To the Grave

by Carlene Thompson

  “No, it hasn’t,” Marissa said. “It just seems like it’s been a long time. I’m sure he’s in surgery. You know how long surgery takes.”

  “Not long if someone dies quickly.”

  “Then the longer it takes, the better.” Marissa hoped that sounded logical. She couldn’t think of anything else to say. “James is young and strong and healthy. He’s not dead. I’d know it.”

  Catherine looked at her quizzically. “You’d know? How?”

  “I just would.” Catherine was opening her mouth to argue. “I think I’ll go out to one of those vending machines and get coffee. Catherine, Robbie, either of you brave enough to drink what those awful contraptions pass off as coffee?”

  “Not me,” Catherine said dully while Robbie wisely shook her head.

  Just as Marissa began scooting off the table, the examining room door opened. Eric looked first at Catherine and then at Marissa, asking, “All right if I come in?”

  “More than all right!” Marissa exclaimed. “I didn’t think we’d see you here tonight.”

  Eric entered slowly, smiling at Catherine. “How are you doing?”

  “All right, considering the circumstances.” Her voice sounded thin and falsely calm. “Have you found out anything else about the shooting?”

  “No. At least nothing important.” Eric said. Marissa knew he wasn’t being completely truthful, but Catherine was in no shape to absorb anything technical about gunshot angles or distances. “We’re certainly not finished investigating yet, though. I’ll be going back to the restaurant soon. I just wanted to come by and check on James.”

  “Well, if he’s dead, no one has told me,” Catherine said dully.

  Marissa gave her another hug as Eric and Robbie spoke at once, both telling Catherine she was doing fine, James would be fine, she just had to have faith, on and on until Marissa felt like shouting for silence.

  And then the doctor walked in.

  2

  Marissa and Catherine had known the woman since they were teenagers, when she’d joined the staff of the hospital where their father had been a cardiologist for over twenty years. She was tall, slender, and fortyish, with short blond hair and a face pale with fatigue and lack of makeup. On television, female surgeons always wore makeup, Marissa thought distantly, often including false eyelashes they fluttered frequently above their surgical masks.

  “Hello, Catherine, Marissa,” she said. “I haven’t seen you since your mother’s funeral. I’m sorry I haven’t seen you again until now, under these circumstances.”

  “I’m glad you were here to take care of James,” Marissa managed, although all Catherine did was nod, her eyes huge.

  “Mr. Eastman came through surgery well,” the doctor immediately began. “He had a gunshot wound through the left scapula. That’s the shoulder blade, as I’m sure you all know. When a bullet hits a bone, the bone may be shattered or may deflect the bullet to another part of the body, causing further problems. This was a perforating wound, meaning the bullet passed through the body. There appears to be no joint involvement and very little soft-tissue involvement. These are good things. The exit of the bullet caused a great deal of blood loss, but we got it under control. Also, he suffered some damage to tendons or ligaments, though not severe.” She finally smiled. “I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but considering what he’s been through, I’d say Mr. Eastman is a very lucky man.”

  “Oh yes, lucky,” Catherine said tremulously. “Lucky.…” She suddenly bent her head and buried her face in her hands. “Oh, thank God.” Her voice was soft and tearful. “Thank God. It could have been so much worse—”

  “But it wasn’t. So far, he’s doing well and I see no reason why he shouldn’t keep doing well,” the doctor interrupted. Then she looked at Eric. “You’re Chief Deputy Montgomery.”

  “Yes.”

  “They told me you’d come. I’d like to speak with you in the hall.” Marissa heard the serious note in the doctor’s voice before she flashed them another smile, this one more cheerful. “After all, these people need some time to celebrate without listening to me droning on about surgery details.”

  There’s more, Marissa thought, but she didn’t want to hear it and Catherine didn’t need to hear it. All Catherine needed to know was that James was not only alive but also holding his own.

  Marissa closed her eyes and gave her sister another hug. Although Marissa was not traditionally religious, she surprised herself by saying a short, silent prayer, because she couldn’t help thinking that a higher power had been watching over Catherine and James tonight.

  3

  “First let me start off by reminding you that I’m not a pathologist,” the doctor told Eric as they strolled down the hall with Robbie, who still held her notebook and pen. “However, I can give you some information about the bullet.”

  “I knew that’s why you wanted to talk to me,” Eric said. “I’d appreciate any information you can give me.”

  “As I said, the bullet passed through the body, so I can’t give it to you for ballistics. I can tell you that I’m sure the shooter didn’t use a shotgun at short range—there wasn’t enough tissue damage. In fact, my guess would be that Mr. Eastman was shot with a .22 rifle—even a .22 handgun would have left more of a tattoo pattern on the skin.”

  “But aren’t most .22 rifles used for shooting small game?” Robbie asked.

  “Yes, they are,” Eric said slowly.

  “But I just didn’t see enough soft-tissue damage to make me think the shooter used a high-velocity rifle. In fact, little as I know about guns, I’m surprised Mr. Eastman sustained as much damage as he did.” She paused. “If I’m right and he used a .22-caliber rifle.”

  “Even if he used a .22, he could have shot as bad as he did if he was at very short range,” Eric said.

  “We’re getting into an area I can’t help with, so I’ll stop with the gun information and leave that to the experts,” the doctor said pleasantly. “I didn’t want to go into a lot of details about Mr. Eastman’s condition because Catherine is doing so much better than when they brought her in. I also know you’re very close to her sister, Chief Deputy Montgomery, and whatever I tell you, you’ll convey to Marissa and she’ll tell her sister later.”

  Eric nodded. “I will, and I want to tell you again that I appreciate your sensitivity. What else should I tell Marissa?”

  “The fracture of Mr. Eastman’s scapula is not severe and doesn’t look unstable, but the bone is fractured and will take quite a while to heal. In the meantime, there’s danger of infection or the formation of a fistula”—she looked at Robbie’s frown—“a pocket of blood or pus, which would have to be drained. I know that look. As my teenage daughter would say, ‘Oh, gross.’”

  Robbie grinned at her.

  “I’ve heard that Mr. Eastman is a workaholic, but at least he’s a lawyer, not a construction worker. I also know he’s right-handed. He was shot on the left side. That will make it easier for him to keep his left side still. Nevertheless, he’ll have to take it easy and get plenty of rest. You must emphasize this to Catherine. James Eastman needs to lead a less hectic life and get plenty of rest. I’m sure if anyone can make him slow down, she will be the one.”

  “I hope so,” Eric said. “James isn’t good at taking orders.”

  “She doesn’t have to give orders,” the doctor returned crisply, then smiled. “As I’m sure you know because of Marissa, beautiful women have other ways of convincing men to do what’s good for them, no matter how stubborn they are.”

  Robbie burst out laughing and then turned bright red. “Sorry,” she said meekly to a surprised-looking Eric.

  “Don’t be.” The doctor looked at Eric. “And don’t you make her feel bad. It’s the only time all day I’ve made someone laugh. Any other questions, Chief Deputy?”

  “No, ma’am, not right now,” he said with a bit less authority in his voice. “Thank you for the information, especially about the gunshot. I have a feeling
I’m going to need all the help I can get.”

  After she left them, Eric turned to Robbie. “Well, we know someone is fond of .22-caliber guns.”

  “Renée and Arcos were killed with handguns. Someone used a rifle on Eastman.”

  “But the gun that killed Arcos isn’t the one used on Renée. The ballistics don’t match.”

  “Maybe all three guns being .22 calibers is a coincidence.”

  “I don’t buy it,” Eric said. “There’s a connection.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You don’t have to humor me. I’m not mad at you for laughing.”

  “I know or you would have said something by now. I truly think there’s a connection.”

  “Okay. What did Catherine tell you about the actual moments of the shots?”

  Robbie flipped back through her notebook. “She said she and James were alone in the parking lot. He was shot and fell immediately. She just stood in shock and then she heard a second shot. That’s when she ducked. After the second shot. When she hit the ground, she passed out.” Robbie looked up from her notes. “It doesn’t appear the shooter was near Mr. Eastman’s car.”

  “Not during the shooting, but he had been,” Eric said grimly. “Beneath the passenger’s door we found three strings of purple Mardi Gras beads.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  1

  “No one can say I don’t know how to show a girl a lovely evening.”

  “Oh, James, don’t be so modest,” Catherine said earnestly as she sat by his hospital bed. “It was lovely right up until the sniper opened fire on us.”

  James’s tired eyes still managed to sparkle. “Talk about looking at the glass half-full! I’d laugh if it didn’t hurt.”

  “Then definitely don’t laugh. I want you well and out of here.”

  “I won’t be well for a few weeks. I also won’t be released for a couple of days. I’ll miss Patrice’s wedding.”

  “I hope you’re not worrying about the wedding!” Catherine exclaimed.

  “I’m kidding. Patrice will have to get along without both of us.”

  “Well, not both of us.”

  James gave Catherine a startled look.

  “I have to go.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “James, I’m the maid of honor. Patrice doesn’t have any relatives or close friends who can stand in for me.”

  “You’re being crazy,” James said grimly. “Did that concussion you got make you forget what happened last night?”

  “I’ll have surveillance.”

  “We had surveillance last night.”

  “Eric told me the guy had been on the force for a couple of months and was so inexperienced, when he heard a rear tire blow he jumped out of the patrol car. The tire didn’t blow without help, which he didn’t think of. Anyway, he’s on suspension.”

  “Well, boo-hoo for him, but that doesn’t change what happened to us or what could happen to you.”

  “I’m not going to let Patrice down,” Catherine said stubbornly, then leaned forward and gently kissed James on the cheek. “I’m not worried about going to the wedding—I’m only worried about you.”

  “You’re talking to me like I’m a kid. You can’t act like going to this rehearsal dinner and the wedding isn’t dangerous because you don’t want me to freak out. I’m already freaked out. Someone followed us to that restaurant and almost killed me.”

  “You, not me. I’m not his target.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “He was close enough to bash me on the head last night, but he didn’t kill me.”

  “Maybe he just wasn’t ready to kill you, honey. Maybe he has some twisted reason for waiting to kill you.”

  A chill rushed through Catherine, but she didn’t think James saw it. “Who could be doing this, James, and why?”

  He shook his head. “Someone murdered Renée. Arcos came after you because he thought you’d killed her, but then someone got him instead.”

  “If Arcos wanted to kill me because he thought I’d murdered Renée, he didn’t kill her. Did someone kill him because they thought he’d killed her?”

  “Or because he had tried to hurt you. He would have hurt you if he hadn’t been killed.” He paused. “I think Eric believed I killed Renée because I hated her and then I killed Arcos to protect you.”

  “I … I don’t think so.”

  “Yes, you do. Maybe you didn’t admit it to yourself, but you felt it just like I did.”

  “Even if he did think you were the murderer, he has to know better now.”

  “Maybe,” James said slowly. “Maybe.”

  2

  Bridget Fenmore walked toward a woman wandering aimlessly around the gallery. Normally she would have ignored a “looky-loo,” but Bridget knew a Burberry leather coat when she saw one. And wasn’t the woman carrying a Prada handbag?

  Bridget tempered her desire to rush toward the woman. Instead, she walked sedately and tried not to look at the clothes. “Hello. Welcome to the gallery. May I show you anything in particular?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Up close, Bridget saw that the woman was middle-aged and had a bored, blue-eyed gaze. Her makeup, though, was perfection. “Right here on the first floor we have the Arcos exhibit. It’s extremely popular.”

  “I’ve seen it. Not my style.”

  “What style do you like?”

  “Something pretty.” The woman gave her a self-deprecating smile. “I don’t know about particular styles. I just know what I like.”

  “On the second floor we have a room devoted to the work of Guy Nordine, the father of the gallery owner. He was a brilliant artist. His style is quite different from that of Arcos. Perhaps you’d enjoy looking at his paintings.”

  “Ummm, I’ve looked at them, too. We just had the house redecorated and I don’t think any of them would look good with my new furniture.”

  What a shame, Bridget thought. The woman obviously had money—a new Mercedes was parked in front of the gallery and Bridget was certain the car belonged to her—but she had no knowledge or appreciation of art. “I’ll just let you look around by yourself then. You might see something that you think would look well with your new furniture.”

  “Yes. Thank you.” The woman was obviously relieved not to have an “art expert” tagging along with her. “That would be fine. Actually, I don’t know much about art, but this is a really pretty place. I’d like to just study the lines and … well, the style of the building. I might get some ideas for doing a little house renovation.”

  “What a brilliant idea!” You numbskull, Bridget thought. You want your house to look like an art museum? “Spend all the time you like. If you’d like to ask about any of the … architecture, I’ll be glad to answer as best I can. And I have fresh coffee and hot water brewing for tea. If you’d care for any, just let me know.”

  “Well, aren’t you sweet?” The woman smiled, showing crow’s-feet and nasal-labial folds. “I’ll be sure to tell my husband how nice you are.” She frowned, showing a badly wrinkled forehead. “Well, maybe I won’t tell him about you. You’re too young and pretty.”

  “Oh, thank you.” Bridget had perfected her diffident look as well as a slight blush. “I’m sure your husband wouldn’t trade you for anyone, though. Enjoy your trip to the gallery.”

  Well, Ken would be proud of that performance, Bridget thought as she headed back toward a long table where she’d been pretending to organize pamphlets for the last hour. She was alone for the time being. Dana had suddenly decided she was crazy about her kid and had spent the last three days with her in the hospital, and Ken had gone out to lunch with the potential buyer of two above-average paintings. In terms of price, they weren’t close to the Arcos paintings, but two would bring a nice profit.

  Glancing around for visitors she’d not already approached, Bridget noticed a man who must have quietly entered while she was talking to the well-dressed airhead, as she now
thought of the woman staring in befuddlement at an excellent piece of modern art. He was tall and lean, wearing a charcoal-colored suit and full-length black coat, both of which fit him so perfectly that Bridget guessed they’d been custom-made. He was looking at Mardi Gras Lady, and even at a distance, Bridget could see he scrutinized the painting with the discerning gaze of an expert. Art galleries were familiar to this man, Bridget decided as she walked toward him at a leisurely pace. She wanted to impress him, which wouldn’t happen if she pounced on him like an eager salesperson.

  When she neared him, she came to a near stop, waited a beat, and then said, “Hello, sir,” in the warm yet professional voice Ken had taught her. “I’m Bridget Fenmore, manager of the gallery. Welcome.”

  He glanced at her and blinked rapidly three times, looking startled. Then he made a visible effort to regain his composure. “How do you do, Ms. Fenmore?” he said somewhat stiffly in a low, heavy voice. “John … Jones.”

  John Jones my ass, Bridget thought. The guy needed acting lessons, but if he wanted to be anonymous that was fine with her. She smiled prettily. “I see that you’re looking at Mardi Gras Lady. It’s by Nicolai Arcos. Unfortunately, Mr. Arcos … died this week.”

  “Yes, I heard about his death,” Jones returned slowly.

  “Such a tragedy. He had so much talent.”

  “Really?”

  The man’s question and harsh tone took Bridget by surprise. She looked at his dark eyes, surrounded by deep wrinkles and staring piercingly into hers, the horizontal lines in his strong forehead beneath thick, silver-touched black hair brushed to the side, the creases running deeply from his aquiline nose to his narrow, hard-lipped mouth.

  “Was his death a tragedy? Of course. I knew him. I liked him.” Bridget felt stumbling and foolish. She was also lying. She had not liked Nicolai Arcos, but she certainly would never admit to it. “And I thought he was talented.” A bit of spirit bridled in her. “So did a great many art critics.”