CHAPTER FOUR

1

Catherine bolted up on the couch, screaming. Immediately Lindsay began barking frantically. Within seconds, Marissa was gripping Catherine’s arms.

“My God, Catherine, what’s wrong?”

Catherine took hold of Marissa, shuddering, as Marissa clung to her. Catherine drew her even closer and buried her head in the long hair at her sister’s neck.

“When I came back from the kitchen, you’d dozed off,” Marissa said. “You’ve been asleep about twenty minutes. You just had a nightmare, that’s all.”

Catherine pulled away from Marissa and shook her head. “No! Something has happened to James! I have to call him!”

“Okay. Take a breath.” Marissa picked up the handset of the phone on the coffee table and looked at Catherine’s trembling fingers. “Want me to dial the number?”

“Yes. His home phone.” Catherine rattled off James’s landline-phone number. He’d turned off his answering machine, and Catherine groaned when he didn’t answer after six rings. “Oh God.”

“Don’t panic. Considering what happened this afternoon, he might have turned off his landline phone. Give me his cell-phone number.” After two rings, James answered.

“Hi,” Marissa said in relief. “Catherine just had a nightmare about you and she’s upset, so I dialed your number for her. Here she is.”

Catherine snatched the handset away from Marissa and nearly shouted, “James, are you all right?”

“S-sure. I’m … fine,” he said shakily.

“You don’t sound fine. Why didn’t you answer your home phone?”

“Because I’m not home,” he said vaguely.

“Where are you?”

“Just … driving around.”

Catherine snapped alert. He was obviously dodging the question and her patience cracked. “James, don’t hide things from me,” she said sternly. “Tell me what’s wrong!”

“Well … I … I just missed being in an explosion. Well, not exactly in it—”

“An explosion!” Catherine felt as if a knife blade ripped her stomach and she heard Marissa gasp. “Are you hurt? Are you at the hospital?”

“Honey, calm down. I’m not hurt.”

“You are and you’re just not telling me.”

“I’m not. Really. There’s not a scratch on me.”

Catherine drew a deep breath, desperately trying to regain her calm. “Where are you and what happened?”

“I’m at the cottage. Someone blew it up.”

“The cottage? Oh, the police wanted you to go back about the explosion.”

“Well…”

Catherine glanced at Marissa. “He was at the cottage. I guess someone blew it up, but he’s all right.”

Lindsay, always high-strung, was huffing and snorting. Marissa nodded to Catherine and took the noisy dog into another room.

Catherine turned her attention back to the phone. Then her churning thoughts slowed, reason beginning to regain its footing. “James, you said you were almost in an explosion. You were already there. The police didn’t call you about it.”

“No. I just came by myself earlier.” James sighed. “I was here when you called me.”

“Oh.” Catherine’s voice went flat. “You lied to me.”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“Why did you go there tonight?”

“I don’t know. It was a mistake. I’m sorry.” James quickly went on, sounding direct but awkward. “At home, I had a couple of drinks, but they didn’t help. I couldn’t stop thinking about how awful the scene was today—that ratty old cottage turned into a carnival horror house. I decided to drive out here and look at the place. I guess I thought it wouldn’t look as terrible in the moonlight as it did in the sunlight. I was wrong.”

James stopped, clearly waiting for Catherine to say something. Confusion and anger overcame her, though, and she knew maintaining silence was better than voicing her rush of boiling feelings.

James drew a deep breath, assured her again that he wasn’t hurt; then he said on a painfully ashamed note, “Catherine, I’m sorry about everything that’s happened today.”

“I know you’re sorry,” she managed, keeping her voice emotionless. “You don’t have to keep telling me. But I don’t understand why you thought you had to lie—”

“Here’s a fire truck!” James’s voice rose over the sound of a siren. “Go back to sleep, Catherine,” he ordered, sounding relieved. “Everything will be all right, I promise.”

He abruptly hung up and Catherine stared at the handset, stunned and baffled.

An explosion. The man she loved had barely escaped an explosion, but after this surreal day she couldn’t fully process the reality of another horrifying shock. As she rose from the couch, wanting the peace and solitude of her bedroom, she realized she should feel nothing except relief that James was safe. Instead, she couldn’t stop thinking about his weird nighttime visit to the cottage where his ex-wife had been murdered. He’d given Catherine a reason, but it sounded flimsy and certainly not like the normal behavior of the James Eastman she knew.

Why had he really gone there?

And why had he lied to her about it?

2

Patrice Greenlee looked out a sunroom window, her gaze sweeping over the sun-drenched terrace and the rear lawn with its sprawling flagstone patio. Beyond the patio, a seven-foot-tall wall of evergreen shrubbery enclosed a large fishpond. “I hope this weather holds for a week. It’s perfect for our wedding.”

“Our wedding will be in a church. You know, with walls, a roof, a furnace. Why does the weather matter?”

Patrice turned and looked at her fiancé, Lawrence Blakethorne, sitting at the casual dining table. He lowered his morning paper, smiling at her. She had met him twenty-four years earlier when he’d married her older sister, Abigail, and he’d changed little except for a few wrinkles in his perpetually tanned skin, the silver lacing his thick black hair, and nearly twenty pounds of muscular bulk he’d added to his tall, once-lanky frame. Patrice thought that at fifty Lawrence was even more attractive than he’d been in his youth.

“I’m afraid a lot of people won’t attend because they disapprove of you marrying your sister-in-law,” Patrice said quietly.

“My former sister-in law. Abigail has been dead for over twelve years. I don’t think as many people disapprove as you think.”

“My mother would be outraged.”

“I agree. If we’d married when she was around to see it, she would never have given us any peace.”

“Is that why you waited until after she died last year to propose?”

“Yes.” Lawrence’s gaze grew distant. “The two of you never had a good relationship. She was never fair to you, but you valued her opinion more than that of almost anyone else. I never understood why. Anyway, she would have hated the idea of us getting married, bitched at you constantly, and ruined your happiness, maybe even our marriage.

“Now she can’t constantly voice her unwanted opinions, Pat,” Lawrence continued. “You don’t have to listen to her, even just to be polite. Your life is entirely your own to do with as you please. As for caring what people think, my own son is honestly pleased for us. He says this should have happened a long time ago.” He looked at her closely. “So what’s really worrying you, honey?”

Patrice moved away from one window in the dining area and wandered to another in the sitting area at the other end of the room. “Just details. I may be forty, but this is my first wedding and I want everything to be flawless. I want the weather to be perfect; I want people to be fine with our marriage.” She paused and added fretfully, “And silly as it sounds, I’m also worried about the reception. I don’t want to lose people in transit from the church to the Larke Inn.”

Lawrence threw back his head and laughed. “We’re having an evening wedding and there will be lots of excellent food and liquor at the reception. I doubt if we’ll lose anyone.” He laid down his newspaper and joined her at the window, resting an arm around her shoulders. “Pat, you’re taking all the fun out of this thing.”

“You think of our wedding as ‘this thing’?”

He groaned and pulled her closer. “Poor choice of words. I’m looking forward to our wedding.” He lowered his head and kissed her curly ash-blond hair. “I can’t wait until we’re husband and wife.”

“Am I interrupting a beautiful moment?”

Lawrence and Patrice turned. Lawrence’s son, Ian, lounged in the doorway, surveying them with the large, thickly lashed blue-gray eyes that had inspired the rapt fascination of many teenage girls and earned him the nickname Dreamy Eyes, which he hated.

“You’re interrupting a small display of affection. Get used to it,” Lawrence answered good-naturedly. He glanced at his watch. “You’re late for Sunday brunch.”

“I forgot to turn on the alarm clock.”

“‘Forgot to turn on the alarm clock,’” Lawrence repeated. “I remember using that line during my wild youth. Can’t you come up with a better excuse for being late and looking a little ragged?”

“Maybe I had too much to drink last night. Anyway, I had to stop for gas at the convenience store and ran into Robbie Landers.”

“Deputy Roberta Landers?” Patrice asked. “You know her?”

“Yes. We started talking and more time got away from me. Sorry.”

“I’m sure she’s just an acquaintance.” Lawrence had turned a question into a statement. “And I’m not angry that you’re late. There’s not a thing wrong with a good-looking young guy sowing his wild oats on a Saturday night, although I don’t want you to make a habit of it. You have responsibilities now that you’re an important part of Blakethorne Charter.”

“I won’t.” Ian glanced at the dining table covered with a light green linen cloth. “It seems late in the year to be eating in the sunroom.”

Patrice nodded. “Well, it’s like any other room; it’s air-conditioned and heated. I know it’s chilly outside, but the weather is so lovely. I thought I should take advantage of all these windows. I told your father I hope it stays nice through next weekend for the wedding.”

“I’m sure it will,” Ian said absently. He sauntered into the room and gazed out one of the windows overlooking the sun-drenched patio. As always, Patrice noticed the handsome twenty-two-year-old’s resemblance to his mother. At six foot one, he had his father’s height but Abigail’s honey brown hair, fair skin, straight nose, dimples, and remarkable eyes. “At least the hedges won’t have to be trimmed again this year, Dad.”

“Thank God,” Lawrence said. “The sound of three or four of those electric hedge trimmers roaring along at the same time drives me wild.”

“Get rid of them.”

“I thought you loved them,” Lawrence said in surprise, but Ian merely shrugged. “Maybe it was only your mother who loved what she called her ‘magic hideaway.’”

As usual, whenever Lawrence spoke of Abigail his voice turned slightly caustic. He’d never forgiven his wife for putting their ten-year-old son in the car and driving over the speed limit during a wild spring storm after she’d taken a mixture of tranquilizers and alcohol. The resulting wreck had killed her instantly. Ian, who’d nearly died as well, had spent a week in a coma and the next several months in rehab recovering from two broken legs, a broken arm, a broken collarbone, and a severe head injury. All the while, his remaining family had waited in agony until the neurologists felt safe in pronouncing that his head trauma had not resulted in permanent brain damage.

Lawrence brushed a hand through the air as if whisking away a pesky memory. “Noisy hedge trimmers or not, though, I intend to cut down on the hours I spend at my office after next weekend.” He winked at Patrice.

Ian grinned. “Now you have a good reason not to spend more time here. You’ll have a new bride.” He looked at Patrice. “Mom.”

“Oh, please, Ian, you’ve called me Patrice since you were three. Let’s keep it that way.”

“Fine with me.” Ian raised his head and sniffed. “I smell all kinds of wonderful things coming from the kitchen and I’m starving.”

“Me, too,” Lawrence said enthusiastically. He raised his voice. “Mrs. Frost, we’re ready!”

They sat down at the dining table, and in less than a minute a tall, sturdy, silver-haired woman with a long, rectangular face and the beginning of jowls appeared in the doorway. Patrice remembered when her sister, Abigail, had hired the woman and introduced her as “Mrs. Frost.” Nearly twenty years later, everyone in the household still called her Mrs. Frost. Patrice couldn’t remember her first name, but the woman was so much a part of the Blakethorne household, Patrice had always wanted—and failed—to win her approval. Still, Patrice kept trying.

“Ah, a feast!” she exclaimed as Mrs. Frost swooped down and deftly slid dishes off a silver tray.

“Bacon and cheddar quiche, fruit salad, and spice-walnut muffins,” the woman announced in a clipped voice with the trace of a British accent. “I’ll be right back with crumb cake,” Mrs. Frost announced. “Kona coffee for you, Mr. Lawrence?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll take some, too, please,” Ian said.

Mrs. Frost smiled fondly at him. “Of course. I didn’t forget you.”

“And I’ll have tea,” Patrice said with a smile.

Mrs. Frost flicked mirthless, faded blue eyes at her. “I’ll fetch it immediately, madam.”

As soon as she left the room, Patrice leaned close to Lawrence and murmured, “She called me madam.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“She used to call me Miss Patrice. She’s never cared for me, but I think she actually dislikes me now that we’re getting married.”

“Nonsense, Pat,” Lawrence announced loudly. “You’re being paranoid. Mrs. Frost doesn’t dislike you.”

Inwardly Patrice cringed, knowing the woman had heard him. Lawrence never worried about whether or not people liked him, and as a result most people liked him enormously. Patrice knew her strong voice often sounded commanding and her personality frequently came across as aggressive rather than self-assured. These traits served her well as a trial lawyer, but they’d never made her socially popular. Ever since girlhood, she’d tried to monitor herself in personal situations, but flipping the switch to sweet voiced and gentle wasn’t easy and she regularly failed. She wondered if Mrs. Frost accepted her for what she was or if the woman resented her for not being sweet-voiced, languid Abigail, to whom she’d been devoted.

Mrs. Frost returned with iced crumb cake, china cups and saucers, and a beautiful silver service with tea, coffee, milk, and sugar. Patrice noticed the small container holding discount tea bags. She decided not to point out Mrs. Frost’s intended slight by asking for her usual expensive blend of Earl Grey tea.

“Did Roberta have anything to say about what happened at the Eastman cottage yesterday?” Lawrence asked. “You did hear about them finding the body of a dead woman in the cistern.”

“Yes, I heard about it at the gallery last night,” Ian said.

“Was Roberta on duty? Did she go to the cottage?”

“I’m not sure.”

“But even if she wasn’t there, she’d know if the police had identified the body. I only heard it was a woman’s.”

Patrice kept her gaze on her plate. She hadn’t said anything to Lawrence about seeing James last night or of him being certain the body was Renée’s. Patrice knew the information would spark a barrage of questions from Lawrence that she didn’t want to dodge.

“If the police did identify the body and Robbie knew the name, she didn’t tell me,” Ian answered, sounding bored.

“Come on, Son. Roberta must have said something,” Lawrence prodded. “This is big news. Exciting.”

“This quiche is great,” Ian said. “But I guess I have to sing for my supper or, rather, brunch. First off, I didn’t ask Robbie about the body. I just said hello and that it was good to see her. She immediately apologized for her appearance, although I thought she looked fine. She said she was tired because she’d been up most of the night working on a case she couldn’t discuss.”

“How informative.” Lawrence dug into his fruit. “Is that all she said?”

“No, it wasn’t. She said yes when I asked her to be my date for the rehearsal dinner and the wedding reception.”

“You invited Roberta Landers?” Patrice burst out.

Ian looked at her coolly. “Yes, I asked her for a date. Actually, two dates, I guess. Do you object to her?”

“No, of course not. I barely know her.” Patrice didn’t look at Lawrence. She’d snapped at Ian because she knew Lawrence wouldn’t be pleased about his son dating a cop. “I just thought you’d ask one of the girls you’ve been seeing this past year.”

“You mean a member of our small gaggle of Aurora Falls society girls? Last night I took one to the showing of Nicolai Arcos’s paintings at the Nordine Gallery.”

“You’ve spent quite a bit of time at that gallery.”

“Dad, the owners, Ken and Dana, are friends of mine. And the gallery is fairly amazing, especially for a city of this size. You should take Patrice. I know you’d both be impressed.”

“I saw it when it was new, but I’m not an art lover. Still, maybe a cultural evening wouldn’t do us any harm, would it, Pat?”

“Certainly not.”

“Was Arcos there last night?” Lawrence asked.

“Yes. I even introduced my date to him. I don’t think he’d taken any of the drugs he claims help to free his creativity, so he was in complete control of his moody Romanian act. He gave her deep, soulful looks and nearly charmed her to death.”

“You sound sarcastic for someone who admires the man.”

“Dad, you haven’t been really listening again,” Ian said irritably. “I’ve never said I admire anything about him except for his talent. I think as a person he’s half-insane.”

“I’ve heard one painting of his is getting a lot of attention,” Lawrence went on, ignoring Ian’s assessment of Arcos. “It’s called New Orleans Girl or something.”

“Mardi Gras Lady. It’s totally different from his usual work. I don’t care for it. Anyway, after Arcos floated off to another group my date said she wanted to leave and go to a friend’s party, so I took her.”

“And you partied too much,” Lawrence said.

“I was self-medicating to get through the evening.”

“Just say it—you got drunk. I could smell the breath mints as soon as you came in the door.”

“I drank too much, but I didn’t get drunk.”

“Your date’s father is an investor in the business—our business, now that you’ve graduated from college and come aboard. You have responsibilities, and those include social responsibilities. I hope you were nice to the young lady.”

“I think you’ll get a good report about my behavior. She’s just not my type.”

“Not like Roberta Landers.”

“Marissa Gray works with Roberta’s father at the Gazette and I’ve heard her mention Roberta. She says Roberta is smart and nice and that Eric is impressed with her work,” Patrice offered quickly. Lawrence and Ian usually got along smoothly, but today the tension between them caused her usually steady nerves to tingle. She did not want trouble during this of all times—the week of her wedding—and she desperately cast around for something else pleasant to say. “Roberta is very pretty, Ian.”

He tossed her a grateful look. “Robbie is very pretty, very nice, and very intelligent. I like her.”

“Well, if you insist on bringing her to the wedding, Ian, I hope she dresses appropriately,” Lawrence muttered, reaching for a spice-walnut muffin and taking a large bite.

“Even though she scrapes by on a cop’s salary, she might have a couple of decent dresses,” Ian returned with an edge. “If not, she’ll wear her uniform. Don’t worry, Dad. She won’t embarrass you. She looks smokin’ hot in a uniform.”

Lawrence angrily turned on him. “What is wrong with you this morning? You were late, you’re being flippant, deliberately irritating, rude, and—”

Suddenly Lawrence’s face froze, turned bright pink, and he barely got his hand to his mouth before he began to choke violently. Patrice’s gray eyes widened and she looked at him for a moment before jumping up and rushing to his side. “What’s wrong?” she asked in a high, alarmed voice while she pounded him on the back. “Are you all right?”

Ian rose from his chair, his face pale but confident, and went to his father. By now, Lawrence had stopped the loud, ragged coughing, but his face was crimson, his dark eyes watering and terrified. “Dad, can you speak?” Ian asked calmly. Lawrence shook his head no. “Can you stand up?” Again, no. Ian looked at Patrice. “Stop pounding on his back and be quiet. Please. You’re making things worse.” Patrice, still frightened but chastened, backed away.

Ian moved behind his father. “Dad, don’t be scared. I’m going to do the Heimlich.” Ian then leaned down, placed a fist at his father’s waist, covered that fist with the other fist, and thrust-pressed three times before a walnut in a wad of dough flew out of Lawrence’s mouth and onto his plate. Lawrence emitted a combination belch-bleat and then sagged in his chair.

“Are you okay?” Patrice half-asked, half-begged. “Lawrence, answer me!”

He waved her away with a weak hand and ground out, “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? Ian, call nine-one-one.”

“No! Dammit, I told you I’m fine!”

“You are definitely not fine. You’re going to the hospital,” Patrice insisted.

“Sit down and try to relax, Dad.” Lawrence obeyed and began drawing in shallow, cautious breaths as Ian stood beside him like a faithful, anxious dog. In a moment, Ian glanced at Patrice with the young, vulnerable look she’d seen so often when he was in the presence of his father. “Dad has to rest for a few minutes before we make any decisions. You sit down, too, Patrice, and stop asking him questions and threatening him with a trip to the hospital,” he said imploringly. “Choking is frightening enough without having some amateur medic like me literally squeeze the air out of him. He’ll be okay.”

Ian leaned down and looked into his father’s eyes. “You’re just out of breath and shocked, aren’t you, Dad?”

Lawrence glanced up at Ian, and Patrice saw gratitude. She also saw resentment in Lawrence’s dark eyes. She knew Lawrence was deeply embarrassed, his fierce macho pride wounded.

Mrs. Frost appeared carrying a crystal pitcher of ice water and without a word refilled everyone’s glasses before vanishing to the kitchen. Patrice and Ian took their seats and began lackadaisically nibbling their food while Lawrence sat nearly immobile, sipping water.

“Patrice, will James be coming to the office this week?” Ian asked casually, his gaze fastened on the maraschino cherry she futilely chased around her plate.

“I talked to him last night and he said he was coming to work.” She caught herself. “I talked to him briefly on the phone.”

“This morning, a couple of guys at the convenience store were talking about a fire at the cottage last night. Know anything about it, Patrice?”

She tried to look surprised. “No! A fire? It must have happened after I talked to James or he would have mentioned it. Was it bad? How did it start?”

“I didn’t get much information about it, but I believe it almost destroyed the place.” Ian frowned. “Maybe someone was trying to destroy evidence.”

Lawrence abruptly came to life. “Evidence of murder?” he asked, his voice gritty although his facial color had returned to normal.

“Yeah, Dad,” Ian said. “The woman in the cistern was murdered.”

Lawrence huffed. “Well, if it was Renée Eastman, she deserved it.”

“What makes you think it was Renée?” Patrice asked.

Immediately Lawrence flushed deeply. “Oh, I don’t know. Just a wild thought.” He avoided the stares of Patrice and Ian. “I think I’ll have another one of those muffins.”