To the Grave (14 page)

Inside, the morgue showed every one of its sixty years with dark green and yellowish white tile floors, chipped institution green walls, and loudly buzzing, bluish fluorescent lights. A creeping chilliness pervaded the building—a chilliness James thought the mechanical efforts of a furnace could not dispel. The damp cold lingered stubbornly, as if it belonged to the place and heat did not. Chemical smells tingled in James's nose and all he could think of was the intoxicating, exotic perfume Renée wore on special occasions—the perfume she'd worn on the night he met her. She never wore too much. She never wore the wrong kind of perfume for an event. She'd always known exactly how to lure and attract, even with scent.

But no longer. A young, dull-eyed lab assistant had slid open a drawer and unzipped a body bag. There lay the face and shoulders of a naked, bloated, cold, medicinal-smelling Renée Moreau Eastman, her glorious dark hair skinned back from her expressionless face, her lips white, her eyes mercifully closed. James heard Patrice draw in her breath. He managed to remain quiet and motionless. They simultaneously nodded to the lab assistant, and then each said aloud that the body was that of Renée Eastman. The cold little man had slid the cold drawer holding the cold body back into its place, firmly twisted a cold handle sealing the drawer, and turned away from them to do paperwork.

They'd barely spoken on the way back to the law firm, where Patrice had left her car. Before emerging from his, she'd asked if he'd like to come to the Blakethorne home for a while or even just go someplace quiet and get a drink with her. James had declined both invitations, thanked her for accompanying him to the morgue, told her he'd see her in the morning, and promised to call her if he was having a bad night. They'd both known he wouldn't call no matter how miserable the next twelve hours were for him. Nevertheless, they each kept up the pretense of honesty and said a quiet, friendly good night.

James sat up straighter on the couch, took another sip of bourbon, and forced himself to focus on the business of what would have to be done for and to Renée rather than the horror of what had happened to her. It was time to be her attorney, not the man who had married her and thought they would be husband and wife forever. They now had a business arrangement, which he would honor. As far as he knew, the Moreaus were still unaware that their daughter was dead. At the moment, he considered informing them his most important obligation to his ex-wife.

He had tried to call Gaston Moreau on Saturday night but had been told by a servant that Mr. and Mrs. Moreau were “out somewhere.” The servant had sounded so vague James had not left details but instead just asked that they return his call as soon as possible. The Moreaus hadn't called before he went back to the cottage prior to the fire, and he found no messages afterward. He had called several times Sunday and always been told they were not available. By Monday, he'd still been reluctant to announce Renée's death to a servant over the phone, but he'd underscored the importance of at least one of the Moreaus returning his call. Now, over forty-eight hours after the body's discovery, he'd still not heard a word from her parents.

James finished his drink and then once again called the Moreau home in New Orleans. Luckily for them, their large and historic house had not sustained irreparable damage when Hurricane Katrina ravaged New Orleans. He and Renée had not seen the home following the storm. After their impetuous marriage, James had been shocked to learn the Moreaus had carefully hidden a bad relationship with their only daughter. Later the three rarely even spoke on the phone. Renée refused to tell him what the trouble had been, but that didn't change the fact that her parents had to be told she was dead. After all, they were her family. His own familial relationship with Renée had started at what he'd considered an ecstatic wedding and had ended with the emotionless signing of court documents.

When they were able to reach the Moreaus, the police department would inform them of their daughter's murder. He could stay out of this completely, not speak to either parent. But he had been Renée's husband. As far as he knew, she hadn't remarried in the few days since the court had finalized their divorce. If she had any other family members who knew of her death, they hadn't come forward. No matter how elusive the Moreaus were trying to be, he had to get in touch with them.

James sat up, emptied his drink, thought about having another one before trying to call New Orleans, and then decided he'd only be stalling. One more drink wouldn't make the phone call easier, he thought tiredly as he reached for the phone and dialed the number he'd memorized since Sunday. The same vacant, middle-aged female voice he'd heard several times over the last three days said, “Moreau residence.”

“This is James Eastman from Aurora Falls calling
again.
I'd like to speak to Mr. or Mrs. Moreau.”

“I'm sorry, sir, but they aren't home. They haven't been home since Thursday. They've gone on a trip with friends.”

“Where?”

“Where? Uh … somewhere in California.”

“Yesterday you said they'd gone to Mexico.”

“I'm sorry, sir. You must have spoken to someone besides me.”

“I need to tell the Moreaus that their daughter has been murdered. If you don't believe I'm who I say I am I'll give you the number of the Aurora Falls Police Department, although I know they've tried to contact the Moreaus, too.”

After a pause, the maid said wearily, “I don't need proof, at least of who you say you are. I can't keep playing this game even if I lose my job. It just isn't right.” She paused, and when she spoke again it was with spirit. “Mrs. Moreau is home. She has been ever since you started calling. She just didn't want to talk to you. But I'll
make
her talk to you. You can count on it!”

She sounded as if she'd enjoy the opportunity to
make
Audrey Moreau do anything, James thought. One of the few things Renée and he had agreed on was their disdain for the beautiful, haughty woman who had given birth to Renée at twenty-three, turned her over to nannies, and lived a hectic, aimless life of socializing, shopping, and travel. Audrey's only halfway serious pursuit was acting, which she did very badly.

Renée, an only child, had spent most of her very young years with servants and a few socially acceptable little friends and her older years mostly in private schools. Her somber, humorless father, Gaston, almost old enough to be her grandfather, sometimes took her with him on his world travels concerning vague legal business he never liked to discuss because he considered the actual making of money to be crass. He found acquiring dated objets d'art much more to his liking and taught his young daughter, when he had the time, to do the same.

Reserved, intellectual Gaston and a gaggle of aging nannies raised a beautiful, introverted, almost psychologically shy girl who at sixteen abruptly returned to the family home in New Orleans and never again traveled with her father. By the time James had met her in his third year of Tulane Law School, she had turned from a wallflower into a beautiful, flamboyant, exciting woman who, to her family's disgrace, lived on the edge of scandal.

In spite of her personality, or maybe because of it, James quickly had become enamored of Renée, and the Moreaus had provided them with a lavish marriage ceremony in a hasty two months. Over the next few years, the Moreaus invited James and Renée to visit the family home only three times, all stays cut short because of Gaston's “unexpected” business demands abroad and only one visit including a social event—an extremely small dinner party made up mostly of relatives.

Nearly five minutes passed before Audrey Moreau's annoyed voice said without so much as a greeting, “Why do you keep calling, James?” She still spoke with her fake southern drawl. “You've been told several times Renée isn't here.”

Familiar irritation swept through James at the mere sound of Audrey's voice. “I never asked to speak to Renée and I've been told several times that
you
weren't home.”

“I simply didn't want to talk to you,” Audrey returned without a touch of remorse or embarrassment. “You will not stop calling, though, and I'm getting extremely annoyed. You're being a pest. What do you want?”

James wished he could make himself say something cutting and cruel, but he held in his anger. After all, Audrey was Renée's mother. He turned down both his volume and the edge in his voice. “Something has happened to Renée.”

“I knew it when your local police called.”

“You didn't speak with them, did you?”

“Of course not. They left a message with one of the maids asking me to call back, but I didn't. I don't consider Renèe part of this family anymore.”

“She's your daughter, Audrey, whether you like it or not. Or she
was
your daughter. Renée is dead.”

James heard a sharply drawn breath before Audrey returned hotly, “Oh, she is not! The police would have said so.”

“They wouldn't tell your maid and you didn't talk to them. Neither did Gaston, I suppose.”

“No, he didn't. I didn't even tell him the police had called. I don't want him bothered with her nonsense. I know she's just gotten herself in trouble again, and we don't want to hear about it. We have nothing to do with her.”

James inhaled and said evenly, “Audrey, Renée's body was found Saturday afternoon here in Aurora Falls.” He paused. “The police have no doubt that her death wasn't an accident. She'd been murdered, probably just over a week ago.”

Silence spun out and James could almost see Audrey marshaling her ability not to believe anything she didn't care to believe. “That can't be true. Why would Renée be in Aurora Falls? She hated it there. She ran away from that place and from you.” Audrey's voice picked up its tone and pace. “I know you're convinced she's been living with us off and on ever since she left you, but I told her we wouldn't take her back. She's tried to come home three times, but I have literally turned her away at the door.

“Frankly, I think she is getting desperate for money,” Audrey continued. “Whatever the case, I'm certain she has
not
been murdered, and this is not funny. It's a trick concocted by you or her, or both of you, and if you're involved I can't be shocked that you would stoop so low to either help her or find her, James. I know you loved her, God knows why, but I swear on my Bible that she isn't here.”

“I doubt if you own a Bible, Audrey, although you claim to be a devout Christian, so that statement doesn't mean a thing to me.”

Audrey sighed. “I don't care what you believe about my religious beliefs.”

“I know and you're right. I don't give a damn about you or your religious beliefs. I want to speak to Gaston.”

“Gaston isn't here, and I don't know when he'll be back.”

“Why don't you know when he'll be back? Has he finally left you?”

The knife stabbed exactly where James had aimed. Indignation rang in Audrey's tone. “Of course he hasn't left me! Gaston would
never
leave me.”

“Then why are you getting so upset?”

“Because the very idea of him leaving me is … is…”

“Ludicrous?” James asked, trying to goad her into blurting out information. “Or would him leaving you merely be too socially embarrassing for him to stand?”

“Oh, you are so—” She broke off and he heard her take a deep breath. “Gaston has been in Paris and London for over a week.”

“Where can I reach him?”

“You
can't.
I won't let you upset him. He has a lot on his mind.”

“How considerate of you, Audrey. I guess I never realized you're such a sweet, loving, protective wife.”

James could picture her scouring her mind for a scathing retort and she finally came out with, “I won't have him bothered.”

“You'd rather he not be bothered while he's out making money. But I repeat, Audrey—his daughter is
dead.
Someone has to tell him. He of all people should know. Or maybe I'll talk to some of his friends.”

“Is that a threat?”

“What do you think?” James took a deep breath. “Audrey, he has to claim her body and make burial arrangements. Renée would want to be placed in the family mausoleum in New Orleans.”

“She's not part of this family and she will
not
be placed in the family mausoleum.”

“She's a Moreau, for God's sake.”

“No, she's an Eastman. Look, James, I don't know whose body you've found. If it
is
Renée's, she's your responsibility. She's your next of kin, after all.”

“Have you forgotten that I sent a letter when I started divorce proceedings? I sent another letter telling Gaston when the divorce would be finalized. As soon as I got the divorce decree, I sent a copy.”

“I've never seen any of those things.”

“I sent everything registered mail. Gaston signed for them.”

“Well, he didn't tell me.”

“I'm certain that he did. He wouldn't keep something like that from you.” James drew a deep breath. “I don't know why you're bothering to go through all of this feinting and dodging when you know it won't work. I'm capable of tracking down Gaston myself, if I have to, and you know I will. Renée is
your
responsibility, no matter how you felt about her.” He surprised himself by having to swallow to open a tightening throat. “You wouldn't love and protect her when she was alive, but I'll see that you take a few days to look after her now that she's dead. You owe her that much. So good night, Audrey. Sleep well knowing that Renée will never bother you again.”

He slammed down the phone handset and felt sick. He'd known Audrey Moreau almost as long as he'd known Renée, and he knew the type of person she was—selfish, grasping, shallow, conniving, perhaps even incapable of love. She'd married for money. She had no love for children and often joked with an edge of truth that she'd agreed to give birth only to satisfy Gaston.