James finished his drink and then once again called the Moreau home in New Orleans. Luckily for them, their large and historic house had not sustained irreparable damage when Hurricane Katrina ravaged New Orleans. He and Renée had not seen the home following the storm. After their impetuous marriage, James had been shocked to learn the Moreaus had carefully hidden a bad relationship with their only daughter. Later the three rarely even spoke on the phone. Renée refused to tell him what the trouble had been, but that didn’t change the fact that her parents had to be told she was dead. After all, they were her family. His own familial relationship with Renée had started at what he’d considered an ecstatic wedding and had ended with the emotionless signing of court documents.
When they were able to reach the Moreaus, the police department would inform them of their daughter’s murder. He could stay out of this completely, not speak to either parent. But he had been Renée’s husband. As far as he knew, she hadn’t remarried in the few days since the court had finalized their divorce. If she had any other family members who knew of her death, they hadn’t come forward. No matter how elusive the Moreaus were trying to be, he had to get in touch with them.
James sat up, emptied his drink, thought about having another one before trying to call New Orleans, and then decided he’d only be stalling. One more drink wouldn’t make the phone call easier, he thought tiredly as he reached for the phone and dialed the number he’d memorized since Sunday. The same vacant, middle-aged female voice he’d heard several times over the last three days said, “Moreau residence.”
“This is James Eastman from Aurora Falls calling again. I’d like to speak to Mr. or Mrs. Moreau.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but they aren’t home. They haven’t been home since Thursday. They’ve gone on a trip with friends.”
“Where?”
“Where? Uh … somewhere in California.”
“Yesterday you said they’d gone to Mexico.”
“I’m sorry, sir. You must have spoken to someone besides me.”
“I need to tell the Moreaus that their daughter has been murdered. If you don’t believe I’m who I say I am I’ll give you the number of the Aurora Falls Police Department, although I know they’ve tried to contact the Moreaus, too.”
After a pause, the maid said wearily, “I don’t need proof, at least of who you say you are. I can’t keep playing this game even if I lose my job. It just isn’t right.” She paused, and when she spoke again it was with spirit. “Mrs. Moreau is home. She has been ever since you started calling. She just didn’t want to talk to you. But I’ll make her talk to you. You can count on it!”
She sounded as if she’d enjoy the opportunity to make Audrey Moreau do anything, James thought. One of the few things Renée and he had agreed on was their disdain for the beautiful, haughty woman who had given birth to Renée at twenty-three, turned her over to nannies, and lived a hectic, aimless life of socializing, shopping, and travel. Audrey’s only halfway serious pursuit was acting, which she did very badly.
Renée, an only child, had spent most of her very young years with servants and a few socially acceptable little friends and her older years mostly in private schools. Her somber, humorless father, Gaston, almost old enough to be her grandfather, sometimes took her with him on his world travels concerning vague legal business he never liked to discuss because he considered the actual making of money to be crass. He found acquiring dated objets d’art much more to his liking and taught his young daughter, when he had the time, to do the same.
Reserved, intellectual Gaston and a gaggle of aging nannies raised a beautiful, introverted, almost psychologically shy girl who at sixteen abruptly returned to the family home in New Orleans and never again traveled with her father. By the time James had met her in his third year of Tulane Law School, she had turned from a wallflower into a beautiful, flamboyant, exciting woman who, to her family’s disgrace, lived on the edge of scandal.
In spite of her personality, or maybe because of it, James quickly had become enamored of Renée, and the Moreaus had provided them with a lavish marriage ceremony in a hasty two months. Over the next few years, the Moreaus invited James and Renée to visit the family home only three times, all stays cut short because of Gaston’s “unexpected” business demands abroad and only one visit including a social event—an extremely small dinner party made up mostly of relatives.
Nearly five minutes passed before Audrey Moreau’s annoyed voice said without so much as a greeting, “Why do you keep calling, James?” She still spoke with her fake southern drawl. “You’ve been told several times Renée isn’t here.”
Familiar irritation swept through James at the mere sound of Audrey’s voice. “I never asked to speak to Renée and I’ve been told several times that you weren’t home.”
“I simply didn’t want to talk to you,” Audrey returned without a touch of remorse or embarrassment. “You will not stop calling, though, and I’m getting extremely annoyed. You’re being a pest. What do you want?”
James wished he could make himself say something cutting and cruel, but he held in his anger. After all, Audrey was Renée’s mother. He turned down both his volume and the edge in his voice. “Something has happened to Renée.”
“I knew it when your local police called.”
“You didn’t speak with them, did you?”
“Of course not. They left a message with one of the maids asking me to call back, but I didn’t. I don’t consider Renèe part of this family anymore.”
“She’s your daughter, Audrey, whether you like it or not. Or she was your daughter. Renée is dead.”
James heard a sharply drawn breath before Audrey returned hotly, “Oh, she is not! The police would have said so.”
“They wouldn’t tell your maid and you didn’t talk to them. Neither did Gaston, I suppose.”
“No, he didn’t. I didn’t even tell him the police had called. I don’t want him bothered with her nonsense. I know she’s just gotten herself in trouble again, and we don’t want to hear about it. We have nothing to do with her.”
James inhaled and said evenly, “Audrey, Renée’s body was found Saturday afternoon here in Aurora Falls.” He paused. “The police have no doubt that her death wasn’t an accident. She’d been murdered, probably just over a week ago.”
Silence spun out and James could almost see Audrey marshaling her ability not to believe anything she didn’t care to believe. “That can’t be true. Why would Renée be in Aurora Falls? She hated it there. She ran away from that place and from you.” Audrey’s voice picked up its tone and pace. “I know you’re convinced she’s been living with us off and on ever since she left you, but I told her we wouldn’t take her back. She’s tried to come home three times, but I have literally turned her away at the door.
“Frankly, I think she is getting desperate for money,” Audrey continued. “Whatever the case, I’m certain she has not been murdered, and this is not funny. It’s a trick concocted by you or her, or both of you, and if you’re involved I can’t be shocked that you would stoop so low to either help her or find her, James. I know you loved her, God knows why, but I swear on my Bible that she isn’t here.”
“I doubt if you own a Bible, Audrey, although you claim to be a devout Christian, so that statement doesn’t mean a thing to me.”
Audrey sighed. “I don’t care what you believe about my religious beliefs.”
“I know and you’re right. I don’t give a damn about you or your religious beliefs. I want to speak to Gaston.”
“Gaston isn’t here, and I don’t know when he’ll be back.”
“Why don’t you know when he’ll be back? Has he finally left you?”
The knife stabbed exactly where James had aimed. Indignation rang in Audrey’s tone. “Of course he hasn’t left me! Gaston would never leave me.”
“Then why are you getting so upset?”
“Because the very idea of him leaving me is … is…”
“Lu
dicrous?” James asked, trying to goad her into blurting out information. “Or would him leaving you merely be too socially embarrassing for him to stand?”
“Oh, you are so—” She broke off and he heard her take a deep breath. “Gaston has been in Paris and London for over a week.”
“Where can I reach him?”
“You can’t. I won’t let you upset him. He has a lot on his mind.”
“How considerate of you, Audrey. I guess I never realized you’re such a sweet, loving, protective wife.”
James could picture her scouring her mind for a scathing retort and she finally came out with, “I won’t have him bothered.”
“You’d rather he not be bothered while he’s out making money. But I repeat, Audrey—his daughter is dead. Someone has to tell him. He of all people should know. Or maybe I’ll talk to some of his friends.”
“Is that a threat?”
“What do you think?” James took a deep breath. “Audrey, he has to claim her body and make burial arrangements. Renée would want to be placed in the family mausoleum in New Orleans.”
“She’s not part of this family and she will not be placed in the family mausoleum.”
“She’s a Moreau, for God’s sake.”
“No, she’s an Eastman. Look, James, I don’t know whose body you’ve found. If it is Renée’s, she’s your responsibility. She’s your next of kin, after all.”
“Have you forgotten that I sent a letter when I started divorce proceedings? I sent another letter telling Gaston when the divorce would be finalized. As soon as I got the divorce decree, I sent a copy.”
“I’ve never seen any of those things.”
“I sent everything registered mail. Gaston signed for them.”
“Well, he didn’t tell me.”
“I’m certain that he did. He wouldn’t keep something like that from you.” James drew a deep breath. “I don’t know why you’re bothering to go through all of this feinting and dodging when you know it won’t work. I’m capable of tracking down Gaston myself, if I have to, and you know I will. Renée is your responsibility, no matter how you felt about her.” He surprised himself by having to swallow to open a tightening throat. “You wouldn’t love and protect her when she was alive, but I’ll see that you take a few days to look after her now that she’s dead. You owe her that much. So good night, Audrey. Sleep well knowing that Renée will never bother you again.”
He slammed down the phone handset and felt sick. He’d known Audrey Moreau almost as long as he’d known Renée, and he knew the type of person she was—selfish, grasping, shallow, conniving, perhaps even incapable of love. She’d married for money. She had no love for children and often joked with an edge of truth that she’d agreed to give birth only to satisfy Gaston.
Audrey was a seriously damaged person, James thought grudgingly. In so many ways she needed as much sympathy as her daughter.
But he couldn’t feel sympathy for Audrey Moreau, he realized. All he could feel for her was contempt.
2
“I can drive to James’s by myself!” Catherine nearly shouted into her cell phone as she descended the front steps of the Gray home and headed for her car, tightening her clasp on her umbrella. The wind had picked up force as if it were trying to carry her voice away. “I don’t need a bodyguard, much less my little sister.”
“It’s nearly dark and starting to rain again and there’s a murderer on the loose. Why can’t you just wait for James to call you? He will any minute.”
“It’s after seven, Marissa. He should have called half an hour ago. How much time can you spend in a morgue identifying a body?”
“You said his home phone line is busy,” Marissa reminded her, sounding frustrated. “He hasn’t called you because he’s talking to someone else.”
“Then why doesn’t he answer his cell phone?”
“It’s turned off?”
“Nice try.” Catherine dropped her car keys and stooped, fumbling in the wet grass to retrieve them. “I should have been the first person he called when he got home from the morgue. I wanted to go with him, but he wouldn’t let me. He said it would be too upsetting for me. Patrice was going with him, though. I guess he thinks I have about as much strength as a crystal figurine.”
“Oh, he does not. It wouldn’t be as upsetting for Patrice because she didn’t find the body and the body didn’t happen to be that of her boyfriend’s ex-wife. You’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”
“I’m not. I just believe James taking Patrice instead of taking me with him for support is an indication of something wrong in our relationship. Anyway, I can’t reach Patrice, either, which just makes me worry even more. Something else—something bad—has happened.”
“Catherine, will you please go back inside and have a glass of wine and settle down? Nothing has happened.”
“You don’t know that,” Catherine said, picking up her keys from the rain-slicked grass. “Stop talking to me like I’m a child!”
“I will when you stop acting like one!” Almost immediately Marissa followed up with, “I’m sorry. It drives me crazy that you’re so rational about everyone except James. I have to remember that you’re in love with him, though. He’s not just anyone to you.” Marissa sighed. “I’m going to try one more time. I’ll leave work right now—not in half an hour like I said earlier—and I’ll be home in twenty minutes. If you haven’t heard from him by then, we’ll go together to his place.”
“You said you have to finish your story before you leave. You do what you have to do and I’ll do what I have to do.” As Catherine neared her car sitting in the driveway, another gust of wind pulled her umbrella sideways, blocking her view of the street, and she staggered, trying to keep a firm grip on the wet handle. “I’ll call you when I know anything. Bye.”
Catherine knew her sister felt only love and concern for her, but Marissa simply didn’t understand the situation. When James had told Catherine on the phone this afternoon that he’d decided to go to the morgue, she’d immediately volunteered to go with him. He’d said no. He’d tried to soften his flat refusal by saying putting her through such an unsavory task was unnecessary, he didn’t want her to get upset, on and on. Besides, Patrice would be with him. Catherine didn’t need to worry.
Catherine realized James was trying to protect her feelings, but she also knew he needed help getting through this nightmare. He was just so stubbornly independent and so unwilling to show her his vulnerability. She had to make him let her in, she’d thought after their unhappy phone call. She had to be more forceful, just as she knew Patrice must have been to make him let her go with him. Catherine had to make him see that she wasn’t a little girl in need of shielding. She loved him, he loved her, and they needed to lean on each other in times of trouble. That’s what she’d planned to tell him when he called her after the identification at the morgue.
Except that he’d never called.
Now, when she should have heard from him nearly two hours ago, Catherine had decided to take action. Maybe he’d been upset, gone back to his father’s law office to work, and not bothered to call her, except that such self-involvement was totally unlike James. Maybe he’d gone somewhere for a drink with Patrice, except that once again he wouldn’t have left Catherine waiting for a phone call. If for some reason he couldn’t phone, Patrice would have called her. At least, she thought Patrice would have called her.…
Abruptly the growing wind turned her umbrella sideways, blocking her view of the street. More darkness and rain accompanied the wind. Catherine felt like running back to the warmth and comfort of the house, but she knew she couldn’t find real comfort until she found James. No doubt, most people would think her concern ridiculous—after all, he was a man in his early thirties, smart, strong, capable. Today, though, he’d had to look again at the murdered body of his ex-wife, Renée—
“Miss Gray? Miss Catherine Gray?”
Catherine righted her umbrella and saw a large form hurrying t
oward her from the street before a swath of her hair blew across her eyes. She grabbed at it, missed, and jerked when she felt someone else’s fingertips brush against her forehead, moving the hair, while another hand closed over her shoulder. Startled, she dropped her cell phone.
“Don’t be afraid.” Blinking away rainwater from her eyes, she could blurrily see a tall man standing uncomfortably close to her. “I was on my way to your door when the wind blew up. You were struggling with your umbrella and didn’t see me. We almost collided!” He smiled and made a movement that resembled a slight bow. “I am Nicolai Arcos. I apologize for frightening you.”
He extended a hand to shake. Catherine blinked twice, clearing her vision, and looked up at a man who was at least six foot four with heavy black hair falling almost to his shoulders, deep-set dark brown eyes, a long, narrow nose, extremely high cheekbones, and sensual lips above a square chin. He was handsome in an unusual way, almost slightly unreal, like a character in a movie. And his name. Nicolai Arcos? Also slightly unreal. Yet familiar. He also smelled strongly of liquor and he was standing too close to her.
Catherine took a quick, firm step away from him. He’d done nothing except invade her personal space, but she sensed menace. She moved backward but decided she would not act afraid. She might not be armed, but many people lived on this street, people who looked out their windows, people who could hear a scream. “What do you want?” she asked with semi-calm.
To the Grave Page 11