As soon as Warren entered the living room, Viveca descended upon him. Her hair, its dark golden hue maintained by careful coloring, was swept up in an elegant French twist to show off her magnificent cheekbones. She'd always reminded him of Faye Dunaway.
" Warren," she said simply but with controlled, breathy feeling.
"Viveca," he returned for lack of anything else to say.
"This has been such a shock for you. For all of us."
"Yes." He had the gift of gab. Why had it deserted him? "Yes," he said again and his mind went blank.
Viveca leaned back and looked at him. Her gaze was earnest, searching. What was she looking for? Deep grief? Did she detect its absence? He lowered his gaze. His mouth twitched slightly from nerves. Apparently Viveca mistook the twitch as a close brush with tears because she quickly enfolded him in a Joy-scented embrace. "We're all here for you."
"Oh, yes!" Alison echoed fervently.
Over Charlotte 's shoulder Warren saw Lily curled onto a moss-green brocade-covered settee. Her makeup had washed away with tears and without it she looked so much like Tamara he caught his breath. But Tamara had never stared at him so coldly. "Hello, Lily," he said uncertainly.
She nodded curtly. The antagonism between them had always been barely concealed and present circumstances made no difference. But soon he wouldn't have to put up with her anymore, either.
Oliver poured himself a brandy from a cut-glass decanter sitting on a sideboard. He offered Warren nothing. As Viveca detached herself from Warren and drifted gracefully across the room, Oliver swirled his brandy in the snifter, slowly took a sizeable drink, then fixed Warren with pale gray eyes.
"Warren, Sheriff Meredith has informed us things are not as they appeared at first."
Blood rushed to Warren 's face, then quickly drained. "You mean Tamara's not dead?" he asked in a thin, startled voice.
"Of course she's dead!" Oliver's voice lashed at him. "They're not likely to make a mistake like that!'
"Oh, well, then…"
"Tamara's death wasn't caused by an accident." Oliver paused. Warren was vaguely aware of everyone intensely watching him. He could almost hear Alison's heart beating rapidly with excitement. "Tamara was murdered," Oliver said in a brittle voice. "Someone cut her throat."
I'm supposed to gasp, Warren thought distantly. I'm supposed to turn pale or sway. I'm at least supposed to look surprised. Instead he stood paralyzed and uttered a weak, "Oh."
"Oh?" Lily repeated in an eerie version of Tamara's voice. "Is that it? Oh!'
"I… I'm just…" His mouth felt full of gauze. Once again he was an inadequate boy reduced to stammering helplessness in front of his disgusted father. "Who?" he managed finally.
Oliver paused, then said, "The police have no idea. Yet."
But he continued to stare at Warren unflinchingly, his steely eyes flickering with suspicion.
Since returning home, Natalie had considered calling Lily but decided to wait. Sheriff Meredith had no doubt informed Oliver and Lily that Tamara had been murdered. They needed time to accept this information before friends descended. But she couldn't sit idle and dwell on the image of Tamara's eyeless body, and she certainly couldn't think about the unnerving call she'd received. She hadn't mentioned it to her father. Hopefully he would dismiss it as a prank. More likely he would grow alarmed, and she didn't feel like dealing with his overprotectiveness. Instead she kept quiet about the call and busied herself with the dog.
She led it to the patio and hoped it wouldn't run away at the sight of the garden hose. Thankfully it stood still, patiently enduring being doused with cold water then lathered with Natalie's shampoo. "This is guaranteed to add strength, body, and luster," she told the dog. "Vitamin B, hydrolyzed wheat protein, glycerin, tocopheryl-that's a form of vitamin E. Thyme and chamomile-sweet-smelling herbs. Expensive stuff, young lady. I don't think it does anything for fleas, though, but we'll worry about them later. Right now our prime concern is dirt and that less-than-delightful aroma you're sporting."
After the bath she patted hydrogen peroxide onto the dog's facial scratch and the shallow cuts on its paws. None of the wounds were serious enough to require stitches and only one looked as if it might be heading toward infection. She would start the dog on antibiotics just to be safe, but now she had a more immediate problem.
"I can't keep calling you 'the dog,' " she said, looking into its amber eyes. "And you're certainly not going to be Fido. You need a proper name. Nothing common because I have a feeling you're an uncommon dog." She stared out at the lake, considering and rejecting a dozen names. Then her gaze snapped back to the dog. "I'm reading a murder mystery with a heroine named Blaine." She dabbed a drop of water on the dog's head. "I christen you Blaine." The dog licked her nose and she smiled. "I think you like your new name."
Blaine 's head moved sharply. Natalie looked up, following the dog's gaze.
A woman stood in the doorway. She appeared to be in her mid-fifties with short, silver hair and bright aqua eyes. She stared at Natalie intently before she smiled broadly. "So you're the girl I've heard so much about!" She came forward, hand extended. "I'm Ruth Meadows."
Natalie smiled automatically. Ruth Meadows?
"Your father said you'd brought home a dog," the woman went on. "My, he's fine looking."
"It's a she," Natalie said. Free of dirt and oil, Blaine 's black hair glistened in the sun.
"She looks like the dog in the photo of you taken when you were about five."
"The framed one in Dad's study? Her name was Clytemnestra."
"Good heavens, that's a mouthful."
"My mother named her. Kira was in her Greek mythology phase then." Natalie looked at the dog. "Someone once cared about her. She's been spayed and I'd say she's only been neglected for a couple of weeks."
"Well, what a shame." Ruth stepped out on the patio. She was about five-seven and trim. She wore ivory linen slacks, a pale pink knit top and small gold hoop earrings. Her lips bore a lovely shade of coral-pink lipstick. Her voice was warm and friendly.
"I love animals," she said, petting Blaine. "I grew up on a farm. I always thought when I reached my age I'd be surrounded by children and animals. Instead I'm childless and
I have only one small cat. A calico. I named it Callie because all cats seem female to me."
"All calicos are female."
"They are? How do you know?"
"The calico hair coat color pattern is genetically incompatible with the male Y chromosome."
"Well, my goodness!" Ruth exclaimed. "Did you ever hear of such a thing?"
"Calicos are beautiful," Natalie said, her mind working. The woman said she'd heard about her. She had a cat. And she looked quite at ease in this house. Clearly Ruth was Andrew's new romantic interest. Natalie told herself not to stare or ask too many probing questions. She was surprised Andrew was even allowing the two women in his life to meet so soon.
Ruth said gently, "Your father told me about Tamara. I knew her slightly from my work with the suicide hotline she organized. Such a dear girl."
"Yes," Natalie said softly.
"I can't even imagine how awful finding her must have been for you. I'm so sorry."
Natalie swallowed, unable to say anything.
"Don't worry, dear, I'm not going to ask any questions. But I'll be here for a little while if you want to talk and take your mind off things. We can discuss anything. Animals, movies-" She winked. "Your father."
"Oh, no. The last subject is off-limits," Andrew announced as he joined Ruth. "Well, that looks like a completely different dog."
"I knew she was a beauty beneath all the grime." And blood, Natalie thought. She'd soaped the neck area twice. "I named her Blaine."
" Blaine? What kind of name is that?"
"She likes it."
"I don't know how you can tell, but if you like it I suppose it's okay." Andrew frowned. "You'll need a leash and collar."
"Which I plan to get immediately along with s
ome anti biotics. I don't have anything with me. Dad, if you'll write a prescription for amoxicillin, I'll run to the drugstore right now." And leave you and Ruth alone and try to keep myself busy so I don't replay finding Tam, Natalie thought.
"Prescription' coming up," Andrew said, going back inside.
"This dog certainly fell into the right hands," Ruth smiled. "I really don't know much about modern animal care. Maybe you can teach me a few things, Natalie. One of our two vets is retiring next month. The other-Cavanaugh-just doesn't suit me. He's not gentle with the animals and it seems he's more interested in selling medicine than anything else. I've talked to several people who aren't happy with him, either."
"I see." Natalie stood up. "What color collar do you think Blaine should have?"
Ruth came forward and stroked Blaine 's head. "With all this beautiful black hair? Red!"
"That's what I thought, too."
Ruth kneeled and took the dog's face in her hands. "Hello, pretty girl. You've found a good home, haven't you?" Blaine licked her hand. "Natalie, are you sure she's perfectly healthy?"
"Yes, except for cuts and scratches and probably a case of tapeworm from fleabites, but tapes are easy to get rid of. Why? Does something look wrong to you?"
"Her tongue, dear. It has black splotches."
Natalie smiled. "That's because she has some Chow blood."
"Chow? They have black on their tongues?"
"Yes indeed."
"My goodness, I'm learning things already. You seem quite capable, Natalie."
"Well, we haven't been discussing any complex animal ailments. I feel I still have a lot to learn."
"As opposed to Dr. Cavanaugh, who's about your age and thinks he knows it all."
"Is she complaining about that young whippersnapper of a vet again?" Andrew asked, coming to stand by Ruth and handing her a mug of coffee.
"I take it he isn't too popular."
"I think his problem is that small animal care is just a sideline with him," Andrew informed her seriously. "He's more interested in cows and horses."
"And his office hours are very limited," Ruth added sadly. "You're just out of luck if there's an emergency. It's awful."
Natalie smothered a grin. Any minute they would burst into doleful tears about the lack of good vets in Port Ariel. Andrew was campaigning for her return and had drawn Ruth in on the scheme, too.
"I'd better be off to the drugstore," she said casually. "I'm sure Blaine will be fine in the house until I come back. Can't leave her out on the lawn unchained. She might wander off." She herded the dog into the living room, picked up the prescription her father had left on an end table, and dashed out the front door before Andrew could object to a new, large housedog.
5
SUNDAY NIGHT 11:30 p.m.
Shadows. Circling. Undulating. She looked up. Vultures. Huge wings. Cold, merciless eyes. Lower. Lower. Down to feast on the delicate face.
Natalie's heart slammed against her ribs. She sucked in air with such a vengeance, pain stabbed her chest. A weight hit the bed and a shard of fear touched her heart. Then a warm, wet tongue licked her nose.
"Oh, Blaine!" she breathed, clutching the dog. "I had such an awful dream. Did I frighten you?"
The dog nuzzled her neck. She smelled of shampoo. She was also heavy but Natalie didn't mind the weight pressing against her body. It felt warm and reassuring, a sign of thriving life.
Life. She was alive. Blaine was alive. Tamara was dead. Murdered.
Suddenly Natalie began to hyperventilate. She gently pushed the dog away, trying not to alarm her, and got up. She paced the room, her long nightgown wrapping annoyingly around her legs. Stripping off the nightgown, Natalie noticed how damp it was. Perspiration glistened on her abdomen and dripped from beneath her breasts. She ran her hands through her wet hair.
A panic attack. She'd been having them ever since she was six and her mother left. They'd lessened over the years, but today had been enough of a shock to throw anyone, and this was a bad one. Still, it was only a simple panic attack. She would just ride it out.
Ten minutes later her heart still pounded and sweat still poured. Blaine followed in helpless distress as Natalie paced the room, breathing raggedly. Natalie was touched by how quickly the dog seemed to have bonded to her and her company was a comfort, but Natalie was still unnerved by her condition. Often when she had the attacks, she could calm herself by playing the guitar and singing. That wasn't an option tonight. She would wake her father and he'd make a scene. He'd harangue about Kenny. He'd lecture about her diet, tell her to eat meat. He might even take her to the emergency room at the hospital. How embarrassing. Rushed to the hospital for a panic attack. People would think she was as flaky as her mother.
No, she had to handle this on her own. It was bad enough that she'd run home to Daddy after coming face to face with Kenny's infidelity. Now to completely fall apart in front of him would be too much.
She put on her robe and went to the kitchen. A glass of milk? No, it sounded nauseating. Tea? No, tea was a stimulant. Orange juice? Natalie drank a small glass of juice, which hit her stomach like a rock.
A walk. A few times when she'd had panic attacks, walks had been the answer. Walking along the shoreline in front of the house would do the trick. She glanced at the kitchen clock. 11:45. No matter. She needed long strides and deep breaths of fresh air.
She went back to the bedroom and slipped on jeans, a tee shirt, Reeboks, and a windbreaker. Then she glanced at the clock again. 11:52. No matter? Yes, it mattered. Although she planned to stay within sight of the house, just last night Tamara had been murdered not too far away.
Natalie took her suitcase from the closet and unlocked it. Fishing in the side pocket, she withdrew a.38 blue-steel Beretta. Twenty-one-point-eight ounces. Strange she should remember the exact weight. She had not wanted it, but Kenny insisted on buying a gun for her after a string of rapes in Columbus last year. A pocket rocket, he'd called it. She hadn't intentionally brought it along. She'd just always kept it tucked out of sight in the suitcase.
When she'd first begun lessons, her right hand had held the gun stiffly, reluctantly. Then, to her surprise and her instructor's, she'd discovered she had a knack. She was an excellent shot, even though she wasn't actually sure she could shoot someone. "You could in a case of self-defense," Kenny had assured her. "That is, if you'd ever keep the thing handy. What will you do if someone breaks in? Tell them to wait a minute until you unlock your suitcase and get your gun?"
Well, she had it now. She snapped in the eight-shot magazine and stuffed the gun in her pocket. Then she grabbed a flashlight from her nightstand drawer and attached Blaine 's leash. "Ready for a night stroll with your new mistress?" she asked. The dog pulled toward the door. "Off we go, then, into the wild blue yonder."
No, the wild black yonder, she thought as she and Blaine strolled down toward the lake. Not a bright night. Not a warm night. A breeze blew off the water. Natalie had brought a large barrette and she pulled back her long hair and caught it in the clip. Cool air touched her warm neck like a caress.
Like when Kenny had dipped his fingers in a cold vodka tonic and stroked her neck as she lay sunbathing on his balcony just two weeks ago. Tears stung her eyes. No, she would not think of that lovely, sensuous afternoon. Or of another afternoon a week later when a big-breasted redhead flailed around in desperate search of a sheet with a naked Kenny beside her.
"Stop it!" she said aloud. Blaine looked up at her. "I wasn't talking to you," she soothed. She stroked the dog's head. "Such a good girl."
Fog rolled in from the lake, coiling around her denim clad legs. Minute by minute the fog wafted higher, first to her calves, then to her knees. Slowly the outside lights at the house became dimmer as she strolled in one direction, then turned and went in the other, covering only about fifty yards in either direction.
How many times had she walked this stretch of shoreline with Lily in the old days? Hundreds. And what had they talked
of on those cool, secret, night-softened jaunts away from the prying eyes and ears of parents? Boyfriends, of course. Lily always had plenty. Natalie had only one, a gawky boy with acne who was president of the chess club and the math club. He was nice in a stuttering, awkward, perpetually embarrassed way, and she felt sorry for him because she was sure he would never amount to anything. Recently she heard he'd become a top executive with Microsoft.
She stopped as she realized that in her reverie, she'd walked farther than she'd intended. She'd completely lost sight of the house. "Time to go home," she said to the dog. But Blaine wasn't listening. The dog tensed, her hackles rising, then suddenly tugged at the leash so hard Natalie lost her grip. " Blaine!" she called as the dog bolted down the beach. " Blaine!" she yelled again, although the dog hadn't had time to learn her new name. She disappeared into the fog, barking.
Natalie stood still for a moment. She should head for home. The dog would return. Or would she? The St. John house wasn't home to her yet. She might get lost in the night, wander around, get hit by a car in the fog…
Thoughts, of what she should do vanished to be replaced by the blind impulse to help the dog before it suffered a worse fate than being dumped in the woods. Natalie took a deep breath and ran in the direction Blaine had disappeared.
She ran for about a hundred feet, then paused. Lake water, still cold at this time of year, licked the shore. She held her breath for a moment, listening. No sound of paws splashing into the water of Lake Erie. Then barking, fast and furious. Natalie started running again.
Up ahead loomed the remains of The Blue Lady Resort. The son of a railroad entrepreneur had bought two acres of prime lakefront land in 1921 on which to build a lavish hotel and dance pavilion. He'd named it The Blue Lady because of a local legend. Sailors claimed they saw a lady bathed in blue light standing on a rise-the rise where Ariel Saunders's house sat. They swore it was Ariel and the image meant good luck. After all, Ariel had saved two sailors and the captain the night the Mercy sank.
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