Eric nodded and said in a slow, cynical tone, “Then I guess if we go with the theory that it was planted, we just have to figure out who got hold of a piece of Renée’s lingerie and sprayed it with her favorite cologne several days ago so it wouldn’t smell too fresh. No problem.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
1
“Well, well, how’s my little girl tonight?” A dashing Ken Nordine sailed into the room, rushing to Mary and presenting her with droopy-petaled carnations cradled in a petite, round plastic vase. “I’ve been so worried about you!”
So worried you haven’t called all day? Dana wondered furiously. She almost burst out with a scathing remark about his vast concern when she saw Mary smiling as she delightedly reached small hands for the flower arrangement. Then Dana saw Bridget Fenmore—glowing, svelte, perfectly made up and coiffed—gliding close behind Ken. Dana wore only lotion on her dry face, and she hadn’t even combed her hair for hours.
“Look who I’ve brought with me!” Ken continued to boom, ignoring Dana. “Bridget! She just wouldn’t let me come see you without bringing her. She’s been worried, too!”
I’ll bet, Dana fumed as Bridget kissed Mary’s pale cheek, then giggled as she wiped away lip gloss. “Why, you look beautiful, Mary! Not like you’ve been sick at all!”
“She almost died,” Dana snapped.
It was a lie. Mary looked at her mother, horrified, and Dana could have bitten off her tongue. “I mean, if we hadn’t gotten her to the hospital in time. The operation went just fine, though. The doctor is very pleased.” She smiled at her five-year-old daughter, who still clutched the pitifully small collection of carnations. Dana raced on. “The doctor said she’s making a miraculous recovery. She’ll be good as new in no time. Better than new! She’ll be perfect! Not that she wasn’t always perfect. Why, she’s just—”
Everyone stared at Dana in shocked expectancy, obviously wondering what would come out of her mouth next. But Dana had no words left. She’d stayed at the hospital all night, sleeping fitfully in the uncomfortable chair in Mary’s room, frequently awakening to gaze at the delicate five-year-old she’d so often pushed aside, overlooked, occasionally resented in her desperation for the freedom to always keep an eye on her husband, whom she’d made the most important person in her life.
Ken Nordine—what a fool she’d been to sacrifice herself and her daughter for a man like him, Dana had thought in belated comprehension as the shadows of the seemingly endless night had surrounded her. Her sweet, innocent, defenseless daughter should have been her focus, her cherished reason for living, not an uncaring egomaniac like Ken.
Dana realized Ken and Bridget were still staring at her and she could have kissed Mary, who announced importantly, “I got more flowers! The blue … blue…” She looked at her mother.
“Irises,” Dana supplied.
“The blue irises are from my teacher. The orange tulips are from Grandma and Grandpa ’cause pun’kins are orange and Halloween’s almost here. All the yellow roses are from my real boyfriend, even though he doesn’t know he’s my boyfriend. He visited me today.” Mary’s voice softened. “He’s lots older than me but real handsome. He has dark hair like Prince Charming in my fairy-tale book. That’s what I call him.”
“Who is this Prince Charming?” Ken asked.
“He’s a secret.” Mary grinned.
Ken looked at Dana, who innocently lifted her shoulders. “I was down the hall talking to the doctor. I missed the Prince’s visit.”
Ken walked over and looked at the card on the roses, reading aloud, “‘To my very brave girl. P.C.’”
“‘P. C.’ is for ‘Prince Charming,’” Mary explained, beginning to look wary.
“What would I call him?” Ken asked cannily.
“Not Prince Charming. I’m not sayin’ what you’d call him. Then you’d know who he is and he’s my secret boyfriend. No one else can know.”
“Did he tell you he’s your boyfriend and to keep him a secret?”
“No, Daddy. I decided he’s my boyfriend.”
He’s trying to play the concerned father in front of Bridget, Dana thought. Normally, he wouldn’t even be listening to Mary.
“Oh. Are you sure he doesn’t know he’s your older boyfriend?”
“I’m sure. I didn’t tell him.” Dana could tell Mary sensed something different about her father tonight. “I didn’t tell him ’cause I can have a secret if I want to.” Her smile had disappeared and her voice had turned truculent. She’d been in some pain, found confinement in the hospital frightening, and overall had had a fretful day. This evening, though, the child had calmed. Ten minutes ago, she’d been serene, even drowsy. Ken had ruined her evening, Dana thought with a wave of anger.
“Ken, it doesn’t matter. Quit badgering her.”
Mary, obviously sensing another argument brewing between her parents, softened her tone and tried smiling at Ken. “He’s real, real nice, Daddy. You like him—”
“So I know him.”
“Yeah.”
Dana glared at Ken. “I said to stop it! What are you so worked up about, anyway?”
“I don’t like my own child keeping secrets from me.”
Dana stood up. “Soften your tone. You’re upsetting Mary.”
“Yeah, you’re upsetting me,” Mary said in her mother’s same tone of voice, rallying at the sight of her father’s defeat. “And my grown-up boyfriend is nice. And he must love me, too, ’cause Mommy said roses are real ’spensive. And yellow is my favorite color.” She looked defiantly at her father. “I’m going to marry him.”
“Is that so?”
Mary suddenly began to look uncertain as her father scowled at her. Dana realized the child’s defiance had been temporary. “I think maybe you’re just mad ’cause I said yellow is my favorite color, and it is…”—her little hands tightened on Ken’s offering—“except for pink!” she exclaimed, looking with inspiration at her carnations. “Really, pink is my very, very favorite color, Daddy. Oh, thank you so much for the flowers!”
He relented and gave her a small smile. “That’s why Bridget got pink flowers. I knew pink was your favorite color, sugar pie.”
You did not, Dana thought, barely able to contain her herself. You only bought the pink carnations because they’re wilting and they were cheap.
Ken leaned over and ruffled his daughter’s blond bangs. “Later you can tell me who Prince Charming is or you’ll hurt my feelings. You don’t want to hurt my feelings, do you?”
“No,” Mary said reluctantly. “But I made a promise.”
“Sometimes promises are made to be broken.”
Dana glowered at Ken, but his gaze was locked on Bridget, who sat down on the bed and patted Mary’s shoulder. “Such a little angel,” she said fondly, then glanced at Dana. “Haven’t I always said she looked just like a little angel?”
“Not to me. Besides, how would you know what an angel looks like?” Dana snapped, once again horrified by her lack of control.
Bridget, however, paid no attention to her. She peered deep into Mary’s eyes. “I know what they look like because I saw one when I was a little girl just about your age. The angel was in church. She had long, blond hair just like yours and big blue eyes like yours and freckles on her nose just like yours. She floated above the congregation, sprinkling blessings and angel dust on all of us.”
Oh God, Dana thought in disgust, but Mary was enchanted. “Really, Bridget? Did you really see an angel?”
“Would I tell you I had if I hadn’t?” Bridget asked, all wide-eyed and sweet voiced.
Dana rolled her eyes, but only Ken saw her before he turned his attention back to his daughter. “Isn’t that wonderful, Mary? Bridget saw an angel that looked just like you.” He gave Dana a long, cold stare. “I’m sure Mommy never saw an angel.”
“Did you, Mommy?” Mary asked. “Did you ever see an angel?”
“No,” Dana said flatly. “I don’t hallucinate.”
Mary
looked puzzled. “Huh? Hal … hal—”
“Well, visiting hours are over,” Ken interrupted, managing to sound regretful.
“Not for an hour,” Dana pointed out.
Ken didn’t even glance at her but kept his electric blue eyes on Mary. “You need to get rest, honey. That’s what the doctor would say. Besides, Bridget and I had a very hard day. That’s why we closed the gallery early. We have to rest and get ready for tomorrow.” He leaned down and once again barely brushed a kiss on Mary’s forehead. “See ya later, alligator!”
“After while, crocatile,” Mary answered as always.
Ken barely glanced at Dana. “G’night.”
“Good night, Mrs. Nordine. It was lovely to see you,” Bridget simpered, looking as if she might curtsy.
For nearly five minutes Mary chattered about her carnations, how handsome and nice Daddy was, how pretty and nice Bridget was, how nice it was to have so much comp’ny, and wondering if she’d have a huge scar from her operation. If she did, maybe she could show it at school, even if it was on her tummy. Meanwhile, Dana sat staring fixedly at the doorway through which Ken and Bridget had vanished, wondering what they were doing, what they were saying. Dana was certain they weren’t discussing Mary’s health.
Finally, a nurse shook her shoulder. “Mrs. Nordine? Did you go to sleep with your eyes open?”
Dana looked up into the middle-aged nurse’s gentle brown eyes. “I think so,” she lied again. “I guess I’m tired.”
“Well, you certainly are, dear.” The nurse smiled at her. “You’ve been here since yesterday afternoon—over twenty-four hours! You must be exhausted. Mary is doing just fine, so why don’t you go home?” She looked at Mary. “You don’t mind if your mommy leaves you tonight, do you? I’ll be here watching over you.”
“Like my guardian angel?”
You’re more like an angel than Bridget’s version of one, Dana thought before she asked Mary, “You won’t be scared if Mommy leaves, will you?”
Mary shook her head vehemently. “My guardian angel is here. She’ll prob’ly glow in the dark so I won’t be scared.”
“Please, Mrs. Nordine,” the nurse almost implored. “It’s twenty till eight and you look ready to collapse, no offense intended. You should have some decent food, watch a little television, and go to bed. You’ll have to get your little one out of this place and settled back in her own bedroom at home. Then she’ll need lots of love and attention.” She frowned and said rather insistently, “You really do need to leave, dear.”
Dana thought of her husband and Bridget Fenmore sailing out of the room looking like they were ready for a photo shoot, both astonishingly attractive, both full of smiles and good cheer, both acting almost as if they had a shared secret. “You’re right,” Dana said, standing up determinedly. “I really do need to leave.”
2
“I’m so glad we came here tonight,” Catherine said, looking around at the warm interior of the Reddick restaurant. The knotty-pine walls, amber lighting, large tables decorated with fat yellow candles glowing in hurricane glasses, and soft rock music playing in the background gave Catherine a cozy, comfortable feeling. “I know I’m being wise, staying inside and under the eye of the surveillance patrolmen Eric assigned to me, but it’s driving me nuts,” she said. “Besides, we haven’t eaten here for months. I’d forgotten how much I like the place.”
“Me, too. Especially the food.” He looked down at his empty plate, “Do you realize how much lasagna I ate?”
“Why, no, I didn’t notice,” Catherine said innocently. “Or how much bread or the two large pieces of cheesecake with strawberry sauce.”
“Did you happen to calculate the amount of cholesterol I consumed?”
“About enough for a whole week.”
“Well, you’re running a close second.”
“I don’t care. I wouldn’t mind putting on ten pounds. More.”
James smiled. “Neither would I. Let’s get old and fat together.”
“That would suit me just fine,” Catherine said airily, trying not to place too much importance on his use of the word “together.”
“More coffee?” a handsome young waiter asked.
Neither of them had noticed him approaching the table. Catherine looked at James. “Is it too late?”
“No, I’m beginning to relax for the first time today. I’d love another cup.” He glanced at the waiter. “It’ll have to be decaffeinated at this hour, though. Do you have any made?”
“The owner and his wife always brew a pot an hour before we close.” He smiled. “That’s their bedtime drink of choice. There’s plenty.”
“Then I’ll have a cup, too,” Catherine said.
The waiter looked at James and asked seriously, “Another piece of cheesecake, sir? We have one left.”
“Ha, ha,” James said dourly, although Catherine could tell he was amused. “I’ll have to report that sarcasm to the owner. He’ll probably fire you.”
“I don’t think so,” the waiter replied blithely. “He’s my father. Be right back with that coffee.”
Catherine broke into giggles as he stepped away from the table. “Are you certain you don’t want that last, lonely piece of cheesecake?”
James leaned forward and whispered, “Actually, I do, but I won’t let that young stud know it. Jeez, he’s built like a matador!”
“Or a flamenco dancer, not that I noticed,” Catherine returned naïvely.
“Yeah, sure.” James reached across the table and clasped her hand. “Are you having a good time tonight?”
“I’m having a wonderful time,” she said, realizing she felt more lighthearted than she had since the awful day at the cottage. “Why? Do I look or sound insincere?”
“You look and sound like my Catherine, whom I haven’t seen for a while. I’ve missed her, although it’s my fault she went away.”
“She didn’t go away—just on hiatus.”
“After the La Perla incident?”
“My nerves have been on edge. I overreacted. Eric told us they’d found a couple of other ‘fancy night-things’ in her suitcase and they all smelled of the same perfume.” Catherine looked at James seriously. “He said someone came into your town house and planted the lingerie.”
James nodded, then added, “I got the feeling he didn’t believe that theory, though. In fact, I’m not sure he doesn’t suspect me of even worse.”
“Like what? Murdering Renée?” James simply looked at her. “Oh, honey, that’s crazy.”
“Maybe.”
“Definitely.”
“Whatever you say.”
“That’s the attitude I like. Now, you did have your locks changed, didn’t you?”
“Yesterday afternoon. There are only two door locks, though. You’re the only person beside me with keys to my town house. Do you still have them?”
“They’re locked in my spare jewelry box, which hasn’t been touched. I checked and I’d know if the keys had been moved. Besides, Lindsay raises the roof barking if a stranger comes into our house.”
James shrugged. “Then someone could have bribed a staff member or maintenance person of the town-house complex to get a key. If so, we’ll probably never find out who. God, I hate this communal living. I like having my own house.”
And you could have it so easily, Catherine thought, but said nothing.
“Anyway, the Catherine accusing me of sleeping with other women and crying is gone and my Catherine is back,” James said tenderly. “She’s the light of my life.”
Fifteen minutes later, they walked briskly arm in arm from the restaurant into the unusually cold night. While James talked casually, a strange, almost primitive fear filled Catherine as restless shadows and shifting shapes seemed to surround them. She mentally told herself it was her imagination or the result of too much wine. Then she remembered she hadn’t drunk anything except water and coffee.
I’m being ridiculous, Catherine thought. She looked around the nea
r-empty parking lot and saw nothing unusual. Halogen lights glowed softly, a light breeze rattled stiff leaves stubbornly clinging to shrubbery near the building, and somewhere in the distance a dog barked monotonously. Catherine saw nothing in the least frightening. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that a presence hovered near, watching, waiting.
Catherine’s heart began to thump and her stomach tightened. Something wasn’t right. No, worse than “not right.” She had no idea what it was, but she knew. She began to tremble, clutched James’s arm tighter, and said shakily, “Something’s wrong.”
“Wrong?” James looked down at her. “What do you mean?”
“I can’t explain it. I just have a feeling that someone is watching us, that we’re in danger—”
The shot burst through the darkness, quick and crisp. James stiffened, staring straight ahead. Catherine froze, then asked in a tiny, frightened voice, “James, are you all right?”
After a moment, he murmured, “I’m … fine … just a bee sting…”
James’s voice seemed to float away into the night. Suddenly he let loose of her arm, fumbled at his upper chest, and pulled away a bloody hand. “Well … what…?” he slurred before slowly sinking to the concrete parking lot.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
1
Catherine didn’t scream. She didn’t collapse. She didn’t dive for cover beside one of the cars. She merely stood, looking at the fallen man she loved, her body turned to ice. After a few moments, she murmured, “James?” His eyelids flickered. Then a second shot tore through the darkness.
Catherine dropped beside James, huddling against him. She didn’t know if she’d been shot—she felt only shock, cold, and the stillness of James. Trembling, she awaited a third shot, but the night remained hauntingly quiet. She reached toward James’s chest and felt the warm blood soaking his coat. He’s dying, she thought distantly. “I love you,” she murmured brokenly. “I love you more than anyone in the world. Please, James. Please don’t leave me.…”
To the Grave Page 18
