To the Grave

by Carlene Thompson

  Catherine said, “I always imagined them as being a complicated mix of chemicals.”

  “Most people do, but Molotovs can be made of a few simple chemicals.” He smiled at her. “With a few instructions, my grandmother could probably fix up one in her kitchen.” Eric’s smile faded. “But, Catherine, just because they can be simple doesn’t mean they can’t be deadly.”

  “Like the ones last night.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

  “What makes you think someone used Molotov cocktails on the cottage?” James asked.

  “Evidence. We found a lot of what the fire marshal thought was soda-lime glass and flat metal lids and screw-on rings used in home-canning jars like Mason jars or Ball jars. He said they’re often used to hold Molotovs and a quart jar would be easy for even a woman to throw quite a distance.”

  “About how many of them were there?”

  “We couldn’t tell for certain, James, but we found four lids. More could have been lying in the debris. Also, the marshal used to train chemical-sniffing dogs in the Armed Forces. He has his own now. The dog led us to several pieces of wood that must have had traces of the chemicals used. The fire marshal took them in for analysis.”

  Catherine sat rock still, horrified. Then she leaned forward. “Have you ever come across anything like this before, Eric? I mean, do you think there’s any possibility that someone just threw the Molotovs as a prank?”

  “I’ve never seen anyone go to so much trouble for just a prank.” Eric paused. “I think whoever made and threw those Molotovs did so out of pure hatred and rage.”

  3

  “I know you’re not crazy about spending the night when Marissa is here,” Catherine said.

  “Tonight I’d stay if fifty people were here. I should have stayed last night instead of going to the damned cottage.”

  They lay in Catherine’s bed, their naked legs twined together, his strong arms holding her gently, pressing the side of her face against the warm skin of his chest. “You didn’t tell me last night that Patrice had been at the cottage with you.”

  “Well, you and I didn’t exactly have a long conversation. Besides, she just stopped by. She said she knew where I’d be.”

  “And I thought that’s the last place you’d be. She must know you better than I do.”

  “You sound like you’re implying something,” James said lightly. When she didn’t answer, he put his hand under her chin and raised her face, looking into her eyes. “You’re not, are you?”

  “Implying something about you and Patrice? Not anything romantic. Just what I said—she knows you better than I do.”

  “Maybe in certain ways. We’ve worked together for years and she could know some of my behavior patterns better than you do. Oh, and she’s madly in love with me, too.”

  Catherine gave him a playful tap on his cheek. “With that huge ego of yours you think every woman in town is madly in love with you, but I know of two exceptions—Marissa and Patrice.”

  “Do you really think I have a huge ego?”

  Catherine giggled. “If you did, I wouldn’t be in love with you. Huge egos are a gigantic turnoff for me.”

  “Is gigantic bigger than huge?”

  “Oh, definitely.” Catherine snuggled closer to James. “I just love you so much, I’m bothered that another woman knows you better than I do.”

  “Patrice might know me better in a superficial way, but she doesn’t know my heart.” He kissed the top of Catherine’s head. “You’re the only woman who’s known my heart, my soul.”

  Catherine felt as if her own heart squeezed tight as deep and passionate love for this man washed through her. She ran her open hand down the side of his face. “Oh, James, when I think of what could have happened to you last night if you’d been closer, in the cottage, if one of those Molotov cocktails had hit you—”

  “But I wasn’t in the cottage and nothing happened to me. You have to stop thinking what if, what if.”

  “How can I when you came so close to being hurt or…”

  “Or killed?” James pulled her closer. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I need to be more careful. Going to the cottage where Renée was murdered a week ago was downright stupid. I don’t know what I was thinking. I wasn’t thinking—not reasonably. But I promise you, I won’t be so careless again.” He paused. “And the same goes for you, Catherine. You heard Eric say he didn’t think someone was throwing those cocktails as a prank. Maybe it wasn’t a coincidence that I was at the cottage when they were thrown. Maybe someone has it in for me, too. And my obvious love for you—our relationship—might make you a target, too.”

  “But I hardly knew Renée,” Catherine said vaguely, her mind focusing on his phrase “my obvious love for you.”

  “We don’t know what’s going on here, sweetheart,” James said. “We don’t know why Renée was murdered or why someone might have been trying to hurt me last night.” He looked piercingly into her eyes, his jaw hardened, and his voice deepened. “You don’t know what you mean to me, Catherine. I can’t stand the thought of someone taking you away from me. If I lost you…”

  “If you lost me?”

  “I can’t even think about it. Just promise me you’ll be careful.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Catherine said gently. “I promise.”

  After a moment, James’s face relaxed and he smiled and he pulled her on top of him, wrapped his arms around her so tightly she could hardly breathe, and pressed his lips to hers with tender, then growing, demanding passion.

  * * *

  Two hours later, James slept peacefully. Although Catherine had dozed after their lovemaking, she’d awakened a while ago and couldn’t go back to sleep. Instead, she lay on her side, looking at the moonlight touching James’s exposed chest and abdomen like a caress. He looked like the men in designer underwear ads, she thought, muscular and perfect. He could give David Beckham a run for his money, she thought. Telling him so would probably only embarrass him.

  Earlier, he’d said “my obvious love for you.” He’d said, “I can’t stand the thought of someone taking you away from me.” Playing over the words in her mind thrilled her almost as much as hearing him say them to her.

  Catherine reached out and lightly ran her fingers over his chest. God, how she loved him. How she wanted to make up to him for all the hurt Renée had caused. If only she hadn’t caused so much hurt he never wanted to try marriage again. Catherine knew many people found him cold and formal. Maybe she was the only person who knew just how sensitive he really was beneath the imperturbable façade. Maybe she was the only person who knew how deeply he could be hurt and how difficult it was for him to recover from hurt and disappointment. James was not a resilient man. He didn’t easily forgive or forget. In fact—

  Suddenly James’s hand grabbed hers, nearly crushing it in an iron-like grip. “Damn you, Renée,” his voice low and growl-like, unrecognizable. “Damn you—”

  “James!” Catherine yelped, thinking any moment a bone in her hand might crack. “James, stop it! James!”

  He moaned, shuddered, and opened his eyes. Immediately he released her hand. “What happened? I think I was dreaming.” Then he saw Catherine rubbing her hand, her face white. “My God, Catherine, did I hurt you?”

  “I … I don’t think so,” she said.

  He took her hand in his left, gently touched it all over with his right. “I don’t think anything is broken, but do you want to go to the hospital for X-rays?”

  “No. It’s all right.”

  “We’ll wait a few minutes and see.” He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it several times. “I’m so sorry. I was having a nightmare.”

  “I know.”

  “I wouldn’t hurt you—”

  “I know,” she said sharply, then lowered her voice. “I’m all right, James.”

  But it wasn’t all right. He’d been cursing Renée with such fury in his voice, he’d sounded as if he could kill her.

  CHAPTER
SIX

  1

  The next morning at eight thirty, Catherine pulled into the parking lot of the discreetly named Aurora Falls Center. The two-story brick building sat somewhat isolated on a quiet, tree-lined street and looked more like a home than an office building with its white shutters and long, roofed front porch and neat lawn. The area had been strictly rural when the building was constructed, but as Aurora Falls grew in population Catherine knew that soon the “city sprawl” would reach the area, costing the center its sense of privacy. She regretted the changes that would come but knew one had to accept the inevitable.

  The beautiful weekend had been a blessing whose time had ended, Catherine thought as she hurried toward the building beneath a low, gray sky dribbling cold rain. A quick look at the weather report this morning had told her the rain would increase as the temperature dropped throughout the day. She groaned. She hated dreary days under ideal circumstances. The last few days had certainly been less than ideal.

  Catherine rushed up the two porch steps, put a key in the door lock, another in the dead bolt, and swung the door open to see the thick, moss green carpet brightened by golden oak-paneled walls and matching office furniture. Behind the reception desk sat the efficient secretary Beth Harper. Catherine knew that Beth had, as always, arrived promptly at eight fifteen, although she kept the doors locked so patients wouldn’t walk in until either Dr. Hite or Catherine had come. As usual, Beth had started a fresh pot of coffee. “Good morning, Dr. Gray,” she said cheerfully.

  Catherine poured a fresh cup of coffee for Beth, one for herself, and then checked the appointment book. Three patients this morning, she thought with a slight sense of dismay. Only three. She had hoped for a more auspicious beginning, but she often reminded herself she’d only joined Dr. Hite’s practice in the summer. Good word of mouth over time would establish her reputation and build her list of patients.

  When Dr. Hite hired Catherine, he’d told her the first month might be uncomfortable because his wife insisted the office needed redecoration. The project added sour lines to his pudgy face, but he admitted she was probably right—the last redecoration had been thirty years ago. To Catherine’s surprise, he had given her free reign when it came to her office, and the room reflected her personality, making her feel more comfortable and at home. Her closed office door bore a bronze nameplate reading: Dr. Catherine Gray in black.

  She entered the room with its expanse of restful tan carpet and contemporary armchair and couch upholstered in matching vanilla and light brown tweed. A maple coffee table sat in front of the couch and an end table by the chair. Her large maple desk faced the sitting area and sat out from the wall bearing two long windows set six feet apart. Between the windows hung a large print of Renoir’s Boating on the Seine with its vivid blue sun-dappled water and two passengers sitting in an orange-gold canoe.

  A fifteen-inch-tall gilded porcelain temple jar adorned with delicately painted green vines and pink, blue, and white flowers sat toward the right side of the credenza behind her desk. Ian Blakethorne had dropped by week before last and presented her with the jar for her newly decorated office. She’d protested that the gift was far too extravagant, but he had insisted she accept it and she couldn’t say no without insulting him. Besides, she loved the jar. She also loved Ian, who in his young life had gone through so much with such grace.

  The two had formed a bond years ago when he’d spent weeks in the rehabilitation center of the hospital after he’d been in the car wreck that killed his mother and nearly took his life, too. That summer Catherine had been sixteen and a volunteer in the rehab unit at the hospital where her father was a surgeon. She’d taken a special interest in the ten-year-old boy who’d bravely suffered through the pain of recovery. Catherine had spent hours reading to him, watching television with him, and teaching him chess. They’d maintained a friendship ever since, in spite of the age difference and all the time Catherine had spent in California.

  Now Catherine glanced at her tidy desk, adorned with only a desk pad, a gold pen set, and the tall milk-glass vase that held the dozen long-stemmed coral pink roses James sent every Monday. Then she retrieved the files of her morning patients.

  At precisely 9:01, Catherine’s first patient seemed to blow through the front door, slamming it behind her and demanding, “Is Dr. Gray here yet? I really need to see her fast.”

  “Of course Dr. Gray is here, Mrs. Tate,” Beth answered in a pleasant voice. “She’s always early.”

  Catherine walked to her open office door and looked at the woman standing in the middle of the waiting room, her wrinkled beige raincoat buttoned unevenly as she flung raindrops off her large, partially open umbrella. Beth said, “I’ll take that for you,” as droplets of water hit her desk. The patient clung to it, and for a moment Catherine thought Mrs. Tate and Beth might battle over the contraption. The woman finally released it when Catherine diverted her by smiling as she said, “How nice to see you this morning, Mrs. Tate, but you look chilly. Would you like a cup of fresh coffee?”

  “Do I look like I need caffeine?” the woman demanded as she finally released her death grip on the umbrella handle.

  “I guess that’s a no to the coffee,” Catherine managed with a smile. “Please come in my office. I’m all ready for you.”

  Mrs. Tate swept into the office and thumped down on the couch, placing her ever-present huge, black vinyl tote bag beside her. Catherine had never seen such a large tote bag. Nevertheless, the woman kept it full to the point of bulging.

  At thirty-four, Mrs. Tate had been married for six years, had no children, and was convinced her husband was having his third affair. Her overbleached hair frizzed to her shoulders, her iridescent purple eye shadow and slash of shocking pink lipstick glared under the overhead lights, and she glowered at Catherine. “I know I look like hell. You don’t have to tell me. Those damned bright office lights of yours show every wrinkle in my face. They’re also hurting my eyes.”

  “Then I’ll fix the lighting for your comfort, not because you have wrinkles,” Catherine said diplomatically as she flipped off the two bright ceiling fixtures and left on the large, soft-shaded lamp sitting by the chair. She sat, opened her notebook, and looked seriously at her patient. “You don’t seem to be feeling well this morning. What’s wrong?”

  “I’ve been up half the night, that’s what’s wrong! My husband didn’t come home!”

  “All night?”

  “Not until around midnight. Midnight when he said he had to be at work at eight today instead of nine!”

  “Did he say where he’d been until midnight?”

  “Helping his best friend fix a water heater. He said the guy couldn’t get a repairman on a Sunday night and had to have hot water for family showers in the morning. I called the friend. He backed up my husband’s story, but then he would. I asked to speak to his wife for confirmation of his story, but he said she was asleep. I think she just wouldn’t come to the phone and lie. Then my husband left at seven thirty this morning—the early day at work, he claimed. I think he was meeting her for coffee.”

  “Her being his secretary.”

  “Of course. Who else?”

  “I see. Are you certain he didn’t go to work? Did you follow him?”

  Mrs. Tate’s bloodshot eyes slid away. “I tried, but he must have seen me, because he went to his office. She was probably lurking in a back room, waiting for him.”

  “Did you see her car?”

  “Well, no, but she could have parked anywhere. I don’t see so well in this damned rain.”

  “You would if you’d wear your glasses.”

  “I hate my glasses! I look awful in them! And I’ve told you I can’t wear contact lenses! Didn’t you write down all that stuff?”

  Catherine suppressed an impulse to sigh. Sometimes talking to this woman was like having a conversation with a thirteen-year-old.

  “Mrs. Tate, do you have any real proof that your husband is having an affair?”

 
“Proof is everywhere. You just have to be observant, like me. It’s wearing me out, but I’m on the ball all the time! Nothing gets by me!” She sagged slightly as if in defeat. “But I think I do need a cup of coffee after all. I’m running out of steam.”

  No wonder, Catherine thought as she poured the coffee in a china cup. Then she motioned to a plate of candy sitting on the coffee table. “How about a snack? They’re an Italian candy called Perugina Baci—baci means ‘kisses’ in Italian. They’re chocolate with hazelnut filling—”

  “Italian!” Mrs. Tate leaned forward, glaring at the silver-wrapped candies decorated with dark blue stars. “I don’t eat foreign food. Nothing but American fare for me.”

  “Oh.” As the woman took a couple of sips of coffee, Catherine wondered if Mrs. Tate thought the coffee beans had been grown in the United States, not Colombia. Apparently, she hadn’t given the matter any thought, because she had no qualms about emptying the cup and asking for a second one.

  After a few minutes, Catherine said carefully, “Mrs. Tate, you’re obviously suffering a great deal of anxiety. I’m a psychologist, not a medical practitioner, so I can’t prescribe medication. I think you’d benefit from some mild tranquilizers to help relax you, though. I can refer you to a family physician or even a psychiatrist who could give you a prescription for some.”

  Mrs. Tate looked at her in near horror. “That’s what my husband told me to do! Get tranquilizers. Strong ones, he said. He just wants to keep me so groggy I don’t know what’s going on. Well, it won’t work. I’m not taking anything except an occasional drink or two before bed. I’m not turning into some zombie. And I’ll never divorce him. I plan to make his life as miserable as he’s made mine!”

  “I see.”

  “I also don’t want to take medicine. He could substitute pills and dope me, poison me, make it look like suicide!”

  Paranoia? At least the appearance of paranoia. Catherine was certain Mrs. Tate was not above acting dramatic to get sympathy. Still, better to be safe than sorry. Better to calm the woman, she thought, to ease the fear that might drive her away from any professional help. “I certainly won’t force you to take medication if you’d rather not,” Catherine said calmly. “That is your choice.”