Catherine Coulter: Hemlock Bay

“You wouldn’t expect him to?”

“I see now,” Lily said, her eyes suddenly narrow and fierce. “He was afraid Mrs. Scruggins would call you and then you would wonder why the family hadn’t called. I think he’s afraid of you, Dillon. He’s always asking me how you’re doing and where you are. When you were here before, I think you scared him really good.”

“Why would I scare him?”

“Because you’re big and you’re smart and you’re a special agent with the FBI.”

Sherlock laughed. “Lots of people don’t relax around FBI agents. But Mr. Elcott Frasier? I took one look at him and thought he probably chewed nails for breakfast.”

“He could, you know. Everyone thinks that, particularly his son, my husband.”

“Maybe he called because he knew we’d want to come here to see you,” Savich said. “Maybe he isn’t all that much of an iron fist.”

“Yes, he is. Tennyson was here earlier.” She sighed, tightened a bit from a jab of pain in her bruised ribs, the pulling in her side. “Thank goodness he finally left.”

Savich looked over at Sherlock. “What happened, Lily? Talk to us.”

“Everyone thinks I tried to kill myself again.”

“Fine, let them. It doesn’t matter. Talk, Lily.”

“I don’t know, Dillon, I swear I don’t. I remember that I had to drive that gnarly road to Ferndale, you know, 211? And that’s all. Everything else is just lost.”

Sherlock said, “All right, then. Everyone thinks you tried to kill yourself because of the pills you took right after Beth’s death?”

“Yes, I guess so.”

“But why?”

“I suppose I haven’t been exactly honest with you guys, but I just didn’t want you to worry. Fact is, I have been depressed. I’ll feel lots better and then it’s back down again. It’s gotten progressively worse the past couple of weeks. Why? I don’t know, but it has. And then last night happened.”

Savich pulled up a chair and sat down. He took her hand again. “You know, Lily, even when you were a little girl, you’d hit a problem, and I swear you’d worry and work and chew on that problem, never giving up until you had it solved. Dad used to say that if he was slow telling you something you really wanted to know, he could just see you gnawing on his trouser leg until you ripped it right off or he talked, whichever came first.”

“I miss Dad.”

“I do, too. Now, I still don’t understand that first time you wanted to die. That wasn’t the Lily I knew. But Beth’s death-that would knock any parent on his or her butt. But now seven months have passed. You’re smart, you’re talented, you’re not one to be in denial. This depression-that doesn’t make a lot of sense to me. What’s been happening, Lily?”

She sobered, frowning now. “Nothing’s been happening, just more of the same. Like I said, over the past months sometimes I’d feel better, feel like I could conquer the world again, but then it would go away and I’d want to stay in bed all day.

“For whatever reason, yesterday it got really bad. Tennyson called me from Chicago and told me to take two of the antidepressant pills. I did. I’ll tell you something, the pills sure don’t seem to help. And then, when I was driving on that road to Ferndale-well, maybe something did happen. Maybe I did drive into that redwood. I just don’t remember.”

“It’s okay. Now, how does your brain feel right now?” Sherlock asked, scooting in a little closer to Lily on the hospital bed.

“Not quite as vague as before. I guess since there’s less morphine swimming around up in there, I’m coming back.”

“Are you feeling depressed?”

“No. I’m mainly just mad because of that idiot shrink they sent by. A dreadful man, trying to be so comforting, so understanding, when really he was a condescending jerk.”

“You smart-mouthed him, babe?”

“Maybe. A little bit.”

“I’m glad,” Sherlock said. “Not enough back-mouthing from you lately, Lily.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Oh, dear what?”

But Lily didn’t say anything, just kept looking toward the door.

Savich and Sherlock both turned to see their brother-in-law, Tennyson Frasier, come into the room.

Savich thought, Lily doesn’t want to see her husband?

What was going on here? Seven months ago, Lily had come back to Maryland to stay with their mother for several weeks after Beth’s funeral. While she’d been there, Savich had done everything he could, turned over every rock he could find, called in every favor, to discover who had struck Beth and driven off. No luck. Not a clue. But then Lily had wanted to go back to Hemlock Bay, to be with her husband, who loved her and needed her, and yes, she was all right now.

A big mistake to let her come back here, Savich thought, and knew he wouldn’t leave her here this time. Not again.

Savich straightened as Tennyson came striding toward him, his hand outstretched. As he pumped Savich’s hand, he said, “Boy, am I ever glad to see you guys. Dad told me he called you, in the middle of the night.” Then he stopped. He looked at Lily.

Sherlock never moved from her perch on Lily’s bed. She said, “Good to see you, Tennyson.” Such a handsome man he was, big and in pretty good shape, and at the moment he looked terrified for his wife. Why didn’t Lily want to see him?

“Lily, are you all right?” Tennyson walked to her bed, his hand out.

Lily slipped her hand beneath the covers as she said, “I’m fine, Tennyson. Do you know that I tried to call Dillon and Sherlock earlier? And my line went dead. Is it still dead now?”

Sherlock picked up the phone. There was a dial tone. “It’s fine now.”

“Isn’t that strange?”

“Maybe,” Tennyson said, leaning down to caress Lily’s pale face, kiss her lightly, “with all that morphine in you, you didn’t do it right.”

“There was a dial tone, then a person’s breathing, some clicking sounds, and then nothing.”

“Hmmm. I’ll check on that, but it’s working now, so no harm done.” He turned back to Savich. “You and Sherlock got here very quickly.”

“She’s my sister,” Savich said, looking at his brother-in-law closely. “What would you expect?” He’d always liked Tennyson, believed he’d been a solid man, one who was trustworthy, unlike Lily’s first husband, Jack Crane. He’d believed Tennyson had been as distraught as Lily when Beth was killed. He had worked with Savich trying to find out who the driver was who’d killed Beth. As for the sheriff, he’d been next to useless. What was wrong? Why didn’t Lily want to see him?

Tennyson merely nodded, then kissed Lily again. He said, his voice as soft as a swatch of Bengali silk, “I can’t wait to get you out of this place, get you home. You’ll be safe with me, Lily, always.”

But she hadn’t been safe, Sherlock thought. That was the bottom line. She’d run her Explorer into a redwood. Hardly safe. What was wrong with this picture?

“What about that psychiatrist, Tennyson?”

“Dr. Rossetti? I would really like you to see him, Lily. He can help you.”

“You said you would institutionalize me if I didn’t see him.”

Savich nearly went en pointe.

Sherlock laughed. “Institutionalize Lily? Come on, Tennyson.”

“No, no, all of you misunderstood. Listen, Lily very probably drove into that redwood last night. This is the second time she’s tried to end her life. You were both here after the first time. You saw how she was. Her mother saw as well. Well, she’s been on medication, but obviously it hasn’t helped. I want her to speak to a very excellent psychiatrist, a man I respect very much.”

“I don’t like him, Tennyson. I don’t want to see him again.”