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.”