The home of Sparky Carroll and his wife, Tammy, was in the middle of Pine Nut Street, a solidly middle-class residential neighborhood parallel to Main Street. Oaks and maples had thickened up nicely for late spring, the sky was blue, and a slight breeze stirred their hair as they walked up the flagstone driveway to the ranch-style home. It was perhaps ten years old, and well maintained, the grass freshly mowed, pansies planted in narrow beds in front of the house. Savich was glad to see there were no cars in the driveway. He’d called Mrs. Carroll, asking to speak to her alone.
A perfect pocket Venus answered the door. She was barely five feet tall, curvy, with long straight brown hair and brown eyes red from weeping. She was painfully young. Savich and Sherlock showed her their creds, introduced themselves.
“We are very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Carroll,” Savich said. “Thank you for seeing us. We really need your help.”
Tammy didn’t say anything; it seemed her throat had been clogged with tears since she’d heard all the shouting and screams on her cell when Sparky had called her. She’d known, she’d known something terrible had happened. She turned away on her small feet and showed them into a long, narrow living room with windows across the front, the thick green draperies pulled tightly shut, shadowing the room.
She waved a small white hand. “Please, sit down. May I get you something to drink?”
“No, thank you,” Savich said. “We’re fine.” He walked over to her and gently took her small hands between his. “We will find out why Walter Givens killed Sparky, Mrs. Carroll.”
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.”