Savich liked the good-looking older man with a crooked incisor and charming smile. “Nearly as good as my mom’s.”
“What can I say to that? A mom’s a mom.” As he poured iced tea into their glasses, Congo continued, “Did the chief tell you I was the one who found the first skull when I dived looking for poor Ms. Ryan? That was a shocker, I’ll tell you, a skull on the bottom of Lake Massey. I thought poor Albert would mess his pants when the chief here handed it to him. Any sugar or lemon for anybody? No? Imagine, some crazy serial killer living in or near Willicott, Maryland. I mean, everyone knows they exist, but you don’t expect it could be one of your neighbors down the street, right?”
Sherlock asked, “Is that what you think, Mr. Bliss? The serial killer lives in Willicott?”
“I was told that’s what Charlie thinks, and Charlie’s your right hand, Ty.” Congo shook his head. “Hard to swallow he’s risen so high in such a short time. I knew Charlie when he was a snot-nosed little dip, always blowing bubble gum, making a mess on his face. His mama—Lynn Corsica—was always peeling the stuff off, smacking his butt while she did. Smart lady, that Lynn, sees everything, knows everything, to be expected, I guess, being she runs the library.
“Anyway, I heard Charlie and Hanger Lewis and his boys hauled up a lot more bones in that creaky old pontoon boat of his. And more this morning when Charlie and Hanger went out again. I wonder why they haven’t found more skulls. The walleyes haul them away?” He shook his head. “Imagine finding that poor federal prosecutor down there with all those bones.”
The perils of a small town. Everyone knew everything about Octavia’s body being in the lake, right down to the number of bones they’d hauled up. At least she could hope anyone who’d heard or seen anything would come to her door. Would anyone come up and say something to Sala?
Congo gave them a salute and wandered to another table with his tea pitcher. Not three minutes later, he was back. “I heard the fancy folk at Quantico are looking at the bones. Chief, you gonna have Hanger take another run?”
She said, “Mayor Bobby and the council want to wait and see what the FBI is planning before they authorize more money for dragging the lake.” Actually, Mayor Bobby had said, “What do we need more bones for, Ty? It’s not like they can identify anybody from a skull like they do on the TV shows.” He’d given her his patented winsome smile that had charmed her when he’d interviewed her and gotten him elected four times. He’d leaned close, patted her shoulder. “I know you want to do your job, Chief, and track down this maniac. The council and I, we’ve got your back.” And what did that mean?
She smiled up at Congo. “Delicious meatloaf as usual, Congo. Look, Agent Sherlock and Agent Porto have nearly cleaned their plates, and hardly a bean left on Agent Savich’s plate. Now it’s on to your peach pie.”
When he returned with an entire pie to cut at the table, Ty said before he could start up again, “Congo, do you know of anyone who’s gone missing for, say, the last twenty years, and was never found or heard from again?”
Congo frowned as he meticulously cut the warm pie and served up the slices. Finally, he said, “Same question I’ve been hearing all day. There was Mr. Grover—went missing back in ninety-four, never heard from again. But he was old and had Alzheimer’s, so he probably wandered off, maybe fell into Lake Massey and drowned. Can’t think of anyone else myself. I’ll ask around.”
“Thank you. Guys, Congo’s known not only for his meatloaf but his peach pie. Dig in.”
Congo lightly laid his hand on Sala’s shoulder. “Everyone’s sorry about what happened to Ms. Ryan, and to you, Agent Porto. It was a horrible thing.”
Marv Spaleny, the book festival committee president and owner of Spaleny’s Best Books, walked over and introduced himself. He was always at Bliss’s Diner on Sunday nights without his wife, although no one knew why. He was a tall man, thin as a nail, always full of bonhomie that kept customers coming in to buy his undiscounted books.
Marv looked down at the peach pie without a lick of interest and said in his deep, mellow voice that made him a favorite reader at the library, “The book festival was a big hit this year, despite all the trouble on the lake, Ty, biggest year yet. Your deputies did great. I saw the last of our authors off a bit ago. We’ll find out how well all our shop owners did at the weekly council meeting. I know I sold more books than I’d expected. Hope you can make it.”
Congo patted his shoulder. “Come on, Marv, I’ve got your tortilla soup all ready. Don’t want it to go cold.”
Marv gave them a small bow and left them, following Congo, though Marv stopped at every table to preen about the festival success.
* * *
The four of them adjourned to Ty’s back deck. Ty served her Turkish espresso and Earl Grey tea for Dillon, talking him into a dash of cinnamon, which, to his surprise, he liked.
The sun was setting, the air warm and soft against their faces. The crickets had begun their nightly symphony when they settled on the deck and grew quiet to take in the evening.
“The water looks like glass,” Sherlock said and sighed. “This is a beautiful spot, Ty. Do you ever miss Seattle?”
Ty was looking across the lake at Point Gulliver and Gatewood, remembering the murder, seeing it all again. She shook herself. “It’s strange, but I sort of miss the incessant drizzle—liquid sunshine, Seattle natives call it. But Seattle itself? With all the Starbucks, all the crazy traffic, people going every which way, the drugs and the gangs I dealt with in Vice—no, I don’t miss that. Willicott is exactly my speed.” She saluted Sherlock with her coffee cup. “Except for everyone knowing what you eat for breakfast, it’s perfect.
“Dillon, thank you and Mr. Maitland. I know it’s my jurisdiction, but I don’t have enough resources. Your bringing the FBI on board on TV tomorrow will be a big help.”
Savich took his final drink of tea, with cinnamon. Who knew? “I’ll call you in the morning after I’ve got everything lined up, give you an exact time. Sala, I want you there, all right? I think it’s time to set rumors straight about the Serial and about what happened to you and Octavia. I’m hoping the broadcast will go regional. I don’t want either the Serial or Victor to be able to find a hole to hide in.”
Sherlock said, “Something’s been bothering me. Since Victor escaped from Central State Hospital, he couldn’t have had much money. But look what he’s done. Moving around in Washington, buying camping gear, weapons, coming up here. So he’s either been robbing stores or—”
Savich finished it. “Or—he went back and picked up the stolen bank money Jennifer Smiley hid somewhere. Money we never found on her property, even after the FBI went over the place thoroughly, house and grounds.”
Ty asked. “How much money?”
“Over a half a million dollars,” Savich said. “You can bet the citizens of Fort Pessel dug up the property. So far we haven’t heard about anyone finding a big load of cash, and we would have.”
“Why is it important to you to know that, Dillon?” Ty asked him.
He said slowly, “Unless we know for sure whether Victor has that bank money, it leaves us with a mystery.”
“As in where then did he get money after his escape from the psychiatric ward?”
“Exactly.” Savich shook his head. “We’ll figure it out, sooner or later.”
Sala said, “Guys, here’s what I can’t get past. We know Victor’s girlfriend, Lissy, is dead. You’ve said she was the love of Victor’s life, so then who was that girl I heard laughing? Has he hooked up with some runaway teenager?”