To the Grave (40 page)

“Catherine, you're not going to swoon like some damsel in a romance novel, are you?”

“No,” she said faintly. “No. I'm going to stand right here and ask you what's wrong.”

“That's it? Nothing more clever? Just, ‘What's wrong?'”

Catherine stood as straight and still as she could while gathering every bit of strength, of courage, of daring, she could muster.

“Yes.” Her voice was steady, strong. “What did you want, Ian? Screaming? Crying? Begging?”

The controlled look on his face, the near-cocky tone of his voice, vanished. He looked at her in puzzlement and then shook his head before saying in a slow, mystified voice, “No. I thought that's what I wanted, but I didn't. If you'd acted that way, you wouldn't have been Catherine—my dearest Catherine—whom I've loved since I was ten.”

“Loved?”

“Yes. Oh, not
that
way. I never thought of you sexually—I really didn't. No nasty fantasies. Only romantic ones. That was the kind of love I had for you.” His forehead wrinkled as his eyes grew troubled. “I don't think she ever believed that, though. That's why she didn't like for me to talk about you. She didn't even want to hear your name.” He looked at Catherine in a kind of wonder. “You're all that
ever
came between us.”

“‘Us'?” Catherine asked carefully. “Who is ‘us'?”

“You know.”

She started to deny it, then realized that was the wrong tack. “I want you to tell me. I want you to say it out loud. Who is ‘us'?”

“Me and … Renée.”

Catherine barely registered Ian pulling a gun, pointing it at her, and telling her in a courteous voice that he'd like to go into her office now. She nodded and led the way, trying not to flinch or give a sign he might mistake as an attempt to bolt away from him. She might have been escorting a regular patient in for a session.

God, what a session this would be, she thought as she sat down on her chair, crossing her legs and looking at handsome young Ian standing by her desk.

“So, what would you like to talk about today?” she asked, managing a small smile.

“Is that what you say to all your patients?”

“Yes.”

“You're treating me like a patient?”

“I'm treating you like someone who acts as if they want to talk. Is that insulting to you?”

Ian appeared to think for a moment. “No, I guess not.”

“You do want to talk to me, don't you? Otherwise, we wouldn't have come into my office.”

“Yes, I suppose I want to talk.” He glanced around, never moving the gun aimed at her chest. “I like the way you decorated your office.”

“Thank you, but you helped. You brought me a gift when the redecoration was finished—the beautiful porcelain temple jar. I've had so many compliments on it.”

“Who from?”

“Dana Nordine. And she knows art.”

“Dana Nordine,” Ian repeated in an almost whimsical voice. “Well, I guess she
would
need counseling, considering—”

Surprisingly, someone knocked loudly on the main office door. Please let that be the police, Catherine thought frantically; then reason returned. The police wouldn't knock on the door.

“That's my father,” Ian said calmly. “I called him before you got here. I told him to come alone.” Ian's voice toughened. “He'd better have done what he was told.”

“You told your father to come here?”

“Yes. Is it so unbelievable that someone can order around Lawrence Blakethorne? I suppose it is. But obviously, I've done it.” He tilted the gun upward. “Stand up and walk to the door. Move calmly, naturally. I've locked the door. Unlock it and let him in. He'll be firing questions at you, but don't answer. Just say you needed to see him. Don't try to give him any secret signals or any of that silliness. He probably wouldn't notice anyway. After he's inside, lock the door behind him.”

“And then?”

“And then he will get the shock of his life.”

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Catherine opened the door to see Lawrence—tall, sturdy, and obviously annoyed. “Catherine,” he said abruptly. “What's all this nonsense about? Be here precisely at eight forty. Don't tell anyone where I'm going. Is this a romantic tryst or a blackmail meet?”

“Neither, I'm afraid, but it is important. Please come in.”

Lawrence stomped in as if he were wearing shoes covered with heavy snow. She closed the door behind him and locked it, as directed. Then she took a few steps back. What was she supposed to do now? Invite him to have a seat while she put on a pot of coffee?

“Look, Catherine, I don't mean to be rude, but I'm a busy man. I'm always in my office by nine o'clock. I can't imagine what you have to see me about so early. And all this damned secrecy. Is this about some kind of surprise for Patrice? Because if it is, you could have had the courtesy to call me at my office at a decent hour.”

“This is a decent hour, Father, but it isn't really Catherine who wanted to talk to you. It was I.”

For a moment, Lawrence looked in bewilderment at Ian, who had appeared once again from his hiding place by the bookshelf. Then Lawrence started to laugh. “Good God, boy, what are you up to? And what's all this ‘Father' business?”

“You are my father, aren't you?”

“What?” Lawrence's gaze shot to Catherine. “Have you been telling him something sick like you oddball psychologists come up with?”

“I haven't told him anything, Lawrence. Apparently, he has some things he wants to tell you. And me.”

“Well … well, look, you two, I don't have time for this. Neither do you, Ian. Work. Work comes first. Now come with me before we're late.”

“Yes, work has always come first with you, hasn't it?” Ian asked calmly. “Building the business, building your
empire.
”

“Stop being such a smart aleck. I've made a multimillion-dollar business out of nothing. Nothing, dammit! Now come with me!”

Lawrence reached for Ian, and in an instant Ian pointed the gun at Lawrence's face. “This time I don't take orders from you, Father, and this time work doesn't come first.”

Lawrence staggered back a step, his mouth slightly open, his eyes wide. Then, for the first time, he gazed around the room and saw Jeff Beal lying on the floor, motionless. “What's this? Is he dead? Is someone holding you hostage?”

“
This
is a deputy who has been drugged into unconsciousness,” Ian said calmly. “We are not hostages. Rather, I'm not a hostage. You and Catherine are a different matter. You're
my
hostages, and for once, Father, you will do what
I
say.”

“Why are you calling me
Father
?”

“Because you are my
father,
but you've never been my
dad.
”

“I … I don't understand,” Lawrence said, his voice weaker, almost shaking.

“You will,” Ian returned. “Now let's go into Catherine's lovely office and have a talk.”

Catherine preceded Lawrence, whose clumping steps seemed deafening even on the thick carpet. When they reached her office, she immediately went to her chair, whether out of habit or a sense of safety she wasn't sure. Ian motioned for his father to sit on the couch. Then Ian leaned against Catherine's desk, slowly swinging the gun from Catherine to his father and back. Moments of silence passed and Catherine saw the sweat popping out on Lawrence's forehead, although the room was on the cool side. But then, he hadn't removed his coat.

“Let's talk about Renée,” Ian said calmly.

“Renée?” Lawrence asked incredulously. “Renée Eastman?”

“Of course,” Ian replied. “You've known all along that's what everything has been about—everything.”

“Everything?” Lawrence seemed bewildered. “Not just her murder?” Ian looked at him steadily. “Oh my God, you mean the other murders, too!”

“Yes. Don't pretend you didn't know they had a connection to Renée Eastman's murder.”

“Well … well yes. Most people think so. Someone tried to kill her husband—”

“Her
ex
-husband.”

“Okay, her ex-husband. It's been a helluva week for Aurora Falls. All this murder, mayhem…” Lawrence's concentration seemed to wander for a few moments. Then he snapped back. “But what does Renée Eastman have to do with any of us, Ian?”

“She was the woman I loved more than life itself,” Ian said flatly. “And one of you murdered her.”

Silence grew in the room until Catherine had a wild impulse to simply scream at the horrible, unbelievable scene unfolding in front of her. Was she having a dream? No, a nightmare. She must be having a nightmare and any second she'd wake up, heart pounding, breath heaving, but slowly realizing she was back to her blessedly ordinary reality.

Then Lawrence and Ian spoke again, and she knew, unfortunately, this was no simple nightmare. “Are you out of your mind? You didn't even
know
her.”

“We were lovers, Father. Renée Moreau was my lover, my love, since I was seventeen.”

It's not true! a small, childish voice within Catherine cried. But a louder, more reasonable voice told her Ian was not lying. Renée taking a young, impressionable boy—an intelligent, sensitive, beautiful-souled boy who would see her as so much more than she really was—as a lover made perfect sense. He would have been what her own starving spirit wanted, craved, had no scruples about taking for her own needs, never considering what harm she might be inflicting on him.

“Seventeen! That whore took advantage of you when you were seventeen?” Lawrence burst out, making a clumsy effort to leap to his feet.

Ian stepped closer to his father, the gun pointed at his face. “Don't call her a whore.”

“She
was
a whore! You're lying. You couldn't have let her put a hand on you, that bitch, that—”

As Lawrence made another unsteady, enraged step closer to Ian, Ian came to within inches of his father's eyes, holding up the gun. “Sit down, Father, or I will shoot you right now.”

The soft voice of Ian had turned to iron. He looked taller, stronger. And not quite sane. Fear rushed through Catherine like a fierce stream, and before she knew she was going to say a word she remarked, “Ian, no one is going to say anything else bad about Renée. This is my office and I will
not
allow it. Lawrence, sit down and shut your mouth for once. Ian, please tell us about you and Renée.” Lawrence threw her a fierce look. Then, as if his legs had simply given way, he sank back on the couch. “Please, Ian, go ahead. I will
not
allow him to interrupt you.”

Ian looked at her warily for a moment. Then, when neither she nor his father moved or said a word, Ian seemed to relax slightly.

“You didn't know Renée, Catherine.”

“No, I didn't. I only met her at her wedding.” She had to swallow before she could force out the next words in a calm voice. “Please tell me about her. How did you meet?”

“You might have killed her. Do you care?”

“Yes, Ian, I care,” Catherine said solemnly. Denying that she might have killed Renée would be useless.

Ian looked around the room for a moment, as if considering whether or not to answer Catherine. Then he began to speak slowly. “I went to private school, away from Aurora Falls. It was summer, though, and I was home. I was restless, I had no friends here, so I decided to take an art course taught by some guy I'd heard was good—Nicolai Arcos. “Renée took the course, too. I was so shy. I didn't talk to anyone. But she introduced herself to me. She said it was her first summer in Aurora Falls and she didn't have any friends, either.

“Of course, Arcos was quick to have conversations with her—she'd studied in Europe, which he said fascinated him,” Ian went on. “It was really her beauty that attracted him. I'm sure she realized that, but she didn't let that put her off. Nor did she push me away in favor of the exotic artist. Instead, she seemed to pull us into a threesome. I felt I had two friends. I didn't feel so alone anymore.”

“You weren't alone, Ian. You were home, with me,” Lawrence said.

“With you? When? You left early in the morning and came home no earlier than nine at night, when you said you had some business to finish in your office. You devoted weekends mostly to business on Saturdays, or luncheons or golf games or tennis or racquetball with business associates.”

“And you were invited to participate in all of those things.”

“Me? I hate golf, in case you forgot. And I may appear to have made a full physical recovery from the car wreck, but I cannot play tennis or racquetball. But I guess you forgot that, too.”

Lawrence opened his mouth as if to make an excuse, then closed it again. He had no excuse, Catherine thought, except that Ian was right. Lawrence had forgotten his own son could not participate in rigorous athletics.

“So you, Arcos, and Renée became friends,” Catherine said.

“In a way. It was like a play. Arcos wanted her. I loved her. Each knew how the other felt. Each pretended not to know.”

“Did Renée know?”

“Renée was very unhappy and confused,” Ian said brusquely. “I don't think she knew exactly how Arcos and I felt. Maybe she had a hint. Maybe not.”

Like hell, Catherine thought. She knew exactly how the men felt. She enjoyed the attention, the competition for her affection.

“And then one day we began talking about how soon I'd have to go back to school. Renée started to cry.” Ian went quiet, his gaze growing hazy, his expression a mixture of sadness and wonder. “That's the first day she took me to the cottage.”

Catherine expected an outburst from Lawrence, but none came. He simply sat, looking almost deflated, on the couch, his hands folded.