Tammy blinked up at him. “But didn’t Walter tell you why?”
“Walter has absolutely no memory of killing your husband. He has no idea why he even drove to Washington, why he even went to the Rayburn Office Building. When he came to, I guess you could say, he did remember that Sparky had told him he was making his big pitch to a congressman yesterday, but he couldn’t explain what he’d done. He was so horrified and scared because his memory of what happened is simply gone. We don’t think he’s lying. Please, sit down, Mrs. Carroll.”
Tammy Carroll slid her tongue over her lips, nodded, and eased down on what was obviously her husband’s big TV chair. She scooted to the edge and sat stiff, her back board straight, like a schoolgirl, her hands on the knees of her jeans. “Call me Tammy. I’ve been thinking and thinking, but still, it doesn’t make any sense that anyone would stab Sparky, much less Walter, one of his best friends. And you said Walter doesn’t remember? You mean he blocked out what he did because he felt so bad about it after he—” She swallowed.
Savich said, “All we know is that Walter doesn’t remember. Do you know of anything between them, a business dispute, a fight over something, jealousy, anything that might explain Walter stabbing your husband?”
“No, no, nothing.” Tears brimmed over, snaked down her face. Sherlock leaned forward, her voice low and soothing. “Mrs. Carroll—Tammy—how long have you known Walter Givens?”
Tammy swallowed her tears, drew herself up. “Walt and Sparky and I grew up together. I met them when I was in the fifth grade and they were in the eighth. Despite the age difference, despite the fact I was a little girl, we all became friends. We were together all through high school. Walt wanted me to go out with him in high school, but Sparky and I were already getting serious. But it didn’t matter. It didn’t break anything up, we were still friends, you know? That’s what doesn’t make any sense. Walt is—was—one of Sparky’s groomsmen at our wedding.” She paused, then raised tear-filled eyes to Savich. “That was four months ago. Four months. I’m only twenty and I’m a widow.” She lowered her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking. Sherlock walked to the big chair and sat on the wide leather arm. She pulled Tammy against her, rubbed her hands up and down her back. Tammy’s arms came up around Sherlock’s back. She pressed her face against Sherlock’s chest. “I’m so sorry,” Sherlock whispered against Tammy’s shiny hair. “So very sorry. We will find out what happened, I promise you. But you need to help us, Tammy. Can you do that?”
Slowly Tammy quieted, finally released Sherlock. She raised her face. “I’m sorry to fall apart again. It’s just that—”
“It’s okay, don’t worry about it.” Sherlock patted her arm and walked back to sit down on the brand-new burgundy leather sofa. “Have you ever heard of an Athame?”
“Yes, sure. My mom has two she made herself. She buried the first one she made to ground its energy.”
This was a surprise. Savich said, “Your mom’s a Wiccan?”
“Yes. Like my grandmother and one of my sisters. My mom’s Athame has a plain flint black handle, ugly, really, but she keeps it sparkling clean for all her rituals, won’t let anyone else touch it, says she couldn’t connect to the spirit of things if she didn’t have her Athame. I don’t really know how she believes all that stuff, and to be honest, I don’t really care.”
“What’s your mom’s name?” Sherlock asked her.
“Millicent, Millie—Stacy, that’s my maiden name.”
Savich handed her his cell phone. “Do you recognize this Athame?”
She looked at the knife, raised stricken eyes to his face. “This isn’t the Athame that killed—”
“No, no, it’s one that’s similar, that’s all.”
She shook her head. “The only Athames I’ve seen are my mom’s. This one looks old, really old, doesn’t it, back to when knights were riding around and knocking each other off their horses, right? Are those dragon heads?”
“Yes.”
Sherlock asked, “Are there many practicing Wiccans in Plackett, Tammy?”
“I’ve heard my mom say she wishes there were more around here and that many of them go back at least two generations. She said my grandmother raised her in Wicca, told her Mr. Gardner from England taught them everything way back in the fifties. Gwen—she’s one of my sisters—well, neither of us ever got interested in any of it, so Mom didn’t force it on us. She and my other sister will celebrate Litha—that’s the summer solstice—next month. It’s a time of great joy for them, it’s a popular time for handfasting. That’s a Wiccan wedding. I know that because she said she wanted Sparky and me to celebrate a handfasting with them next month, at Litha. Sparky didn’t know what to say when she asked, but he agreed.
“My daddy thinks it’s all crazy nonsense, so she doesn’t push it. He told her he’d join her at Litha if they could have wild sex in front of the fire.” Tammy smiled, a ghost of a smile, but still a smile. “She smacked him. For her, Litha is a time of celebration, a spiritual time.”
Savich asked her, “Is Walter Givens a Wiccan? His family?”
“Not that I know of. Wiccans don’t advertise, you know? That’s what my mom told me. Most people around here are like my dad—screwy in the head about Wiccans, my mom says.” She made a screwing motion at the side of her head. “So Wiccans tend to keep quiet about their beliefs, and their ceremonies. They don’t advertise.”
“Can you tell me the names of other practicing Wiccans in town?”
Well, I know the Alcotts for sure. They say they’re Wiccans outright. My mom told me in a real hushed voice once that she doesn’t have much to do with the Alcotts. She seems a little bit scared of them. I know that sounds weird, but I think it’s true. My mom does feel things, know things,” Tammy added, a touch of embarrassment in her voice.
“What do you mean, Tammy—what things? Can you give me an example?” Sherlock leaned forward, her eyes on Tammy’s face.
“I don’t know that much about it, Agent Sherlock. I never paid much attention. I’m sorry.”
Savich said, “What about Brakey Alcott? Is he involved?”
“Brakey? Not that I know of. Brakey usually keeps his head down, stays out of trouble. Brakey’s a nice guy, a little shy. He wasn’t all that good in school, but nice, you know? He’s a year older than Sparky.” Her voice hitched, her small hands clenched. She raised liquid eyes to Savich’s face. “He was a year older than Sparky. It doesn’t even seem real. Sparky was only twenty-three.”
After a couple moments Tammy raised her head again. “Brakey’s an Alcott, and he’d know all about the gossip about his family. How could he not? Why are you asking about Brakey?”
“It has to do with Deputy Kane Lewis,” Savich said. “Did you or Sparky know him?”
“He’s been here forever, even before I was born. I knew him better when we were kids and he was always giving us a hard time if he caught us at Milson’s Point over on Route 7.” She blushed and swallowed again. “He nearly surprised Sparky and me once. It was close. I don’t really like him, but my folks do, all the parents do. Why do you ask?”
As Savich spoke, Sherlock watched Tammy Carroll closely. “Deputy Lewis was found at the Reineke post office this morning stabbed through the heart with another Athame. Like Sparky. I’m sorry. He’s dead.”
Tammy Carroll couldn’t take it in. She stared at Savich, through him, really, and quietly, without a sound, she slid from the sofa to the floor. She hadn’t fainted. She lay curled up on her side, not crying, not making a sound, simply staring ahead of her.
CRIMINAL APPREHENSION UNIT
HOOVER BUILDING
WASHINGTON, D.C.