To the Grave (23 page)

“I think you acted wisely.”

Catherine realized her voice was flat, her praise tepid. The woman looked understandably disappointed. Catherine knew it was vitally important for her to encourage more of this moderate, reasonable behavior on her patient's part, and she'd just failed badly. Determined immediately to correct her mistake, she threw at Mrs. Tate a gleaming smile. “In fact, I think you did wonderfully!”

2

“Someone left a present at my town house.”

James opened his briefcase, removed a clear, sealed plastic bag, and leaned forward to lay it on Eric Montgomery's desk. Eric picked up the clear ziplock bag, looking closely at its folded contents. “What is it?”

“A sexy nightie.”

“A nightie? A little kid's sleeper?”

“Hell, no!” James said hotly. “You can see that it's black and I said it was sexy!” He glared at Eric and then relaxed slightly. “You were joking.”

“Just a little. I was trying to calm you down, James. You're talking so loud everyone can hear you, even though my office door is closed. Also, you look like you want to hit someone.”

“I do. Catherine found it.”

“Bummer.”

“Is that cop lingo?”

“It is at this moment, particularly since you described the outfit as ‘sexy.' By the way, Marissa calls this kind of thing ‘lingerie.' I'm glad you put it in that ziplock bag so we didn't lose any trace evidence. Can you describe it?”

“It's black, as you can see. There are bikini underpants and what Catherine called a baby-doll top—both pieces transparent. The brand is La Perla, which she also told me is very expensive. I already knew that, although I didn't tell her. You see, Renée had some La Perla lingerie. Also, it has a tag with the name of a store in New Orleans. It smells like the perfume Renée used to wear. Opium. I bought so many bottles of it for her I'll never forget the name. The smell isn't fresh, like it was just put on a day or two ago, but it isn't stale and musty, either.” James looked earnestly at Eric. “Did you find this in the cottage?”

“I haven't publicly released information about what we found in the cottage, but I'll tell only you—please don't spread around the news yet—that we found Renée's car in the garage of another cottage. There were suitcases in the trunk. This thing could have been in one of those suitcases.”

“Don't you have a list of what was in the suitcases?”

Eric looked at James for a moment and then said slowly, “Yes, but it's filed away. I'll look it over later, but I think you're right. I remember a few pieces of sexy lingerie were found, and although the guys who did the forensics work on the car said everything smelled like perfume, it was Robbie who came out for a look at the suitcase contents, took one whiff, and immediately said, ‘That's Opium by Yves Saint Laurent.'”

“These women really know their perfumes.”

Eric smiled. “Well, some of them. My mother has worn one scent my whole life. I don't think she knows anything else exists.” His smile disappeared. “Where did Catherine find this?”

“In my bedroom. It's small. The dresser is against one wall, the chest of drawers against the other, but there's a corner space between them. The nightie was lying in the corner.”

“And Catherine just happened to look in that corner?”

“Catherine will only keep one dresser drawer with a few things in it at my town house. That drawer is right beside the corner. I guess she was looking for something in it, smelled the perfume, and looked into the corner.”

“Ohhh,” Eric said slowly. “Only
one
drawer and it happens to be beside that corner?” James nodded. “Then I'd say whoever put this ‘gift' in the corner had gone through all the drawers and seen that one contained Catherine's things—one right next to that corner, where she could hardly miss either seeing it or catching the scent.”

“My God, you're right,” James said slowly. “We ate at my place, but we didn't get there until around six thirty. We were getting ready for bed around ten—early for us, but we were both tired. That means someone could have been in the town house as late as five thirty or six. It's already dark by then.” James frowned. “But who knew Catherine was going to stay at my place Tuesday night?”

Eric shrugged. “Can you think of anyone you told?”

“No. I don't remember telling anyone. It's not the kind of thing I broadcast.”

“Maybe Catherine mentioned it to someone. I'll ask her.” Eric picked up a pencil, then laid it down. “I assume you've checked your locks.”

“This morning I looked and saw no sign of a break-in, but then I'm not an expert. I called a locksmith to change the locks by early this afternoon.”

“Good. I'd like for our forensics people to go over the place before the locksmith comes, though.” James nodded. “I wish we had a team like the ones on television.”

James grinned. “I doubt if there are
any
teams like the ones on television. They're magicians. In real life, test results don't come back within a couple of hours. Criminalists don't interrogate ‘persons of interest' and they sure as hell don't make arrests.”

“But that's what a lot of the general public has come to expect of police departments and people think we're being lazy or don't know our jobs just because we can't work the miracles they see on TV. Oh well.” Eric suddenly gave James a penetrating look. “You said Renée wore this Pearl—La Perla lingerie and that this piece came from a shop in New Orleans. Was it familiar to you? Do you remember her ever wearing it?”

James's cheeks colored. “I don't know. I don't really pay attention to stuff like that.…” Eric's sharp gaze remained fixed. “Okay. I recall something that looked like it. She's been gone a long time. We stopped sleeping together months before she left, but … well, I remember her catching her engagement ring on it and it made a little tear in the lace at the top. It was hardly noticeable, but she got so upset … otherwise it wouldn't stick in my mind. So many of those lace and satin or chiffon or whatever things look alike, you know.” Eric's stare could have pierced stone and James sighed in defeat. “Yeah, Eric, it has the tear. I remember the damned thing all too well.”

Eric nodded and said in a slow, cynical tone, “Then I guess if we go with the theory that it was planted, we just have to figure out who got hold of a piece of Renée's lingerie and sprayed it with her favorite cologne several days ago so it wouldn't smell too fresh. No problem.”

 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

1

“Well, well, how's my little girl tonight?” A dashing Ken Nordine sailed into the room, rushing to Mary and presenting her with droopy-petaled carnations cradled in a petite, round plastic vase. “I've been
so
worried about you!”

So worried you haven't called all day? Dana wondered furiously. She almost burst out with a scathing remark about his vast concern when she saw Mary smiling as she delightedly reached small hands for the flower arrangement. Then Dana saw Bridget Fenmore—glowing, svelte, perfectly made up and coiffed—gliding close behind Ken. Dana wore only lotion on her dry face, and she hadn't even combed her hair for hours.

“Look who I've brought with me!” Ken continued to boom, ignoring Dana. “Bridget! She just wouldn't let me come see you without bringing her. She's been worried, too!”

I'll bet, Dana fumed as Bridget kissed Mary's pale cheek, then giggled as she wiped away lip gloss. “Why, you look beautiful, Mary! Not like you've been sick at all!”

“She almost died,” Dana snapped.

It was a lie. Mary looked at her mother, horrified, and Dana could have bitten off her tongue. “I mean, if we hadn't gotten her to the hospital in time. The operation went just fine, though. The doctor is very pleased.” She smiled at her five-year-old daughter, who still clutched the pitifully small collection of carnations. Dana raced on. “The doctor said she's making a miraculous recovery. She'll be good as new in no time.
Better
than new! She'll be perfect! Not that she wasn't always perfect. Why, she's just—”

Everyone stared at Dana in shocked expectancy, obviously wondering what would come out of her mouth next. But Dana had no words left. She'd stayed at the hospital all night, sleeping fitfully in the uncomfortable chair in Mary's room, frequently awakening to gaze at the delicate five-year-old she'd so often pushed aside, overlooked, occasionally resented in her desperation for the freedom to always keep an eye on her husband, whom she'd made the most important person in her life.

Ken Nordine—what a fool she'd been to sacrifice herself and her daughter for a man like him, Dana had thought in belated comprehension as the shadows of the seemingly endless night had surrounded her. Her sweet, innocent, defenseless daughter should have been her focus, her cherished reason for living, not an uncaring egomaniac like Ken.

Dana realized Ken and Bridget were still staring at her and she could have kissed Mary, who announced importantly, “I got more flowers! The blue … blue…” She looked at her mother.

“Irises,” Dana supplied.

“The blue irises are from my teacher. The orange tulips are from Grandma and Grandpa 'cause pun'kins are orange and Halloween's almost here. All the yellow roses are from my real boyfriend, even though he doesn't know he's my boyfriend. He visited me today.” Mary's voice softened. “He's lots older than me but real handsome. He has dark hair like Prince Charming in my fairy-tale book. That's what I call him.”

“Who is this Prince Charming?” Ken asked.

“He's a secret.” Mary grinned.

Ken looked at Dana, who innocently lifted her shoulders. “I was down the hall talking to the doctor. I missed the Prince's visit.”

Ken walked over and looked at the card on the roses, reading aloud, “‘To my very brave girl. P.C.'”

“‘P. C.' is for ‘Prince Charming,'” Mary explained, beginning to look wary.

“What would
I
call him?” Ken asked cannily.

“Not Prince Charming. I'm not sayin' what you'd call him. Then you'd know who he is and he's my
secret
boyfriend. No one else can know.”

“Did he tell you he's your boyfriend and to keep him a secret?”

“No, Daddy.
I
decided he's my boyfriend.”

He's trying to play the concerned father in front of Bridget, Dana thought. Normally, he wouldn't even be listening to Mary.

“Oh. Are you sure he doesn't know he's your
older
boyfriend?”

“I'm sure. I didn't tell him.” Dana could tell Mary sensed something different about her father tonight. “I didn't tell him 'cause I can have a secret if I want to.” Her smile had disappeared and her voice had turned truculent. She'd been in some pain, found confinement in the hospital frightening, and overall had had a fretful day. This evening, though, the child had calmed. Ten minutes ago, she'd been serene, even drowsy. Ken had ruined her evening, Dana thought with a wave of anger.

“Ken, it doesn't matter. Quit badgering her.”

Mary, obviously sensing another argument brewing between her parents, softened her tone and tried smiling at Ken. “He's real, real nice, Daddy. You like him—”

“So I know him.”

“Yeah.”

Dana glared at Ken. “I said to stop it! What are you so worked up about, anyway?”

“I don't like my own child keeping secrets from me.”

Dana stood up. “Soften your tone. You're upsetting Mary.”

“Yeah, you're upsetting me,” Mary said in her mother's same tone of voice, rallying at the sight of her father's defeat. “And my grown-up boyfriend is nice. And he must love me, too, 'cause Mommy said roses are real 'spensive.
And
yellow is my favorite color.” She looked defiantly at her father. “I'm going to marry him.”

“Is that so?”

Mary suddenly began to look uncertain as her father scowled at her. Dana realized the child's defiance had been temporary. “I think maybe you're just mad 'cause I said yellow is my favorite color, and it is…”—her little hands tightened on Ken's offering—“except for pink!” she exclaimed, looking with inspiration at her carnations. “Really, pink is my very, very favorite color, Daddy. Oh, thank you so much for the flowers!”

He relented and gave her a small smile. “That's why Bridget got pink flowers. I knew pink was your favorite color, sugar pie.”

You did not, Dana thought, barely able to contain her herself. You only bought the pink carnations because they're wilting and they were cheap.

Ken leaned over and ruffled his daughter's blond bangs. “Later you can tell me who Prince Charming is or you'll hurt my feelings. You don't want to hurt my feelings, do you?”

“No,” Mary said reluctantly. “But I made a promise.”

“Sometimes promises are made to be broken.”

Dana glowered at Ken, but his gaze was locked on Bridget, who sat down on the bed and patted Mary's shoulder. “Such a little angel,” she said fondly, then glanced at Dana. “Haven't I always said she looked just like a little angel?”

“Not to me. Besides, how would
you
know what an angel looks like?” Dana snapped, once again horrified by her lack of control.

Bridget, however, paid no attention to her. She peered deep into Mary's eyes. “
I
know what they look like because I saw one when I was a little girl just about your age. The angel was in church. She had long, blond hair just like yours and big blue eyes like yours and freckles on her nose just like yours. She floated above the congregation, sprinkling blessings and angel dust on all of us.”