her off, she’d have resented me, and she would have married him.”
“Okay, so no flaying. You know, Dillon, sometimes we women do think with our hearts, not like you men, who think with your… well, that’s better left unsaid, isn’t it?”
He grinned up at her. “Yep, probably so.”
“All of it was an illusion. Look, the first wife-her name was Lynda-was rich, Dillon, had a nice, fat trust fund from her grandfather. Oh, my, she was only twenty-five.”
“Ah, just read this, Sherlock.” Savich stroked his fingers over his jaw and added, disgust thick in his voice, “That immoral bastard. It usually comes down to money, doesn’t it? Daddy got himself into a mess and so his son tries to bail him out. Or maybe it was both of them in the mess up to their necks. That sounds more likely.”
“Yes,” Sherlock said. “It’s so mundane, really, just a couple of greedy men trying to get what they want.”
Savich nodded as he read to the end of MAX’s information. He sat back a moment, then said, “It seems very likely to me that Tennyson killed his first wife as well as trying to kill Lily. Was Daddy in on it with him? Very likely. Doesn’t matter. I don’t want to take any more chances. I want Lily out of here. I want you to take her to that very nice bed-and-breakfast we stayed at once in Eureka. What was it?”
“The Mermaid’s Tail, just off Calistoga Street. It’s late fall. Tourist season is over so they’ll have room. What will you do?”
“I’m going to have a nice vegetarian dinner with Tennyson. I love lasagna. I’m going to see if I can get him to admit to anything useful. I really want to nail him. I’ll join you and Lily later.”
He rose and pulled her tightly against him. “Take MAX with you. Keep after him to find out all he can about Daddy Frasier’s efforts to get that public road built to the lovely resort spot on the coast he’s so hot to build. Without the state legislature passing it, the project would be doomed. He’s having trouble. Maybe they ran out of bribery money.”
“Don’t forget the condos he’s planning, too-Golden Sunset.”
“Yes, lots of potential profit from those as well. Elcott Frasier has lots and lots of bucks already invested. I wonder if they ran into more roadblocks. Maybe that’s why they wanted Lily out of the way. They were in deep financial trouble again. Now, let’s get you guys packed up and out of this house.”
But Lily didn’t cooperate. She was awake, she still didn’t hurt very much at all, and she was very clearheaded. She smacked her palm to the side of her head and announced, delight and wonder in her voice, “Would you look at me-I’m not depressed. In fact I can’t imagine being depressed. Nope, everything inside there is rattling around clockwise, just as it should be.”
They were in the hallway outside her bedroom. Lily was dressed in loose jeans and a baggy sweater, hair pulled back in a ponytail, no makeup, hands on hips, reminding Savich of his once sixteen-year-old sister who stood tall and defiant in front of their parents, who were dressing her down but good for her latest bookie scheme. “No, Dillon, I won’t just turn tail and leave. I want to read everything MAX has come up with so far. I want to speak to Tennyson, confront him with all this. It’s my right to find out if my husband of eleven months married me only to kill me off. Oh, dear. There’s a big problem here. Why would he do it? I don’t have any money.”
“Unfortunately, sweetheart,” Savich said, his voice very gentle, “you are very rich. All us kids tend to forget what Grandmother left us.”
“Oh, my Sarah Elliott paintings. You’re right, I forget about them, since they’re always on loan to a museum.”
“Yes, but they’re legally yours, all eight paintings, willed to you. I just e-mailed Simon Russo in New York. You remember him, don’t you? You met him way back when he and I were in college.”
“I remember. That was way back in the dark ages before I started screwing up big time.”
“No, you were screwing up then, too,” Savich said, lightly punching her arm. “Remember that point spread you had on the Army-Navy game? And Dad found out that you’d gotten twenty dollars off Mr. Hodges next door?”
“I hid out in your room, under your bed, until he calmed down.”
They laughed. It sounded especially good to Sherlock, who beamed at both of them. Lily depressed? It was hard, looking at her now, to believe that she’d ever been depressed.
Lily said, “Yes, I remember Simon Russo. He was a real pain in the butt and you said yeah, that was true enough, but it didn’t matter because he was such a good wide receiver.”
“That’s Simon. He’s neck-deep in the art world, you know. He got back to me right away, said eight Sarah Elliotts are worth in the neighborhood of eight to ten million dollars.”