To the Grave (18 page)

“Good morning to you, too, and it's seven thirty-five to be exact,” she said calmly, glancing at her watch. “I'm here because I got a call on my cell phone over half an hour ago telling me Nicolai Arcos was here. Murdered.”

“Nicolai Arcos? The artist?”

“The voice said only, ‘Nicolai Arcos.' Nothing about him being an artist.”

Eric gaped at her. “Why didn't you call me? Who called
you
? What else did he say? Or was it a she? Are any other reporters here? Does Catherine know?”

Marissa took a deep breath. “I did call you. I got no answer on your landline phone and your cell phone was busy. I don't know who called me. Whoever it was used a voice distorter and only said, ‘Last night Nicolai Arcos was murdered trying to break into the back door of the morgue. He's still lying there.' I couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman. When I couldn't get hold of you, I called nine-one-one. They said they'd already been notified and I knew they'd called you—that's why your cell phone was busy. I left a note for Catherine saying only that I needed to go into work early—that's all. Any other questions?”

“No, but I wish you weren't here.”

Marissa lifted her right eyebrow. “Thank you, Eric. I love you, too.”

“You know what I mean. You're a reporter.”

“I'm a reporter who cooperates with the police, which is why, under usual circumstances, I wouldn't be here. This time my editor had no say in the matter, though. Even
he
doesn't know about this murder unless he was my anonymous caller.” Marissa looked closely at Eric. “You're tired and you have a headache.”

“How did you deduce that information?”

“You're carrying a twenty-four-ounce cup of black coffee from Starbucks—you only drink that much black coffee in the morning when you need extra caffeine. Your eyes are slightly bloodshot, indicating you either went on a bender last night or didn't get much sleep—I'd rather it was the latter reason—and the crease between your eyebrows is deeper than usual. All of that adds up to you having a headache.”

Eric's mouth twitched in a suppressed smile. “Marissa Gray, you
are
a wonder.”

“I'm merely observant. In fact, I'm observant enough to notice that people are beginning to stare at us. Time to get down to business, Chief Deputy.”

“I know.” He hesitated. “Everything you see and hear is off-the-record unless I say so. Okay?”

“Do you even have to tell me that? You know you can trust me with sensitive information.”

And so did your anonymous caller, Eric thought. But then why alert a reporter at all?

He turned away from Marissa and walked purposefully toward the first officer on the scene, a dark-haired young deputy named Tom. “What do we have under that sheet, Tom?”

“A tall man lying on his back who is, to quote a very shaky morgue attendant, ‘dead as a doornail.'”

“Was he found with a sheet over him?” Eric asked as he pulled on latex gloves.

“No. The attendant said he's just getting over the flu and he felt bad. He only had an hour to wait before the day-shift attendants came, so he came out here to ‘get some air.' That's when he found the victim.
He
covered the vic, which he shouldn't have done.”

“No, he should have known to leave the scene exactly the way he found it,” Eric said crossly. He pulled back a corner of the sheet. “But I think I know why he covered the body.”

“Is it bad?”

“It's not good,” Eric said, tossing back the sheet to reveal the chalky face of a man with a gaping hole where his right eye should have been.

2

“Thank you for working me in on such short notice and so early.”

“It was no problem. I had a cancellation.” It was a little after ten o'clock. Catherine motioned to her office couch, glad a cool morning sun lit up the room to its best advantage. “Would you like a cup of coffee, Mrs. Nordine?”

“Call me Dana. And thank you, but I was up most of the night. I was so tired this morning I had to drink more than enough coffee for the whole day to get myself in gear at six thirty. That's when Ken wakes up. Always exactly six thirty. He likes it when I serve him coffee and a pastry in bed.” She smiled tightly. “You probably think that's hopelessly old-fashioned or subservient of me.”

“I think it's fine if you both enjoy the ritual.”

Dana Nordine, dressed in a tight gray pencil skirt, a black silk charmeuse blouse, and sky-high black suede heels, walked with practiced grace from the doorway to the couch and sat down, carefully crossing her bare, spray-tanned legs. Another one of those women who would endure cold legs even in winter to be fashionable, thought Catherine, who refused to abandon panty hose in chilly weather.

“You must think it's odd that I wanted to see you after we just met yesterday,” Dana said.

Catherine smiled. “I'm pleased.” She hesitated. “I enjoyed my tour of the gallery.”

Dana gave her a wry look from her dark eyes. “Really? You seemed like you couldn't leave fast enough.”

“I did leave in a hurry.” Catherine felt herself blushing and was annoyed. “I—”

Dana held up a slender hand. “You don't need to make polite excuses. I was furious with Ken for going on and on about Nicolai Arcos, although clearly you came to see his work. I know you're very close to James Eastman and everyone thinks
Mardi Gras Lady
is a portrait of James's wife, one of Nicolai's sex partners. Some say she was the only one—the great love of his life. I must admit, that portrait just brims with life. Seeing it must have been upsetting for you.”

Dana paused. “And that is the last remark I'll ever make about your private life, because this isn't a social call. Dr. Gray, I want you to be my therapist.”

“I knew that when you filled out the patient form,” Catherine said quietly.

“I have to be certain our sessions will be confidential.”

“That goes without saying,” Catherine replied, offended. Did Dana assume because Catherine was young she was also unprofessional?

“I can tell I insulted you. I'm sorry, Dr. Gray. My comment about confidentiality was no reflection on you. It's a symptom of my problem—trust. My
inability
to trust, to be more specific.” Dana gave Catherine a self-deprecating smile. “You aren't the first therapist I've seen in the last few years. They've all given me essentially the same diagnosis, but I've found that I still need someone I can talk to frequently—someone I can depend on for complete discretion.”

Catherine nodded. “I understand and you're wise to continue therapy if it helps you maintain an even keel. As for me”—Catherine managed to grin—“discretion is my business.”

Dana laughed. “You should put that on a business card!”

Catherine picked up her pen and notebook. “What would you like to talk about today, Dana?”

The woman's fingers began to fidget and she glanced at the coffee table. She wants a cigarette, Catherine thought, but seeing no ashtray, Dana realized smoking was not encouraged. “Well, I have a daughter.”

“How old is she?”

“Five. I named her Mary for my mother.” Catherine nodded. “Ken wants another child.”

“And you don't?”

Dana stared out the window for nearly a minute. “You probably noticed that Ken is younger than I am. We were married for four years before I conceived Mary with the help of in vitro fertilization. She was our fourth try. I had a very difficult pregnancy—I was confined to bed at six months—but still Mary was born almost seven weeks premature.” Dana looked away and sighed. “I'm forty-three now, and frankly, I don't look forward to going through the whole process again. In fact, I dread it.”

“Does Ken know how you feel?”

“Yes.”

“Does he care?”

“Well…”

Catherine waited.

“No.” Dana pressed her perfect lips thin for a moment, then blurted, “And I don't want to do it, but I would if … if Ken loved children.”

“Doesn't he love Mary?”

“I suppose he does in a way—after all, she is a part of him—but he pays so little attention to her that sometimes I wonder how he really feels about her.”

“Yet he wants another child.”

“He wants a boy,” Dana announced sharply. “He's trying to reproduce his father, whom he adored. He wants me to go through another course of in vitro, another pregnancy. Four gynecologists have told me another pregnancy wouldn't be a good idea for
my
health. And if the baby isn't a boy … well, I don't know what Ken will do.”

Dana's right foot began to jiggle nervously. Her eyes narrowed. Her fingers tapped the top of her Chanel handbag.

“Dana, would you like to have a cigarette?”

“
God
, yes!” The tapping fingers dived into her bag as Catherine retrieved an ashtray from her desk drawer. In a moment, Dana clamped a long cigarette between none-too-steady red glossed lips and lit it. Almost immediately, she blew out a thin, loud stream of smoke. “I've been smoking since I was thirteen. I can't seem to stop. Thank you.”

“I see no sense in making you miserable to enforce a rule. Besides, it's Dr. Hite's rule, not mine, and he's on vacation.” She winked. “He'll never know.”

Dana laughed. “I like you. You make me relax a bit.”

“Only a bit?”

“I never entirely relax, even when I'm drunk. And I haven't been drunk or even
tipsy
, as my father used to say, for many years.”

“Then alcohol isn't a problem for you.”

Dana took another ferocious drag from her cigarette. “I can't stand to lose control of myself.” She glanced sharply at Catherine and announced, “My husband had an affair with Renée Eastman.” Catherine stared at her. “I wanted to take you by surprise with that statement, catch you off guard. I did, but I can see by your expression you already knew about Ken and Renée.” Catherine said nothing. “Ken and Arcos both had her. They were like two puppies fighting over an old slipper, not that it's easy to picture Renée as an old slipper. Still, it was pathetic—even laughable to anyone except me, and James, I would guess.”

Catherine always tried to avoid the cliché question “How did that make you feel?” Instead, Mrs. Tate's preoccupation with spousal philandering flashing through her mind, she asked, “Are you sure Ken had an affair?”

“Oh yes,” Dana returned casually. “He tried to hide it at first. Then he did everything except come right out and tell me.” Dana's foot began jiggling again. “Then Renée disappeared.”

Catherine longed to ask if the affair had ended before Renée vanished, but she couldn't. “How did Ken act when Renée left town?”

“Left town? Are you certain she simply left town?”

“I thought you weren't going to ask me personal questions.”

“I didn't think that was personal. But of course it would be, because so many people thought James murdered her.” Catherine fought to keep her expression unreadable. She remained silent as Dana looked across the room. “That's a beautiful temple jar.”

Catherine found Dana's swift changes of subject unsettling. “Thank you.”

“May I take a closer look?”

“Of course.”

Dana rose and walked to the temple jar. She didn't lift it, obviously with an expert's respect for not leaving skin oil on a piece of art. She bent over, her glossy, precision-cut dark hair gleaming in the sunlight, and she closely inspected the jar. “Expensive gold veneer—not the cheap stuff you so often see.” She shifted position. “A lovely, well-executed flower and vine pattern.” She stood up and looked at Catherine. “You have excellent taste.”

“It was a gift.”

“From James?”

“No personal questions, Dana. Remember?”

“Yes.” Dana returned to the couch. “I'm certain it didn't come from my husband. He didn't meet you until yesterday. He didn't know how beautiful you are.”

Catherine let a beat of silence pass. “Do you want to talk more about the possibility of you having another child?”

“Not really, although it's why I came.” Dana took another cigarette from her handbag, glanced at Catherine, and tried to raise her eyebrows in her Botox-frozen forehead, and waited to light it until Catherine nodded permission. “I think my mother was born wanting children,” Dana said. “She was a kindergarten teacher, a Sunday school teacher, a Girl Scout leader. She got pregnant four times and lost three of the children—two miscarriages and one stillbirth. I'm the only one that lived. What a shame, because I couldn't let her get close. I've never been able to connect to women. I was a daddy's girl, first and always. I'm not heartless, though. I care about my daughter. When I see how uninterested Ken is in her, it hurts me. I don't want to bring another little girl into the world just to watch the same thing happen.”

“I certainly understand your concern.”

After a moment, Dana emitted a loud bark of laughter. “As long as we're talking in the sanctity of your office where my confidences will remain, I might as well be completely honest. I'm afraid if I have another girl, Ken will leave me for a younger woman who has plenty of time to give him a son.”

“Has he ever threatened to?”

“No, but I know him. He'd do it to me and to Mary without a backward glance or a touch of remorse.” Her features seemed to sharpen. “And I'll tell you something else. I won't allow it. I will
never
let him leave me, because I've been obsessed with Ken Nordine since the first week I met him.” Dana leaned forward and looked deep into Catherine's eyes. “I'm still obsessed with him and I will do
anything
to keep him.”