Kit stepped out from the shade of the patio awning into the dazzling sunlight, her patience at an end. She’d already watched Henry swim about thirty laps, and Lord knew how long he’d been at it before she’d arrived.
“He could be in there all morning,” Noah drawled from a patio chaise, where he was thumbing through the latest issue of—what else?—the Pratte Citizen. “Unless you have all day to wait, I suggest you make your presence known.” Noah had gone extra early to Wescott Community to check on his patients that morning. He was bending his schedule to accommodate her. The least Kit could do was speed things up a bit. She crossed about fifty feet of broadloom lawn and sauntered onto the tiled pool deck.
Henry executed another perfect turn, tucking his body and springing off the pool wall. His fluid crawl stroke faltered slightly when he noticed Kit, and he grinned at her through a sheet of water before taking his next breath. When he reached the end this time, he pulled off his goggles and tossed them onto the deck, then hoisted himself up and lithely hopped out.
For a man in his sixties, he was something—tall, trim, and well muscled. The welcoming smile never left his handsome, tanned face as he raked fingers through his hair and grabbed a towel from a chaise.
“How long have you been out here waiting for the old fart to finish his laps?” he asked. His speech held the hint of an accent Kit was at a loss to identify. Something vaguely Continental, but coarser.
His grin was infectious. “Too damn long,” she said, “but I’m not complaining. You’re pretty impressive for an old fart.”
A sandy chuckle escaped, and the laugh lines framing his pale-blue eyes deepened in appreciation—of both the compliment and her spunk, she suspected. He vigorously toweled his face and head, followed by his arms, legs, and the mat of gray hair on his chest. Now that she was closer, his age became more evident. His bronzed skin failed to hug those lovely muscles with the same youthful snap it must have once had.
“A couple more comments like that and you won’t need a resume or tear sheets,” he said, flipping the towel over his shoulder. “Shameless flattery is the key to self-promotion.” He extended his hand.
“Mr. David, I’m Kit Roarke.” She shook his land. “From Chicago.”
Comprehension gradually dawned. She watched the jovial light in his eyes fade and felt his firm grip slacken. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize... I put an ad in the paper.”
“I understand,” she said, and almost wished she didn’t. He was looking for a replacement for Jo. “I’m Joanne’s friend... an old friend of hers...” Why was this suddenly so hard?
“Come on.” He laid his large palm on her back and started toward the house. “Kit, is it?”
“Yes. Uh, did Jo mention me?”
“Not that I recall.” His attention went to her companion then, rising to greet him. “Noah.”
“Henry.” The men shook hands.
Kit thought an explanation was in order. “I asked Noah to... to...”
“To introduce her to Jo’s friends in Pratte,” Noah supplied smoothly.
Henry grinned. “Looks like she doesn’t need you. The lady’s doing just fine on her own. Let’s go inside for something cool.” He dropped his towel on a patio chair and slid open the glass door through which the housekeeper had ushered Kit and Noah a few minutes earlier.
They reentered Henry David’s impressive home and were once again ambushed by the nippy bite of central air. It wasn’t even that warm outside—high seventies, maybe—though Kit supposed that constituted a scorcher for central Vermont. She chided herself for her depression-era mentality, a product of her upbringing. It was none of her business how this man chose to burn his money.
“We swung by your office first,” she said. “Your son said you wouldn’t be in today, so we decided to ambush you here.”
“Just as well. Can’t hear yourself think in the newsroom. The place is a zoo.”
Henry’s home answered the question she’d asked herself the day before. No, all of Pratte was most assuredly not trapped in a time warp. This was an enormous, ultramodern structure with all the amenities, occupying five hilly, wooded acres on the outskirts of town. The newspaper business must be more lucrative than she imagined.
Even as the thought formed, she rejected it. The Pratte Citizen was a local weekly, for heaven’s sake. Jo had told her it was supported entirely by advertising and mailed free to the townsfolk. How much of a profit could such a business provide?
Her host led her through the breakfast room and living room, with its high, canted ceiling studded with huge skylights. The walls were white, the floors bleached oak adorned with imported rugs in pastel shades, each one of which probably cost more than Kit’s car. Central stone fireplace. Leather, lacquer, and glass. Art by people she’d actually heard of. The room was straight out of a magazine spread, one of those that tells the reader how to copy a million-dollar layout on a budget of only four hundred grand.
Henry didn’t stop until they were in a den, as richly furnished as the living room, but cozier. Lower ceiling, more books. A touch of wood. A picture window offered a spectacular view: lush formal flower gardens in the foreground, wooded hills in the background. He circled behind the wet bar and opened a small refrigerator. Kit propped herself on a barstool and watched him slap a can of diet soda on the bar.
“I make a deadly frozen margarita,” Henry offered, pulling an ice bin out of the freezer. He flashed those ivories again, with an impish shrug and a wink to match. “It’s almost noon.”
Dear Lord, this man must have been painfully sexy when he was younger, Kit thought. The kind of guy you can’t look at for long without your brain seizing up.
She made a show of checking her watch. “It’s nine-forty.”
“Close enough.” A bottle of Cuervo materialized on the bar top.
“Thanks, I think I’ll pass. But if you have another one of these...” She tapped the soda can. “Regular, not diet.”
“I think that can be arranged. Noah?”
“Nothing for me, thanks.”
Henry filled two tumblers with ice and poured the drinks, his expression softening, those laugh lines deepening again. “Jo would’ve taken the margarita.”
“No, she wouldn’t,” Noah chuckled. “Two or three straight shots, maybe.”
Kit clinked glasses with Henry. “Beats Froot Loops any day.”
From her perch across the bar from her host, it was easy to imagine she was tossing back a cool one at a nudist colony. His casual state of dishabille was a delicious contrast to the elegantly appointed room, and his relaxed, irreverent manner was disarming.
Noah strolled to the huge window and stood staring out, his hands in his jeans pockets, his stance casual. Still, she sensed an underlying disquiet. It was nothing she could put her finger on. The sunlight pouring in emphasized the strong angles of his face, the thrust of his solid jaw, and turned his hair to polished gold. His eyes captured the fire, as luminous now as a clear, bottomless lagoon. In his office he’d been handsome, but here, gilded by sunlight, he was positively breathtaking. She had to force herself to look away.
Henry leaned a palm on the bar and downed most of his soda in one long pull. “When did you arrive in town, Kit?”
“Day before yesterday. I’ll be staying a few days to make sure everything is, you know, packed up and settled.”
He nodded. “Let me know if I can help in any way.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“I mean it. If you get any trouble from anyone, come up against any roadblocks—insurance, banks, government agencies, what have you—give a holler. After more than forty years in the newspaper business, I’ve got contacts everywhere. There’s almost no one I can’t reach and apply the thumbscrews to if need be.” He grinned. “Ask Noah. He’s seen me in action.”
“A force to be reckoned with,” Noah agreed dryly. He began a slow trek around the room, idly perus
ing the books and furnishings. His manner said, This is your show, Kit. I’m just along for the ride. The repressed energy she sensed, crackling like electricity just under the surface, said something else.
Kit smiled her thanks to Henry. “I hope the offer’s sincere. I have a feeling I may take you up on it at some point.”
“Have you talked to anyone else since you arrived?”
“Chief Jordon.”
He winced. “And that wasn’t enough to drive you to drink? You’re a strong woman, Kit Roarke.”
“Doesn’t it bother anyone else that the man’s at a dead end?”
Henry sucked an ice cube into his mouth and crushed it with his molars, staring into his glass. “It bothers everyone that the police haven’t been able to come up with a suspect. And the more time that passes...” His shrug was accompanied by a disgusted sigh. “Joanne was a wonderful girl. You know that. I know that. So does Noah. She was bright. Funny. And a solid reporter. The best I ever had. God knows what she was doing in Pratte.”
Kit was tempted to tell him. Listen, Henry, your pal Joanne, that “wonderful girl” and your best reporter, was using you from day one.
“Course, that doesn’t mean she charmed the socks off everyone in town,” he added with a raised eyebrow.
Noah emitted a snort of agreement as he inspected a framed lithograph over the sofa on the far wall.
Kit allowed herself a rueful smile. “What a shocker.” No one knew better than she how abrasive Jo could seem to those who didn’t share her audacious outlook and her bent sense of humor. Which was most people. Henry, however, appeared to be a rare exception. Clearly he and Jo had been simpatico. Just how simpatico? she couldn’t help wondering.
“But my point is,” Henry continued, “it doesn’t matter what people thought about her, who liked her and who didn’t. Her murder stunned everyone. Everyone. There isn’t a person in Pratte who doesn’t want to see it solved.”
Noah read her mind. “Well, maybe one,” he murmured.
“Jordon’s a horse’s ass, it’s true,” Henry went on, “but I don’t know if I’d go so far as to call him incompetent.” He said to Noah, “You’ve only been here a couple of years, Noah, so you might not be aware, but Tom’s always done a decent job for Pratte.”
“How many murders has he had to solve?” Kit asked. The instant the words were out of her mouth, she wished she could suck them back up. This was the wrong person to say that to. Something in his expression hardened ever so slightly, and suddenly he looked all of his sixty-something years.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t think.”
He pulverized another ice cube in his mouth, his gaze penetrating. He flicked a cool look to Noah. “You know more about Pratte than I imagined, Kit.”
She chose her words carefully. “Just the basics. Just what Jo told me. I know that Ray Whittaker murdered your wife thirty-two years ago. Your first wife.”
“Anita.”
“Yes.” Out of the corner of her eye she saw Noah become very still. Inexplicably her palms began to sweat. “And I know that Ray died before it went to trial. That’s it, really. I don’t know the, um, circumstances or anything.”
“Not even that Ray and Anita were having an affair?” Henry asked.
“No,” she answered truthfully, followed by a shameless whopper. “I’m not here to pry.”
Henry leaned over, resting his forearms on the bar top. “Kit, it’s been three decades. Don’t worry. You’re not about to scratch open any raw wounds.” He met her eyes. “Ray Whittaker was my best friend. The man was like a brother to me.”
“Sounds like he took brotherhood a little too far,” she murmured.
That eyebrow rose again and he shook his head, smiling sadly. “You might say that. I didn’t have an inkling what was going on behind my back.” He finished his drink. “He killed her one night when I was out of town. I was a reporter for the Burlington Free Press back then. I was in Montpelier when she died, covering some stupid political sex scandal that never panned out.
“Anita was severely asthmatic. She used to get these violent attacks where she couldn’t breathe. It was goddamn scary, I’ll tell you. Usually I’d drive her over to Ray’s or he’d come to us, and he’d give her a shot of epinephrine. A few times she had to be hospitalized. Anyway, that night it seems she had one of these attacks and called Ray to come give her a shot.”
He lapsed into silence, and she realized he assumed she knew what happened next. Jo hadn’t given her a blow-by-blow, and she’d never asked.
Noah finally spoke up, from so close behind her that she flinched. “I don’t think Kit knows the rest, Henry.”
Kit felt the hairs on her nape tingle as she saw Henry’s eyes widen, his shoulders stiffen. “Jo never told me,” she said.
Henry’s voice was barely audible. “God. I guess not.” He studied her face for a long moment, his brow furrowed, all traces of bonhomie gone. “He killed her with curare.”
The impact of his words slammed into her like a fist, stealing her air. She heard a whimper of surprise, of denial, and belatedly recognized it as her own. “I don’t—I don’t believe it.”
She was on her feet now, gripping the edge of the bar. Raw anger swelled within her as she recalled her conversation with the police chief. “Jordon didn’t mention this. That bastard never said word one about it.” Not even when she told him why Jo was in Pratte!
Kit had handed over her answering-machine tape to the police chief, and watched his face as he listened to it. That patronizing smile said it all, even before he spelled it out. Everyone in town knew that Joanne Merino, girl reporter, was high-strung and excitable. Surely Kit knew it, too. And what was all this about a book?
She’d told him, and watched his expression ice up. Gone was the indulgent hand patting. Jordon had actually cussed and bestowed a wealth of vulgar epithets on her dead friend. At the time it had seemed a refreshing change.
Well, Jordon was, as Henry had pointed out, a horse’s ass. More difficult to swallow was Noah Stewart’s complicity in this seeming conspiracy of silence. He had to realize she’d assumed Jo was Pratte’s first and only curare murder, and he’d chosen not to enlighten her. Irrationally, she felt a sting of betrayal. She studied his impassive expression and sent a silent message: We have some talking to do.
“You’re assuming the two murders are related,” Henry said.
She let her expression of incredulity answer for her.
He raised his hands in appeasement. “Hey, I’m not saying it’s coincidence. I think this is some sick copycat thing. I know Noah agrees with me. I’m sure Jordon does, too. What else could it be? Think about it. Ray Whittaker’s been dead and buried for thirty-two years.”
What else could it be? Kit sat on the barstool again, thinking about the book Jo had moved to Pratte to research in secret. The book destined to be the next In Cold Blood. The book no other author had ever gotten off the ground because of a dogged lack of cooperation by the locals.
Jo had been determined to outmaneuver the closemouthed town and reconstruct, in the nittiest, grittiest detail, the murder of Anita David, the decades-old crime that had become an obsession with her. She would take up residence, become one of them. Shake their cookie jars and turn their pockets inside out.
And they wouldn’t find out what she was up to until it was too late.
Except someone did. This guy, he found out about the book. And, well... that’s not good... God, where are you, Kit?
What cookie jars had Jo shaken? Kit wondered. Who found out about Jo’s project? Who was she so afraid of at the end?
Noah asked, “What kind of weapon did you think Ray used?”
“I figured he, um—” she swallowed around a sudden knot in her throat “—shot her or something.”
“Not a chance,” Henry said. “This was no crime of passion. It’s not like he suddenly went crazy. He planned it out, bided his time. He knew he wouldn’t have long to wait—just till her next
attack. The fact that I was out of town at the time was an added bonus he hadn’t counted on.”
“So he gave her curare instead of epinephrine.”
“That’s right. She died and Ray called for an ambulance and said she’d suffered heart failure related to the asthma attack, and that he was too late to save her.”
“The perfect crime,” she said.
“It would’ve been if the son of a bitch could’ve held his booze. He got roaring drunk a few days later and mouthed off about it.”
“To you?”
His eyes glittered with hatred. “Yep. He told me he’d had an affair with my wife, and he told me what he’d done to her.”
“And you told the police,” she said.
“Damn right I did. We had to have Anita exhumed so they could do an autopsy and test for curare. It was there, all right.”
“Why did he kill her?”
“The way I figure it, Anita fell in love with him,” Henry said. “To Ray, she was just another conquest, I’m sure of that. One of many. She must’ve been ready to blow the whistle, make it public. It would’ve destroyed his marriage, for starters, and he sure as hell didn’t want that. Not to mention what I’d have done to him if I’d known. Plus, if it ever came out how many of his patients he’d seduced, his medical license would’ve been in danger.”
Kit squirmed, suddenly wishing she hadn’t asked Noah to accompany her. “He really did it with his patients?”
Henry snorted. “Ray was one horny bastard. And a master at exploiting their trust, abusing the doctor-patient relationship. He used to brag about it—how he worked them, wore them down, used their personal divulgences to manipulate them. Listen, the guy was my buddy, like I said. That doesn’t mean I approved of his behavior.”
Kit wasn’t sanctimonious enough to condemn Henry for his friendship with Ray. Her relationship with Joanne had borne similar strains.
“How long was Ray married?” she asked.
“Ten years. To Ruby. They had a little girl, Deborah. Poor kid was six years old when all this happened. She’s a contract attorney in Boston now, done quite well for herself. She’s married with four kids of her own.”
A Case of You Page 4