To the Grave (37 page)

“That's true. And I understand it.”

“Yeah, sure you do,” Marissa said, half sarcastically, half sympathetically. “You know that James needs to talk about it. Also, the fact that he won't makes you feel shut out of the most traumatic part of his life.”

“I thought
I
was the psychologist.”

“You don't have to be a psychologist to see that you two have a problem. He was just getting over the shame she caused him when she turns up again, murdered, no less.”

“What I'm worried about is when
Gaston
turned up,” Catherine said. “I don't know if he saw Renée after she left here, but I know he only saw her two or three times after she got married. He had a problem with her—a big one.”

Catherine hesitated, wondering if she should talk about the sexual abuse to Marissa. Then she saw from the expression on Marissa's face that she already suspected. Of course she would have, Catherine thought. Marissa was almost as good at analyzing people as a professional. During the years of their marriage, she'd been around James and Renée more than Catherine. Marissa clearly had watched Renée and put the signs together.

“Anyway, I hope Gaston has just come back this week to take away his daughter's body,” Catherine said. “But what if he came for a different reason?”

“Like tracking down who murdered her?” Marissa asked softly. Catherine raised her shoulders. “Oh. Like killing anyone he thinks might have murdered her. Good God, Catherine, if he's the kind of man I think he is, he's capable of anything.”

“I know.”

“Have you told James?”

“I don't want to while he's still in the hospital. He needs rest, not more worry.” Marissa nodded. “I thought Eric was going to spend the night here?”

“As soon as we got to sleep, he had to go out. He said it wasn't serious—something at the Nordine Gallery. He was acting mysterious, though. I think it was something serious, but I don't want to know what just now. We have this damned brunch to attend.”

Catherine smiled. “Admit it. You don't want to miss one part of the city's biggest social event in ten years.”

Marissa grinned mischievously. “Well, that might be part of my determination to go.” She walked to her dresser mirror, peered closely, and let out a squeak. “I didn't know I could look this bad. I must have drunk too much.”

“You didn't. You were too busy taking pictures and notes and looking around for Gaston Moreau. You work too hard, Marissa.”

“I don't. How much time do I have to make myself presentable for the brunch?”

“Two hours.”

“Thank God,” Marissa breathed. “I'll need ever minute of it.”

*   *   *

Fifteen minutes later Marissa appeared in the kitchen, her hair brushed and her face washed free of every trace of makeup and bearing a layer of light cream. “I know you said I didn't drink too much last night, but maybe I drank more than you thought or I should have. Alcohol dehydrates your skin,” Marissa said. “Mom always warned us to be careful about putting on
extra
night cream after a dinner party.”

“Or a keg party,” Catherine said.

“I don't think our mother ever attended a keg party, Catherine.”

“But we did.”

“Maybe. I don't remember. College was so long ago. Umm, that coffee smells delicious.”

“Caffeine is also dehydrating. Maybe you shouldn't have any without putting on another layer of cream first.”

“Ha, ha. You are too funny in the mornings, Chatty Cathy.”

“For using my favorite nickname you can make your own breakfast.”

“No problem. I only want toast. We'll probably be having a feast in a couple of hours.” Marissa pulled two pieces of wheat bread from the cellophane loaf and dropped them in the toaster. “We're not going back to the Larke Inn, are we? I mean, I love the place, but we've had two celebrations there in the last two days.”

“Maybe you did have too much champagne last night. The brunch is at the Blakethorne house.”

“Oh, sure. I remember now. I know it's considered traditional in formal weddings to have a brunch, but I wonder if the insistence on keeping with tradition was Lawrence's or Patrice's.”

“Lawrence's.” Catherine opened the refrigerator and took out the low-cholesterol butter container. “Patrice told me he thought it would be a good way to keep some of the Star executives here for most of another day for some face-to-face talk in a casual setting.”

Marissa looked at Catherine in mock devastation. “You know what this means, don't you?”

“What?”

“Maud. Maud Webster, grand inquisitor, will be there to ask you more questions about finding Renée.”

The toast popped up just as Catherine's mouth dropped. “Oh my God.”

“We'll avoid her like we did at the reception,” Marissa said, pulling out the toast, her expression growing more excited.

“There were more people at the reception than there will be today. And you're looking like this is going to be some childish adventure.”

“It will be.” Marissa slathered butter on her toast. “Don't worry. I'm already thinking up evasion tactics.”

They heard a cell phone go off in the living room. “That's Eric's ringtone,” Marissa said, jumping up from the table. “Maybe we'll finally find out what major catastrophe drove him out into the depths of night.”

Catherine finished her toast, rinsed her plate, and poured another cup of coffee. She looked at Marissa's toast, now cold, with the butter congealed. Catherine was wondering whether or not to fix Marissa two fresh slices now or wait when she entered the kitchen, her face pale, her eyes disbelieving.

“What is it?” Catherine burst out. “Is Eric all right?”

“Eric is fine,” Marissa said slowly. “But Ken Nordine is dead. He was murdered just like Nicolai Arcos.”

2

“Remember, we're not to say a
word
about Nordine's murder.”

Catherine looked at her sister sitting straight and tense behind the wheel of her red Mustang. “Marissa, you don't have to keep reminding me. You know someone is going to say something to us, though. Especially you, because you're involved with the chief deputy.”

“Then I'll just say I haven't heard from Eric today.”

“They'll ask why he didn't come with you.”

“I'll say he must be busy, but I don't know with what. I'll act airy about it, like it's probably nothing important. I won't say anything about Ken Nordine, and if anyone asks me about him I'll say I don't know anything, either. I can pull it off. Can you?”

“Of course I can,” Catherine returned, insulted.

“I'm just nervous. Eric is counting on me. He really shouldn't have told me anything, but he knows Patrice listens to the police scanner all the time and might have heard something to tip her off or maybe people have been driving through town and have seen the crime-scene tape around the gallery and will want to know what's going on. He didn't want us to be taken by surprise if anyone asked questions about Nordine.”

“Well, thanks to him, we won't be. Maybe he shouldn't have told you, Marissa, but under the circumstances, I think he did the right thing.”

“He usually does. It's infuriating sometimes, but we won't let him down, will we?”

“No, Marissa, we
won't.
I've said before you should have been an actress. Until we get through this brunch, you have to call on all your skills. Eric is counting on you.”

Marissa slowed as they drew up to the large Blakethorne home where cars already lined the wide, circular driveway. To their surprise, as they neared the double front doors a valet rushed to help them out of their car.

“The brunch is being held in back, ladies,” he said. “On the terrace and the back lawn. I'll park your car at the end of the drive. It's the last space!”

Catherine and Marissa each swept from the Mustang, smiling widely, then drew closer, their bright autumn outfits looking even cheerier in the gentle sun. As they rounded the house and saw the brunch area, Marissa's smile froze and she suddenly took Marissa's arm. “Let's try to forget all about Nordine and acting and actually
be
calm and happy.”

“Okay, but I'd rather be invisible,” Catherine said morosely. “I already see Maud Webster.”

3

“Where's Daddy?”

Dana Nordine looked down at Mary lying restlessly on her bed. She'd wanted to get up at eight, but Dana and Ms. Greene had served her French toast and bacon and each had eaten with the child, drawing out the meal by telling stories. So far, Mary hadn't seemed aware of anything wrong—the police on the first floor were being extraordinarily quiet, for which Dana was grateful beyond words. But now it was noon, Mary didn't want to eat again, was obviously getting bored with Ms. Greene and Dana droning on and on, and was getting suspicious about her father's absence. Ken hadn't been a good father, but he had made a point of showing his little girl some attention on Sundays. Mostly, Dana thought, because he liked to look at the child's adoring face turned toward him.

“We could play some of those video gadgets you like,” Ms. Greene offered, although they baffled her. She could not see the fun in them, but they seemed to obsess kids these days. If she was going to stay in this line of work, she might need to learn how to work a couple.

“I'm tired of my video toys,” Mary said in a slightly whiny voice. “I want to see Daddy.”

“Daddy had to go someplace today.” Dana had startled herself with the statement and fumbled with the “where?” she knew would be following quickly. “He had to go to a town about two hours away from here. He didn't want to go, but he had to. He won't be back until tonight.”

“Why didn't he kiss me before he left?”

“He did, but you were asleep. He left an angel's kiss on your forehead,” Ms. Greene said.

“An angel like the one Bridget saw?”

Ms. Greene looked blank, but Dana said, “No, it was a
real
kiss from your daddy. A kiss from an angel wouldn't have been a kiss from him. Ms. Greene just meant it was as soft as an angel's kiss. That's why you didn't feel it.”

Ms. Greene looked at Dana in gratitude, as if thinking the woman had warded off a terrible gaffe on her part. She'd seen the look on Mrs. Nordine's face when the child said “Bridget.”

“How about watching a movie?” Dana suggested. “You haven't watched one of your movies for ages and I think we have a couple of new ones you haven't even seen.”

“I don't feel like watchin' a movie,” Mary said stubbornly.

Dana maintained a firm smile. “Let's go through some of your movie collection and see if something appeals to you. Let's see, here's
Finding Nemo—
”

“No. I've seen it a million times.”

“All right. How about
The Lion King
?”

“Five million times.”

“Not
that
many.”

“Five million,” Mary maintained.

“
Cars
?”

“Nope.”

“
Over the Hedge
?”

“No way.”

“Mary,” Dana almost wailed.

Mary gave her mother a long, thoughtful look. Then she said, “
Cinderella.
”

“Really?”

“You want me to watch a movie, don't you?”

“Well, yes, but one you want to see.”

“I want to see something romantical like
Cinderella.
”

“Romantical it is,” Dana said, smiling for the first time that day. She looked at Ms. Greene. “Would you like to watch
Cinderella
with Mary?”

“I'd love to,” Ms. Greene said enthusiastically. “In fact, I've never seen the movie before.”

“You
haven't
?” Mary asked in disbelief.

“I truly have not.”

“Oh well, that'll make watchin' it again lots more fun.”

Dana slipped the movie into the player. “I
have
seen the movie a few times, so while you two are enjoying it I think I'll go downstairs and check around.” She exchanged glances with Ms. Greene again. “Will that be all right with you two?”

“Yep,” Mary said. “That way you won't tell what's gonna happen next and spoil it for Ms. Greene.”

“A good thought, honey. Well, I'll see you two later.”

Dana walked slowly down the three flights of stairs. Since the police had arrived, she had managed a shower, a shampoo, and some fresh clothes, but without her careful makeup job and hairstyling she knew she looked five years older than she had a week ago. Ten years older. Even the best cosmetics and plastic surgery could not always ward off time.

In the main gallery, Dana quickly looked away from the spot where Ken's body had lain in the early-morning hours, his legs splayed, his head tilted to one side, his mouth open, a hole where his beautiful blue right eye should have been, and those three strands of beads around his neck. Purple Mardi Gras beads. Dana had been to Mardi Gras many times. She'd thrown strands of beads just like those many times. Only she'd always preferred the gold beads, the gold symbolic of power. These had been purple—purple for justice.

“Mrs. Nordine?” A woman in uniform stood in the entrance to the hall leading to the offices. Dana went to her. “I've been going over your accounts for several hours now—”

“Our accounts?”

“Yes. Chief Deputy Montgomery said you'd given us permission.”

“I did. I just didn't think you'd begin so promptly.”

“Well, the chief had an idea he wanted me to check out and it does seem to me that there is a problem. I wonder if you might straighten it out for me.”