To the Grave

by Carlene Thompson

  “Exactly.”

  “But how would whoever did this know which car was mine?”

  “It would probably be easy to slip in a seemingly casual question to Patrice or Lawrence about your car.”

  “What if we’d taken Marissa’s instead of mine?”

  “I doubt if there were too many convertible red Mustangs in the parking lot that night. You’re sure you didn’t lock your car last night, Catherine?”

  “Fairly sure. I was nervous about giving my speech and afraid I didn’t look right in my new dress—it’s not my usual style. But how could someone know I’d leave the door unlocked?”

  “Maybe it didn’t matter.” Catherine looked at Eric quizzically. “Maybe someone brought along a lockout kit for opening locked car doors.”

  “This person came to the rehearsal dinner and brought along a mask and a lockout kit?”

  “Both of which they could have left in their own car,” Eric said. “Did either of you notice someone being away from the dinner for fifteen or twenty minutes?”

  The sisters looked at each other. Finally, Marissa said, “There was a social hour before we ate. I think it lasted about twenty minutes—maybe a little more. And I counted. Forty-one guests attended the dinner.”

  Catherine looked at her. “You counted?”

  “I got bored during those long-winded toasts Lawrence’s friends made. Anyway, Eric, there were forty-one guests and before the dinner actually started there was plenty of time for someone to leave for a few minutes. Even longer.”

  Eric frowned, chewing on his bottom lip. “Maybe whoever left the stuff wasn’t a guest at the rehearsal dinner. The Larke Inn has three dining rooms and a very large parking area. Someone could have just waited until they saw the two of you arrive and go inside the inn. Then they went to work.” Eric looked at Catherine’s bleak expression. “This might not be as serious as it seems,” he said. “Remember, we’re near Halloween. It could have been done as a prank by someone who doesn’t even know you. They just know who you are, what happened, what kind of car you drive. After all, the car is parked five days a week where you work. They didn’t have to do much research or much work to give you a good scare.”

  “Which they did. Give me a good scare, that is.” Catherine seemed to be thinking over this possibility. Then she shook her head. “No, Eric, it just doesn’t feel right. They would have had to order the mask and the decorations, copy the mask on Mardi Gras Lady perfectly, not leave any fingerprints, know the time of the rehearsal dinner—it just seems like too much trouble for a simple, harmless scare.”

  Which was exactly what Eric thought, although he’d hoped to sell the “harmless scare” theory to Catherine to give her at least one calm day. “Well, I’m not ruling it out,” he said firmly.

  He exchanged looks with Marissa. He could tell by the expression in her gaze that she knew exactly what he was doing. They been together too long, loved each other too long, for her not to understand how his mind worked and every nuance of his voice. Sometimes this made him feel so close to her, it was almost as if they were one person and the reassurance of not feeling alone was beyond joy. And then sometimes it was a colossal pain.

  “And how did they know I’d be at the rehearsal dinner last night?”

  “Lawrence Blakethorne is well-known in this city. A lot of people know he’s getting married today. People also know that the woman who found the dead body is Patrice’s maid of honor.”

  “That sounds like a lot of ‘ifs’ to me,” Catherine said disparagingly.

  “It sounds like a lot of ‘ifs’ to me, too,” Eric admitted. “I was just throwing it out there as a possibility.”

  “Any other flimsy possibilities, Sheriff?”

  “Chief Deputy,” Eric said, and failed at a grin. “Okay, Catherine, this one isn’t so flimsy. I realize you can’t break client-patient confidentiality, but I have to know if you have a patient you believe might be capable of this,” he asked uncomfortably.

  Catherine looked incensed. “A patient? Absolutely not!”

  “I’m not talking about a real nut job.” Catherine glared at him. “Well, that was the wrong term. But you know what I mean. Not someone who’s really mentally ill, dangerous, anything like that. Just someone you might have insulted lately. Not that you’d purposely insult anyone, but you might tell them something they don’t want to hear.”

  Catherine’s glare had died. “I know what you mean, Eric. I can’t think of anyone who would do such a thing.” Except for Mrs. Tate, she thought, but Mrs. Tate certainly wasn’t angry with her. At their last session, the woman had said she was trying to act more like Catherine, and Catherine had sensed her sincerity. “None of my patients put the mask in my car.”

  “Great,” Marissa said glumly. “So if we consider someone at the rehearsal dinner or just someone who has too much time on their hands and went to all the trouble of making that mask to scare Catherine because she’s become a great target for a scare during the last two weeks we have an endless supply of people as suspects.”

  “I’m afraid so,” Eric said.

  Catherine shook her head. “I’m convinced this wasn’t just a harmless attempt to frighten me. Someone went to a lot of trouble to make that mask, put it in the right car, et cetera. But why?” She looked at Eric. “Please don’t try to make me feel better, even though I know you mean well. I’m not stupid, Eric. Tell me why you think someone did it. And be absolutely truthful.”

  “Okay.” Eric’s imagination had run dry. He couldn’t come up with any more lame theories to toss out just because he thought they’d make Catherine feel less worried for a few hours, at least so she could enjoy the wedding tonight.

  “This may not be New York City, but that doesn’t mean everyone knew about Renée and James’s awful marriage, her disappearance, or the police investigation of James. Also, probably even fewer people knew you and James now have a relationship. However, because of all the news after you found her body, I’d say the number of people who learned about the whole saga increased by thousands.”

  Eric could feel Marissa glowering at him, but he couldn’t soft-pedal the situation, even for her. He knew how protective she was of Catherine, but Catherine wasn’t a little girl, her told himself. She was a highly intelligent twenty-nine-year-old woman who deserved the truth.

  Eric began in a slow, calm voice. “Maybe the person who did this knew Mardi Gras Lady was a portrait of Renée and wanted to hurt you by reminding you that she had been James’s wife whereas after all this time you’re … well, you’re—”

  “Just his girlfriend,” Catherine said tonelessly. “Not his new wife, not his fiancée, just his girlfriend.”

  “Well … yes. But the fact that you aren’t either of the others doesn’t mean James isn’t in love with you. I mean, after all he’s been through—”

  “You don’t have to soothe my wounded ego, Eric.” Catherine managed a small smile. “I’ve accepted the situation and I’m fine with it for now.”

  “Okay. Good.” Eric realized his palms had begun to sweat. For some reason, he’d been afraid Catherine would burst into tears. Marissa definitely had him brainwashed about Catherine’s easily wounded feelings, Eric thought, and felt a sudden, irrational wave of anger toward her. Then came frustration with himself for letting Marissa’s protectiveness of her sister influence his honesty with the person who should concern him—Catherine.

  “And the second ‘maybe’?”

  “What?”

  “Eric, you said maybe the person who put the mask in the car did it to hurt me,” Catherine reminded him. “I can see by your face you have at least one more ‘maybe’ as to why someone placed the mask on my seat of the car.”

  “Okay.” Eric drew a deep breath. “Those who do know you, or have done research about you and James, know how serious he is about you. Maybe the mask was put there as a warning of what happened to the first woman James loved.”

  “A warning that James might kill me just l
ike he supposedly killed her?”

  “Yes.”

  “But he didn’t,” Marissa burst out.

  Catherine held her hand up, quelling her sister’s vehement defense of James. “I know he didn’t kill her, Marissa. Thanks for your belief in him, but let’s hear Eric’s third ‘maybe.’”

  “Oh, you guessed there was a third. Okay. Maybe this person doesn’t know who murdered Renée but is killing the possibilities. He killed Arcos because he thought Arcos could have killed Renée for leaving him. He thought James might have killed her because she left him.”

  “And what about me?”

  “Maybe the murderer thinks you killed Renée because he believes you knew she returned to Aurora Falls just before the divorce was finalized and would manage to lure James back.” Eric hesitated, then plowed on. “Maybe this person thinks you killed Renée.”

  “Then why didn’t he kill me the night James was shot!”

  “Maybe he had trouble killing a woman he wasn’t certain was guilty.” As Catherine looked at Eric in shock, he went on relentlessly. “The mask could have been a threat. Something to scare you enough to make you leave James, leave Aurora Falls—a threat from the killer of Arcos because maybe he’s losing his reluctance to murder a woman.”

  “I feel like you’re going in circles to protect me from something.” Catherine gave Eric a hard look. “Just say it.”

  “Okay. Because of James, you’re part of this whole group—Renée, Arcos, and James. Most people in this town have loved and respected your parents and now you. Maybe the killer is just drawing out what he feels will be his last, most shocking, and most tragic murder.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  1

  “I can’t believe you took a room at the Larke yesterday when you’re getting married here tonight, Ms. Greenlee,” Mitzi said. She was a new receptionist at the law firm of Eastman and Greenlee, a short, blond woman with a round face and red cheeks. “You live with Mr. Blakethorne anyway. You could have stayed at his house for free.”

  Patrice, fluffing at her wedding dress, which hung on a rack in the middle of the room, turned and gave the young woman a smile. “Mitzi, it’s bad luck to see your groom on your wedding day. I didn’t want to see Lawrence this morning. I didn’t want to see him all day. I want to wait until tonight when I become his wife. After all, I’ve loved him for a long time. I didn’t want us to get up and eat breakfast together as if it was just any other day. This day is special to me.”

  “Well, I think that’s just about the most romantic thing I ever heard,” Mitzi said, her big blue eyes filling with tears.

  “Don’t cry, Mitzi,” Patrice ordered. “Your eye makeup is perfect and you’ll ruin it.”

  “Oh! Oh, gosh!” Mitzi began blinking so fast her eyelids were a blur. “And you paid for this professional makeup job. I’m sorry.” She took a quick look in the dresser mirror. “No damage done.”

  Patrice’s cool gray eyes met Catherine’s gaze. Mitzi had been hired because she was the daughter of one of Mrs. Eastman’s friends, but Catherine could already see she wouldn’t last long. Now Mitzi was in the “honeymoon phase” with Patrice, whom she admired almost to the point of worship. “It’s embarrassing,” Patrice had told Catherine, “but it’s also sweet. Of course, in two more months she’ll think I’m a bitch, just like the rest of the staff does because I’m impatient and sharp-tongued, and intolerant of mistakes. For now, though, I’m her ideal. She’s asked so many questions about the wedding, I’ve decided to let her participate. She’ll stand at the guest book, beaming at everyone coming into the wedding. The guests will think she’s adorable, and she’ll think I’ve entrusted her with an important duty when Marissa’s dog could probably handle the job just as well. Do you think I’m awful?”

  “I think you’re being extremely considerate,” Catherine had answered. “Even if later Mitzi decides she doesn’t like you, she’ll always remember your wedding as one of her big nights.”

  “Well, I just think it’s an awful shame that you and Mr. Blakethorne don’t get to go on a honeymoon,” Mitzi now continued, still inspecting her eye makeup. “Honeymoons are supposed to come right after the wedding, not weeks later. It’s just so sad—”

  “Don’t start crying again, Mitzi. Lawrence has business to take care of now, but in two weeks we’ll be walking on the Champs-Élysées,” Patrice said gaily. “Think of it—the specialty shops, the cafés, the cinemas…”

  Mitzi clapped her hands. “Oh, I’ve always wanted to go there!”

  “I know Lawrence needs to talk to the people at Star Air before the deal is sealed in mid-December, but hasn’t he heard of telephones?” Catherine asked, smiling. “Business can be discussed over the phone.”

  “Oh, he doesn’t trust foreign operators to get United States phone numbers correct,” Patrice said airily.

  He should get together with Mrs. Tate, who doesn’t eat “foreign” food, Catherine thought. “Can’t he take his cell phone? That way he’d be making the call himself.”

  “Oh, he’s always losing cell phones. So is Ian, only he’s even worse. Honestly, between the two of them, they must spend three or four thousand dollars a year just on cell phones.” Dressed in a long slip, she whirled around to Catherine. “Want to help me put on my wedding dress, Maid of Honor?”

  Catherine slipped the ivory silk gown off the padded hanger, holding it high while the other women in the room gasped as if they’d never seen anything so beautiful. Actually, Catherine thought Patrice had made a wise decision to wear a relatively simple gown without frills and ruffles and a long train. “I’m forty, not twenty-five,” she’d told Catherine at least ten times. “I don’t want people to think I’m trying to look at least ten years younger than I am. Women who do that are just pathetic!”

  Patrice stood almost inhumanly still in front of a cheval mirror as Catherine slid the sheath gown over her tall, slender body. A layer of lace formed a jewel neckline and cap sleeves above the ruched silk bodice, the lace highlighted with a delicate sprinkling of rhinestones. At Patrice’s neck a narrow diamond necklace sparkled, matching the diamond tennis bracelet shimmering on her wrist and one-carat, radiant-cut stud earrings—Lawrence’s wedding gift to his new wife. In order to show off the earrings, Patrice wore her blond hair upswept with only a few ringlets left to dangle strategically on her neck.

  “You look beautiful!” the two women cried simultaneously.

  “The gown is lovely—I really like the way the hem dips lower in back than in front so you have the illusion of a train. The dress is just perfect for your figure. Lawrence will love it, just as he loves you,” Catherine said.

  “You don’t think I need a veil?”

  “The silk rose clips match the real roses in your bouquet.”

  Patrice held up the beautiful cascade of ivory roses and small ivory accent flowers entwined with English ivy. “Not too long?”

  “Okay, Patrice, quit soliciting compliments.” Catherine laughed. “You know you look wonderful.”

  Patrice’s smile wavered slightly. “When Lawrence married my sister Abigail, she was so young, so beautiful. She looked like the women you see on the cover of bridal magazines.”

  “The airbrushed models you see on the cover of bridal magazines,” Catherine corrected. “Real women don’t look like them. Besides, I’ve seen wedding pictures of Abigail and Lawrence. Abigail was pretty, Patrice, but she wasn’t beautiful. Your mother never stopped talking about how gorgeous she was—how much prettier than you—and you started believing her. She brainwashed you into thinking you weren’t a match for Abigail in any way, including looks.” Patrice gave Catherine a long look, her light, silvery eyes narrowing. “Don’t get mad. You just got half an hour’s worth of therapy for free.”

  The room quieted, the other women tensing as if afraid Patrice was going to leap on Catherine. Then Patrice laughed. “Thank you, Dr. Gray. You know how I love a bargain.” She paused. “And maybe Abigail wasn’t quite as lovely as
Mother always said.”

  “You really do look beautiful, Patrice.” Everyone in the room looked at Beth Harper. For years, she had worked at Eastman and Greenlee as a legal secretary. After she’d married, she’d taken the less time-consuming position as secretary for Dr. Hite—and now Catherine—at the Aurora Falls Center. The job provided a nice salary—although less than Beth had earned at Eastman and Greenlee—but required around five hours fewer a week and no overtime.

  Two weeks before the wedding, Beth told Catherine that Patrice had asked if she would sing. “I’ve barely seen Patrice for over a year and didn’t guess she remembered that I do sing at some local events.” Beth had shaken her head. “That’s Patrice for you, though. You think she doesn’t know you’re alive and suddenly she appears back in your life knowing everything you’ve done and everything you’re doing now.”

  “Did you agree to sing?” Catherine had asked.

  “Of course. She wants me to do ‘We’ve Only Just Begun.’”

  “The song the Carpenters did?”

  “Yes. And fortunately, one I’ve sung before. I won’t need much practice.” Beth had looked slightly dubious. “Actually, I don’t think it’s the right song for Patrice and Mr. Blakethorne. It seems like a song for a young couple’s wedding.”

  “I agree,” Catherine said. “Oh lord, please say you didn’t tell her what you think.”

  “I’m not in the hospital with a concussion, am I?” Beth and Catherine had broken into giggles. “I’d never imply that something else might be more appropriate, especially to her. Besides, she told me that when she was fourteen she decided she wanted that song sung at her wedding, so just because she had to wait awhile on the wedding doesn’t mean I’m going to take the joy out of it for her.”

  Now, Beth smiled, then said, “You look beautiful, Catherine.”

  Catherine inspected herself in the cheval mirror. Her sheath gown with its short sleeves and unadorned square neckline was far from an attention grabber. Patrice had selected it. When Catherine got it home, she put it on, looking at it critically in her full-length mirror as she modeled it for her sister.