"Senator Hoffman was with her, talking to her, trying to find out what was wrong, shaking her, but it didn't do any good. She was gone. It was horrible."
Mr. Graves put his head on his folded arms on the table. His shoulders were shaking. Lucy reached over and patted him.
Suddenly Mr. Graves raised his face, now white and drawn, his eye twitching again. "What if Senator Hoffman had ordered the shrimp? What if I'd given him the plate? He would have died." He stopped cold, as if appalled at what he'd said. "It didn't matter, did it? No matter where I put the plate, one of them would have died."
"I know, sir. Mr. Graves, do you have any idea how the poison got into the shrimp batter? Are there any new employees?"
"Yes, I already told Agent Hamish. There are a couple of young kids working in the kitchen, busing, washing dishes, that sort of thing. It's a low-paying job, but enough to give high school kids walking-around money. All the waitstaff, we've been there for years. It's a good job, and we have our own clientele, really, who come in and ask for us specifically."
"I want you to think back, Mr. Graves. Picture the kitchen in your mind after you placed Senator Hoffman's lunch order. That's right, think about it. Just relax. Now, tell me what you see."
Mr. Graves said slowly, "I see Gomez, he's one of the sous chefs, a real mean little pisser, chewing out one of the new kids because he dropped a pan of sautéed mushrooms on the floor. There's lots of commotion because the mushrooms were going on the filet mignon Senator Reinwald had ordered. The chef's screaming for quiet, the dishes are getting scrambled around, everyone's on edge." He paused a moment, then shook his head, opened his eyes. "I'm sorry, Agent Savich, but I really can't recall anything else. Just the chaos. Do you think those mushrooms were spilled on purpose? The kid said someone bumped him, he didn't see who, so it wasn't his fault. You think that person could have slipped into the kitchen and put the arsenic in the shrimp batter?" He closed his eyes again.
"Who normally prepares the shrimp batter?"
"One of the sous chefs, always. The chef himself sometimes. Today? I honestly don't remember."
"Thank you, Mr. Graves," Savich said, and put his hand on his shoulder. "I know this is very hard for you. You've been a great help."
26
STONE BRIDGE, CONNECTICUT
Wednesday afternoon
At two o'clock, Sherlock and Erin pulled into the Royals' impressive tree-lined circular driveway on Maple Lawn Drive. Sherlock knew Caskie Royal was at the office, probably being worked over by the Schiffer Hartwin lawyers trying to ensure he stayed with the program and kept his mouth shut.
The house was a huge white Colonial, at least eight thousand square feet with a four-car garage, its newly painted white doors glistening in the September sun. The grounds were beautifully groomed with thick full bushes and well-spaced maples and oaks.
There was a new black Audi coupe in the driveway, a motorcycle beside it, and a bicycle propped against the garage.
Sherlock knew Erin was psyched, nearly jumping out of her skin, but trying hard not to show it. She'd called Erin a short time after Dillon had left for Washington and asked if she'd like to come with her to interview Mrs. Royal, saying it might help to have another woman with her, even if it was official FBI business. The truth was that in her gut Sherlock knew there was something going on with Erin, something she didn't understand yet, something Erin knew and she didn't. Her interest in this whole case seemed excessive. Sherlock wanted to find out more about Erin Pulaski, P.I. And what better way than to invite her along to interview Mrs. Royal? She hadn't told Bowie.
Erin said, "You're sure Mr. Royal isn't here?"
Sherlock pulled the key out of the Pontiac's ignition. "Nope, Caskie's at the office, either being pounded by the Schiffer Hartwin lawyers or huddled with Ms. Carla Alvarez, or all of the above. Nice spread, isn't it?"
Erin, who'd driven by the Royal house several times on Sunday evening, merely nodded. "It would appear there's lots of money in drugs."
Sherlock grinned. "Sure enough."
A young Hispanic woman with beautiful glossy hair answered the door. She was wearing an actual uniform. Sherlock gave her a big smile and showed her FBI creds. She watched her study them carefully before she said, voice wary, that Mrs. Royal was playing tennis. Well, Sherlock thought, of course there were tennis courts. The maid handed back her ID, and led them through an immense entry hall, through an equally impressive family room, through glass doors into a large covered patio. Jasmine wove in and out of white beams overhead, scenting the air, and baskets of flowers spilled out of Italian pots lining the patio, their scent mixing with the scent of the jasmine. Sherlock said to Erin, "This is beautiful. Sean would really like that swimming pool."
"Georgie would, too." Erin shaded her eyes with her hand and looked toward the tennis court some twenty yards beyond them, then on to the woods behind the six-foot gray stone fence that separated the woods from the property. At one time the fence had enclosed the entire property, but now gray stones lay scattered in small piles along a section of it, probably left there on purpose to add atmosphere. "So would I, actually," and Erin grinned.
"I would, too," the maid said, smiled, and left them. They skirted the pool area and walked down a flagstone path to the tennis court. A double, of course, not a single. One for family, one for friends.
"I wonder why the original owners built that fence all around the property," Sherlock said. "It would make this place feel like a prison. Just look at the height of that back wall."