To the Grave

by Carlene Thompson

  “You invited Roberta Landers?” Patrice burst out.

  Ian looked at her coolly. “Yes, I asked her for a date. Actually, two dates, I guess. Do you object to her?”

  “No, of course not. I barely know her.” Patrice didn’t look at Lawrence. She’d snapped at Ian because she knew Lawrence wouldn’t be pleased about his son dating a cop. “I just thought you’d ask one of the girls you’ve been seeing this past year.”

  “You mean a member of our small gaggle of Aurora Falls society girls? Last night I took one to the showing of Nicolai Arcos’s paintings at the Nordine Gallery.”

  “You’ve spent quite a bit of time at that gallery.”

  “Dad, the owners, Ken and Dana, are friends of mine. And the gallery is fairly amazing, especially for a city of this size. You should take Patrice. I know you’d both be impressed.”

  “I saw it when it was new, but I’m not an art lover. Still, maybe a cultural evening wouldn’t do us any harm, would it, Pat?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Was Arcos there last night?” Lawrence asked.

  “Yes. I even introduced my date to him. I don’t think he’d taken any of the drugs he claims help to free his creativity, so he was in complete control of his moody Romanian act. He gave her deep, soulful looks and nearly charmed her to death.”

  “You sound sarcastic for someone who admires the man.”

  “Dad, you haven’t been really listening again,” Ian said irritably. “I’ve never said I admire anything about him except for his talent. I think as a person he’s half-insane.”

  “I’ve heard one painting of his is getting a lot of attention,” Lawrence went on, ignoring Ian’s assessment of Arcos. “It’s called New Orleans Girl or something.”

  “Mardi Gras Lady. It’s totally different from his usual work. I don’t care for it. Anyway, after Arcos floated off to another group my date said she wanted to leave and go to a friend’s party, so I took her.”

  “And you partied too much,” Lawrence said.

  “I was self-medicating to get through the evening.”

  “Just say it—you got drunk. I could smell the breath mints as soon as you came in the door.”

  “I drank too much, but I didn’t get drunk.”

  “Your date’s father is an investor in the business—our business, now that you’ve graduated from college and come aboard. You have responsibilities, and those include social responsibilities. I hope you were nice to the young lady.”

  “I think you’ll get a good report about my behavior. She’s just not my type.”

  “Not like Roberta Landers.”

  “Marissa Gray works with Roberta’s father at the Gazette and I’ve heard her mention Roberta. She says Roberta is smart and nice and that Eric is impressed with her work,” Patrice offered quickly. Lawrence and Ian usually got along smoothly, but today the tension between them caused her usually steady nerves to tingle. She did not want trouble during this of all times—the week of her wedding—and she desperately cast around for something else pleasant to say. “Roberta is very pretty, Ian.”

  He tossed her a grateful look. “Robbie is very pretty, very nice, and very intelligent. I like her.”

  “Well, if you insist on bringing her to the wedding, Ian, I hope she dresses appropriately,” Lawrence muttered, reaching for a spice-walnut muffin and taking a large bite.

  “Even though she scrapes by on a cop’s salary, she might have a couple of decent dresses,” Ian returned with an edge. “If not, she’ll wear her uniform. Don’t worry, Dad. She won’t embarrass you. She looks smokin’ hot in a uniform.”

  Lawrence angrily turned on him. “What is wrong with you this morning? You were late, you’re being flippant, deliberately irritating, rude, and—”

  Suddenly Lawrence’s face froze, turned bright pink, and he barely got his hand to his mouth before he began to choke violently. Patrice’s gray eyes widened and she looked at him for a moment before jumping up and rushing to his side. “What’s wrong?” she asked in a high, alarmed voice while she pounded him on the back. “Are you all right?”

  Ian rose from his chair, his face pale but confident, and went to his father. By now, Lawrence had stopped the loud, ragged coughing, but his face was crimson, his dark eyes watering and terrified. “Dad, can you speak?” Ian asked calmly. Lawrence shook his head no. “Can you stand up?” Again, no. Ian looked at Patrice. “Stop pounding on his back and be quiet. Please. You’re making things worse.” Patrice, still frightened but chastened, backed away.

  Ian moved behind his father. “Dad, don’t be scared. I’m going to do the Heimlich.” Ian then leaned down, placed a fist at his father’s waist, covered that fist with the other fist, and thrust-pressed three times before a walnut in a wad of dough flew out of Lawrence’s mouth and onto his plate. Lawrence emitted a combination belch-bleat and then sagged in his chair.

  “Are you okay?” Patrice half-asked, half-begged. “Lawrence, answer me!”

  He waved her away with a weak hand and ground out, “I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure? Ian, call nine-one-one.”

  “No! Dammit, I told you I’m fine!”

  “You are definitely not fine. You’re going to the hospital,” Patrice insisted.

  “Sit down and try to relax, Dad.” Lawrence obeyed and began drawing in shallow, cautious breaths as Ian stood beside him like a faithful, anxious dog. In a moment, Ian glanced at Patrice with the young, vulnerable look she’d seen so often when he was in the presence of his father. “Dad has to rest for a few minutes before we make any decisions. You sit down, too, Patrice, and stop asking him questions and threatening him with a trip to the hospital,” he said imploringly. “Choking is frightening enough without having some amateur medic like me literally squeeze the air out of him. He’ll be okay.”

  Ian leaned down and looked into his father’s eyes. “You’re just out of breath and shocked, aren’t you, Dad?”

  Lawrence glanced up at Ian, and Patrice saw gratitude. She also saw resentment in Lawrence’s dark eyes. She knew Lawrence was deeply embarrassed, his fierce macho pride wounded.

  Mrs. Frost appeared carrying a crystal pitcher of ice water and without a word refilled everyone’s glasses before vanishing to the kitchen. Patrice and Ian took their seats and began lackadaisically nibbling their food while Lawrence sat nearly immobile, sipping water.

  “Patrice, will James be coming to the office this week?” Ian asked casually, his gaze fastened on the maraschino cherry she futilely chased around her plate.

  “I talked to him last night and he said he was coming to work.” She caught herself. “I talked to him briefly on the phone.”

  “This morning, a couple of guys at the convenience store were talking about a fire at the cottage last night. Know anything about it, Patrice?”

  She tried to look surprised. “No! A fire? It must have happened after I talked to James or he would have mentioned it. Was it bad? How did it start?”

  “I didn’t get much information about it, but I believe it almost destroyed the place.” Ian frowned. “Maybe someone was trying to destroy evidence.”

  Lawrence abruptly came to life. “Evidence of murder?” he asked, his voice gritty although his facial color had returned to normal.

  “Yeah, Dad,” Ian said. “The woman in the cistern was murdered.”

  Lawrence huffed. “Well, if it was Renée Eastman, she deserved it.”

  “What makes you think it was Renée?” Patrice asked.

  Immediately Lawrence flushed deeply. “Oh, I don’t know. Just a wild thought.” He avoided the stares of Patrice and Ian. “I think I’ll have another one of those muffins.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  1

  Catherine awakened slowly, glanced around her tranquil ivory and sage green bedroom and finally to the sun beaming on the last red leaves clinging to the big maple tree close to her window. She yawned, stretched, and sighed in contentment. Then the memory of yesterday flashed, maki
ng her feel as if she were free-falling from a soaring jet.

  She struggled to a sitting position and glanced at her bedside clock. Ten fifteen. Always an early riser, Catherine knew she hadn’t slept this late for over a year.

  Catherine nearly leaped from her bed. In less than five minutes, she ran down the stairs. The smell of burned pastry hit her on the bottom step and she heard the oven fan furiously whirring. Marissa had been trying to cook again. Fleetingly Catherine hoped the burned food was so far gone she wouldn’t have to eat some and pretend it wasn’t too bad.

  She walked into the kitchen to see Lindsay sitting near Marissa, dutifully watching her pulling a cookie sheet of steaming cinnamon rolls from the upper wall oven. Marissa smiled beatifically at the rolls and then at Catherine. “I burned the first batch to charcoal. I baked them in the lower oven and I think it’s running too hot, because I’m sure I didn’t leave them in too long. At least I don’t think I did. Anyway, these look perfect!” Marissa’s smile wavered, and her carefully cheerful tone changed to cautious. “How do you feel this morning?”

  “Oh, much better! I feel great!” Catherine realized she could fool no one, least of all Marissa, with her high, chirpy voice. “I slept just fine,” she said in a more natural tone, although she was lying. She hadn’t fallen asleep until near morning.

  “Eric called around midnight,” Marissa said. “He wanted to reassure us that James is fine and he’d sent him home. I would have told you about Eric’s call, but when I looked in your room you were sound asleep. I couldn’t bear to wake you even for good news. You needed a full night’s sleep.”

  Catherine nodded, although last night she had heard the bedroom door open and only pretended to be asleep. She just couldn’t talk to anyone, not even her sister. “I left my cell phone down here last night. Has James called this morning?”

  “Not yet. He’s probably sleeping late like you did.”

  “I hope so. He needed sleep even more than I did. Did Eric know anything more about the explosion?”

  “Not last night, but he called again an hour ago. He’s meeting the fire marshal at the cottage this morning. They should be there now, in fact. He said he’d come by when they’re finished and tell us what he’s found out.” Marissa gave her a long, patient look. “I know you’re worried about James. If we don’t hear from him by eleven you can call him, but right now I want you to sit down, have some coffee and a couple of cinnamon rolls.”

  “I’m too worried to eat.”

  “I believe I heard a similar excuse last night. Now, I mean it, Catherine Faith Gray.” Marissa sounded exactly like their mother when she chose to issue a rare command. “Quit pacing and sit down. You can at least drink some coffee even if you don’t want a cinnamon roll.”

  Twenty minutes later, as Catherine swallowed the last bite of her fourth roll, she grinned. “This experience seems to have supercharged my appetite. I can’t stop eating.”

  “Good. You’re too thin.”

  “Well, thank you very much.”

  “You can’t deny you’ve lost nearly ten pounds lately.”

  Catherine rose and carried her mug to the coffeemaker. “I probably have lost a few pounds, but I’ve been under a lot of stress the last few months. First, I moved back here, to my childhood home, and had to go through feeling fifteen again—it was a hard adjustment, no offense.”

  “None taken. I understand,” Marissa replied, pinching off a bit of her cinnamon roll and dropping it down to Lindsay’s expectantly open mouth.

  “Then I had to find a psychologist with an established practice willing to take a novice. Four turned me down. Thank goodness for Dr. Hite.”

  Catherine knew she was rambling, that Marissa had heard all of this before, but she couldn’t seem to stop talking. She came back to the table with her full mug of coffee. “I’m so glad Dr. Hite and his wife are in Florida until next week for the birth of their first great-grandchild. They know I’m seeing James and they’d swoop down on me, trying to get information about the body.”

  “You mean they’d start asking if the body is Renée’s,” Marissa said gently. “I know you’ve had a lot of big adjustments to make lately, but she is why you’ve lost weight. Ever since you and James really got serious, you’ve worried that Renée would come back.”

  Catherine looked gloomily at her sister. “And she has.” Then a strong defensiveness surged through her. “But that’s not James’s fault.”

  “I didn’t say it was.” Marissa’s gaze held Catherine’s. “Eric told me James was at the cabin when the explosion happened. Why was he there?”

  Marissa’s tone was mild, but Catherine suddenly felt as if she sat in a courtroom witness chair and Marissa was a prosecutor. “He just couldn’t believe what had happened earlier. It hadn’t seemed real at the time. He felt a need to see the place again. I know it sounds weird—he says so, too—but that’s all it was. What else could it have been? Do you think he blew up the cottage?”

  “Whoa, Catherine,” Marissa said, her eyes widening. “Chill out! I wasn’t making accusations. I was just curious.”

  I was the one making accusations, Catherine thought. Most of the night, as she’d laid up there in her bed, she’d been furious and suspicious of James, the most steadfast, trustworthy man she’d ever known. What was wrong with her? How could she have for one moment doubted him?

  “I’m sorry,” she said, trying to make her voice sound as if she weren’t feeling a load of guilt nearly burying her. “I was still on edge from yesterday when I heard about the explosion last night.…”

  “That’s understandable.”

  The doorbell rang. They both jumped and Lindsay went on a barking spree.

  Marissa attempted to laugh. “No one around here is nervous! Be right back.”

  As soon as Marissa left the kitchen, Catherine’s hands tightened around her coffee mug. Don’t let this be more bad news, she thought in dread. I can’t stand more bad news this morning.

  In a moment, Marissa called, “James is here, Catherine!”

  Catherine walked into the family room feeling tense and resolute, not knowing in what emotional shape she’d find the man she loved. After one look at him, though, she didn’t think she’d ever been so glad to see James, as he stood tall and composed, his cheeks ruddy from the morning chill, his even teeth showing in a wide smile, his dark eyes twinkling beneath a shock of black hair the breeze had dragged across his forehead.

  “James!” Catherine cried, every ounce of anger draining from her. She ran to him. “Why didn’t you call earlier?”

  “I thought I might wake you.”

  “You could have called Marissa’s cell phone.”

  “And if you were sleeping she would have woken you up to speak to me.”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered.” She hugged him fiercely. “I’ve been so worried.”

  “That’s why she’s been sitting in the kitchen eating cinnamon rolls like she’ll never be offered food again,” Marissa said with teasing indulgence. “It’s amazing.”

  “Nerves,” Catherine told James quickly. “I eat everything in sight when I’m nervous.”

  James blinked at her. “Not that I’ve ever noticed.”

  You’ve never seen me in a situation like this one, Catherine almost said, then caught herself. She didn’t want to say anything that might spark a thought of Renée, especially when a closer look at James’s face revealed shadows beneath slightly bloodshot eyes and a tight, controlled look around his mouth. Catherine beamed at him. “You don’t know how relieved I am to see you. I love you,” she murmured as she pressed her lips gently against his. James kissed her tenderly but quickly, his gaze shooting over Catherine’s shoulder to Marissa still standing in the room. He had a reluctance to show even small public displays of affection, which Catherine often found annoying.

  She leaned back and tilted her head, gazing into James’s dark eyes. “Are you hungry?”

  Right on cue, James’s stomach let out a lon
g, loud growl, and he laughed. “I haven’t eaten since noon yesterday.”

  Catherine raised her eyebrows. “You didn’t even have a snack?” James shook his head. “That’s awful! Your blood sugar must be dropping. You should have at least eaten some toast this morning.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I know I should have, but I didn’t have any appetite.” His stomach growled again. “Until now.”

  “Catherine left a couple of cinnamon rolls and I’ll start another batch,” Marissa said. “I think I’ve finally mastered baking something, if you can believe it.”

  James grinned. “I could eat about ten cinnamon rolls and I’m suffering from caffeine withdrawal. I need strong coffee—lots of it.”

  2

  Eric arrived an hour later. Catherine immediately tensed, scared of what Eric would tell them about the fire. She took a breath and tried to ask steadily, “Have you been to the cottage this morning?”

  Eric nodded. “The fire marshal and I just finished going over the place.”

  Within five minutes, Marissa had taken Eric’s jacket and given him a large mug of coffee. He sat in an oversized recliner, his thick, tousled wavy blond hair at least an inch longer than advisors thought a sheriff should wear it, his dark brown eyes solemn. His face bore the shadow of stubble and he looked tired, the line between his eyebrows deeper than usual.

  “I’m sure at night it looked like a bomb had gone off in your cottage, James,” Eric said, rolling the smooth mug in his hands as if to warm them. “We’re certain it wasn’t a bomb, though. Actually, we found the remains of Molotov cocktails.”

  “Molotov cocktails?” James echoed in disbelief.

  Eric nodded. “The fire did a lot of damage, but we were still able to retrieve enough material to be almost certain someone threw Molotovs at the cottage.”

  “Where would someone around here get Molotov cocktails?” Catherine asked in shock.

  “People usually think of Molotovs in connection with riots, or terrorist attacks, but it only takes one person to make and launch one. That’s why experts often call Molotov cocktails makeshift incendiary weapons, meaning they aren’t manufactured in arms facilities. All it takes is one person to prepare them,” Eric explained.