Don’t Close Your Eyes

by Carlene Thompson

  Natalie felt slightly chastened. “I’ll be careful.”

  “I have a feeling your idea of careful and my idea of careful aren’t the same. I don’t want anything to happen to you,” he said fervently, then added as an afterthought, “or Lily or Alison.”

  “Who do you think the prowler last night was?”

  “Jeff Lindstrom. Trudy at the diner told me he was staying at the Lakeview Motel. I checked last night, but he wasn’t in. I went by again early this morning. No Lindstrom, no car, but he didn’t check out.”

  “Then where did he go after he left here?”

  Nick shrugged. “Maybe he figured he’d be the first person we’d suspect after you saw him at Tamara’s and decided to lie low.”

  “He can’t lie low forever.”

  “No, but he can leave town.”

  “Oh, great. Can’t you find out where he is?”

  “I can run prints from his room, although at this point I have no evidence for a warrant.”

  “It’s a motel room.”

  “Rented to him, so temporarily it’s his property. Natalie, this isn’t television. Things don’t just fall into place.”

  For the first time she noticed he had smudges under his dark blue eyes and lines of strain around his mouth. She also realized that, tired as he was, he was good-looking in a strong-boned, square-jawed way. Definitely not the male model type but definitely handsome.

  “Why does everyone in this town stare at me?” Nick asked in amused exasperation.

  Color rushed to Natalie’s cheeks. She felt like she did at fifteen when she’d had a crush on seventeen-year-old Hart Sullivan. A crush? More blood rushed to her cheeks.

  “Natalie, are you all right? You’re flushed.”

  She blinked. She swallowed. She stretched her mouth in a semblance of a smile. “I’m fine. I’m just dreading today.”

  “Sure you are.” He was all solicitous concern. She felt ashamed. Tamara was being buried today and she was sizing up the new guy in town. Worse still, he’d caught her doing it. “I’ll be at the funeral,” he said.

  “I thought you would be.” Natalie fought to regain some of her poise. “Still looking for potential suspects?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. I also need to talk with Viveca Cosgrove and Oliver Peyton.”

  “Do you think the funeral is an appropriate place to do it?”

  “No, but they’ve both made themselves unavailable to me,” he said.

  “That must be annoying.”

  “Annoying? It’s pissing me off. This isn’t a game.”

  “Oliver and Viveca don’t realize Lily and Alison might be in danger.”

  Nick sliced his hand impatiently through the air. “So what? I’m the sheriff, dammit. I’m trying to solve three murders, one of them Peyton’s daughter’s. The Cosgrove woman is supposed to be in love with him and to care about Tamara. I shouldn’t have to chase them down. They should be eager to help me in any way they can instead of acting like I’m some nosy pest.”

  Natalie looked at him sympathetically. “They’re both really high-handed.”

  “Well, they can get off their thrones voluntarily or I’ll damn well drag them off. I’m getting sick of people like Oliver Peyton and Max Bishop.”

  “Max Bishop won’t talk to you, either?”

  “I stand corrected. He will. He called yesterday to yell that I’m not doing my job. His body may be debilitated, but his voice is in fine working order. He says Purdue would have had this whole thing solved in twenty-four hours.”

  “Purdue wouldn’t have known what to do if the killer walked right up to him and confessed,” Natalie said scornfully. “Real police work scared him to death, sent him straight to his office for a shot of courage he thought no one knew he kept in his desk drawer. Nick, you have to realize that Oliver Peyton, Viveca Cosgrove, and Max Bishop are big fish in a very little pond called Port Ariel and Purdue was their flunky. Don’t let any of them run over you because you’re trying to fit in around here. You’ll never fit in like Purdue did and most people in this town thank God that you don’t.”

  Nick relaxed slightly and grinned. “Thanks, coach.”

  “I didn’t mean to preach.”

  “I needed a sermon. You’re right—I can’t let these people get to me. If I do, I can’t think clearly.”

  “Well, I for one want you thinking as clearly as possible, Nick, because without you, this killer will go free.” Natalie shivered. “And I think he’ll kill again. I can feel it.”

  II

  Natalie could not remember enduring a longer funeral service. Lily looked as pale as death itself. Oliver sat frozen-faced, his black-and-silver hair slicked into place, his dark gray suit exquisite, although he looked as if he’d lost ten pounds; the suit was too big in the shoulders. Beside him Viveca posed in equal sartorial splendor, diamond studs glistening on her earlobes. Alison slumped in her pew, her face vacant, her restless hands twisting strands of her flaxen hair. Several times Viveca reached up to gently stop the nervous movement.

  Lily shot Viveca and Alison scalding glances, clearly resenting their places with the family while aunts, uncles, and cousins were relegated to more distant pews. Warren’s father had not come, although his young wife fidgeted in stylish boredom beside Warren’s hulking brother who seemed to be dozing.

  Natalie sat with her father and Ruth. Every time Andrew kneeled, his knees popped and his face reddened. Ruth cast him a couple of encouraging smiles. Natalie wondered how serious they were. They hadn’t been seeing each other long, and Andrew swore he “barely knew” Ruth, but they seemed close. Natalie wished he would find someone. He’d been alone too long.

  Suddenly she realized she was thinking of everything except the service. Deliberately. If she didn’t, she would cry and she didn’t want to cause a scene. Long ago Natalie had learned to shed tears in private. She would do the same today.

  At last the service ended. As they filed out of the church, Ruth let out a tiny gasp and dropped her purse. Startled, Natalie bent to retrieve the purse while Andrew firmly took Ruth’s arm. “What’s wrong?” he muttered.

  “I . . . I don’t know. Everything went black for a moment.” Ruth managed a twitchy smile, although her face was dewy with perspiration. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not.” By now they had reached the door of the church. “Natalie, I’m taking Ruth home.”

  “Oh, no,” Ruth protested. “You’ll want to go to the gravesite . . .”

  “I don’t,” Andrew said emphatically. “I want to take you home and have something to drink and a quiet talk.”

  “Andrew—”

  “There’s no point in arguing with him,” Natalie said.

  “It never stopped you,” Andrew retorted without sarcasm. Ruth smiled. “Come on, Ruth. You’re pale and your hands are trembling. It might be an attack of hypoglycemia, in which case you need nourishment.” Or the service might have been a reminder of her husband’s funeral, Natalie thought. Her father looked at her. “We’ll see you later, dear.”

  With that they were heading for Andrew’s car. Natalie watched them. A handsome couple. Andrew’s concern for Ruth was obvious. He would take care of her, even though her attack was probably nothing serious.

  As she walked toward her car she saw Nick Meredith almost running toward a light blue car. He wore a suit and had driven his own car to the funeral, but she knew he was on the job and something was wrong. She stood by her car, fingers touching the door handle, watching Nick tear out of the parking lot and make a fast right onto a busy street. Who was he chasing? It had to be someone he’d seen at the funeral.

  III

  If Nick had not turned at that exact moment, he would have missed Lindstrom, head bowed, creeping out the door of the church. He was trying to lose himself among the other mourners. He failed.

  By the time Nick pushed his way through the sedate line of people in front of him, Lindstrom had made it to a white Cavalier. He cast cautious looks around him an
d met Nick’s gaze. Their eyes locked for a significant instant before Lindstrom swung his long legs in the car and turned on the ignition. Nick ran. He was already firing up his car as Jeff Lindstrom spun away from the Sacred Heart parking lot.

  Nick had left his car unlocked. As he climbed in, he saw Natalie St. John standing beside her car, looking at him. Her long black hair lifted gently in the breeze and her dark eyes filled with curiosity. He didn’t know if she had seen Lindstrom—probably not—but she knew something was wrong. No time for explanations. Catching Lindstrom would be explanation enough. The creep may not have killed three people, Nick thought, but he’d terrified Natalie on Hyacinth Lane and spied at her through her bedroom window.

  Spied on her. Lain in wait for her. Nick’s foot pressed the accelerator. This bastard wasn’t getting away from him.

  He was one car away from Lindstrom. The elderly man ahead puttered along in an old, rusted Cadillac that put out a cloud of smoke. Every time Nick tried to pass, the car weaved toward the left. Nick honked the horn to indicate he needed to pass. The old man gave him the finger. Surprised and infuriated, Nick checked oncoming traffic, then roared by the ancient Cadillac. The guy gave him the finger again and laid on the horn. Nick quelled the impulse to return the obscene gesture, but he couldn’t resist blasting his own horn. He wanted to pull the guy over, but he had to concentrate on Lindstrom, who was getting away.

  The Cavalier shot around a pickup truck, nearly colliding with a car coming in the opposite lane. Nick nosed near the pickup, whose bed was loaded with a couch, a chair, a dresser, a stained mattress, and dozens of boxes. The guy deserved a ticket. Nothing in the bed of the truck was secured properly and looked like it could come flying off at any moment.

  Which is exactly what happened. Nick had drawn close, watching for a break in traffic so he could pass, when a box took flight. He saw it coming and flinched even before it slammed against his windshield. Pillows, sheets, towels, and underwear engulfed his car. He swerved right, his front tire hitting dirt and sending gravel spitting through the air. He eased back onto the pavement, mentally taking down the license number of the pickup. The driver would be receiving a citation tomorrow.

  Smaller debris shot from the truck as Nick pulled to the left and accelerated. When he passed the driver’s window, he saw a moon-faced man with a vacant expression bobbing his head and singing. Nick blasted his horn and rolled down the opposite window. The sound of a Garth Brooks song blared from the pickup. The driver looked at him blankly.

  “Stuff is falling off your truck!” Nick shouted. The guy nodded and smiled amiably. “Pull over!” This time another amiable smile accompanied by a thumbs-up signal. What the hell did that mean? Nick jerked his badge from beneath his suit jacket and held it up. “Listen, shithead, stuff is falling off your truck!” he yelled at the top of his voice. “Pull OVER!”

  The guy’s benign smile faltered. He looked in his rearview mirror. Then he slowed and began creeping off the road, leaving a trail of household items behind him. Nick didn’t have time to fool with him, either. Dammit, where was the highway patrol when you needed them?

  Lindstrom’s Cavalier sped at least ten miles over the speed limit. He passed another car and gained even more speed. “Damn!” Nick muttered as traffic grew heavier. He’d probably never catch the jerk now. While cops on television never missed an opportunity to launch a high-speed chase, real-life cops were more careful in traffic. The danger of killing innocent people was too great.

  Then the white Cavalier wavered and shot violently to the right, tilting slightly. “Blew a tire!” Nick shouted in glee. The car slowed and edged off the road. Two cars passed before Nick whipped up behind it. He leaped out of his car as Lindstrom slowly climbed from his. Lindstrom gave Nick an uncertain look, then threw him a guileless smile. “Thanks for stopping to help. I never was too good at changing tires.”

  “You know damned well I didn’t stop to help with your tire.”

  Lindstrom’s smile disappeared. He tried to look wary. “Hey, what’s your problem?”

  “My problem is that I’m the sheriff and I’ve been trying to get you to pull over since you left the church.”

  “I didn’t know you were the sheriff!” He glanced at Nick’s Intrepid. “That’s not a police cruiser. I thought you were some nut trying to run me off the road.”

  He was lying. He’d seen Nick at Lily’s store. Then at the church his gaze had directly met Nick’s before he’d jumped in his car and taken off as fast as he could. But Nick had no proof, so he had to let the matter drop. “Why were you at Tamara Hunt’s funeral?”

  “I . . . well . . . curiosity.” Nick stared at him hard. “Okay, I know how sick that sounds, but hear me out. I’m a reporter with the Cincinnati Star. I’m on vacation, and I came up here to see what I could find out about these murders. I’ve always wanted to write a true-crime book like Small Sacrifices. Ever hear of it?”

  “Ann Rule.”

  “Hey, you read!” Jeff grinned.

  “Learned in elementary school.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way,” Jeff said quickly. “I just meant that . . . well, maybe you didn’t have time to read.”

  “I don’t care what you meant. So you want to write a book. Is that why you’ve been asking so many questions about Tamara and Warren Hunt and Charlotte Bishop?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s why you cornered Natalie St. John on a deserted road and gave her the third degree?”

  “I didn’t corner her,” Jeff said hotly. “I just ran into her. It was daylight. Did she tell you I tried to hurt her or something?”

  “No, but she said she had a hard time getting away from you.”

  “Maybe I talked too much. Hey, she’s a good-looking woman, don’t you think?” Nick stared at him expressionlessly. “Look, I didn’t mean to scare her. I was just talking.”

  “You were asking a lot of questions.” He paused. “And what were you doing with Tamara Hunt’s earring?”

  “Earring? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “It fell out of your pocket while you were just talking to Natalie. Where did you get it?”

  “Oh, the earring. I found it. Out on that road.”

  “And what are you—a bag lady in disguise? You squirrel away bits and pieces of things you find?”

  Jeff glared at him. “No, Sheriff. Frankly, I did think it might be Tamara’s. I was going to bring it to you.”

  “Oh, were you?”

  “Yes.”

  “But when you discovered your pocket was empty, you didn’t call me up and say, ‘Sheriff, I found an earring on Hyacinth Lane that might have been Tamara Hunt’s, but I lost it. It’s probably still out there somewhere.’ ”

  “What would have been the point of that?”

  “If you’re such a fan of true-crime novels, you’d know we might have learned something from that earring. I don’t think you ever had any intention of turning it in to the police.”

  “Think what you want,” Jeff snapped.

  “Did you talk to Charlotte Bishop the night of her murder?”

  “What?”

  “You’re not hard of hearing, Lindstrom.”

  “No, I didn’t talk to her.”

  “Her mother says she saw Charlotte talking with someone fitting your description right before she left the house that night.”

  Jeff raised his arms helplessly. “I didn’t know Charlotte Bishop.”

  “That isn’t what I asked.”

  “Why would I be talking to her?”

  “Your book.”

  “What would she have to do with my book? She hadn’t been murdered when I was supposedly seen talking with her. I don’t know what the hell this is all about, but—” Lindstrom seemed ready to burst into a tirade, then got control of himself. He flashed the grin that was beginning to grate on Nick’s nerves. “Sheriff, doing this book means a lot to me. I’m sorry if you don’t like me asking Natalie St. John questions. I’
m sorry I didn’t mention the earring. I’m new at this stuff.” The grin. “But can’t you cut me a little slack? How about letting me in on this investigation? When the book comes out, you’ll be prominently featured in the acknowledgments. I promise.”

  “I don’t care about your book,” Nick said coldly. “Just stay out of my way.”

  Jeff’s grin vanished. “I didn’t have any intention of getting in your way, but you can’t stop me from asking questions and doing a little digging of my own.”

  “I’ve given you a warning.” Nick looked at him chillingly. “You ignore me, and I’ll have you arrested for interfering with a police investigation.”

  “I’ve got rights,” Jeff called as Nick walked back to his car.

  “You just keep telling yourself that, Lindstrom, when you’re sitting in a dark, little jail cell with one of our less civilized citizens staring at you like you’re a prime piece of fresh meat.”

  IV

  Thankfully the graveside service was short. Lily and her father dropped flowers onto the coffin. Then Lily made a beeline for Natalie. “You’re coming back to the house with me, aren’t you?” she asked almost desperately.

  “Of course. I told you I would.”

  “I know. I’m just so . . . Oh, I don’t know. Sad. Confused. Bitter. I’ve lost my sister and my father.”

  “You haven’t lost your father.”

  “Not physically. But that damned Viveca and her nutty daughter . . .”

  “Speaking of your father, he’s shooting meaningful looks in this direction.”

  “I suppose I’m not presenting a suitable picture of family solidarity.”

  “Lily, don’t you think you’re being a bit hard on him?”

  Lily’s hazel eyes flashed. “No, and please don’t lecture. I need a friend, not a . . . a . . .”

  “I get it.” Natalie put on her sunglasses. “I’ll meet you at your house, and no lectures, I promise.”

  Fifteen minutes later she pulled up to the Peyton home. Cars lined the elegant street for a block north and another south of the house. Natalie wondered how many of these people really knew Tamara and how many were here because their familiarity with Oliver allowed them in the door to slake their avid curiosity. Inside she recognized few people and decided that unfortunately many were here out of curiosity alone. Ghouls. But maybe she wasn’t being fair. Perhaps some of these people were friends Tam made through Warren. Natalie doubted it, though. She’d never heard Tamara mention parties or conventions she’d attended with Warren. It seemed he’d usually left his pretty, shy wife at home. Natalie had no doubt he’d always been unfaithful. How many women like Charlotte had there been?