“When did the duo set of Justices drop by? Were they unannounced?”
“They arrived maybe ten minutes before you did. And yes, neither couple called first. We’ve been talking about the Danny O’Malley murder.”
Janette paused a moment with the silver tray and cups. “I’ve met Justice Alto-Thorpe twice. I wonder if she’s always so disapproving of our federal police force?”
Sherlock smiled. “I imagine she hates law enforcement in general, and this sent her right over the top. I can tell you from firsthand experience she’s been that way both times I’ve been near her.”
“It’s a wonder her lips don’t disappear completely into her face.”
Sherlock laughed, then sobered immediately. “I’m actually surprised that Justice Sumner Wallace came by, since he wanted to seduce Margaret and she told her husband about it. A lot of anger there. Why would he come?”
Sherlock calmly watched Janette Weaverton drop a coffee cup. Both women watched it hit the tile and shatter. That, Sherlock thought, was some payoff to the outrageous statement she’d just made.
“Oh dear, look what I’ve done. I’m so clumsy.” Janette Weaverton quickly fetched a broom and dustpan from the walk-in pantry, and started in on the mess.
Sherlock said as she watched her sweep up the broken cup and dump it into the garbage can beneath the sink, “Surely you know what happened, Mrs. Weaverton. Surely you aren’t at all surprised by this. Margaret told all of you about Justice Wallace and his unwanted antics.”
Janette Weaverton washed her hands, dried them, and said as she turned back to Sherlock, “Margaret said very little about it to us. When Anna brought it up, Margaret laughed it off. I never got the impression it disturbed her very much. She thought he was an old fool. He’s never hit on me.” Janette began to arrange cups on their saucers on the big silver tray.
“Are there teabags?”
“What? Oh certainly.”
She fetched a tea box, an early American piece divided into ten sections, each with a different tea. Sherlock picked out Earl Grey, Savich’s favorite. “My husband rarely drinks coffee.”
“Your husband is a lovely man. He obviously takes very good care of himself. You’re a lucky woman.”
Sherlock nodded in agreement. “Yes. We have a little boy, Sean is his name. Do you have children, Mrs. Weaverton?”
Janette shook her head as she poured cream into a small pitcher and set it on the tray. “No, my husband and I decided children weren’t for us. Then we divorced.” Ah, Sherlock thought, watching the woman, Janette Weaverton had wanted children, but why then hadn’t she remarried?
“I’ve heard Mrs. Califano’s boutiques are quite successful. I plan to buy my husband something for his birthday at the one in Georgetown. That’s where we live.”
A smooth eyebrow went up. “Georgetown?”
“My husband’s grandmother was Sarah Elliott, the painter. She willed her beautiful home to my husband.”
Janette Weaverton’s jaw dropped. “Really? Sarah Elliott was your husband’s grandmother? The Sarah Elliott? How very incredible that must be.”
Sherlock nodded, watched her put sugar packets and Equal in a small bowl, and set it next to the creamer.
Sherlock asked, “Do you work as well, Mrs. Weaverton?”
“No. I’m fortunate to have been born to very rich parents. I do, however, travel a lot. But things are different now with Stewart dead. Perhaps Margaret will need my help. I don’t know yet.”
“Would you want to join her in her business?”
“Unfortunately I have no business experience. And, the sad fact is, I don’t think I could sell a shoe addict a pair of Ferragamos.”
Sherlock laughed. “Well, who knows? Shall I carry this for you?”
“Thank you. Imagine being an FBI agent, working with your husband. Does it cause problems for you at home?”
Sherlock smiled, lifted the heavy tray, and said over her shoulder, “Not yet.” People, she thought, you never knew what was in their minds, in their hearts, but bottom line, Janette Weaverton was a loyal friend to Margaret Califano, and that counted for a lot.
Conversation was strained in the living room. Margaret had fallen silent, despite everyone’s best efforts, and sat clasping and unclasping her hands. Callie still sat beside her, her own hand on her mother’s forearm, squeezing gently, every once in a while, so she’d know she wasn’t alone.
Ben saw a strong resemblance between the two women, although Callie’s eyes were bluer, her brows and hair darker. Callie had a sharper chin, but there was no doubt that the same intelligence burned brightly in both mother and daughter. It still bugged him that Margaret hadn’t married Stewart Califano until Callie left for college. Being careful about protecting your daughter was one thing, but it seemed to Ben that Margaret had gone overboard.