Don

by Carlene Thompson

  "No."

  "Told you. Did you tell your dad what we saw at the Saunders house?"

  "Are you kidding? First I'd get grounded for life because of sneaking out and going to that place. Then he'd lock me up for being crazy. He'd never believe what we saw last night. No grownup would."

  "That's why I've got another plan."

  Paige groaned inwardly. Jimmy and his plans. "What now?"

  "We go back-"

  "Go back! Are you completely nuts?"

  "Let me finish. We go back with a camera! A Polaroid so we don't have to wait for the film to be developed. We take a picture of that thing in the house. Then we show your dad."

  "A picture?"

  "It's the only way to get proof."

  Paige thought, gnawing her lower lip. "Well, it would be proof, but I don't know about going back there…"

  "Look, I know you're scared because you're a girl-"

  "I'm not scared because I'm a girl! I'm not scared at all!"

  "Okay, okay, don't wet your pants." Paige caught her breath. Had he seen her wet jeans last night after all? No. It was just an expression. "So you're not scared," Jimmy went on. "Fine. You just don't want to get caught, so I'll take my dad's camera and say I was there all by myself. I won't even mention you. That way you can be in on the action without getting in trouble."

  "You'd do that for me?" Paige asked.

  "Yeah. We're partners. Partners cover for each other."

  Paige was thrilled. Jimmy thought of her as his partner! She was frightened to go back out to Ariel Saunders's house, terrified of seeing that awful creature again, but if she didn't, Jimmy might no longer think of her as his partner. That was even worse than being scared silly.

  "So are you coming with me?" Jimmy asked.

  "Of course," she answered with cool assurance she didn't feel.

  "Good, because we have to do something," he said dramatically. "There's a killer in that house, a madman, and we're the only ones who know about it."

  Seven o'clock the previous evening Natalie finally had called Lily at Oliver's house. "Natalie, my sister was murdered," Lily had wailed. "Her throat was cut. And that note-the one about the throats and an open tomb-the sheriff thinks that was left on her body by the killer. But you knew that, didn't you? That's why you took the note from me. You knew my sister had been murdered. How?"

  "I didn't know, I just suspected. How are things at home?"

  "It's so strange around here," Lily had said. "Dad is alternately raging or morose. And of course we've been graced with the presence of Viveca and Alison. I should be grateful. Viveca has a calming effect on Dad, but her syrupy concern drives me up the wall. And Alison! I don't know how someone manages to be so creepy by doing so little. If Dad marries Viveca and Alison Cosgrove becomes my stepsister-"

  "Don't worry about that now."

  "I can't help it." Lily's voice raced and shook. "She is just madly in love with Warren. Or whatever she thinks love is. She looks like she wants to tear off his clothes every time she glances at him. It's sickening. I used to tell Tam that Alison was fixated on Warren, but Tam didn't believe me. At least she pretended not to believe me. Even her innocent eyes couldn't have missed Alison nearly drooling over Warren now, though. And don't tell me I'm imagining things!"

  "I wasn't going to say anything. Good heavens, Lily, don't get mad at me because you don't like Viveca and Alison."

  "I'm not. I just wish they'd go home. For good."

  "How's Warren doing?"

  Lily had drawn a fresh breath and swept on at breakneck speed. "He seems lost but not out of shock or grief. It's like he's feeling his way along, deciding how he should act based on our reactions. It isn't normal, Nat! Something is wrong where he's concerned. His wife has been murdered, for God's sake, and he just watches my father like a little boy waiting to get yelled at!" She had paused. "If you ask me, it's guilt."

  "Guilt for what?"

  "That's the question. Guilt for not loving my sister? Or guilt for something worse? Nat, maybe he murdered her!"

  Lily had gotten on a dangerous track. Natalie changed directions. "Do you need any help tomorrow? I know Warren will handle the funeral arrangements-"

  "No, he won't!" Lily had burst out. "He said he'd leave everything up to Dad and me because we'd do a better job. Better job my ass! The creep just doesn't want to be bothered!"

  "Lily, you're really wired," Natalie had said gently. "I'm having my father phone in a prescription for tranquilizers. They'll be delivered and you will take one."

  "I don't want-"

  "I don't care what you want. You sound like you're going to start screaming."

  "My sister has been murdered!'

  "I know. I'm not criticizing you. I'm just saying you're falling apart. I want you to take a tranquilizer and try to get some sleep," Natalie had said firmly. "I'll do anything I can to help you with the funeral arrangements tomorrow. Deal?"

  "Okay, deal," Lily had said resignedly. "Thank you, Natalie."

  After she hung up, Natalie had thought of how strong, how assured she'd sounded. But she didn't feel strong and assured. She was shaken and afraid she wouldn't be the help Lily needed so desperately.

  After the call had come her dream, her panic attack, and her frightening trip to The Blue Lady pavilion. After Nick

  Meredith rescued her, then lectured her, he had dropped her off at her house, and she'd hoped her father would not be awake. As she tiptoed down the hall, she'd heard him snoring. Thank God. She could never explain this exploit to him. She had immediately unloaded her gun and locked it back in the suitcase. Then she spent the rest of the night awake, coldly shaken by her encounter with someone claiming to be Tam, someone saying they wanted to kill her. What in the world was going on? Who would impersonate Tamara? Who would continue taunting her knowing she was armed?

  The next morning Lily called at nine. Natalie had not gotten a moment's sleep. "Still want to help me today?" Lily asked.

  "Certainly." Natalie tried to sound alert and as chipper as possible although her eyelids felt heavy. "What do you need for me to do?"

  "Well, there's the matter of Tam's clothes. Will you go with me to her house and help me pick out an outfit for burial? And I need to go to the florist to select a blanket for the coffin-" Her voice broke.

  "Lily-"

  "I'm okay. I stayed at Dad's last night. The tranquilizer helped. I got a little sleep." She took a deep breath. "I left my car with you so would you mind picking me up?"

  "Actually, I can't drive a four-speed. I left your car at Tamara's and Sheriff Meredith drove me home. I'll pick you up, then you can get your car at Tam's."

  Lily emerged from the Peyton home before Natalie could even honk the horn. When she got in the car, she didn't look like the same lovely, jaunty woman who had picked up Natalie for lunch less than twenty-four hours earlier. Her blond hair hung sleep-flat, her skin was pale, and her eyelids were puffy from crying. She wore jeans and a light shell-pink sweater but no makeup and no jewelry.

  Lily didn't need any more worries. "You told me you slept, but you don't look like it," Natalie said gently.

  "I slept a couple of hours near morning. I remember it was just starting to get light. Dad stayed up all night listening to music. 'Clair de Lune' again and again. It was Tam's favorite song. She used to ice skate to it when we were kids." She scrutinized Natalie. "You're not looking so well yourself."

  Natalie longed to tell Lily about what happened at The Blue Lady. Even during the years when they'd lived in different towns, she'd always called Lily to discuss anything exciting or upsetting. But what could she possibly say? "I went to the pavilion last night and your dead sister talked to me. Actually, she quoted the. Bible and told me she wanted me to be with her"?

  "God, Nat, what's going through your mind?" Lily asked sharply. "The look on your face… What's happened?"

  "Nothing. I'm just tired."

  "You're more than tired. You look scared to death."


  She'd been terrified last night and she was still frightened today, but she couldn't tell Lily the truth. Sharing would be a relief for her, but knowing someone was pretending to be her murdered sister would be horrifying to Lily. Natalie wouldn't put her through more suffering. "Yesterday was a big shock for me, too, and I couldn't sleep so I tried to calm myself down with alcohol. I drank too much," she lied. "I felt sick for a moment, but I'm okay now." Lily continued to stare at her skeptically and she changed the subject. "Are you sure Warren won't mind us taking over the funeral arrangements?"

  "I told you-"

  "I know. You think he doesn't give a damn."

  "When you see him, you'll know what I mean."

  But Lily looked surprised when they reached the house. Warren opened the door, a hollow-eyed figure wearing an old sweatshirt and a day's growth of beard. He held a coffee mug. The coffee smelled like espresso. Warren smelled like gin. Clearly he'd put in a hard night.

  "Lily, Natalie," he said expressionlessly, his shadowed eyes bloodshot. "Thank you for coming to help with Tamara's clothes. I wouldn't have the faintest idea what she should wear. Would you two like some coffee?"

  "I would." Natalie didn't really want coffee but preparing a cup for her would send Warren out of the room. When he disappeared into the kitchen, she turned to Lily. "He looks fairly bad to me, Lily."

  "Obviously he didn't sleep. And he drank too much, also. But I still don't believe he's feeling real grief."

  "Lily the mind reader."

  "Well, can't you see that he doesn't care?"

  "No."

  "You don't know him as well as I do."

  Natalie sighed. "Lily, please, just don't give him a hard time today. Tamara wouldn't want you to."

  "I'd intended to say as little as possible to the jerk."

  Warren reappeared with the coffee and Lily and Natalie went directly upstairs to the master bedroom. A few delicate floral watercolors hung on the creamy white walls and a quilt with a wildflower pattern in pink, peach, yellow, and green covered the king-sized bed. "Beautiful quilt, isn't it?" Lily said almost to herself. "Tam made it, of course. She was so much more artistic than I am."

  "You got the business sense." Natalie opened the closet door. "And the fashion sense. Help me pick out an outfit."

  Tamara's wardrobe bore little resemblance to Lily's. All her summer clothes were muted tones, her winter in gray, black, or navy blue. "My sister didn't own one piece of red clothing," Lily said, shaking her head slowly. "Mom's influence. She wanted Tam and me to look like little nuns. Tam, as always, wanted to please. I, as always, rebelled."

  "You each wore what was right for your personality."

  Lily thumped down on the bed. "Damn it, Natalie, will you stop sounding so reasonable and placid? I'm not going to fly into a million pieces if you show a little emotion. I am going to jump up and down and scream if you don't."

  Natalie turned away from the closet. "I'm sorry if I'm annoying you. I don't know how to act. I don't want to do anything to make things worse for you."

  "You couldn't possibly make things worse except by acting like some impassive woman I don't know. I need my good old emotional, expressive Natalie right now."

  "Okay. I'll be emotional and expressive. I won't be old."

  Lily grinned. "That's more like it." She screwed up her face. "How about that powder-blue suit by your right hand? I know it doesn't really matter because the casket will be closed given the state of her face, but she liked that suit. We'll put Mom's pearls with it."

  Natalie hesitated. "The suit is perfect, but the pearls? They were a birthday present from your father and they're worth a fortune."

  "I took Mom's diamond earrings. The pearls are Tam's."

  "Your mother wanted one of you to wear the pearls. She wouldn't have liked for them to be buried forever."

  "Do you have a direct line to the afterlife?" Lily asked half humorously. "First you know Tam wants me to be kind to Warren. Now you know Mom wants me to have Tam's pearls. Did you stay up all night communing with the dead?"

  "Lily!" Warren said severely from the doorway. "Have a little respect for your sister. This is no time for jokes."

  "It's exactly the time for jokes," Lily snapped. "If we don't laugh, we'll cry." She paused. "At least some of us will."

  Warren 's eyes narrowed. "And what does that mean?"

  "Nothing," Natalie intervened. "Could you call the florist and tell her we'll be there soon? I don't suppose you want to go with us, do you?"

  "No. I don't know anything about flowers. I don't even like them. I think we should ask for donations to the suicide hotline in lieu of flowers."

  "Tam loved flowers and she didn't give a damn about the suicide hotline," Lily fired back.

  Warren looked incensed. "There you go, giving all the orders as usual. You see, Natalie, this is why I'm not getting involved in the funeral arrangements." He turned and stalked downstairs.

  "Lily, Tamara organized the suicide hotline," Natalie said.

  "She only organized it to please Warren. Writing grant applications, making public pleas for donations, was pure misery for her. Besides, I want her to have flowers," Lily fumed. " Warren just wants to stick her in the ground as quickly and cheaply as possible." Good lord, Natalie thought. Were all funerals so fraught with familial antagonism?

  "Okay, you can fill the funeral home to the roof with flowers, but please try to get along with Warren for the next few days."

  "No. I hate him."

  "Lily, you sound like a petulant five-year-old."

  Lily ignored her and Natalie could have been angry with her if she hadn't known the petulance was simply a manifestation of unbearable grief. While Lily seethed on the bed, Natalie finished assembling clothing for Tamara, insisting that the pearls be excluded. She placed everything in a shopping bag.

  Lily took one last look around the room. Her gaze lingered on a silver-framed wedding picture of Tamara and Warren. In the photo Tamara looked young, lovely, and unsure of herself. Warren smirked-impeccably handsome and self-satisfied. "It was a beautiful wedding," she said softly. "Tam thought Warren was so wonderful then."

  "She thought Warren was wonderful until the day she died," Natalie said softly. "She was happy, Lily. Warren did not make her miserable."

  "I guess you're right. I don't like him and I don't trust him, but Tam loved him. I just hope he was worth her love."

  The phone rang once. Warren must have picked it up. "We're ready to go," Natalie said. "They'll be expecting us at the florist's."

  She descended the stairs first. The lush carpet muffled her footsteps. When she reached the bottom, she saw Warren sitting in an armchair with the phone receiver in his hand. His head was slightly lowered, his face turned away from the stairs. "I can't. Not today. Not for several days," he said. Something in his tone made Natalie freeze. After a brief pause he went on. "I don't want you to come to the funeral. You weren't friends with Tamara. It might look suspicious." Silence. "I need to see you, too, but-" Silence again, then a sigh. "All right. Tonight." He glanced up and saw Natalie. A burgundy stain bloomed across his face. "I must go now," he said formally. "Thank you for your condolences."

  After he hung up, Natalie glanced behind her. Lily stood there, rigid, her hazel eyes simmering with hatred.

  Nick Meredith swiveled his desk chair around and looked out the office window. Another beautiful, crystal-clear day in Port Ariel, where the air was pure, the scenery spectacular, the crime rate low. He'd spent his childhood in a tough Bronx neighborhood where learning how to fight was essential for survival. When he was twenty, his younger brother had been stabbed to death on a street corner. Fifteen years later his wife Meagan had been shot to death in a liquor store. So he'd left New York City and brought his little girl to a place that was safe, a place where murder was nearly unheard of…

  Until now.

  Not all the toxicology reports on Tamara Hunt had come back yet, but Nick didn't really consider them important. Som
eone dragging a razor-sharp, smooth-bladed knife across her slender neck had killed Tamara Peyton Hunt. According to the preliminary M.E. report, she bore a three-inch single incised wound at the base of her neck, directed backward, medially and downward. The carotid artery and external and internal jugular veins had been severed. Bruising appeared around the throat, indicating that the victim had been grabbed from behind and held while the fatal wound was administered. The state of rigor placed the time of death between eight and ten p.m. the previous evening. The pattern of lividity showed that the body had not been moved. There were no signs of sexual assault and no skin had been retrieved from beneath the victim's fingernails. Human hair not belonging to the victim had not been recovered, although ca nine hair was found on the hands and around the neck.

  And, finally, Tamara Peyton Hunt had been eight weeks pregnant.

  Nick remembered when his wife Meagan had told him she was expecting. She'd been finishing her master's degree in English. He'd just made detective second grade. He'd been at work when she called and said abruptly, "Nick, you're going to be a father," then hung up. He'd immediately called home, but there had been no answer. When he arrived back at the apartment for dinner, Meagan was furiously stirring a pot of spaghetti sauce. She'd looked at him almost fearfully with her big brown eyes. Then she saw the yellow roses and the bottle of sparkling cider topped by a bow he carried, and she'd burst into happy tears.

  He hadn't told her how much he wanted a child because he knew becoming a college professor was so important to her. He didn't want her to feel pressured to interrupt her education. He later learned she hadn't talked about how much she wanted a child because he was the eldest of seven children. She thought he was sick of kids and she didn't want him to feel pressured. But the day Paige was born was the happiest of their marriage.

  Had Tamara Hunt wanted this baby as much as Meagan had wanted Paige? From everything Nick had heard about her, she had. Desperately. How about her husband? Warren Hunt seemed more of a mystery than his wife was. Everyone they'd questioned had wonderful things to say about Tamara. They talked about her sweetness, her generosity, her devotion to her husband. No one seemed willing to volunteer much about Dr. Hunt except that he seemed to have a fairly successful practice and he dressed well. Glowing comments, Nick thought wryly.