Marilyn twisted in his arms. “Oh hi, Agent Sherlock. Why aren’t you Agent Savich, too?”
Sherlock grinned at the woman whose legs were still wrapped around her husband’s waist. “Well, you see, Marilyn, there’s already one Agent Savich. Trust me, the FBI doesn’t need two. Besides, my maiden name makes bad guys think twice if they want to tangle with me.”
“Sherlock,” Marilyn said, rolling the name in her mouth. “Yeah, I like that.” She hopped down and stepped back, smiled up at Savich. “It’s been quite a while, Mr. Savich.”
“And lots of good changes, too,” Savich added.
Marilyn nodded. “I took a nine-month course at the Center for Architectural Woodworking in Baltimore two years ago, learned all about drafting shop drawings, jigs and templates, joinery, machining, stuff like that. Then I found out about this old gentleman who has a shop right here in Summerset. He’s totally awesome, an old-style craftsman, really famous in the area for his furniture making. So I managed to talk him into taking me on. Buzz Murphy’s his name. He’s a nice old guy. He’s teaching me everything he knows. And now we’re almost partners. He’s going to sell me his shop when he retires.” She paused. “Well, now the old coot wants to marry me—like that’s going to happen.
“I’m not poor anymore, Mr. Savich—well, not as poor as I used to be. And I’m not a fat old frump, either. I work out and only eat french fries twice a week.” And she lifted up her oversized sweatshirt to show them her midriff as she twirled around.
Sherlock laughed. “You look great, Marilyn, maybe too great, so I want you to stay away from my husband.” She waved her hand around her. “This is quite a project—look at how much you’ve accomplished.”
Marilyn beamed at them. “Doesn’t it look great? It’s taken months and months. When I need something done and it’s too much work for me, I find someone who’s good at it. Barter’s the greatest thing going if you have a skill to trade. You can build your own business that way.”
She waved toward a grouping of four mahogany chairs. “See those chairs I made with Buzz? I really like the Chippendale design.” Marilyn was so excited she was nearly dancing.
“That’s a late eighteenth-century British design. Look at the elaborate splats—boy, does that ever take concentration and a gentle touch—and the ball-and-claw feet, you bust your butt to get those beauties.”
“They’re incredible,” Sherlock said. “So very finely made.”
“Buzz helped me with the splats, but I did the last two all by myself. Bet you can’t tell which are mine, without his help.”
Savich studied each of them, ran his hand over the intricate splats of one chair, then smiled at her. “No, I can’t tell. You’re really good, Marilyn.”
“Thank you. I’ve already got the old tack room done. It’s going to be my office. My living area is going up in the old hay loft. I’ll have it done in a couple of months, then I’m moving out here.
“I decided I don’t want Buzz’s shop or his house, just all his tools and equipment and clients, but I haven’t broken that to him yet since he’s been attached to that shop for thirty years. But my shop will be here. There’s plenty of work space, all I need. And the light, would you look at all the wonderful light!”
Savich was coming to terms with how much she’d changed. Not only her appearance, but the air of hopeless-ness that had clung to her, the fear—it was all gone. She was no longer that terrorized girl the Tuttles had abused. In her place appeared this solid young woman.
Savich took her hand, knowing he was going to scare her again, and hating it. “I don’t want to needlessly frighten you, Marilyn, but we need your help. It has to do with Tammy.”
Her hand jerked in his, but he held it tight. For an instant, she looked panicked.
“No, it’s okay. Both Tammy and Tommy are long dead, you know that. It’s about someone close to them. We’re looking for an old man who knew Tammy, maybe her grandfather.”
“But why? They’re all dead, aren’t they? You swear Tammy’s dead, don’t you, Mr. Savich?”
“Of course she’s dead,” he assured her. “But there’s a vicious old man out there who’s as insane and violent as Tammy was. He wants to avenge her by killing me. And he wants to hurt Sherlock. Help us, Marilyn. Tell us who he is.”
“Moses Grace?” she whispered, her face now pale, the old fear back in her eyes. “That old man everyone’s talking about? And that teenage girl he’s got with him? Claudia?”
Savich nodded.
“Oh God, do you think he knows about this property?”
He said matter-of-factly, “No, I have no reason to believe he does. The location of this barn wasn’t in any newspaper accounts. And believe me, Marilyn, if he’d somehow found out about this place, he’d have been here months ago. He doesn’t know. Believe me.”
“Okay, that’s a good thing. But you think Moses Grace is Tammy’s grandfather?”
“Yes, he may very well be. He’s too old to be her father.”
“I don’t want him to kill you, Mr. Savich.” She nodded at Sherlock’s sling. “Did he do that?”
“Yes, he did,” Savich said.
“You’re right about it not being Tammy’s daddy. He left when she and Tommy were real young.”
“Okay. You told me your mother and Tammy’s mother were sisters or half-sisters. Tell us what you remember about any other relatives, Marilyn—names, where they lived, whatever.”
“It’s hard to talk about them, Mr. Savich, but I’ll try.” She waved them toward the mahogany chairs again. “Sit down, sit down. Okay. Good.” Then she stopped talking. She stretched her legs out in front of her and stuffed her hands in her jeans pockets.
She said finally, slowly, as if the words were being pulled out of her against her will, “Dalton, Kansas, that’s where I grew up with my mom. Tammy and Tommy lived with their mom in Lucas City, a little farming town maybe fifteen miles away. There weren’t ever any daddies around that I can remember. But both moms had been married, I’m sure of that. Tammy’s mom was Aunt Cordie. Cordelia Tuttle—Tuttle was her husband’s name, but like I said, he was long gone. My daddy’s name was Warluski, so my mom was Marva Warluski. My old man took off before I was even born.
“My mom used to say that Cordie had the brain of a mushroom and was meaner than a copperhead snake, just look at Tommy and Tammy, carbon copies of her. Whenever Tommy and Tammy beat me up, my mom said it was okay as long as I still had my neck because I had to toughen up.
“I used to hide when they came to visit.” She paused for a moment, her face twisted. “They always found me, and they walloped me anyway. My mom called me a wuss.”
“Do you remember other aunts or uncles?”
Marilyn shook her head. “My mom never spoke of any. Aunt Cordie didn’t, either.”
“And both your mom and Tammy’s mom died, is that right, Marilyn?”
Marilyn’s eyes popped open. “Yes, Mr. Savich, they died when we were all teenagers. That’s when Tommy and Tammy took me away, told me I had to do exactly what they said or they’d put me in a hole filled with snakes.”
“How did they die?”
“Tommy said they broke into this old lady’s house to take her social security money, but she wouldn’t tell them where she kept it. A neighbor heard the old lady screaming and called the police. They ran out of there, the cops chasing them, and one of the cops shot out a rear tire. Mom couldn’t hold the car on the road, and they hit a tree. Killed them both.”
Sherlock felt a wave of revulsion and swallowed. Marilyn spoke so matter-of-factly about it. She saw Dillon’s expression hadn’t changed, but his dark eyes were darker and hard. He said, “Think now what your mom’s maiden name was.”
“My mom’s name was Marva Gilliam.”
“Was that Cordie’s name, too?”
“Aunt Cordie—yes, she was Gilliam, too, because they were sisters, not half sisters.”
“Good. Very good. So she was Cordelia Gilliam. Did your grandfather and grandmother ever come around?”
She closed her eyes again. “I don’t ever remember a grandmother. But Granddaddy—yeah, I remember him. He never stayed with us, only with Aunt Cordie. I was maybe six years old when he came. Something must have happened because he suddenly left. Maybe he did something bad and had to run. He was mean, Mr. Savich, as mean as Aunt Cordie and Tommy and Tammy. He’d hit Tammy upside the head, then he’d cuddle her and stroke her hair. It scared me to death. It wasn’t right, I see that now. What he’d do when he cuddled Tammy wasn’t right.”
“Did you ever see him again?”
“After my mom was killed he came real late one night, to Tommy and Tammy’s house. We were packing because the social workers were coming and we had to get out fast. He stuffed a whole bunch of money in Tammy’s hands, and then he kissed her, with his mouth open, patted her face, and left. I remember Tammy ran out after him. She didn’t come back for maybe an hour.” Marilyn looked at Savich. “I haven’t thought about that in years. I really didn’t realize . . . but Tammy was maybe fifteen then. Did he have sex with her, Mr. Savich?”
“Don’t dwell on it, Marilyn. Did you ever hear his first name?”
“Both my mom and Aunt Cordie called him Papa. I heard him tell Tammy to call him Malcolm. So I guess he had to be Malcolm Gilliam. Do you know what? I just saw him in my mind. He was handsome, real good-looking, but old, you know?
“Once, about six months later, I remember Tommy and Tammy talking about him. Tammy waved this postcard in front of my nose, said it was from her granddaddy. I said he was my granddaddy, too, but she laughed, said I didn’t know Granddaddy like she did. She said he sent the postcard all the way from Montreal.”
“How did he know where they were, do you remember?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Savich. They didn’t talk about that.”
“Were there other postcards or letters?”
“Yeah, some, along with wads of cash, for three or four years, then they stopped.”
Savich leaned over and patted her hand. “You have helped us immensely. Thank you.”
Because Marilyn was so proud of her new home, Savich and Sherlock drank some sodas with her and ate a couple of her favorite Fig Newtons. She showed them the table she was making to match the beautiful chairs. The last thing Marilyn said to Savich when she walked them to Sherlock’s Volvo was, “I’m sure sorry about your Porsche, Mr. Savich. I saw it blow up on TV. Now you’ve got to ride in this stuffy thing.”
Savich patted her cheek, kissed her lightly. “As soon as I can I’m going to go out and get myself something you’ll really like.”
“Then make it one of those new Corvettes, red of course. Unless you have enough money for a Ferrari.”
They waved until both she and her barn were out of sight. When they drove onto the country road again, Savich said, “Malcolm Gilliam. I’ll bet you anything his parents were named either Moses or Grace or a combination of the two.”
CHAPTER 34
RICHMOND, VIRGINIA
SATURDAY AFTERNOON
THE SATURDAY AFTERNOON traffic was sluggish as they approached Richmond, people hanging out of their cars, enjoying the break in the weather.
Dix exited the downtown expressway and worked his way over to West Grace Street to the Richmond Police Department headquarters.
“There’s some irony in the street name,” Ruth remarked.
For a Saturday afternoon there was lots of activity, more than Dix had seen since his days in New York. They passed a woman sobbing into her hands, a man ranting about his mechanic cheating him, and a cop filling out papers next to a teenager who looked scared to death. Dix was thinking he should have left Rob and Rafe in the car with Brewster, but then Detective Morales came forward, his hand outstretched. After the introductions, the detective led them to the second floor. He eyed the boys and spoke quietly into his cell phone.
Rafe whispered to his brother, “Hey, would you look at that scar? How cool is that? Bet he was in a gunfight.”
Detective Morales said over his shoulder, “Yep, a bunch of Colombian drug dealers were holed up in the warehouse district, and we stormed the place. This is my souvenir.” He ran a finger lightly over the pale scar. “My wife thinks it’s pretty cool, too.
“Ah, Linus, these two hotshots are Rob and Rafe Noble. While I’m dealing with their dad, Sheriff Noble, and Special Agent Warnecki, I’m hoping you could break away from chasing down bank robbers to give them a tour of our fine facilities.”
Officer Linus Craig couldn’t have been over twenty-two, Ruth thought as she shook his beefy hand. He had to be six-five, maybe two hundred and fifty pounds on a light day. She’d wager he’d played football in college, probably offensive line. His broken nose hadn’t healed quite straight, and he had the sweetest smile. He grinned at Rob and Rafe, shook their hands, then leaned close to the boys. “You guys want to see the lineup room? It’s down the hall in the detective division. Hey, I’ll hang some numbers on you, let you live the experience. We can see how tall you are, too.”
The boys didn’t give them a backward glance. Detective Morales, dark-haired and dark-eyed, already sporting a five o’clock shadow, laughed as he led them to a small conference room down the hall. “I’ve got three teenagers of my own. They wanted me to put them in a cell overnight. I settled on the lineup thing. They didn’t stop talking about it all day.” He opened the door to the conference room and gestured them in.
“A nice setup you’ve got here,” Dix told him as he accepted a cup of coffee.
“The place is brand-new, up and running in 2002. None of that smell city police stations have, that combination of dampness, cheap room deodorizer, and eau de criminal. Not yet. It’s the best part of having new digs. So you’re an FBI agent,” he said without pause to Ruth. “How’d you and Sheriff Noble hook up? You guys married? Those your boys?”
“No, we’re not married,” Dix said easily. “We just met a week ago when this all started, Detective Morales.”
“Call me Cesar.”
Dix nodded, sat forward, and clasped her hands in front of him. “I’m Dix, and this is Ruth. Ruth is the agent Dempsey and Slater fired on last Saturday night. We met with Ruth’s boss in Washington this morning, and I’m real glad to find you here at work today, to meet you personally.”