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.”

“Well-respected critics?”

“Yes. J. Philip Ransworth, for instance.”

“I’ve never heard of J. Philip Ransworth.”

“Oh. Well, he’s famous.” At least Ken had told her Ransworth was famous. “He wrote a glowing review of the Arcos exhibit.”

Bridget tried to dazzle John Jones with a smile. The man merely gave her a forbearing look. Oh God, where was Ken? He would know how to handle Mr. Jones, she thought, suddenly furious with the handsome Ken Nordine whom she’d been kissing passionately just last night. No matter what their personal relationship, though, he should be here. After all, this was his damned art gallery. Nevertheless, today she was in charge and she mustn’t let this strange visitor know he was making her feel a fool. “But beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” she blurted lamely.

John Jones laughed. The sound was rusty, as if he didn’t laugh often. “Forgive me, Ms. Fenmore. I’ve made you uncomfortable.”

“Not at all.”

“Oh yes, I have. Please overlook my bad manners.”

“Your manners are—”

“Often unfortunate. My wife has told me so a hundred times.”

Bridget glanced at his hands clasped loosely just below his waist. They were pale, with veins showing prominently through soft, thin skin. He wore a simple platinum wedding band on one of his long, well-manicured fingers and she saw a platinum Rolex watch showing beneath a sleeve. He had a smooth grace that hinted at excellent coordination, but he also tended to move a bit stiffly. Bridget was trying to guess whether he was around fifty-nine or sixty when he quickly turned and looked at her as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.

“Do you like to dance, Ms. Fenmore?”

“Dance? Yes.”

“Have you ever been to a ball?”

“Well, no, I don’t think so.”

“Wouldn’t you remember?”

“Well, sure. I mean, of course I would. And no, unfortunately I’ve never been to a ball.” Or anything resembling a ball, Bridget thought. She couldn’t ballroom-dance, but suddenly she was filled with regret, for both her lack of classic dance skills and the fact that she’d never been to anything fancier than a Christmas dance in a Holiday Inn.

“That is too bad. I can just picture you doing the quadrille.”

“Oh, thank you!” Bridget glowed, although she had no idea what a quadrille looked like.

“And if I say so myself, about a hundred years ago I was quite good at the tango. If I were younger, we could tango together.” He seemed to drift away, his eyes growing dreamy. “I used to have a beautiful tango partner. My God … how I miss her.”

Bridget imagined Jones’s partner as his lover. The deepening of his voice, the saddening of his expression, almost made Bridget ask if the girl was dead. Then Bridget caught herself and said merely, “I’m sorry that you miss her.”

“Yes, I miss her every day and every night.” John Jones turned his gaze back to the painting. “You greatly resemble the subject of this portrait.”

“Why, thank you.”

“Do you think she is beautiful?” Bridget hesitated, suddenly feeling as if the remark was a challenge. Her palms had begun to sweat. She wished she could escape John Jones, but she couldn’t do so now without seeming rude. Finally, she decided not to let his odd manner frighten her. “I think she’s beautiful,” she said stoutly.

He looked at Bridget again. “Do you know who she was?”

“I don’t know if she really existed or if she was merely imaginary.” Ken had instructed Bridget to say this and she never failed to follow his instructions about the matter. “She does look like someone I’ve seen, but it’s hard to tell with the mask she’s wearing.”

“Holding,” Jones corrected, looking at the gold-trimmed white mask. “It’s a handheld half mask mounted to a gold stick. Attractively stylized. And the black pentagram around the right eye is … striking.”

“Yes, the mask she’s holding is lovely. But the star on the mask—you called it a pentagram. Doesn’t that have something to do with witchcraft?”

“There is a small difference between the five-pointed star and the pentagram. The pentagram has lines through the middle. If you look very closely, you can see the lines on this mask.”

Bridget stood on tiptoe, squinted, and for the first time saw thread-thin lines painted in a brown so dark it was hardly discernible from the surrounding black. “I see them!”

“I knew you would. So the ‘star’ is really a ‘pentagram’ and a symbol of Wicca.” He paused. “Do you still like the lady’s mask, even if the star is really a pentagram?”

“I’m just crazy about that mask.” Bridget could have kicked herself for her exuberant language. Nerves had turned her into a not-too-smart babbling adolescent, she thought, and she was glad Ken hadn’t heard her. Maybe Mr. Jones hadn’t been listening. She rushed on, “Anyway, whether or not she’s real or imaginary, the Mardi Gras Lady is beautiful.”

“Yes.” John Jones’s eyes narrowed as he leaned closer to the painting. “Ahhh, the fan.”

“The fan she’s holding? It’s beautiful, too. Unusual. Maybe it would have been better if it hadn’t been unfurled—we’ve had mixed reactions to the erotic painting on it—but I like it.”

He nodded. “It’s exquisite.”

“Yes. There’s a difference between trash and erotica. Some people can’t tell the difference.”

John Jones looked at her and lifted one heavy salt-and-pepper eyebrow. “Obviously, you can.”

“Well, I’m trained. But even if I weren’t … well, the true artist and the sensitive viewer can tell the difference between the merely lascivious and the artfully sensuous.”

Bridget was proud of that statement until John Jones looked at her with his faintly amused, superior expression again. Her discomfort with the decorous Mr. Jones and her anger with Ken grew. Jones kept staring at her, obviously waiting for her to say something else. “I wonder if such fans really exist?”

“They do. I’ve seen them.” His gaze gentled. “Do you like this portrait, Ms. Fenmore?”

“I like the painting,” Bridget said carefully. “Portrait” implied the painting was that of a real person. “I think it’s … magnificent.”

“I’m sure the lady did, too.”

“If she really existed.”

John Jones’s expression grew half-humorous, half-sad. “I think she did.” He looked back at Mardi Gras Lady. “Oh yes, I think this woman—this vision of a woman—did exist.”

3

“Hope I didn’t miss lunch.”

James looked away from the television as Eric walked into the room.

“Yes, you’ve missed lunch by at least an hour and you should thank your lucky stars you did. I thought my mother was the only person in the world who could make bad Jell-O, but I was wrong. This place has her beat hands down.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. You should taste Marissa’s.” Eric sat down on the vinyl-covered chair near the window, glanced up at the television, and started laughing. “Please don’t tell me that in less than twenty-four hours in here you’re already watching soap operas.”

“The television remote is broken.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“It is. I was just ready to call for a nurse—”

Eric picked up the remote and flipped off the television. “Guess you don’t need to bother anyone now, although I probably interrupted a heart-wrenching moment.”

“I was going to vote for you for sheriff,” James said coolly. “I’m already reconsidering.”

“That’s a shame. It was just my luck to have a murder spree break out two weeks before the election.”

“Don’t think that hasn’t crossed my mind, and believe it or not, I feel responsible for the spot I’ve put you in,” James said, his voice a tad less cool. “I know you’re not here campaigning, though. Is this a condolence call, Chief Deputy Montgomery?”

“Partly. How do you feel?”

“Not great.”

“I’m not surprised. From what the doctor told me, you won’t be up to par for two or three months.”

“Came to cheer me up, did you? You could have at least brought flowers with all your concern.”

“You’ll be getting a huge bouquet of long-stemmed roses from me this afternoon. Red roses—red means love.”

“Thanks. I didn’t know you cared so much.”

Eric laughed mildly and then let his face return to its usual serious lines. “You were damned lucky last night, James. You have no idea who might have done this?”

“I would have told you if I did.”

Eric nodded. “Maybe this will help. After you were shot, we found three strands of Mardi Gras beads under the edge of your car.”

“Mardi Gras beads?”

“Yes. Cheap metal Mardi Gras beads.” Eric hesitated. “I don’t like giving out information about an ongoing investigation, but I think you should know we found the same on the body of Nicolai Arcos. Three strands of beads. The ones on him and the ones under your car were purple. I know the Mardi Gras colors are green, gold, and purple and purple symbolizes justice. I’m not certain if whoever placed the beads knew what purple means.”

“In other words, if leaving beads symbolizing justice has significance or if whoever killed Arcos and shot me just happened to have purple beads lying around.” Eric nodded. “Purple Mardi Gras beads.” The color had slowly faded from James’s face. “Purple for justice. Someone seems to be sending the message that justice is being served.”

“I agree,” Eric said softly, not wanting to break the mood. James still had the speculative expression that could be important.

“But why did someone kill Arcos and try to kill me?”

“Because Renée abandoned both of you and the killer thinks you murdered her out of revenge?”

“Revenge?” James gave him a serious look. “Eric, I’ve never even spoken to Arcos. I have no idea if he felt vengeful because Renée left him. For all I know, he broke off the affair with her. But I can tell you for certain that I didn’t feel vengeful because she left me.”

“You didn’t? Not even a little?”

“No, I didn’t.” James looked reflective. “I was embarrassed, especially when the police thought I killed her and put me through that investigation. But even then, my primary feeling was … well, relief.”

“Relief?”

“Relief that she was gone. We had some terrible fights, but I certainly didn’t kill her. I didn’t think anyone else had, either. I never believed she’d come to harm. I thought maybe she’d pushed things too far with someone and became afraid of them—that’s why she left so fast without a clue as to where she was going. She was also drinking more than usual at that time—not enough to be a danger to herself or someone else, but more than usual. Drinking was sometimes a sign of nervousness with her, but it was also a sign of boredom.

“I thought this time she was just bored,” James went on. “Causing scandals in this ‘nothing little town,’ as she called Aurora Falls, had lost its fun for her, and she’d decided to have some fun by doing something dramatic—she set the scene for causing trouble, this time creating trouble for me by vanishing the day after we’d had a near-violent public argument at a party.

“I was certain that’s what she’d done, Eric. I was furious with her, but I was also a little worried in spite of myself. I knew she wasn’t stable, and as much as I wanted to be free of her, I didn’t want anything bad to happen to her. I knew the police would be suspicious of me when she just disappeared, but I thought considering Renée’s character and her past outrageous behavior, they wouldn’t consider me a suspect in her possible murder.” He smiled bitterly. “When the police investigation seemed to be getting a little too serious, I stopped worrying about Renée and started worrying about myself. I got scared, Eric. Really scared, even though I hadn’t done a thing to Renée. I’d never even slapped her, no matter what she did.”

“Mitch Farrell was still sheriff then, James, and he was getting a lot of pressure to not let things appear to be sliding because you’re an Eastman.”

“I know. Still, I’m sure you can understand how I felt.”

“Of course I can. Frankly, I would have been scared, too.” Eric, a naturally restless man who never held still for long, got up from the chair and began pacing the small room. “So you felt relieved that Renée had left you.”

“Yes.”

“Happy or just sort of released?”

“At first, released, like I’d gotten rid of an unbearable weight.”

“But you did bear it, James,” Eric said sharply. “You bore the weight of your wife’s public humiliation of you for over two years. I’ve always wondered why. What hold did she have on you? Love?”

“Love? No, definitely not. And she didn’t have a hold on me the way I think you mean. She didn’t know something damaging she’d tell if I sued her for divorce.”

“Then what the hell was it? Why did you put up with her for so long? Why did you wait until she left you and then feel relieved? Why didn’t you divorce her? That’s what a real man would have done.”

Anger flashed in James’s eyes. “Oh, you’re an expert on how a real man acts, Eric? You’re daring to tell me what a real man should have done?”

“I’m telling you what a man who isn’t timid or browbeaten or a … a milquetoast would have done.”

James glared at him for a moment. Then he started laughing. “A milquetoast? I haven’t heard that word since my grandmother used to say it.”

“Well, mine did, too.” Eric drew a deep breath. He didn’t know why the old-fashioned word had popped out of his mouth, but at least it had lessened the tension in the room. “Look, I’m not trying to make you mad or upset you. I just don’t understand you, James. The way you handled, or didn’t handle, the situation with Renée frustrates me. Hell, it enrages me because it led up to all of this mess.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yes. Aren’t you?”

James looked at him steadily. “I believe Renée’s return to Aurora Falls led up to all of this mess, as you put it.”

“Why did she come back?”

“I feel like I’ve answered that question fifty times. I … don’t … know!”

“Could it have had something to do with your divorce being finalized?”

“You’re asking if she came here to stop it?” James snorted. “Give me a break, Eric. Do you honestly think she wanted to stay married to me?”

“Well … I don’t mean to be insulting, but no. I’m fairly certain she didn’t want to stay married to you.”

“No insult taken. I think she hated me by the time she left.” He paused and after a moment spoke thoughtfully. “The last time I talked to her mother, though, she said she thought Renée was getting desperate for money. Renée had even gone home. Audrey said she’d turned her away, which I believe, but considering how Renée felt about her mother, she must have been desperate if she went back to the family home. If she was that broke, she might have come back to me as a last resort.” James’s forehead puckered again, and eventually he shook his head. “No. Renée wasn’t stupid. She would have known I wouldn’t take her back.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t have? The way you just accepted her behavior while you were married to her wouldn’t lead me to believe she didn’t have a chance with you.”

Eric had been trying to get a rise from James, hoping he might say more about the strange marriage, but all he got was a hard stare. James took two deep breaths and Eric could almost feel the man composing himself. Eric wasn’t surprised. He knew James Eastman was extremely bright and savvy. He wouldn’t easily fall into a verbal trap.

“The only reason I can think of that Renée might have come back was because she heard about the success of the Arcos exhibit.”

“You think she loved him enough to want to see it?”

“Love him? Eric, she didn’t love him. She didn’t love anyone—I don’t think she was capable of it. But that exhibit features Mardi Gras Lady. In fact, it’s the painting getting all the attention. Still…”

“Still?”

“Still, news of a successful art exhibit in Aurora Falls has hardly made the papers or been splashed all over the Internet. Either she was close by and heard about it or she has a connection here in town who told her.”

“I was told she was spotted at the gallery looking at her portrait. If the person was correct that Renée visited the gallery, I’m not surprised.”

“Of course not. She couldn’t bear not seeing a painting of herself in an art gallery. You know she was crazy about art.”

“No, I didn’t know.”

“Well, she was. She met Arcos when she took one of his classes. She began talking about him immediately and incessantly. Less than a month later, she never mentioned him. That’s when I knew something was going on between them.”

“Do you think Arcos killed her for leaving him?”

“I don’t think he would have if he was in his right mind, but from everything I’ve heard about him, he did a lot of drugs. But that doesn’t explain why Arcos was murdered.”

“Revenge? Someone thought Arcos killed Renée, so he had to die, too.”

“And what about me? Did the shooter also think I killed Renée?”

“Maybe Arcos and you were just possibilities.”

“Have you forgotten I was at a conference in Pittsburgh at the time someone murdered Renée?”

“James, Pittsburgh is less than three hundred miles from here. You could have driven to Aurora Falls, killed Renée, and been back in Pittsburgh in nine hours. If you’d taken a plane to Pittsburgh and rented a car there, the odometer on the car could have helped clear you. It would have shown how little you used the car. But you drove your own car to Pittsburgh. We have no idea how much mileage you had on it when you left for the conference. Of course, even if we did know how many miles you had on your car when you left here, you could have rented one in Pittsburgh, but so far, we haven’t found any car-rental agencies there with a record of you renting a car. Unless you used fake identification—”

“Stop!” James nearly shouted, holding up his hand. “God, this is driving me crazy. I was sick in Pittsburgh. I didn’t go anywhere!”

“So you’ve said.” They glowered at each other, and then Eric said evenly, “Come on, James. Don’t act like you know nothing about how criminal investigations are conducted.”

A male nurse opened the door and glanced in the room. As they both looked at James, Eric noticed his paleness and the lines that had deepened around his eyes.

“I know it’s still visiting hours,” the nurse said to Eric, “but Mr. Eastman needs to rest. I’m sorry, sir, but I’m afraid I have to ask you to leave now.”

“Okay,” Eric said quietly, knowing he’d pushed James almost as far as he could. “May I stay long enough to ask Mr. Eastman two more questions, though?”

The nurse looked doubtful, but James said, “Yes. I’m not dying. I can certainly answer a couple of questions.” As soon as the nurse backed out and closed the door, James asked, “So what do you want to know?”

“First, have you gotten a chance to tell Renée’s parents that she’s dead?”

“I talked to Audrey, Renée’s mother, on Monday and told her Renée had been murdered. She claimed not to believe me. “Finally, I demanded to talk to Gaston, Renée’s father. Audrey said he was in Europe and she wouldn’t let me disturb him,” James continued. “I didn’t believe her. I don’t think Gaston was in Europe then or now. Still, I haven’t heard a word from him and I would have expected something from him. Maybe he doesn’t know Renée is dead. All I know for certain is that he must be found and told that his only child has been murdered. Considering my condition, I’ll leave finding him to you, whether he really is in Europe or if he’s in the United States. I am not Renée’s husband anymore. I’m not going to act like I am by tracking down her father. That’s your department.” He waited an instant. “Second question?”

Eric paused for a moment, wondering if he should just let things go for now. But he couldn’t. In a soft, emotionless voice, he asked, “Why didn’t you divorce Renée when she was still in Aurora Falls?”

James lowered his gaze. “Mostly arrogance, Eric. When I married her, I was young and full of myself. I thought I was damned great, to put it bluntly. I wouldn’t listen to anybody because I thought I knew more than anybody.” He laughed ruefully. “God, was I wrong. I knew it less than a year after our marriage. Sooner. Still, I just couldn’t admit it.”

“Finally, I started acting with some guts, like I should have from the beginning, and told her I’d charge her with adultery. And I had proof—not a lot, because Renée could be covert when she wanted—but I had enough proof to win a divorce.”

“And that’s when she left?”

“No. She thought I wouldn’t do it—the humiliation factor again. She said she’d fight me, start rumors about my family, claim I’d physically and emotionally abused her—” James sighed. “I probably wouldn’t have gone through with it, even though my parents had told me they didn’t care about a little embarrassment. After all, both their families had lived and been respected in Aurora Falls for over a hundred years, while Renée was … well, hardly admired.”

“That’s putting it lightly.”

“Still, I procrastinated. I told myself I just couldn’t bear to put my family through such mortification, but looking back, I realize that was only partly true. I couldn’t bear to put myself through such mortification.” James looked at Eric, shame in his eyes. “That’s the truth, hard as it is to admit.”

Eric nodded. “I know it must have been hard for you to admit.”

“Then you understand.”

“I understand, but…”

“But?”

Eric remained quiet for a few moments. Then he said, “My grandfather used to quote a passage from Proverbs:

“‘Pride goes before destruction,

And a haughty spirit before a fall.’

“In this case, James, I’d say the pride you had in the past has caused a lot of destruction in the present and that’s just not easy to forget or excuse.”

4

Bridget blinked twice and cast a blurry look at her bedside clock: 11:45. She yawned.

Earlier, she’d asked Ken to spend the night at her house, but he’d been afraid Dana would find out. “But she said she was staying all night at the hospital again,” Bridget had argued.

“Maybe she will, and maybe she just said that so she could come back to the gallery at two in the morning and find me gone,” he’d told her. “Dana’s clever and I know she already suspects this affair.”

“This affair?” Bridget had asked. “How many have there been?”

After a moment, Ken said softly, “Bridget, I’ve been married to Dana for a long time. It hasn’t been easy. In fact, at times it’s been pretty damned miserable. There have been other women. Casual affairs.”

“Oh. Well, I guess it was silly of me to think … I mean, a man like you trapped with a woman like her…” Her voice had started to waver. “But I know about Renée Eastman. People say you loved her.”

Ken emitted a harsh laugh. “Love? Renée? She was nothing to me. Nothing.”

“And me?”

“I love you. I wish there had only been you—ever. You know that. Why do you sound so insecure tonight?”

“You’ve been acting strange lately—it’s so different than you’ve ever acted with me before now. Ken, tell me the truth. Have you changed your mind about being with me?”

“After all we’ve been planning these last few months? After all we’ve already started doing to secure our future? Would I go through all of that with some woman who meant nothing to me?” His voice grew more intense. “I intend to get rid of Dana and make you my wife just as soon as possible.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“I guess the tension of this situation is getting to me. I have to be so careful, Bridget. The Nordine Gallery isn’t mine—it belongs to both Dana and me.. I don’t want to lose half of it.”

“I know you don’t, but when you sell the Arcos paintings—”

“Shhh. Let’s not even talk about them yet. We have to be patient, sweetheart. Everything is too new, too tentative.”

“You mean our relationship?”

“No, I mean the business angle,” he said sharply, then more softly, “If Dana divorces me on the grounds of adultery, I’ll lose half the value of the gallery, and I will not lose this place!” He sighed. “I feel a migraine coming on.”

“Maybe all this worrying you’re doing about the gallery brought on the migraine,” Bridget said softly. “I know you’re tired of talking about this, but can’t you just buy Dana’s half of the place?”

“Well … not right away. I’m not a rich man, Bridget.”

“Not yet. You will be after you sell Arcos’s paintings. You’ve arranged everything so Dana won’t get a penny from them. You’ll be rich then.”

“Well-off, but not rich. And things can always go wrong.”

Anxiety touched Bridget’s voice. “You mean they might? You may not get any money from the paintings?”

“That doesn’t matter to you, does it?”

“Well … no, of course not.”

“You love me for me, don’t you? You’re not pretending to love me because you think I have a lot of money or I will have a lot of money.”

“Ken, you know I’m not pretending. I’ve always known you aren’t rich. And the Arcos thing was a fluke. We didn’t know he’d become such a success. ”

“But when we got involved, you thought I was well-off.”

“Yes, but…”

“Do you love me at all? Or are you just attracted to me? Or worse, are you just entertaining yourself? Is that it, Bridget? Am I just entertainment?”

“Entertainment? What are you talking about? I love you!”

“It’s easy to say you love someone.”

Bridget, for the first time during her affair with Ken, was becoming uneasy about him. So far, he’d been the kindest, gentlest man she’d ever known. She’d felt so safe with him, so loved. But now?

“She said she loved me, too, but she left,” Ken snarled.

“She?” Bridget asked carefully. “Who are you talking about?”

After a moment, Ken said in his normal voice, “Bridget, please forgive me for tonight. I sound crazy.”

“No, just different,” she said without conviction. “You’ve been acting different all week.”

“I think the Arcos murder threw me. There’s so much to arrange for you and me, and Dana is such a harpy but so damned smart. I have to be alert twenty-four/seven. I’m just tired. I’m going to take my migraine medicine and go straight to bed.”

“I think that’s exactly what you should do.”

“Once again, sorry for being so weird tonight. I have a lot on my mind. Soon it will be nothing but caviar and roses and wonderful times for Ken and Bridget Nordine.” She smiled. He knew calling her Bridget Nordine pleased her. “Call me in the morning—not too early—to let me know you’re not sick. I’ll worry about you all night.”

“I’ll be fine, Ken, really.”

“I won’t be able to relax until I know that for sure. You’re too precious to me. See you tomorrow at the gallery.”

Bridget lay in the dark, thinking. What had sent Ken into a tailspin tonight? Maybe it had something to do with these murders. After all, one had been of Renée Eastman. But he hadn’t loved that woman. She hadn’t meant anything to him. Or so he said.

Bridget sighed and tried to reason herself into calmness. It had been a hard day. Lots of people had visited the gallery and Dana hadn’t been around to help. Ken was only suffering from a bad headache probably triggered by exhaustion. Bridget felt beat, too. All she wanted was to lie down on a white velvet chaise longue with soft music in the background and someone to rub her feet.

Oh well, it was late—or very early in the morning—and Bridget’s energy was waning. She didn’t want to worry about Ken anymore tonight. He would be all right. And he did love her. She was certain he loved her. Maybe it wasn’t the “death do us part” kind of love, but it was enough love to suffice for now. Later, it would grow … and grow … and grow.…

Bridget dozed off, then awakened an hour later. She was hanging on the edge of sleep again when she heard a floorboard creak. It seemed to her nearly every floorboard in this little old house creaked. Temperature changes, she thought dully. Another creak. The temperature must be dropping. Late October, an unusually chilly night, her being awake at this time when she was usually in a deep sleep and didn’t hear anything …

Creak. This one closer. Creak.

Bridget sat up in bed. Although the room temperature was comfortable, she felt tiny chill bumps popping up on her arms.

I am not alone in this room, she thought abruptly.

Then she looked toward the curtains hanging over the bedroom windows. Cheap cotton curtains with not much more than gauze for a lining, they allowed a bit of light from a nearby streetlamp to seep in. Silhouetted against them, she saw a shadow. No, not just a shadow—a human shape.

Stealthily, she reached toward her nightstand. In the drawer she kept a .22 revolver given to her by a past lover to keep her safe. He’d even taught her how to use it, and she was a good shot.

The drawer barely made a sound as she slid it open. Her fingers touched the cool metal of the gun—

Before she could close her hand around the gun barrel, the silhouette shot across the small room, pressed a cloth over her nose and mouth, and pushed her head against the pillow. She kicked and twisted uselessly beneath the bedclothes, but she couldn’t move her head. She also couldn’t hold her breath any longer. She let in a tiny whiff of something cloying and sweet. She tried kicking some more, but that only made her more breathless. Into her mouth, her throat, her lungs, flowed the sweet scent.

And then Bridget finally went to sleep.