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.

“Excuse me a moment, please,” Savich said, nodded to Sherlock, and walked to the end of the veranda. He called Ethan’s cell. Ethan answered on the second ring. Savich said, “Grace is in Titusville. Evidently both he and Blessed went to fetch Autumn. I don’t know what to expect from him, Ethan, but he’s close by, and maybe as dangerous as his brother. Maybe they work together or Blessed uses Grace in some way to help him focus. Remember you told me when Ox was stymied, he sounded like himself, only not quite? Was it Blessed’s voice?”

“He didn’t sound all that different, but what he said and how he said it, that wasn’t Ox. You’re thinking it might have been Grace’s voice?”

“That sounds so bizarre it gives me a headache even to think about it. More likely Blessed does it all by himself, but the fact is, we don’t know for sure. But Grace is there, so take care.”

When Savich walked back he heard Sherlock say, “You have a lovely home, Mrs. Backman. The blue and green accent colors are perfect, and show an amazing attention to detail. They draw you right in. And the flowers—I like to garden myself.”

“Thank you,” said Shepherd Backman. She didn’t bend at the praise of her home or gardens, nor did she budge from where she stood, blocking the front-door entrance. Well, maybe she’d slathered it on a bit too thick, Sherlock thought. She wanted to tell the old crone that even though it looked well-kept, the place still creeped her out, just to see what she’d say.

Savich picked it up. “We wondered where all the money came from to build and maintain this lovely property. Your husband’s dead, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, a mugger got to him outside Harrah’s in Reno on November seventeenth, 1999, killed him dead.”

“Your husband gambled?”

“Well, yes, he spent a good deal of time in the casinos. He was a man of many talents, Agent Savich. I have little knowledge of his financial dealings, but he always provided well for us. I built this house from the legacy he left.”

Not quite the story you told Joanna, Savich thought.

Shepherd said, “The damned mugger took all Theodore’s money too after he whacked him on the head, money Theo would have wired to me the next morning, nine o’clock on the dot. The local police were useless. If our own Sheriff Cole had been in charge, they would have found the murdering little pissant and hung him.”

Now this was quite an outpouring.

Sherlock said, “That’s a long time to go without an influx of cash, Mrs. Backman. Has Blessed been providing for you since then, stymieing your local bank manager, for example, to replenish your checking accounts and your investment portfolio, or the car dealer to get you that new Cadillac? Incidentally, the Caddy sure matches the blue accent well.”

Shepherd showed no reaction; she remained poised, well in control. Maybe she’d paled a little bit? No, unfortunately Savich didn’t think so. She was a tough old duck.

Shepherd said matter-of-factly, “Blessed doesn’t stymie for money in Bricker’s Bowl. That wouldn’t be right. We would not take from our neighbors. Those huge Mob-run casinos are a different matter entirely.”

Sherlock said, “I would very much like to see the inside of your lovely home, Mrs. Backman.”

“Most people would.”

“May we come in?”

They could see that Shepherd Backman desperately wanted to show off her masterpiece, garner more envy and praise. But should she keep out the FBI agents or appear to cooperate? She was obviously torn about that. They could see her wheels spinning—let the enemy in or not?