Free Nemesis by Catherine Coulter Page A

me for a coffin, Savich thought. The sheriff stared and stood his ground, barely holding his simmering anger in check. Sure, the sheriff was on edge, his deputy had been murdered that morning, but Savich wondered if the man didn’t always act this way.
    The tension lifted when a woman in a purple dress with a pleasant, no-nonsense face and hair drawn up in a bun on the top of her head said from behind the sheriff, “Ezra, who is this?”
    The sheriff turned slightly. “They’re FBI agents. They shouldn’t be here. You should be with your family and friends.”
    “I shall do both. They need to speak to me, I understand that.” She stepped around him, dismissing him rather like a dog, Sherlock thought. Mrs. Lewis was in charge, no doubt about that. She stuck out a graceful hand. “I’m Glory Lewis.”
    They shook her hand, showed her their creds. She was a large woman, but not fat. She looked vital and fit, and quite in control of herself. Sherlock asked, “Is there somewhere we can speak in private, Mrs. Lewis?”
    “Certainly. There’s no one in the den. Follow me.” Mrs. Lewis led them through a knot of people into an overly warm hallway and living room. Most of the people stopped talking and tracked their progress across the room. She paused in front of two younger women whose eyes were red, grief and shock clear on their faces. They both had the look of their mother, but not her composure. Two men, their husbands, Sherlock thought, stood like guard dogs behind them. Mrs. Lewis paused. “These are my daughters, Angela and Cynthia. Agents Savich and Sherlock. They’re here to talk to me about your father.”
    Angela nodded, then whispered, “You’re that FBI agent from JFK.”
    “Yes, I am,” Sherlock said, then, “But that’s not important now, is it? We’re very sorry for your loss.”
    Savich saw Mrs. Lewis was tapping her foot, anxious for them to get away from her daughters. He nodded to them, took Sherlock’s arm, and followed Mrs. Lewis into a small, old-fashioned den behind the kitchen. Photos lined the fireplace mantel and covered every surface. Sherlock recognized Angela and Cynthia in photos from when they were younger, smiling, happy, with their husbands and kids, and dozens of photos showing them as infants and toddlers and young children.
    “Forgive my brother,” Mrs. Lewis said. “He tends to use a hammer when a tack would do the job. My husband always knew when to use the tack.” She smiled impartially at both of them, pointed to a sofa. “Can I get either of you something to drink?”
    “No, thank you, ma’am, we’re fine,” Sherlock said. “Sheriff Watson is your brother?”
    Mrs. Lewis nodded, eased down across from them on a tatty love seat. “Yes, he is. Are you sure neither of you would like anything?”
    “No, thank you, ma’am, we’re fine,” Sherlock said. Was Mrs. Lewis so focused on being a hostess, to occupy her mind with something, anything but what had happened to her husband? Her eyes held only a hint that she’d been crying, but she allowed herself no overt sign of grief. Of course she was much older than Tammy Carroll, experienced in both life and death. And everyone dealt with grief differently.
    “This morning we were told there was no love lost between your brother and your husband,” Savich said. “Is this true?”
    “As you can tell from all the multitudes out there, Kane was well liked. He kept an eye on those people’s kids, especially, kept a tally of who they were and what he caught them doing. He started that up right after he found our youngest—Angela—parking with a local boy.” She smiled toward a photo of her dead husband, younger in the photo, smiling really big, wearing his uniform, a gun in its holster. “Kane rarely told on them, but the parents knew he was watching out for them. You’ve met my brother, all gruff and by-the-book. He’s never learned how to get along with people as well as my husband did.”
    “What did your