To the Grave (16 page)

Then the sound of a police siren cut through the wet night air. Someone had called the police. Crown's wife, Catherine thought dully.

Suddenly the pressure on Catherine's neck loosened and she tumbled, limp as a rag doll. Blinking against the raindrops, she watched as Arcos dashed to his car. In what seemed one smooth motion, he'd climbed inside and begun speeding down the street.

Meanwhile, Catherine's gaze had switched from Arcos's car back to the patrol car just as in horror she saw a little boy run from his lawn into the street, directly in front of the police car. He froze and Catherine froze at the sight of the patrol car swerving violently, the sound of tires screeching audibly above the siren's wail.

Miraculously, the car stopped about a foot from the little boy. A woman came shrieking into the street to clutch the child, both of them standing rigidly in front of the patrol vehicle, as Nicolai Arcos's car disappeared around a corner.

 

CHAPTER EIGHT

1

Catherine clambered to her feet as the patrol car pulled to the curb in front of her house. In a minute, Robbie Landers helped her stand steady while her partner rushed to Steve Crown. Although Robbie breathed hard, her voice remained calm. “Who was that man?”

“Nicolai Arcos. He's an artist. I've never met him before. He was high on drugs and alcohol and—” Catherine moved closer to Steve. “Oh, Steve, I'm so sorry!” she called to him, and then turned to Robbie. “You should be chasing Arcos!”

Robbie held Catherine's arm firmly. “The woman who called nine-one-one got the license number of the other car. My partner Jeff alerted all patrol cars in this area to be on the lookout for the vehicle when we lost sight of it. He also called the paramedics.”

“I'm okay, but I'm worried about Steve,” Catherine said. “Steve Crown. He was looking out his front window when Arcos grabbed me in the yard.”

“This man didn't come to your door and then grab you?”

“No, I was outside headed for my car and talking to Marissa on my cell phone. The wind caught my umbrella, and between trying to hold on to it and the phone I didn't see him pull up. He just seemed to appear.”

Steve's wife was already running across the street toward her husband, who was trying to stand in spite of the deputy's efforts to hold him still. Mrs. Crown commanded, “Steve, lie still this instant,” and he immediately subsided. She turned on Catherine. “Who was that man?”

“Someone I've never seen before.” Catherine felt ridiculously guilty, as if the attack by Arcos were her fault. “The police will get him.”

“They'd better,” Mrs. Crown answered grimly.

“Or else she will, and then God help him,” Robbie muttered close to Catherine's ear, managing to make her smile. Robbie was right—the big-boned, taut-muscled Mrs. Crown looked like she could take down a grizzly bear. Gently Robbie began leading Catherine toward the house. “Let's get you inside out of this rain.”

Twenty minutes later, paramedics had pronounced Catherine's neck bruised, but they'd detected no sign of serious trauma. Still, they advised that she go to the hospital for X-rays. She promised she would, although she had no intention of leaving her house unless her pain worsened.

Steve Crown was a different matter. He had at least one broken rib and a second that was either badly cracked or broken. The paramedics loaded him into the ambulance, his wife barking orders nonstop, and sped off to the hospital.

Robbie and her partner, Jeff Beal, took Catherine into the house, where she gave them a full report about the incident and the little she knew of Nicolai Arcos. They were leaving when James arrived, surprised to see them and nearly speechless when they told him what had happened. After Robbie and Jeff left, James took Catherine in his arms. “When I think of what that maniac could have done to you…” He trailed off, tightening his hold on her. “You weren't going to let him in the house, were you? Because I've told you about him. He's crazy.”

“Do you think
I'm
crazy? Of course I wasn't going to let him in the house.”

“Then how—”

“He caught me on my way to my car. I was coming to check on you because you never called me after you got back from the morgue,” Catherine interrupted sharply.

James's embrace loosened. “Oh. I'm sorry.” She stared at him. “I called the Moreaus again.”

“You called them before you called me.”

“When I got back, I was furious. All I thought of was that they still didn't know Renée is dead. I acted on impulse.”

“Okay. Did you reach them this time?”

“Yeah. I spoke to her mother, but I don't want to talk about that conversation right now. She wouldn't let me talk to Reneé's father, Gaston.”

“Did she say she'd tell him?”

“She said she wouldn't, that she doesn't believe me.”

“Do you think she does?”

“I'm not sure, but I think so.”

“But she still won't let you talk to Gaston.” James shook his head. “She won't let you tell the man who sexually abused his daughter for years that she's dead.”

James's face paled and his mouth opened slightly. “Sexually abused?”

“Oh, come on, James. Did you think I didn't guess? I
am
a psychologist, you know. What man travels for years all over Europe with his little girl? You told me he did. She only came back to New Orleans when she was sixteen. No doubt she was too old to interest him then. And even if I hadn't known about all the years she spent with
Daddy,
I would have been almost positive of abuse by her behavior—the hypersexuality, alcoholism, lack of friendships, inability to trust, mood swings, I could go on and on.”

She stopped, seeing James's eyes almost burning holes through her. “Don't look at me that way. You said she had a rough past. That was putting it mildly. I'm right about him, aren't I? If I'm wrong, you don't want me to keep thinking something so awful about the man.”

“Yes, dammit, you're right!” James's voice lowered. “She never admitted it until we'd been married over a year. I've never seen Gaston since then. I should have done something.”

“To Gaston? What could you do? The damage was done. As for Renée, you stayed with her so long because you thought you could help her with your love and your kindness. That's certainly nothing to be ashamed of, James. I also know you didn't tell me about the abuse because you were protecting her privacy, even after everything she'd done to you.” Catherine paused. “Sometimes I hate her and I feel like shaking you for not realizing Renée needed professional help and divorcing her before she nearly ruined your life. Other times, I feel sorry for her and your attempt to help her only makes me love you more.”

“She always promised to change.”

“I'm sure she did and I can't tell you whether or not she really
meant
those promises to change. If she did, she needed a psychiatrist.” Catherine paused. “Enough talk about Renée. Why didn't you call me as soon as you finished at the morgue?”

“I told you, when I got home I called the Moreau home.”

“You could have called me first. A five-minute call to let me know it was over and you were all right emotionally would have put my mind at rest. Instead, I imagined all kinds of awful things.”

James said a bit impatiently, “Catherine, I tried to call you right after I spoke to Renée's mother, but I couldn't get an answer on your cell or home phone. That's why I came here. If I'd been sooner—”

“You should have called
me
as soon as you got home from the morgue,” Catherine bridled. “If you had, I wouldn't have been certain something had happened to you, I wouldn't have been outside in the rain, and I wouldn't have been a prime target for Arcos. Why didn't you call?”

James stood and walked slowly to the fireplace, propping his arm on the mantle. He gave her a long look. “Catherine, this afternoon two people called me and one client informed me of your noon-hour activity. If you want to sneak into the Nordine Gallery to see
Mardi Gras Lady,
you shouldn't wear a red raincoat and carry a big red umbrella.”

Catherine flushed. “Oh! So you didn't call because you were mad at me.”

“I wasn't mad.”

“Yes, you were. And for your information, I wasn't
sneaking.
”

“Were you going to tell me you'd been to the gallery?”

“Of course.” James continued to stare at her until her gaze dropped. “I don't know. I hope I would have even though you wouldn't have been happy about it.”

“I wouldn't have been and you know why.”

“Because Arcos had an affair with Renée.”

“Because you were supposed to be careful, not parade into the Nordine Gallery in a red coat for all the world to see!”

“I didn't
parade
and I hardly think a couple of people in Aurora Falls constitutes all the world!” Catherine took a deep breath. “Okay, I wasn't careful. I realize that now. I'm just not used to being careful around here. But what's the rest of the reason you got mad about me going to the gallery?”

James looked away for a moment, almost childishly, as if he were going to refuse to talk. Then he started speaking fast and loud. “Because Arcos had the gall to paint her portrait and put it out for public consumption with his intriguing, totally unbelievable denials that the picture was of Renée. Then that slimy Ken Nordine, another one of her lovers, hung it in his art gallery! Made it the showpiece of the exhibition, for God's sake! I didn't want to go there and I didn't want you to go there, either.”

Catherine said nothing in her defense. She waited until James's expression visibly calmed.

“I have no right to dictate your actions, though. I'm not your master, your boss, your dictator. I never told you
not
to go because what Arcos and Nordine had done humiliated me; you should have told me to go to hell and that you'd do what you pleased.” He paused. “I know you'd never do that, though. Instead, you constantly tiptoe around my feelings. It makes me feel like you think I'm some emotionally unstable patient you might send over the edge, and yes, it annoys the hell out of me. I was embarrassed and irritated this afternoon because you'd gone to the gallery without telling me you were going and because I was certain you wouldn't have told me you did go.” He sighed. “Why would you do that, Catherine?”

“Because I don't want to hurt you. Renée showed you no respect. Worse. I've tried very hard to do just the opposite.” To her surprise, tears rose in her eyes. “Maybe I'm just as bad for you as she was if I'm stirring up gossip and people are actually calling you at your office to report on me. I'm sorry.”

James looked at her solemnly. Then the right side of his mouth twitched. Finally, he burst into loud laughter, bending slightly at the waist. Surprised, Lindsay, who'd been watching quietly from a corner, burst into a volley of barks before snatching up her stuffed tiger for protection.

“What's wrong?” Catherine shouted above the din, indignant at his laughter. “What's so damned funny, James?”

“You,” James managed before striding toward her, grabbing her hands, and pulling her up from where she sat on the couch. He hugged her so tightly she could hardly breathe. “Darling girl, don't you think there's a happy medium between treating me the way Renée did and treating me like I either am too fragile to hear the truth or will get furious with you when I do? I'm
not
fragile and I know I can be stubborn and overbearing at times, but I'm not an ogre!”

“I don't think you're an ogre.” Between her desire to cry some more and the pressure of James's hug, Catherine had trouble squeezing out words. “But maybe I see something you don't. James, Renée's behavior didn't just anger you—it traumatized you.”

James stopped hugging her and took a step back, keeping his hands on her shoulders. “I'm not traumatized. I never was.”

“Yes, James, you were. You're just beginning to recover. Trust me—I've spent years learning to recognize the signs. I may go overboard trying to protect your feelings, but you've been hurt more severely than even you realize.”

Finally, he said carefully, “All right, Renée did hurt me badly. I think saying it traumatized me is going too far, but if that's the word you want to use, then go ahead. However, Catherine, keep in mind that she left me years ago.”

“Yes. She just disappeared one day and a lot of people, including the police, suspected you of murdering her. Now she's back. Dead. Murdered. And you're the prime suspect—again. So don't insult my intelligence by trying to convince me you're just fine in spite of everything that's happened the last few years, especially the last three days. I can't let myself love a man who thinks I'm weak
and
stupid!”

James looked at her disbelievingly at first, then with a flash of fear in his eyes. “Catherine, you can't believe I think you're either weak
or
stupid. My God! Are you telling me you don't love me, you
won't
love me, if I refuse to wear my heart on my sleeve, to let everyone, especially you, know how I feel—”

Abruptly the front door opened and Marissa rushed in, full of apologies and questions because she'd heard at the newspaper office about the 911 call. Catherine saw James swallow hard a couple of times and then rapidly compose his expression. Before Marissa had shaken the rain off her coat and hung it up, Eric Montgomery arrived, also because of the emergency call. Marissa spent the next ten minutes checking Catherine's neck where Arcos's hands had squeezed; scolding her for not going to the hospital; getting everyone seated; fixing refreshments; and settling Lindsay.