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 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, 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?”