PLACKETT, VIRGINIA
The newly widowed Mrs. Lewis wasn’t alone. As Savich turned off First Avenue onto Briar Lane, they saw cars parked in the driveway, at the curb, across the street, stretching almost a block in both directions. The Lewis house was a simple two-story, maybe fifty years old, with a two-car carport attached. It looked comfortable, like an old armchair that had sat through years of ball games. The house could use a paint job and a lawn mower. Oddly, it didn’t seem like neglect, it seemed like a choice that fit the house’s and the owners’ personalities.
Savich parked the Porsche a block away. As they walked back to the house, he said, “Quite a crowd. That might actually help us get Mrs. Lewis alone.”
An older man who answered the door didn’t move, gave them a suspicious look. “Who are you?”
Sherlock gave him her sunny, guileless smile and showed him her creds. “Special Agent Sherlock, and this is my partner Special Agent Savich, FBI.” Savich showed the man his creds. “And you are, sir?”
“Sheriff Ezra Watson.” He looked over his shoulder at the living room full of people. “I’m showing in people who want to pay their respects. There’s no excuse for you people to come here today. Glory—Mrs. Lewis—and the family aren’t in any shape for questioning. Why don’t you come back, or call my cell later. I can tell you what you need to know.”
The sheriff wasn’t wearing his uniform. He was in a shiny black suit that looked like it hadn’t been worn in a long time and was now a size too small. He was nearly bald, sported a comb-over of light brown hair. His long, seamed face was grim, his mouth tight. It had been a rough day for him, Savich thought. He didn’t look like a man pleased with life or his fellow man. Savich stepped into his space and said, his voice pleasant, “I wish we could do that, but we have a job to do, Sheriff. Would you like to introduce us to Mrs. Lewis, or should we go in and introduce ourselves?”
He’s measuring me for a coffin, Savich thought. The sheriff stared and stood his ground, barely holding his simmering anger in check. Sure, the sheriff was on edge, his deputy had been murdered that morning, but Savich wondered if the man didn’t always act this way.
The tension lifted when a woman in a purple dress with a pleasant, no-nonsense face and hair drawn up in a bun on the top of her head said from behind the sheriff, “Ezra, who is this?”
The sheriff turned slightly. “They’re FBI agents. They shouldn’t be here. You should be with your family and friends.”
“I shall do both. They need to speak to me, I understand that.” She stepped around him, dismissing him rather like a dog, Sherlock thought. Mrs. Lewis was in charge, no doubt about that. She stuck out a graceful hand. “I’m Glory Lewis.”
They shook her hand, showed her their creds. She was a large woman, but not fat. She looked vital and fit, and quite in control of herself. Sherlock asked, “Is there somewhere we can speak in private, Mrs. Lewis?”
“Certainly. There’s no one in the den. Follow me.” Mrs. Lewis led them through a knot of people into an overly warm hallway and living room. Most of the people stopped talking and tracked their progress across the room. She paused in front of two younger women whose eyes were red, grief and shock clear on their faces. They both had the look of their mother, but not her composure. Two men, their husbands, Sherlock thought, stood like guard dogs behind them. Mrs. Lewis paused. “These are my daughters, Angela and Cynthia. Agents Savich and Sherlock. They’re here to talk to me about your father.”
Angela nodded, then whispered, “You’re that FBI agent from JFK.”
“Yes, I am,” Sherlock said, then, “But that’s not important now, is it? We’re very sorry for your loss.”
Savich saw Mrs. Lewis was tapping her foot, anxious for them to get away from her daughters. He nodded to them, took Sherlock’s arm, and followed Mrs. Lewis into a small, old-fashioned den behind the kitchen. Photos lined the fireplace mantel and covered every surface. Sherlock recognized Angela and Cynthia in photos from when they were younger, smiling, happy, with their husbands and kids, and dozens of photos showing them as infants and toddlers and young children.
“Forgive my brother,” Mrs. Lewis said. “He tends to use a hammer when a tack would do the job. My husband always knew when to use the tack.” She smiled impartially at both of them, pointed to a sofa. “Can I get either of you something to drink?”
“No, thank you, ma’am, we’re fine,” Sherlock said. “Sheriff Watson is your brother?”
Mrs. Lewis nodded, eased down across from them on a tatty love seat. “Yes, he is. Are you sure neither of you would like anything?”
“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?”