A Case of You

by Pamela Burford

  He felt a firm hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Grace, paper cup in hand, bureaucratic smile firmly installed. She was tall, silver haired, and as always, impeccably attired. Today it was a summery linen dress.

  “Noah! Get yourself a beer. There’s a keg of Mary Rafferty’s homebrew over by Socrates.”

  Kit’s brow knit. “Socrates?”

  Henry explained. “That big old weeping willow near the entrance to the graveyard.”

  “Mary made a nice dark ale this time,” Grace said. To Noah she added, “It’s not Glenfiddich, Doc, but I think you should be able to choke down a pint or two.”

  Kit seemed to tense, ever so slightly, and shot a strange look at Noah. His scalp prickled. He tried to find some significance in what Grace had said, but for the life of him, he couldn’t figure it out.

  Oblivious, Grace eyed Henry’s soda can. “Diet Coke? What’s wrong with you two? Get yourself a beer, Henry!” Apparently the women were exempt from the treasurer’s pugnacious brand of hospitality.

  A muscle ticked in Henry’s cheek. If Noah could have thought up a socially acceptable way to tell Grace to can it, he would have.

  Bettina spoke up, her voice flat. “Henry’s fine, Grace.” Grace half smiled at Bettina, as if itching to get into a verbal tussle with her. These two had had more than a few go-arounds, Noah knew.

  Henry blustered, “I’ll try some later, Grace.” He lifted his cup in a mock salute. “After this.”

  Noah wondered how long Henry would persist in trying to keep up appearances. In years past, he’d tossed back more than his share of anything alcoholic. The town MD was probably the only person aside from Bettina who knew why he’d stopped drinking. Henry was just too damn macho to make it public.

  “I don’t think you’ve met Kit Roarke, Grace,” Noah said. “Joanne Merino’s friend from Chicago.”

  Grace extended her hand, and Kit shook it. “I heard you were here, Kit.” She smiled. “No one escapes small-town gossip. I hope everyone’s been cooperative in helping you... settle Joanne’s affairs.”

  “Everyone’s been super.”

  “It was a terrible tragedy,” Grace said. “I called Mr. Merino and told him how sorry we all are.”

  Henry and Bettina assumed suitably sober expressions. Noah didn’t miss the silent exchange between them: Time to move on. Now they’d be looking for an opening to do just that.

  Kit’s pleasant expression seemed forced. “I’m sure Sal appreciated that.”

  Grace said, “I probably won’t see you again, so—”

  “Oh, I’ll be in Pratte all summer,” Kit interrupted, and seemed gratified at the universally wide-eyed response her announcement drew. She met Noah’s gaze, and he knew his reaction was the one she cared about. He wondered if her sharp eyes detected the niggling sense of foreboding behind his smile.

  Henry’s and Bettina’s unshuttered gazes collided like runaway locomotives. For a split second only, before both directed their eyes to their drinks. Just long enough for Noah to wonder if he’d imagined their distress.

  Kit explained, “I’ve been offered a teaching position at the Powell School, just for the summer, and I’ve decided to accept it.”

  “Well.” Grace quickly regained her magisterial aplomb. “I hope you enjoy your stay here, Kit.”

  Bettina made a show of waving to someone across the lawn. “Oh, there’s Larry, Henry’s new reporter. Let’s go make him welcome, shall we, love?”

  When they’d gone, Kit asked the treasurer, “Did you know Jo at all, Grace?”

  “Oh, sure, I saw her all the time at the health club.”

  Noah could tell by Kit’s little smile that she was recalling his assessment of Valkyrie’s high-powered clientele. She looked the treasurer in the eye. “Did you like Jo?”

  Grace hesitated briefly, her intelligent green eyes studying the younger woman. Something she saw made her admit, “Your friend and I didn’t see eye-to-eye on many issues, Kit.”

  “Issues related to her articles in the Citizen?”

  “That, yes, and... other things.”

  “Such as...?” Kit persisted.

  Grace stared at her a moment, then looked at Noah and back at Kit. “I suppose you know the real reason Joanne came to Pratte.”

  Kit seemed to come to attention at that.

  “And you’re surprised I do.” Grace smiled. She looked pointedly at Noah.

  “It’s okay,” Kit murmured. “He knows.” He knew she must be wondering if there was anyone in Pratte who didn’t know about Jo’s book.

  The treasurer was blunt. “I didn’t like her coming here to stir up trouble and make the whole mess public again, and I told her so.”

  “When was this?” Kit asked.

  Grace sighed. “The day before she died. At Valkyrie. I felt I had to try and stop her. You don’t know what a sensationalist book like that could do to Pratte.”

  “The tourist industry,” Kit said.

  The treasurer bristled. “Yes. Some of us have worked damn hard to make this town thrive, and I’m not ashamed of the tourism dollars we attract. Could you imagine what would happen if that book got published and those trashy TV magazines and movie-of-the-week people latched on to it?”

  Noah said, “I suppose that would depend on what kind of spin she gave the story. You know, if she came to any interesting conclusions.”

  Grace closed her eyes briefly, as if seeking divine guidance. “Good God, that case was laid to rest thirty-two years ago! If it weren’t for this true-crime craze nowadays, Joanne wouldn’t have bothered with us at all. She was trying to squeeze some excitement out of a nonstory. No one’s ever disputed Ray Whittaker’s guilt. He even confessed! “

  “Only to Henry David,” Kit said.

  That was true enough. Henry claimed Ray confessed to him, but Ray had officially protested his innocence, even when they exhumed Anita and found curare in her body. Noah could see how an outsider, looking back three decades later, might call into question Ray’s guilt. Only Noah knew for certain what the rest of the townsfolk correctly surmised: Ray Whittaker was guilty as sin.

  “What does that mean, ‘only to Henry’?” Grace demanded incredulously. “Who did Jo think murdered Anita David?”

  “I don’t know,” Kit admitted.

  “No one knows,” Noah reminded the treasurer. “You heard what happened, Grace. Jo’s computer was stolen, along with all her notes.” Grace nodded.

  “Honestly, I don’t think she was trying to rewrite history,” Kit protested. “She knew Ray killed Anita. I think she just wanted to tell their story. She wanted to get all the facts straight and write a great true-crime book. That’s all. She wasn’t looking to jazz up the story by pinning the murder on someone else.”

  Somehow, to Noah, Kit’s words lacked conviction. He didn’t think she believed them. He could have told her she had good reason not to.

  Grace sighed. “Well, I suppose we’ll never know exactly what she had in mind, will we?” Her voice softened, and she laid a hand on Kit’s forearm. “Don’t get me wrong, Kit. I’m horrified at what happened to Joanne. But I’d be lying if I said I’m sorry that book will never get written.”

  Kit nodded tightly and moved out of the treasurer’s light grasp. “How did you find out about it, anyway?”

  “Oh. Well, Joanne was very clever at quietly digging up the dirt she was looking for. But you’ve got to understand, I’m like the hub of the wheel in this town,” Grace said proudly. “I know everything that goes on. I caught wind of how she was snooping around, and I confronted her.”

  “At the health club,” Kit said.

  “Right. After the locker room had emptied out. Or at least, I thought it had,” Grace said, shooting an icy glare across the lawn to where the Davids chatted with a young couple. “As I left, I noticed Bettina David’s reflection in a mirror. She was behind a row of lockers, eavesdropping the whole time. I just prayed she wouldn’t blab it around town about the book, but it would see
m she’s kept her mouth shut. Thank God.”

  If Bettina knew about the book, then chances were Henry did, too, though he certainly hadn’t let on when Noah and Kit had spoken to him at his home. Suddenly Kit looked pale and weary, the way she had the first day he met her—as if she’d rather be anywhere else than here, listening to Pratte’s town treasurer yammer about how fortunate it was that her dead friend’s labor of love would never see the light of day. He took her arm.

  “Sorry, Grace, but I promised this lady a tour of the cemetery. Before it gets dark.” He shuddered dramatically, and Kit managed a weak smile. In the western sky a froth of clouds hovered over the distant hills, their undersides stained shrimp pink by the setting sun.

  “Well, don’t go too far,” Grace warned over her shoulder as she sauntered off. “You don’t want to miss the fireworks.”

  He escorted Kit across the lawn and past Socrates, the venerable old weeping willow, where a crowd congregated around the beer keg placed under its drooping branches. They continued past the squat stone fence into the cemetery. Timeworn stone markers cast long shadows on the well-tended grounds.

  “Thanks,” she murmured.

  Her quiet melancholy moved him, laying waste to his defenses, and he did what he’d avoided doing the past three days. He touched her, sliding his arm around her back, as if his warmth and strength could somehow seep into her and help ease her burdens. “Tact isn’t Grace’s strong suit,” he said.

  “I noticed. I think Henry did, too.”

  “Henry?”

  “When she was badgering him about having a beer. It reminded me of the other day, when we were at his place and he made such a show of offering me Cuervo for breakfast.”

  “While he had a diet soda.”

  “Right. What is he, a recovering alcoholic?”

  “Good guess, but you’re off. Actually, I don’t think alcoholism would bother Henry—at least, it wouldn’t clash with his macho self-image.”

  When he didn’t elaborate she said, “So? What’s wrong with him?”

  “Kit, the man’s my patient. I can’t discuss—”

  “Diabetic?” Her sharp eyes gauged his reaction before he could hide it. She nodded. “I thought so. Figured it was one or the other.”

  He smirked and squeezed her shoulder affectionately, her skin like sun-warmed silk under his fingers. “So much for doctor-patient confidences.”

  They strolled in silence for a while, idly examining the older headstones, those from the nineteenth century and earlier. Only one other person had had the same idea. Malcolm stood smack-dab on a grave, staring at the headstone, smoking and jangling the change in his pocket. He looked up as they approached.

  “Hello, Kathleen. Hello, Dr. Stewart.” If he was surprised to see them strolling together so intimately, he gave no indication.

  Noah looked down at Kit and mouthed, Kathleen? She answered with a don’t-ask smile. Malcolm gestured with his cigarette toward the stone he’d been studying. Noah watched Kit’s eyes widen as she read the name engraved there.

  Malcolm said, “Dr. Whittaker was thirty-six years, eleven months, and thirty days old when he died.”

  A long moment later Kit and Noah said, “Uh-huh” in unison.

  “If he’d hung on one more day, he would have been thirty-seven.” Malcolm shook his head and took a drag on his cigarette, staring intently at the marker as if, by doing so, he could change the dates engraved there three decades earlier.

  Noah couldn’t help observing, “But then Ray would’ve died on his birthday.” For whatever that was worth. “You really should try to stop smoking, Malcolm.”

  Malcolm tapped his ash onto the grave at his feet. “Mr. David and Joanne used to meet here.” He pointed to a tall monument near the perimeter of the cemetery. “Right there, actually. After dark.”

  Noah and Kit exchanged slack-jawed stares. Malcolm didn’t seem to notice. To him, his announcement obviously qualified as idle conversation.

  Malcolm continued, “I like it here. I come here a lot. Even in the winter. Sometimes other people are here and they don’t notice me.”

  Noah asked, “When was the last time you saw Henry and Jo here, Malcolm?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Twelve-fourteen a.m., May thirtieth. The moon was full and I saw them clearly.”

  Noah felt a shiver race through Kit as she glanced at the darkening sky, and he smiled, holding her tighter. She slipped her arm around his waist at last and absently stroked his side through his thin black T-shirt. He suppressed a moan of contentment, wondering if she instinctively knew how sensitive the skin was right there, over his ribs.

  Kit beat him to the leading question. “Joanne and Henry saw each other every day at work, Malcolm. Why would they meet here at night?”

  “Mr. David was her boyfriend, but she didn’t want anyone to know because he’s married to someone else.” He dropped his cigarette butt and ground it out on Ray’s grave.

  Noah had suspected Jo might’ve been involved with Henry, but he’d never known for sure. He still didn’t. This was Malcolm’s version of reality, after all. “Were they, um, hugging or kissing?”

  “No.”

  He exchanged a knowing look with Kit. “Well, then,” he said gently, “you really shouldn’t jump to conclusions, you know. It isn’t fair.”

  Malcolm stared fixedly at him. “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all right, Malcolm,” Noah said with a reassuring smile. “What were they doing?”

  “They were having sexual intercourse.”

  Claws gouged Noah’s side where Kit’s fingers had been. He flinched, sucking in a breath. “Oh,” he managed to say, while gently disengaging her death grip. “Uh-huh. I see.” Malcolm said goodbye and strolled toward the stone fence.

  “I will never get used to that guy,” Noah said.

  “Good thing they weren’t kissing or hugging, huh?” Kit smirked.

  “Well, that answers your question about who Jo was seeing.”

  She sighed and walked a little away from him, staring off toward Jo and Henry’s trysting place. “It answers part of the question, anyway. If you knew Joanne.”

  Part of the question? “You think she was gettin’ it from more than one guy?”

  She turned then, her eyes sparkling. “ ‘Gettin’ it’? Why, what a vulgar term for a nice southern gentleman like you.”

  “I’d say sexual intercourse in a boneyard at the witching hour qualifies as ‘gettin’ it.’ “

  She conceded the point with a tip of her head and looked toward the east, where the deep-blue sky had given way to charcoal. Noah warbled an eerie Ow-oo-oo-oo-oo to make her smile. She did, but it was a sad smile, and then she came back to him and lifted her hand to his cheek. Her fingers felt cool and soft, and her thumb absently stroked his beard stubble. Her eyes were dark as ink in the twilight. Wide and solemn. They penetrated his as if she could see his every secret. As if she could see Ray.

  “You were the one with her that day,” she said, so softly it was nearly a whisper. “When she called my answering machine that last time from Etta’s kitchen.”

  Noah’s breath snagged and he let it out slowly, never breaking eye contact. She’d figured out that part. But how? “Kit—”

  Her thumb brushed his lips, willing him to silence, and he closed his eyes. To keep her out. For her own sake or his, at this point he couldn’t say. Still he leaned into the caress, ever so slightly. Her hand smelled like her. He parted his lips and gently closed them over the pad of her thumb.

  And Ray shook the bars of his cage and threatened to bring down the ceiling.

  He forced himself to look at her. “Kit, listen to—”

  “I believed you when you told me it wasn’t you, Noah. I believed you.” Her voice was a tear-choked whisper. An accusation. She stared at him as if she’d never seen him before. “She was so scared. What did you do to her?”

  Dear God, I wish I knew.

  He stood mute, and she reached up to his
shoulders and tried to shake him. “Answer me, dammit! What did you do to her?”

  Noah seized her wrists, and she tried to wrench out of his grasp. She fought him wildly, her hair whipping her face and his. He forced her arms behind her back and tripped her legs out from under her, holding her tight as he hauled her down to the cool grass. There he sat, shackling her slim wrists behind her with one hand and pressing her head against his chest with the other. He trapped her legs under his bent knee.

  She bucked and twisted, sobbing uncontrollably. Her soft breasts were crushed against his chest, and he could clearly feel her shuddering breaths and the fierce tattoo of her heartbeat.

  “Don’t fight me, Kit. Don’t fight me,” he rasped. But she did, with a savagery born, he knew, of her grief and confusion. He kissed her hair and stroked it. Whispered her name over and over.

  Ray reached a long arm through the bars of his cage and slid his fingers into the mahogany strands. And Noah pulled him back. Through sheer force of will he held back the thing inside him, trembling with the effort. Her struggles lured Ray out, as if the beast could smell her fear and helplessness.

  It seemed like forever until Kit finally ran out of fight and sagged against him, exhausted. He released her wrists and drew her arms in front of her. Tenderly he stroked her disheveled hair off her damp face and tipped her chin up in the fading half-light. Her eyes were closed, and as he pressed a kiss to each soft eyelid, she trembled. He licked her salty tears from his lips.

  He cradled her like a child, rocking her gently. “Kit... I hurt for you. God, I hurt for you, darlin’.”

  Her whisper was so quiet he had to put his ear close to her mouth to make out the words. She clutched his shirt. “She was so scared, Noah. And I couldn’t do anything for her. I was too late to do anything for her.”

  And he understood that her pain came from a sense of her own failure. As did his own. He opened his mouth to utter some banal platitude, then closed it again. How could he reassure her when his own guilt gnawed away at him from the inside?