To the Grave (20 page)

“I love you, too. I have for years. Even when—” Catherine broke off, flushing in the shadowy bedroom. Too much beer had loosened her tongue, she thought regretfully.

“You loved me even when I married Renée?” She nodded. “After the reception, she told me you were in love with me.”

“Damn. I knew she could see it.”

“I didn't take her seriously. I thought she believed I was so irresistible that all women were in love with me.” This time his laugh was harsh. “Irresistible. Ha! I sure wasn't good at reading her mind, was I?”

“You were young.”

“I was arrogant and stupid. I didn't know the woman for me was Bernard Gray's beautiful eldest daughter, the one I thought was so painfully shy and inhibited.”

Catherine began to laugh. “Tonight, Barry White and I put an end to that illusion!”

“Thank you, Barry! You and Catherine gave me the greatest show of my life.”

“Barry, me,
and
beer.”

“Beer never tasted so good as it did tonight.”

“I bought the most expensive kind.”

“There's just no holding you back when it comes to spending money, Catherine Gray. However, now I'm craving a soft drink,” James said. “How about you? Can I get you a Coke? Seven Up? Tonic water?”

“Not right now, thanks. Maybe later.”

James slid out of bed and into a white terry-cloth robe. “Sure you don't want another beer?” he asked, grinning.

“I'm absolutely sure, but I'd love to have a couple of aspirins.”

“Hangover coming on?” James shook his head. “Pleasure has its price, Catherine.”

How good hearing him snickering as he left the room, Catherine thought. His mood had certainly improved in the last four hours. She considered getting a headache from drinking too much beer had been well worth it.

Catherine shivered slightly and drew the down comforter over her. Still, she wasn't comfortable—she'd never liked sleeping naked. With a huff of exasperation, she tossed back the comforter and sheet and walked to the one dresser drawer where she kept a few items at James's. She reached for a pair of bikini panties, hurriedly pulled them on, and fumbled for one of her long-sleeved satin sleep shirts. The fragrance of her sweet, flowery cologne wafted from the drawer. Just as she withdrew a sleep shirt, though, she caught a whiff of a perfume different from her own—something faint but with a definite hint of the exotic. She drew in a deep breath and smelled mandarin and coriander.

Guided by the soft light from the bedside lamp, Catherine reached into the corner between the dresser and the chest of drawers. She retrieved two bits of delicate material—black silk tulle bikini pants and a lace-detailed baby-doll top. Her brows drew together as she focused on the La Perla label.
La Perla
? These pieces of fluff must have cost between two and three hundred dollars, Catherine thought in vague shock as she glanced under the La Perla label to find a tag reading:

La Belle Boutique

New Orleans

Shaking, she clutched the expensive nightwear that she'd never worn in her life.

 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

1

“Robbie and I located Renée Eastman's car, sir,” Deputy Jeff Beal said as he sat across from Eric Montgomery on Wednesday morning.

Eric looked up from his paperwork. “Where?”

“In the garage of the vacant cottage to the south of the Eastman place. The lock on the manual door had been broken recently, I'd say within the last couple of weeks.” Jeff shook his head. “It shouldn't have taken us so long to find it.”

“Sometimes the most obvious place is the best spot to hide something,” Eric said. “Sounds to me like right next door to the crime scene was a fairly clever hiding place. What did you find in it?”

“In the glove compartment was registration, car insurance documentation, car keys, and what Robbie called a ‘cosmetics case' loaded with lipsticks and mascara and other whatnots women use. A couple of coats were hanging in the back. We took a quick look in the trunk and found a couple of suitcases and something Robbie called an ‘urban weekender.' Looked like a big duffel bag to me. We didn't open them, of course.”

“You didn't find a .22-caliber revolver in the car?”

“I would have told you that first thing, sir.”

“So we still don't have the murder weapon.”

“No, but the car is at Forensics now. Maybe they'll find it. It could be in one of the suitcases,” Jeff added hopefully.

“Right.” Eric glanced down at the papers he'd been reading. “This is the Nicolai Arcos autopsy report. He had four puncture marks on his back. They were cauterized, so they must have come from a Taser.”

“So he was hit twice.”

Eric nodded. “He was a big man, and from the amount of drugs in his system one hit might not have been enough. Scratches on his nose and forehead indicate he probably landed on his face. Then the murderer flipped him over and shot him through the right eye at close range. But here's the really interesting part. Ballistics show that the gun used to kill Renée Eastman wasn't the same one used to kill Arcos. The bullets don't match.”

“But they were both .22s,” Jeff said slowly. “You'd expect someone to use a .38 to be certain of a kill.” Eric nodded again. “So someone knew Renée Eastman had been shot with a .22.”

“Yes. They also knew she'd been shot in the right eye. And they found something else unusual.”

“I'm almost afraid to ask,” Jeff admitted.

“Arcos dressed flamboyantly—all part of the exotic-artist image according to Ken Nordine. Arcos also liked jewelry, especially a platinum hoop earring with a half-carat diamond and an heirloom tiger's-eye ring. Nordine said Arcos had other stuff, too, but those two pieces seemed to be his favorites and any jewelry he wore was expensive.”

Eric continued, “When Arcos was found, he had his wallet with over two hundred dollars in it and the earring and ring—he wasn't killed during a robbery.” Jeff nodded. “What I didn't tell Nordine was that Arcos was also wearing four long strings of purple metallic Mardi Gras throw beads.”

“Throw beads?” Jeff echoed.

“I've never been to Mardi Gras, but I've read about it, so I did a little more research. The beads are just cheap decorations people throw off the floats to the crowds lining the streets.”

“Well now, isn't that interesting,” Jeff said seriously with a slightly befuddled look on his face.

“Beal, my point is that they're
cheap.
You can order five dozen from the Internet for less than ten dollars.” Jeff raised his eyebrows. “I also learned that there are usually three bead colors—green, gold, and purple—that have meaning. Green is for faith. Gold is for power.” Eric waited a second before saying with significance, “And purple is for
justice.
”

2

Ian Blakethorne stood watching a gleaming white Learjet 45 as it taxied, accelerated, then rushed down the sixty-foot runway. It lifted off, the white of the jet contrasting with the background of a clear, cerulean blue sky and the crystalline, rainbow colors refracting through the mist of Aurora Falls. Ian closed his eyes for a moment, wondering where the jet was headed—to the Caribbean, he hoped, not knowing why. Today, he simply had a desire to visit Jamaica. Instead, he would be having lunch with his father at Blakethorne Charter Flights.

Ian walked back to the terminal. He remembered the original building, which had been small and intimate. As the business grew, his father had expanded the terminal to over twice the original size when Ian was barely twelve. He recalled preferring the old, small version, perhaps because it reminded him of what life had been like before the car wreck, when his father sometimes brought him to the airport to see an incoming or outgoing flight, then take him into the terminal to Cici's Café, where he always had a banana split.

Five years ago, his father had decided to expand the business, adding rentals of high-end recreational vehicles as well as lavish medium-to-large tour buses. Everyone had told him he was overextending himself, but the venture had taken off with a speed that seemed to astonish even Lawrence. Ian remembered his father boasting about renting buses to rock bands like the Dave Matthews Band and The Pretenders, although Lawrence had only the vaguest knowledge of their music or history. He'd only known they were rich and famous.

Shortly afterward, Lawrence had demolished the old terminal and built a new one that had impressed the locals, who said it looked like a commercial airport. It featured wide corridors, tastefully decorated waiting areas, three fast-food outlets, two casual bistros, a formal restaurant, and a myriad of stores, including drugstores, bookshops, a discount store, a luggage shop, and five bars. Lawrence Blakethorne always laughed when he recalled architects hotly telling him five bars were far too many. Years later, he could boast that they accounted for more income than all the restaurants put together.

Ian took the escalator to the second floor and strode to the wide double doors at the end leading into his father's office. Lawrence gave Ian a quick wave with one hand while holding a phone set in the other, talking loud and fast. Ian nodded, but rather than sitting down, he wandered around the office.

Naturally, his father had designed his own office, not leaving it to the more modest tastes of the architects. The room occupied the entire space at the back of the corridor. He'd picked a deep royal blue for the rich carpet that contrasted with the much lighter, steel blue walls decorated with large, beautifully framed photographs of jets, impressive twin-engine airplanes, and his own first plane: a used single-engine red and white Piper, which was still carefully maintained and sitting at the rear of a hangar. A huge mahogany desk dominated the room, with a heavy, beautiful mother-of-pearl gemstone globe mounted in gold, sitting near the left corner. It had been given to him by Patrice last Christmas. The globe's luminescent colors sparkled in the light flowing through bay windows completely covering the wall behind the desk and overlooking the runway where the Learjet had just ascended.

On the credenza sat an eighteen-inch-long mahogany model of the Bell XS-1, the first aircraft to exceed the speed of sound at Mach 1.06 on October 14, 1947. The plane had been flown by West Virginian Charles Yeager and christened
Glamorous Glennis
after Yeager's wife. Ian had given his father the model four years ago, just after Lawrence had finally met the now-retired Major General Yeager. Ian remembered with pride that Lawrence had never acted more pleased with a gift.

“It's a deal, then,” Lawrence said firmly. “We'll talk about it later this evening, but right now I have an important lunch guest waiting. Good doing business with you.”

Lawrence beamed at Ian. “Sorry I didn't have time to go out to lunch with you, Son,” he said, hanging up the phone.

“You never go out to lunch.”

“Well, I intended to make an exception today. I ordered something good brought in from one of the best terminal restaurants, though. Should be here in about twenty minutes. Have a seat. You're giving me the jitters walking around here like you've never seen my office.”

“Sorry.” Ian sat down in a plush chair across from his father's desk. “You look tired, Dad.”

Lawrence shook his head and rubbed a spot in the middle of his forehead. “It's this damned Star Air merger. They're making it about five times harder than it needs to be. Trying to show how important they are, I guess.”

“Are they that important?”

“Not as important as they think they are, but we need them.” He winked. “Not that we'll let them know.”

“I wasn't planning on announcing it.”

Lawrence laughed. “I'm sure you weren't.” His smile faded slightly. “You know, a few of our executives have expressed some worry about how quiet you are. They seem to think because you're not walking around here like a big shot, letting everyone know your old man owns Blakethorne and you'll soon officially be joining the company, you're not … well … dynamic enough.”

“In other words, I'm too shy to be an asset,” Ian said calmly.

“That's exactly what they mean.” Lawrence leaned back in his chair and looked appraisingly at his handsome, composed son. “You want to know what I think?”

“Of course.”

“I think people respond to a friendly but reserved man of intelligence who actually
listens
to them and gives them a response indicating that he's really listened, not a cliché line he's repeated ten times already that day, nor a man who is so hearty and full of practiced charm he makes your teeth hurt.” Lawrence leaned forward. “You, Ian, are the first man. You are the man to whom people will respond. And you are
my
son, my heir. You are exactly the person we need to be second-in-command here at Blakethorne Charter Flights.”

Ian swallowed. “Well, Dad, I'm overwhelmed.”

“I'm not flattering you. I'm simply telling you that if I could have
chosen
a son, he would be you.”

“That's high praise, but I'm afraid you're giving it to me because the Star people have expressed reservations about me.”

“Not at all.”

“Because I don't want to spoil this deal for you, Dad,” Ian went on. “I know how important it is to you.”

Lawrence's dark eyes narrowed, a small twitch starting beside the left one. “You're not to listen to a word of criticism from them. You don't have to be rude to them—that's not your way—but I want you to take their ‘suggestions for improvement' with a grain of salt. Ignore them. This is
our
business, Ian. They're lucky we're even considering a merger, and I don't want you to forget it—not for one damned minute!”

“All right, Dad. Don't get so wound up.” Ian smiled. “I'll just keep on being attentive, diplomatic, unflappable me.”