“Yeah, for you.”
Savich drove down Main Street, only two blocks long, past its short row of businesses, from the Intimate Apparel boutique to Higgins Bar on the corner, with its neon flashing Dos Equis signs, to Polly’s Dry Cleaners right next door. He stopped when he saw a little boy on his bike and asked him where the Backmans lived.
The boy, who was missing two front teeth, gave him a big grin and leaned close. “My ma doesn’t like me to go anywhere near where the spooks live,” he said, and pointed east.
“Why do you call them spooks?”
The boy said, “Everybody knows they’re spooks, but my ma says I’m not supposed to talk about them. She won’t admit it, but I think she’s scared of them.”
“Why do you think that’s true?”
The boy frowned over Savich’s left shoulder. “Whenever she and my dad are talking about them, they whisper.”
“Got you. Do you ever see the Backmans in town? Blessed, Grace Mrs. Backman?”
“Miz Backman sometimes talks to Dolly down at Fresh Fish Filet— that’s our restaurant, you know. Ma doesn’t like to eat there, says the fish is off sometimes, whatever that means.”
A gold mine of information. Savich said, “What do your parents do here?”
“My dad—he’s Reverend Halpert; he’s the preacher at the First Pilgrims Baptist Church. He’s always saying we’re lucky to have more members than Father Michael at Our Lady of Sorrows. Father Mi-chael tells my dad he’s a heretic and laughs. Dad tells him he might be a heretic, but we have better potluck suppers. Catholics can’t make good potato salad, he tells Father Michael, and then he laughs too.”
“Do the Backmans go to your church?”
“No, they’re Catholics, but they donate money to us anyways. Lots, I heard my dad say.”
“What’s your name?”
“Taylor.”
“Well, Taylor, I’m Dillon Savich. You’ve been a big help. Go buy yourself an ice cream. I saw Elmo’s Thirty Flavors. Are they good?”
“Oh, wow, thanks, mister. The triple-fudge chocolate’s the best.” The dollar bill disappeared in Taylor’s pocket and he’d pedaled half-way to the ice-cream shop by the time Savich slid back into the Camry. Taylor yelled over his shoulder, “Elmo’s really got thirty-three flavors, I counted them! Thanks again, mister!”
“Spooks,
“So it appears,” Savich said, and gave a nod toward a couple of old geezers who appeared to be playing checkers in front of The Genesis Spirit, the lettering stenciled in gold against black glass.
“Wonder what that’s all about?” Sherlock said.
“There’s a little sign beneath. Looks like it’s a tarot card and palm-reading place. I wonder how a town this size can support them?”
“We’ll ask Mrs. B.,” Sherlock said, and gave a little wave to the two checkers players, who seemed more interested in them than in their game.
41
THE DRIVEWAY TO THE Backmans’ house was long and graveled, curving first around two enormous oak trees, then threading between wildly blooming red rhododendron bushes. Oaks and maples lined the sides, full branches forming a lush canopy overhead. It was a royal approach to the palace.
The house was set in the best spot in the valley, at the eastern end of the bowl. It glistened beneath the hot sun like a wedding cake, lavishly decorated with blue and green accent colors. The house was surrounded by thick stands of oak trees. The front yard was beautifully manicured, with undulating green lawns and small yews lining flower beds filled with azaleas, petunias, and fuchsia. Rosebushes and jasmine trekked up the sides of the house on trellises. It was extravagant and romantic and utterly unexpected in a valley like Bricker’s Bowl.
Savich’s first thought was,
“Wowza,” Sherlock said, and whistled. “Would you look at that place, Dillon. I didn’t get the impression of anything this grand from Joanna. She said it was a mansion and left it at that. Would you look at the accent colors —those dark blues and greens are gorgeous. I don’t think I’ve seen more colors on the Painted Ladies in San Francisco.”
The place gave Savich a headache. It was too big, too in-your-face, just too much, period, except for all the flowers. He particularly liked the iceberg roses with white blossoms so thick they looked to weigh down the bushes.
He parked the Camry in the driveway leading to the six-car garage, behind a new dark blue Cadillac that matched the blue on the house trim. Were there more cars inside? And if there were, then why had Blessed borrowed an SUV to drive to Titusville?
Sherlock said, “The Caddy looks like Mrs. Backman’s wheels, I’d say, so hopefully she’s home. Any idea where the cemetery is?”
He gave her a quick smile. “Probably in the back. We’ll get to it.”
“You know, Dillon, this place is incredible, the flowers look like they’re on steroids, the grounds are lush and neat as a pin—it creeps me out.”
They walked up the ten deep-set wooden steps onto a wide veranda with an inviting porch swing, white rattan table, and four matching rattan chairs, the cushions the same blue and green of the house trim. It was blessedly cool on the porch, a breeze coming from the west.
Beautiful Italian ceramic pots filled with overflowing azaleas and petunias and other flowers Savich couldn’t identify hung from lacy black wrought-iron hangers, each set precisely two feet apart.
“The flowers,” Sherlock said. “I wonder what Mrs. Backman uses to get them so glorious? Maybe some sort of spell or incantation?”
He laughed. “Our garden is just as spectacular.”
“I wish,” Sherlock said, and breathed in. “Even though I can smell the roses and jasmine giving off that lovely perfume, it still creeps me out. I don’t know why.”
“You know too much about the residents.”
The door opened before they could knock. The proverbial little old lady in a flowered cotton housedress stepped out in beaded mules, her sturdy legs bare. She looked like a benign grandmother, fluffy white hair done up in an old-style knot on the top of her head, pearl studs in her drooping earlobes, a huge diamond on her ring finger There was nothing frail about her. They knew she was seventy-eight years old because Joanna had told them. Otherwise they could have only guessed because officially, Shepherd Backman didn’t exist. She didn’t have a birth certificate, a Social Security number, a driver’s license, or a recorded marriage license. Her husband had filed taxes in his name alone. Blessed filed now, showing a yearly income of about forty-five thousand dollars from driving a delivery truck, this verified by a manager of a local mailing distribution company who had been paid off at least that much. Or maybe Blessed simply stymied him every year at tax time.
Mrs. Backman said nothing, merely stared at them, not moving, her pale brown eyes darting from one to the other. They came to rest on Savich. “Who are you, young man, and what do you want?” Her voice didn’t sound like it belonged to an old lady. It was deep, on the gruff side, as if she’d smoked for many years, and had authority, the voice of a person who always drove the bus she rode in. Savich wagered that Blessed, who was utterly terrifying, bowed to her orders without hesitation.
Savich smiled at the old woman and held out his creds. “I’m Agent Dillon Savich, FBI, and this is Agent Lacey Sherlock.”
She studied his creds, gave them back, then held out a surprisingly youthful hand to Sherlock, who placed her own creds in her wide palm. Her fingernails were dirty. From gardening? Or maybe from digging up graves?
She studied Sherlock’s ID for a very long time. Finally she handed the shield back. “Now I know who you are. What do you want?”
