CHAPTER 47
SHERLOCK HOUSE
Savich handed Sean a piece of his freshly baked croissant, which he’d smeared with a big dollop of strawberry jam. Sean grinned up at Isabel and said, “My mama says you make the best croxants in the known world.”
“Yes, indeed I do,” Isabel said and ruffled the little boy’s dark hair. “You look just like your daddy and that’s a fine thing. He’s so handsome one of the neighbor women said she wanted to take over my job for a while so she could get close to him, maybe steal him away from my little Lacey.”
“Who’s little Lacey?”
“That’s your mama, sweetie.”
Sean shook his head. “No, Isabel, Mama’s name is Sherlock. Everybody calls her Sherlock, except me, and I call her Mama.”
Ruth frowned as she stifled a yawn. “I didn’t even know her name was Lacey. Well, how about that, speak of the sweetie and Sean’s mama. Dix, meet Lacey.”
Dix looked up from his cereal bowl. He looked tired, his eyes dark with shadows. “Hi, Lacey. No, that doesn’t feel right—it’s got to be Sherlock.”
“Or Mama,” Sean said.
Sherlock was wearing her usual FBI uniform of black pants, white blouse, short black boots, her SIG clipped to her belt. Her curly hair shone brightly in the morning sunlight flooding through the kitchen windows, thick and red as Isabel’s lipstick. Her blue eyes were as bright—a soft summer blue. She kissed Sean’s cheek, nipped her husband’s earlobe.
Ruth said, “Hey, where are Cheney and Julia?”
Isabel said, looking down at the fork in her hand, “Julia told me she had to talk to Cheney, so she went down to the gym. I look down a big plate of croissants and a pot of coffee a half hour ago and from the sound of it, they were having a nice full-bodied, loud, ah”—Isabel shot Sean a look— “discussion.”
“What are they fighting about?” Sean wanted to know.
“Well, nothing really, Sean,” Isabel said. “It’s more a discussion, like I said.”
“A full-bodied discussion,” Ruth said.
Isabel cleared her throat. “Maybe they’re going to work out a bit.”
Dix smiled into his orange juice.
Sean said, “When Mama’s mad at Papa, she jumps on him.”
“Ah, well, yes, sometimes,” Sherlock said. She grinned at her husband and poured herself some tea from her mother’s prized Edwardian teapot.
Sean said, “Julia told me about her little boy. She said he died.”
“I didn’t know that,” his father said.
“Do you think Julia and Cheney are working out with Grandpa and Grandma?”
Isabel poured Dix and Ruth more coffee. “Could be, Sean, but first I think they wanted to be alone for a little while, you know, talk things over.”
“The discussion,” Sean said. “But, Isabel, I don’t understand. What—”
“Oh my, Sean, I believe some toast just popped up.” And Isabel escaped to the other side of the kitchen.
Sean said to Dix, “Rob and Rafe told me how their mama, Christie, died a long time ago, Uncle Dix,” and he slipped his hand into his mother’s.
Dix said, tightening all over, “Yes, she did, Sean.”
“I don’t want my mama to die and leave me.”
“She won’t,” Dix said. “That’s a promise from a big bad sheriff, okay?”
Sean nodded.
Dix rose. “That reminds me. I need to speak to my sons, see what they’re up to and hope they’re telling me the truth.”
“Say hello for me,” Ruth called after him. She added, “Hey, Sean, I hear you’re going to go check out the courthouse with your granddad this morning.”
Cheney and Julia appeared in the kitchen doorway. They looked well-rested, and relaxed, and Julia’s eyes were shining.
Nothing like full-bodied discussions to jump-start a person’s day, Ruth thought.
Cheney’s cell phone rang, and he turned away.
When Cheney walked back into the kitchen, he took a quick look at Sean, and said, “That was Makepeace. He told me where Kathryn Golden is. He told me to come get the worthless idiot, she’s of no use to him at all. She’s at the Mariner Hotel in Palo Alto, Room 415.”
“It’s obviously a trap,” Savich said.
“Yes, but it doesn’t matter,” Julia said. “We have to go get her. Let me get my jacket, Cheney.”
