To the Grave (6 page)

 

CHAPTER THREE

1

Torn between feeling she should stay with James and frantically wanting the safety of home, Catherine argued when Marissa told her they were leaving. Catherine was still arguing when Eric ordered her home in his most authoritative voice, but it was James giving her a quick, soft kiss on the lips and telling her he'd feel better if he knew she was safe, warm, and, he added with a weak smile, “cleaned up” that sent her homeward.

Even though the temperature had dropped considerably since afternoon, Catherine didn't want Marissa to raise the roof of the Mustang convertible. Marissa drove her usual five miles above the speed limit and Catherine closed her eyes, letting the cool wind whip at her damp sweater and the hair she'd pulled back in a ponytail.

“If you're cold, I'll put up the top, now,” Marissa finally said.

“No. I like the air. I stink.”

“You don't stink.”

“Yes, I do. I'm going to burn these clothes. And my hair is—”

“Your hair will be fine after a couple of rounds with shampoo. You don't have to burn it off.”

“I was going to say my hair is rank. I wasn't planning on setting fire to it.”

“That's reassuring. It's been a hell of an afternoon. I'm afraid of what might come next.”

“You're never afraid. I'm the timid one.”

“Oh, not this again,” Marissa said in the voice Catherine recognized as half-teasing, half-serious. “I'm afraid a lot. I just don't admit it. And you aren't timid. You just think you are because people have told you so all your life. For God's sake, Catherine, you're a psychologist. You should know you're not timid.”

“Psychologists aren't good at analyzing themselves.”

“Well, take it from me that you're braver than I am.”

After a pause, Catherine said, “He called her his wife.”

“What?”

“James. He looked at the body and he said to Eric, ‘It's my wife Renée.' Not ‘my
ex
-wife.' ‘My wife.'”

“So?”

“Maybe he still thinks of her as his wife,” Catherine said drearily.

“He doesn't. He was stunned and upset.”

“Maybe he was still in love with her.”

Marissa let out a long sigh. “Catherine, you've had a terrible shock today and you're letting it send you into a downward spiral just because James said ‘wife' instead of ‘ex-wife.' Well, remember this. He's had a terrible shock, too. He misspoke because he was astounded and worried about you finding Renée's body. He doesn't think of Renée as his wife. He doesn't love Renée. He loves
you
. Period.”

“If you say so,” Catherine answered tonelessly.

“Cry, scream, wave your arms around, stomp your feet, put in a CD, and blast the music, but do something besides going numb.”

“Will that make
you
feel better?”

“Much. And smile or I'll pick up speed. How does ninety sound?”

Catherine tilted her lips. “Like you'll get a speeding ticket on top of everything else.”

“That's better. Much better. Let's keep it that way. Now, do you want to hear some music, have a normal conversation, or just remain silent?”

Catherine knew Marissa was incapable of maintaining silence after the afternoon they'd had and any conversation would involve a rehash of events, so Catherine chose music and retreated into her headache, her misery, and the songs of Coldplay.

*   *   *

An hour later, Catherine emerged from the steam-filled upstairs bathroom of the Gray home. She wore a floor-length terry-cloth robe over flannel pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt and she was still cold. She wrapped a towel around her hair with fingers that had puckered from their long exposure to water. She'd scrubbed her nails so hard, the skin around them burned.

“I've built a fire!” Marissa called from downstairs. “I've also fixed you something to eat, whether you want it or not! Hurry before it gets cold!”

Catherine closed her eyes and sighed. All she really wanted to do was curl up in bed. Instead, she tightened the belt on her robe, slid into some soft scuff house slippers, and descended the stairs. Marissa stood at the foot of the steps, beaming at her, obviously having worked to make the lovely cream, cinnamon, and dusky blue family room even more comforting and welcoming than usual. Behind the grate, a fire crackled cheerfully in the large stone hearth and Marissa had turned on two brass lamps and lit three cinnamon-scented candles.

“Do you feel better?” Marissa asked.

“I feel cleaner.”

“Well, you should. I think that was the longest shower on record.” Marissa looked down at the medium-sized yellow dog sitting dutifully by her side holding a small stuffed tiger in her mouth. “Lindsay thought we'd have to come in and rescue you.”

Catherine bent and patted the dog on the head. “I appreciate your concern, Lindsay.” The dog stood and wagged her tail, keeping a firm grip on the tiger. “I always feel safer when you're around.”

“You should. She's very loyal to you even though she's officially my dog.” Marissa grinned. “Please sit on the couch. I've fixed a feast.”

A feast, Catherine thought in dismay. God only knew what that could be. Marissa's cooking ranged from bad to merely passable. Nevertheless, Catherine sat down and tried to look eagerly at the tray of food.

“Hold out your hand.” Catherine did as told and Marissa dropped a small blue pill onto her palm and handed her a glass of water. “You took aspirin for your headache when you got home. Now a Valium. I didn't insist on it earlier for fear of you getting dizzy and falling in the shower. Don't protest. You've always said there's nothing wrong with taking a tranquilizer in an emergency.”

“I wasn't going to protest.” Catherine swallowed the pill. “I think everything inside of me is quivering.”

“No wonder.”

“And I feel ridiculous for getting so upset because James called Renée his wife.”

“We were both freaked out,” Marissa said dismissively. “I've fixed a grilled-cheese sandwich—I used that Jarlsberg cheese you bought—and some tomato soup made with milk, and a pot of chamomile tea. Chamomile is supposed to be calming and you don't need alcohol with a tranquilizer. How does all of that sound?”

“Wonderful. You didn't need to go to such trouble.”

“Of course I did. Still, don't be complimentary until you've tasted it, although it's hard even for me to mess up a grilled-cheese sandwich and soup. I'm having coffee and a piece of the German chocolate cake I bought at the bakery day before yesterday. There's plenty of cake left for you, too.”

Catherine laughed as Marissa spread a napkin over Catherine's lap and poured her tea as if she were an invalid. “Don't be insulted if I can't eat everything, Marissa. I still feel a little queasy.”

“Don't worry. Lindsay and I will take care of any leftovers.”

Marissa kept up a steady stream of light chatter about the doings of Hollywood celebrities as if they were all family friends. While she listened to Marissa's dramatic account of an actor leaving his wife of two months for a supermodel, Catherine took the towel off her head, letting her hair fall to her shoulders and dry in the warmth from the fire. When Marissa finally exhausted her movie-star stories, Catherine looked in amazement at her empty dinnerware. “Well, how about that? I could have sworn I wasn't hungry.”

“You didn't eat lunch and only had toast for breakfast. You needed food. A piece of cake now?”

“I think I've finally reached my limit. Thank you for dinner.”

“It was my pleasure,” Marissa said as she began gathering dishes onto the serving tray.

Catherine could have sworn Lindsay looked crestfallen at the empty plates, and smiled. “Marissa, you have to give the poor thing something special. She's breaking my heart.”

“Don't kid yourself. She's practiced that heartbreaking look, but she'll get at least one dog biscuit and maybe another bacon treat.”

As Marissa disappeared into the kitchen, Catherine glanced at the frisky, friendly dog she'd come to love. “I know it's only nine thirty, but I'm exhausted,” she said. Lindsay tilted her head as if she could understand her while Catherine lay down, pulled the afghan over her, and reached for the phone. “Let's give James a call while I can still hold my eyes open.”

2

James Eastman stood in the front yard of the little cottage. Under a sweeping panorama of glittering stars, the place looked even smaller and more forlorn than it did in the daytime. Crime-scene tape still stretched around the area of the porch and the cistern and sealed the front door.

“What did you say, sweetheart?” James asked into his cell phone. “Sorry, my attention wandered for a minute.”

“I asked what you're doing,” Catherine repeated. “You don't seem to be listening to me.”

“I'm just sitting in my apartment reading,” James said, and could have shot a whip-poor-will that decided to emit a loud call. “Got a nature show on television, but I can't concentrate on the reading or the TV. I am listening to you. I'm just tired and you sound the same way. I think we should both go to sleep.”

“In different beds.”

“It happens about five nights a week anyway and it's best for tonight. You can toss and kick and mumble all you want.”

“You're the one who tosses and kicks and mumbles,” Catherine said.

“That's not true. Tell you what. If when I see you tomorrow you tell me you haven't slept, I'll take you on a five-mile run.”

“Then I promise I'll sleep.”

“That's what I thought. Good night, sweetheart. I love you.”

James Eastman clicked off his cell phone, wishing he could talk to Catherine longer but knowing he couldn't without getting onto the subject of Renée.

Renée who was dead. James knew many people in town thought she'd died at his hand years ago. He'd endured the innuendoes and rumors, pretending they didn't faze him, but they'd embarrassed, infuriated, and deeply hurt him, which he'd been certain that Renée had hoped would happen. When he'd finally decided she wasn't coming home on her own to get a divorce, he'd begun the formal search for her, legally necessary in order to acquire a quiet divorce on the grounds of desertion. To his relief, when she had not been found within a year the divorce proceedings began and ended quietly. He didn't have to think about her anymore. He could begin a new life.

Except that now, after what Catherine had found, he couldn't begin fresh as the memory of Renée Eastman faded from everyone's minds. When she was alive, most people who knew her had disliked or even hated her. But people's sympathy could change overnight. James knew many people would suddenly feel sorry for Renée when they knew she'd ended up dead. Worse than just dead. She'd been shot in the head and stuffed in a cistern to rot.

James walked, drawing closer to his car in what served as a driveway, and stood a few feet closer to the wooded area. It looked dense at night, although the trees grew widely spaced in a less than two-acre grove. In the soft dusk he caught the movement of a small animal venturing toward him from the protection of the trees. Too late in the season for a groundhog, he thought. A raccoon coming to search for trash? The cottage, usually vacant, wouldn't be a usual stop on the trash-patrol circuit. More likely, a cat crept near.

And so did headlights. Oh damn, not sightseers, James thought angrily, although he knew a few had come by earlier. Perry Lane was off the beaten track and many people didn't even know the small collection of fishing cottages existed. Today that had been a blessing. Word might have spread by now, though, and people with nothing better to do on a Saturday night were hunting down the scene of a murder.

The car slowly stopped in front of the cottage and someone turned off the headlights. A sense of violation filled James. Who in hell would be bold enough to actually approach him here after what had happened today? What did they think gave them the right? Or did they believe he was merely a fellow sightseer sharing their morbid curiosity?

The car's interior lights came on as a woman emerged and called, “Hi, James! When I couldn't reach you at home, I didn't even try your cell phone. I knew you'd be here. I wanted to see for myself that you're all right. I hope you don't mind that I came.”

Patrice Greenlee. James's irritation ebbed as he saw his partner at Eastman and Greenlee Law Practice. He'd known Patrice since he was on the verge of adolescence.

“I'm glad you're here,” James said loudly as she walked toward him. “I was starting to get the creeps.”

When Patrice reached him, she pulled him close and hugged him. At forty, Patrice stood five-seven, with a slim, toned body, above-the-shoulder curly ash-blond hair, high cheekbones, and striking light gray eyes. Tonight she wore a full-length black cashmere coat unbuttoned over a chic blue dress and white running shoes.

“Why didn't you call me?” she demanded. “I heard on the police scanner about a body being found on Perry Lane and remembered that your family has a cottage here. I called the office, your town house, and your cell phone, but I got no answer, and I've been in a knot all day.”

“You could have saved yourself all that anxiety by not always listening to the scanner.”

“I can't stand not knowing what's going on around here.”

“So instead you listen constantly and get worked up like today.” James shook his head. “Where's your best guy tonight?”

“We were having dinner at the Larke Inn dining room when he got a call,” Patrice said, referring to her fiancé of two months, Lawrence Blakethorne, owner of Blakethorne Charter Flights. “Sometimes I hate cell phones. The call was about the big merger of Blakethorne and Star Air that lately is just consuming Lawrence. He said it was an emergency, as usual, and he had to go to his office to look up some files. He dropped me off at the house on the way, and after I got there I decided to come looking for you. I didn't even bother to change clothes except for my shoes.” She held up one running-shoe-clad foot. “Classy, huh?” She didn't wait for an answer. “So they did find a body at this cottage.”