The phone rang and he couldn’t bring himself to answer it. He stood, arms hanging loosely at his sides, listening as the ringer bleeped and then his answering machine came on.
“Ethan. Got your text. Don’t worry about picking up Cady tonight. We’ll keep her until you get here. Have fun.” Joe Cap’s voice had a bit of a sly tone to it and Ethan suddenly wanted to fling the answering machine across the room.
But he was good. He was cool. He could handle this.
The answering machine disconnected with a short beep and he walked aimlessly into the living room. Picked up the remote control with shaking fingers. Turned it on. Swallowed the ball of concrete that settled in his throat. Fought back the desire to puke.
The phone rang again.
Ethan turned off the TV. Dropped the remote. And listened to the rings, his greeting once more, and then Joe Cap’s voice came on. “Me again. Wanted you to know there was an incident yesterday at Diana’s house. Her boyfr—her ex-boyfriend was there and it didn’t look very cozy. She seemed upset. I made sure he left. Just thought you should know.”
Yeah. She was probably really upset that Wertinger might see her with Reardon.
A sudden thought seized Ethan. An ugly, uncomfortable one.
If she was seeing Reardon, everyone in town would know.
They’d all know Ethan had been screwed over again. Cuckolded. What a stupid word. Cuckolded.
Hell. Even Joe would know. God. And Helen Galliday. Aw, Christ.
And the last thing Ethan wanted was pity.
Which meant he couldn’t hide here and sulk. He had to go out and act like nothing happened. Like it had been a mutual thing. Like he didn’t give a flying fuck.
He rubbed his eyes, unwilling to acknowledge that the dampness there was related to grief and pain. Nope. Ethan Tannock had no reason for tears.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It took every ounce of fortitude Ethan possessed to walk into the Grille. It was after eight on a Thursday evening, but late enough in the tourism season that it wasn’t overly crowded—a fact for which he was immensely grateful. But that, of course, meant not only would it be filled with regulars, it would also be easier to notice anyone else who might come in—Diana and Reardon, for example.
He felt ill at the thought of seeing them here together, but he told himself to buck up. As was his habit, he strolled to the bar and taking a seat at the counter he waited for a bustling Mirabella to notice him. She was wearing aqua and orange today, and her hair was back to a spun gold bouffant. She slid a couple plates in front of customers at the other end of the bar then pivoted and saw him.
“Ethan, honey, what’s wrong?” She was at his end of the counter in a millisecond.
He blinked and forced an easy smile. “Nothing’s wrong, Bella. Everything’s great. Just got in from Princeton and knew I had to come here right away to get fed.” He patted his stomach and tried to look hungry.
“Don’t lie to me, young man,” she said flatly. “I’ve never seen you look like this. Did someone die?” she asked, her voice going soft and empathetic.
Did someone die? Pretty much. But he just shook his head, suddenly not trusting himself to speak. Christ. What a mess.
Bella seemed to understand and she didn’t say another word as she snagged a heavy mug and pulled the lever to fill it with Blue Moon. Setting it in front of him, she turned to holler back into the kitchen, “Tommy! Get your buns out here!”
Ethan took a drink and his stomach rebelled, so he made it a short sip and put the glass down. Just great. I can’t get plastered either.
Just as Tommy came out of the back, wiping his meaty hands on a stained white apron, the door to the restaurant opened and the quilting ladies flooded in. Oh Christ. What next?
Ethan tried to look unobtrusive, but Tommy and Bella were standing on the other side of the counter (she was telling him about Ethan looking like hell—as if he weren’t sitting there, looking like hell) and of course Helen Galliday wasn’t about to let a conversation go uninterrupted.
She stomped over, her cane working furiously, shouting as she came. “Ethan Tannock! You’re back two days early,” she said in accusation. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to eat,” he managed to say. “What do you think?”
Helen wagged her head in clear irritation. “That’s a pile of bunk if I ever heard one. Look at you, you look like you’re gonna hork all over the place if’n anyone put something edible in front of you. Martha! Rose!” she screeched across the room. “What’re you waitin’ for? Get over here! We’ve got problems. I tol’ you we had problems. And where the blazes is Pauline when I need her? Playing her danged Scrabble game, I allow,” Helen complained.
Ethan would have found her use of the slang term amusing if he hadn’t actually felt like horking. As it was, he could do nothing but try to smile and brush off the questions from Tommy and Bella as the other ladies gathered around him in a cloud of rosewater and polyester.
What was it again that he liked about Damariscotta? It sure as hell wasn’t the privacy.
“Where’s Diana?” asked blind old Martha Woden, peering around the restaurant as if the woman might materialize at any moment.
Something must have shown in his face, for Bella’s hand slammed down over his on the counter. “Where’s Diana?” she asked, looking sharply at him.
Damn. He’d never seen the resemblance between her and his middle school English teacher, but he did now. “Why would I know?” he replied, eyeing the tall Blue Moon with a combination of trepidation and desire.
“What d’you mean, why would you know?” Helen latched onto that like a teen-ager with a Penthouse centerfold. Her beady eyes were right there, boring into Ethan’s. As the other ladies moved in closer, he felt as if he’d been cornered by a herd of feral cats. “You and she’ve been bonking each other for more’n a month now, ain’t you? Don’t tell me you’ve done something stupid and got her all mad at you.”
So much for playing it cool. “I just saw her,” he said flatly. His voice was way rough. “With Marc Reardon.”
“She was talking to Dr. Reardon?” Martha asked querulously, peering at him from behind her glasses. “About her headaches?”
“I don’t think they were talking,” Bella said grimly. She hadn’t released Ethan’s hand and now she patted it comfortingly. “Drink up, hon. There’s another one waitin’ for you when you’re ready.” Then she spun to Tommy. “Damn good thing I never caught you with your hand down Felicia Nooney’s shirt, baby, or you’d be regretting the loss of me to this very day.”
“You know damn well I never had my hand down her shirt. I was too afraid of you.” But Tommy’s booming laugh sounded hollow and he slapped his wife on the ass. “Gotta get back in the kitchen. Send him in to me if he needs to talk to a man,” he added with a bracing look at Ethan.
“What do you mean you saw her with Dr. Reardon?” Helen shouted into his ear. “Doing what?” Her mouth had tightened into a small, wrinkled O and for once, her cane wasn’t moving.
“I saw her. With. Reardon. With him,” Ethan added for emphasis. “And they weren’t talking. At all.” He blocked the image of a half-dressed Diana straddling the lean, handsome doctor, her hand on his bare chest, him murmuring something up into her ear. Don’t fucking go there.
“That’s impossible,” Helen screeched. “Are you saying they were—bonking?”
“Shut up, Helen,” Bella snapped, looking as angry as Ethan had ever seen her. “Can’t you tell he’s miserable? For once, just keep your thoughts—”
“Now listen here, missy,” Helen said, her eyes flashing as she thrust her chin belligerently at Mirabella. “You just be quiet for one minute and let me say something—”
“You’ve said quite enough already,” Bella fumed. “Now if you don’t go sit over at your table and leave off Ethan here, I’m going to—”
“But isn’t Dr. Reardon gay?” Martha said in a stage whisper.
Ethan spun
to look at her as Helen cried in triumph, “That’s just what I was trying to tell you, if you hadn’t been flapping your jaws! Marc Reardon is as gay as the Maine winter is cold. There’s no way on this side of the grass he was doing what you thought he was doing. He wouldn’t touch Diana. You, maybe,” she added with an arch look at Ethan, “but not a woman. Something else is going on here,” she said, shaking an arthritic finger at him. “I’ve suspected him all along. And we’ve gotta do something. Or I think your Diana is gonna be in some kind of trouble.”
And her cane started moving again. “Give me the phone, Mirabella,” she ordered, and held out her claw-like hand. “I got an idea.”
~*~
Bound with ace bandages to a chair in Aunt Bee’s kitchen, Diana already knew she was in trouble. It was the way Jonathan kept looking at her, with an expression that made her go even colder than she already was.
She’d managed to pull her ruined shirt back on when they forced her out of the bedroom—“This place gives me the creeps,” Jonathan had said, looking around the room—and into the kitchen. But her blouse had no buttons and it sagged open as she sat with her wrists tied to the arms of the chair, and her ankles fixed to its legs.
“What do you want from me?” she asked. “What are you going to do?”
“Ah, are we back to this inane interrogation again?” Reardon asked. “I’ll give you three guesses, and the first two don’t count.” He smiled, adjusting the cuffs of the shirt he’d rebuttoned.
“Stop with the games,” Jonathan snapped. “I assume you read the letter from your aunt,” he said, looking at her. “What did it say? Did it mention me?”
“Do you mean you didn’t read it yourself?” Diana retorted. “You kept it long enough.”
“Ah, she’s got some spirit back,” Reardon said with approval. “That’s good. That’ll keep things a little more interesting.” Just then a soft buzzing sound made him clap his hand to his waist. He pulled his beeper free and looked at it. “Damn. An emergency. Not good timing. Or … maybe it is,” he said, with a quick glance at Jonathan. “I’ll have an alibi and you’re not supposed to be here in town. You can take care of this all while I’m gone, after it gets too dark for anyone to see the smoke. This is good.” He reached for the ugly black phone and dialed a number.
Diana opened her mouth to scream but saw the gun in Jonathan’s hand again. “I suggest you remain silent for the time being.”
Moments later, Reardon hung up the phone, looking annoyed. “Chest pains presenting up at the Grille. Probably indigestion, with the greasy food they serve there. I hope to hell it’s Helen Galliday,” he added with a sneer. “I’ll give her a hand and make sure it’s fatal. I was going to diagnose her with ALS, but this would be better.” He laughed. “I’ll make an appearance and be back later, when it’s dark. Maybe you can get her to tell you where Belinda’s journal is. Or anything else incriminating.”
“If you’d found it the multiple times you searched before, we wouldn’t have to burn the damn place down,” Jonathan said.
Reardon left, whistling jauntily, and Jonathan turned to Diana. “Well,” he said, sitting at the table across from her. His eyes traveled down over her gaping shirt. “This is a little awkward.”
She bit out a short, sharp laugh. “Really? Is that all you have to say?”
“I didn’t intend for things to happen this way,” he said, real sincerity in his voice. “But at this point, I have no choice.”
“You keep saying that, but you always have a choice, Jonathan,” she said, trying not to sound too desperate. But she was. Desperate. What was going to happen when it was dark? Was there any way to reason with him? He wasn’t a killer; she knew it. He was just … misguided. Frightened.
“No, I’m afraid I don’t. The mob’s going to kill me, and Merkovitz is tight with them, too. Your dumping his case made things very difficult for me. Either way, I have neither the desire to die nor to spend the rest of my life in prison for first-degree murder.”
“You killed Aunt Belinda?” she whispered. “I thought … I assumed it was Marc.”
“I came up for a little visit under the guise of getting to know my fiancée’s closest relative and planning a surprise visit for you, and after a nice cup of tea, I sneaked back later that night and introduced her to a cloth with chloroform and a pillow. She didn’t fight … much.” He gave a little shudder. “Being back in that room today wasn’t the best experience, but what’s done is done.” He shrugged. “I’m really sorry that you’re going to have to go as well, Diana.”
She shook her head, fear causing nausea to burn the back of her throat. “Let me go, Jonathan. That’ll help you get a plea deal. I’ll talk to the D.A. This was all Reardon’s idea, his plan, his direction—you were frightened and in danger and you felt you had no choice but to comply. He was blackmailing you, I’m sure. And—”
“That’s a nice idea, but, no, that’s not how it’s going to go. Even a plea deal, even if I give them Cameron Darr, will put me in prison for years. It’s first-degree murder. No, I’ve got a better idea. Thanks to Reardon’s quick thinking, and your boyfriend’s eyewitness report, when they find your burned body next to Marc Reardon, it’ll look like an electrical fire caught two trysting lovers off-guard in the middle of the night. Then I won’t have to worry about Reardon rolling over on me and getting his own deal. And … when they figure out that Reardon is Cameron Darr, and that you dumped me for him, it’ll be clear that the two of you helped your aunt to an early death. And why.”
Diana was shaking her head. “It’ll never work. You’re crazy, Jonathan.” Her heart was pounding out of control now.
He was smiling and shook his head. “There was nothing in the letter from your aunt that incriminated me? That was a miscalculation on my part. I was concerned—well, she was a psychic. I thought maybe she’d put some sort of message in there, in whatever she was calling a Diana-gram, that told you to beware of me or something. I saw her post the letter after I left her house for the tea. And of course, I did read it when it first arrived at home.”
“So it was Reardon who was breaking in? Who cut my tires and graffitied the house? He was looking for Aunt Bee’s journal. For her notes about what she’d learned.”
“Yes, of course. I couldn’t do that from Boston.”
“But you’re not even going to get Aunt Belinda’s money now, Jonathan,” she said, unable to keep the desperation from her voice. “It’ll all be for naught.”
“Oh, that’s not true. I have it all worked out. When we got engaged, you made a will naming me your heir. And even though you’re with Reardon now, you haven’t gotten around to changing it.”
“But I didn’t ….” Her voice trailed off as she saw the truth in his eyes. “But no one will believe ….”
He was shaking his head. “Silly, Diana. Of course I had it notarized and witnessed. It helps,” he added with a sly smile, “having a notary in the office. One who leaves her seal in a locked drawer every night. In a desk to which all the partners have a key.”
She swallowed and tried pulling at the bandages holding her arms in place. “So you’re going to double-cross Marc when he comes back here? How are you going to do that?”
Jonathan’s smile was bland. “Don’t worry your pretty head about it. If he’s not back before dark, I’ll take care of him later. You, my dear, and the contents of this house, are the priority.” Now his glance turned speculative and she felt his attention skim back over her half-covered torso again. “We do have some time to kill until the sun goes down. What do you think—for old times’ sake, hmm, Diana?” He reached and slipped his hand under her shirt.
She flinched and jolted, trying to move away from his questing, pinching, stroking fingers. Nausea roiled and surged inside her. “Don’t,” she cried, twisting in her chair.
Then all at once he swore sharply and pulled away, bending down to look at the floor. “Damn cat,” he said furiously, kicking under the table.
A
streak of white zipped out of the room and when Jonathan’s hand returned to view, she saw that there was blood on it. Quite a bit of blood. He wiped his hand off and turned back to Diana. “Now, where were we?” He stood, his hands on the sides of the chair, and bent toward her. She was helpless to do anything but struggle against her bonds as he slipped his hands down over her breasts. Despair had her heart pounding and her skin going clammy with revulsion.
“Sonofabitch!” he exclaimed, jerking away once more. “What the—” He looked around furiously. “Damn cats. I’m going to—” He kicked again with such violence that he nearly lost his balance.
This time, it was Arty who sauntered out from beneath the table. He definitely sauntered, rather than streaked, and as Jonathan lunged at him, the feline leaped quickly and easily onto the kitchen table. When Jonathan went to knock the beast off, Arty hissed and swiped at him with a paw.
The Cards of Life and Death (Modern Gothic Romance 2) Page 29