Valentine’s Day. That was when Charlotte had first walked into his office. He already knew who she was and the story of her divorce. Everyone in town did. Nevertheless, when she arrived he tried to look pleasantly blank as he asked what troubled her. While she narrated the story, he thought about what an amazingly beautiful, sensual creature she was. He’d seen pictures of the woman Paul Fiori had dumped her for. Was the guy crazy? Well, crazy wasn’t a word Warren liked to use. Fiori was . . . tasteless.
During their second session Warren realized Charlotte was flirting with him. She wasn’t the first patient to do so. Every therapist knew the prevalence, as well as the danger, of this situation. Still, he couldn’t help responding, something he had never done before. He felt slightly guilty when he arrived home that evening to Tamara, but the guilt vanished as the night wore on and he realized he found her adoration cloying, her chatter about housework and gardening and the tribe of Jenkins kids excruciatingly tiresome, and her lovemaking totally unexciting.
Two weeks later he told Tamara he had an evening appointment and spent three hours having abandoned sex with Charlotte. He’d never experienced anything like that night and he drove home knowing he wanted the gorgeous, sexually adept, rich Charlotte Bishop in his life forever. She wanted him, too, but Warren knew that in her way Charlotte had adored Paul Fiori. She was rebounding from him, and rebounds didn’t last long. He would have to move fast if he didn’t want to lose her.
Now he was free. Almost. He still had to pretend great grief, a sense of being lost, regret for the life and children he and Tamara would never have together. No children, thank God. At least he didn’t have that problem to contend with. Charlotte didn’t want a child of her own, much less someone else’s.
Port Ariel city limits. Warren found the place rather picturesque when he moved here with Tamara six years ago. His father had told him he was a fool. Warren’s hands tightened on the steering wheel at the thought of his father. Richard Hunt was the senior partner in the biggest accounting firm in Cleveland. He’d made a fortune with investments. He had just married his third wife, who was seven years younger than Warren. Richard thought Warren’s profession was ridiculous. He thought Warren was ridiculous. His pride and joy was Warren’s younger half-brother Bruce, who played football at Ohio State University and planned to go into the firm. Good thing his father had a business for him to enter, Warren thought bitterly. Bruce was a strong, amiable-faced buffoon. Warren knew he possessed the superior intelligence, looks, and culture, but he still hated Bruce for capturing all of Richard Hunt’s parental love.
And speaking of parental love, there was Oliver Peyton. The man couldn’t get through one day without talking to his precious Tamara and Lily. He was like a mother tigress and he’d always looked at Warren as a predator threatening one of his cubs. The chilly, pretentious, possessive guy was hard enough to take at the best of times. But now? Oh, well, he wouldn’t have to worry about Oliver much longer, either.
Warren pulled into the Peyton driveway behind a silver Mercedes. Wonderful, Warren thought. Viveca Cosgrove was here. Oliver had been seeing her for a year. Tamara didn’t like her. Even Lily didn’t like her. She said Viveca really cared about only one person—her daughter Alison. This was probably the only point on which he and Lily agreed. Oh, Viveca put on a good show of loving Oliver, but the girls saw right through her. So did Warren. Everyone seemed to except infatuated Oliver.
The front door swung open before he reached it. Oh, hell, Warren thought. Alison. Pretty, dainty Alison with her little-girl voice, her predatory gaze, her irreparably fractured psyche. She was his patient. She had a crush on him. She made his skin crawl.
“Warren, I’m so glad you’re finally here!” Alison cried. Her blond hair hung straight, nearly touching her waist. She wore no makeup, a blue blouse with a Peter Pan collar, and Mary Jane shoes. Had Viveca known her daughter would look like Alice in Wonderland when she named her? “Lily and Oliver are just devastated,” Alison went on dramatically. “Mama and I came right over to help.”
I’ll bet you’re a big help, Warren thought with distaste. He forced a stiff smile. “Thank you, Alison.”
She did not step aside when he entered the house. He had to crowd past her, forcing their bodies into contact. He knew she’d fixated on her mother’s former young lover, Eugene Farley. After Farley’s death, she’d transferred her fixation onto him. She was twenty-two and he doubted she’d ever been to bed with anyone. He also doubted she thought about much except sex.
Warren drew a deep breath and was relieved to discover he could. Twenty minutes ago his lungs wouldn’t fill. Oliver Peyton walked toward him, his face rigid, his gaze conveying desolation, doubt, and contempt all at once. Even now he couldn’t pretend to like his son-in-law, and Warren, to his frustration, could not help being intimidated.
“Here at last.”
“Oliver, I’m sorry you had trouble reaching me. I was lunching with colleagues. We got carried away talking and . . .” Oliver’s gaze hardened. He didn’t want to hear this chatter. “What exactly happened to my Tamara?”
“Come into the living room,” Oliver said tonelessly.
Warren followed Oliver. Alison pattered along behind, nearly stepping on his heels. Warren’s heightened sense of smell vibrated like an animal’s. What was she wearing? Sweet Honesty? Heaven Scent? Some little-girl cologne. Warren could hear her breath coming quick and loud. She was enthralled. This situation was bad enough without her here enjoying the whole thing, a sickening voyeur. Oliver probably felt the same way, but he would suffer Alison’s presence because she belonged to his treasured Viveca. Warren didn’t like Viveca any better than he liked Alison. At the moment he didn’t like anyone except Charlotte Bishop and he didn’t dare even call her.
The Peyton living room used to be shockingly Spartan, decorated like the Catholic orphanage where Grace Peyton had spent her childhood. In the last year Viveca had wrought her magic and the place now looked as if it were ready for a photo shoot in House Beautiful. Warren did admire Viveca’s impeccable taste, although at the time of the redecorating he had resented the sizeable expenditure of money, which would diminish Oliver’s estate. He didn’t have to worry about Oliver’s estate any more. Max Bishop’s made it look like a pauper’s in comparison.
As soon as Warren entered the living room, Viveca descended upon him. Her hair, its dark golden hue maintained by careful coloring, was swept up in an elegant French twist to show off her magnificent cheekbones. She’d always reminded him of Faye Dunaway.
“Warren,” she said simply but with controlled, breathy feeling.
“Viveca,” he returned for lack of anything else to say.
“This has been such a shock for you. For all of us.”
“Yes.” He had the gift of gab. Why had it deserted him? “Yes,” he said again and his mind went blank.
Viveca leaned back and looked at him. Her gaze was earnest, searching. What was she looking for? Deep grief? Did she detect its absence? He lowered his gaze. His mouth twitched slightly from nerves. Apparently Viveca mistook the twitch as a close brush with tears because she quickly enfolded him in a Joy-scented embrace. “We’re all here for you.”
“Oh, yes!” Alison echoed fervently.
Over Charlotte’s shoulder Warren saw Lily curled onto a moss-green brocade-covered settee. Her makeup had washed away with tears and without it she looked so much like Tamara he caught his breath. But Tamara had never stared at him so coldly. “Hello, Lily,” he said uncertainly.
She nodded curtly. The antagonism between them had always been barely concealed and present circumstances made no difference. But soon he wouldn’t have to put up with her anymore, either.
Oliver poured himself a brandy from a cut-glass decanter sitting on a sideboard. He offered Warren nothing. As Viveca detached herself from Warren and drifted gracefully across the room, Oliver swirled his brandy in the snifter, slowly took a sizeable drink, then fixed Warren with pale gray eyes. “Warr
en, Sheriff Meredith has informed us things are not as they appeared at first.”
Blood rushed to Warren’s face, then quickly drained. “You mean Tamara’s not dead?” he asked in a thin, startled voice.
“Of course she’s dead!” Oliver’s voice lashed at him. “They’re not likely to make a mistake like that!”
“Oh, well, then . . .”
“Tamara’s death wasn’t caused by an accident.” Oliver paused. Warren was vaguely aware of everyone intensely watching him. He could almost hear Alison’s heart beating rapidly with excitement. “Tamara was murdered,” Oliver said in a brittle voice. “Someone cut her throat.”
I’m supposed to gasp, Warren thought distantly. I’m supposed to turn pale or sway. I’m at least supposed to look surprised. Instead he stood paralyzed and uttered a weak, “Oh.”
“Oh?” Lily repeated in an eerie version of Tamara’s voice. “Is that it? Oh?”
“I . . . I’m just . . .” His mouth felt full of gauze. Once again he was an inadequate boy reduced to stammering helplessness in front of his disgusted father. “Who?” he managed finally.
Oliver paused, then said, “The police have no idea. Yet.”
But he continued to stare at Warren unflinchingly, his steely eyes flickering with suspicion.
II
Since returning home, Natalie had considered calling Lily but decided to wait. Sheriff Meredith had no doubt informed Oliver and Lily that Tamara had been murdered. They needed time to accept this information before friends descended. But she couldn’t sit idle and dwell on the image of Tamara’s eyeless body, and she certainly couldn’t think about the unnerving call she’d received. She hadn’t mentioned it to her father. Hopefully he would dismiss it as a prank. More likely he would grow alarmed, and she didn’t feel like dealing with his overprotectiveness. Instead she kept quiet about the call and busied herself with the dog.
She led it to the patio and hoped it wouldn’t run away at the sight of the garden hose. Thankfully it stood still, patiently enduring being doused with cold water then lathered with Natalie’s shampoo. “This is guaranteed to add strength, body, and luster,” she told the dog. “Vitamin B5, hydrolyzed wheat protein, glycerin, tocopheryl—that’s a form of vitamin E. Thyme and chamomile—sweet-smelling herbs. Expensive stuff, young lady. I don’t think it does anything for fleas, though, but we’ll worry about them later. Right now our prime concern is dirt and that less-than-delightful aroma you’re sporting.”
After the bath she patted hydrogen peroxide onto the dog’s facial scratch and the shallow cuts on its paws. None of the wounds were serious enough to require stitches and only one looked as if it might be heading toward infection. She would start the dog on antibiotics just to be safe, but now she had a more immediate problem.
“I can’t keep calling you ‘the dog,’ ” she said, looking into its amber eyes. “And you’re certainly not going to be Fido. You need a proper name. Nothing common because I have a feeling you’re an uncommon dog.” She stared out at the lake, considering and rejecting a dozen names. Then her gaze snapped back to the dog. “I’m reading a murder mystery with a heroine named Blaine.” She dabbed a drop of water on the dog’s head. “I christen you Blaine.” The dog licked her nose and she smiled. “I think you like your new name.”
Blaine’s head moved sharply. Natalie looked up, following the dog’s gaze.
A woman stood in the doorway. She appeared to be in her mid-fifties with short, silver hair and bright aqua eyes. She stared at Natalie intently before she smiled broadly. “So you’re the girl I’ve heard so much about!” She came forward, hand extended. “I’m Ruth Meadows.”
Natalie smiled automatically. Ruth Meadows?
“Your father said you’d brought home a dog,” the woman went on. “My, he’s fine looking.”
“It’s a she,” Natalie said. Free of dirt and oil, Blaine’s black hair glistened in the sun.
“She looks like the dog in the photo of you taken when you were about five.”
“The framed one in Dad’s study? Her name was Clytemnestra.”
“Good heavens, that’s a mouthful.”
“My mother named her. Kira was in her Greek mythology phase then.” Natalie looked at the dog. “Someone once cared about her. She’s been spayed and I’d say she’s only been neglected for a couple of weeks.”
“Well, what a shame.” Ruth stepped out on the patio. She was about five-seven and trim. She wore ivory linen slacks, a pale pink knit top and small gold hoop earrings. Her lips bore a lovely shade of coral-pink lipstick. Her voice was warm and friendly.
“I love animals,” she said, petting Blaine. “I grew up on a farm. I always thought when I reached my age I’d be surrounded by children and animals. Instead I’m childless and I have only one small cat. A calico. I named it Callie because all cats seem female to me.”
“All calicos are female.”
“They are? How do you know?”
“The calico hair coat color pattern is genetically incompatible with the male Y chromosome.”
“Well, my goodness!” Ruth exclaimed. “Did you ever hear of such a thing?”
“Calicos are beautiful,” Natalie said, her mind working. The woman said she’d heard about her. She had a cat. And she looked quite at ease in this house. Clearly Ruth was Andrew’s new romantic interest. Natalie told herself not to stare or ask too many probing questions. She was surprised Andrew was even allowing the two women in his life to meet so soon.
Ruth said gently, “Your father told me about Tamara. I knew her slightly from my work with the suicide hotline she organized. Such a dear girl.”
“Yes,” Natalie said softly.
“I can’t even imagine how awful finding her must have been for you. I’m so sorry.”
Natalie swallowed, unable to say anything.
“Don’t worry, dear, I’m not going to ask any questions. But I’ll be here for a little while if you want to talk and take your mind off things. We can discuss anything. Animals, movies—” She winked. “Your father.”
“Oh, no. The last subject is off-limits,” Andrew announced as he joined Ruth. “Well, that looks like a completely different dog.”
“I knew she was a beauty beneath all the grime.” And blood, Natalie thought. She’d soaped the neck area twice. “I named her Blaine.”
“Blaine? What kind of name is that?”
“She likes it.”
“I don’t know how you can tell, but if you like it I suppose it’s okay.” Andrew frowned. “You’ll need a leash and collar.”
“Which I plan to get immediately along with some antibiotics. I don’t have anything with me. Dad, if you’ll write a prescription for amoxicillin, I’ll run to the drugstore right now.” And leave you and Ruth alone and try to keep myself busy so I don’t replay finding Tam, Natalie thought.
“Prescription coming up,” Andrew said, going back inside.
“This dog certainly fell into the right hands,” Ruth smiled. “I really don’t know much about modern animal care. Maybe you can teach me a few things, Natalie. One of our two vets is retiring next month. The other—Cavanaugh—just doesn’t suit me. He’s not gentle with the animals and it seems he’s more interested in selling medicine than anything else. I’ve talked to several people who aren’t happy with him, either.”
“I see.” Natalie stood up. “What color collar do you think Blaine should have?”
Ruth came forward and stroked Blaine’s head. “With all this beautiful black hair? Red!”
“That’s what I thought, too.”
Ruth kneeled and took the dog’s face in her hands. “Hello, pretty girl. You’ve found a good home, haven’t you?” Blaine licked her hand. “Natalie, are you sure she’s perfectly healthy?”
“Yes, except for cuts and scratches and probably a case of tapeworm from fleabites, but tapes are easy to get rid of. Why? Does something look wrong to you?”
“Her tongue, dear. It has black splotches.”
Natalie smiled. “That’s because she has some Chow blood.”
“Chow? They have black on their tongues?”
“Yes indeed.”
“My goodness, I’m learning things already. You seem quite capable, Natalie.”
“Well, we haven’t been discussing any complex animal ailments. I feel I still have a lot to learn.”
“As opposed to Dr. Cavanaugh, who’s about your age and thinks he knows it all.”
“Is she complaining about that young whippersnapper of a vet again?” Andrew asked, coming to stand by Ruth and handing her a mug of coffee.
“I take it he isn’t too popular.”
“I think his problem is that small animal care is just a sideline with him,” Andrew informed her seriously. “He’s more interested in cows and horses.”
“And his office hours are very limited,” Ruth added sadly. “You’re just out of luck if there’s an emergency. It’s awful.”
Natalie smothered a grin. Any minute they would burst into doleful tears about the lack of good vets in Port Ariel. Andrew was campaigning for her return and had drawn Ruth in on the scheme, too.
“I’d better be off to the drugstore,” she said casually. “I’m sure Blaine will be fine in the house until I come back. Can’t leave her out on the lawn unchained. She might wander off.” She herded the dog into the living room, picked up the prescription her father had left on an end table, and dashed out the front door before Andrew could object to a new, large housedog.
III
SUNDAY NIGHT 11:30 P.M.
Don’t Close Your Eyes Page 7