“No, thank you, ma’am, we’re fine,” Sherlock said. Was Mrs. Lewis so focused on being a hostess, to occupy her mind with something, anything but what had happened to her husband? Her eyes held only a hint that she’d been crying, but she allowed herself no overt sign of grief. Of course she was much older than Tammy Carroll, experienced in both life and death. And everyone dealt with grief differently.
“This morning we were told there was no love lost between your brother and your husband,” Savich said. “Is this true?”
“As you can tell from all the multitudes out there, Kane was well liked. He kept an eye on those people’s kids, especially, kept a tally of who they were and what he caught them doing. He started that up right after he found our youngest—Angela—parking with a local boy.” She smiled toward a photo of her dead husband, younger in the photo, smiling really big, wearing his uniform, a gun in its holster. “Kane rarely told on them, but the parents knew he was watching out for them. You’ve met my brother, all gruff and by-the-book. He’s never learned how to get along with people as well as my husband did.”
“What did your husband think of him?”
“Kane would come home some days, laughing at Ezra being in one of his moods, Agent Savich. He’d say Ezra must be wearing shorts that were too tight again.
“You have to understand we moved here years ago when Ezra’s wife was dying of cancer, back in the eighties. They had no children to support Ezra while he took care of her, and they needed us. After Connie’s death, Ezra was never the same, poor man, but still Kane did what he could to humor him. I think Kane felt sorry for him, thought he was doing the best he could. He honestly didn’t mind that Ezra was his boss. Kane wasn’t usually bothered much about anything, and that’s a fact.”
But it bothered you, didn’t it, Mrs. Lewis? Sherlock thought. You wish your husband had had more of a backbone, like you do.
Glory looked vaguely around the room, folded her hands in her lap. “I don’t own a black dress. Purple was Kane’s favorite color.” She gave a little shudder. “He bought this dress for me. That’s why I’m wearing it. Tomorrow it will go again to the back of the closet.”
“Mrs. Lewis,” Sherlock said, leaning toward this composed woman, “are you’re saying your husband didn’t have any enemies?”
Glory Lewis looked down at her folded hands, then back at Sherlock. “He was a police officer, and that means he had to get involved with angry people, even arrest them sometimes. But he had no enemies I’m aware of. As I said, as everyone in my house will tell you, Kane was a sweetheart, easygoing, always had a ready smile for everyone.”
“Mrs. Lewis, are you aware your husband was a heavy drinker?”
“Agent Savich. I assure you, I am neither blind nor stupid. Was he drunk when he was killed?”
Yes, he was,” Savich said, “very drunk. Do you know where your husband was last night, Mrs. Lewis?”
“He told me he had a Lion’s Club meeting, but I knew he was headed for one of the three bars out on I-66.” She shook her head. “He always used breath mints before he came back into the house, as if I wouldn’t know he was drunk as a skunk. He wasn’t a young man anymore, and I worried for his health. But he thought I was nagging him if I said anything to him about it.
“I went to bed last night the same time I usually do. Kane and I had separate bedrooms because of his snoring, so I didn’t know he hadn’t come home until my brother woke me up early this morning to tell me he was dead.” Her voice stayed steady, without a hitch.
“Did your brother know your husband drank?”
Glory Lewis smiled at Savich, a sad, accepting smile that said it all. “Sure, Ezra knew, not that he would worry about him. Ezra would say Kane is his own man, and if he runs off the road, that’s his business. I think he was more worried about what the townspeople would say if that happened. Did Kane’s being drunk have anything to do with his death—his murder?”
“We don’t know that yet, Mrs. Lewis,” Sherlock said. “But I have a question for you. Are you a Wiccan?”
“What? What did you say? What sort of question is that, Agent Sherlock?”
“I know it’s an unusual question, ma’am, but we need for you to tell us—are you a Wiccan?”
“Wiccan? No. Kane and I have attended the Plackett Bible Church in town every Sunday for almost thirty years.”
“Do you know any practicing Wiccans in Plackett?”
“Well, there is a small group in and around Plackett, I’ve heard. I mean, there are a few of them everywhere nowadays, aren’t there? I hope God’s grace touches everyone searching for whatever peace they can find in this world, but I’m not the kind to look for it in herbs and chants and symbols. But really, I’ve never paid them much mind. Now that you mention it, I remember my eldest daughter, Cynthia, was flirting with the idea of becoming a Wiccan when she was about fourteen. Read about it in the library. She was just getting interested in boys then, and I suggested she’d find them more fun than burning candles and drawing circles in the dirt and shivering in the woods. She never raised it again.”
“Do you know the Alcotts, Mrs. Lewis?”
She cocked her head at Savich. “Sure I do, Agent Savich. This is a small town. Everyone knows most everyone else. I remember Kane investigated Mr. Alcott’s unfortunate death six months ago. It was a hit-and-run.”
“What did your husband discover, Mrs. Lewis?”
She cocked her head again, showing only mild interest. “He found some skid marks, nothing they could identify, and that was all. Kane told me it seemed to him the driver who struck Mr. Alcott stopped completely, panicked, and drove away. They never found who it was.”
“Then you know Mrs. Alcott,” Savich said.
“You’re asking me this because you believe Brakey killed my husband.” Her voice was flat, matter-of-fact. “No, don’t deny it, you have only to step into my living room to know everyone is talking about it. Not in my presence, of course. Did Brakey kill my husband?”
“Your husband was killed with an Athame, Mrs. Lewis,” Savich said. “A Wiccan ceremonial knife. You’re aware, naturally, that Sparky Carroll was also murdered yesterday in Washington. He was also murdered with an Athame. We’re investigating what Brakey Alcott’s involvement was now, Mrs. Lewis.”
Glory Lewis stared at them. “You’re saying that Sparky Carroll and my husband were killed by the same person? But isn’t Walter Givens in jail? What is it you’re saying, Agent Savich?”
“Again, I’m not at liberty to speak about our investigation yet, Mrs. Lewis. I’d appreciate it if you talk to us about the Alcott family.”
“But Walt Givens—he’s only a boy, like Brakey. They’re both younger than my daughters. Everyone was so upset about Sparky and Walter Givens, no one understood, and now my husband. They’re saying Brakey’s had to have done it. Ezra said you’d arrested him. But Brakey’s such a nice boy, always has been. He and Kane liked each other, and as far as I know, Walter Givens never had anything against Sparky Carroll. You want to know about the Alcotts because of Brakey?”
“Brakey Alcott is not under arrest. But please tell us what you know, Mrs. Lewis.”
“Well, I’ve known Deliah for as long as Kane and I have lived here, thirty years come the fall. I know they didn’t have much money. Then about twenty years ago, they found natural gas on the property, sold off the rights, and they haven’t worked in town since. They’re quite well off. They stay mostly to themselves, maybe because Deliah doesn’t like people talking about them. She’s always been pleasant to me, and so have her sons. Well, there is Liggert, her eldest. My husband said Liggert can’t hold his liquor, turns into a loudmouth and hits people. He’s spent several nights in jail.” She paused, smoothed the purple skirt of her dress. “I imagine my husband was at the same bar and had to arrest him.”
“Was there ever any trouble between the Alcotts
and your husband? Other than with Liggert?” Savich asked. “Or any bad feelings between the Alcotts and Sparky Carroll and his family?”
“Certainly not, that’s absurd. My husband was friends with all of them, even Liggert, except on the nights he had to arrest him. As for Sparky Carroll, he was a nice boy, too. He had ambition, wanted to make the catering business his dad started even bigger than it was under Milt Carroll, his father, who was also a good friend of Kane’s. Milt started Eat Well and Prosper, they call it”—she rolled her eyes—“back in the eighties.” She looked down at her clasped hands again. “I knew Sparky’s mom, Rachael. They hardly ever let her cook a meal, she told me, and it bothered her, not being asked to cook for her family. She died two years ago, bless her soul.
“You know as well as I do that every town has its criminals, Agent Savich, its share of greed and violence. That’s what Kane’s job was about. But neither of those boys are criminals.”
“Do you know who some of your husband’s drinking buddies were, Mrs. Lewis?”
“I have no idea, Agent Savich.” Her voice was prim, and her chin went up in the air. Savich doubted anyone would be talking much more about Kane Lewis’s drinking in the Lewis home.
ALCOTT COMPOUND
PLACKETT, VIRGINIA
Thursday, late afternoon
Savich and Sherlock stopped for pizza at Country Cousin’s in downtown Plackett. Everyone in the eatery was talking about Sparky Carroll and Deputy Kane Lewis. Savich doubted there had ever been a murder within living memory in this small town, let alone two. No one approached them, which was a relief, except the waitress, and it was obvious she was brimming with curiosity, but she held her tongue.
Thirty minutes later they were driving out of Plackett and into rolling hills thick with oak and pine trees. Sherlock opened her tablet. “There are three generations of Alcotts in residence, including grandma, who’s eighty-three and wheelchair-bound. She is Deliah Alcott’s mother-in-law. Deliah’s three sons and their families live with her, Brakey the youngest, then Jonah, and Liggert, the oldest. Liggert’s an odd name. I looked it up. The etymology’s obscure, but it may come from Serbia, go figure that.”
“Do we have anything else on the late Mr. Alcott’s hit-and-run accident six months ago?”
“Let me see. Okay, the police report put the accident about one hundred yards outside this—let’s call it a compound. Mr. Alcott was walking the family dog on the side of the highway when he was hit. The dog stood barking over him until someone stopped. He stayed guarding Mr. Alcott until the police arrived, and that would be Deputy Kane Lewis. As you already know, Deputy Lewis only found skid marks, but nothing to identify the vehicle or the driver.”
The Porsche’s GPS told them to turn right, and soon they were looking down a long gravel driveway at a distant cluster of houses. It was indeed a compound, with a larger two-story house set in the middle. On either side of the big house were single-story ranch-style houses. All three houses were set close to one another, as if privacy wasn’t a priority. All three were well maintained and backed up to an oak and pine forest.
Savich turned smoothly onto the driveway. Sherlock said as she took it all in, “Brakey must have given them all an earful. That was smart to tell him you’d let him go if he agreed to let us come speak to his family.”
“Hopefully his family goes along with it.” Savich stopped in front of the main house, which was charming, with a wraparound porch and a half-dozen chimneys that gave it a 1940s look, even though he knew it had been built in the past fifteen years. It was painted white, with dark brown trim. Flowers filled pots on the wide porch, hung from baskets from the porch beams. Trees crowded next to the wide expanse of lawn, and the smell of freshly mowed grass was heavy and sweet in the air. There were four children playing football in the front yard, all of them shouting, laughing, running around like berserkers. An old woman in a wheelchair sat on the porch, knitting in her lap, rocking slowly back and forth, watching them over the rims of her half-glasses. The children stopped playing abruptly and huddled together in a knot, staring at them.
A little boy called out, “Wow, that’s a beautiful car, mister!”
“It’s not just any car,” an older boy of about eight said. “That’s a race car.” Savich had to smile.
“Well, we’ve made a hit, Dillon,” Sherlock said, and patted the Porsche’s roof. “Would you kids like to come over and look at it?” It was lovely here for these kids, she thought, the smell of freshly mowed grass in the fresh spring air, no exhaust fumes anywhere. The kids gathered around. “I like red,” said a little girl wearing hand-me-down blue jeans she hadn’t grown into, rolled up to her ankles, a football pressed tight against her chest. “Are you here to visit grandma?”
Savich looked again at the old lady. He’d never seen a wheelchair that rocked before. She said nothing, only stared over at them, rocking back and forth. They walked right up to her, the kids following after Sherlock. “Good morning, ma’am. I’m Special Agent Dillon Savich, FBI, and this is Special Agent Sherlock. We’re here to speak with the Alcott family.” Both he and Sherlock pulled out their creds.
She gave them a quick look, still rocking, and finally allowed a small lipless grin. “What a pretty boy and girl you are,” she said in a lovely drawl, sweet and slow as syrup. “Brakey said you’d be coming, said he’d made a deal with you. We let you talk to us and no jail for him. I bet you drove all the way from that wicked city of Washington here to make Brakey come clean. Why, that boy’s a sweetie, innocent as a lamb. You want to get the goods on him? Well, you won’t. He wouldn’t even play tackle football in high school, couldn’t bring himself to hurt anyone or anything. So you need to keep looking because your bad guy isn’t my Brakey. Tanny, get back, you don’t want these fancy law people to step on you.”
The little football girl took two steps back, but she never stopped studying them, never stopped easing closer. There was curiosity and awareness in her light green eyes well beyond her years, Savich thought, as if she knew some things most people didn’t. Savich sighed. She was a little girl, that’s all she was, a pretty little girl.
Sherlock looked closely at the old lady. She was all bone and parchment skin, domed purple veins riding high on the backs of her hands. She couldn’t weigh more than ninety pounds. Her snow-white hair was pinned in a knot at the back of her head, the several bobby pins she’d poked into it looking ready to slide out, because there wasn’t enough hair to hold them in place. But when she’d spoken, beneath that drawl was hot spice and vinegar. “Yes, ma’am, we came from the wicked city,” she said. “And we’d appreciate any help you can give us.”
The old lady rocked and creaked. “I heard you visited with Glory Lewis today. I’ll bet the entire town was there, stuffed into her living room, eating all the casseroles they carted over. Kane was that popular. Now, Glory, she’s tough, lots tougher than Ezra and Kane put together. Ezra, he’s the sheriff, you know. You don’t want to cross Glory. If you do, you’re in deep trouble. Ezra’s the same way, but Glory’s better at hiding it.”
What did all that outpouring mean? “Yes, ma’am,” Sherlock said, “there were a lot of people at the Lewis house. I didn’t see any casseroles, though.”
The old lady smiled at them again, showing off the complement of white teeth too big for her mouth. “We’re all willing to help you with your job so long as you aren’t here to haul poor Brakey off to the federal jail. He’s a sweetie, like I told you, wouldn’t step on a spider, that boy, not even if his mama asked him to. Stick a knife in Kane’s chest? No, not Brakey.”
“Mother? What—oh. You’re the federal agents, aren’t you?”
Savich nodded, introduced himself and Sherlock again, showed her their creds. Unlike the old lady, Mrs. Alcott took each of their IDs and studied them carefully. “Brakey told us he saw you on television yesterday, Agent Sherlock. And now you’re here.”
&nb
sp; “Yes, ma’am. You’re Brakey’s mother? Mrs. Deliah Alcott?” It was an unnecessary question because it was obvious. The resemblance was pronounced—the same pale green eyes, the same tilt of the head, only Mrs. Alcott’s hair was a much darker brown than her son’s. Her hands were like Brakey’s, too, slender and fine-boned, with long, tapering fingers. She was a handsome woman, yes, that was the word for her. She was taller than her boy, Brakey, and straight as a sapling. She was dressed casually in a long, gauzy summer dress, with sandals on her narrow feet, her toenails unpainted. There was no gray in her dark brown hair, though Sherlock knew her to be fifty-five years old. She wore her hair in a thick braid that hung nearly to her waist. The necklace she was wearing caught Sherlock’s eye—a necklace made of different stones. Did the stones have a particular meaning to her? She looked, Sherlock thought, like a Wiccan should—no artifice, natural, and proud of it.
“Yes, I’m Deliah Alcott. Brakey had a moment to call me, tell me he’d made a deal with you.” Her chin went up. “We will talk to you, but if you make any threats against Brakey, I will call our lawyer. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am. We understand. No threats.”
“Why do you drive an expensive car like that?”
Savich merely smiled. “Is Brakey here?”
“Yes, he is. He’s with his brother Jonah. We’ve been watching the news channels about the investigation of the terrorist attacks in New York City, and then these murders happened—Sparky Carroll and Kane Lewis—and both live right here in Plackett. It’s hard to believe—horrible, really. What is worse is that an Athame was used in each. That makes it unbearable, because it makes everyone in town look at us differently, with suspicion, and it’s not right or fair.
“I understand why you would think Brakey was involved because of where Kane’s body was discovered. But there is simply no reason for Brakey to do such a terrible thing to Kane Lewis. Brakey’s known him all his life. He liked him. Listen, Brakey’s only a boy, twenty-four years old.”