To the Grave (5 page)

Catherine could have kissed Marissa, who intervened. “Hi, Robbie,” Marissa said in a steady voice. “I'm glad you got here first. I'll give you the details while the paramedics finish examining Catherine, if that's all right.”

“Of course.” Robbie offered a small smile and encouraging nod to Catherine before she stepped aside with Marissa. Catherine could still hear their conversation.

“This cottage belongs to the Eastman family,” Marissa explained. “Catherine and I decided to take a look at it. Even though the cistern is big, the place is so overgrown, I didn't even notice the wooden lid at first—not until Catherine stepped on it. The boards were weak, rotting, and they broke.”

Robbie took notes. “Didn't the Eastmans warn you about the cistern, Miss Gray?”

“Please, Robbie, you've known me for a year. It's ‘Marissa.' And no, the Eastmans didn't warn us about the cistern because they didn't know we were coming here. Anyway, when the lid broke, Catherine fell in. There's a lot of water in the cistern because of all the rain we've had lately. She didn't surface immediately and when she finally did”—Marissa swallowed hard—“when she finally did, she'd caught the body under its arms and tangled her hand in its hair. At first she couldn't get loose and the body kept dragging her down—” Marissa's voice broke. “It was awful.”

Robbie continued to write, although even from a slight distance Catherine noticed her face tensing. “Could you estimate the level of decomposition? I mean, when you say a body, I don't think you're referring to a skeleton. Is flesh clinging on the bones or—” Robbie raised her shoulders. “I don't know how to phrase this like the medical examiner would.”

“The body has most or all of its flesh and hair. I only got a glimpse, but the face looked dreadful—not just bloated but also … damaged.” After a moment, Marissa said, “It's definitely a woman.”

“I see.” Robbie's voice seemed carefully toneless. “Can you tell me in what way the face is damaged?”

“Well, not really. There's something about the right side—maybe a hole where the eye should have been?”

“A hole? Like a puncture wound? Or a bullet hole?”

“I only got a glimpse, but I'd say either.”

“About how old is the woman?”

“It's hard to tell because of the water damage to the body and I only got a quick look. If I had to guess, I'd say less than forty.”

“Hair color?”

“Black. Long, thick, and black. I'll never forget it.” Marissa drew a shaky breath. “I don't know anything else, Robbie, and I'd really like to check on Catherine.”

The deputy nodded and followed Marissa to Catherine and the paramedics. “How's my sister?” Marissa asked.

“She's scared and cold, but she's not going into shock. No broken bones, no cuts, no contusions,” one young, red-haired man said jauntily, addressing himself to Robbie. Catherine wondered if he was trying to flirt with the pretty deputy. “She doesn't seem confused.” He stooped and looked into Catherine's eyes. “Are you confused, honey?”

“I don't think so,” Catherine muttered.

The older paramedic looked at his partner, obviously annoyed. “Her name isn't
Honey.
”

The younger paramedic flushed and then flashed a tight smile. “Just tryin' to lighten things up some.” He looked at Catherine. “No offense,
ma'am.
” Then he looked back at Robbie, still smiling, now engagingly.

Robbie ignored the young paramedic but lingered closely as Marissa turned to Catherine. “Are you really all right?”

Catherine nodded. “I guess I'm okay, considering.”

“Dr. Gray, your sister told me the corpse is that of a woman,” Robbie said. “Do you have any idea who she is?”

Catherine and Marissa exchanged quick glances. “The face was bloated and I was terrified and choking,” Catherine answered, and saw Marissa's anxious expression lighten. Catherine knew her sister had been afraid she'd blurt out something about the woman being Renée. “We haven't seen another car since we've been here.”

“How long is that?”

“Uh, maybe twenty minutes. Thirty at the most.” Robbie nodded. “Maybe someone dropped her off or she came in a taxi, but I don't know why,” Catherine went on. “The area is nearly deserted at this time of year. I can't think of anyone she would have been coming to visit, especially the Eastmans. They
never
come here. They aren't even home. They're on a trip—”

Marissa shot a warning glance and Catherine realized she was going too far in her effort to hide any suspicion that she might know the woman. Even Robbie had stopped writing, staring at her. Catherine nervously looked away from them at the sheriff's car pulling near. “Oh, thank God! Here's Eric!”

As Eric Montgomery, dressed in jeans and a heavy sweatshirt, stepped from the car, sunlight brightened his wavy blond hair and played over the planes of his young face. Less than a year ago, he'd taken over for Mitch Farrell when cancer had forced him to leave the elected position of sheriff he'd held for over twenty years. The election in two weeks would reveal if Chief Deputy Eric Montgomery would become the next official sheriff. Catherine had no doubt he was the best man for the job. Although he was only thirty, he'd had several years of exemplary experience with the police force of Pittsburgh until he resigned and came home to Aurora Falls, where he'd lived most of his life and long ago fallen in love with her sister.

Catherine watched Marissa rush toward Eric, love and relief in her expression. In fact, Marissa clearly almost hugged him before she hesitated and instead began animatedly chattering. Eric nodded solemnly, his concentration obviously intense, until Marissa finally seemed to run out of details. When she fell silent, Eric walked toward Catherine.

“Having a rough day, girl?” he asked in a relaxing, casual manner accompanied by a sympathetic smile.

“I've had better.” Catherine still shivered, although the paramedics had thrown a dry blanket over her shoulders. Her soaking-wet tennis shoes felt like lead weights and tension drew her scalp so tight she thought her ears must be pulling back.

“What are you doing here?” Marissa asked. “You have the day off.”

“My people knew I'd want to be here and called. I was nearby.”

“I suppose Marissa has filled you in on the details of my … discovery,” Catherine said.

Eric nodded. “She said you two were having a nice afternoon sightseeing until this happened.” Eric's deep voice remained easy and his brown eyes kind yet keen. As they quickly traveled over her, they dodged away from her right hand. Catherine looked down to see long dark hairs still trapped under her fingernails and trailing from her hand. Repulsed, she immediately began rubbing her fingers against the rough weave of the blanket. “The paramedics say you're okay, physically at least.” Eric smiled encouragingly.

“Yeah. They said I should go to the hospital for a more thorough checkup, but I had a feeling I was getting the standard recommendation. I think I'm just fine.”

“That's good.” Eric glanced at Robbie and the male deputy Jeff Beal. “You two secure the crime scene.”

“We're on it,” Jeff said snappily, and Catherine expected him to salute. He was three years older than Eric, but he didn't seem to resent Eric's senior position.

When Marissa joined Eric, Catherine said to him, “I'd just like for Marissa to take me home now. Please.”

Marissa looked at Eric. “She's free to go, isn't she? There's nothing else she can tell you and—”

Marissa broke off as a fire truck pulled onto the lawn and two men spilled from the vehicle. Catherine knew they'd come to retrieve the body and she shrugged the blanket off her shoulders. “Oh, I
really
want to go now. Please don't make me stay for this, Eric.”

“I don't want to”—Eric looked at a silver Lincoln Town Car slowing down in front of the cottage—“but James is here.”

James Eastman carefully pulled his car to the side of the asphalt road, out of the way of the official vehicles, then flung open the door and hurried toward Catherine, who sat at the open rear doors of the ambulance. He wore jeans and a pale green shirt with long sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. His black hair, short on the sides, longer on top, and brushed to the side, gleamed in the sun. As he drew near, Catherine saw that James's dark brown eyes looked even more intense than usual.

An abrupt wave of guilt swept through Catherine, as if she'd set out to cause him trouble. She controlled it by straining to act composed. “How did you get here so fast? I thought you were playing golf.”

“I had work at the office I decided was more important than golf. You know I don't even really like golf—I was supposed to play with some friends of Dad's.” Suddenly, near panic washed over James's handsome face. He grasped her shoulders and peered into her eyes. “My God, Catherine. I don't think I've ever been as scared in my life as I was when Eric called me. Are you all right?”

“Y-yes.”

“You don't sound sure.”

“Everyone is asking me the same thing.” She gave him a weak smile. “I'm going to put a sign around my neck making the announcement.”

James's grip tightened. “Catherine, don't try being okay about this. Be honest.
Are you all right?
” She nodded vehemently and stared at him, unable to speak. “I know about the body and I don't want details. You don't have to talk about
anything
now.” He went silent and then suddenly burst out, “But why are you here at the cottage, for God's sake?”

Catherine's guilt returned accompanied by embarrassment. She felt like she'd done something sneaky. “Your mother talks about what a pretty place this is or could be without the cottage. I wanted to show it to Marissa.”

“Show it to Marissa? Why?”

“Well … I don't know.” Catherine hesitated. “To be honest, I thought you might want the land. For a house. A house for yourself. I know you hate living in that crappy place the owner calls a town house.”

James looked at her closely. Catherine longed to shift her gaze away from his probing eyes, but she knew she'd look evasive. She forced herself to look innocent.

“I know I'm not getting the whole story about this trip to the cottage,” James finally said with a touch of indulgence. “It doesn't matter now, though.” He hugged her and she clung to his warm body. Then she thought of her own damp, stringy hair and filthy clothes. She quickly pulled away. He peered at her, his forehead creasing again. “You're wet and cold. Let's get you home.”

“James, I'd appreciate you staying a few minutes.” Catherine had forgotten Eric Montgomery still stood beside her. Eric nodded in the direction of the cistern. “I need for you to take a look at something.”

The body, Catherine thought with dull, horrified inevitability. Marissa told Eric that I think the body is Renée.

James hesitated, obviously knowing why Eric wanted him to stay and just as obviously wanting to leave. James, however, never ran away from anything. “Sure, Eric.” He looked at Catherine. “You sit still, sweetheart. Don't try to walk by yourself. I'll be right back.”

Catherine watched James nearing the cottage, his shoulders straight but a lag in his step, and her heart wrenched. She desperately wished she hadn't come to look at the place. She wished she'd never seen it, never heard of it. She wished it didn't exist. But it did and she'd come to it with all her joyful plans—plans she hadn't even mentioned to James—and look what had happened. She'd found the body of a dead woman, for God's sake, and her nosiness had dumped a load of trouble and darkness onto the Eastman family, especially her dear James.

Catherine closed her eyes for a moment, chilled by the thought of the bloated, decaying body rescue workers were now preparing to retrieve from the cold water. James had to watch, she thought, and considering the circumstances, he shouldn't have to do it without her support. Despite his instructions, she left the safety of the ambulance and on weak legs walked to his side and linked her arm through his. He looked at her and she wanted to give him an encouraging smile, but she simply couldn't muster one.

Catherine realized a smile wouldn't matter to James, though. He'd only flicked a vague glance at her when she clasped his arm. Then his silent, intense gaze focused on an orange piece of equipment shaped like a stretcher that two men carried to the cistern.

Eric stood beside James. “That's a Skedco Sked stretcher system,” he said casually. Catherine knew Eric was merely chatting, trying to calm James by diverting him. “It's an especially good transport system for rescues in confined spaces like storage tanks and manholes. It's flexible and easy to hoist with ropes and only weighs eleven pounds without its attachments, which they don't seem to need. This isn't a difficult job.”

James nodded, pulling Catherine closer to him as a tall, muscular man wearing protective eye gear lowered the stretcher into the cistern and then slid into the water with the fluidity of a seal. He rose once, took a breath, and called to Eric, “Got the body partially secured!” He looked at his fellow rescue worker. “We don't need ropes. I'll be sending up the stretcher in a minute.”

Catherine's breathing slowed as the sled rose from the water. One rescue worker took hold of the rails while the other clambered unaided from the tank. Together they lifted the stretcher, tilting it as much as possible to maneuver it out of the cistern, and laid it gently on the ground.

Eric glanced at James, who said firmly, “Stay here,” to Catherine. He and Eric walked to the stretcher. Catherine could see the body's dark slacks, a long-sleeved sweater, a puffy, dangling white hand, and long, wet black hair. She couldn't bear to look at the face, but James stared at it for almost a full minute, his complexion turning gray beneath its remnant of a summer tan. Then he looked at Eric, not a trace of emotion on his face, and Catherine heard him say dully, “It's my wife Renée.”