To the Grave

by Carlene Thompson

  “Well-respected critics?”

  “Yes. J. Philip Ransworth, for instance.”

  “I’ve never heard of J. Philip Ransworth.”

  “Oh. Well, he’s famous.” At least Ken had told her Ransworth was famous. “He wrote a glowing review of the Arcos exhibit.”

  Bridget tried to dazzle John Jones with a smile. The man merely gave her a forbearing look. Oh God, where was Ken? He would know how to handle Mr. Jones, she thought, suddenly furious with the handsome Ken Nordine whom she’d been kissing passionately just last night. No matter what their personal relationship, though, he should be here. After all, this was his damned art gallery. Nevertheless, today she was in charge and she mustn’t let this strange visitor know he was making her feel a fool. “But beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” she blurted lamely.

  John Jones laughed. The sound was rusty, as if he didn’t laugh often. “Forgive me, Ms. Fenmore. I’ve made you uncomfortable.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Oh yes, I have. Please overlook my bad manners.”

  “Your manners are—”

  “Often unfortunate. My wife has told me so a hundred times.”

  Bridget glanced at his hands clasped loosely just below his waist. They were pale, with veins showing prominently through soft, thin skin. He wore a simple platinum wedding band on one of his long, well-manicured fingers and she saw a platinum Rolex watch showing beneath a sleeve. He had a smooth grace that hinted at excellent coordination, but he also tended to move a bit stiffly. Bridget was trying to guess whether he was around fifty-nine or sixty when he quickly turned and looked at her as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.

  “Do you like to dance, Ms. Fenmore?”

  “Dance? Yes.”

  “Have you ever been to a ball?”

  “Well, no, I don’t think so.”

  “Wouldn’t you remember?”

  “Well, sure. I mean, of course I would. And no, unfortunately I’ve never been to a ball.” Or anything resembling a ball, Bridget thought. She couldn’t ballroom-dance, but suddenly she was filled with regret, for both her lack of classic dance skills and the fact that she’d never been to anything fancier than a Christmas dance in a Holiday Inn.

  “That is too bad. I can just picture you doing the quadrille.”

  “Oh, thank you!” Bridget glowed, although she had no idea what a quadrille looked like.

  “And if I say so myself, about a hundred years ago I was quite good at the tango. If I were younger, we could tango together.” He seemed to drift away, his eyes growing dreamy. “I used to have a beautiful tango partner. My God … how I miss her.”

  Bridget imagined Jones’s partner as his lover. The deepening of his voice, the saddening of his expression, almost made Bridget ask if the girl was dead. Then Bridget caught herself and said merely, “I’m sorry that you miss her.”

  “Yes, I miss her every day and every night.” John Jones turned his gaze back to the painting. “You greatly resemble the subject of this portrait.”

  “Why, thank you.”

  “Do you think she is beautiful?” Bridget hesitated, suddenly feeling as if the remark was a challenge. Her palms had begun to sweat. She wished she could escape John Jones, but she couldn’t do so now without seeming rude. Finally, she decided not to let his odd manner frighten her. “I think she’s beautiful,” she said stoutly.

  He looked at Bridget again. “Do you know who she was?”

  “I don’t know if she really existed or if she was merely imaginary.” Ken had instructed Bridget to say this and she never failed to follow his instructions about the matter. “She does look like someone I’ve seen, but it’s hard to tell with the mask she’s wearing.”

  “Holding,” Jones corrected, looking at the gold-trimmed white mask. “It’s a handheld half mask mounted to a gold stick. Attractively stylized. And the black pentagram around the right eye is … striking.”

  “Yes, the mask she’s holding is lovely. But the star on the mask—you called it a pentagram. Doesn’t that have something to do with witchcraft?”

  “There is a small difference between the five-pointed star and the pentagram. The pentagram has lines through the middle. If you look very closely, you can see the lines on this mask.”

  Bridget stood on tiptoe, squinted, and for the first time saw thread-thin lines painted in a brown so dark it was hardly discernible from the surrounding black. “I see them!”

  “I knew you would. So the ‘star’ is really a ‘pentagram’ and a symbol of Wicca.” He paused. “Do you still like the lady’s mask, even if the star is really a pentagram?”

  “I’m just crazy about that mask.” Bridget could have kicked herself for her exuberant language. Nerves had turned her into a not-too-smart babbling adolescent, she thought, and she was glad Ken hadn’t heard her. Maybe Mr. Jones hadn’t been listening. She rushed on, “Anyway, whether or not she’s real or imaginary, the Mardi Gras Lady is beautiful.”

  “Yes.” John Jones’s eyes narrowed as he leaned closer to the painting. “Ahhh, the fan.”

  “The fan she’s holding? It’s beautiful, too. Unusual. Maybe it would have been better if it hadn’t been unfurled—we’ve had mixed reactions to the erotic painting on it—but I like it.”

  He nodded. “It’s exquisite.”

  “Yes. There’s a difference between trash and erotica. Some people can’t tell the difference.”

  John Jones looked at her and lifted one heavy salt-and-pepper eyebrow. “Obviously, you can.”

  “Well, I’m trained. But even if I weren’t … well, the true artist and the sensitive viewer can tell the difference between the merely lascivious and the artfully sensuous.”

  Bridget was proud of that statement until John Jones looked at her with his faintly amused, superior expression again. Her discomfort with the decorous Mr. Jones and her anger with Ken grew. Jones kept staring at her, obviously waiting for her to say something else. “I wonder if such fans really exist?”

  “They do. I’ve seen them.” His gaze gentled. “Do you like this portrait, Ms. Fenmore?”

  “I like the painting,” Bridget said carefully. “Portrait” implied the painting was that of a real person. “I think it’s … magnificent.”

  “I’m sure the lady did, too.”

  “If she really existed.”

  John Jones’s expression grew half-humorous, half-sad. “I think she did.” He looked back at Mardi Gras Lady. “Oh yes, I think this woman—this vision of a woman—did exist.”

  3

  “Hope I didn’t miss lunch.”

  James looked away from the television as Eric walked into the room.

  “Yes, you’ve missed lunch by at least an hour and you should thank your lucky stars you did. I thought my mother was the only person in the world who could make bad Jell-O, but I was wrong. This place has her beat hands down.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure. You should taste Marissa’s.” Eric sat down on the vinyl-covered chair near the window, glanced up at the television, and started laughing. “Please don’t tell me that in less than twenty-four hours in here you’re already watching soap operas.”

  “The television remote is broken.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “It is. I was just ready to call for a nurse—”

  Eric picked up the remote and flipped off the television. “Guess you don’t need to bother anyone now, although I probably interrupted a heart-wrenching moment.”

  “I was going to vote for you for sheriff,” James said coolly. “I’m already reconsidering.”

  “That’s a shame. It was just my luck to have a murder spree break out two weeks before the election.”

  “Don’t think that hasn’t crossed my mind, and believe it or not, I feel responsible for the spot I’ve put you in,” James said, his voice a tad less cool. “I know you’re not here campaigning, though. Is this a condolence call, Chief Deputy Montgomery?”

  “Partly. How do you feel?”
/>
  “Not great.”

  “I’m not surprised. From what the doctor told me, you won’t be up to par for two or three months.”

  “Came to cheer me up, did you? You could have at least brought flowers with all your concern.”

  “You’ll be getting a huge bouquet of long-stemmed roses from me this afternoon. Red roses—red means love.”

  “Thanks. I didn’t know you cared so much.”

  Eric laughed mildly and then let his face return to its usual serious lines. “You were damned lucky last night, James. You have no idea who might have done this?”

  “I would have told you if I did.”

  Eric nodded. “Maybe this will help. After you were shot, we found three strands of Mardi Gras beads under the edge of your car.”

  “Mardi Gras beads?”

  “Yes. Cheap metal Mardi Gras beads.” Eric hesitated. “I don’t like giving out information about an ongoing investigation, but I think you should know we found the same on the body of Nicolai Arcos. Three strands of beads. The ones on him and the ones under your car were purple. I know the Mardi Gras colors are green, gold, and purple and purple symbolizes justice. I’m not certain if whoever placed the beads knew what purple means.”

  “In other words, if leaving beads symbolizing justice has significance or if whoever killed Arcos and shot me just happened to have purple beads lying around.” Eric nodded. “Purple Mardi Gras beads.” The color had slowly faded from James’s face. “Purple for justice. Someone seems to be sending the message that justice is being served.”

  “I agree,” Eric said softly, not wanting to break the mood. James still had the speculative expression that could be important.

  “But why did someone kill Arcos and try to kill me?”

  “Because Renée abandoned both of you and the killer thinks you murdered her out of revenge?”

  “Revenge?” James gave him a serious look. “Eric, I’ve never even spoken to Arcos. I have no idea if he felt vengeful because Renée left him. For all I know, he broke off the affair with her. But I can tell you for certain that I didn’t feel vengeful because she left me.”

  “You didn’t? Not even a little?”

  “No, I didn’t.” James looked reflective. “I was embarrassed, especially when the police thought I killed her and put me through that investigation. But even then, my primary feeling was … well, relief.”

  “Relief?”

  “Relief that she was gone. We had some terrible fights, but I certainly didn’t kill her. I didn’t think anyone else had, either. I never believed she’d come to harm. I thought maybe she’d pushed things too far with someone and became afraid of them—that’s why she left so fast without a clue as to where she was going. She was also drinking more than usual at that time—not enough to be a danger to herself or someone else, but more than usual. Drinking was sometimes a sign of nervousness with her, but it was also a sign of boredom.

  “I thought this time she was just bored,” James went on. “Causing scandals in this ‘nothing little town,’ as she called Aurora Falls, had lost its fun for her, and she’d decided to have some fun by doing something dramatic—she set the scene for causing trouble, this time creating trouble for me by vanishing the day after we’d had a near-violent public argument at a party.

  “I was certain that’s what she’d done, Eric. I was furious with her, but I was also a little worried in spite of myself. I knew she wasn’t stable, and as much as I wanted to be free of her, I didn’t want anything bad to happen to her. I knew the police would be suspicious of me when she just disappeared, but I thought considering Renée’s character and her past outrageous behavior, they wouldn’t consider me a suspect in her possible murder.” He smiled bitterly. “When the police investigation seemed to be getting a little too serious, I stopped worrying about Renée and started worrying about myself. I got scared, Eric. Really scared, even though I hadn’t done a thing to Renée. I’d never even slapped her, no matter what she did.”

  “Mitch Farrell was still sheriff then, James, and he was getting a lot of pressure to not let things appear to be sliding because you’re an Eastman.”

  “I know. Still, I’m sure you can understand how I felt.”

  “Of course I can. Frankly, I would have been scared, too.” Eric, a naturally restless man who never held still for long, got up from the chair and began pacing the small room. “So you felt relieved that Renée had left you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Happy or just sort of released?”

  “At first, released, like I’d gotten rid of an unbearable weight.”

  “But you did bear it, James,” Eric said sharply. “You bore the weight of your wife’s public humiliation of you for over two years. I’ve always wondered why. What hold did she have on you? Love?”

  “Love? No, definitely not. And she didn’t have a hold on me the way I think you mean. She didn’t know something damaging she’d tell if I sued her for divorce.”

  “Then what the hell was it? Why did you put up with her for so long? Why did you wait until she left you and then feel relieved? Why didn’t you divorce her? That’s what a real man would have done.”

  Anger flashed in James’s eyes. “Oh, you’re an expert on how a real man acts, Eric? You’re daring to tell me what a real man should have done?”

  “I’m telling you what a man who isn’t timid or browbeaten or a … a milquetoast would have done.”

  James glared at him for a moment. Then he started laughing. “A milquetoast? I haven’t heard that word since my grandmother used to say it.”

  “Well, mine did, too.” Eric drew a deep breath. He didn’t know why the old-fashioned word had popped out of his mouth, but at least it had lessened the tension in the room. “Look, I’m not trying to make you mad or upset you. I just don’t understand you, James. The way you handled, or didn’t handle, the situation with Renée frustrates me. Hell, it enrages me because it led up to all of this mess.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Yes. Aren’t you?”

  James looked at him steadily. “I believe Renée’s return to Aurora Falls led up to all of this mess, as you put it.”

  “Why did she come back?”

  “I feel like I’ve answered that question fifty times. I … don’t … know!”

  “Could it have had something to do with your divorce being finalized?”

  “You’re asking if she came here to stop it?” James snorted. “Give me a break, Eric. Do you honestly think she wanted to stay married to me?”

  “Well … I don’t mean to be insulting, but no. I’m fairly certain she didn’t want to stay married to you.”

  “No insult taken. I think she hated me by the time she left.” He paused and after a moment spoke thoughtfully. “The last time I talked to her mother, though, she said she thought Renée was getting desperate for money. Renée had even gone home. Audrey said she’d turned her away, which I believe, but considering how Renée felt about her mother, she must have been desperate if she went back to the family home. If she was that broke, she might have come back to me as a last resort.” James’s forehead puckered again, and eventually he shook his head. “No. Renée wasn’t stupid. She would have known I wouldn’t take her back.”

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t have? The way you just accepted her behavior while you were married to her wouldn’t lead me to believe she didn’t have a chance with you.”

  Eric had been trying to get a rise from James, hoping he might say more about the strange marriage, but all he got was a hard stare. James took two deep breaths and Eric could almost feel the man composing himself. Eric wasn’t surprised. He knew James Eastman was extremely bright and savvy. He wouldn’t easily fall into a verbal trap.

  “The only reason I can think of that Renée might have come back was because she heard about the success of the Arcos exhibit.”

  “You think she loved him enough to want to see it?”

  “Love him? Eric, she did
n’t love him. She didn’t love anyone—I don’t think she was capable of it. But that exhibit features Mardi Gras Lady. In fact, it’s the painting getting all the attention. Still…”

  “Still?”

  “Still, news of a successful art exhibit in Aurora Falls has hardly made the papers or been splashed all over the Internet. Either she was close by and heard about it or she has a connection here in town who told her.”

  “I was told she was spotted at the gallery looking at her portrait. If the person was correct that Renée visited the gallery, I’m not surprised.”

  “Of course not. She couldn’t bear not seeing a painting of herself in an art gallery. You know she was crazy about art.”

  “No, I didn’t know.”

  “Well, she was. She met Arcos when she took one of his classes. She began talking about him immediately and incessantly. Less than a month later, she never mentioned him. That’s when I knew something was going on between them.”

  “Do you think Arcos killed her for leaving him?”

  “I don’t think he would have if he was in his right mind, but from everything I’ve heard about him, he did a lot of drugs. But that doesn’t explain why Arcos was murdered.”

  “Revenge? Someone thought Arcos killed Renée, so he had to die, too.”

  “And what about me? Did the shooter also think I killed Renée?”

  “Maybe Arcos and you were just possibilities.”

  “Have you forgotten I was at a conference in Pittsburgh at the time someone murdered Renée?”

  “James, Pittsburgh is less than three hundred miles from here. You could have driven to Aurora Falls, killed Renée, and been back in Pittsburgh in nine hours. If you’d taken a plane to Pittsburgh and rented a car there, the odometer on the car could have helped clear you. It would have shown how little you used the car. But you drove your own car to Pittsburgh. We have no idea how much mileage you had on it when you left for the conference. Of course, even if we did know how many miles you had on your car when you left here, you could have rented one in Pittsburgh, but so far, we haven’t found any car-rental agencies there with a record of you renting a car. Unless you used fake identification—”