KnockOut - Catherine Coulter [81]
The place gave Savich a headache. It was too big, too in-your-face, just too much, period, except for all the flowers. He particularly liked the iceberg roses with white blossoms so thick they looked to weigh down the bushes.
He parked the Camry in the driveway leading to the six-car garage, behind a new dark blue Cadillac that matched the blue on the house trim. Were there more cars inside? And if there were, then why had Blessed borrowed an SUV to drive to Titusville?
Sherlock said, “The Caddy looks like Mrs. Backman’s wheels, I’d say, so hopefully she’s home. Any idea where the cemetery is?”
He gave her a quick smile. “Probably in the back. We’ll get to it.”
“You know, Dillon, this place is incredible, the flowers look like they’re on steroids, the grounds are lush and neat as a pin—it creeps me out.”
They walked up the ten deep-set wooden steps onto a wide veranda with an inviting porch swing, white rattan table, and four matching rattan chairs, the cushions the same blue and green of the house trim. It was blessedly cool on the porch, a breeze coming from the west.
Beautiful Italian ceramic pots filled with overflowing azaleas and petunias and other flowers Savich couldn’t identify hung from lacy black wrought-iron hangers, each set precisely two feet apart.
“The flowers,” Sherlock said. “I wonder what Mrs. Backman uses to get them so glorious? Maybe some sort of spell or incantation?”
He laughed. “Our garden is just as spectacular.”
“I wish,” Sherlock said, and breathed in. “Even though I can smell the roses and jasmine giving off that lovely perfume, it still creeps me out. I don’t know why.”
“You know too much about the residents.”
The door opened before they could knock. The proverbial little old lady in a flowered cotton housedress stepped out in beaded mules, her sturdy legs bare. She looked like a benign grandmother, fluffy white hair done up in an old-style knot on the top of her head, pearl studs in her drooping earlobes, a huge diamond on her ring finger. There was nothing frail about her. They knew she was seventy-eight years old because Joanna had told them. Otherwise they could have only guessed because officially, Shepherd Backman didn’t exist. She didn’t have a birth certificate, a Social Security number, a driver’s license, or a recorded marriage license. Her husband had filed taxes in his name alone. Blessed filed now, showing a yearly income of about forty-five thousand dollars from driving a delivery truck, this verified by a manager of a local mailing distribution company who had been paid off at least that much. Or maybe Blessed simply stymied him every year at tax time.
Mrs. Backman said nothing, merely stared at them, not moving, her pale brown eyes darting from one to the other. They came to rest on Savich. “Who are you, young man, and what do you want?” Her voice didn’t sound like it belonged to an old lady. It was deep, on the gruff side, as if she’d smoked for many years, and had authority, the voice of a person who always drove the bus she rode in. Savich wagered that Blessed, who was utterly terrifying, bowed to her orders without hesitation.
Savich smiled at the old woman and held out his creds. “I’m Agent Dillon Savich, FBI, and this is Agent Lacey Sherlock.”
She studied his creds, gave them back, then held out a surprisingly youthful hand to Sherlock, who placed her own creds in her wide palm. Her fingernails were dirty. From gardening? Or maybe from digging up graves?
She studied Sherlock’s ID for a very long time. Finally she handed the shield back. “Now I know who you are. What do you want?”
“We would like to speak to you and your son, Grace, since Blessed isn’t here.”
“Neither is Grace.”
At her words, Savich went on full alert. He smiled at her. “Where is Grace?”
“I imagine he’s with his brother, since they left together. They’re rarely apart, those two.”
“Do you know where they went, Mrs. Backman?”
“My boys are all grown up, Agent Savich. They come and go as they please. I’m only their mother. I’m always the last to know.”
Yeah, right, Sherlock thought.