“Maybe she was just speaking dramatically.”
Savich thought about the teenage boy, his body mutilated. “Maybe. I don’t think so.”
“What sorts of things has MAX dug up?”
He paused for a moment, then gave a slight shake of his head as he said, “You’d be surprised what’s turned up over the years.”
“Yeah, I bet I would, only you’re not going to tell me anything, are you?”
There was a knock on the door.
Sherlock’s voice. “Quick, Dillon. Open up!”
She was carrying three covered trays, stacked on top of one another. “From Mrs. Blade, downstairs,” she said and handed them to Savich. “Besides doing crossword puzzles, she likes to cook. She insisted that if we couldn’t come down to the dining room, she was sending this up.”
Two huge plates of spaghetti with meatballs, one huge plate without the meatballs for Savich, lots of Parmesan cheese in a big bowl on the side, eight slices of garlic bread, and three large bowls of Caesar salad.
No one said a word for at least seven minutes, just groaned with pleasure and chewed. Finally, Lily sat back, patted her stomach, and sighed. “That garlic bread makes your back teeth sing the Italian anthem. Goodness, that was nearly as good as our Mexican lunch.”
Sherlock wanted to laugh, but her mouth was full of spaghetti. Savich said, “Nah, Lily, give me a salty tortilla and salsa hot enough to burn the rubber off my soles any day. I wonder which one of your in-laws is going to pay us a visit this evening?”
Lily turned a bit pale. “But why would any of them want to see me again?”
Sherlock took the tray off her lap and said matter-of-factly, “Because their pigeon is bent on flying out of the nest. You survived the attack on the city bus this morning. No more attacks since Dillon and I have been with you. Nope, now they’ve got to visit you and try to convince you that Tennyson can’t live without you.”
“A final shot,” Lily said.
“Yes, that’s right,” Sherlock said.
Savich just smiled. “Only thing is, they also know that their little pigeon has two big crows guarding her. We’ll see exactly what tack they take. Ah, look at that dessert Sherlock was hiding from us. Chocolate mousse, one of my favorites.”
Tennyson and his mother showed up an hour later, at precisely eight o’clock.
Charlotte Frasier had come to the hospital only once, stood by Lily’s bed, and told her at least three times that she desperately needed to see dear Dr. Rossetti, a fine doctor, an excellent man who would help her. She was so worried about her dear Lily, everyone was. No one wanted her to try to kill herself again. To which Lily had simply stared at her, not a single word coming to mind after that outrageous speech. This evening, she was beautifully dressed in a dark wine-colored wool suit, a pale pink silk blouse beneath. Her thick black hair, not a hint of white, was cut short and tousled in loose curls and waves around her face. It was a very young style, but it didn’t look ridiculous at all. Her teeth were white and straight, her lipstick blood red. Charlotte looked good; she always had.
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-”