Lacey hugged her back. Isabelle had been more her mother than the woman upstairs in her elegant bedroom had ever been. She’d been the Sherlock housekeeper and cook since before Lacey was born. “It’s good to see you, Isabelle. You all right? Your kids okay?”
Lacey drew back and looked carefully at the fine-boned black face, a beloved face that radiated warmth and humor.
“Things are fine with my family, but they aren’t too good here, Lacey, no, not too good at all. Your daddy’s all quiet and keeps to himself. Your mama never comes out of her room now, just stays there and looks at those ridiculous talk shows, best I can tell. She says she wants to write a book and send it to Oprah so Oprah will recommend it and your mama will become really rich and leave your papa. Hey, who’s this guy with you?”
“This is Dillon Savich. He’s also with the FBI. Dillion, this is Isabelle Tanner. She’s the one who told me how wicked boys were just after my sixteenth birthday. She’s the one who told me to keep out of Bobby Wellman’s Jaguar.”
“You should have listened to her.”
“Oh, Lordie. You mean you let that boy crawl all over you in that little Jaguar, Lacey? Oh goodness, I thought I’d won that one.”
Savich shook her hand. “Ms. Isabelle, I promise you that Sherlock here hasn’t gotten into any more cars since the Jaguar. You taught her well.”
“You call her Sherlock,” said Isabelle, clasping her arms beneath her ample breasts. “That sounds funny, but cute too. Well, come on in. I’ll get you some fine tea and some scones that just came out of the oven.”
“Who is it, Isabelle?”
Isabelle’s face grew very still. Slowly, she turned and called out, “It’s your daughter, Mrs. Sherlock.”
“No, Belinda’s dead. Don’t do that to me, Isabelle. You’re cruel.”
“It’s Miss Lacey, not Belinda.”
“Lacey? Oh. She said she was coming back but I didn’t believe her.”
Isabelle said quickly, “Don’t look like that, Lacey. It’s just a bad day for her, that’s all. Besides, you haven’t been around in a long time.”
“Neither has Belinda.”
Isabelle just waved away her words. “Come into the living room, honey.” She turned to the stairs that wound up to the second-floor landing. “Mrs. Sherlock, ma’am, will you be coming down?”
“Naturally. I’ll be there in just a moment. I must brush my teeth first.”
The house looked like a museum, Savich thought, staring around the living room. Everything was pristine, thanks probably to Isabelle, but stiff and formal and colder than a Minnesota night. “No one ever sits in here,” Lacey said to him. “Goodness, it’s uninviting, isn’t it? And stultifying. I’d forgotten how bad it was. Why don’t we go into my father’s study instead. That’s where I always used to hang out.”
Judge Sherlock’s study was a masculine stronghold that was also warm, lived-in, and cluttered, stacks of magazines and books, both paperback and hardcover, on every surface. The furniture was severe-heavy dark-brown leather-but the look was mitigated by warm-toned afghans thrown everywhere. There were lots of ferns in front of the wide bay window that looked out onto the Bay in the distance. There was a telescope aimed toward Tiburon. This wasn’t at all what he’d expected. What he had expected, he wasn’t certain, but it wasn’t this warm, very human room that had obviously been nurtured and loved and lived in. Savich took a deep breath. “What a wonderful room.”
“Yes, it is.” She pulled away and walked to the bay windows. “This is the most beautiful view from any place in San Francisco.” She broke off to smile at Isabelle who was carrying a well-shined silver tray. “Oh, Isabelle, those scones smell delicious. It’s been too long.”
Savich had a mouthful of scone with a dab of clotted cream on top when the door opened and one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen in his life walked in with all the grace of a born princess. She was, pure and simply, a stunner, as his father used to say about a knockout woman. She also didn’t look a thing like Sherlock. Where Sherlock had lovely auburn hair, her mother had blond hair as soft and smooth and rich as pale silk. Sherlock’s eyes were a warm green; her mother’s, a brilliant blue. Sherlock was tall, at least five foot eight, but her mother was fragile, fine-boned, not more than five foot three inches tall. Sherlock was wearing a dark blue wool suit with a cream turtleneck sweater, all business. Her mother was wearing a soft peach silk dress, her glorious hair pulled back and held with a gold clip at the nape of her neck. There was nothing overtly expensive about her jewelry or clothing, but she looked well-bred, rich, and used to it. There were very few lines on her face. She had to be in her late fifties, but Savich would have said forty-five if he hadn’t known that she’d had a daughter who’d be in her late thirties now, if she’d not been murdered.