KnockOut - Catherine Coulter [80]
“Yeah, for you.”
Savich drove down Main Street, only two blocks long, past its short row of businesses, from the Intimate Apparel boutique to Higgins Bar on the corner, with its neon flashing Dos Equis signs, to Polly’s Dry Cleaners right next door. He stopped when he saw a little boy on his bike and asked him where the Backmans lived.
The boy, who was missing two front teeth, gave him a big grin and leaned close. “My ma doesn’t like me to go anywhere near where the spooks live,” he said, and pointed east.
“Why do you call them spooks?”
The boy said, “Everybody knows they’re spooks, but my ma says I’m not supposed to talk about them. She won’t admit it, but I think she’s scared of them.”
“Why do you think that’s true?”
The boy frowned over Savich’s left shoulder. “Whenever she and my dad are talking about them, they whisper.”
“Got you. Do you ever see the Backmans in town? Blessed, Grace, Mrs. Backman?”
“Miz Backman sometimes talks to Dolly down at Fresh Fish Filet—that’s our restaurant, you know. Ma doesn’t like to eat there, says the fish is off sometimes, whatever that means.”
A gold mine of information. Savich said, “What do your parents do here?”
“My dad—he’s Reverend Halpert; he’s the preacher at the First Pilgrims Baptist Church. He’s always saying we’re lucky to have more members than Father Michael at Our Lady of Sorrows. Father Michael tells my dad he’s a heretic and laughs. Dad tells him he might be a heretic, but we have better potluck suppers. Catholics can’t make good potato salad, he tells Father Michael, and then he laughs too.”
“Do the Backmans go to your church?”
“No, they’re Catholics, but they donate money to us anyways. Lots, I heard my dad say.”
“What’s your name?”
“Taylor.”
“Well, Taylor, I’m Dillon Savich. You’ve been a big help. Go buy yourself an ice cream. I saw Elmo’s Thirty Flavors. Are they good?”
“Oh, wow, thanks, mister. The triple-fudge chocolate’s the best.” The dollar bill disappeared in Taylor’s pocket and he’d pedaled halfway to the ice-cream shop by the time Savich slid back into the Camry. Taylor yelled over his shoulder, “Elmo’s really got thirty-three flavors, I counted them! Thanks again, mister!”
“Spooks, hmmm,” Sherlock said as Savich pulled away from the curb. “Cute kid. So Mama’s afraid of the Backmans?”
“So it appears,” Savich said, and gave a nod toward a couple of old geezers who appeared to be playing checkers in front of The Genesis Spirit, the lettering stenciled in gold against black glass.
“Wonder what that’s all about?” Sherlock said.
“There’s a little sign beneath. Looks like it’s a tarot card and palm-reading place. I wonder how a town this size can support them?”
“We’ll ask Mrs. B.,” Sherlock said, and gave a little wave to the two checkers players, who seemed more interested in them than in their game.
41
THE DRIVEWAY TO THE Backmans’ house was long and graveled, curving first around two enormous oak trees, then threading between wildly blooming red rhododendron bushes. Oaks and maples lined the sides, full branches forming a lush canopy overhead. It was a royal approach to the palace.
The house was set in the best spot in the valley, at the eastern end of the bowl. It glistened beneath the hot sun like a wedding cake, lavishly decorated with blue and green accent colors. The house was surrounded by thick stands of oak trees. The front yard was beautifully manicured, with undulating green lawns and small yews lining flower beds filled with azaleas, petunias, and fuchsia. Rosebushes and jasmine trekked up the sides of the house on trellises. It was extravagant and romantic and utterly unexpected in a valley like Bricker’s Bowl.
Savich’s first thought was, Where is the cemetery?
“Wowza,” Sherlock said, and whistled. “Would you look at that place, Dillon. I didn’t get the impression of anything this grand from Joanna. She said it was a mansion and left it at that. Would you look at the accent colors—those dark blues and greens are gorgeous. I don’t think I’ve seen more colors on the Painted Ladies in San Francisco.