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.”
“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.”
“Now, Morgana, I knew a twelve-year-old girl who smacked her own sister with a shovel, killed her dead. Age doesn’t have anything to do with it. I already told them Brakey wouldn’t hurt a living thing. He’s like you, now, isn’t he?” And again, a wide, full smile with all those gleaming teeth. Was that mockery in those rheumy old eyes?