“That’s it exactly. I realized that I didn’t want to kill myself, but then it didn’t matter, since someone had evidently disabled the brakes.”
“Someone? Come on, Lily, that’s absurd.”
Savich said easily, “Unfortunately, the Explorer was compacted the very next day after the accident, so we can’t check it out to see if it is or isn’t absurd.”
“Perhaps, Lily,” Tennyson said very gently, “just perhaps you’re wanting to remember something different, something that could alleviate the pain of the past seven months.”
“I don’t think so, Tennyson. You see, I remembered while I was under hypnosis. And then when I came out of it, I remembered the rest of it, all by myself. All of it.”
A thick eyebrow went straight up. Savich had never before seen an eyebrow do a vertical lift like that. Tennyson turned to Savich and spoke, his voice low and controlled, but it was obvious to everyone that he was very angry. “You’re telling me you took Lily to see a hypnotist? One of those charlatans who plant garbage in their patients’ minds?”
“Oh, no,” Sherlock said, taking Lily’s clenched fist beneath the table. “This doctor didn’t plant anything, Tennyson. She simply helped Lily to remember what happened that evening. Both Dillon and I were there the whole time, and he and I are very familiar with hypnotists as part of our work. It was all on the up-and-up. Now, don’t you think it’s strange that the brakes didn’t work? Don’t you think it’s at least possible that someone disabled them from what Lily said?”
“No, what I think is that Lily disremembers. I’m not sure if she’s doing it on purpose or if she’s simply confused and wants desperately for it to be this way. Don’t you see? She made up the brakes failing so she wouldn’t have to face up to what she did. I don’t think the brakes failed. I certainly don’t think anyone cut the lines. That’s beyond what is reasonable, and her saying that, claiming that that’s what happened, well, it really worries me. I don’t want Lily to even consider such a thing; it could make her lose ground again.
“Listen, I’m a psychiatrist-a real one-one who doesn’t use hocus-pocus on people to achieve some sort of preordained result. I am not pleased about this, Savich. I am Lily’s husband. I am responsible for her.”
Sherlock pointed her fork at him and said, her voice colder than a psychopath’s heart, “You haven’t been doing such a good job of it, have you?”
7
Tennyson looked as if he wanted to throw his plate at Sherlock’s head. His breathing was hard and fast.
Sherlock continued after a moment of chewing thoughtfully on a green bean. “I’ve also wondered at the timing. You remember, don’t you, Tennyson? You called to ask Lily to deliver those medical slides to Ferndale, knowing it would be dusk to dark when she was on 211. Then the brakes failed. That sounds remarkably fortuitous, doesn’t it?”
“Damn you, you both went behind my back, did something you knew I wouldn’t approve of! Lily is fine now. She no longer needs you here. I repeat, I am her husband. I will take care of her. As for your ridiculous veiled accusations, I won’t lower myself to answer them.”
“I think you should consider lowering yourself,” Sherlock said, and in that moment, Tennyson looked fit to kill.
Savich waited a moment for him to regain some calm, then said, “All right, no lowering right now. Let’s just move along. Let’s suppose, Tennyson, that Lily does remember everything exactly as it happened. That raises a couple of good questions. Why did the brakes fail? Perhaps it was simply a mechanical problem? But then the emergency brake failed, too. It’s rather a difficult stretch to make if there’s also a second mechanical problem, don’t you think? And that means that someone had to have disabled the systems. Who, Tennyson? Who would want Lily dead? Realize, too, that if she had died, why then, everyone would have declared it a clear case of suicide. Who would want that, Tennyson?”
Tennyson rose slowly to his feet. Sherlock could see the pulse pounding in his neck. He was furious, and he was also something more. Frightened? Desperate? She just couldn’t tell, which disappointed her. He was very good, very controlled.
Tennyson said, the words nearly catching in his throat, “You are a cop. You see bad things. You deal with bad people, evil people. What happened wasn’t caused by someone out to kill Lily-other than Lily. She’s been very ill. Everyone knows that. Lily knows that; she even accepts it. The most logical explanation is that she simply doesn’t remember what happened because she can’t bring herself to admit that she really tried to commit suicide again. That’s all there is to it. I won’t stand for your accusations any longer. This is my home. I want you both to leave. I want you both out of our lives.”
Savich said, “All right, Tennyson, Sherlock and I will be delighted to leave. Actually, we’ll leave right after dinner. Mrs. Scruggins made it just for me, and I don’t want to miss any of it. Oh, yes, did I tell you that we know all about Lynda-you remember, don’t you? She was your first wife who killed herself only thirteen months after marrying you?”
They hadn’t told Lily about Lynda Middleton Frasier. She froze where she sat, her mouth open, utter disbelief scored on her face, any final hope leached out with those words. When her husband had spoken so calmly, so reasonably, she had wondered if it was possible that her mind had altered what really happened, that her mind was so squirrelly that she simply couldn’t trust any thought, any reaction. But not any longer. Now she knew she hadn’t disremembered anything. Oh, God, had he killed his first wife? It was horrible, unbelievable. Lily was shaking from the inside out-she couldn’t help it.
She said slowly, holding her knife in a death grip, her knuckles white from the strain, “I remember that you told me you’d been married for a very short time, Tennyson, a long time ago.”
“A long time ago?” Sherlock said, an eyebrow arched. “Sounds like maybe it was a decade or more, doesn’t it? Like he ran away with a girl when he was eighteen? Actually, Lily, Tennyson’s first wife, Lynda, killed herself two years ago-just eight months before you came to Hemlock Bay and met him.” She looked over at Tennyson and said, her voice utterly emotionless, “However, you didn’t say a word about your wife having killed herself. Why is that, Tennyson?”
“It was a tragic event in my life,” Tennyson said calmly, in control again, as he picked up his wineglass and sipped at the Napa Valley Chardonnay. It was very dry, very woody, just as he preferred. “It is still painful. Why would I wish to speak of it? Not that it was a secret. Lily could have heard it from anyone in town, from my own family even.”
Sherlock leaned forward, her food forgotten. The gauntlet was thrown. This was fascinating. She smiled at Tennyson Frasier. “Still, doesn’t it seem like it would be on the relevant side, Tennyson, for her to know, particularly after Lily tried to kill herself seven months ago? Wouldn’t you begin to think, Oops, could there be something wrong, just maybe, with me? Two wives trying to do away with themselves after they’ve been married to me only a short time? What are the odds on that, do you think, Tennyson? Two dead wives, one live husband?”
“No, that’s all ridiculous. None of it was at all relevant. Lily isn’t anything like Lynda. Lily was simply bowled over by her child’s death, by her role in her child’s death.”
“I didn’t have a role in Beth’s death,” Lily said. “I realize that now.”
“Do you really believe that, Lily? Just think about it, all right? Now, as for Lynda, she had a brain tumor. She was dying.”
This was a corker, Savich thought. “A brain tumor?”
“Yes, Savich, she was diagnosed with a brain tumor. It wasn’t operable. She knew she was going to die. She didn’t want the inevitable pain, the further loss of self, the deterioration of her physical abilities. Her confusion was growing by the day because of the tumor. She hated it. She wanted to be the one to decide her own end, and so she did. She gave herself an injection of potassium chloride. It works very quickly. As for the tumor, I saw to it that it was kept quiet. I saw no reason to tell anyone.” He paused for a moment, looked at Savich, then at Sherlock. “There are, of course, records. Check if you want to, I don’t care. I’m not lying.”
“Hmmm,” Sherlock said. “So you think it’s better for a woman to be known as a suicide for no good reason at all?” Sherlock sat back in her chair now, arms crossed over her breasts.
