The Cards of Life and Death (Modern Gothic Romance 2)

by Colleen Gleason

  It surprised her how readily her body answered to his touch, how quickly she became hot and damp. And when he eased himself closer, fitting together with her, Diana pushed away lingering sleepiness and opened her eyes to enjoy.

  Some time later, the sun blazed brightly through the window and she woke once again. This time, with wakefulness came uncertainty and regret. Hesitation and distance.

  As if sensing this, even though she hadn’t moved or spoken, Ethan opened his eyes and all at once they were gaze-locked. Close, so close, she couldn’t hide what was surely in her expression.

  “Regrets already?” he asked, his voice mild but his body easing back. His eyes dipped into wariness and he didn’t move to touch her.

  She drew in a breath to deny it—but what would be the purpose? Everything in her life was in an upheaval. She might as well own up to another disruption. Another shaft of pain. “I didn’t expect you to stay. I didn’t expect to ever see you again,” she managed and shifted away, her body sliding into the cooler area of the bed.

  “Same here,” he said, his voice low and quiet. “I didn’t even want to come here, but Joe Cap guilted me into it.”

  “Oh.” Diana couldn’t help the cold vise that closed over her heart. Nothing like a blast of honesty.

  “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. Even though you left Damariscotta so abruptly, as if you were ashamed or, well, regretful about what happened. Or you felt guilty, because of Wertinger.” He looked down at her hand, splayed on the bed between them as she held herself half upright. “That’s why I didn’t want to come. Not because I didn’t want to see you, but because I knew you didn’t want to see me.”

  He flung back the sheets and bedcovers with a quick, smooth motion and was out of the bed before she could respond. He stalked into the bathroom and closed the door behind him, leaving Diana with a pounding heart and the impression of a very nice set of legs topped by a very fine ass—as Mickey would say.

  Moments later, he came back out and their eyes met across the room. “I guess I should be going,” he said. His face was blank. Empty. He’d pulled on his shorts.

  Something shifted in her chest and Diana curled her fingers around the bedclothes. It’s now or never. “I saw the papers,” she said. “In your office.”

  He stilled, confusion coming over his face. “Papers?”

  “The ones, the notes about me. So I know that this is just … well, it doesn’t really mean anything,” she fumbled, spreading her hand to include the rumpled bed and the whole evening. “It’s just a side benefit,” she said, smiling crookedly, “of your research. And that’s okay. I’m just coming out of a relationship, and I don’t want—”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” he said, suddenly moving. He was back at the edge of the bed, standing there with his thighs bumping the mattress. “You saw my notes, about you?”

  “Yes. The morning after … the storm. They were on the floor in your office, they’d blown all over in the wind,” she added defensively. “I wasn’t snooping around, but I couldn’t help but see … ‘the subject.’ Me being the subject. So … I knew. I understand.”

  Comprehension dawned in his eyes. “Is that why you got so … cold? Why you left so quickly?”

  “Well, partly,” she said, unwilling to completely lay herself bare. “I wasn’t interested—I mean, I live here, and you’re in Jersey, and there wasn’t really any point ….”

  “Is that why you left? Because you thought you were a research project to me?” This time, his voice was sharp and cold.

  Diana nodded, unsure why he seemed so angry. “I’d just broken up with Jonathan—something I realized was long overdue—and I wasn’t about to let myself get hurt again. Surely you can understand that,” she added with a bit of flintiness in her own voice.

  “I can completely understand that,” he said, his voice softening. “But, Diana, you need to know … I’m falling in love with you.”

  Her throat went dry with shock and emotion. “What?” was all she could say.

  “You’re not just a research project to me. Yes, I was making notes and observing, but it was an excuse to be around you. To spend time with you, knowing you were already involved with someone else. It was the only way I could justify … how I felt about you.” He was on the bed now, sitting next to her, reaching to lay his capable, tanned hand over her narrow, pale one.

  She looked up at him, her heart slamming in her chest as she tried to comprehend—to believe—what he was saying to her. It was impossible to accept. It didn’t make sense. Why her? Why would he want her?

  “I … but we live so far away,” she said lamely. Knowing it didn’t make sense—but the whole situation didn’t make sense. She wasn’t his type. “From each other.”

  Ethan shrugged, his eyes still on her. “That’s not a deal-breaker.” But that wariness was back and she could see that he was beginning to retreat.

  She didn’t know what to say. Did he really mean it? “I didn’t expect … it never occurred to me that you could … feel that way. About me.”

  “Well, maybe you could at least tell me if you’d want to see me again,” he said. “That’s a start.”

  “I definitely want to see you again,” she said, her palms damp and her insides fluttering. Joy began to fill her. “Definitely. For certain.”

  He smiled, and she felt as if something warm and liquid rushed over her body. And then he eased onto the bed next to her and that warm, liquidy feeling became pleasure and contentment.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “I saw him too!” exclaimed Pauline Whitten, fluttering blood-red fingernails at her throat. She was at the quilt shop because it was a Wednesday and didn’t interfere with her Thursday Scrabble games. “And I thought, I thought to myself, he looked just like a murderer—with those beady eyes and slouching shoulders.”

  Diana choked discreetly behind her cup of tea and settled it into its hand-painted saucer. She reached for a scone, trying not to let the giggle escape from between her lips.

  Despite—or maybe because of—the trials and problems with her law firm, it was good to be back in Damariscotta.

  “I called Chief Tettmueller right away and reported him.” Helen Galliday barreled on with her own description, her voice overriding that of Pauline’s. “I told him I saw that man take three boxes of matches from the Green Oaks Grille and a handful of toothpicks, and if that ain't the sign of a vandalizing-murderer, why I don't know my own grandson!” She snapped her head in a vehement nod and dumped three lumps of sugar into her own teacup.

  Diana had only been back in Damariscotta since yesterday morning, and already she'd been invited—or, rather, summoned—to tea twice, lunch once, and was being strong-armed into joining the quilting ladies for dinner that evening. They seemed to be intent on keeping her occupied while at the same time doing their own detective work and finding Aunt Belinda’s murderer—not to mention blocking quilts and selling them to the slowing stream of summer tourists.

  If it weren’t so horrible a situation, Diana would have found it even more amusing. As it was, she chalked it up to motherly concern—at least, in everyone except Helen Galliday—and went with the assumption that Joe Cap was working on the case even harder than the gaggle of ladies.

  However, in the grand scheme of things, Diana decided it was better for them to expend their energy staking out innocent tourists and identifying “suspects” rather than sticking their collective noses into her personal life. The very first question she’d been asked yesterday at tea was about Jonathan, and when she confessed that they were no longer together, a frightening, calculating gleam settled in Helen Galliday’s eyes. The subsequent inquisition included enough implications about Ethan that Diana was bound and determined not to let the ladies know that she and Ethan were already … whatever they were.

  More than three weeks ago, in early August, he’d come to Boston to tell her the results of the autopsy. Since then, they’d seen each other twice: once they’d met
in New York, a fairly central location, and once he’d come back to Boston.

  And the weekends had been filled with relaxation, conversation, and, of course, great sex. Really, really great sex. Her stomach became all fluttery just thinking about it.

  “Are you feeling all right, Diana?” asked Rose Bettinger suddenly. “You look a little flushed. Could be coming down with something. ”

  Diana blinked and realized all eyes had settled on her—including Helen Galliday’s all-knowing, all-seeing ones. “I’m feeling fine,” she said. “I got a little bit of sun yesterday. So what did Chief Tettmueller say when you called and reported your suspicions?”

  Helen took a long slurp from her tea before replying. “He took down the information and told me he'd check up on that man—but in the meantime, he says, ‘you ladies keep your eyes peeled for other suspicious-looking strangers in town.’ I told him I'd be happy to take on some of the investigation myself—interviewing B&B hosts, and restaurant owners to see if they knew anything … but that Chief Tettmueller says it's better for me to be discreet because that way I won't tip them off that I'm working with the Department on the case.”

  “Ha,” Martha Woden cackled, “he just said that to you so’s you don't bother him anymore.” She took a ladylike sip of her own brew and looked smugly at Helen. Having one-upped her friend at last, she smiled brightly at Diana and offered her another sugar cookie.

  Diana heard the faint tinkle of the bell hung over the door of the shop, and moments later, Betsy came to the back, a sparkle in her eyes and an unusual flush to her cheeks. “Dr. Reardon is here,” she announced, gesturing for the gentleman in question to precede her into the back room.

  Helen struggled to her feet and grabbed the ever-present cane to aid in hasty steps to his side. “Well, come in, now Doctor. It's too bad that Pauline here was so quick to tidy up, else there’d been some tea left for you.” She shot a withering look at her friend, who was in the process of removing the cups from the table by now.

  “Now, Dr. Reardon, don’t fret,” Pauline said in her motherly way. “We can put on another pot of tea, unless you’d rather have coffee?”

  “Why thank you,” he replied easily, settling into one of the chairs. “Coffee, if it wouldn’t be any trouble, would be great. Hello Diana. Welcome back to Damariscotta.”

  “Hello, Marc. How are you? How’s business going as the summer’s winding down? Pretty soon all the tourists will be gone.”

  “Quite well, actually.” He reached for a scone, pulling back his pressed shirt sleeve so that the cuff wouldn't brush the plate. “The tourist season certainly helps business—poison ivy, swimmer’s itch, sprained ankles—you know, the minor things that have to be treated on one’s vacation. And I’m the one always paged when there’s an emergency—the EMTs are twenty miles away. But I confess, I won’t be sorry to see things slow up a bit in September. But, I should be asking: how are you? I heard that Belinda’s death was not as it seemed.”

  Diana nodded, not at all surprised he knew. After all, everyone must know by now. “Yes, that’s true. Joe Tettmueller is investigating.”

  “No more … er, incidents up at the house?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “No. Everything’s been quiet. The contractor finished repainting the siding where all the spray paint was, and the broken windows, and I came up to check out the job.” And to see Ethan again—but he was back in Princeton for another three days, and she thought it was best if their visits didn’t exactly overlap. Helen Galliday was much too clever to let something like that pass as coincidence.

  She turned, wanting to change the subject, and took another of the delightfully fattening blueberry scones. “These are incredible, Betsy. You’ll have to share your recipe with me.”

  “The secret is Maine blueberries, picked right off the bushes and popped in the batter,” Betsy told her with a smile. “Your aunt has quite a nice-sized patch up there to the house. They’re just finishing their season, so next year, I’ll show you the tricks.”

  Conversation scattered from that point to stories of other recipes and Maine traditions, and soon after, Diana took the opportunity to slip from the table. She had the urge to take another look at that Crazy Quilt and see the last block her aunt had been working on.

  Rose Bettinger left the others and joined her at the quilting table. “The other day, we found those old notes of your aunt’s I told you about. She was writing them just before she … well, when she was working on the last block for the Crazy Quilt. I don’t know what Helen did with them, but I’ll ask. They weren’t much besides a couple names. Margie something was one of them. And Cameron. But I’m sure you’d like to see them. And, anyway, I wanted to show you—see here, I finished blocking Bee's last piece and added it right in. Just last week, it was.”

  Diana had seen it just before Rose pointed it out to her. She maneuvered the large blanket so the piece was in front of her, and she squinted down at the block. Once again she recognized a pair of small fish in one corner, and brushed her fingertip over it. The snake entwined in the tree caught her attention then, and Diana scrutinized the intricate black stitches, suddenly unconvinced that it was indeed a snake in a tree. She touched that image too, and closed her eyes for a moment, and felt as if there was something just at the edge of her mind … something she should know.

  A shiver scuttled down her spine. What was it about this small, six-by-six-inch piece of handiwork that stuck in her mind like a hook? Diana opened her eyes and looked again at the sun and moon and stars appliquéd and embroidered throughout the block. She knew there was something her subconscious was trying to tell her. Staring at it, she allowed her eyesight to blur as she tried to open her mind to the secrets there.

  “Beautiful handiwork,” Marc’s smooth voice wafted near her ear. He stood very near behind her, gazing over her shoulder. “What’s so interesting about this piece?”

  Startled out of her reverie, Diana took a sidestep away, turning slightly to look up at him. “Nothing in particular,” she said. “It was the last piece my aunt was working on before she died, and I thought … I thought it was interesting. It’s such a conglomeration of things, it doesn't seem to have any rhyme or reason.”

  Marc looked down at the quilt, staring at the section she still held between her fingers. “Your aunt was psychic, or so she said. You don’t think she meant anything by those symbols on this quilt, did she?”

  Diana shrugged, surprised that he would put her own thoughts into words so easily. “I don’t know what she would have had on her mind that could come out in this piece of material. After all, she had a journal—if there was something bothering her, she would most likely have written about it rather than done some cryptic symbolism in a piece of quilt.”

  Marc sighed. “I suppose. But it was such a romantic idea, you know.” He beamed down at her and, to her surprise, brushed a manicured fingernail lightly along her cheek. “Damariscotta has been quite boring since you left, Ms. Iverson.”

  “I thought you said you’d been quite busy,” Diana stammered, taken off-guard by his pointed comment. Since their conversation at his barbeque, she assumed he’d lost any interest he might have had in her. Either that, or the quilting ladies had made certain he knew she and Jonathan were over. Oh. They must have arranged for Marc to stop by today while she was there.

  “I have been … as far as work is concerned. But on the other hand, my social life has been quite dull. I—”

  “What are you two chatting about so cozily over here?” screeched Helen, pushing her way to their sides. “I saw your two heads together, as if you’re plotting something without including the rest of us.” Her eyes gleamed with a pleased light, and that clinched it for Diana. The old bat was definitely trying to match-make her with Marc. Well, at least that took the pressure off her trying to hide her involvement with Ethan.

  “We were just chatting about all the hours of handiwork you ladies have put into this quilt,” Marc lied smoothly, stepping
a bit further away from Diana. “When do you think it will be done?”

  His question, as it was likely intended to do so, sent Helen off on a different tangent about the trials and tribulations of arthritic fingers and cataracted eyes working on such minute stitchery. Soon, the other ladies were crowded around as well, adding their own complaints masqueraded as anecdotes.

  This left Diana the opportunity to once more contemplate Aunt Belinda’s last bit of quilting work. She couldn’t help but remember her dreams from last night—so different from the smothering, darkling ones she’d first had upon arriving in Damariscotta. In fact, she hadn’t had the dream of being smothered since receiving the results of the autopsy report. Since confirming that her dream was, in fact, real.

  But last night, Diana had nocturnal visions of a quilt. She'd seen it quite clearly—wrapping around her arms and legs, smothering her and then being pulled away. And there was a snake in a tree, hissing at her, and a fish flopping helplessly at her feet … and then there were Tarot cards, scattered on the ground, blowing into her face from a big wind … and the tattered pages of an old book.