Nemesis (FBI Thriller 19)

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?”

Yes, he was,” Savich said, “very drunk. Do you know where your husband was last night, Mrs. Lewis?”

“He told me he had a Lion’s Club meeting, but I knew he was headed for one of the three bars out on I-66.” She shook her head. “He always used breath mints before he came back into the house, as if I wouldn’t know he was drunk as a skunk. He wasn’t a young man anymore, and I worried for his health. But he thought I was nagging him if I said anything to him about it.

“I went to bed last night the same time I usually do. Kane and I had separate bedrooms because of his snoring, so I didn’t know he hadn’t come home until my brother woke me up early this morning to tell me he was dead.” Her voice stayed steady, without a hitch.

“Did your brother know your husband drank?”

Glory Lewis smiled at Savich, a sad, accepting smile that said it all. “Sure, Ezra knew, not that he would worry about him. Ezra would say Kane is his own man, and if he runs off the road, that’s his business. I think he was more worried about what the townspeople would say if that happened. Did Kane’s being drunk have anything to do with his death—his murder?”

“We don’t know that yet, Mrs. Lewis,” Sherlock said. “But I have a question for you. Are you a Wiccan?”

“What? What did you say? What sort of question is that, Agent Sherlock?”

“I know it’s an unusual question, ma’am, but we need for you to tell us—are you a Wiccan?”

“Wiccan? No. Kane and I have attended the Plackett Bible Church in town every Sunday for almost thirty years.”

“Do you know any practicing Wiccans in Plackett?”

“Well, there is a small group in and around Plackett, I’ve heard. I mean, there are a few of them everywhere nowadays, aren’t there? I hope God’s grace touches everyone searching for whatever peace they can find in this world, but I’m not the kind to look for it in herbs and chants and symbols. But really, I’ve never paid them much mind. Now that you mention it, I remember my eldest daughter, Cynthia, was flirting with the idea of becoming a Wiccan when she was about fourteen. Read about it in the library. She was just getting interested in boys then, and I suggested she’d find them more fun than burning candles and drawing circles in the dirt and shivering in the woods. She never raised it again.”

“Do you know the Alcotts, Mrs. Lewis?”

She cocked her head at Savich. “Sure I do, Agent Savich. This is a small town. Everyone knows most everyone else. I remember Kane investigated Mr. Alcott’s unfortunate death six months ago. It was a hit-and-run.”

“What did your husband discover, Mrs. Lewis?”

She cocked her head again, showing only mild interest. “He found some skid marks, nothing they could identify, and that was all. Kane told me it seemed to him the driver who struck Mr. Alcott stopped completely, panicked, and drove away. They never found who it was.”

“Then you know Mrs. Alcott,” Savich said.

“You’re asking me this because you believe Brakey killed my husband.” Her voice was flat, matter-of-fact. “No, don’t deny it, you have only to step into my living room to know everyone is talking about it. Not in my presence, of course. Did Brakey kill my husband?”

“Your husband was killed with an Athame, Mrs. Lewis,” Savich said. “A Wiccan ceremonial knife. You’re aware, naturally, that Sparky Carroll was also murdered yesterday in Washington. He was also murdered with an Athame. We’re investigating what Brakey Alcott’s involvement was now, Mrs. Lewis.”