“What’s her married name?”
Henry hesitated, obviously wondering why she wanted to know. “Carlisle.”
Kit straightened. Why was that name familiar? Bingo. “Is she related to a Bryan Carlisle?”
Henry shot her a surprised glance, looking as if he’d just caught a whiff of raw sewage. “Did you meet that little creep?”
Noah muttered, “For God’s sake, Henry, don’t get started.”
“No,” she answered, wondering what she’d just stepped into. “Etta Zimmerman mentioned him. She said he’s the one who found Jo.” That Carlisle boy, Bryan, comes tearing across the lawn, yelling something about Joanne.
A hint of pain crossed Henry’s face. “That’s right. He did.” He sighed. “Yeah, Bryan is Deborah’s oldest son. Must be eighteen or nineteen now. Been bumming around Pratte for the past year, since he graduated high school.”
“I wouldn’t say ‘bumming,’” Noah offered, with more feeling than he’d shown all morning. “He earns his way. That kid’s a hard worker.” Henry’s response to this was a derisive grunt.
So. Ray Whittaker’s grandson discovered Jo in her death throes. There was a chilling irony in that.
“Why do you hate him?” she asked Henry.
“Bad blood. The kid’s no better than his grandfather. Leave it at that.”
She cocked her head as if to say, Fine with me. She looked over her shoulder at Noah, who stood close enough to touch. Close enough to detect his masculine scent. She wondered if Jo had liked the way he smelled, too. A high-pitched beeping sounded, and he glanced at the contraption hooked on his belt as he turned it off.
Henry said, “There’s a phone down the hall in Bettina’s study.”
Noah nodded. “Excuse me.”
Henry watched him leave, then cocked his head toward the doorway. “Looks like you’ve been busy since you got to Pratte.”
She shrugged. “I wanted to get all the facts straight, and I figured the town MD was a good place to start. It helps that he was her friend, too.” Kit wasn’t about to apologize for being nosy. God knew Jo would have left no stone unturned if it had been Kit’s mortal remains in that little cardboard box at Etta’s.
She straightened and met his gaze. “I’m not going back to Chicago until I’ve answered all the lingering questions to my satisfaction. And who knows? If I dig up anything enlightening, maybe it’ll help jump-start Jordon’s investigation.”
“Jo was fortunate to have a friend like you, Kit.”
She looked away for a moment and swallowed hard, determined not to let Henry hear her voice crack. She’d failed Jo; no syrupy platitudes could change that. “Yeah, well...” With a glance to the open doorway, she said, “About the party. Etta said it took a while to find Noah when... when Jo...”
“He was in the solarium. I’m the one who located him, as a matter of fact. He was sitting there all by his lonesome, if you don’t count the fifth of Scotch nestled in the crook of his arm.” He grinned.
“Etta said he was exhausted from a medical emergency.”
“I don’t know about that. I just figured he was the only guy with the nerve to do what the rest of us wanted to, at least me. Get away from that white-glove crowd and toss back a few in peace and quiet.”
“Were you there—I mean right there—when Jo died?”
The flesh around his eyes tightened fractionally. “Yeah, I was there.”
“How did Noah handle it?”
One eyebrow rose. “You heard about that, huh?” He paused, as if weighing his words. “I think something snapped in him. Just for a little while. Maybe he was exhausted, like you say. Maybe the booze had something to do with it, though he seemed sober enough. He was pretty much in control at first. Took one look at her and tossed his car keys to someone—Bryan, I think—and sent him running for his medical bag. He started working on her right away, or trying to. But it was so goddamn hopeless.” His features had hardened. “Sorry. Anyway, that’s when he seemed to change. When it was clear he couldn’t do anything for her and she was...” He hesitated.
“I know she suffered,” Kit said quietly.
Henry leaned on his elbows and scrubbed at his face with his palms, as if by doing so he could eradicate the memory. He lifted his head and stared out the picture window. “Yeah. She suffered.” He cleared his throat. “At that point Noah just wasn’t himself.”
The same phrase Etta had used.
“His face, his eyes... It was like I’d never met this guy. Even his body language was different.” He gave a mirthless half laugh. “Strange as that may sound.”
“His body language?”
“Every expression, every movement. Suddenly Noah was a stranger to me. To all of us. He was down there in the ivy with her, and she was...” He took a deep breath. “Well, she was still alive, but going fast, you know. And I tried to help. I mean, I don’t know that much about CPR, but I sort of caught on watching him, and I got down there with him and reached for her.” He met her eyes. “Kit, he backhanded me, and I mean, I went flying.” His hand arced in illustration. “That was one hell of a wallop. I guess it was all that adrenaline or something, all that frustration.” He shook his head. “All I know is, I hurt like hell for a full week.”
Another peek at the doorway. “What do you think of Noah? In general?”
Henry shrugged. “He’s a solid guy. I always thought so. I’m not going to hold one strange episode against him. It was a bizarre situation, to say the least. He didn’t remember belting me, but when he found out about it, he apologized.” He shrugged again. “It was no big deal. Hell, I suffered a lot worse growing up in Montreal. I was always in one scrape or another.”
“Aha!” she crowed. So that was the accent she’d been trying to identify: French Canadian. “Henri David,” she said, giving his name the full Gallic treatment. Dah-veed.
He chuckled. She liked the raspy way he did that. “Aha! Kit Roarke.” He’d turned the tables by slathering on a thick brogue. “I’ll be thankin’ ye not to remind me o’ me humble origins, begorra.”
As long as you don’t remind me of mine, she thought. She looked around the sumptuously furnished den. “Nothing humble about where you’ve ended up.”
“I guess I’ve done all right for a poor, skinny, scrappy kid from the East End. I got my start bundling papers for Le Journal de Montreal.”
“I stole a copy of the Pratte Citizen from Noah’s waiting room. Pretty impressive.” If you were into puff pieces from local businesses and politicos, photo spreads of school concerts and the Memorial Day parade, and editorials about such gripping issues as whether the twirling team should wear fringed pink leotards or lime-green hot pants.
“It’s all right for a small-town weekly,” he said. “I’m proud of it. So you were in Noah’s office, huh? What did you think of it?”
“That it’s trapped in the sixties.”
“Well, it hasn’t been altered at all since Ray Whittaker lived there.”
The shock must have been plain on her face, because Henry took one look at her and said, “You didn’t know?”
Noah’s voice jump-started her heart and brought a prickle of heat to her face. “It’s the only place in town with an existing medical office,” he said, closing the door. “Ray grew up in that house, a fourth-generation MD.There was one other owner after Ray died, and he left a few years before I arrived.”
“And neither of them so much as changed Ray’s wallpaper.” Henry chuckled. “But I guess that’s to be expected with bachelors.”
“I didn’t know Ray’s family was from Pratte,” Kit said.
“The Whittakers were founding fathers,” Henry explained. “They’ve been on easy street since about 1890 when Great-Grandpa Sam hit it big with a couple of hot patents.”
“What did he invent?”
“Medical instruments. He had that house built around the turn of the century.”
“Eighteen ninety-seven,” Noah volunteered.
She r
emembered being intrigued by the outside of Noah’s sprawling old home, which housed his practice. Brick and stone, with a slate roof, gables, latticed windows, and a profusion of eccentric masonry work.
Henry said, “A fascinating old place, really, inside and out, if you can forget who once lived there.” He had the unfocused look of someone peering into the past. “I spent a lot of time in that house when Ray was alive. When Ray and Anita were alive.”
Kit was peering into a more recent past. She was thinking about her dead friend and the obsessive project she’d undertaken, the long-held secrets she’d planned to unearth. Where would Kit go if she wanted to find out everything she could about someone’s life? She’d start at his home, of course. Neither of them so much as changed Ray’s wallpaper.
She thought about Joanne Merino’s information-gathering techniques. The end justifies the means, kiddo.
She thought about her first surprising glimpse of Noah Stewart, MD, when he’d caught her pawing through his files. Yeah, shoulders like that always did it for Jo. The object of her musing had wandered back to the far side of the room and settled on a cream-colored leather sofa that looked butter-soft. His arm was thrown over the back, one ankle propped on a knee.
“I assume that wasn’t an emergency,” Kit said, referring to his phone call.
“Nope. But we can’t stay much longer. I start seeing patients at ten-thirty.”
“No problem.” She turned back to Henry. “Listen, before I go, let me ask you one more thing. Joanne’s social life. Nobody seems to know who she was dating.”
Henry’s expression was unreadable as he tipped back his glass. After a thoughtful, ice-chomping pause, he said, “She did get phone calls at the office, of course. Some of them sounded more than a little chummy from her end.”
“She didn’t tell you about him? Didn’t mention his name?” She heard the note of incredulity that had crept into her tone, and consciously stifled it. “I don’t know, it just seems like you two were probably on the same wavelength.”
“That we were, but you know Jo. When she decided to keep her lips zipped...” His expressive shrug said the rest.
She remembered Jo’s words. You wouldn’t approve. He’s not suitable. She could think of few paramours less suitable than one’s personal physician. She avoided looking al Noah.
“Did you get to the town treasurer’s party before Jo?” she asked Henry.
“Yeah, Bettina and I were there about ten minutes when I saw her saying hi to Grace.”
“Did you happen to notice who she arrived with?”
“No, but people were just sort of drifting into the backyard in groups, from around the house, you know. We all parked in front. You think she came with someone?”
“I know she did. Her car was still at Etta’s. It hadn’t been moved since that morning when she got back from the gym.” And found her room ransacked.
Then she’d left for the party in the company of the mystery man who’d fetched her sunglasses while she was talking to Kit’s machine. If Chief Jordon knew who that man was, his lips were sealed. He’d refused to answer her questions about the investigation. Nothing would make him happier than to have her pack up her dead friend’s ashes and wing her way back to the Windy City posthaste.
“I don’t suppose your other employees would know who she was seeing,” she said.
He shook his head. “She wasn’t that friendly with anyone else at the Citizen. Wasn’t in the office that much, anyway, except to file her stories and write some of the regular columns.”
“So she wouldn’t have left anything of her own there?” Kit didn’t think Jo would have risked keeping the backup disk of her book at the office, but anything was possible.
“Not that I know of, but if I come across anything, I’ll drop it off at Etta’s.” He looked at her. “How did you know she was seeing someone?”
The door swung open, saving her from having to lie. She wasn’t prepared at this point to disclose Jo’s fears to anyone except Tom Jordon, and she almost regretted having confided in him.
The woman standing in the doorway was as beautiful as Henry was handsome, but younger. She looked to be about forty, slim and elegant even in sweaty workout clothes, her dark hair worn in a sleek French braid. She stood transfixed, staring at the cozy scene at the bar, obviously unaware of Noah’s quiet presence. Her eyes settled on her husband, clad only in swim trunks, and foolishly Kit felt her face grow warm once more.
“Bettina!” Henry’s now-familiar smile flashed, along with something else Kit failed to identify, some kind of unspoken communiqué to which she was not privy. Spousal telepathy. Probably something along the lines of This isn’t what it looks like. He reached out to lift and turn Kit’s wrist, the better to read her watch face. She sensed the repressed strength in his warm, dry hand, as muscular as the rest of him. His touch was casual, almost paternal, putting her at ease.
“I wasn’t expecting you back for another half hour,” he said. “Finish your workout early?”
“Not really. I decided to skip the sauna and shower at home.” She smiled and began to back away. “Excuse me, I didn’t mean to disturb your interview.” Noah rose to greet her. “Oh! Noah. I didn’t see you there.” They exchanged greetings and a quick cheek peck.
“You’re not disturbing anything.” Henry waved her inside. “Kit Roarke, my wife, Bettina. Kit’s a friend of Joanne’s. Just got into town day before yesterday.” He pulled a small bottle of grapefruit juice out of the fridge, shook it, and twisted off the cap.
Bettina’s smile froze and she glanced quickly at her husband and Noah before taking the hand Kit offered. With her handshake came a clean athletic scent, a blend of fresh sweat and Chanel No 5. “Oh. I...”
Kit sympathized with the other woman’s discomfort. To her knowledge, Emily Post had never covered “Meeting the Best Friend of a Murder Victim.”
“I’m so sorry,” Bettina said, releasing her hand. “It was...” Another glance at her husband. “Everyone was so shocked. I’m so sorry,” she repeated.
“I know. Thank you.”
“You’ll have to excuse my appearance,” Bettina said, looking down at her sneakers, bike shorts, and crop top, loosely covered by a baggy lavender tank. She was tanned and toned. Apparently fitness was a family affair in the David household. She accepted the bottle of juice from Henry, smiling her thanks. “I just came from the health club.”
Something clicked. “Valkyrie, right?”
Bettina’s eyes widened.
“Joanne joined Valkyrie,” Kit said. “Her landlady said you introduced her to it.”
“Oh. Yes. She wanted a place to work out, and that’s the nicest club in the area.” She took a healthy swig of juice.
Noah interpreted. “It’s the modern version of the smoke-filled back room, is what she means,” he said, a sardonic gleam in his eye. “Women only. Grace Drummond, our treasurer, is a regular. Plus every other female town officer and selectman, most of the female business owners in Pratte, and just about every other woman with a six-figure income.”
Henry sighed with mock wistfulness. “I pine for the good old days, when the movers and shakers were potbellied, cigar-chomping, suspender-snapping men.” He pounded his chest. “Hombres, dammit! Real guys who like red meat and never heard of the StairMaster.”
Bettina paused in midgulp, swallowing around a wicked grin. “You’d be surprised how much moving and shaking you do on the StairMaster, love.”
“It’s hard for me to picture Jo joining an expensive place like that,” Kit said.
“Well, she seemed to think it was worth it,” Bettina said. “I saw her there at least three times a week.”
“Perhaps I should ask you, then. Henry said he didn’t know who Jo was dating. Maybe you do?” When Bettina didn’t immediately answer, she added, “You know, steam-room chitchat. I thought she might’ve—”
“No.” A quick, dismissive smile. “I don’t remember her mentioning anyone.” Bettina tur
ned away and reached across the bar to chafe her husband’s bare arm. “Aren’t you cold, love? It’s like a meat locker in this house.”
“I like it cool. You know that.” He wasn’t smiling.
But Bettina was, a little too brightly. “Well. It wouldn’t hurt you to throw something on.” Before he could respond, she asked, “How many laps did you do?”
“Eighty or so.”
Her concerned gaze studied his face. She looked pointedly at Noah and asked, “Did he eat anything?”
“I’m fine,” Henry said.
Bettina began to cross behind the bar. “A piece of fruit?”
“I’m fine, Bettina,” he snapped. “I’m not hungry. But perhaps Kit—”
“No. Thank you. I had Etta’s waffles for breakfast. That should hold me for a few days.” Kit rose and picked up her purse. “We’ve monopolized you long enough, Henry. I’m grateful for the brain-picking session.”
He laid a hand on her back. “Remember my offer, Kit.” A couple of affable thumps on her spine. “Anything I can do.”
“Well, I do have just one more question. Ray Whittaker died while out on bail, right?”
Bettina stiffened at the mention of the murderer.
“That’s right,” he said.
“Jo didn’t say, but I’m assuming he committed suicide?”
Three sets of eyebrows shot up.
“He didn’t commit suicide?” Kit asked.
“Hell, no!” Henry roared good-naturedly. “I killed the son of a bitch!”
Chapter Four
KIT AND NOAH had taken separate cars in case he was called away on an emergency. On her way out to Henry’s earlier, Kit had passed a dairy farm. Her gaze had strayed from the pasture full of cows doing their cow thing, the very picture of bucolic indolence, to the distant Green Mountains, doing their mountain thing. Here was Vermont, she’d thought, doing its Vermont thing, and she’d been happy to let it.
Now, on her return trip, her eyes never wavered from the road. It wasn’t asphalt she saw, but the face of a long-dead murderer. Before letting them leave, Henry had hauled out a box of old snapshots, black and white for the most part, dozens of photos of the Whittakers and the Davids, or combinations thereof. Henry and Ray fly-fishing. Anita and Ruby ice-skating. Little Debbie with her ax poised to chop down a Christmas tree.
A Case of You Page 5