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

by Colleen Gleason

  Even as she stared down at the fabric block, she couldn’t peel through the murky memories and draw out whatever it was her subconscious was trying to tell her. Instead, the familiar tom-tom of an encroaching migraine began to throb in her temples and at the back of her skull.

  Just what she needed to have happen here, in the midst of these busybodies.

  As if honed in on their guest’s very existence, Rose Bettinger asked, “Are you feeling all right, Diana? You’re looking pale now.”

  “I'm starting to develop a terrible headache,” Diana told her, “and I've found the best way to handle it is to lie down in the dark after popping a few aspirin.”

  “A migraine?” Marc asked, looking at her with concern.

  “Likely. I have a history of them.” She scanned the group, seeing Helen's pointed face sharpen as her excuses were made, and Martha Woden leaning over to Pauline, who was whispering in her ear—no doubt repeating the entire conversation for the hard-of-hearing woman.

  “Let me give you a ride home,” said Marc. “Migraines can be debilitating, and you don’t want to be behind the wheel if that happens.”

  “No, thank you—I don't have far to go, and it’s just beginning. I’ll have plenty of time to get home and lie down.”

  “Are you certain?” asked Marc, suddenly behind her. “My office is closer. You could lie down there in a dark room until it passes. And I might have something stronger than what you’re used to taking.”

  Diana picked up her pocketbook and forced a smile onto him. “Thank you for your concern, but this doesn't seem to be anything more debilitating than a regular, need-to-rest, throbbing headache. But I do appreciate your help.”

  “I’d feel better if you’d stop in for an exam,” Marc insisted. “Some time. Any time—I’ll fit you in. There are many new drugs on the market that might help.”

  She agreed to do so and made her escape, as she’d come to think of it, then got behind the wheel of her Lexus to drive back to Aunt Belinda’s house. Popping two pills and slugging them down with a big coffee—a habit she had yet to fully break, even here in Damariscotta—she drove off through the small town to the winding, country roads that would take her home, hoping she would get to the house before the flashes of light and shadow obscured her eyesight. Her BlackBerry dinged and chimed, announcing text messages and voice mails that had obviously been saved up until she was in range of a tower, but she couldn’t check them now.

  Diana drove up the drive to the clapboard house in the nick of time, and had to fairly feel her way through the front door. The pills had kept the nausea at bay, but her head pounded and her vision was becoming increasingly shattered. The settee in the den was the closest horizontal place to rest, and she sank onto it gratefully.

  Sometime later, she was awakened by something soft kneading her belly. Opening her eyes cautiously, she found herself face to face with Motto, who’d obviously decided that Diana’s midriff was a good place to take a nap.

  The migraine was gone, and Diana sat up gingerly, taking care not to displace the aloof feline. Doc Horner had been kind enough to keep the cats while their new mistress was in Boston, but since she’d returned, both Motto and Arty had seemed pleased to see her. At least, they’d actually made appearances when she fed them, and once Motto had actually come when Diana called.

  Just then she realized someone was knocking at the front door. Can’t be Ethan. He’d just walk in, she thought with a rush of affection and a secret smile. And besides … he wasn’t due back to Damariscotta for another few days.

  It could be Marc, checking up on her, she thought with a bump of irritation.

  When she tried to pick up Motto to carry him with her to answer the knocking, the cat would have none of it and jumped out of her arms. As Diana came out of the den, she saw the murky impression of a man’s figure through the frosted glass of the door and stopped in shock.

  It looked like Jonathan. It couldn’t be Jonathan.

  Why would he be here in Damariscotta? And in the middle of the week?

  But it was Jonathan. Diana couldn’t have been more surprised when she flung open the door and found him standing on Aunt Belinda’s porch. “Hi, Jonathan … what are you doing here?”

  His face was weary and strained, his eyes bloodshot. There were deep grooves in his cheeks and around the nose. He looked terrible. “I tried to call you. Text you. You’ve been ignoring me.”

  Diana couldn’t deny that. “So you came up from Boston to Maine because I wasn’t taking your calls?” A flash of nervousness rushed through her. Was he stalking her? Erm, yes, a man who drove five hours to see a woman who was ignoring him could certainly be considered stalking her. Her insides shifted in alarm.

  “I need you, Di,” he said. “I needed to see you. I want you back. And I thought I’d better bring this to you.” He produced a manila envelope.

  She took it, aware that her body was thrumming with apprehension and anticipation, but her nervousness eased. “A letter … from Aunt Belinda?” How could a dead woman send a letter?

  “I found this behind the desk in the den. I was cleaning out … after you left. It must have gotten mixed up with some junk mail, and then slid down behind the desk.”

  “It’s postmarked the day after she died,” Diana said, staring at it. The hair over her entire body seemed to be standing on end, and her nerve endings sizzled.

  “I noticed that. She must have mailed it on Sunday, because she died that night,” Jonathan pointed out.

  “I can't believe it. But you didn't have to drive this all the way up here, Jonathan.”

  “I just thought you'd want it right away, since it is the last thing you have from your aunt—except for her money, of course.” Jonathan's voice held a twinge of something unlikable woven in it. “And … I wanted to see you. Won’t you let me come in?” He started toward the door, but she didn’t move out of his way. “So we can talk?”

  “Jonathan, I told you. It’s over. There’s no chance of us getting back together. I’m seeing someone else,” she added.

  He stepped back as if stung. “You’re—you are?” His expression turned hard. “You don’t need to lie about it, Diana.”

  “I’m not lying,” she replied, wondering why it was so unbelievable to him that she’d found someone else. Just because she hadn’t dated in years before meeting Jonathan didn’t mean she was unattractive to men. It didn’t.

  “But … what about us?” he asked. “We were going to get married. I want to marry you, Diana. Please let me come in.” He put his hand on the door and she felt him pushing on it.

  “Jonathan,” she said firmly, a little frisson of nervousness jittering through her, “you need to leave. Thank you for bringing me this letter, but you need to leave now.”

  “Diana, you’re being ridiculous.” Jonathan's voice was short and abrupt. “Why don't we go in and talk about this. You’re a wealthy woman now, you know, and that makes you easy prey for a man. I already loved you and wanted to marry you before your aunt died,” he said. “I love you, not your money.”

  Despite the discomfort his words caused, she was firm. “You aren't listening to me. I don't want you to—”

  Her words were cut off by his sharp voice. “Diana, I didn't come all the way up here to drive back to Boston tonight. Now, please. I'm your fiancé and I have a right to be here if I want to be.” He gave the door a little push and the force caused her to stagger a bit.

  She gave a surprised cry. “You aren’t my fiancé, and I’m telling you to leave. Now.” Already, she was calculating which was closer: Uncle Tracer’s rifle or the pepper spray in her purse. Just in case.

  Just then, Diana caught a movement from the woods at the edge of the property. The next thing she knew, a streak of black bolted from the tall grass and bounded across the lawn. And all at once, Cady was there, on the porch, growl-barking at Jonathan.

  She didn’t look pleased.

  Diana’s heart gave a delicious little thump and sh
e looked over, expecting Ethan to come striding out of the woods that divided their properties. But it wasn’t Ethan. It was Joe Cap who came ambling into view, as if he had all the time in the world.

  “Hello Cady,” Diana said, crouching to greet the black lab. She did it before she realized she was actually face to face with the massive beast, close enough to those big wicked teeth that she could be grabbed by the throat with them. But Diana was so glad to see Cady that she hardly flinched when the big pink tongue swiped her across the cheek.

  Once having properly greeted Diana, the dog was back on duty, sneering up at Jonathan, who’d backed away as soon as the lab clattered onto the porch. “Who’s this?” he managed to say over Cady’s barking. “Nice doggie.”

  “Hiya there Diana,” said Joe Cap as he approached. His gaze went from Diana to Jonathan and back again, curious and observant. “Nice to see you back in town. Everything okay here?”

  “Everything’s just fine,” she said, absently patting the lab on her head. “Jonathan delivered something for me, and he was just leaving.”

  To her relief, Jonathan took the cue and turned away. “Goodbye, Diana,” he said, walking off the porch to his car.

  She and Joe watched as he got in and drove away, then she said, “Any news?”

  “Nope,” he replied. “Sorry to interrupt,” he added, glancing at her, then at the empty drive down which Jonathan had just disappeared, and then to Cady. “I took her over to Ethan’s place to check up on it and she got away from me.”

  “You didn’t interrupt,” she told him, looking down at the manila envelope. A spike of nerves and excitement mixed with fear had her sounding distracted. She had to read this letter, and she wanted to read it without any further delay. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got to take care of this,” she said, flapping the envelope at him. “It’s … important.” Her insides were all aflutter.

  “Sure,” Joe said with a slow smile. “No problem. See ya at the Grille.” He beckoned for Cady, who seemed uncertain about whether to stay or go. But in the end, the lab left the porch when she saw a squirrel, electing to chase it across the yard.

  Diana closed the door and leaned against it, listening as Joe called Cady to follow him back into the woods. The whole incident left her upset and a little queasy. What had Jonathan been thinking? Was he really that desperate to get her back? And how convenient was it that he’d found this last letter from Aunt Belinda.

  The envelope felt strangely warm and solid, much more so than its appearance and weight would permit, and Diana held it for a moment, closing her eyes, pulling it to her chest, and breathing deeply, as though she could smell the scent of Aunt Bee’s lilac powder. A tear stung one eye, then suddenly, they came in torrents, unstoppable and exhausting, as Diana made her way to her favorite settee in the den.

  She cried for things she knew about—for the loss of her aunt, for the years they could have had, but didn’t. For the way Belinda had died, alone and helpless under someone’s heavy hand, evil and malignant. She cried for the disintegration of her law practice, for the blood, sweat, and energy she’d put into it, believing that no one could take it away from her if she worked hard enough … and the way it was eroding because of one selfish, angry man.

  It was a long time later when Diana opened her swollen eyes and looked around. She sat up carefully, suppressing a groan and wincing at the pounding in her head from such hard tears. Now. Now that she had all of that out of her system, she must read Aunt Belinda’s last words to her.

  She slid a finger under the flap and tore the envelope open.

  Inside was a neatly-clipped newspaper article from the Seattle Times and a letter from her aunt. Diana put the article aside and unfolded the letter.

  Dearest Diana—

  I hope this finds you well. I am fine, but missing you, and, knowing that you are so busy that it is difficult to get away, I still hope that you will be able to come up here this summer sometime and visit with me to make up for our lost years.

  I have a wonderful neighbor whom I’d like you to meet—he has been an enormous help to me around the house, and with other things that you may not yet understand. I think he might be someone you would enjoy getting to know.

  I’ve enclosed this newspaper article because I’d like you to do some research for me and find out more about this situation of assisted suicide. I have been having some odd readings in the cards lately, and feel as though something is about to happen. If I could find out more about the people in this article, perhaps it would help. I continue to dream about it and have visions during my readings about those people who succumbed to the temptation to kill themselves.

  If you learn anything at all, no matter how insignificant, please let me know so that I can put myself out of this misery!

  I am sorry this note is so short. I just want to get this in the mail to you. There’s something compelling me to even drive to the post office on a Sunday afternoon in order to post it. It’s something that I need to do.

  Take care of yourself, and I hope to see you soon. Your loving aunt Belinda.

  Diana’s throat tightened, its dryness painful when she swallowed, and she knew she would have cried again if she had any more fluid in her body. Instead, she could only blink sandpaper-dry eyes and gently set the letter aside, once again suppressing the ache of guilt.

  She reached for the newspaper clipping.

  API, Salem—Oregon’s recently-approved assisted suicide statute has been exercised more than five times in the last two months, reports State Attorney General David Anthony. “There have been five deaths identified as assisted suicide by the families of the victims, or by pre-recorded videotapes taken at the scene in which the victim succumbed to the carbon monoxide poisoning used to kill them.”

  In each case, Anthony states, the attending physician has testified to the extent of the patient’s illness, stating that it was a case of terminal illness. Doctor Cameron Darr, one of the physicians who advised and assisted at three of the suicides, spoke in defense of his patients’ wishes when the family of one contested the victim’s health status. “Marjorie Gaunt had just been diagnosed with bone cancer, she was terminal, and she chose to spare her family the long, drawn-out illness that would have ensued, and would absolutely have resulted in her death. She simply chose to die at a time and place, and in an environment, that suited her.”

  Marjorie Gaunt’s family, residents of Beverly Hills, CA, and well-known for their chain of Amaretto’s restaurants along the West Coast, charge that since she had just been diagnosed, Dr. Darr should have taken time to treat her before recommending that she move ahead with her plans for suicide.

  “Ms. Gaunt was ill, and she did not want to experience further pain. She knew she was terminal, and she made her decision. I merely assisted her in attaining a graceful way to end her life,” responds Dr. Darr.

  Ms. Gaunt’s son, Bradley Gaunt, has told the press that he intends to open an extensive investigation into the situation of his mother’s death and, if necessary, will sue the State of Oregon to suspend Dr. Darr’s medical license until the case has been resolved.

  Other similar cases have been filed in states such as Michigan, where an assisted suicide statute has not been approved, but retired pathologist Jack Kevorkian has been a champion of assisted suicide. In 1999, Dr. Kevorkian was convicted of assisting a patient to commit suicide in the State of Michigan.

  Diana frowned and checked the date on the article. It was more than seven years old, and the images included a picture of Marjorie Gaunt, and one of the state’s Attorney General. The woman was elderly, and she was flanked by her son and daughter, the caption explained.

  If Aunt Belinda held onto an article that was so outdated it was probably related to one of her psychic visions. But what did she want from Diana?

  She reached for the letter, which she’d left on the table next to the chair, and reread it. Aunt Belinda had been insistent that she was bothered by (having visions and dreams wa
s how she phrased it) people who chose to commit suicide, and she wanted Diana to do research on the people in the article. That was easy enough, but it didn’t seem pressing.

  After staring at the letter—holding it in her hands, as if to feel any remainder of Aunt Belinda’s presence, she pulled to her feet. It was time to stop feeling sorry for herself and find out who killed her aunt, and why. She was certain, in the deepest part of her, that this letter and article had something to do with it. Aunt Belinda had sensed that something was going to happen. She just hadn’t known it was her own murder.

  Time to do a little research. Diana pulled out her laptop and plugged it in, waiting for it to power on. She was feeling around in the large, outside pocket for a pen when she touched the tattered binding of Aunt Belinda’s journal. Starting in realization, she pulled out the book, followed by the Tarot cards that were still wrapped carefully in their mahogany box.