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36
“I’m an FBI agent, ma’am, made of sturdy stuff. I have no problem being here. We’ve been told your husband, your brother-in-law Sheriff Booker, and your lawyer visited your son at the hospital last night.”
Sherlock saw a flash of—not anger exactly, more like contempt, in the woman’s eyes. Those dark inward-looking eyes scared her, she admitted it. She felt her small 380, snug in its ankle holster, her Glock in its belt clip. She was glad Dillon had given them to her. But what good would a gun be against something you couldn’t see?
Cyndia Bodine waved them toward the sofas in the vast great room. “I suppose you should sit down.” Once seated, she said, “I’m not worried about my son. He is innocent of any wrongdoing. Rafer wouldn’t hurt any living creature, it’s not in his nature. He’s a good boy, strong and resilient. Trustworthy. Our lawyer, Mr. Jobs from Richmond, assures us Rafer won’t be spending a day in jail. There is no evidence he is guilty of anything, except protecting himself in his own home. Would any of you like some tea?”
Sherlock doubted any of them would want to eat or drink anything this woman offered. She said, “We’re fine, thank you.”
Cyndia Bodine didn’t sit, she moved to stand by the fireplace. “My brother-in-law, the sheriff, has told me your story, Dr. DeSilva—your claim you heard Rafer talking to himself about those three poor missing teenage girls. All the rest of your wild tale, too—you were kidnapped by my son, he duct-taped you in his basement—” She shot a look at Griffin. “And of course the exciting break-in by Agent Hammersmith. I must say, it sounds like a B movie. Still, it’s inventive. I have wondered why you would make up such a tale, but I’ve decided I really don’t care.” She shrugged, added, “However, I will give you some advice. I strongly recommend you don’t try to foist your story about hearing my son mumbling out loud about the three missing teenagers outside Ellerby’s Market on anyone else. Our lawyer assures us you would be ridiculed in court.”
Carson sat forward, realized her hands were fisted on her legs, smoothed them out. “Doesn’t it concern you, Mrs. Bodine, that your son was going to murder me? To keep me from going to the sheriff, which, as it turns out, would have been a big joke on me?”
“Come now, Dr. DeSilva, it seems to me you’re already a proven liar, on record claiming you heard Rafer talking aloud to himself. That certainly wasn’t true. I’m also informed the FBI forensic team has gone over Rafer’s house and found not a shred of proof of your accusations. Give it up, Dr. DeSilva, give it up and go home. Go back to New York. Forget about Gaffer’s Ridge, forget your interview with Dr. Alek Kuchar. Yes, Booker told me. Give Alek a call, send him a text, not that he’d answer you.”
Carson couldn’t help asking, “You know Dr. Kuchar?”
Cyndia Bodine said, “Of course. He and I share tea now and then, here or at his cabin. It’s only a quarter of a mile that way.” She nodded vaguely toward the west. “He’s a fascinating man, but very damaged. In any case, Alek won’t want to talk to you, especially if I ask him not to. Believe me on that.”
Griffin said, “Mrs. Bodine, even if we can’t prove your son kidnapped those girls, he will still go to prison for kidnapping Dr. DeSilva, and for attempted murder of the two of us. Those will be federal charges. I’m an FBI agent and a very credible witness.”
To his and Carson’s surprise, Cyndia Bodine laughed, shook her head. “Come now, Agent Hammersmith, what would you expect him to do when you attacked him? And she hit him on the head when he was down? No, don’t bother to spin more tales to me.” She moved from the fireplace to a burgundy leather chair and sat down, crossed her legs and began swinging her long, narrow foot like a metronome. Sherlock found herself staring at that foot, and her pretty light blue toenails.
“I was very glad Agent Hammersmith and I incapacitated him,” Carson said. “I was afraid, ma’am, he had come back to kill me.”
Savich saw Cyndia Bodine’s dark eyes go inward, heard her begin humming deep in her throat. Then she blinked, looked at each of them, and smiled. “I will say this only one more time. My son is not a murderer. A dozen, two dozen people, will testify to that. So stop your lies, Dr. DeSilva. Go home.”
Gooseflesh rose on Carson’s arms. What was Cyndia Bodine thinking when she seemed to look inside herself, as if she’d gone off somewhere? Carson was sitting across from a fifty-five-year-old woman with a youthful face, wearing a lavender summer top over white capri pants, light makeup, nothing at all to set off her large eyes. She wasn’t classically pretty, but what she had in spades was presence, gravitas. She was more than a well-to-do rich man’s wife who knew her own importance. She was something else entirely, and it scared Carson to her bones.
Savich said in his deep, matter-of-fact voice, “Rafer told us, ma’am, that you’d fix us, that you’d ‘shine’ us. I’ve never heard the word ‘shine’ used that way. What did he mean, exactly?”
“I’m his mother. What mother wouldn’t try to ‘fix’ anyone who threatened her child? ‘Shine’ you? Come now, what drama. Rafer was having you on, nothing more. I can see from your ring, Agent Savich, that you’re married, and so is Agent Sherlock. Perhaps to each other, if I have it right? Tell me, what would you do to someone who threatened your child? Wouldn’t you do anything to protect him?”
Savich wasn’t about to let her see he was impressed. She was arrogant enough, utterly convinced they were only temporary annoyances. He sat back, crossed his arms. “We all have our lives, our families. As for your family, Mrs. Bodine, all the members sound fascinating. Has your family always lived here in Gaffer’s Ridge?”
She looked at her watch, shrugged. “No, not always. I myself am a descendant of Mariah and Elija Silver of the Grantville, Tennessee, Silvers. My family has been celebrated in those parts for generations. My sister and I both married cousins, brothers actually, and, of course, moved here to Gaffer’s Ridge, where we have lived now for many years.”
She looked down at her watch again. “My husband will be home in three hours and fourteen minutes and I have errands to run in town. Is there anything else?”
Carson stared at her. “Ma’am, how can you be so exact?”
“Long years of marriage and habit, Dr. DeSilva. My husband is always punctual.” She looked again at Sherlock. “Would you like an aspirin? For your headache?”
“No, ma’am, thank you, I’m fine.” No need to tell this woman she’d kill for two more aspirin.
Cyndia turned back to study Carson. “Before I had Rafer, I had a daughter nearly as beautiful as you, Dr. DeSilva, but she ran away. She was a teenager with all the usual teenage angst and rebellion, and one day she was simply gone.” She broke off, then said, “Her hair was as dark as mine, but her eyes weren’t a dark green like all the women in my family, more a dark gray. She was still so young, but already quite striking. Her name is Camilla, after her grandmother, who lived with us before she died. She was very independent, always anxious to fly free. She was driving at twelve, no matter what we said, and, as you now know, the road to Eagle’s Nest is difficult. I suppose you could say she was wild, undisciplined, but she laughed and danced under a full moon, nearly to the edge of the cliff. But then one night, she packed a suitcase and left. I have searched for her, and waited many years, but she hasn’t contacted me. I wish I knew why she left in the first place and what she’s doing with her life.”
Sherlock said, “Was your daughter disturbed in some way?”
Cyndia splayed her hands in front of her. “Of course not. I still have some of her birthday cake in the freezer.” Her voice caught, her face shadowed. “My husband believes it’s time to throw it away. Now, if that is all—”
Savich pointed to the far wall. “Your scrying mirror is very old, isn’t it?”
All of them looked toward a small jet-black convex bubble mirror, its frame black as well, elaborately fashioned in the art deco style.
“Ah, so you recognize it. Very few people would know what it is. Yes, it is very old, made by my grandmother in the late 1920s.” She added to the rest of them, “If you don’t know, a scrying mirror is a divination tool, nothing more. Its purpose is to provide focus to the practitioner.”
Savich asked, “It is my understanding scrying mirrors are always passed from mother to daughter, usually to the eldest. Isn’t your sister, Mrs. Jessalyn Bodine, the sheriff’s wife, two years older than you? Why is it in your possession?”
