can talk about Miranda Stirling. I thought you’d have asked Griffin to interview her.”
He was silent a moment as he smoothly passed a Chevy Silverado. “Rebekah needs protection, and that means Griffin has to stick close. Also, Griffin and Rebekah are going to see her grandmother in Clairemont.”
“Yes, yes, all true, but you know what I think? You’re hooked. What with Zoltan disappearing, and all the drama from so many years ago. You want to stay right in the middle of it, don’t you?”
He shot her a smile. “Miranda Stirling was right in the middle of everything back in 1995. She and Rebekah’s grandmother are the two people closest to whatever happened to Nate Elderby. I’m hoping she’ll tell us what she thought actually happened at the time, and what she thinks now after so many years have passed.”
They drove through Sinack’s charming colonial downtown, turned on East Jacobs Street. Savich carefully steered around an ancient pale-blue-and-white Cadillac, a gray head barely visible above the steering wheel.
Three blocks later, they turned onto Elm Street, into an older settled neighborhood with big houses and bigger yards, shaded by maples and oaks. Savich found himself thinking the neighborhood would be a great place to bring kids on Halloween. He pulled in behind a white Lexus. “Mrs. Stirling seemed excited we were coming to see her. I didn’t tell her what it was about, and she didn’t ask.”
“I wonder why she didn’t ask. I mean, the FBI calls you, wants to come over, and you don’t ask what it’s all about? Maybe she already guessed.”
They were met at the freshly painted dark blue front door by a tall, very fit woman wearing a big fuchsia shirt, black leggings, and black ballet slippers on long narrow feet. They’d called up photos of her and knew she was forty-eight, good-looking, and stylish. But Miranda Stirling in person was more, lots more. Her high, sharp cheekbones and her sloe-eyed dark looks were striking. Sherlock imagined she’d still be beautiful at ninety. She wore her dark brown hair in a bob around her face, not a single gray hair showing. But it was her nearly black eyes that were the draw—mysterious and compelling. Sherlock imagined she’d been a knockout as a young woman, probably got whatever she went after.
“Mrs. Stirling?”
She nodded. “Agent Savich?” At his nod, she looked at Sherlock, blinked, then smiled really big. “Of course I know who you are, Agent Sherlock. It’s an honor to meet you. Do come in.”
They showed Mrs. Stirling their creds and followed her into a large entry hall, its wide-oak-plank floor scattered with early American carpets, all dark colors and patterns that should have made the space dim, but didn’t. It looked rich. The living room, like the entrance hall, was right out of the colonial period, with a dark-beamed ceiling, cream-painted walls covered with an assortment of stylized colonial paintings, and inset dark mahogany bookshelves. A brick fireplace sat between two long, narrow windows, facing an arrangement of sofas and comfortable chairs. An old, dark-patterned carpet covered most of the living room floor. There was even an antique broom leaning against the fireplace.
Sherlock said, “I feel like I’ve stepped back in time.”
Mrs. Stirling smiled, very pleased. “I found a print of the colonial living room I wanted, and my husband, Frank, helped me bring it to life. I had the interest and the contacts, and in addition to taking great care of people’s teeth—he’s a dentist—he has quite the eye. As for stepping back in time, it’s all quite lovely until it’s too hot or too cold, like today, and then I’m grateful for the central heating. Do sit down.” She pointed to a brown rolled-arm sofa.
Mrs. Stirling sat opposite them in a high-backed chair, her incredible eyes intent on their faces. She said without hesitation, “I was very surprised and pleased to hear from you. I have to say, it’s about time. Are you here about Nate’s murder or about the money? Or both?”
Savich didn’t get surprised easily, but Miranda had managed it. He’d planned to steer her slowly back in time, help her recall memories and details. He smiled at her. “Yes, you’re right. I imagine you’d think it is about time. Your thoughts about Mr. Elderby and what happened to him are exactly what we’d like to know. And, of course, anything you know about stolen money.”
She paused a moment. “When I heard about John’s death last month, I wondered if what happened back in