Don’t Close Your Eyes

by Carlene Thompson

  “Lily, Natalie,” he said expressionlessly, his shadowed eyes bloodshot. “Thank you for coming to help with Tamara’s clothes. I wouldn’t have the faintest idea what she should wear. Would you two like some coffee?”

  “I would.” Natalie didn’t really want coffee but preparing a cup for her would send Warren out of the room. When he disappeared into the kitchen, she turned to Lily. “He looks fairly bad to me, Lily.”

  “Obviously he didn’t sleep. And he drank too much, also. But I still don’t believe he’s feeling real grief.”

  “Lily the mind reader.”

  “Well, can’t you see that he doesn’t care?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t know him as well as I do.”

  Natalie sighed. “Lily, please, just don’t give him a hard time today. Tamara wouldn’t want you to.”

  “I’d intended to say as little as possible to the jerk.”

  Warren reappeared with the coffee and Lily and Natalie went directly upstairs to the master bedroom. A few delicate floral watercolors hung on the creamy white walls and a quilt with a wildflower pattern in pink, peach, yellow, and green covered the king-sized bed. “Beautiful quilt, isn’t it?” Lily said almost to herself. “Tam made it, of course. She was so much more artistic than I am.”

  “You got the business sense.” Natalie opened the closet door. “And the fashion sense. Help me pick out an outfit.”

  Tamara’s wardrobe bore little resemblance to Lily’s. All her summer clothes were muted tones, her winter in gray, black, or navy blue. “My sister didn’t own one piece of red clothing,” Lily said, shaking her head slowly. “Mom’s influence. She wanted Tam and me to look like little nuns. Tam, as always, wanted to please. I, as always, rebelled.”

  “You each wore what was right for your personality.”

  Lily thumped down on the bed. “Damn it, Natalie, will you stop sounding so reasonable and placid? I’m not going to fly into a million pieces if you show a little emotion. I am going to jump up and down and scream if you don’t.”

  Natalie turned away from the closet. “I’m sorry if I’m annoying you. I don’t know how to act. I don’t want to do anything to make things worse for you.”

  “You couldn’t possibly make things worse except by acting like some impassive woman I don’t know. I need my good old emotional, expressive Natalie right now.”

  “Okay. I’ll be emotional and expressive. I won’t be old.”

  Lily grinned. “That’s more like it.” She screwed up her face. “How about that powder-blue suit by your right hand? I know it doesn’t really matter because the casket will be closed given the state of her face, but she liked that suit. We’ll put Mom’s pearls with it.”

  Natalie hesitated. “The suit is perfect, but the pearls? They were a birthday present from your father and they’re worth a fortune.”

  “I took Mom’s diamond earrings. The pearls are Tam’s.”

  “Your mother wanted one of you to wear the pearls. She wouldn’t have liked for them to be buried forever.”

  “Do you have a direct line to the afterlife?” Lily asked half humorously. “First you know Tam wants me to be kind to Warren. Now you know Mom wants me to have Tam’s pearls. Did you stay up all night communing with the dead?”

  “Lily!” Warren said severely from the doorway. “Have a little respect for your sister. This is no time for jokes.”

  “It’s exactly the time for jokes,” Lily snapped. “If we don’t laugh, we’ll cry.” She paused. “At least some of us will.”

  Warren’s eyes narrowed. “And what does that mean?”

  “Nothing,” Natalie intervened. “Could you call the florist and tell her we’ll be there soon? I don’t suppose you want to go with us, do you?”

  “No. I don’t know anything about flowers. I don’t even like them. I think we should ask for donations to the suicide hotline in lieu of flowers.”

  “Tam loved flowers and she didn’t give a damn about the suicide hotline,” Lily fired back.

  Warren looked incensed. “There you go, giving all the orders as usual. You see, Natalie, this is why I’m not getting involved in the funeral arrangements.” He turned and stalked downstairs.

  “Lily, Tamara organized the suicide hotline,” Natalie said.

  “She only organized it to please Warren. Writing grant applications, making public pleas for donations, was pure misery for her. Besides, I want her to have flowers,” Lily fumed. “Warren just wants to stick her in the ground as quickly and cheaply as possible.” Good lord, Natalie thought. Were all funerals so fraught with familial antagonism?

  “Okay, you can fill the funeral home to the roof with flowers, but please try to get along with Warren for the next few days.”

  “No. I hate him.”

  “Lily, you sound like a petulant five-year-old.”

  Lily ignored her and Natalie could have been angry with her if she hadn’t known the petulance was simply a manifestation of unbearable grief. While Lily seethed on the bed, Natalie finished assembling clothing for Tamara, insisting that the pearls be excluded. She placed everything in a shopping bag.

  Lily took one last look around the room. Her gaze lingered on a silver-framed wedding picture of Tamara and Warren. In the photo Tamara looked young, lovely, and unsure of herself. Warren smirked—impeccably handsome and self-satisfied. “It was a beautiful wedding,” she said softly. “Tam thought Warren was so wonderful then.”

  “She thought Warren was wonderful until the day she died,” Natalie said softly. “She was happy, Lily. Warren did not make her miserable.”

  “I guess you’re right. I don’t like him and I don’t trust him, but Tam loved him. I just hope he was worth her love.”

  The phone rang once. Warren must have picked it up. “We’re ready to go,” Natalie said. “They’ll be expecting us at the florist’s.”

  She descended the stairs first. The lush carpet muffled her footsteps. When she reached the bottom, she saw Warren sitting in an armchair with the phone receiver in his hand. His head was slightly lowered, his face turned away from the stairs. “I can’t. Not today. Not for several days,” he said. Something in his tone made Natalie freeze. After a brief pause he went on. “I don’t want you to come to the funeral. You weren’t friends with Tamara. It might look suspicious.” Silence. “I need to see you, too, but—” Silence again, then a sigh. “All right. Tonight.” He glanced up and saw Natalie. A burgundy stain bloomed across his face. “I must go now,” he said formally. “Thank you for your condolences.”

  After he hung up, Natalie glanced behind her. Lily stood there, rigid, her hazel eyes simmering with hatred.

  III

  Nick Meredith swiveled his desk chair around and looked out the office window. Another beautiful, crystal-clear day in Port Ariel, where the air was pure, the scenery spectacular, the crime rate low. He’d spent his childhood in a tough Bronx neighborhood where learning how to fight was essential for survival. When he was twenty, his younger brother had been stabbed to death on a street corner. Fifteen years later his wife Meagan had been shot to death in a liquor store. So he’d left New York City and brought his little girl to a place that was safe, a place where murder was nearly unheard of . . .

  Until now.

  Not all the toxicology reports on Tamara Hunt had come back yet, but Nick didn’t really consider them important. Someone dragging a razor-sharp, smooth-bladed knife across her slender neck had killed Tamara Peyton Hunt. According to the preliminary M.E. report, she bore a three-inch single incised wound at the base of her neck, directed backward, medially and downward. The carotid artery and external and internal jugular veins had been severed. Bruising appeared around the throat, indicating that the victim had been grabbed from behind and held while the fatal wound was administered. The state of rigor placed the time of death between eight and ten P.M. the previous evening. The pattern of lividity showed that the body had not been moved. There were no signs of sexual assault and no sk
in had been retrieved from beneath the victim’s fingernails. Human hair not belonging to the victim had not been recovered, although canine hair was found on the hands and around the neck.

  And, finally, Tamara Peyton Hunt had been eight weeks pregnant.

  Nick remembered when his wife Meagan had told him she was expecting. She’d been finishing her master’s degree in English. He’d just made detective second grade. He’d been at work when she called and said abruptly, “Nick, you’re going to be a father,” then hung up. He’d immediately called home, but there had been no answer. When he arrived back at the apartment for dinner, Meagan was furiously stirring a pot of spaghetti sauce. She’d looked at him almost fearfully with her big brown eyes. Then she saw the yellow roses and the bottle of sparkling cider topped by a bow he carried, and she’d burst into happy tears.

  He hadn’t told her how much he wanted a child because he knew becoming a college professor was so important to her. He didn’t want her to feel pressured to interrupt her education. He later learned she hadn’t talked about how much she wanted a child because he was the eldest of seven children. She thought he was sick of kids and she didn’t want him to feel pressured. But the day Paige was born was the happiest of their marriage.

  Had Tamara Hunt wanted this baby as much as Meagan had wanted Paige? From everything Nick had heard about her, she had. Desperately. How about her husband? Warren Hunt seemed more of a mystery than his wife was. Everyone they’d questioned had wonderful things to say about Tamara. They talked about her sweetness, her generosity, her devotion to her husband. No one seemed willing to volunteer much about Dr. Hunt except that he seemed to have a fairly successful practice and he dressed well. Glowing comments, Nick thought wryly.

  “We going to question Warren Hunt today?” Ted Hysell asked.

  Nick swiveled back in his chair, looking at Hysell’s eager face gazing at him from the doorway. The guy tried to hide his excitement over the case beneath a stern veneer, but it wasn’t working. Even though he’d known Tamara Hunt and supposedly liked her tremendously, he was delighted to be working a murder case. Maybe if Nick had spent ten years on the police force and never encountered a serious case, he’d feel different, too. But Tamara was only slightly younger than Meagan had been, and so much he’d heard about her reminded him of Meagan—Meagan, too, kind and loving and murdered with the world ahead of her.

  Hysell’s enthusiasm rankled and Nick stared at the man for a moment. He would like to take someone else with him, but Hysell had seniority among the deputies. Nick forced away emotion. “Give Hunt a call and make sure he’s home. Don’t let him put you off, but don’t scare him, either.”

  “Give him the ‘it’s just routine’ routine, right?”

  Hysell beamed at his own clever turn of phrase. Nick nodded, sighing within. Hysell annoyed the hell out of him.

  Twenty minutes later they pulled into the Hunt driveway. Nick saw Jimmy Jenkins standing in his own driveway watching avidly while from somewhere outside, his mother bawled reprimands to one of the other children. He waved briefly at Jimmy, who returned something like a salute. Jimmy was a pistol, Nick thought. Bright, funny, obsessed with that smartass TV cop, and seemingly with Paige. Nick didn’t mind them being friends. He just didn’t want them to be best friends. He wasn’t sure Jimmy’s influence was all that healthy on an impressionable eleven-year-old girl.

  Warren Hunt opened the door promptly. He wore neatly pressed khaki pants, a pale blue oxford shirt, expensive loafers, and CK cologne. He was clean-shaven and his dark brown hair was still damp from the shower, but the whites of his eyes bore a network of red lines and his well-kept hands shook slightly. “Good morning, Sheriff,” he said affably, smiling broadly. Then doubt flashed in his eyes and he turned down the smile a notch. “Come in.”

  “Thanks,” Nick said. “This is Deputy Hysell—”

  “I knew Tamara,” Hysell interrupted. “Lovely girl. I’m a few years older. We met skating. She was better than I was. And pretty as a picture. Sweet, too.” Is it possible for this guy to shut his mouth? Nick stormed mentally. “This is a real tragedy, Warren.”

  Warren Hunt looked blankly at Hysell, clearly having no idea who this chatterbox was. Nick ignored his deputy. “Do I smell coffee?”

  Relief shone on Hunt’s face. “Yes. Would you like some?”

  “Sure would. Black.”

  “Deputy . . .”

  “Hysell. I’d like some, too. Cream. Or milk, but not too much. No sugar.”

  When Warren went into the kitchen, Nick forced himself to sound mild. “Hysell, let me do the talking for now.” Hysell immediately looked sullen. “I’ll give you a signal if I want you to spring something on him.”

  Some of the deputy’s irritation dissipated, although Nick hadn’t specified what Hysell was to “spring” on Hunt. It didn’t matter. Hysell walked to the fireplace and fell into a deep study of an oil painting hanging above the mantel, an act clearly meant to communicate nonchalance to Hunt.

  Warren entered the room carrying two mugs of coffee. Hysell took his with merely a nod. Nick sipped and smiled. “Good.” Hunt looked relieved again. Nick sat down on the couch. “Sorry to inconvenience you this morning, Dr. Hunt. I know you’re probably busy with funeral arrangements.”

  Warren took a seat on a wing-backed chair. “Actually Tamara’s father and sister are handling all that. They wanted to and I thought it might be therapeutic.”

  “I see. Well, I just have a few questions for you, things you told me yesterday but I need to confirm.” Nick gave him an offhand look. “Everyone was pretty upset after just getting the news. I want to make sure I have everything straight.”

  “Certainly. I understand.” Warren seemed to relax and crossed an ankle over a knee. “How can I help you?”

  “I understand that you were attending a three-day convention in Cleveland.”

  “Yes. It began Thursday morning at nine. I left Wednesday evening and stayed at the Hyatt where the convention was being held. Saturday night we had a banquet. I planned to wrap up a few things Sunday and be back here by five or six o’clock. Then I got the call about Tamara . . .” He took a deep, shuddery breath.

  “Why didn’t your wife go with you?”

  Warren blinked at him. “What?”

  “Why didn’t your wife go with you to Cleveland? Wouldn’t she have enjoyed shopping, dining out, that kind of thing?”

  “No.” Warren’s fingers began to tap lightly on the arm of the chair. “Tamara was shy, almost reclusive. Oh, if the trip had just been a little weekend excursion for the two of us, she would have loved it. But she didn’t want to be thrown in the midst of all those people. There was a cocktail party Wednesday night and the banquet Saturday. She hated that kind of thing.”

  “I see.” Nick withdrew a notebook from his pocket and pretended to check it, although he knew its contents by heart. “The banquet was held the night of your wife’s murder.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You sat between Dr. Forbes Evans and Dr. Charles Feldman.”

  “Yes.”

  “You arrived at seven and left around ten.”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmmm. Well, here I have a problem because Dr. Evans says he returned to his room around eight-ten and you were getting ready to leave.”

  “Forbes is elderly. He was exhausted and embarrassed about darting away from the banquet so early, so I said I was leaving, too. But I didn’t.”

  “That was considerate of you. But Dr. Feldman says he actually went back upstairs with you at eight-twenty.”

  Warren’s tapping fingers went still. “He’s mistaken.”

  “His wife says he called her around eight-thirty from his room.”

  “I don’t know when he called his wife, but we did not leave the banquet that early. Anyway, what difference does it make?”

  “Time of death, Dr. Hunt. The M.E. places your wife’s time of death between eight and ten.”

  “That’s fairly
vague.”

  “Unfortunately in real life they can’t be as accurate as on television where the M.E. can place time of death within fifteen minutes.” Nick gave him a casual smile. “Impossible.”

  Warren smiled back woodenly. “Of course.”

  “Nice ship model you got here,” Hysell intervened. Nick had an urge to bash him over the head with something heavy.

  Warren Hunt looked completely confused. “Ship model?”

  “Here on your mantel. It’s the Mercy, isn’t it?”

  “The Mercy? Why, yes, I believe it is. Had it so long I forgot.”

  “Did you build it?”

  “Build it? No. I have no interest in ships. Tamara picked it up somewhere.” He looked at Nick. “Now what’s all this about Tamara’s time of death?”

  Nick took a deep breath, trying to maintain his cool. He’d have a few choice words for Hysell when they got outside. He was also furious with Warren Hunt for playing dumb with him. Did he actually think that would work? “The time of death is very important, Dr. Hunt. You see it’s fifty-five miles from here to Cleveland. You could drive that in less than an hour, which means if you and Dr. Feldman left the banquet at eight-twenty, you could have been back in Port Ariel by nine-twenty.”

  “By nine-twenty? Yes, I suppose I could. But why?” Warren’s eyes widened. “So I could slash my wife’s throat?”

  “It’s a possibility we have to consider,” Nick answered calmly.

  “But that’s preposterous! I was at the hotel all evening.”

  “Did anyone see you after you left the dining room?”

  “I don’t know. Surely someone did. A colleague. A maid. I believe I ordered a brandy from room service around eleven. No, that was the night before. Anyway, I called my wife at ten. My message is on our answering machine.”

  “But you didn’t call from your room at the Hyatt. We checked the phone records.”

  “You did? Why would you do that? Oh, this ridiculous suspicion of me.” Warren shook his head as if baffled and slightly amused by Nick’s stupidity. “I called from my car phone, Sheriff Meredith.”