since he wanted to seduce Margaret and she told her husband about it. A lot of anger there. Why would he come?”
Sherlock calmly watched Janette Weaverton drop a coffee cup. Both women watched it hit the tile and shatter. That, Sherlock thought, was some payoff to the outrageous statement she’d just made.
“Oh dear, look what I’ve done. I’m so clumsy.” Janette Weaverton quickly fetched a broom and dustpan from the walk-in pantry, and started in on the mess.
Sherlock said as she watched her sweep up the broken cup and dump it into the garbage can beneath the sink, “Surely you know what happened, Mrs. Weaverton. Surely you aren’t at all surprised by this. Margaret told all of you about Justice Wallace and his unwanted antics.”
Janette Weaverton washed her hands, dried them, and said as she turned back to Sherlock, “Margaret said very little about it to us. When Anna brought it up, Margaret laughed it off. I never got the impression it disturbed her very much. She thought he was an old fool. He’s never hit on me.” Janette began to arrange cups on their saucers on the big silver tray.
“Are there teabags?”
“What? Oh certainly.”
She fetched a tea box, an early American piece divided into ten sections, each with a different tea. Sherlock picked out Earl Grey, Savich’s favorite. “My husband rarely drinks coffee.”
“Your husband is a lovely man. He obviously takes very good care of himself. You’re a lucky woman.”
Sherlock nodded in agreement. “Yes. We have a little boy, Sean is his name. Do you have children, Mrs. Weaverton?”
Janette shook her head as she poured cream into a small pitcher and set it on the tray. “No, my husband and I decided children weren’t for us. Then we divorced.” Ah, Sherlock thought, watching the woman, Janette Weaverton had wanted children, but why then hadn’t she remarried?
“I’ve heard Mrs. Califano’s boutiques are quite successful. I plan to buy my husband something for his birthday at the one in Georgetown. That’s where we live.”
A smooth eyebrow went up. “Georgetown?”
“My husband’s grandmother was Sarah Elliott, the painter. She willed her beautiful home to my husband.”
Janette Weaverton’s jaw dropped. “Really? Sarah Elliott was your husband’s grandmother?
Sherlock nodded, watched her put sugar packets and Equal in a small bowl, and set it next to the creamer.
Sherlock asked, “Do you work as well, Mrs. Weaverton?”
“No. I’m fortunate to have been born to very rich parents. I do, however, travel a lot. But things are different now with Stewart dead. Perhaps Margaret will need my help. I don’t know yet.”
“Would you want to join her in her business?”
“Unfortunately I have no business experience. And, the sad fact is, I don’t think I could sell a shoe addict a pair of Ferragamos.”
Sherlock laughed. “Well, who knows? Shall I carry this for you?”
“Thank you. Imagine being an FBI agent, working with your husband. Does it cause problems for you at home?”
Sherlock smiled, lifted the heavy tray, and said over her shoulder, “Not yet.” People, she thought, you never knew what was in their minds, in their hearts, but bottom line, Janette Weaverton was a loyal friend to Margaret Califano, and that counted for a lot.
Conversation was strained in the living room. Margaret had fallen silent, despite everyone’s best efforts, and sat clasping and unclasping her hands. Callie still sat beside her, her own hand on her mother’s forearm, squeezing gently, every once in a while, so she’d know she wasn’t alone.
Ben saw a strong resemblance between the two women, although Callie’s eyes were bluer, her brows and hair darker. Callie had a sharper chin, but there was no doubt that the same intelligence burned brightly in both mother and daughter. It still bugged him that Margaret hadn’t married Stewart Califano until Callie left for college. Being careful about protecting your daughter was one thing, but it seemed to Ben that Margaret had gone overboard.
Savich couldn’t figure out Harry Thorpe. He sat there, silent and hunched over, saying not a word. He wasn’t small or insignificant, he looked fit, he was a very successful businessman, rich in his own right, so why then did he look somehow beleaguered? Savich realized then that Harry had probably thrown in the towel long ago, had handed over the reins to this inflexible woman seated beside him with her intolerant spirit, her seamed lips, her extraordinary disapproval. How could he love her? What need could she possibly fulfill? A stupid question, Savich supposed. She was a Justice of the Supreme Court. She would be in the history books.
Savich said to Justice Alto-Thorpe, “Do you have children?”
The lips didn’t unseam, but she finally nodded. “Yes, two girls. They’re both lawyers, both practicing in Denver, Colorado. Harry is their stepfather. Their real father died eleven years ago in a boating accident.”
Harry Thorpe didn’t say anything.
“It’s a lovely state,” Justice Alto-Thorpe said.
Sherlock said, “I understand that a lot of Californians have moved to Colorado, driven up the home prices.”
Bitsy St. Pierre said, “Everyone has signs that say ‘Go west again.’ ”
Once everyone had coffee and Savich had his tea, Ben Raven said, “We spoke to Bobby Fisher today, and three other law clerks as well at his apartment—Sonya McGivens, Tai Curtis, Dennis Palmer. We told them about Danny O’Malley’s murder.”
The silence was sudden and acute.
“Bobby is a talented clerk,” said Justice Alto-Thorpe. “As for Danny O’Malley, he was all right, too, despite being in a conservative Justice’s chambers. You could change his mind. He had a good brain.”
“Unfortunately, ma’am,” Ben said, saluting her with his coffee cup, a cup so feminine and delicate he was afraid he was going to inadvertently crush the damned thing, “our working assumption is that his final decisions were stupid enough to get him killed.”
Bitsy St. Pierre said, “I met Danny once. He was quite polite, actually insisted on taking the package I was hefting.”
Savich settled into the dynamics of this strange group, knowing there were undercurrents he didn’t understand, maybe secrets.
It was time, he thought. He looked over at Justice Sumner Wallace. “Sir, may I speak to you a moment, in private?”
Justice Wallace didn’t particularly want to speak to Savich, it was clear on his face, but he rose and followed Savich into the front entrance hall. “What is it you wish to talk to me about, Agent Savich?”
“Please tell me about the argument you had with Justice Califano on Friday afternoon.”
Two gray bushy eyebrows shot up. “Argument? I don’t recall having an argument with Stewart on Friday. What is this all about, Agent?”
“You argued with Justice Califano in a public place, sir. Bobby Fisher saw you and told us about it. Since this argument occurred only hours before Justice Califano was murdered, I would really appreciate you telling me about it. It goes to his emotional state, might tell me what he was thinking or worrying about. You see?”
Justice Wallace no longer looked confused. “The
“I understand that, sir, and I’m very sorry. What did you argue about, Justice Wallace?”
“As I said, it was a personal disagreement, nothing more, and it had nothing to do with any of this.”
“Sir, I must tell you that we know about the situation with Margaret Califano. We know that Justice Califano confronted you about it. Was that what the argument was about?”
“Do you realize who I am, Agent Savich?” Justice Wallace’s voice was very soft, pitched low so there was no chance anyone else could hear him. Savich felt the very real threat of him, heard the absolute knowledge in his voice that he knew he was powerful, and nobody should screw with him.
