To the Grave (10 page)

“I thought I might wake you.”

“You could have called Marissa's cell phone.”

“And if you were sleeping she would have woken you up to speak to me.”

“It wouldn't have mattered.” She hugged him fiercely. “I've been so worried.”

“That's why she's been sitting in the kitchen eating cinnamon rolls like she'll never be offered food again,” Marissa said with teasing indulgence. “It's amazing.”

“Nerves,” Catherine told James quickly. “I eat everything in sight when I'm nervous.”

James blinked at her. “Not that I've ever noticed.”

You've never seen me in a situation like this one, Catherine almost said, then caught herself. She didn't want to say anything that might spark a thought of Renée, especially when a closer look at James's face revealed shadows beneath slightly bloodshot eyes and a tight, controlled look around his mouth. Catherine beamed at him. “You don't know how relieved I am to see you. I love you,” she murmured as she pressed her lips gently against his. James kissed her tenderly but quickly, his gaze shooting over Catherine's shoulder to Marissa still standing in the room. He had a reluctance to show even small public displays of affection, which Catherine often found annoying.

She leaned back and tilted her head, gazing into James's dark eyes. “Are you hungry?”

Right on cue, James's stomach let out a long, loud growl, and he laughed. “I haven't eaten since noon yesterday.”

Catherine raised her eyebrows. “You didn't even have a snack?” James shook his head. “That's awful! Your blood sugar must be dropping. You should have at least eaten some toast this morning.”

“Yes, ma'am. I know I should have, but I didn't have any appetite.” His stomach growled again. “Until now.”

“Catherine left a couple of cinnamon rolls and I'll start another batch,” Marissa said. “I think I've finally mastered baking something, if you can believe it.”

James grinned. “I could eat about ten cinnamon rolls and I'm suffering from caffeine withdrawal. I need strong coffee—lots of it.”

2

Eric arrived an hour later. Catherine immediately tensed, scared of what Eric would tell them about the fire. She took a breath and tried to ask steadily, “Have you been to the cottage this morning?”

Eric nodded. “The fire marshal and I just finished going over the place.”

Within five minutes, Marissa had taken Eric's jacket and given him a large mug of coffee. He sat in an oversized recliner, his thick, tousled wavy blond hair at least an inch longer than advisors thought a sheriff should wear it, his dark brown eyes solemn. His face bore the shadow of stubble and he looked tired, the line between his eyebrows deeper than usual.

“I'm sure at night it looked like a bomb had gone off in your cottage, James,” Eric said, rolling the smooth mug in his hands as if to warm them. “We're certain it wasn't a bomb, though. Actually, we found the remains of Molotov cocktails.”

“Molotov cocktails?” James echoed in disbelief.

Eric nodded. “The fire did a lot of damage, but we were still able to retrieve enough material to be almost certain someone threw Molotovs at the cottage.”

“Where would someone around here get Molotov cocktails?” Catherine asked in shock.

“People usually think of Molotovs in connection with riots, or terrorist attacks, but it only takes one person to make and launch one. That's why experts often call Molotov cocktails
makeshift
incendiary weapons, meaning they aren't manufactured in arms facilities. All it takes is one person to prepare them,” Eric explained.

Catherine said, “I always imagined them as being a complicated mix of chemicals.”

“Most people do, but Molotovs can be made of a few simple chemicals.” He smiled at her. “With a few instructions, my grandmother could probably fix up one in her kitchen.” Eric's smile faded. “But, Catherine, just because they can be simple doesn't mean they can't be deadly.”

“Like the ones last night.”

“Yes, I'm afraid so.”

“What makes you think someone used Molotov cocktails on the cottage?” James asked.

“Evidence. We found a lot of what the fire marshal thought was soda-lime glass and flat metal lids and screw-on rings used in home-canning jars like Mason jars or Ball jars. He said they're often used to hold Molotovs and a quart jar would be easy for even a woman to throw quite a distance.”

“About how many of them were there?”

“We couldn't tell for certain, James, but we found four lids. More could have been lying in the debris. Also, the marshal used to train chemical-sniffing dogs in the Armed Forces. He has his own now. The dog led us to several pieces of wood that must have had traces of the chemicals used. The fire marshal took them in for analysis.”

Catherine sat rock still, horrified. Then she leaned forward. “Have you ever come across anything like this before, Eric? I mean, do you think there's any possibility that someone just threw the Molotovs as a prank?”

“I've never seen anyone go to so much trouble for just a prank.” Eric paused. “I think whoever made and threw those Molotovs did so out of pure hatred and rage.”

3

“I know you're not crazy about spending the night when Marissa is here,” Catherine said.

“Tonight I'd stay if fifty people were here. I should have stayed last night instead of going to the damned cottage.”

They lay in Catherine's bed, their naked legs twined together, his strong arms holding her gently, pressing the side of her face against the warm skin of his chest. “You didn't tell me last night that Patrice had been at the cottage with you.”

“Well, you and I didn't exactly have a long conversation. Besides, she just stopped by. She said she knew where I'd be.”

“And I thought that's the last place you'd be. She must know you better than I do.”

“You sound like you're implying something,” James said lightly. When she didn't answer, he put his hand under her chin and raised her face, looking into her eyes. “You're not, are you?”

“Implying something about you and Patrice? Not anything romantic. Just what I said—she knows you better than I do.”

“Maybe in certain ways. We've worked together for years and she could know some of my behavior patterns better than you do. Oh, and she's madly in love with me, too.”

Catherine gave him a playful tap on his cheek. “With that huge ego of yours you think every woman in town is madly in love with you, but I know of two exceptions—Marissa and Patrice.”

“Do you really think I have a huge ego?”

Catherine giggled. “If you did, I wouldn't be in love with you. Huge egos are a gigantic turnoff for me.”

“Is
gigantic
bigger than
huge
?”

“Oh, definitely.” Catherine snuggled closer to James. “I just love you so much, I'm bothered that another woman knows you better than I do.”

“Patrice might know me better in a superficial way, but she doesn't know my heart.” He kissed the top of Catherine's head. “You're the only woman who's known my heart, my soul.”

Catherine felt as if her own heart squeezed tight as deep and passionate love for this man washed through her. She ran her open hand down the side of his face. “Oh, James, when I think of what could have happened to you last night if you'd been closer, in the cottage, if one of those Molotov cocktails had hit you—”

“But I wasn't in the cottage and nothing happened to me. You have to stop thinking
what if, what if.
”

“How can I when you came so close to being hurt or…”

“Or killed?” James pulled her closer. “Maybe you're right. Maybe I need to be more careful. Going to the cottage where Renée was murdered a week ago was downright stupid. I don't know what I was thinking. I
wasn't
thinking—not reasonably. But I promise you, I won't be so careless again.” He paused. “And the same goes for you, Catherine. You heard Eric say he didn't think someone was throwing those cocktails as a prank. Maybe it wasn't a coincidence that I was at the cottage when they were thrown. Maybe someone has it in for me, too. And my obvious love for you—our relationship—might make you a target, too.”

“But I hardly knew Renée,” Catherine said vaguely, her mind focusing on his phrase “my obvious love for you.”

“We don't know what's going on here, sweetheart,” James said. “We don't know why Renée was murdered or why someone
might
have been trying to hurt me last night.” He looked piercingly into her eyes, his jaw hardened, and his voice deepened. “You don't know what you mean to me, Catherine. I can't stand the thought of someone taking you away from me. If I lost you…”

“If you lost me?”

“I can't even think about it. Just promise me you'll be careful.”

“I'll be careful,” Catherine said gently. “I promise.”

After a moment, James's face relaxed and he smiled and he pulled her on top of him, wrapped his arms around her so tightly she could hardly breathe, and pressed his lips to hers with tender, then growing, demanding passion.

*   *   *

Two hours later, James slept peacefully. Although Catherine had dozed after their lovemaking, she'd awakened a while ago and couldn't go back to sleep. Instead, she lay on her side, looking at the moonlight touching James's exposed chest and abdomen like a caress. He looked like the men in designer underwear ads, she thought, muscular and perfect. He could give David Beckham a run for his money, she thought. Telling him so would probably only embarrass him.

Earlier, he'd said “my obvious love for you.” He'd said, “I can't stand the thought of someone taking you away from me.” Playing over the words in her mind thrilled her almost as much as hearing him say them to her.

Catherine reached out and lightly ran her fingers over his chest. God, how she loved him. How she wanted to make up to him for all the hurt Renée had caused. If only she hadn't caused
so
much hurt he never wanted to try marriage again. Catherine knew many people found him cold and formal. Maybe she was the only person who knew just how sensitive he really was beneath the imperturbable façade. Maybe she was the only person who knew how deeply he could be hurt and how difficult it was for him to recover from hurt and disappointment. James was not a resilient man. He didn't easily forgive or forget. In fact—

Suddenly James's hand grabbed hers, nearly crushing it in an iron-like grip. “Damn you, Renée,” his voice low and growl-like, unrecognizable.
“Damn you—”

“James!” Catherine yelped, thinking any moment a bone in her hand might crack. “James, stop it!
James!
”

He moaned, shuddered, and opened his eyes. Immediately he released her hand. “What happened? I think I was dreaming.” Then he saw Catherine rubbing her hand, her face white. “My God, Catherine, did I hurt you?”

“I … I don't think so,” she said.

He took her hand in his left, gently touched it all over with his right. “I don't think anything is broken, but do you want to go to the hospital for X-rays?”

“No. It's all right.”

“We'll wait a few minutes and see.” He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it several times. “I'm so sorry. I was having a nightmare.”

“I know.”

“I wouldn't hurt you—”

“I
know,
” she said sharply, then lowered her voice. “I'm all right, James.”

But it wasn't all right. He'd been cursing Renée with such fury in his voice, he'd sounded as if he could kill her.

 

CHAPTER SIX

1

The next morning at eight thirty, Catherine pulled into the parking lot of the discreetly named Aurora Falls Center. The two-story brick building sat somewhat isolated on a quiet, tree-lined street and looked more like a home than an office building with its white shutters and long, roofed front porch and neat lawn. The area had been strictly rural when the building was constructed, but as Aurora Falls grew in population Catherine knew that soon the “city sprawl” would reach the area, costing the center its sense of privacy. She regretted the changes that would come but knew one had to accept the inevitable.

The beautiful weekend had been a blessing whose time had ended, Catherine thought as she hurried toward the building beneath a low, gray sky dribbling cold rain. A quick look at the weather report this morning had told her the rain would increase as the temperature dropped throughout the day. She groaned. She hated dreary days under ideal circumstances. The last few days had certainly been less than ideal.

Catherine rushed up the two porch steps, put a key in the door lock, another in the dead bolt, and swung the door open to see the thick, moss green carpet brightened by golden oak-paneled walls and matching office furniture. Behind the reception desk sat the efficient secretary Beth Harper. Catherine knew that Beth had, as always, arrived promptly at eight fifteen, although she kept the doors locked so patients wouldn't walk in until either Dr. Hite or Catherine had come. As usual, Beth had started a fresh pot of coffee. “Good morning, Dr. Gray,” she said cheerfully.

Catherine poured a fresh cup of coffee for Beth, one for herself, and then checked the appointment book. Three patients this morning, she thought with a slight sense of dismay. Only three. She had hoped for a more auspicious beginning, but she often reminded herself she'd only joined Dr. Hite's practice in the summer. Good word of mouth over time would establish her reputation and build her list of patients.

When Dr. Hite hired Catherine, he'd told her the first month might be uncomfortable because his wife insisted the office needed redecoration. The project added sour lines to his pudgy face, but he admitted she was probably right—the last redecoration had been thirty years ago. To Catherine's surprise, he had given her free reign when it came to her office, and the room reflected her personality, making her feel more comfortable and at home. Her closed office door bore a bronze nameplate reading:
Dr. Catherine Gray
in black.