Sherlock tapped her fingertips on the table. “If a killer traveled to those towns to take someone, he could have been observed, maybe even seen with a victim.”
“Yes, of course,” Ruth said. “Dix sent several deputies out of town today to speak with the police in the towns around Maestro. We want them to know all the details about what’s happened in Maestro and what happened to Erin. They need to take a fresh look at all those cases, and talk to the families again.”
“You think it’s Gordon?” Sherlock asked.
Dix said, “It’s a tough call, particularly since he was my wife’s uncle, but Helen’s death especially points to someone local, someone who knows all the players.”
Ruth said, “For all his protestations, all his tears about Erin and Helen, Gordon was the closest to them.”
“At this point, there’s still no smoking gun,” Sherlock said. “You accuse Gordon, he’d get all huffy, even laugh at you, and he’d never speak to you again.”
“We need to develop something else,” Dix said, “some physical evidence, maybe a witness.”
Savich said, “In other words, you’re talking about lots of good old-fashioned police work. We’ve got personnel to help you canvass those towns you mentioned. I can call the Richmond SAC, Billy Gainer, to coordinate it with you.”
“Yes, that would be great.”
When Graciella brought the boys back, all of them on a sugar high from triple-scoop ice cream cones, Ruth decided it was a good time to head out. Sean got it into his head that he would be going with them, which required ten minutes of distracting him before they could leave.
CHAPTER 33
SUMMERSET, MARYLAND SATURDAY AFTERNOON
THE DAY WAS sunny and cold. The weatherman swore there would be no more snow until Tuesday, but no one believed it. Savich and Sherlock arrived in Summerset, Maryland, at three o’clock, and ten minutes later found 38 Baylor Street. Savich pulled Sherlock’s Volvo into the small driveway of a single-level tract house in a subdivision that had been folded into Summerset thirty years before.
“She’s been renting this house for a little over two years, since she turned twenty-three,” Savich said, studying the small lot with its straggly oak trees hanging partially over the house. “The man who owns it is a big-time woodworker and furniture builder. He employs her, too.”
Savich knocked on the freshly painted front door, framed by pretty pansy-filled flower boxes. There was no answer, no sound of footsteps. Savich knocked again. After a moment, he stepped back. “Okay, let’s check the garage. She drives a ’96 Camry. If it’s not there, odds are she’s not home.”
There was a window in the electronic garage door so Savich didn’t need to try to raise it. No Camry. Sherlock scratched her arm through the sling. “She could be anywhere.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, “she could. But you know what? I don’t think Marilyn’s an anywhere kind of person. I’ve got an idea. Let’s go see if I’m right.”
A short time later Savich pulled onto a two-lane pothole-riddled asphalt road. Sherlock looked at the forest of maple trees, their branches naked and waving in the cold wind. “This looks familiar. You know, I’ll be glad to revisit the barn. It ended right there, all of it.”
He remembered the long-ago afternoon like it was yesterday. “We won that day. Those two boys they kidnapped won, too.”
Sherlock said matter-of-factly, “It’s ironic how Moses Grace has some things right and others dead wrong. It’s obvious he did all his research in the newspapers.”
“Yes, and he imagined the rest. Good heavens, would you look at this.”
The huge old barn, abandoned for decades, no longer looked dilapidated and derelict. The once-peeling clapboards were freshly painted a bright red and reflected the afternoon sun that speared through the maple branches. The garbage and machine parts that had once littered the outside of the barn were gone. Instead, there was a gravel path leading to the two large front doors. Sherlock said, “It doesn’t look like the same place. You think Marilyn’s done all this?”
“Who else? Look, one of the doors is propped open. She must be here.” Savich was smiling as he pulled the huge door wide. Sunlight poured in from the west. It was amazing, he thought, staring. It must have taken days to clear out all the moldy hay, the rusted equipment, the wooden troughs. The black circle painted in the middle of the floor that he remembered so clearly was gone. There was no dirt floor, either. It was covered with plywood. The walls had been Sheetrocked and painted, and the windows had glass in them again. The old barn smelled as fresh as the outdoors, with an overlay of new paint, sawdust, and wallpaper glue.
They walked back toward the tack room, noticed the dropped ceiling with new hanging lamps that sent out huge circles of light. The stairs at the far end of the barn leading up to the loft had been replaced and painted. They looked solid.
He heard a woman humming and called out, “Marilyn? Is that you?”
The humming stopped. A voice called out, with just a dollop of healthy fear in it. “Who is it?”
“It’s Agent Dillon Savich and Agent Sherlock, FBI. Do you remember me?”
A young woman dressed in ancient paint-stained jeans, a big Plum River sweatshirt, and paint-splattered sneakers strode forward, a paintbrush in her hand. The overweight, slump-shouldered, defeated young woman with the stringy hair and frightened eyes they both remembered had vanished. This woman was healthy, her eyes bright, hair clean and pulled back in a ponytail. “Mr. Savich? Is it really you? Oh my goodness, it is! And don’t you look fine!” She threw her arms around his neck and jumped up to lock her legs around his waist. She reared back a bit and grinned at him. “Oh, this is just dandy. Remember that overnight letter I sent you from Aruba? I told you how glad I was that Tammy didn’t kill you?” She leaned down and gave him two big smacking kisses. “I never thought I’d see you again.”
Savich gently grasped her wrists and pulled her hands from around his neck. “Marilyn,” he said, laughing, “it’s not that I don’t appreciate your greeting, but this is my wife, Agent Sherlock. You remember her, don’t you? She’s got her arm in a sling right now, but if she didn’t, she’d be over here pulling you off me and hugging you herself for how you helped us.”
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.