“So you’re Dillon Savich,” Mrs. Sherlock said, not moving into the room. “You’re the man who spoke to her father on
the phone after I said to Lacey that he’d tried to ran me down with his BMW.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He walked to her and extended his hand. “I’m Dillon Savich. Like your daughter, I’m with the FBI.” Finally, after so long that Lacey thought she’d die from not breathing, her mother took Dillon’s hand.
“You’re too good-looking,” Mrs. Sherlock said, peering up at him for the longest time. “I’ve never trusted good-looking men. Her father is good-looking and look what’s come of that. Also I imagine that you are built splendidly. Are you sleeping with my daughter?”
Savich said in that smooth, plummy interview voice of his, “Mrs. Sherlock, won’t you have a cup of tea? It’s rich, Indian, I believe. As for the scones, I’m certain you’ll enjoy those. They’re delicious. Isabelle is a wonderful cook. You’re very fortunate to have her.” “Hello, Mother.”
“I wish you hadn’t come, Lacey, but your father will be pleased.” Her voice was plaintive, slightly reproachful, but her beautiful face was expressionless. Did she never show anger, joy? Anything to change the look of her? “I thought you wanted me to come home.” “I changed my mind. Things aren’t right here, just not right. But now that you’re here, I suppose you’ll insist on remaining.”
“Just for a few days, Mother. Would you mind if Dillon stayed here as well?”
“He’s too handsome,” Mrs. Sherlock said, “but again I suppose I have no choice. There are at least four empty bedrooms upstairs. He can have one of them. I hope you’re not sleeping with him, Lacey. There are so many diseases, and men carry all of them, did you know that? It’s been proven now at least, but I always knew it. That’s why I stopped sleeping with your father. I didn’t want him to give me any of those horrible diseases.” “A cup of tea, ma’am?”
Mrs. Sherlock took the fine china saucer from Savich and sat down on the very edge of one of her husband’s rich brown leather chairs. She looked around her. “I hate this room,” she said, then sipped at her tea. “I always have. It’s the living room I love. I decorated the living room, did Lacey tell you, Mr. Savich?”
Savich felt as though he’d fallen down the rabbit hole, but Sherlock just looked tired. She looked used to this. It came to him then that Mrs. Sherlock was acting a great deal like his great-aunt Mimi-in short, outrageous. She always made it known that she was fragile, whatever that meant, so she could get away with saying whatever she wanted, so that she could be the center of attention. Savich didn’t doubt that Mrs. Sherlock did suffer from some mental illness, but how much was real and how much was of her own creation?
“I forgot to tell him, Mother,” she said. “But as rooms go, this one really isn’t that bad. There are so many books.”
“I dislike clutter. It’s the sign of a chaotic mind. Your father is going to sell that BMW of his. I believe he’s going to buy a Mercedes. What model, I don’t know. If it’s a big car, I’ll have to be really careful not to be outside when he’s driving. But, you know, if you’re standing in the driveway, those tall bushes make it impossible to see if someone is coming. That’s how he nearly got me last time.”
“Mother, when did Dad try to run you down? Was it recently?”
“Oh no, it was some time last spring.” She paused, sipped some more tea, and frowned down at the beautiful Tabriz carpet beneath her feet. It was a frown, but it wasn’t obvious. There were no frown lines on that perfect forehead. She waved a smooth white hand. “Maybe it was just this past summer. It’s hard to remember. But once I remember things, they stay with me.”
“Yes, Mother, I know.”
Savich said, “Perhaps your husband will buy a little Mercedes, ma’am.”
“Yes, or perhaps a Porsche,” Mrs. Sherlock said, looking thoughtfully at Savich.
“I own one. They are very nice. I’ve never tried to run anybody down in my 911. It could hurt the car. I’d get caught. No, a Porsche is a good choice.”