To the Grave

by Carlene Thompson

  “I knew after our first session you were exactly what I needed!” the woman announced triumphantly. “You don’t treat me like I’m crazy. You don’t bully me. You treat me with respect.” She took a deep breath. “Don’t you ever worry, Dr. Gray—I’ll never stop being your patient! I’m faithful and loyal and stuck to you like a tick on a dog!” Mrs. Tate looked at her with near threat in her tired eyes. “I’ll be back next week and the next and the next and maybe just forever!”

  Five minutes later, Mrs. Tate marched through the waiting room, unfurling her umbrella and flinging more water drops before she’d even opened the door. After a brief struggle, woman, huge tote bag, and umbrella made it safely to the porch. Catherine had followed her, closed the front door, and tossed Beth a rueful smile. “I suppose you heard some of that.”

  “I always do. I don’t know how you manage to keep your patience with her.”

  “I keep my patience because she’s one of my few patients.”

  “Well, Dr. Hite always says it takes time to build a practice. Don’t give up yet.”

  Catherine’s next patient was suffering family problems because she couldn’t bring herself to put her live-in, late Alzheimer’s stage grandmother who’d raised her into a nursing home. Catherine needed to talk the woman out of her guilt before the elderly woman’s constant needs and often dangerous behavior caused her granddaughter’s husband to leave, taking their three teenage children because he worried for their safety, but Catherine could tell that today she’d made no progress with the woman.

  The third patient, a sixteen-year-old girl, suffered from bulimia and refused to say anything except a vague, “I’m not sick.” Her gaze never met Catherine’s. Instead, it strayed almost hungrily around the room, making Catherine glad she’d remembered to remove the dish of candies.

  By noon, she felt as if she’d accomplished little for half a day’s work. Still, she was relieved her cases hadn’t been more challenging. Distraction about the events of the weekend and James’s nightmare about Renée—the hatred in his voice when he’d said the name of a woman recently murdered—had severely weakened Catherine’s focus. She touched her hand, slightly bruised and sore from James’s grasp last night. What exactly had he been dreaming about Renée? When Catherine had asked, he’d said he didn’t remember. She wasn’t sure she believed him.

  In a weak effort to fight the dreariness of the day, Catherine had chosen to wear her cheerful, new red trench coat. She’d brought a sandwich and pudding cup to eat for lunch, but suddenly she knew she had to get out of the office for a little while. She pulled the bright coat from the closet, grabbed her purse and red umbrella, and hurried into the waiting room. “I’m going out to lunch,” she told Beth. “I think I’ll try that new café on Foster Street.”

  “I’ve never seen you wear so much color! You look great! Good idea about the café, too. I’ve heard the food is good and I’m sure you could use a break.”

  “So could you. It’s so gloomy and quiet today. We have a window of freedom while Dr. Hite’s not here. Why don’t you join me?”

  Beth smiled, reaching for the sack lunch she always brought to the office. “A secretary’s work is never done. I need to be here to make appointments, which reminds me, your one o’clock canceled half an hour ago. He said he broke a tooth and has an emergency appointment at the dentist in a couple of hours. He sounded like he was in pain.”

  “Poor thing. I’m glad he could get in to see a dentist so soon.” Catherine reached in her pocket, pulled out a red flowered chiffon scarf, and tied it around her head. “I don’t want my hair to get wet in the rain. I hate having damp hair.” She almost flushed at her lie. Damp hair hadn’t bothered her until the last two days, when she couldn’t stop thinking of Renée’s wet hair wrapped tenaciously around her fingers. “Marissa talked me into all of this red, but I have to admit the coat, umbrella, and scarf make me look downright festive.”

  Catherine, usually bad with directions, used her GPS system and drove directly to the Café Divine. The place had a cozy, old-fashioned atmosphere with hardwood floors, exposed brick walls painted creamy beige, dark green booths, pots of lush, healthy plants hanging above the mirror-backed bar, and a large vintage jukebox sitting at the back playing songs from the fifties and sixties. The place was nearly empty. She quickly chose a booth halfway down the length of the narrow room, and a smiling waitress immediately appeared with a tray holding a tall glass of ice water and a menu.

  As soon as Catherine looked at the menu, her nervous appetite kicked into gear again. She ordered a garden salad, a “Double-Thick Hamburger,” a piece of coconut cream pie, and an iced tea. She wanted French fries, too, but decided the hamburger would provide enough fat for one meal.

  Catherine had finished her salad and begun eating her hamburger when over a dozen people arrived within ten minutes. They occupied nearly every stool at the bar, and she heard the voices of two women scooting into the booth behind her. Catherine lingered over her meal, enjoying the hum of conversation rising over the music pouring from the jukebox. For the first time that day, she was able to put the events of the weekend out of her mind and pretend this was just an ordinary day as she concentrated on the simple pleasure of good food.

  She was finishing the hamburger when the song “Runaround Sue” ended. Apparently, no one had selected more music, because the jukebox went silent and Catherine clearly heard the women behind her talking.

  “Did you hear about the dead body found at the Eastman cottage on Saturday afternoon?”

  “Sure I heard!” answered the other in a loud, authoritative voice. “Someone told my husband it was a woman. The police claim they can’t give out the name of the victim until there has been next-of-kin identification, but everyone knows it’s James Eastman’s wife, Renée.”

  Catherine went rigid. Was the woman exaggerating, or had identification of Renée as the deceased woman been leaked to the public? How many people in Aurora Falls knew Renée was dead?

  “Who’s James Eastman?” the woman’s companion asked.

  “The lawyer whose family owns the cottage. You must remember the flap a few years ago when his wife Renée disappeared.”

  “Well, not really—”

  “Renée came from New Orleans and she didn’t like it here,” the loud-voiced one began excitedly. “I’m not surprised. She wasn’t the type to be an Eastman—they’re very classy, but she was awful, brash, flashy, drank way too much, never saw a man she didn’t like. She and James were married about a year before they started arguing in public.

  “Then they had a really bad fight at a party, and the next day Renée vanished.” The woman halted dramatically before saying slowly, “The police suspected foul play. They investigated, but they never found Renée.”

  Catherine took a bite of her coconut cream pie and had trouble swallowing. At that moment, the waitress stopped by and Catherine ordered a cup of coffee, trying to smile casually. “Iced tea doesn’t really go with pie,” she explained unnecessarily. “I want coffee.”

  “Certainly, ma’am,” the waitress said. “I like coffee with dessert, too. Is the pie good?”

  “Delicious. Just … yummy.”

  The waitress hurried away and Catherine hoped no one put on more music for a few minutes. She knew she should leave, but leaving felt almost physically impossible. She had to know what else people were saying about James and Renée.

  “You know, some of it is coming back to me now,” the softer-voiced woman said.

  “Well, I should think it would unless you’ve had your head in the sand!”

  “I seem to remember something about a fight at a housewarming party?”

  “That’s the party I was talking about—the one where they had the real blowout!” The loud one’s voice rose a notch. “Renée was immoral as all get-out, but at first she had the sense to try being secretive. Then she got more open with her shenanigans and then just brazen. At that housewarming party, she’d gone into a bedroom to ge
t her coat. Someone went in and caught her lying on top of a pile of coats kissing the host! I heard that James was so furious he nearly dragged her out of the house. Well, he didn’t drag her—he’s sort of a gentleman—but everyone knew she was going to catch hell on the way home. Still, she left the house laughing. Laughing, for God’s sake!”

  The waitress stopped at their booth and they both ordered coffee refills before the loud one picked up the subject of Renée again. “It was right after that party when she vanished. Immediately, like the next day.”

  Catherine’s coffee arrived and she took a large, scalding gulp. The coffee burned her tongue, but she took another bracing sip nevertheless.

  Meanwhile, the woman who seemed to know all about Renée took a deep breath and asked loudly, “Have you been to Nicolai Arcos’s exhibit at the Nordine Gallery?”

  “Who’s Nicolai Arcos?”

  “Don’t you keep up with any local news? He’s a local artist. At least he’s the only one who’s getting any real attention from the art experts. Anyway, I heard that Renée had an affair with him before she left. Now he has a big exhibit at the gallery. Didn’t you read about it in the Gazette?”

  “I only read hard news, not society stuff.”

  “Oh, you do not! Don’t try putting on airs with me. Anyway, the showpiece of the exhibit is a portrait called Mardi Gras Lady. Ken Nordine, who owns the gallery, didn’t invite my husband and me to the opening exhibit, so my husband got mad and wouldn’t go see it later. The mayor’s wife—we’re very good friends—told me that although the woman in Mardi Gras Lady is wearing a mask and Nicolai Arcos won’t admit that woman in the painting is even anyone he knows, she’s certain it’s a portrait of Renée Eastman. She says no one who’d ever seen Renée would be fooled and Arcos meant for everyone to know it was her. He was crazy about her.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “So this Arcos person actually painted her when he was having an affair with her? Or was it after she disappeared?”

  “I don’t know when he painted it. He just did.”

  “Is he married?”

  “No. Never has been.”

  “But Renée was and he didn’t care even though everyone knew about the affair. My goodness, what nerve!”

  “I’ll say he has nerve! But he’s an artist, and we all know how eccentric and arrogant they are,” the loud woman pronounced with confidence. “I don’t know him except by sight. He’s tall and thin—all angles and penetrating eyes—and has black wavy hair. He wears crazy jewelry—always the same, a hoop earring with what I swear is a real diamond, a huge tiger’s-eye ring—and these long leather coats. He must be in his early thirties or so. You’d never forget him if you’ve seen him. I’ve heard that the exhibit might put him on the map in the art world, but the painting Mardi Gras Lady is the one that has everyone talking.” She hesitated and then added excitedly, “We should go see it! Maybe tomorrow—I’m too busy today, but I really want to go! My husband would be furious, but I won’t tell him if you won’t tell yours.”

  “It’s a deal,” the other woman answered. “Now I can’t miss seeing that painting for the world!”

  And neither can I, Catherine thought guiltily as she drained her coffee cup. Neither can I.

  2

  Catherine glanced at her watch. Quarter of one. Her next patient would not arrive until two o’clock. She quickly ate her last bite of pie, finished her coffee, left a generous tip, and walked to the register before the waitress had returned with Catherine’s check. While she waited to pay her bill, someone put more money in the jukebox. She left the café to the sound of Petula Clark singing “Downtown.”

  It was almost like Petula knew where she was going, Catherine thought as she left the Café Divine, walked hurriedly in the rain to her car, and drove four blocks to the Nordine Gallery, located in what had once been the center of the city. She remembered almost five years ago when a new Aurora Falls citizen—thirty-year-old Ken Nordine—bought the remains of a long-vacant three-story building in the now-neglected part of the town, razed it, and built a beautiful four-story art gallery.

  The Gazette had assigned Marissa the story and she hadn’t been able to resist researching the new owner in greater depth than needed for the newspaper article. Marissa had learned that Ken Nordine’s father—a talented artist of temporary fame named Guy (pronounced “Gē”) Nordine who’d been born and lived in Aurora Falls—moved to the Midwest in his late thirties. Shortly afterward, Guy’s wife deserted him and their young son, Ken. Guy had fallen into depression and drinking and never fully recovered. His career dwindled and then completely failed. He’d died young, barely earning a living as a housepainter. His son, Ken, however, had vowed that the people of Aurora Falls—as well as the world—would never forget his beloved father’s early, excellent artistic works.

  Marissa had known Guy’s estate could not have paid for the gallery and she’d discovered Ken’s numerous business ventures had not been successful. She learned he’d married Dana Hanson, whose father owned a successful chain of home-improvement outlets in Utah, Nebraska, and Iowa. Dana had grown up privileged and even in adulthood seemed to be denied nothing by her doting, wealthy father.

  In true reporter fashion, Marissa had immediately dispatched her research about the enigmatic Mr. Nordine to Catherine, whom Marissa considered cut off from the exciting activities of home while she attended graduate school in Berkeley, California. Catherine had devoured the information with the gusto of a champion Aurora Falls gossip and had been looking forward to visiting the gallery when she returned home. Before she’d had a chance, though, she’d heard from several people that Ken Nordine also had been one of Renée’s lovers. Catherine’s curiosity about the gallery hadn’t died, but she’d been determined not to set foot in the place. Until today.

  As usual, Catherine felt awe as she drove past the pale stucco gallery whose contemporary circular lines seemed to spiral skyward like a dove rising gracefully amid a stand of dingy dark-brick towers. Luckily, she found a parking space nearby and rushed to the door of the gallery just as a man unlocked the front door and swung it open, smiling.

  “What luck for me! My first visitor of the day is a beautiful lady! Hello. I’m Ken Nordine.”

  Catherine fell silent, for the first time coming face-to-face with the gallery’s strikingly handsome owner. His well-cut, honey brown hair waved back from a classic face that showed intelligence and humor, punctuated by electric blue eyes that were both serious and rakish. For a moment, she stood mute before she found her voice. “Hi. Catherine Gray. I’m afraid I’ve never visited the gallery before today.”

  “What a shame, but we’ve gotten you here at last. Please come in.” He flashed a self-deprecating grin. “You’ve beaten the afternoon crowd.”

  “I’m glad.” Catherine started to shake rain from her umbrella, but he gently took it from her and vibrated away the rain before closing it.

  “Sorry about the water,” Catherine said.

  “Don’t worry. The floor is granite,” he said, looking at the tan ceramic flooring punctuated here and there with dark brown and blue mosaic-patterned tiles. “Second-hardest stone to a diamond. We don’t care about some water on the floor. It’s also micro-etched, so don’t be afraid of slipping.”

  “Ken, you’re bragging again.”

  Catherine looked up to see a woman descending the wide, four-floor curving staircase leading to the pointed skylight on the roof. From above, the woman looked slender, glamorous, and about thirty years old. As she reached the first floor and approached her, though, Catherine could see she was bone thin and she bore the tightly stretched face of a woman who’d had too much plastic surgery. She had glossy, shoulder-length mahogany brown hair with blunt-cut, eyebrow-length bangs and not a strand of gray. Her careworn dark eyes and the slight lines circling her thin lips, though, put her age at early forties.

  “Hello, I’m Dana Nordine.” She smiled to show perfect teeth, obvi
ously veneers, and extended a thin right hand with prominent veins. “Welcome to the gallery. Escaping the weather?”

  “Not at all,” Catherine said easily. “I have a long lunch break today and thought I’d take advantage of my extra time. I was near, and I’ve never been here before, although I’ve certainly been curious.”

  Ken gave her a natural and pleased smile, then a slowly dawning look of not-so-genuine puzzlement. “You’re Catherine Gray? Marissa’s sister?”

  Catherine nodded.

  “Marissa did a wonderfully thorough and long article about the place!” Dana exclaimed. “We were so elated I think we bought about fifty copies of that issue of the newspaper.”

  Ken gave Catherine an admiring smile. “I saw your picture in the paper when you opened your counseling practice, but the photo didn’t do you justice.” He paused. She stared. “I thought you’d visit the gallery before now since you’re Marissa’s sister and she seemed impressed with the place.”

  “She was—is—but when you opened I was still in California finishing my psychology degree. When my mother died, she left the family home to Marissa and me, and I’ve moved back in with her for now, but I still haven’t managed to get completely settled.” Catherine knew she was talking too much, but she felt awkward and slightly guilty for being here. She could have kicked herself for going on. “I’ve also been establishing my practice with Dr. Jacob Hite. But then you know that if you saw the article in the newspaper.”

  Dana tried to frown, but Catherine could see the woman had obviously paralyzed the muscles around her forehead and eyes with Botox. She asked without facial expression, “So you’re seeing patients now, Dr. Gray?”

  “Yes. Since August.”

  “How enterprising to begin so soon. Don’t you agree, Ken?”