To the Grave

by Carlene Thompson

  Ian looked as if he had no strength left, as if his muscles were weakening, his alertness diminishing. Catherine took a deep breath, pushed away all her fear, and made a leap for the porcelain temple jar. With a strong grunt, she picked up the fifteen-inch-tall jar, leaped forward, and crashed it over Ian’s head just as grim Eric and a tragic-eyed Robbie, guns drawn, and a triumphantly smiling Mrs. Tate pushed through Catherine’s office door.

  Ian stood still for a moment, then slowly sank to the floor as Eric commanded, “Don’t move.” And in a second, “Catherine, kick that gun away from his hand.”

  She did as she was told, feeling nothing, not even relief, as she looked at the crumpled, unconscious body of Ian Blakethorne. Then she saw the powerful Lawrence Blakethorne shaking, his majestic head bent forward, his big hands covering eyes streaming tears.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Five days later

  “Maybe I expected too much of myself, but I really thought I’d be recovering from this horrible situation by now.” Catherine sat beside James on the couch at the Gray home. He had his left arm wrapped tightly around her and her head lay on his shoulder.

  “You’ve loved Ian Blakethorne since he was ten years old.”

  “But I’m trained to deal with situations like this,” Catherine said.

  “With patients. What you felt for Ian has been a mixture of sisterly-motherly love and it’s been strong. How could you expect yourself to be recovering from his destruction in four days?”

  “Oh, please don’t say ‘destruction,’ James.”

  “What would you call it? A nervous breakdown? Do you think he’ll be just fine and going on with his life in six months?”

  “No. And don’t be mean.”

  “I’m not trying to be mean. I’m only trying to make you accept what’s happened. He killed two people, kidnapped one, shot me. Lawrence keeps insisting this is all the result of the brain injury he suffered in that car wreck. Maybe so, maybe not. Whichever, Ian will go to trial for Murder One and even if his lawyer tries to get him a not-guilty verdict by using the insanity defense, he’ll either fail, which happens most of the time, or Ian will end up in an institution for God knows how long. And frankly, I think he needs to be put away somewhere. Don’t look at me like that. Think of what he’s done. Think of the fact that even though he supposedly loves you like a sister, he was ready to kill you. Thank God for Mrs. Tate!”

  “Yes, she certainly was the heroine, wasn’t she, arriving right on time like that, knowing when the door was locked and she didn’t see Beth when she looked through the windows that something was wrong, and calling nine-one-one.”

  “It helped that she saw a police car in the parking lot.”

  “Yes, I suppose that did give her another clue. Still, she’s proud of herself and she needs some pride. I’ve thanked her a dozen times.”

  “And you have a friend for life.”

  “Oh dear. That might be as bad as having Maud as a friend for life.” Catherine sighed. “I wish I could see Ian, talk to him. I know it wouldn’t make me feel better, but I want—I need—to know if he killed Renée.”

  “Why would he have killed Renée?”

  “Maybe he got there that night and after years of waiting, of promises from her, she rejected him. Someone ‘better’ had come along. He might have had a psychotic break and killed her. He might have done it and not even remembered.”

  “You know more about memory repression than I do,” James said gently. “I still think you may wish you knew for certain, but if you did, you’d feel worse than ever.”

  He rubbed his chin against Catherine’s hair. “Honey, I know this seems impossible, but you have to try to forget everything that happened. Dr. Hite is back, he closed the office this past week and he’s given you next week off—”

  “I’m not taking off next week. I can’t just sit around here trying not to think about something. I have to keep busy.”

  “I completely understand because I’m the same way. We have a lot in common, Catherine, more than we’ve ever talked about. In fact, I think we understand each other amazingly well, considering how little we’ve really talked.”

  “Well, sometimes I think we do, too.”

  James bent his head lower and their lips were on the verge of meeting when his cell phone rang. He cussed so quietly he didn’t think Catherine even noticed. In a moment, he heard an unfamiliar voice apologizing for bothering him, saying she was afraid something terrible was happening, begging him to help.

  James placed his hand on Catherine’s back and said, “This might be important. I’m not sure who it is.” Catherine immediately stopped laughing and shushed Lindsay, who hadn’t made a noise. “Now, would you mind repeating all of that?” James asked, placing the phone close between him and Catherine so she could hear.

  “This is Mrs. Frost, the Blakethorne housekeeper? Miss Catherine knows me.”

  “I’m here, Mrs. Frost,” Catherine said. “What’s wrong?”

  “I really don’t know.” The woman’s voice raced and shivered. In the twelve years Catherine had known Mrs. Frost, the woman had never spoken with anything but a calm, easeful English accent. “Things have been dreadful around here since all this business with Mr. Ian. It’s so terrible. None of us can believe it. I still don’t believe it. My dear little Ian.” She made a choking sound and then drew a deep breath. “I shouldn’t talk about household matters, but naturally there has been tension between Mr. Lawrence and Miss Patrice. I don’t quite understand. I feel as if he blames her in some way. One night I heard him saying she should have seen this coming long ago.”

  “None of us saw it coming, Mrs. Frost.”

  “Oh, I know. Not even I. Mr. Blakethorne was gone so much of the time; now that I think about it, Ian was gone a good deal, too, although he claimed he had few friends. When he graduated from college he got his own apartment, and except for when he rented it in June he hadn’t invited any of us over.” She paused. “Well, this morning, Mr. Blakethorne was gone. Miss Patrice was in his office. Mr. Blakethorne doesn’t like for people to be in his office, but what could I say to her? She’s his wife now.”

  “Of course, I understand, Mrs. Frost. You couldn’t tell her to leave her own husband’s office.”

  “Well, I could tell she was getting into things—file cabinets, drawers, locked drawers—she was breaking the locks! I thought of calling Mr. Blakethorne but didn’t really know what to do in this situation. Then he came home. He raced up to his office. They began to quarrel. They got louder and louder and finally Mr. Blakethorne left. Miss Patrice stayed in the office, making a dreadful fuss with more drawers, and then she got on the phone. I heard her say, ‘He’s doing what? Flying his damned plane around?’ She came down the steps like a banshee, muttering about the airport. I asked where she was going, but she didn’t answer. She was in a fury and she simply got into the Jaguar and drove off at such a speed. I hope the police stop her, but if they don’t…”

  “If they don’t, she’ll go straight to Blakethorne Charter.”

  “Yes. Oh, Miss Catherine, I know I should probably call the police, but this is a family matter. After everything that has happened, I can’t make myself call them. I know Mr. Eastman is a friend of Mr. Blakethorne’s. I thought maybe he could do something without causing a fuss, something that wouldn’t bring even more unhappiness down on this family. Maybe I did wrong in calling, but—”

  “You did exactly the right thing,” James said. “I’m going to Blakethorne Charter immediately. I’ll straighten this out, Mrs. Frost. You just try to calm down.”

  “Oh, thank you, sir. I know Mr. Blakethorne and Miss Patrice will be unhappy with me—”

  “Don’t worry about that now. They should be grateful. I’ll call you just as soon as I find out what’s going on. And once again, Mrs. Frost, please try to calm yourself. You’ve done nothing wrong. Fix a cup of tea of something. Talk to you soon.”

  “I’m going with you,” Catherine said
when James stood up.

  “No, there might be trouble.”

  “I think I’ve proved I can handle myself when there’s trouble.” Catherine marched across the room and picked up her tote bag. “I’m going.”

  Twenty minutes later, James pulled into the parking lot of Blakethorne Charter and then pulled out again. “Where are you going?” Catherine asked.

  “To the back. Lawrence’s office faces the runways. Also, Mrs. Frost said he was flying. We’d just be wasting time wandering around the terminal.”

  They rounded the northern side of the terminal and, staying close to it, looked out at the two runways. A Learjet raced down one before lifting gracefully off the concrete into the light blue sky. Beyond it, sun shone through the rushing water of the Aurora waterfall.

  “There they are,” James said urgently. “It looks like Lawrence has just come back from a flight. Patrice is with him.”

  Catherine peered at the two standing beside a small airplane, clearly arguing. Lawrence stood stalwart but tensed with anger while Patrice’s voice rose so loudly they could hear it as soon as they opened their doors. Neither saw Catherine and James coming toward them.

  “Lawrence!” James called. “What’s going on?”

  Both Lawrence and Patrice looked at them in complete surprise. They fell silent until Catherine and James stood beside them.

  “I’ve been up today,” Lawrence said casually. He turned to his plane. “Cessna Stationair. Only one engine, but one of my favorite planes for when you want to be alone, high above the little ants running around down here not knowing what’s important.”

  “You bastard,” Patrice snarled. “Little ants running around down here. That’s all anyone has ever been to you, isn’t it?”

  “James, do you know this thing can rise at one thousand feet per minute?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Did you know he’s sick?” Patrice shrieked at James. “Were you in on this together? Did he promise you money, James? How much did you know?”

  James looked at Patrice in shock. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, don’t you? What about you, Catherine? You’re a doctor. You knew!”

  “I’m not a medical doctor, Patrice, and I don’t know. Calm down!”

  “Calm down? After what I’ve just found out?”

  Lawrence looked around the runways, toward the Orenda River, and up the crashing water to the top of the falls. “I think this will be the most beautiful airport in the world,” he said dreamily. “People will come just to see it. In ten to fifteen years, the population of Aurora Falls will have nearly doubled. And it will all be because of Blakethorne Charter. I always knew it was destined to happen.”

  “Are you already losing your mind?” Patrice asked acidly. “Are your neurons already degenerating? Of course they are. I’ve seen the signs. I just didn’t recognize them.” She lunged at Lawrence so hard, she nearly knocked him off his substantial feet. “Now I know why you suddenly decided you wanted to marry me! You wanted a nurse!”

  “Wait! Patrice, what do you mean about his neurons degenerating?” Catherine asked. “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, don’t act so innocent, Catherine. You may not be a medical doctor, but don’t tell me you didn’t suspect something the night of the reception when he nearly knocked you down, then you pushed him into Ian’s arms and told him to take his father someplace to rest.” Patrice waved a handful of papers in Catherine’s face. “ALS. Lou Gehrig’s disease! Lawrence has it. Lawrence was diagnosed the first time two years ago and five times since then!”

  Lawrence savagely grabbed Patrice’s arm. “You’ve been in my office! You broke into locked files, drawers, my safe. How did you learn the combination? Secret cameras?”

  “Exactly,” Patrice hissed. Then she looked at James. “The early symptoms have been getting worse. The choking. The loss of muscle control and the muscle weakness. The slurring. All of his laughter at the wrong times. How much easier he gets tired than he did just a couple of years ago. I chalked it up to nerves over this Star merger, but he got too out-of-control even for that explanation. Then came the marriage proposal I’ve waited for ever since my sister killed herself. I was elated. Elated! How ridiculous. I should have known.”

  Suddenly Lawrence looked at her, as alert as he’d ever been. “The proposal you waited for ever since your sister killed herself?”

  “Maybe. She wanted to die. Did you even know that? I doubt it. You and Mother never knew anything you didn’t want to know.”

  “You pushed her into killing herself.”

  “I didn’t!”

  “You visited. You stayed in her room and you talked and you talked and you talked. And whenever you left, she seemed sadder, even more withdrawn. Mrs. Frost told me.”

  “Oh, did she? That woman has always hated me. And if you did believe her, why didn’t you do something about it? Why didn’t you ban me from the house? I’ll tell you why. Because I took up Abigail’s time. She wouldn’t come here looking for you, embarrassing you, making you come home. I babysat!”

  “And that day of the wreck?”

  “I’d had years of loving you, of seeing her with your wedding ring on her finger and doing nothing except drooping around her room in a fog of pills. She was worse that day than ever and I wanted to strangle her. Instead, I told her about your other women. I always kept track of you, Lawrence. I knew there were others. And she got more and more upset. And suddenly she ran out of her room with the keys to her car.” At last tears shone in Patrice’s eyes. “I didn’t know she was going to grab Ian on her way out and take him on that nightmare ride with her. I didn’t want anything to happen to Ian, I swear to you.”

  “But you pushed her over the edge!”

  “You saw her going and you did nothing to help her!”

  “I was building a business. I was putting in all my time and effort on building a good life for my family!”

  “For yourself! And look how it turned out, Lawrence. You’re dying and your son is a lunatic, a murderer. He killed Arcos and Nordine and he would have killed you and Catherine all because he thought you killed his precious Renée, the woman who’d preyed on an innocent teenage boy.”

  Catherine felt as if a gong had gone off in her head. “Patrice, how do you know Ian became involved with Renée when he was a teenager?”

  “What? Oh, I don’t remember. He told me, I guess.”

  “He … did … not … tell … you. He wouldn’t have told anyone. You kept track of Lawrence. You kept track of Ian, too.”

  “I didn’t. I’m too busy.”

  “I don’t think you’re ever too busy to do what you really want to do.”

  Lawrence was looking at Patrice, stunned. “You knew my son was with that whore?”

  “Like you were? She probably had to keep track on a calendar—”

  “I was with Renée once. Just once.”

  “But you didn’t want it to be just once. I saw how you looked at her. You didn’t care that James was your friend and she was his wife. And then you had the gall to buy that painting of her! You said it was for Ian, but it wasn’t. It was for you.”

  “As an investment, dammit!” Lawrence shouted. “Why didn’t you tell me about Ian?” Patrice didn’t answer. “Why didn’t you tell me about Ian?” No answer. “You wanted to hurt me for never turning to you, didn’t you? All those years after Abigail died, I never took you for my lover, much less my wife. So letting Renée have Ian, letting him get more and more involved with her, was my payback.”

  Lawrence’s voice was growing deeper and grittier, the look in his eyes more venomous, the grip on Patrice’s arm tighter.

  “Let her go,” James said. “Let her go.”

  “I only figured out lately they’d been lovers for a long time.” Patrice began talking so quickly she was almost gibbering. “I just guessed about the teenage stuff.”

  “I doubt if you just guessed about anything,” C
atherine said. “I think you’ve been keeping track of them for years, especially after your mother died and left her money to Ian. You suspected Renée would be coming back for him. After all, he would be rich soon.”

  Patrice glared as Catherine continued. “Ian left his cell phone at my office a couple of days before he was supposed to meet Renée. I took the phone to the law office and gave it to Mitzi to give to you since you’d probably be seeing Ian that night.”

  “She didn’t give it to me,” Patrice said.

  “I’m sure she did. Ian hadn’t erased his recent texts. You read them and saw that he was supposed to meet Renée on Saturday night. You sent her a text from his phone changing the meeting to Friday night. Renée went to the cottage on Friday, thinking she was meeting Ian, but instead, she ended up having a fatal meeting with you. When Ian went to the cottage on Saturday night, Renée was already dead, but he didn’t have a clue. There were no bullet holes in the wall for him to see. After you shot her, you must have dragged her out on that heavy hooked rug the police found in the cistern where you stuffed her until you could find a better place to hide her body, so you didn’t even leave a trail of blood to clean up and maybe leave a streak for Ian to see. You cleared out anything she’d brought into the cottage, put it in her car, and hid the car in a neighbor’s garage. By Saturday evening, there was no trace of her at the cottage.”

  “That’s absurd!” Patrice shouted.

  “You did kill her,” Lawrence said, a sound of wonder in his voice. “By God, you did kill her.” He shook her hard. “Admit it!”

  “Okay! I did it for you. Ian’s always leaving his cell phones around and it has been easy to keep up with his activities. I knew what he and Renée planned. You’re in trouble, Lawrence. You spent too much money on Blakethorne. You’re desperate. My mother’s death was a godsend—you so desperately needed that money she left to Ian, and he was going to run off with and give it to Renée. I couldn’t stand it. She was a blight, not just on him or you—on everyone. The world was better off without her. I had to do it. I had to get rid of her once and for all for everyone.”