Isabelle's face grew very still. Slowly, she turned and called out, 'It's your daughter, Mrs. Sherlock.'
'No, Belinda's dead. Don't do that to me, Isabelle. You're cruel.'
'It's Miss Lacey, not Belinda.'
'Lacey? Oh. She said she was coming back but I didn't believe her.'
Isabelle said quickly, 'Don't look like that, Lacey. It's just a bad day for her, that's all. Besides, you haven't been around in a long time.'
'Neither has Belinda.'
Isabelle just waved away her words. 'Come into the living room, honey.' She turned to the stairs that wound up to the second-floor landing. 'Mrs. Sherlock, ma'am, will you be coming down?'
'Naturally. I'll be there in just a moment. I must brush my teeth first.'
The house looked like a museum, Savich thought, staring around the living room. Everything was pristine, thanks probably to Isabelle, but stiff and formal and colder than a Minnesota night. 'No one ever sits in here,' Lacey said to him. 'Goodness, it's uninviting, isn't it? And stultifying. I'd forgotten how bad it was. Why don't we go into my father's study instead. That's where I always used to hang out.'
Judge Sherlock's study was a masculine stronghold that was also warm, lived-in, and cluttered, stacks of magazines and books, both paperback and hardcover, on every surface. The furniture was severe-heavy dark-brown leather-but the look was mitigated by warm-toned afghans thrown everywhere. There were lots of ferns in front of the wide bay window that looked out onto the Bay in the distance. There was a telescope aimed toward Tiburon. This wasn't at all what he'd expected. What he had expected, he wasn't certain, but it wasn't this warm, very human room that had obviously been nurtured and loved and lived in. Savich took a deep breath. 'What a wonderful room.'
'Yes, it is.' She pulled away and walked to the bay windows. 'This is the most beautiful view from any place in San Francisco.' She broke off to smile at Isabelle who was carrying a well-shined silver tray. 'Oh, Isabelle, those scones smell delicious. It's been too long.'
Savich had a mouthful of scone with a dab of clotted cream on top when the door opened and one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen in his life walked in with all the grace of a born princess. She was, pure and simply, a stunner, as his father used to say about a knockout woman. She also didn't look a thing like Sherlock. Where Sherlock had lovely auburn hair, her mother had blond hair as soft and smooth and rich as pale silk. Sherlock's eyes were a warm green; her mother's, a brilliant blue. Sherlock was tall, at least five foot eight, but her mother was fragile, fine-boned, not more than five foot three inches tall. Sherlock was wearing a dark blue wool suit with a cream turtleneck sweater, all business. Her mother was wearing a soft peach silk dress, her glorious hair pulled back and held with a gold clip at the nape of her neck. There was nothing overtly expensive about her jewelry or clothing, but she looked well-bred, rich, and used to it. There were very few lines on her face. She had to be in her late fifties, but Savich would have said forty-five if he hadn't known that she'd had a daughter who'd be in her late thirties now, if she'd not been murdered.
'So you're Dillon Savich,' Mrs. Sherlock said, not moving into the room. 'You're the man who spoke to her father on
the phone after I said to Lacey that he'd tried to ran me down with his BMW.'
'Yes, ma'am.' He walked to her and extended his hand. 'I'm Dillon Savich. Like your daughter, I'm with the FBI.' Finally, after so long that Lacey thought she'd die from not breathing, her mother took Dillon's hand.
'You're too good-looking,' Mrs. Sherlock said, peering up at him for the longest time. 'I've never trusted good-looking men. Her father is good-looking and look what's come of that. Also I imagine that you are built splendidly. Are you sleeping with my daughter?'
Savich said in that smooth, plummy interview voice of his, 'Mrs. Sherlock, won't you have a cup of tea? It's rich, Indian, I believe. As for the scones, I'm certain you'll enjoy those. They're delicious. Isabelle is a wonderful cook. You're very fortunate to have her.' 'Hello, Mother.'
'I wish you hadn't come, Lacey, but your father will be pleased.' Her voice was plaintive, slightly reproachful, but her beautiful face was expressionless. Did she never show anger, joy? Anything to change the look of her? 'I thought you wanted me to come home.' 'I changed my mind. Things aren't right here, just not right. But now that you're here, I suppose you'll insist on remaining.'
'Just for a few days, Mother. Would you mind if Dillon stayed here as well?'
'He's too handsome,' Mrs. Sherlock said, 'but again I suppose I have no choice. There are at least four empty bedrooms upstairs. He can have one of them. I hope you're not sleeping with him, Lacey. There are so many diseases, and men carry all of them, did you know that? It's been proven now at least, but I always knew it. That's why I stopped sleeping with your father. I didn't want him to give me any of those horrible diseases.' 'A cup of tea, ma'am?'
Mrs. Sherlock took the fine china saucer from Savich and sat down on the very edge of one of her husband's rich brown leather chairs. She looked around her. 'I hate this room,' she said, then sipped at her tea. 'I always have. It's the living room I love. I decorated the living room, did Lacey tell you, Mr. Savich?'
Savich felt as though he'd fallen down the rabbit hole, but Sherlock just looked tired. She looked used to this. It came to him then that Mrs. Sherlock was acting a great deal like his great-aunt Mimi-in short, outrageous. She always made it known that she was fragile, whatever that meant, so she could get away with saying whatever she wanted, so that she could be the center of attention. Savich didn't doubt that Mrs. Sherlock did suffer from some mental illness, but how much was real and how much was of her own creation?
'I forgot to tell him, Mother,' she said. 'But as rooms go, this one really isn't that bad. There are so many books.'
'I dislike clutter. It's the sign of a chaotic mind. Your father is going to sell that BMW of his. I believe he's going to buy a Mercedes. What model, I don't know. If it's a big car, I'll have to be really careful not to be outside when he's driving. But, you know, if you're standing in the driveway, those tall bushes make it impossible to see if someone is coming. That's how he nearly got me last time.'
'Mother, when did Dad try to run you down? Was it recently?'
'Oh no, it was some time last spring.' She paused, sipped some more tea, and frowned down at the beautiful Tabriz carpet beneath her feet. It was a frown, but it wasn't obvious. There were no frown lines on that perfect forehead. She waved a smooth white hand. 'Maybe it was just this past summer. It's hard to remember. But once I remember things, they stay with me.'
'Yes, Mother, I know.'
Savich said, 'Perhaps your husband will buy a little Mercedes, ma'am.'
'Yes, or perhaps a Porsche,' Mrs. Sherlock said, looking thoughtfully at Savich.
'I own one. They are very nice. I've never tried to run anybody down in my 911. It could hurt the car. I'd get caught. No, a Porsche is a good choice.'
'Actually, I've been thinking about a Porsche.'
Savich was on his feet in an instant, facing a very handsome middle-aged man who was standing in the doorway. He had a fine head of silver hair, Sherlock's soft green eyes, beautiful wide luminous eyes, and was taller than he was and as lean as a runner. He was looking at his wife, and the look reflected both irritation and amusement, in about equal amounts. 'I'm Judge Sherlock. Hello, Lacey.' She was on her feet as well, walking slowly to her father. She held out her hands to him. 'Hello, Dad. We just got here. Do you mind if we stay with you for a while?'
'Not at all. We've plenty of room. It will be nice to have different voices to listen to. My dear,' he continued to his wife as he walked to the beautiful woman who was just sitting there staring at him, her eyes large and intent. 'How was your day?'
'I want to know if she's sleeping with him, Corman, but she wouldn't tell me. He's too good-looking and you know how I feel about that. Why, just look at what Douglas did, just because he's a man and doesn't have any sense. He married that tramp and Belinda just barely in her grave.'
'Belinda's been dead for seven years, Evelyn. It was time for Douglas to marry again.' He shot Savich a quick look from the corner of his eye with that question, a look that said, Look, isn't she a fool? Savich drew back.
'That's a good point,' Evelyn Sherlock said, her beautiful expressionless face turned away from her husband. 'But they shouldn't be married. Can't you get Douglas to divorce her, Corman?''
'No, I don't do that sort of thing, you know that. Or don't you remember?'
'When I remember something I never forget it. That's what I was telling Lacey and Mr. Savich before you
