No, Ethan, no ….
She tried to think of a way to warn him, but the other two had moved into action. The gun didn’t waver from its focus on her, and Jonathan’s expression told her he wasn’t feeling ashamed at all at the moment. “Don’t make a sound. Don’t move.”
“I know how to get him out of here,” Reardon was saying. “He’s not going to want to see her with anyone else—everyone in town knows his first wife screwed him over.”
“I can’t be seen here,” Jonathan said sharply. “And your car is out there because I drove here in hers.” He turned a tight smile on Diana. “You’d better do exactly as I say, or your boyfriend’s going to be the next casualty.”
She heard the slam of a car door as Jonathan dragged her out of the den, ignoring her stumbling feet and weak knees, into Belinda’s bedroom. He shoved her toward the bed and she fell onto it. “Make it good, Diana. Put a little effort into it for once. Or I’ll put one of these into your boyfriend’s head.”
She was shaking and still weak from the drug, but she watched as Jonathan slipped behind the long curtains across the room. She could see the barrel of the gun between the curtain and the wall, aimed right at the open bedroom door. He’d have a perfect shot at Ethan.
Reardon had unbuttoned his shirt and slid onto the bed next to her just as she heard Ethan calling from the front. “Diana?”
He’d wonder about Marc Reardon’s car being parked out there next to hers. And he’d walk in.
And then she couldn’t think of anything else as Reardon yanked her shirt open. Buttons scattered and the next thing she knew, her bra was unfastened and he was pulling her on top of him in a straddle position.
“Make it look good, darling,” he murmured, sliding a hand up and over her shoulder while another held her firmly at the hips. “Lean down and kiss me like the little slut you are.”
“Diana?” Ethan’s voice was closer, sharper, and then she heard the front door open...and close. Footsteps. “Diana!”
She was cold and shaking, and she looked over at Jonathan. He caught her eyes from behind the curtains and she saw the cold determination in his face. Swallowing hard, she placed her hand on Reardon’s bare chest and as those steps came closer, she closed her eyes and bent forward.
“Don’t worry,” Reardon murmured, “I’m just as revolted as you are.” Nevertheless, a warm hand slid down over her breast and gave her nipple a sharp tweak. She gasped in surprise and pain and then his eyes became slits. “Make it good, Diana.”
She swallowed back the rush of nausea and revulsion and moved closer, forcing her mouth to touch his. He kissed her back, his lips dry and smooth and she nearly gagged, but didn’t move away.
The footsteps stopped abruptly. She heard a sound in the doorway—something guttural and low and agonized, and she couldn’t control herself. She jolted upright, turning to look. Reardon released her, but it was too late.
Ethan was gone.
The front door slammed, the house shaking in its wake.
She heard the squealing, grinding of a key turned too far in the truck’s engine, then the terrible pealing sound as Ethan sped away down the stone drive.
And then Diana was left alone with two murderers.
* * *
Ethan felt nothing.
He slowed the crazy careening of his truck to one of a normal speed and drove up to his cabin. He kept his mind blank. He couldn’t feel his fingers or his legs.
Hell. Cady wasn’t even here to greet him, to comfort him. She was still with Joe Cap.
Ethan had come to see his other lady first thing on his arrival. And look what changing his loyalties had gotten him. Look what the thought of surprising her had done.
He slammed the door of the truck a little harder than necessary and let himself into the cabin. Closed the exterior door with a bit too much force.
He walked into the living room, into the kitchen, yanked out the bottle of Scotch he kept on hand, and poured himself a nice healthy drink. And then he stared down into the golden liquid, realized his hands were shaking and he felt like puking, and whipped the glass across the room.
It shattered against the fireplace with a short, vehement sound.
How the hell could this happen to me again? What the hell have I ever done to deserve this?
God, Diana. How could he have been so wrong about her?
When he found out about Jenny, he’d drunk himself into a stupor for a few nights. He’d been enraged. He’d been sleepless. Then he’d gone on a revenge bender, hitting the bars and taking a different woman home each time.
But this time, he felt nothing. Hollow, empty, numb.
He wasn’t going to fall apart this time. He was going to be cool with it. He was going to handle it.
The phone rang and he couldn’t bring himself to answer it. He stood, arms hanging loosely at his sides, listening as the ringer bleeped and then his answering machine came on.
“Ethan. Got your text. Don’t worry about picking up Cady tonight. We’ll keep her until you get here. Have fun.” Joe Cap’s voice had a bit of a sly tone to it and Ethan suddenly wanted to fling the answering machine across the room.
But he was good. He was cool. He could handle this.
The answering machine disconnected with a short beep and he walked aimlessly into the living room. Picked up the remote control with shaking fingers. Turned it on. Swallowed the ball of concrete that settled in his throat. Fought back the desire to puke.
The phone rang again.
Ethan turned off the TV. Dropped the remote. And listened to the rings, his greeting once more, and then Joe Cap’s voice came on. “Me again. Wanted you to know there was an incident yesterday at Diana’s house. Her boyfr—her ex-boyfriend was there and it didn’t look very cozy. She seemed upset. I made sure he left. Just thought you should know.”
Yeah. She was probably really upset that Wertinger might see her with Reardon.
A sudden thought seized Ethan. An ugly, uncomfortable one.
If she was seeing Reardon, everyone in town would know.
They’d all know Ethan had been screwed over again. Cuckolded. What a stupid word. Cuckolded.
Hell. Even Joe would know. God. And Helen Galliday. Aw, Christ.
And the last thing Ethan wanted was pity.
Which meant he couldn’t hide here and sulk. He had to go out and act like nothing happened. Like it had been a mutual thing. Like he didn’t give a flying fuck.
He rubbed his eyes, unwilling to acknowledge that the dampness there was related to grief and pain. Nope. Ethan Tannock had no reason for tears.
FOURTEEN
It took every ounce of fortitude Ethan possessed to walk into the Grille. It was after eight on a Thursday evening, but late enough in the tourism season that it wasn’t overly crowded—a fact for which he was immensely grateful. But that, of course, meant not only would it be filled with regulars, it would also be easier to notice anyone else who might come in—Diana and Reardon, for example.
He felt ill at the thought of seeing them here together, but he told himself to buck up. As was his habit, he strolled to the bar and taking a seat at the counter he waited for a bustling Mirabella to notice him. She was wearing aqua and orange today, and her hair was back to a spun gold bouffant. She slid a couple plates in front of customers at the other end of the bar then pivoted and saw him.
“Ethan, honey, what’s wrong?” She was at his end of the counter in a millisecond.
He blinked and forced an easy smile. “Nothing’s wrong, Bella. Everything’s great. Just got in from Princeton and knew I had to come here right away to get fed.” He patted his stomach and tried to look hungry.
“Don’t lie to me, young man,” she said flatly. “I’ve never seen you look like this. Did someone die?” she asked, her voice going soft and empathetic.
Did someone die? Pretty much. But he just shook his head, suddenly not trusting himself to speak. Christ. What a mess.
Bella seemed to unders
tand and she didn’t say another word as she snagged a heavy mug and pulled the lever to fill it with Blue Moon. Setting it in front of him, she turned to holler back into the kitchen, “Tommy! Get your buns out here!”
Ethan took a drink and his stomach rebelled, so he made it a short sip and put the glass down. Just great. I can’t get plastered either.
Just as Tommy came out of the back, wiping his meaty hands on a stained white apron, the door to the restaurant opened and the quilting ladies flooded in. Oh Christ. What next?
Ethan tried to look unobtrusive, but Tommy and Bella were standing on the other side of the counter (she was telling him about Ethan looking like hell—as if he weren’t sitting there, looking like hell) and of course Helen Galliday wasn’t about to let a conversation go uninterrupted.
She stomped over, her cane working furiously, shouting as she came. “Ethan Tannock! You’re back two days early,” she said in accusation. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to eat,” he managed to say. “What do you think?”
Helen wagged her head in clear irritation. “That’s a pile of bunk if I ever heard one. Look at you, you look like you’re gonna hork all over the place if’n anyone put something edible in front of you. Martha! Rose!” she screeched across the room. “What’re you waitin’ for? Get over here! We’ve got problems. I tol’ you we had problems. And where the blazes is Pauline when I need her? Playing her danged Scrabble game, I allow,” Helen complained.
Ethan would have found her use of the slang term amusing if he hadn’t actually felt like horking. As it was, he could do nothing but try to smile and brush off the questions from Tommy and Bella as the other ladies gathered around him in a cloud of rosewater and polyester.
What was it again that he liked about Damariscotta? It sure as hell wasn’t the privacy.
“Where’s Diana?” asked blind old Martha Woden, peering around the restaurant as if the woman might materialize at any moment.
Something must have shown in his face, for Bella’s hand slammed down over his on the counter. “Where’s Diana?” she asked, looking sharply at him.
Damn. He’d never seen the resemblance between her and his middle school English teacher, but he did now. “Why would I know?” he replied, eyeing the tall Blue Moon with a combination of trepidation and desire.
“What d’you mean, why would you know?” Helen latched onto that like a teen-ager with a Penthouse centerfold. Her beady eyes were right there, boring into Ethan’s. As the other ladies moved in closer, he felt as if he’d been cornered by a herd of feral cats. “You and she’ve been bonking each other for more’n a month now, ain’t you? Don’t tell me you’ve done something stupid and got her all mad at you.”
So much for playing it cool. “I just saw her,” he said flatly. His voice was way rough. “With Marc Reardon.”
“She was talking to Dr. Reardon?” Martha asked querulously, peering at him from behind her glasses. “About her headaches?”
“I don’t think they were talking,” Bella said grimly. She hadn’t released Ethan’s hand and now she patted it comfortingly. “Drink up, hon. There’s another one waitin’ for you when you’re ready.” Then she spun to Tommy. “Damn good thing I never caught you with your hand down Felicia Nooney’s shirt, baby, or you’d be regretting the loss of me to this very day.”
“You know damn well I never had my hand down her shirt. I was too afraid of you.” But Tommy’s booming laugh sounded hollow and he slapped his wife on the ass. “Gotta get back in the kitchen. Send him in to me if he needs to talk to a man,” he added with a bracing look at Ethan.
“What do you mean you saw her with Dr. Reardon?” Helen shouted into his ear. “Doing what?” Her mouth had tightened into a small, wrinkled O and for once, her cane wasn’t moving.
“I saw her. With. Reardon. With him,” Ethan added for emphasis. “And they weren’t talking. At all.” He blocked the image of a half-dressed Diana straddling the lean, handsome doctor, her hand on his bare chest, him murmuring something up into her ear. Don’t fucking go there.
“That’s impossible,” Helen screeched. “Are you saying they were—bonking?”
“Shut up, Helen,” Bella snapped, looking as angry as Ethan had ever seen her. “Can’t you tell he’s miserable? For once, just keep your thoughts—”
“Now listen here, missy,” Helen said, her eyes flashing as she thrust her chin belligerently at Mirabella. “You just be quiet for one minute and let me say something—”
“You’ve said quite enough already,” Bella fumed. “Now if you don’t go sit over at your table and leave off Ethan here, I’m going to—”
“But isn’t Dr. Reardon gay?” Martha said in a stage whisper.
Ethan spun to look at her as Helen cried in triumph, “That’s just what I was trying to tell you, if you hadn’t been flapping your jaws! Marc Reardon is as gay as the Maine winter is cold. There’s no way on this side of the grass he was doing what you thought he was doing. He wouldn’t touch Diana. You, maybe,” she added with an arch look at Ethan, “but not a woman. Something else is going on here,” she said, shaking an arthritic finger at him. “I’ve suspected him all along. And we’ve gotta do something. Or I think your Diana is gonna be in some kind of trouble.”
And her cane started moving again. “Give me the phone, Mirabella,” she ordered, and held out her claw-like hand. “I got an idea.”
* * *
Bound with ace bandages to a chair in Aunt Bee’s kitchen, Diana already knew she was in trouble. It was the way Jonathan kept looking at her, with an expression that made her go even colder than she already was.
She’d managed to pull her ruined shirt back on when they forced her out of the bedroom—“This place gives me the creeps,” Jonathan had said, looking around the room—and into the kitchen. But her blouse had no buttons and it sagged open as she sat with her wrists tied to the arms of the chair, and her ankles fixed to its legs.
“What do you want from me?” she asked. “What are you going to do?”
“Ah, are we back to this inane interrogation again?” Reardon asked. “I’ll give you three guesses, and the first two don’t count.” He smiled, adjusting the cuffs of the shirt he’d rebuttoned.
“Stop with the games,” Jonathan snapped. “I assume you read the letter from your aunt,” he said, looking at her. “What did it say? Did it mention me?”
“Do you mean you didn’t read it yourself?” Diana retorted. “You kept it long enough.”
“Ah, she’s got some spirit back,” Reardon said with approval. “That’s good. That’ll keep things a little more interesting.” Just then a soft buzzing sound made him clap his hand to his waist. He pulled his beeper free and looked at it. “Damn. An emergency. Not good timing. Or...maybe it is,” he said, with a quick glance at Jonathan. “I’ll have an alibi and you’re not supposed to be here in town. You can take care of this all while I’m gone, after it gets too dark for anyone to see the smoke. This is good.” He reached for the ugly black phone and dialed a number.
Diana opened her mouth to scream but saw the gun in Jonathan’s hand again. “I suggest you remain silent for the time being.”
Moments later, Reardon hung up the phone, looking annoyed. “Chest pains presenting up at the Grille. Probably indigestion, with the greasy food they serve there. I hope to hell it’s Helen Galliday,” he added with a sneer. “I’ll give her a hand and make sure it’s fatal. I was going to diagnose her with ALS, but this would be better.” He laughed. “I’ll make an appearance and be back later, when it’s dark. Maybe you can get her to tell you where Belinda’s journal is. Or anything else incriminating.”
“If you’d found it the multiple times you searched before, we wouldn’t have to burn the damn place down,” Jonathan said.
Reardon left, whistling jauntily, and Jonathan turned to Diana. “Well,” he said, sitting at the table across from her. His eyes traveled down over her gaping shirt. “This is a little awkward.”
> She bit out a short, sharp laugh. “Really? Is that all you have to say?”
“I didn’t intend for things to happen this way,” he said, real sincerity in his voice. “But at this point, I have no choice.”
“You keep saying that, but you always have a choice, Jonathan,” she said, trying not to sound too desperate. But she was. Desperate. What was going to happen when it was dark? Was there any way to reason with him? He wasn’t a killer; she knew it. He was just...misguided. Frightened.
“No, I’m afraid I don’t. The mob’s going to kill me, and Merkovitz is tight with them, too. Your dumping his case made things very difficult for me. Either way, I have neither the desire to die nor to spend the rest of my life in prison for first-degree murder.”
“You killed Aunt Belinda?” she whispered. “I thought...I assumed it was Marc.”
“I came up for a little visit under the guise of getting to know my fiancée’s closest relative and planning a surprise visit for you, and after a nice cup of tea, I sneaked back later that night and introduced her to a cloth with chloroform and a pillow. She didn’t fight...much.” He gave a little shudder. “Being back in that room today wasn’t the best experience, but what’s done is done.” He shrugged. “I’m really sorry that you’re going to have to go as well, Diana.”
She shook her head, fear causing nausea to burn the back of her throat. “Let me go, Jonathan. That’ll help you get a plea deal. I’ll talk to the D.A. This was all Reardon’s idea, his plan, his direction—you were frightened and in danger and you felt you had no choice but to comply. He was blackmailing you, I’m sure. And—”
“That’s a nice idea, but, no, that’s not how it’s going to go. Even a plea deal, even if I give them Cameron Darr, will put me in prison for years. It’s first-degree murder. No, I’ve got a better idea. Thanks to Reardon’s quick thinking, and your boyfriend’s eyewitness report, when they find your burned body next to Marc Reardon, it’ll look like an electrical fire caught two trysting lovers off-guard in the middle of the night. Then I won’t have to worry about Reardon rolling over on me and getting his own deal. And...when they figure out that Reardon is Cameron Darr, and that you dumped me for him, it’ll be clear that the two of you helped your aunt to an early death. And why.”
Dark Secrets: A Paranormal Romance Anthology Page 28
