Tennyson rose slowly to his feet. Sherlock could see the pulse pounding in his neck. He was furious, and he was also something more. Frightened? Desperate? She just couldn’t tell, which disappointed her. He was very good, very controlled.

Tennyson said, the words nearly catching in his throat, “You are a cop. You see bad things. You deal with bad people, evil people. What happened wasn’t caused by someone out to kill Lily—other than Lily. She’s been very ill. Everyone knows that. Lily knows that; she even accepts it. The most logical explanation is that she simply doesn’t remember what happened because she can’t bring herself to admit that she really tried to commit suicide again. That’s all there is to it. I won’t stand for your accusations any longer. This is my home. I want you both to leave. I want you both out of our lives.”

Savich said, “All right, Tennyson, Sherlock and I will be delighted to leave. Actually, we’ll leave right after dinner. Mrs. Scruggins made it just for me, and I don’t want to miss any of it. Oh, yes, did I tell you that we know all about Lynda—you remember, don’t you? She was your first wife who killed herself only thirteen months after marrying you?”

They hadn’t told Lily about Lynda Middleton Frasier. She froze where she sat, her mouth open, utter disbelief scored on her face, any final hope leached out with those words. When her husband had spoken so calmly, so reasonably, she had wondered if it was possible that her mind had altered what really happened, that her mind was so squirrelly that she simply couldn’t trust any thought, any reaction. But not any longer. Now she knew she hadn’t disremembered anything. Oh, God, had he killed his first wife? It was horrible, unbelievable. Lily was shaking from the inside out—she couldn’t help it.

She said slowly, holding her knife in a death grip, her knuckles white from the strain, “I remember that you told me you’d been married for a very short time, Tennyson, a long time ago.”

“A long time ago?” Sherlock said, an eyebrow arched. “Sounds like maybe it was a decade or more, doesn’t it? Like he ran away with a girl when he was eighteen? Actually, Lily, Tennyson’s first wife, Lynda, killed herself two years ago—just eight months before you came to Hemlock Bay and met him.” She looked over at Tennyson and said, her voice utterly emotionless, “However, you didn’t say a word about your wife having killed herself. Why is that, Tennyson?”

“It was a tragic event in my life,” Tennyson said calmly, in control again, as he picked up his wineglass and sipped at the Napa Valley Chardonnay. It was very dry, very woody, just as he preferred. “It is still painful. Why would I wish to speak of it? Not that it was a secret. Lily could have heard it from anyone in town, from my own family even.”

Sherlock leaned forward, her food forgotten. The gauntlet was thrown. This was fascinating. She smiled at Tennyson Frasier. “Still, doesn’t it seem like it would be on the relevant side, Tennyson, for her to know, particularly after Lily tried to kill herself seven months ago? Wouldn’t you begin to think, Oops, could there be something wrong, just maybe, with me? Two wives trying to do away with themselves after they’ve been married to me only a short time? What are the odds on that, do you think, Tennyson? Two dead wives, one live husband?”

“No, that’s all ridiculous. None of it was at all relevant. Lily isn’t anything like Lynda. Lily was simply bowled over by her child’s death, by her role in her child’s death.”

“I didn’t have a role in Beth’s death,” Lily said. “I realize that now.”

“Do you really believe that, Lily? Just think about it, all right? Now, as for Lynda, she had a brain tumor. She was dying.”

This was a corker, Savich thought. “A brain tumor?”

“Yes, Savich, she was diagnosed with a brain tumor. It wasn’t operable. She knew she was going to die. She didn’t want the inevitable pain, the further loss of self, the deterioration of her physical abilities. Her confusion was growing by the day because of the tumor. She hated it. She wanted to be the one to decide her own end, and so she did. She gave herself an injection of potassium chloride. It works very quickly. As for the tumor, I saw to it that it was kept quiet. I saw no reason to tell anyone.” He paused for a moment, looked at Savich, then at Sherlock. “There are, of course, records. Check if you want to, I don’t care. I’m not lying.”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock said. “So you think it’s better for a woman to be known as a suicide for no good reason at all?” Sherlock sat back in her chair now, arms crossed over her breasts.