To the Grave

by Carlene Thompson

  “Your optimism is still intact,” James said seriously.

  “Yes, it is. But I’ve realized we’ve never talked as much about deeply personal things as we should have. Frankly, I think since we started seeing each other, we were both thinking of what happened between you and Renée. I understood why you didn’t want to talk about her. The two of you didn’t just have a bad marriage. You had a disastrous marriage ending with her disappearing and you being suspected of having murdered her. You underwent a police investigation, for God’s sake. Who wouldn’t have been traumatized? But, my darling, that’s over.”

  “Is it? Renée was murdered and maybe you’re the only person in town who doesn’t believe I did it.”

  “I am not the only person who doesn’t believe you did it! Don’t even say such a thing.”

  “Then who did? And what about Arcos, Nordine, the attempt on my life?”

  Catherine bent her head, pressing together her lips, and wondering if now was the time to tell him all she knew. After all, he would be out of the hospital tomorrow. Now, he might only lie awake all night and think about what she’d said.

  “You’re keeping something from me, Catherine. We’re not going to do that anymore. No more silence because we think what we say might hurt the other. That’s what has been keeping up apart, and I don’t want us to be apart anymore. I want us to be together—mind, body, and soul. So tell me what’s on your mind.”

  Had he actually said he wanted them to be together mind, body, and soul? Catherine could hardly believe it. She’d loved him dearly for years, but there had always been a barrier between them, even the last few months when there had really been nothing to keep them apart—nothing except their own silence. If she gave up this chance to truly reach James by withholding information because she thought it might upset him, she might never get another chance to reach him, she thought.

  “It happened at the wedding reception,” she began slowly. “I saw a man. He was leaning against a window and had been looking at the falls, but suddenly he turned and looked at me. Then he just stared at me.” James remained silent. “He was about sixty, I’d guess, and very tall and slim. He had heavy black hair with just a sprinkling of silver. But it was his eyes that caught me. They were dark, sunk in hollows with deep lines. At first I didn’t understand why he kept staring at me, even when he knew I was staring back. Then I got a feeling that there was something familiar about him. I was sort of overwhelmed with thoughts of the wedding and the humidity and … and a beautiful bride with dark eyes looking at me almost as if she were laughing at me.” She paused. “James, I think the man was Gaston Moreau.”

  After a moment of silence, James asked, “Did you get a good enough look at him to make a fairly certain guess? You’ve only seen Gaston once.”

  “Once, yes, and it was a bad day for me. I was so unhappy about your marriage and most of my attention was on Renée, but I remember Gaston as an unusual-looking man. Not handsome, but striking—not the kind of man you forget seeing.”

  “Did he act like he wanted to talk to you?”

  “No. He didn’t motion for me to come to him or look as if he were going to walk toward me. He just stared with an almost scornful expression. Well, maybe it wasn’t scornful, but it wasn’t friendly or even … nice. I felt more as if he were sizing me up.”

  “Sizing you up? For what?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what scared me so much that I went tearing off, looking for Eric. James, you’ve been trying to talk to the man for a week to tell him that his daughter has been murdered. His wife always says he’s out of town, she won’t have him bothered; I don’t know what all she’s said. You told me she hates Renée. I can’t guess how Gaston feels about her now, but he has to feel something. You sent him registered mail about the divorce and received acknowledgment of its delivery with his signature, so he had to know the marriage was over. And if he’s here—which I’m certain he is—he has to know she’s dead. Murdered.”

  James’s gaze drifted out the window into the early night. The muscles around his eyes and his mouth tightened. He squeezed her hand so tightly, she almost shook it loose, but she knew James needed her right now, maybe more than he ever had. She was determined not to show the slightest sign of weakness.

  “Does Eric still have a deputy following you all the time?”

  “Yes. Tom right now. He’s very diligent, James. He’s standing outside the door. He’ll follow me home and sit outside the house until Jeff relieves him around three in the morning.”

  “Good. I don’t want you to be alone, Catherine, not for a minute.”

  “I won’t be.”

  “You’ll go straight home after you leave the hospital, you’ll lock all your doors and windows, and you’ll stay inside. Don’t go to work tomorrow.”

  “Well, I have to go to work. Dr. Hite won’t be back to Aurora Falls until midweek and there’s no time to cancel my appointments. But I won’t be alone. Beth and Jeff will be there. Besides, I’m only keeping morning hours. I’m picking you up here at noon when you’re released and we’ll be together for the rest of the day.”

  “But you won’t come here without surveillance. You promise me.”

  “I promise,” Catherine said solemnly. “James, are you afraid of Gaston Moreau?”

  “I’m afraid of what he’s capable of. I used to just think he was odd. When I first married Renée, he gave me a bad feeling. And finally, she told me what he’d done to her for years. I never saw him after that, but I know he’s a monster.” He paused, looking intensely into her eyes again. “Catherine, I know in my gut that if Gaston Moreau is in Aurora Falls, it isn’t just to claim the body of his daughter.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  1

  Catherine awakened with a dull headache and a sense of dread. The headache she understood—the recent events would give anyone a headache. The dread was a mystery. James would be released today and she’d planned a simple but intimate dinner and relaxing evening for them.

  She ate a quick breakfast of toast, downed a mug of coffee, and looked out the front window to see Deputy Jeff Beal sitting in a patrol car. He saw her in the window and waved before Catherine went into the garage for her car. Marissa’s was already gone, of course, and Catherine knew she was either tracking down a hot lead or looking for one.

  To Catherine’s disappointment, the day lay low and gray, as if the sky were pressing downward, closing in for winter. She had hoped for a beautiful mild, sunny day like yesterday. What a shame that day had been wasted on the brunch, she thought, when this was the day she would be bringing James out of the hospital and back into the world.

  They pulled into the parking lot of the Aurora Falls Center, Jeff parking a few spaces toward the back and away from Catherine. She assumed Eric had given them instructions to not park at the front of the center or the parking lot because that might give patients a sense that something was wrong. Dr. Hite usually didn’t arrive before 9:30, but Beth’s small car was already parked at the very back of the lot. While Jeff sat in his patrol car, calling in to report that he was “on scene,” Catherine looked at Beth’s car, which bore dents, some rust, nearly bare tires, and about twelve years of bad care.

  “All checked in,” Jeff said brightly, jolting her from her study of the car. Either Tom or Jeff had entered the center with Catherine and looked around, said hello to Beth, then had a cup of coffee before they returned to a long day in their patrol car. “You okay there, Dr. Gray?”

  “If you don’t stop calling me Dr. Gray, I’m going to break the light on top of your car.”

  “Oh. Would that be a no?”

  “That would be a please call me Catherine. After all, I call you Jeff. And if I seem a little draggy, it’s because of the absolute blast I had this weekend.”

  Jeff started laughing. “Yeah, Tom told me about it. Actually, he said he’d been dreading the assignment—he’s not big on weddings and social stuff—but it turned out sort of hilarious.”
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br />   “I’m glad he had a good time,” Catherine said, half seriously, half-laughing. “But I hope to go at least a year—make that ten—without another three-day gala like that one.” They climbed the porch steps and she put her key in the door, which Beth kept locked until opening time at nine o’clock.

  Catherine swung open the front door, looking back at Jeff. She took several steps into the waiting room, Jeff close behind, and closed the door. She was still saying something about the wedding to him when she noticed the smell of good coffee didn’t fill the waiting room and Beth wasn’t sitting behind her desk.

  Then from beside a tall bookshelf near the door stepped Ian Blakethorne. His face was smooth, handsome, untroubled, and before she realized what was happening he stuck a needle in Jeff’s neck and pushed the plunger.

  2

  While Catherine stood frozen in shock, Jeff reeled slightly and reached for his gun. Ian’s hand swept at Jeff’s with more strength than Catherine could have imagined. Jeff stumbled and once again reached for the gun. This time Ian’s leg shot out, his ankle crossing Jeff’s and jerking the policeman to the floor. Jeff writhed, still fumbling for his gun, but this time Ian reached down, took the gun, and kicked Jeff in the abdomen. Jeff grunted and curled into a ball, his eyes closed, his legs making rhythmic jerking movements that grew slower and slower.

  “My God!” Catherine at last found her voice. “You didn’t inject him with animal tranquilizer!”

  “I used something almost as good,” Ian said offhandedly.

  “Where’s Beth? What have you done with Beth?”

  “I got here a little before Beth did. I was waiting for her—grabbed her on the porch. I’m afraid she’s already asleep.”

  “Asleep or dead?”

  “I’ll keep you in suspense.”

  Catherine felt reality slip away from her for a moment. She thought she might faint. Then she saw Jeff twitch again. The dulled light from the front windows managed to pierce the fading light behind her eyes. She took a deep breath, waiting for Ian to come at her with the hypodermic needle, knowing she had no strength to fight him. Instead, they both stood still, him looking at her acutely, her looking at him with dim horror.

  “Catherine, you’re not going to swoon like some damsel in a romance novel, are you?”

  “No,” she said faintly. “No. I’m going to stand right here and ask you what’s wrong.”

  “That’s it? Nothing more clever? Just, ‘What’s wrong?’”

  Catherine stood as straight and still as she could while gathering every bit of strength, of courage, of daring, she could muster.

  “Yes.” Her voice was steady, strong. “What did you want, Ian? Screaming? Crying? Begging?”

  The controlled look on his face, the near-cocky tone of his voice, vanished. He looked at her in puzzlement and then shook his head before saying in a slow, mystified voice, “No. I thought that’s what I wanted, but I didn’t. If you’d acted that way, you wouldn’t have been Catherine—my dearest Catherine—whom I’ve loved since I was ten.”

  “Loved?”

  “Yes. Oh, not that way. I never thought of you sexually—I really didn’t. No nasty fantasies. Only romantic ones. That was the kind of love I had for you.” His forehead wrinkled as his eyes grew troubled. “I don’t think she ever believed that, though. That’s why she didn’t like for me to talk about you. She didn’t even want to hear your name.” He looked at Catherine in a kind of wonder. “You’re all that ever came between us.”

  “‘Us’?” Catherine asked carefully. “Who is ‘us’?”

  “You know.”

  She started to deny it, then realized that was the wrong tack. “I want you to tell me. I want you to say it out loud. Who is ‘us’?”

  “Me and … Renée.”

  Catherine barely registered Ian pulling a gun, pointing it at her, and telling her in a courteous voice that he’d like to go into her office now. She nodded and led the way, trying not to flinch or give a sign he might mistake as an attempt to bolt away from him. She might have been escorting a regular patient in for a session.

  God, what a session this would be, she thought as she sat down on her chair, crossing her legs and looking at handsome young Ian standing by her desk.

  “So, what would you like to talk about today?” she asked, managing a small smile.

  “Is that what you say to all your patients?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re treating me like a patient?”

  “I’m treating you like someone who acts as if they want to talk. Is that insulting to you?”

  Ian appeared to think for a moment. “No, I guess not.”

  “You do want to talk to me, don’t you? Otherwise, we wouldn’t have come into my office.”

  “Yes, I suppose I want to talk.” He glanced around, never moving the gun aimed at her chest. “I like the way you decorated your office.”

  “Thank you, but you helped. You brought me a gift when the redecoration was finished—the beautiful porcelain temple jar. I’ve had so many compliments on it.”

  “Who from?”

  “Dana Nordine. And she knows art.”

  “Dana Nordine,” Ian repeated in an almost whimsical voice. “Well, I guess she would need counseling, considering—”

  Surprisingly, someone knocked loudly on the main office door. Please let that be the police, Catherine thought frantically; then reason returned. The police wouldn’t knock on the door.

  “That’s my father,” Ian said calmly. “I called him before you got here. I told him to come alone.” Ian’s voice toughened. “He’d better have done what he was told.”

  “You told your father to come here?”

  “Yes. Is it so unbelievable that someone can order around Lawrence Blakethorne? I suppose it is. But obviously, I’ve done it.” He tilted the gun upward. “Stand up and walk to the door. Move calmly, naturally. I’ve locked the door. Unlock it and let him in. He’ll be firing questions at you, but don’t answer. Just say you needed to see him. Don’t try to give him any secret signals or any of that silliness. He probably wouldn’t notice anyway. After he’s inside, lock the door behind him.”

  “And then?”

  “And then he will get the shock of his life.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Catherine opened the door to see Lawrence—tall, sturdy, and obviously annoyed. “Catherine,” he said abruptly. “What’s all this nonsense about? Be here precisely at eight forty. Don’t tell anyone where I’m going. Is this a romantic tryst or a blackmail meet?”

  “Neither, I’m afraid, but it is important. Please come in.”

  Lawrence stomped in as if he were wearing shoes covered with heavy snow. She closed the door behind him and locked it, as directed. Then she took a few steps back. What was she supposed to do now? Invite him to have a seat while she put on a pot of coffee?

  “Look, Catherine, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m a busy man. I’m always in my office by nine o’clock. I can’t imagine what you have to see me about so early. And all this damned secrecy. Is this about some kind of surprise for Patrice? Because if it is, you could have had the courtesy to call me at my office at a decent hour.”

  “This is a decent hour, Father, but it isn’t really Catherine who wanted to talk to you. It was I.”

  For a moment, Lawrence looked in bewilderment at Ian, who had appeared once again from his hiding place by the bookshelf. Then Lawrence started to laugh. “Good God, boy, what are you up to? And what’s all this ‘Father’ business?”

  “You are my father, aren’t you?”

  “What?” Lawrence’s gaze shot to Catherine. “Have you been telling him something sick like you oddball psychologists come up with?”

  “I haven’t told him anything, Lawrence. Apparently, he has some things he wants to tell you. And me.”

  “Well … well, look, you two, I don’t have time for this. Neither do you, Ian. Work. Work comes first. Now come with me before we’re late.”
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  “Yes, work has always come first with you, hasn’t it?” Ian asked calmly. “Building the business, building your empire.”

  “Stop being such a smart aleck. I’ve made a multimillion-dollar business out of nothing. Nothing, dammit! Now come with me!”

  Lawrence reached for Ian, and in an instant Ian pointed the gun at Lawrence’s face. “This time I don’t take orders from you, Father, and this time work doesn’t come first.”

  Lawrence staggered back a step, his mouth slightly open, his eyes wide. Then, for the first time, he gazed around the room and saw Jeff Beal lying on the floor, motionless. “What’s this? Is he dead? Is someone holding you hostage?”

  “This is a deputy who has been drugged into unconsciousness,” Ian said calmly. “We are not hostages. Rather, I’m not a hostage. You and Catherine are a different matter. You’re my hostages, and for once, Father, you will do what I say.”

  “Why are you calling me Father?”

  “Because you are my father, but you’ve never been my dad.”

  “I … I don’t understand,” Lawrence said, his voice weaker, almost shaking.

  “You will,” Ian returned. “Now let’s go into Catherine’s lovely office and have a talk.”

  Catherine preceded Lawrence, whose clumping steps seemed deafening even on the thick carpet. When they reached her office, she immediately went to her chair, whether out of habit or a sense of safety she wasn’t sure. Ian motioned for his father to sit on the couch. Then Ian leaned against Catherine’s desk, slowly swinging the gun from Catherine to his father and back. Moments of silence passed and Catherine saw the sweat popping out on Lawrence’s forehead, although the room was on the cool side. But then, he hadn’t removed his coat.

  “Let’s talk about Renée,” Ian said calmly.

  “Renée?” Lawrence asked incredulously. “Renée Eastman?”