“I’m not poor anymore, Mr. Savich—well, not as poor as I used to be. And I’m not a fat old frump, either. I work out and only eat french fries twice a week.” And she lifted up her oversized sweatshirt to show them her midriff as she twirled around.

Sherlock laughed. “You look great, Marilyn, maybe too great, so I want you to stay away from my husband.” She waved her hand around her. “This is quite a project—look at how much you’ve accomplished.”

Marilyn beamed at them. “Doesn’t it look great? It’s taken months and months. When I need something done and it’s too much work for me, I find someone who’s good at it. Barter’s the greatest thing going if you have a skill to trade. You can build your own business that way.”

She waved toward a grouping of four mahogany chairs. “See those chairs I made with Buzz? I really like the Chippendale design.” Marilyn was so excited she was nearly dancing.

“That’s a late eighteenth-century British design. Look at the elaborate splats—boy, does that ever take concentration and a gentle touch—and the ball-and-claw feet, you bust your butt to get those beauties.”

“They’re incredible,” Sherlock said. “So very finely made.”

“Buzz helped me with the splats, but I did the last two all by myself. Bet you can’t tell which are mine, without his help.”

Savich studied each of them, ran his hand over the intricate splats of one chair, then smiled at her. “No, I can’t tell. You’re really good, Marilyn.”

“Thank you. I’ve already got the old tack room done. It’s going to be my office. My living area is going up in the old hay loft. I’ll have it done in a couple of months, then I’m moving out here.

“I decided I don’t want Buzz’s shop or his house, just all his tools and equipment and clients, but I haven’t broken that to him yet since he’s been attached to that shop for thirty years. But my shop will be here. There’s plenty of work space, all I need. And the light, would you look at all the wonderful light!”

Savich was coming to terms with how much she’d changed. Not only her appearance, but the air of hopeless-ness that had clung to her, the fear—it was all gone. She was no longer that terrorized girl the Tuttles had abused. In her place appeared this solid young woman.

Savich took her hand, knowing he was going to scare her again, and hating it. “I don’t want to needlessly frighten you, Marilyn, but we need your help. It has to do with Tammy.”

Her hand jerked in his, but he held it tight. For an instant, she looked panicked.

“No, it’s okay. Both Tammy and Tommy are long dead, you know that. It’s about someone close to them. We’re looking for an old man who knew Tammy, maybe her grandfather.”

“But why? They’re all dead, aren’t they? You swear Tammy’s dead, don’t you, Mr. Savich?”

“Of course she’s dead,” he assured her. “But there’s a vicious old man out there who’s as insane and violent as Tammy was. He wants to avenge her by killing me. And he wants to hurt Sherlock. Help us, Marilyn. Tell us who he is.”

“Moses Grace?” she whispered, her face now pale, the old fear back in her eyes. “That old man everyone’s talking about? And that teenage girl he’s got with him? Claudia?”

Savich nodded.

“Oh God, do you think he knows about this property?”

He said matter-of-factly, “No, I have no reason to believe he does. The location of this barn wasn’t in any newspaper accounts. And believe me, Marilyn, if he’d somehow found out about this place, he’d have been here months ago. He doesn’t know. Believe me.”

“Okay, that’s a good thing. But you think Moses Grace is Tammy’s grandfather?”

“Yes, he may very well be. He’s too old to be her father.”

“I don’t want him to kill you, Mr. Savich.” She nodded at Sherlock’s sling. “Did he do that?”

“Yes, he did,” Savich said.

“You’re right about it not being Tammy’s daddy. He left when she and Tommy were real young.”

“Okay. You told me your mother and Tammy’s mother were sisters or half-sisters. Tell us what you remember about any other relatives, Marilyn—names, where they lived, whatever.”

“It’s hard to talk about them, Mr. Savich, but I’ll try.” She waved them toward the mahogany chairs again. “Sit down, sit down. Okay. Good.” Then she stopped talking. She stretched her legs out in front of her and stuffed her hands in her jeans pockets.