CHAPTER THREE

1

Torn between feeling she should stay with James and frantically wanting the safety of home, Catherine argued when Marissa told her they were leaving. Catherine was still arguing when Eric ordered her home in his most authoritative voice, but it was James giving her a quick, soft kiss on the lips and telling her he’d feel better if he knew she was safe, warm, and, he added with a weak smile, “cleaned up” that sent her homeward.

Even though the temperature had dropped considerably since afternoon, Catherine didn’t want Marissa to raise the roof of the Mustang convertible. Marissa drove her usual five miles above the speed limit and Catherine closed her eyes, letting the cool wind whip at her damp sweater and the hair she’d pulled back in a ponytail.

“If you’re cold, I’ll put up the top, now,” Marissa finally said.

“No. I like the air. I stink.”

“You don’t stink.”

“Yes, I do. I’m going to burn these clothes. And my hair is—”

“Your hair will be fine after a couple of rounds with shampoo. You don’t have to burn it off.”

“I was going to say my hair is rank. I wasn’t planning on setting fire to it.”

“That’s reassuring. It’s been a hell of an afternoon. I’m afraid of what might come next.”

“You’re never afraid. I’m the timid one.”

“Oh, not this again,” Marissa said in the voice Catherine recognized as half-teasing, half-serious. “I’m afraid a lot. I just don’t admit it. And you aren’t timid. You just think you are because people have told you so all your life. For God’s sake, Catherine, you’re a psychologist. You should know you’re not timid.”

“Psychologists aren’t good at analyzing themselves.”

“Well, take it from me that you’re braver than I am.”

After a pause, Catherine said, “He called her his wife.”

“What?”

“James. He looked at the body and he said to Eric, ‘It’s my wife Renée.’ Not ‘my ex-wife.’ ‘My wife.’”

“So?”

“Maybe he still thinks of her as his wife,” Catherine said drearily.

“He doesn’t. He was stunned and upset.”

“Maybe he was still in love with her.”

Marissa let out a long sigh. “Catherine, you’ve had a terrible shock today and you’re letting it send you into a downward spiral just because James said ‘wife’ instead of ‘ex-wife.’ Well, remember this. He’s had a terrible shock, too. He misspoke because he was astounded and worried about you finding Renée’s body. He doesn’t think of Renée as his wife. He doesn’t love Renée. He loves you. Period.”

“If you say so,” Catherine answered tonelessly.

“Cry, scream, wave your arms around, stomp your feet, put in a CD, and blast the music, but do something besides going numb.”

“Will that make you feel better?”

“Much. And smile or I’ll pick up speed. How does ninety sound?”

Catherine tilted her lips. “Like you’ll get a speeding ticket on top of everything else.”

“That’s better. Much better. Let’s keep it that way. Now, do you want to hear some music, have a normal conversation, or just remain silent?”

Catherine knew Marissa was incapable of maintaining silence after the afternoon they’d had and any conversation would involve a rehash of events, so Catherine chose music and retreated into her headache, her misery, and the songs of Coldplay.

*   *   *

An hour later, Catherine emerged from the steam-filled upstairs bathroom of the Gray home. She wore a floor-length terry-cloth robe over flannel pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt and she was still cold. She wrapped a towel around her hair with fingers that had puckered from their long exposure to water. She’d scrubbed her nails so hard, the skin around them burned.

“I’ve built a fire!” Marissa called from downstairs. “I’ve also fixed you something to eat, whether you want it or not! Hurry before it gets cold!”

Catherine closed her eyes and sighed. All she really wanted to do was curl up in bed. Instead, she tightened the belt on her robe, slid into some soft scuff house slippers, and descended the stairs. Marissa stood at the foot of the steps, beaming at her, obviously having worked to make the lovely cream, cinnamon, and dusky blue family room even more comforting and welcoming than usual. Behind the grate, a fire crackled cheerfully in the large stone hearth and Marissa had turned on two brass lamps and lit three cinnamon-scented candles.

“Do you feel better?” Marissa asked.

“I feel cleaner.”

“Well, you should. I think that was the longest shower on record.” Marissa looked down at the medium-sized yellow dog sitting dutifully by her side holding a small stuffed tiger in her mouth. “Lindsay thought we’d have to come in and rescue you.”

Catherine bent and patted the dog on the head. “I appreciate your concern, Lindsay.” The dog stood and wagged her tail, keeping a firm grip on the tiger. “I always feel safer when you’re around.”

“You should. She’s very loyal to you even though she’s officially my dog.” Marissa grinned. “Please sit on the couch. I’ve fixed a feast.”

A feast, Catherine thought in dismay. God only knew what that could be. Marissa’s cooking ranged from bad to merely passable. Nevertheless, Catherine sat down and tried to look eagerly at the tray of food.

“Hold out your hand.” Catherine did as told and Marissa dropped a small blue pill onto her palm and handed her a glass of water. “You took aspirin for your headache when you got home. Now a Valium. I didn’t insist on it earlier for fear of you getting dizzy and falling in the shower. Don’t protest. You’ve always said there’s nothing wrong with taking a tranquilizer in an emergency.”

“I wasn’t going to protest.” Catherine swallowed the pill. “I think everything inside of me is quivering.”

“No wonder.”

“And I feel ridiculous for getting so upset because James called Renée his wife.”

“We were both freaked out,” Marissa said dismissively. “I’ve fixed a grilled-cheese sandwich—I used that Jarlsberg cheese you bought—and some tomato soup made with milk, and a pot of chamomile tea. Chamomile is supposed to be calming and you don’t need alcohol with a tranquilizer. How does all of that sound?”

“Wonderful. You didn’t need to go to such trouble.”

“Of course I did. Still, don’t be complimentary until you’ve tasted it, although it’s hard even for me to mess up a grilled-cheese sandwich and soup. I’m having coffee and a piece of the German chocolate cake I bought at the bakery day before yesterday. There’s plenty of cake left for you, too.”

Catherine laughed as Marissa spread a napkin over Catherine’s lap and poured her tea as if she were an invalid. “Don’t be insulted if I can’t eat everything, Marissa. I still feel a little queasy.”

“Don’t worry. Lindsay and I will take care of any leftovers.”

Marissa kept up a steady stream of light chatter about the doings of Hollywood celebrities as if they were all family friends. While she listened to Marissa’s dramatic account of an actor leaving his wife of two months for a supermodel, Catherine took the towel off her head, letting her hair fall to her shoulders and dry in the warmth from the fire. When Marissa finally exhausted her movie-star stories, Catherine looked in amazement at her empty dinnerware. “Well, how about that? I could have sworn I wasn’t hungry.”

“You didn’t eat lunch and only had toast for breakfast. You needed food. A piece of cake now?”

“I think I’ve finally reached my limit. Thank you for dinner.”

“It was my pleasure,” Marissa said as she began gathering dishes onto the serving tray.

Catherine could have sworn Lindsay looked crestfallen at the empty plates, and smiled. “Marissa, you have to give the poor thing something special. She’s breaking my heart.”

“Don’t kid yourself. She’s practiced that heartbreaking look, but she’ll get at least one dog biscuit and maybe another bacon treat.”

As Marissa disappeared into the kitchen, Catherine glanced at the frisky, friendly dog she’d come to love. “I know it’s only nine thirty, but I’m exhausted,” she said. Lindsay tilted her head as if she could understand her while Catherine lay down, pulled the afghan over her, and reached for the phone. “Let’s give James a call while I can still hold my eyes open.”

2

James Eastman stood in the front yard of the little cottage. Under a sweeping panorama of glittering stars, the place looked even smaller and more forlorn than it did in the daytime. Crime-scene tape still stretched around the area of the porch and the cistern and sealed the front door.

“What did you say, sweetheart?” James asked into his cell phone. “Sorry, my attention wandered for a minute.”

“I asked what you’re doing,” Catherine repeated. “You don’t seem to be listening to me.”

“I’m just sitting in my apartment reading,” James said, and could have shot a whip-poor-will that decided to emit a loud call. “Got a nature show on television, but I can’t concentrate on the reading or the TV. I am listening to you. I’m just tired and you sound the same way. I think we should both go to sleep.”

“In different beds.”

“It happens about five nights a week anyway and it’s best for tonight. You can toss and kick and mumble all you want.”

“You’re the one who tosses and kicks and mumbles,” Catherine said.

“That’s not true. Tell you what. If when I see you tomorrow you tell me you haven’t slept, I’ll take you on a five-mile run.”

“Then I promise I’ll sleep.”

“That’s what I thought. Good night, sweetheart. I love you.”

James Eastman clicked off his cell phone, wishing he could talk to Catherine longer but knowing he couldn’t without getting onto the subject of Renée.

Renée who was dead. James knew many people in town thought she’d died at his hand years ago. He’d endured the innuendoes and rumors, pretending they didn’t faze him, but they’d embarrassed, infuriated, and deeply hurt him, which he’d been certain that Renée had hoped would happen. When he’d finally decided she wasn’t coming home on her own to get a divorce, he’d begun the formal search for her, legally necessary in order to acquire a quiet divorce on the grounds of desertion. To his relief, when she had not been found within a year the divorce proceedings began and ended quietly. He didn’t have to think about her anymore. He could begin a new life.

Except that now, after what Catherine had found, he couldn’t begin fresh as the memory of Renée Eastman faded from everyone’s minds. When she was alive, most people who knew her had disliked or even hated her. But people’s sympathy could change overnight. James knew many people would suddenly feel sorry for Renée when they knew she’d ended up dead. Worse than just dead. She’d been shot in the head and stuffed in a cistern to rot.

James walked, drawing closer to his car in what served as a driveway, and stood a few feet closer to the wooded area. It looked dense at night, although the trees grew widely spaced in a less than two-acre grove. In the soft dusk he caught the movement of a small animal venturing toward him from the protection of the trees. Too late in the season for a groundhog, he thought. A raccoon coming to search for trash? The cottage, usually vacant, wouldn’t be a usual stop on the trash-patrol circuit. More likely, a cat crept near.

And so did headlights. Oh damn, not sightseers, James thought angrily, although he knew a few had come by earlier. Perry Lane was off the beaten track and many people didn’t even know the small collection of fishing cottages existed. Today that had been a blessing. Word might have spread by now, though, and people with nothing better to do on a Saturday night were hunting down the scene of a murder.

The car slowly stopped in front of the cottage and someone turned off the headlights. A sense of violation filled James. Who in hell would be bold enough to actually approach him here after what had happened today? What did they think gave them the right? Or did they believe he was merely a fellow sightseer sharing their morbid curiosity?

The car’s interior lights came on as a woman emerged and called, “Hi, James! When I couldn’t reach you at home, I didn’t even try your cell phone. I knew you’d be here. I wanted to see for myself that you’re all right. I hope you don’t mind that I came.”

Patrice Greenlee. James’s irritation ebbed as he saw his partner at Eastman and Greenlee Law Practice. He’d known Patrice since he was on the verge of adolescence.

“I’m glad you’re here,” James said loudly as she walked toward him. “I was starting to get the creeps.”

When Patrice reached him, she pulled him close and hugged him. At forty, Patrice stood five-seven, with a slim, toned body, above-the-shoulder curly ash-blond hair, high cheekbones, and striking light gray eyes. Tonight she wore a full-length black cashmere coat unbuttoned over a chic blue dress and white running shoes.

“Why didn’t you call me?” she demanded. “I heard on the police scanner about a body being found on Perry Lane and remembered that your family has a cottage here. I called the office, your town house, and your cell phone, but I got no answer, and I’ve been in a knot all day.”

“You could have saved yourself all that anxiety by not always listening to the scanner.”

“I can’t stand not knowing what’s going on around here.”

“So instead you listen constantly and get worked up like today.” James shook his head. “Where’s your best guy tonight?”

“We were having dinner at the Larke Inn dining room when he got a call,” Patrice said, referring to her fiancé of two months, Lawrence Blakethorne, owner of Blakethorne Charter Flights. “Sometimes I hate cell phones. The call was about the big merger of Blakethorne and Star Air that lately is just consuming Lawrence. He said it was an emergency, as usual, and he had to go to his office to look up some files. He dropped me off at the house on the way, and after I got there I decided to come looking for you. I didn’t even bother to change clothes except for my shoes.” She held up one running-shoe-clad foot. “Classy, huh?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “So they did find a body at this cottage.”

“Unfortunately, yes.” James sighed. “I thought I’d take another look at the place and it wouldn’t bother me, but … well … you always seem to know when I need a friend.”

“No one should be out here alone,” Patrice said briskly. She gazed at the cottage and dug her hands deep into her pockets. “They were as vague as possible on the police scanner, so they just gave the code for dead body. Was it a man or woman?”

“Woman.”

“How was she killed?”

“She was shot.”

“Did they find identification?”

Silence spun out before James said slowly, “No, but it’s Renée.”

Patrice went still for a moment before she murmured, “Renée?” Then louder, “Your Renée?”

“Yes.”

“Hell, no!”

“Hell, yes.”

“Oh, James, no!”

“Don’t keep wailing. People already think I murdered her. If anyone is around, they’ll think I’m murdering you, too.”

Patrice pulled her hands from her pockets, raised open palms, and gave him a light thump on the chest. “Don’t even say such a thing!” She huffed in frustration. “How long has the body been here?”

“The police think maybe a week.”

“A week?” Patrice looked stunned. “She’s been dead a week? Not months? Not years?”

“Definitely not years. Or even months.”

“Well then, you’ve made a mistake,” Patrice said definitely. “It can’t be Renée. It’s a homeless woman. Someone saw her wandering around out here, panicked, and shot her. They were too scared to report it to the police, so they hid the body.”

“No one is living out here now, Patrice. Besides, I saw the body. It was Renée.”

“No, you didn’t!” Patrice went silent for a moment before asking grudgingly, “Even if it was Renée, why would she be at your family’s cottage?”

“I have no idea. Catherine found her in the cistern.”

“Catherine?”

“She was with Marissa, thank God. That big cistern at the end of the cottage is about seven feet deep and nearly full of water from all the rain we’ve had lately. Catherine stepped on the half-rotten lid, which broke. She fell in, and when she surfaced she was holding Renée’s body. She’s not a good swimmer, and between panicking and getting her hand twisted in Renée’s hair I think she would have drowned if Marissa hadn’t been here to help her.”

Patrice looked appalled. “How horrible! Catherine must have been hysterical.”

“Just the opposite. It was like she just shut down emotionally, but she looked awful.”

“Is she hurt?”

“The paramedics said that physically she’s fine except for scrapes, bruises, probably strained muscles. Marissa took her home, gave her a tranquilizer, fed her, and sent her to bed.” He sighed. “She just called me. She’s okay for now, but I’m certain she won’t be getting over the shock any time soon.”

“Don’t underestimate her, James. I’ve always believed Catherine is far stronger and more resilient than people think,” Patrice said bracingly. “Why were she and Marissa here?”

“My parents have told her about the place. Catherine said something about looking at it as a possible site as a house for me.”

“The cottage?”

“No. Mom keeps talking about selling the land to someone who could tear down the cottage and build a nice house. Catherine’s never seen it. Maybe she and Marissa came because it was a pretty day and they were curious about it. I’m just glad Catherine didn’t come out here alone.”

Patrice pressed her thin, well-shaped lips together as she usually did when she was thinking. After a moment, she demanded irritably, “If the body is Renée’s, where has she been? My God, James, it’s been over a year since she left and then she finally shows up like this?”

“I’m aware of how long it’s been.” He paused and said dryly, “I’m also certain Renée didn’t intend to show up like this.”

Patrice ignored his attempt at gallows humor. “But why is she here?”

“I have no idea.”

“Maybe one of her lovers kept track of her and lured her home to rekindle their romance. Neither of them struck me as the type to give up easily. Or one might have pretended to want her back when he really wanted to make her pay for dumping him. Or—sorry to sound cruel—who knows if there were really only two men? I mean, knowing Renée…”

“Knowing Renée, there could have been a dozen men. Still, after so long…” James fell silent for a moment and then said in a musing voice, “I guess finding her now is ironic. Our divorce just became final on Monday. Five days ago.”

“Did Renée know about the divorce?”

“I haven’t had any contact with her since she left me. Maybe she’s in touch with her parents, but I don’t know. They stopped returning my calls a few weeks after Renée left, but I sent her father a registered letter when I started divorce proceedings. I also sent one informing him of the approximate time the divorce would be finalized. I received his signature as proof of delivery for both of them.” James looked fixedly at the cottage. “Anyway, I’m sure she didn’t come back here about the divorce.”

“No, you can’t be sure. After all, the timing is suspiciously coincidental. Maybe Renée’s father told her about the divorce and at the last minute she decided she wanted to reconcile.”

“After the way she treated me when we were married? After the way she left without a word then or in the years since she’s been gone? Then suddenly she wanted me back?” James shook his head. “No, Patrice, she certainly did not come back for me.”

Patrice was silent for a moment, then said slowly, “You sound bitter, James.”

“Bitter that I know she didn’t want me back?”

“Well…” Patrice sounded uncomfortable. “I don’t know.”

“She made my life a living hell, both before and after she left, and if I sound bitter it’s only because I can’t seem to free myself of her. I’m in love with Catherine. I was happy. And here’s Renée again, tearing my life apart, tearing Catherine’s apart.”

“She can’t tear anyone’s life apart again if she’s dead, James,” Patrice said quietly.

“Can’t she? She was murdered. There will be another investigation and again I’ll be the number one suspect. And look at what happened today. Catherine could have died out here, drowned in that cistern because she was dragged down by Renée.” James laughed sarcastically. “Even as a corpse the woman is dangerous.”

Patrice frowned. “I’m worried about you, James. You sound…”

“Crazy?”

“Well … different. Not like the steady, rational James Eastman I’ve known for years.”

James’s smile faded. He looked away, and after a moment he answered drearily, his earlier anger seeming to slip away, “I think I’m in shock, Patrice. Finding her in Aurora Falls at my family’s ratty old cottage where someone shot her in the head and crammed her body in the cistern is just … just…”

Patrice closed her hand around his upper arm. “Stop, James. Stop talking about it; stop picturing it; stop wearing yourself out with it. What you need now is to go home.”

“I will. Soon. I think I’ll get drunk.”

“You never get drunk. You should follow Catherine’s example.”

“I don’t have a loving sister to give me a tranquilizer, feed me, and put me to bed.”

Patrice smiled. “Marissa and Catherine bicker like young girls sometimes, but they really love and take care of each other.” She sighed. “My sister and I used to be just like them. I miss that kind of unconditional bond. Still, I think you’re capable of taking a pill, eating, and going to bed without help.” She waited a few seconds and then asked, “Have you talked to Eric Montgomery?”

James nodded. “He arrived on the scene before I did, even though it was his day off. I don’t mind saying I’m relieved he’s in charge of all this, although he’s already started questioning me about my whereabouts last weekend.”

“That’s normal. The spouse is always the prime suspect.”

“I’m not the spouse.”

“You were last weekend. Anyway, you were at the conference in Pittsburgh. A lot of people saw you.”

“Maybe not a lot. I got there Thursday afternoon and was already coming down with the flu. I skipped a few seminars on Friday and Saturday and the big dinner on Saturday night. Besides, right now they’re only estimating that Renée was murdered a week ago. It could have been six days ago, on Sunday, when I’d gotten back home and gone straight to bed. Alone. Not even Catherine can vouch for me.”

Patrice shook her head. “So, even dead, that damned Renée’s still causing trouble for you. But at least Catherine is all right and your parents are away on a cruise. Are you going to let them know what’s happened?”

James shook his head. “Do you think I’m going to interrupt their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary trip to Italy with this gruesome piece of news?”

“Your mother will be furious if you don’t.”

“She’ll get over it. She always does.”

Patrice squinted down at her slim dress watch. “Well, you seem to be okay, James, although you do need to go home.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed James lightly on the cheek. “I’m sorry about all of this. Will you be taking off work next week?”

“No. I’ll be in the office Monday morning, bright and early.”

“Monday! Give yourself at least a couple of days to recover.”

“Recover by sitting around my town house watching television? No. The best thing I can do for myself is to work.”

“You’re a remarkable man.”

“Yeah, I’m feeling remarkable tonight.”

“Go home.”

“Okay.”

Patrice turned her car around and started back the way she’d come, waving briefly at James as she passed him. James lingered for a couple of minutes, then went to his silver Lincoln, scooted behind the wheel, started the car, and slowly backed up a few feet. Then he stopped, planning to flip on the headlights and take one last look at the hideous old cottage crouching like a small monster in the dark.

Suddenly a pillar of bright yellow fire shot skyward at the back of the cottage. Within seconds, a second fireball lit the night. The pillars spread into a wall of flame stretching along the entire back of the cottage, dropping blazing debris onto the roof, spitting sizzling pieces of wood flying across the black night sky, and turning the small building into a raging pyre.