Don

by Carlene Thompson

  Gravel crunched beside her. She looked up. Meredith stood straight and tall, his strong-boned face grim. "I think you were right, Dr. St. John," he said, his voice without inflection. "Her throat has been slashed."

  Tamara's throat had been slashed? Slashed?

  Natalie stood up, her lips slightly parted in shock. She'd known Tamara hadn't been killed by a falling limb. She'd even been fairly sure Tam hadn't been struck by lighting. But this?

  Meredith watched her intently. "Dr. St. John, do you know anyone who might want to murder Mrs. Hunt?"

  "Murder?" Natalie repeated incredulously. "Murder Tamara? My God, no! No one could want to hurt her."

  "Someone did. I don't need a medical examiner to tell me her throat wasn't cut in an accident." He seemed to notice Jimmy for the first time. "I told you to get going, boy!" Jimmy hopped on his bike and sped away, although he looked totally unabashed by the sheriff's harsh tone. "Dr. St. John, I asked you about Mrs. Hunt," Meredith said.

  Natalie raised her hands helplessly. "I can't tell you anything. I haven't lived in Port Ariel for years. I'm only back for a visit."

  "Maybe her father and sister will know something. Or her husband. Is that all the family?"

  "Her mother is dead. There are aunts, uncles, cousins, but I don't know where any of them live."

  Meredith wasn't taking notes, but Natalie had no doubt he would remember everything she said. She glanced back at the location of Tamara's body. People cleared away the remaining leaves and chunks of wood. Emergency technicians pushed a gurney. Everyone moved slowly and quietly because Tamara was a lifeless, mutilated body headed for a morgue instead of an emergency room. Had there ever been a chance? How long had she lived after someone had ripped open her slender white throat?

  "Dr. St. John?" Sheriff Meredith's voice sounded as if it were coming from far away. She looked at him, noticing for the first time a thin two-inch-long scar that slashed above his right eyebrow and the slight bump high on the bridge of his nose as if it had been broken. He also had a strand of silver hair along one temple. Lily had said something about him coming to Port Ariel because of a tragedy in New York City. Had he been injured? "Are you all right?" he asked.

  "Not really." She suddenly realized how weak she felt. "Could someone take me home?"

  "I thought Miss Peyton left her car keys."

  "Her Corvette is a four-speed. I can only drive an automatic. My father tried to teach me to use a manual but I just couldn't seem to learn. He got so frustrated-" She broke off. "I need a ride."

  "I've done all I can here for now. I'll take you."

  The emergency technicians were carrying the gurney past them. The road was too rough to wheel it. A sheet covered Tamara's body, but Natalie still averted her eyes.

  "Did you bag her hands?" Meredith asked.

  "Yes," a deputy said. "You told us twice."

  "Got a handkerchief?"

  The deputy looked at him blankly for a moment, then withdrew a white square from his pocket. The sheriff took it, put the note inside, and handed it back. "Put this in an evidence bag. We've already got three extra sets of prints on it. We don't need any more."

  "What is it?" the deputy asked.

  "A note that might have been left on Mrs. Hunt's body. Hysell, I'm going to take Dr. St. John home. I'll be back at the office in half an hour."

  "Okay, Sheriff." Then: "Natalie?"

  She looked up and recognized Ted Hysell. He'd been a couple of years ahead of her in school. "Damned shame, isn't it?" Ted said. "Knew Tamara for years. She was a real sweetheart."

  "Yes, she was."

  "Pretty as a picture. I used to have a crush on her. Of course that was a long time ago. She never went out with me, but she was always real nice to me. Helped me through French class. I would have failed without her. Anyway, we'll find who did this, Natalie. We won't stop until we've got him and-"

  "Thank you, Hysell," Meredith said repressively, clearly annoyed by Ted's chattiness. "Get back to headquarters as soon as possible and don't talk to any reporters. I'll prepare a statement for later."

  Ted's eyes flicked with resentment before he marched back to the patrol car. The sheriff had been a bit sharp with him, but Ted's nonstop talking would fray anyone's nerves.

  "All right, Dr. St. John," Meredith said. "Let's get going. You don't look so good."

  Natalie took a couple of steps toward the sheriff's car, then looked back at the dog. It lay on the grass, its amber gaze fastened on her. She hesitated for a moment, then tapped her thigh. "Come on, girl." The dog immediately ran to her.

  Meredith stopped. "I thought that wasn't your dog."

  "It isn't, but it's hungry and in need of medical attention."

  "It's also not too clean."

  "Are you saying you won't let it in your car? Because if so, I can call my father." Natalie was afraid he'd tell her to do so. "Dad is at the hospital now-he has a patient in critical condition-but I guess I can wait out here for him."

  Meredith sighed, and she thought he half-suspected she was lying. "Okay, both of you get in. I can't just leave you here."

  Thank goodness, Natalie thought. Meredith opened the rear car door. The dog hesitated. Natalie slid in and patted the vinyl seat. The dog hopped up beside her.

  After Natalie told him her address, they drove in silence for a few minutes. Finally Meredith said, "You going to put an ad in the paper for that dog?"

  "Maybe."

  "You don't sound too anxious to find its home."

  "I have a feeling it was dumped. Lost dogs usually have a collar and tags."

  "And you'd like to keep it." Natalie looked in the rearview mirror and saw him smiling. He held his head low, tilted, and looked up at her with those incredibly blue eyes. "You remind me of my daughter."

  "How old is she?"

  "Eleven. Her name is Paige. She wants to take in every stray she sees."

  "So did I. Bunnies, baby robins, you name it. Does Paige have any pets?"

  "A male cat. Ripley. Last year an elderly woman's house was burglarized. She was afraid to live alone afterward. Went to stay with her daughter who wouldn't accept the cat."

  "So you took him in for your daughter." Natalie thawed toward him a fraction. "That was nice of you."

  "The kid was driving me nuts begging for a pet." Even though he referred to his daughter as "the kid," his voice was warm with affection. "So you're a vet. Where do you practice?"

  "A big clinic in Columbus called Anicare." To which I might never return because it means working with Kenny, Natalie thought. "There are ten veterinarians on staff and we only take referrals for difficult cases. I've lived in Columbus for twelve years."

  "But you grew up in Port Ariel."

  "Yes."

  "Come back often to visit?"

  "Twice a year."

  "And you were friends with Tamara Hunt."

  "She and Lily are twins. I've known them since I started first grade. We also shared an apartment in Columbus when we attended Ohio State."

  "And you've stayed in close touch with Lily and Tamara since then?"

  "Yes. They've both visited me in Columbus. I talk on the phone with Lily every couple of weeks. Tamara about once a month."

  "So you know Mrs. Hunt's husband. What's your impression of him?"

  Natalie hesitated. She thought Warren Hunt was a pompous bag of hot air, but her opinion was largely a matter of instinct. "I attended their wedding and I've been around him maybe five or six times since then. I wouldn't say I know him." She ran a hand over the dog's head. "Is Warren under suspicion, Sheriff Meredith?"

  "Nick," he said absently. "And it was just an idle question."

  Natalie doubted this. He was making friendly conversation-even telling her to call him Nick-because he wanted to put her off guard. But how could he possibly suspect Warren? He wasn't even here. Still, hadn't she heard on police shows that the spouse was always the prime suspect?

  "Turn left here," Natalie directed. "It's the ston
e house up ahead."

  "Nice place-. I've admired it ever since I moved here."

  "Thank you. My father designed it."

  "Architecture a hobby of his?"

  "Yes."

  "That his Jeep Wagoneer in the driveway?"

  "Yes."

  "Guess he finished with that critical patient sooner than you expected," he said dryly.

  Natalie didn't answer. Even if Andrew had been home earlier, she hadn't wanted to call him from Tamara's. She would have had to answer a dozen questions, then wait for him to arrive when she wanted desperately to get away from the scene of Tamara's murder.

  Meredith opened the back door for her. She got out and coaxed the dog to follow. "I may need to talk to you later," he said.

  "Fine. Phone number is listed. Thank you for bringing me home."

  As she climbed the steps to the front porch, her father swung open the door. "Before you left I specifically asked you not to get in trouble and here you are two hours later delivered home by the sheriff himself." Her father's voice always boomed when he was tense. "Was there a wreck? Are you hurt? You look awful."

  "Dad, lower your voice and let the dog and me come in because if I don't sit down and have a cup of coffee-"

  "You're going to pass out. There's not an ounce of color in your face." Andrew put his big hand on her arm and drew her inside the coolness of the entrance hall. The dog lingered uncertainly on the porch. "You, too. I didn't mean to scare you. You both look like you need some tender loving care."

  While her father poured water and laid out leftover bacon from breakfast for the dog, Natalie sat down at the kitchen table and stared out at the lake. Sunlight flashed over its glassy surface. In one direction she could see no shore- only water. It looked so calm, so soothing.

  Andrew set a mug of coffee in front of her. "Take a drink of that and tell me what's going on."

  Natalie sipped, then drew a deep breath. "Dad, Tamara is dead."

  "Dead! Then there was a wreck!" Andrew burst out. "Lily drives too fast. Always did. Are you hurt?"

  "There wasn't a wreck." Natalie raised anguished eyes to her father. "Tamara was murdered."

  " Mur -wha-murdered?" Andrew's face registered profound shock. "Natalie, what are you talking about? How? When? Murdered!"

  The dog quit eating and looked at him. "Dad, please stop blustering," Natalie said. "Lily hadn't been able to reach Tam by phone so we went to her house. The windows were open and the draperies damp from the storm last night. The doors were locked. We walked down Hyacinth Lane. Tamara was lying on the road beneath a tree limb. It looked like the falling limb had killed her, but when the police cut it away, they saw that Tam's throat had been-" She drew a deep breath. "Slashed."

  "Dear God," Andrew breathed, sitting down heavily. "Who?"

  "They have no idea. Mr. Peyton came and took Lily home before the police discovered that her throat had been cut, so they don't even know yet that she was murdered. Neither does Warren. He's at a convention in Cleveland." She shook her head. "Dad, the dog led me to her body. It was horrible. The vultures had been at her eyes."

  Andrew reached out and covered her hand with his surprisingly slender one, the hand of a gifted surgeon. "Go ahead and cry, honey."

  "I can't. The tears won't come."

  "They will in time." He patted her back in a clumsy attempt at comfort. "How's Lily?"

  "Alternately sobbing and dry-eyed. Shaking. A wreck."

  "Did she see her sister?"

  "No, I wouldn't let her."

  "Good. That would be a sight she'd take to her grave."

  Natalie sighed. "It will be a sight I'll take to mine."

  3

  SUNDAY AFTERNOON

  Charlotte Bishop realized she'd been staring at the same page of her Danielle Steel novel for ten minutes. She started over. Two sentences later her mind drifted again. Normally she devoured the novels, losing herself in the stories. She pictured herself as every impossibly beautiful, virtuous, and brave heroine. But not today.

  She tossed down the book and looked around her bedroom. Large. Sumptuous. Adolescent. It hadn't been redecorated since she was fifteen when her favorite color was pink. Blush pink, shell pink, antique pink, strawberry pink. All shades surrounded her in nauseating abundance. And the doll collection! All those rosy-cheeked little creatures staring at her with big, blank eyes were driving her crazy. Abruptly she picked up a delicate crocheted afghan, also done in the ubiquitous shades of pink, and tossed it over the offending dolls. That was better. Slightly.

  When Charlotte had returned home six months ago after her very public and humiliating divorce, she'd been too stunned and embarrassed to care what the room looked like. She'd only wanted to hide away in this small town in her old bedroom and lick her wounded ego. But time was doing its work. Her self-confidence was returning. So was her habitual boredom and restlessness. She'd like to do something about this room. After all, she would be staying here until she could marry Warren Hunt, which wouldn't be for a few months.

  Warren. A couple of years ago she wouldn't have considered him husband material. Then she had been married to

  Paul Fiori, a television star. When they had wed five years earlier, her father was furious. She was the only daughter of Max Bishop, owner of Bishop Corporation, one of the country's largest manufacturers of marine electronics such as sonar and radar. Max had raged at the thought of his daughter the heiress marrying a pretty-boy actor who'd had only bit parts and would never amount to anything. The marriage was unacceptable! Unthinkable! But Charlotte had married Paul anyway. Charlotte always did what she wanted. Charlotte always got what she wanted. And she'd wanted Paul.

  She had been happy at first, although she was their sole support. The parts just weren't coming in and Paul was frustrated. Charlotte didn't care. This way Paul needed her and she liked being in control. Then he had won the lead in the police drama Street Life. The show debuted at number five, and in three months shot to number one in the ratings. Paul was a star and landed a feature movie for his summer hiatus from the show. Charlotte had reveled in the publicity of being Paul Fiori's wife. She hadn't even minded the paparazzi. Not until the second year of the show when they began covering Paul's affair with his costar Larissa Lyle. In public Charlotte acted calm and charmingly amused by the "ridiculous" rumor of an affair. At home she screamed, cried, threatened, and reminded Paul of every wonderful thing she'd done for him before Street Life. Then Larissa became pregnant and Paul walked away from Charlotte without a backward glance.

  Charlotte tried to stay in Los Angeles, hoping to milk sympathy while watching the public turn against its newest star. To her surprise, at first, instead of outraged support, all she'd received was embarrassed pity. Then, thanks to Paul's publicity people, the tabloids falsely reported on her bizarre behavior and drug addiction, and the public began to wonder if Paul Fiori had not had good reason to leave his crazy wife. Charlotte was dropped from all Hollywood social functions, while Paul and Larissa became increasingly popular. On the day Larissa delivered their little boy, Charlotte fled for the safety and anonymity of Port Ariel.

  To their credit, neither of her parents had said, "I told you so." This was an expected lack of response from her timid, gentle mother but downright miraculous from her bombastic, cocksure father. She attributed it to his recent stroke that had left him partially paralyzed and emotionally stunned. Her parents had left her alone to read, watch television (anything except Street Life), and to wander around the six acres of manicured grounds surrounding the white-columned house Max had modeled on Tara in Gone With the Wind. After a couple of months, when her depression didn't lift, she'd decided to seek professional help in the form of Dr. Warren Hunt.

  Four weeks later their affair had begun and she'd wanted him as badly as she'd once wanted Paul Fiori. True, he wasn't as handsome and charismatic as Paul, but he was much brighter, far more educated, and absolutely adored her. And, oh, how her battered ego wanted his adoration after Paul's d
evastating rejection. Wanted, needed, hungered. The only thing standing between them was Warren 's vapid little wife Tamara.

  Charlotte wandered over to her vanity table and sat down, gazing into the large mirror. Charlotte knew she wasn't a classic beauty, but she was striking. Sunlight poured through the west window picking up the copper highlights in her short, sleek chestnut hair. When she blinked, long lashes swept over her gold-flecked green eyes and her skin shone like fine porcelain in the strong natural light. She didn't look thirty. She didn't look a day older than Paul's twenty one year old silicone-and-bleach creation Larissa. Well, not much older. And she certainly looked better than Tamara, who didn't even try to be stylish like her twin sister Lily. Of course Lily was no threat. Warren didn't like her. She didn't think he really liked Tamara, either. It was only guilt that held him to her-guilt and fear of the fallout from a divorce.

  Warren worried about what scandal would do to his reputation in a town of twenty thousand people. But as soon as he got his divorce, Charlotte knew she could convince him to move somewhere more cosmopolitan where they both could shine. New York City would be nice. Expensive, yes, but her father was dying and she knew he intended to leave his fortune in her hands, not his wife's. Muriel didn't even like to write checks. She could never handle Bishop Corporation. Charlotte, on the other hand, had a brilliant business mind and could run the company from far away. Yes, New York City would be very nice. An apartment in Manhattan, a second home in the Hamptons…

  Someone tapped at her door. "Come in," she called absently.

  In a moment her mother's small, white face appeared. Muriel Bishop always looked slightly anxious, vaguely worried, but at the moment she appeared positively terrified. "Honey, that nice deputy Ted Hysell from the sheriff's office called," she said tremulously. "He thought your daddy would want to know…"

  After years of living with the impatient Max, who interrupted constantly, Muriel finished only half of her sentences. The others trailed off into fluttering uncertainty.