To the Grave (8 page)

“Why did you go there tonight?”

“I don't know. It was a mistake. I'm sorry.” James quickly went on, sounding direct but awkward. “At home, I had a couple of drinks, but they didn't help. I couldn't stop thinking about how awful the scene was today—that ratty old cottage turned into a carnival horror house. I decided to drive out here and look at the place. I guess I thought it wouldn't look as terrible in the moonlight as it did in the sunlight. I was wrong.”

James stopped, clearly waiting for Catherine to say something. Confusion and anger overcame her, though, and she knew maintaining silence was better than voicing her rush of boiling feelings.

James drew a deep breath, assured her again that he wasn't hurt; then he said on a painfully ashamed note, “Catherine, I'm sorry about everything that's happened today.”

“I know you're sorry,” she managed, keeping her voice emotionless. “You don't have to keep telling me. But I don't understand why you thought you had to lie—”

“Here's a fire truck!” James's voice rose over the sound of a siren. “Go back to sleep, Catherine,” he ordered, sounding relieved. “Everything will be all right, I promise.”

He abruptly hung up and Catherine stared at the handset, stunned and baffled.

An explosion. The man she loved had barely escaped an explosion, but after this surreal day she couldn't fully process the reality of another horrifying shock. As she rose from the couch, wanting the peace and solitude of her bedroom, she realized she should feel nothing except relief that James was safe. Instead, she couldn't stop thinking about his weird nighttime visit to the cottage where his ex-wife had been murdered. He'd given Catherine a reason, but it sounded flimsy and certainly not like the normal behavior of the James Eastman she knew.

Why had he really gone there?

And why had he lied to her about it?

2

Patrice Greenlee looked out a sunroom window, her gaze sweeping over the sun-drenched terrace and the rear lawn with its sprawling flagstone patio. Beyond the patio, a seven-foot-tall wall of evergreen shrubbery enclosed a large fishpond. “I hope this weather holds for a week. It's perfect for our wedding.”

“Our wedding will be in a church. You know, with walls, a roof, a furnace. Why does the weather matter?”

Patrice turned and looked at her fiancé, Lawrence Blakethorne, sitting at the casual dining table. He lowered his morning paper, smiling at her. She had met him twenty-four years earlier when he'd married her older sister, Abigail, and he'd changed little except for a few wrinkles in his perpetually tanned skin, the silver lacing his thick black hair, and nearly twenty pounds of muscular bulk he'd added to his tall, once-lanky frame. Patrice thought that at fifty Lawrence was even more attractive than he'd been in his youth.

“I'm afraid a lot of people won't attend because they disapprove of you marrying your sister-in-law,” Patrice said quietly.

“My
former
sister-in law. Abigail has been dead for over twelve years. I don't think as many people disapprove as you think.”

“My mother would be outraged.”

“I agree. If we'd married when she was around to see it, she would never have given us any peace.”

“Is that why you waited until after she died last year to propose?”

“Yes.” Lawrence's gaze grew distant. “The two of you never had a good relationship. She was never fair to you, but you valued her opinion more than that of almost anyone else. I never understood why. Anyway, she would have hated the idea of us getting married, bitched at you constantly, and ruined your happiness, maybe even our marriage.

“Now she can't constantly voice her unwanted opinions, Pat,” Lawrence continued. “You don't have to listen to her, even just to be polite. Your life is entirely your own to do with as you please. As for caring what people think, my own son is honestly pleased for us. He says this should have happened a long time ago.” He looked at her closely. “So what's really worrying you, honey?”

Patrice moved away from one window in the dining area and wandered to another in the sitting area at the other end of the room. “Just details. I may be forty, but this is my first wedding and I want everything to be flawless. I want the weather to be perfect; I want people to be fine with our marriage.” She paused and added fretfully, “And silly as it sounds, I'm also worried about the reception. I don't want to lose people in transit from the church to the Larke Inn.”

Lawrence threw back his head and laughed. “We're having an evening wedding and there will be lots of excellent food and liquor at the reception. I doubt if we'll lose
anyone.
” He laid down his newspaper and joined her at the window, resting an arm around her shoulders. “Pat, you're taking all the fun out of this thing.”

“You think of our wedding as ‘this
thing
'?”

He groaned and pulled her closer. “Poor choice of words. I'm looking forward to our
wedding.
” He lowered his head and kissed her curly ash-blond hair. “I can't wait until we're husband and wife.”

“Am I interrupting a beautiful moment?”

Lawrence and Patrice turned. Lawrence's son, Ian, lounged in the doorway, surveying them with the large, thickly lashed blue-gray eyes that had inspired the rapt fascination of many teenage girls and earned him the nickname Dreamy Eyes, which he hated.

“You're interrupting a small display of affection. Get used to it,” Lawrence answered good-naturedly. He glanced at his watch. “You're late for Sunday brunch.”

“I forgot to turn on the alarm clock.”

“‘Forgot to turn on the alarm clock,'” Lawrence repeated. “I remember using that line during my wild youth. Can't you come up with a better excuse for being late and looking a little ragged?”

“Maybe I had too much to drink last night. Anyway, I had to stop for gas at the convenience store and ran into Robbie Landers.”

“
Deputy
Roberta Landers?” Patrice asked. “You know her?”

“Yes. We started talking and more time got away from me. Sorry.”

“I'm sure she's just an acquaintance.” Lawrence had turned a question into a statement. “And I'm not angry that you're late. There's not a thing wrong with a good-looking young guy sowing his wild oats on a Saturday night, although I don't want you to make a habit of it. You have responsibilities now that you're an important part of Blakethorne Charter.”

“I won't.” Ian glanced at the dining table covered with a light green linen cloth. “It seems late in the year to be eating in the sunroom.”

Patrice nodded. “Well, it's like any other room; it's air-conditioned and heated. I know it's chilly outside, but the weather is so lovely. I thought I should take advantage of all these windows. I told your father I hope it stays nice through next weekend for the wedding.”

“I'm sure it will,” Ian said absently. He sauntered into the room and gazed out one of the windows overlooking the sun-drenched patio. As always, Patrice noticed the handsome twenty-two-year-old's resemblance to his mother. At six foot one, he had his father's height but Abigail's honey brown hair, fair skin, straight nose, dimples, and remarkable eyes. “At least the hedges won't have to be trimmed again this year, Dad.”

“Thank God,” Lawrence said. “The sound of three or four of those electric hedge trimmers roaring along at the same time drives me wild.”

“Get rid of them.”

“I thought you loved them,” Lawrence said in surprise, but Ian merely shrugged. “Maybe it was only your mother who loved what she called her ‘magic hideaway.'”

As usual, whenever Lawrence spoke of Abigail his voice turned slightly caustic. He'd never forgiven his wife for putting their ten-year-old son in the car and driving over the speed limit during a wild spring storm after she'd taken a mixture of tranquilizers and alcohol. The resulting wreck had killed her instantly. Ian, who'd nearly died as well, had spent a week in a coma and the next several months in rehab recovering from two broken legs, a broken arm, a broken collarbone, and a severe head injury. All the while, his remaining family had waited in agony until the neurologists felt safe in pronouncing that his head trauma had not resulted in permanent brain damage.

Lawrence brushed a hand through the air as if whisking away a pesky memory. “Noisy hedge trimmers or not, though, I intend to cut down on the hours I spend at my office after next weekend.” He winked at Patrice.

Ian grinned. “Now you have a good reason not to spend more time here. You'll have a new bride.” He looked at Patrice. “Mom.”

“Oh, please, Ian, you've called me Patrice since you were three. Let's keep it that way.”

“Fine with me.” Ian raised his head and sniffed. “I smell all kinds of wonderful things coming from the kitchen and I'm starving.”

“Me, too,” Lawrence said enthusiastically. He raised his voice. “Mrs. Frost, we're ready!”

They sat down at the dining table, and in less than a minute a tall, sturdy, silver-haired woman with a long, rectangular face and the beginning of jowls appeared in the doorway. Patrice remembered when her sister, Abigail, had hired the woman and introduced her as “Mrs. Frost.” Nearly twenty years later, everyone in the household still called her Mrs. Frost. Patrice couldn't remember her first name, but the woman was so much a part of the Blakethorne household, Patrice had always wanted—and failed—to win her approval. Still, Patrice kept trying.

“Ah, a feast!” she exclaimed as Mrs. Frost swooped down and deftly slid dishes off a silver tray.

“Bacon and cheddar quiche, fruit salad, and spice-walnut muffins,” the woman announced in a clipped voice with the trace of a British accent. “I'll be right back with crumb cake,” Mrs. Frost announced. “Kona coffee for you, Mr. Lawrence?”

“Yes.”

“I'll take some, too, please,” Ian said.

Mrs. Frost smiled fondly at him. “Of course. I didn't forget you.”

“And I'll have tea,” Patrice said with a smile.

Mrs. Frost flicked mirthless, faded blue eyes at her. “I'll fetch it immediately, madam.”

As soon as she left the room, Patrice leaned close to Lawrence and murmured, “She called me
madam.
”

“What's wrong with that?”

“She used to call me Miss Patrice. She's never cared for me, but I think she actually dislikes me now that we're getting married.”

“Nonsense, Pat,” Lawrence announced loudly. “You're being paranoid. Mrs. Frost doesn't dislike you.”

Inwardly Patrice cringed, knowing the woman had heard him. Lawrence never worried about whether or not people liked him, and as a result most people liked him enormously. Patrice knew her strong voice often sounded commanding and her personality frequently came across as aggressive rather than self-assured. These traits served her well as a trial lawyer, but they'd never made her socially popular. Ever since girlhood, she'd tried to monitor herself in personal situations, but flipping the switch to sweet voiced and gentle wasn't easy and she regularly failed. She wondered if Mrs. Frost accepted her for what she was or if the woman resented her for not being sweet-voiced, languid Abigail, to whom she'd been devoted.

Mrs. Frost returned with iced crumb cake, china cups and saucers, and a beautiful silver service with tea, coffee, milk, and sugar. Patrice noticed the small container holding discount tea bags. She decided not to point out Mrs. Frost's intended slight by asking for her usual expensive blend of Earl Grey tea.

“Did Roberta have anything to say about what happened at the Eastman cottage yesterday?” Lawrence asked. “You did hear about them finding the body of a dead woman in the cistern.”

“Yes, I heard about it at the gallery last night,” Ian said.

“Was Roberta on duty? Did she go to the cottage?”

“I'm not sure.”

“But even if she wasn't there, she'd know if the police had identified the body. I only heard it was a woman's.”

Patrice kept her gaze on her plate. She hadn't said anything to Lawrence about seeing James last night or of him being certain the body was Renée's. Patrice knew the information would spark a barrage of questions from Lawrence that she didn't want to dodge.

“If the police did identify the body and Robbie knew the name, she didn't tell me,” Ian answered, sounding bored.

“Come on, Son. Roberta must have said something,” Lawrence prodded. “This is big news. Exciting.”

“This quiche is great,” Ian said. “But I guess I have to sing for my supper or, rather, brunch. First off, I didn't ask Robbie about the body. I just said hello and that it was good to see her. She immediately apologized for her appearance, although I thought she looked fine. She said she was tired because she'd been up most of the night working on a case she couldn't discuss.”

“How informative.” Lawrence dug into his fruit. “Is that all she said?”

“No, it wasn't. She said yes when I asked her to be my date for the rehearsal dinner and the wedding reception.”

“You invited Roberta Landers?” Patrice burst out.

Ian looked at her coolly. “Yes, I asked her for a date. Actually, two dates, I guess. Do you object to her?”

“No, of course not. I barely know her.” Patrice didn't look at Lawrence. She'd snapped at Ian because she knew Lawrence wouldn't be pleased about his son dating a cop. “I just thought you'd ask one of the girls you've been seeing this past year.”

“You mean a member of our small gaggle of Aurora Falls society girls? Last night I took one to the showing of Nicolai Arcos's paintings at the Nordine Gallery.”

“You've spent quite a bit of time at that gallery.”

“Dad, the owners, Ken and Dana, are friends of mine. And the gallery is fairly amazing, especially for a city of this size. You should take Patrice. I know you'd both be impressed.”