To the Grave

by Carlene Thompson

  “Oh,” Marissa said faintly.

  “Yeah. Oh. That pulled me up short, too.”

  “Eric, a young woman who looks a lot like Renée works at the gallery. Maybe that’s who the woman saw.”

  “And this young woman wore a heavy coat and tucked her hair under a hat to stand looking at a portrait she sees every day?”

  “Oh,” Marissa said again. “I see your point.”

  “I’m telling you—again off-the-record—that Renée probably arrived in Aurora Falls at least two or three days before she was murdered. She made the mistake of going out in public. People saw her. Maybe James saw her. And if he did, considering how much pent-up rage he must have felt for her—”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “Then you stop saying James Eastman isn’t capable of murder, Marissa, because maybe there’s something terribly wrong with him that we know nothing about.”

  She clutched Eric’s strong forearms. “No, there just can’t be something wrong with James. My sister is deeply in love with him!”

  “And that’s what scares me most, Marissa. Exactly who does your sister love? The man most people think he is? Or the man he really is?”

  3

  James gave Catherine a quick squeeze and a kiss on the cheek. “That was a great dinner, sweetheart.”

  “Thanks. Steak, baked potato, and salad aren’t exactly hard to fix. And I bought the cherry pie.”

  “I wonder if they serve meals like that in prison.”

  “You aren’t going to prison,” Catherine said briskly, gathering dirty dishes. “Stop talking nonsense.”

  “It isn’t nonsense, Catherine. First Renée, then Arcos, and here I am with motives to kill both of them.”

  Catherine poured hot water over the plates, waited for a moment, and then said, “Maybe you had a motive to kill Renée, but you didn’t have opportunity. You were at a conference in Pittsburgh when she was murdered. The medical examiner said she was probably killed late Friday or early Saturday. You were gone then.”

  “I also had the flu and mainly stayed in my hotel room. I wasn’t visible at all times.”

  Catherine looked at him. “You wouldn’t have been visible at all times even without the flu unless you’d shared a room with someone—someone who never slept.”

  James smiled again. “Good point. I’ll have to bring it up next time Eric questions me.”

  Catherine frowned and asked tentatively, “Eric isn’t like those cops on television, is he? He doesn’t take you into an interrogation room, yell at you, slam the table with his fist, and make threats.”

  “God, no. He’s businesslike. Completely professional. Calm and even tempered.” James stared ahead, his dark eyes seeming to mask dark thoughts. “He might not stay that way, though. Police treatment might become a little less civil, particularly if people keep getting murdered. But I’m whining and it’s time to stop. I want to wipe all of this from my mind.”

  “Me, too.”

  “So how would you like to spend our evening?”

  “Obviously not going out to visit with those nice folks on the front lawn.”

  “No, and we can’t leave here without them plunging at us with questions or following us.”

  “Then I guess we’ll just have to occupy ourselves inside.”

  “You want to watch television?”

  “No. I want to listen to music.”

  “Fine with me.” James went into the living room. Catherine opened the refrigerator, grabbed a can of beer, and followed him, watching as he began inspecting his CD collection. “I have Tchaikovsky’s Ballet Suite from The Sleeping Beauty, Handel’s Water Music, Delibes’s Lakmé (I know that’s one of your favorites), or—”

  Catherine had pulled a CD from her tote bag. “I want this.”

  James took the case from her and peered at it. “Barry White!”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Marissa’s, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but I want to hear it tonight.”

  “Catherine, you want ‘Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe’ and ‘Never, Never Gonna Give You Up’?”

  “Yes. Definitely. And we’re going to dance.”

  “I can’t dance.”

  “All you need to do is a little bumping and grinding. Certainly you can master that much.”

  James held the CD for a moment and then nearly doubled over laughing. “My sophisticated, refined Catherine who loves opera tonight wants to bump and grind to Barry White?”

  “More than anything,” she returned seriously. “Are you just going to sit there and laugh or are we going to get to it?”

  James finally stopped laughing, wiped the tears from his face, and looked at her adoringly. “We’re gonna get to it, baby!”

  * * *

  “From now on, I’m only listening to Barry White,” James said in a soft, deep voice as he pulled Catherine’s naked body closer to him under the down comforter. Catherine giggled and buried her head in a pillow. James tickled her until she came up for air. “He was your choice, Catherine.”

  “I know, but I didn’t think I’d get quite so carried away with his music. Jeez! I’m embarrassed.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t work your way through college in strip clubs? Do you have a stripper pole stashed somewhere in your house?”

  “Oh yeah, with my figure I was in constant demand. I would have needed serious breast implants to even get an audition.”

  “You would have been if anyone saw your bumping and grinding.” James ran his hands lightly over her breasts. “Besides, I hate the look of those things. Your breasts are perfect.”

  “You must need glasses. And my bumping and grinding was sedate.”

  “Not after you’d downed a few beers, darling girl.”

  “I guess I didn’t know I have so much rhythm in me.”

  “Rhythm? Is that what they’re calling it these days?” James rolled onto his back and laughed uproariously.

  “Well, I had no idea you have so much rhythm, either.”

  “You’re the only person in the world who does.”

  “I’m very glad about that.” He began snickering again, louder and louder.

  “James, you’re starting to cackle.”

  “I’m sorry, babe. It’s just that if you’d told me this afternoon that tonight I’d be lying in bed cackling I’d have thought you were crazy.” He turned his head and kissed the top of hers, which she’d laid in the hollow below his shoulder.

  “Are you going to start calling me ‘babe’ now?” she asked.

  “Only in private. I’m also going to request more performances of that dancing.”

  “Only in private.”

  “Not the office Christmas party?”

  “Definitely not.” Catherine waited a beat. “Just make certain I don’t drink too much at Patrice and Lawrence’s wedding reception. Everyone might get a surprise when the music starts.”

  “I don’t think Patrice has any Barry White songs planned for the musical entertainment. You’re safe.” James laughed again, put his hand under her chin, and tilted her head so he could look into her eyes. “I love you so much, Catherine.”

  “I love you, too. I have for years. Even when—” Catherine broke off, flushing in the shadowy bedroom. Too much beer had loosened her tongue, she thought regretfully.

  “You loved me even when I married Renée?” She nodded. “After the reception, she told me you were in love with me.”

  “Damn. I knew she could see it.”

  “I didn’t take her seriously. I thought she believed I was so irresistible that all women were in love with me.” This time his laugh was harsh. “Irresistible. Ha! I sure wasn’t good at reading her mind, was I?”

  “You were young.”

  “I was arrogant and stupid. I didn’t know the woman for me was Bernard Gray’s beautiful eldest daughter, the one I thought was so painfully shy and inhibited.”

  Catherine began to laugh. “Tonight, Barry White and I put an e
nd to that illusion!”

  “Thank you, Barry! You and Catherine gave me the greatest show of my life.”

  “Barry, me, and beer.”

  “Beer never tasted so good as it did tonight.”

  “I bought the most expensive kind.”

  “There’s just no holding you back when it comes to spending money, Catherine Gray. However, now I’m craving a soft drink,” James said. “How about you? Can I get you a Coke? Seven Up? Tonic water?”

  “Not right now, thanks. Maybe later.”

  James slid out of bed and into a white terry-cloth robe. “Sure you don’t want another beer?” he asked, grinning.

  “I’m absolutely sure, but I’d love to have a couple of aspirins.”

  “Hangover coming on?” James shook his head. “Pleasure has its price, Catherine.”

  How good hearing him snickering as he left the room, Catherine thought. His mood had certainly improved in the last four hours. She considered getting a headache from drinking too much beer had been well worth it.

  Catherine shivered slightly and drew the down comforter over her. Still, she wasn’t comfortable—she’d never liked sleeping naked. With a huff of exasperation, she tossed back the comforter and sheet and walked to the one dresser drawer where she kept a few items at James’s. She reached for a pair of bikini panties, hurriedly pulled them on, and fumbled for one of her long-sleeved satin sleep shirts. The fragrance of her sweet, flowery cologne wafted from the drawer. Just as she withdrew a sleep shirt, though, she caught a whiff of a perfume different from her own—something faint but with a definite hint of the exotic. She drew in a deep breath and smelled mandarin and coriander.

  Guided by the soft light from the bedside lamp, Catherine reached into the corner between the dresser and the chest of drawers. She retrieved two bits of delicate material—black silk tulle bikini pants and a lace-detailed baby-doll top. Her brows drew together as she focused on the La Perla label. La Perla? These pieces of fluff must have cost between two and three hundred dollars, Catherine thought in vague shock as she glanced under the La Perla label to find a tag reading:

  La Belle Boutique

  New Orleans

  Shaking, she clutched the expensive nightwear that she’d never worn in her life.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  1

  “Robbie and I located Renée Eastman’s car, sir,” Deputy Jeff Beal said as he sat across from Eric Montgomery on Wednesday morning.

  Eric looked up from his paperwork. “Where?”

  “In the garage of the vacant cottage to the south of the Eastman place. The lock on the manual door had been broken recently, I’d say within the last couple of weeks.” Jeff shook his head. “It shouldn’t have taken us so long to find it.”

  “Sometimes the most obvious place is the best spot to hide something,” Eric said. “Sounds to me like right next door to the crime scene was a fairly clever hiding place. What did you find in it?”

  “In the glove compartment was registration, car insurance documentation, car keys, and what Robbie called a ‘cosmetics case’ loaded with lipsticks and mascara and other whatnots women use. A couple of coats were hanging in the back. We took a quick look in the trunk and found a couple of suitcases and something Robbie called an ‘urban weekender.’ Looked like a big duffel bag to me. We didn’t open them, of course.”

  “You didn’t find a .22-caliber revolver in the car?”

  “I would have told you that first thing, sir.”

  “So we still don’t have the murder weapon.”

  “No, but the car is at Forensics now. Maybe they’ll find it. It could be in one of the suitcases,” Jeff added hopefully.

  “Right.” Eric glanced down at the papers he’d been reading. “This is the Nicolai Arcos autopsy report. He had four puncture marks on his back. They were cauterized, so they must have come from a Taser.”

  “So he was hit twice.”

  Eric nodded. “He was a big man, and from the amount of drugs in his system one hit might not have been enough. Scratches on his nose and forehead indicate he probably landed on his face. Then the murderer flipped him over and shot him through the right eye at close range. But here’s the really interesting part. Ballistics show that the gun used to kill Renée Eastman wasn’t the same one used to kill Arcos. The bullets don’t match.”

  “But they were both .22s,” Jeff said slowly. “You’d expect someone to use a .38 to be certain of a kill.” Eric nodded again. “So someone knew Renée Eastman had been shot with a .22.”

  “Yes. They also knew she’d been shot in the right eye. And they found something else unusual.”

  “I’m almost afraid to ask,” Jeff admitted.

  “Arcos dressed flamboyantly—all part of the exotic-artist image according to Ken Nordine. Arcos also liked jewelry, especially a platinum hoop earring with a half-carat diamond and an heirloom tiger’s-eye ring. Nordine said Arcos had other stuff, too, but those two pieces seemed to be his favorites and any jewelry he wore was expensive.”

  Eric continued, “When Arcos was found, he had his wallet with over two hundred dollars in it and the earring and ring—he wasn’t killed during a robbery.” Jeff nodded. “What I didn’t tell Nordine was that Arcos was also wearing four long strings of purple metallic Mardi Gras throw beads.”

  “Throw beads?” Jeff echoed.

  “I’ve never been to Mardi Gras, but I’ve read about it, so I did a little more research. The beads are just cheap decorations people throw off the floats to the crowds lining the streets.”

  “Well now, isn’t that interesting,” Jeff said seriously with a slightly befuddled look on his face.

  “Beal, my point is that they’re cheap. You can order five dozen from the Internet for less than ten dollars.” Jeff raised his eyebrows. “I also learned that there are usually three bead colors—green, gold, and purple—that have meaning. Green is for faith. Gold is for power.” Eric waited a second before saying with significance, “And purple is for justice.”

  2

  Ian Blakethorne stood watching a gleaming white Learjet 45 as it taxied, accelerated, then rushed down the sixty-foot runway. It lifted off, the white of the jet contrasting with the background of a clear, cerulean blue sky and the crystalline, rainbow colors refracting through the mist of Aurora Falls. Ian closed his eyes for a moment, wondering where the jet was headed—to the Caribbean, he hoped, not knowing why. Today, he simply had a desire to visit Jamaica. Instead, he would be having lunch with his father at Blakethorne Charter Flights.

  Ian walked back to the terminal. He remembered the original building, which had been small and intimate. As the business grew, his father had expanded the terminal to over twice the original size when Ian was barely twelve. He recalled preferring the old, small version, perhaps because it reminded him of what life had been like before the car wreck, when his father sometimes brought him to the airport to see an incoming or outgoing flight, then take him into the terminal to Cici’s Café, where he always had a banana split.

  Five years ago, his father had decided to expand the business, adding rentals of high-end recreational vehicles as well as lavish medium-to-large tour buses. Everyone had told him he was overextending himself, but the venture had taken off with a speed that seemed to astonish even Lawrence. Ian remembered his father boasting about renting buses to rock bands like the Dave Matthews Band and The Pretenders, although Lawrence had only the vaguest knowledge of their music or history. He’d only known they were rich and famous.

  Shortly afterward, Lawrence had demolished the old terminal and built a new one that had impressed the locals, who said it looked like a commercial airport. It featured wide corridors, tastefully decorated waiting areas, three fast-food outlets, two casual bistros, a formal restaurant, and a myriad of stores, including drugstores, bookshops, a discount store, a luggage shop, and five bars. Lawrence Blakethorne always laughed when he recalled architects hotly telling him five bars were far too many. Years later, he could boast t
hat they accounted for more income than all the restaurants put together.

  Ian took the escalator to the second floor and strode to the wide double doors at the end leading into his father’s office. Lawrence gave Ian a quick wave with one hand while holding a phone set in the other, talking loud and fast. Ian nodded, but rather than sitting down, he wandered around the office.

  Naturally, his father had designed his own office, not leaving it to the more modest tastes of the architects. The room occupied the entire space at the back of the corridor. He’d picked a deep royal blue for the rich carpet that contrasted with the much lighter, steel blue walls decorated with large, beautifully framed photographs of jets, impressive twin-engine airplanes, and his own first plane: a used single-engine red and white Piper, which was still carefully maintained and sitting at the rear of a hangar. A huge mahogany desk dominated the room, with a heavy, beautiful mother-of-pearl gemstone globe mounted in gold, sitting near the left corner. It had been given to him by Patrice last Christmas. The globe’s luminescent colors sparkled in the light flowing through bay windows completely covering the wall behind the desk and overlooking the runway where the Learjet had just ascended.

  On the credenza sat an eighteen-inch-long mahogany model of the Bell XS-1, the first aircraft to exceed the speed of sound at Mach 1.06 on October 14, 1947. The plane had been flown by West Virginian Charles Yeager and christened Glamorous Glennis after Yeager’s wife. Ian had given his father the model four years ago, just after Lawrence had finally met the now-retired Major General Yeager. Ian remembered with pride that Lawrence had never acted more pleased with a gift.

  “It’s a deal, then,” Lawrence said firmly. “We’ll talk about it later this evening, but right now I have an important lunch guest waiting. Good doing business with you.”

  Lawrence beamed at Ian. “Sorry I didn’t have time to go out to lunch with you, Son,” he said, hanging up the phone.

  “You never go out to lunch.”

  “Well, I intended to make an exception today. I ordered something good brought in from one of the best terminal restaurants, though. Should be here in about twenty minutes. Have a seat. You’re giving me the jitters walking around here like you’ve never seen my office.”