Hemlock Bay

well. Tansy was her name and she was, what? Twenty-eight? Thirty? Older than Lily, Sherlock thought. Tansy—an odd name, nearly as whimsical as Tennyson. She lived in Seattle, owned one of the ubiquitous coffeehouses near Pioneer Square. Sherlock had gotten the impression from Lily that Tansy didn’t come back to Hemlock Bay all that often.
    Elcott Frasier walked to Sherlock and grabbed her hand, shook it hard. “Mrs. Savich, what a pleasure.” He looked ever so pleased to see her. She wondered how pleased he was to see Dillon, since she knew, right to her toes, that Mr. Elcott Frasier had little respect for women. It was in his eyes, in his very stance—condescending, patronizing.
    “Mr. Frasier,” she said and gave him her patented, guileless sunny smile. “I wish we could meet again under less trying circumstances.” Go ahead, she thought, believe I’m an idiot, worth less than nothing in brainpower.
    “Your poor husband is very upset by all this,” Mr. Frasier said. “Given all that’s happened, I can’t say I blame him.”
    Sherlock said, “Certainly he’s upset. It’s good to see you again, Tennyson.” She went directly to sit on the side of Lily’s bed. She lightly stroked her pale hair that was getting oily now. Thick, lank strands framed her face. Sherlock saw the pain in her eyes, how stiffly she was holding her body. She wanted to cry. “Dillon will be back in just a moment, Lily. You shouldn’t have to suffer like this.”
    “It is about time for a bit more pain medication,” a nurse said as she came through the door, Savich at her heels. No one said a word as she injected the painkiller into Lily’s IV. She leaned over, checked Lily’s pulse, smoothed the thin blanket to her shoulders, then straightened. “The pain will lessen almost immediately. Call if you have too much more discomfort, Mrs. Frasier.”
    Lily closed her eyes. After a few minutes, she said quietly, “Thank you, Dillon. It was pretty bad, but not now. Thank you.” Then, without another word, she was asleep.
    “Good,” said Savich and motioned for them all to leave. “Let’s go to the waiting room. Last time I looked, it was empty.”
    “My wife and I are grateful to you for being here,” Elcott Frasier said. “Tennyson needs all the support he can get. The past seven months have been very hard on him.”
    “That’s just what I was thinking,” Savich said. “Lily hitting that redwood gave us just the excuse we needed to come here and support Tennyson.”
    “My father didn’t mean it the way it sounded, Dillon,” Tennyson said. “It’s just been difficult—for all of us.” He looked down at his watch. “I’m afraid I have patients to see. I will be back to check on Lily in about four hours.”
    He left them with Elcott Frasier, who asked a passing nurse to fetch him a cup of coffee. She did without hesitation because, Sherlock knew, she wasn’t stupid. She recognized the Big Man on the hospital board of directors when she saw him. Sherlock wanted to punch his lights out.
    Savich leaned down, kissed Sherlock on the mouth, and said low, “No, don’t belt him. Now, I’ve got all sorts of warning whistles going off in my head. I’m going to look at that car. Grill our brother-in-law’s father, okay?”
    “No problem,” Sherlock said.
    When Dillon found Sherlock two hours later, she was in the hospital cafeteria eating a Caesar salad and speaking to Dr. Theodore Larch.
    “So do you think she was so depressed that she decided to end it? Again?”
    “I’m a surgeon, Mrs. Savich, not a psychiatrist. I can’t speculate.”
    “Yeah, but you see lots of people in distress, Dr. Larch. What do you think of Lily Frasier’s state of mind?”
    “I think the surgical pain is masking a lot of her symptoms right now—that is, if she has any symptoms. I haven’t seen any myself. But what do I know?”
    “What do you think of Dr. Rossetti?”
    Dr. Larch wouldn’t quite meet her eyes. “He’s, ah, rather new here. I don’t know him all that well. Dr. Frasier, however, knows him very well. They went to medical school together, I understand. Columbia Presbyterian Medical School, in New York City.”
    “I didn’t know that,” Sherlock said and tucked it away. She wanted to meet this Dr. Rossetti, the pompous man Lily didn’t like and whom Tennyson appeared to be pushing very hard on his wife.
    She smiled at Dr. Larch, took a bite of her salad, which was surprisingly good, and said, “Well,