Authors: Catherine Coulter
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, stymie-ing 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 ac-cent 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 obvi-ously 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 per-son 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 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. Backman? 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 non-sense, 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.”
43
THE SEARCH WAS A BUST.
An hour later, forensic expert and team leader Dirk Platt walked to where Savich and Sherlock stood watching the operation at Martin Backman’s grave site.
He was shaking his head even as he said, “Sorry, guys, but there are no bodies here.”
“She moved them,” Sherlock said. “Blessed notified her and she moved them. Or she suspected either Autumn or Joanna saw what they did and that’s why they ran.” Sherlock looked out over the cemetery. The forty graves positioned in odd triangles. The last graves were not two feet from a thick stand of oak trees that reached up the sides of the bowl to spear green and fat into the sky. The trees surrounding the cemetery laced their branches together, creating moving shadows in the breeze.
Dirk asked them, “Do you want us to dig up any of the other graves?”
“No,” Savich said. “Not yet.”
Dirk nodded and waved to the huge hole in the ground. “She moved something out of here. All we’ve got is a big hole recently filled in with dirt.”
“Any blood? Any clothes?”
“No, nothing, but don’t give up yet. If there were bodies thrown in that hole, we might still find something. Damnedest thing. To look around, this seems a peaceful-hidden-valley sort of place, an old-fashioned little American town where you expect to find some rustic charm, not missing bodies.
“Lori is taking soil samples, looking for traces of blood and human remains, which I don’t think she’ll find. She’ll also be checking to see if the soil comes from here or somewhere else. If the soil is clean, you can bet it was brought in.”
“When they moved the bodies,” Sherlock said, “I doubt they took them far. Who’d want to take the chance, too great a risk of discovery. On the other hand, this valley is pretty large.”
“Not much risk if the grave robbers are the sheriff and his deputies,” Savich said. “They could have wrapped the bodies in a tarp and hauled them anywhere in the valley in the flat bed of the sheriff’s truck.”
“There’s no sign of any recent digging anywhere else in the cemetery, so we’re going to start checking the flower beds and anywhere else there’s disturbed ground with GPR, ground penetration radar. I’ve called for a couple of cadaver dogs to complement the GPR, but if we don’t find the bodies pretty close by, the cost builds up real last.”
Savich said, “I know. Do what you can, Dirk.” He turned to Sherlock. “Well, things don’t always go like you want them to.”
44
ROCKINGHAM COUNTY HOSPITAL
NEAR TITUSVILLE, VIRGINIA
Late Wednesday afternoon
The nurse, skinny as a windowpane, with salt-and-pepper hair and a no-nonsense stride, was pushing against Blessed’s hospital room door before Ox could roar to his feet and shout at her, “Hold on there I haven’t seen you before.” He grabbed her skinny arm.
“Who are you? What do you want?”
She stared up at him with a face scrubbed clean of makeup. He swore for an instant that he saw a five-o’clock shadow on her jaw-no, couldn’t be. He shook his head as she said patiently, “I’m Nurse Eleanor Lapley. I work here. I just came on duty. Who are you?”
“I’m with the sheriff’s department, here to guard the maniac strapped down to the bed inside. Do you know about him?”
“Of course. First thing when I came in, they showed me that film about him. Kind of hard to believe. Seems to me it might have been faked, don’t you think?”
“Nothing was faked.”
“If not, then he’s quite something, isn’t he?” There was admiration in her deep voice.
Not good.