Quiet as the Grave (23 page)

Finally, laughing, she put her hands on either side of his head and tilted his head back. She'd intended to say something sassy about how, if he ever sent her away again, she'd—

But then she got her first real look at his face.

She froze, unable to believe what she saw.

He looked exhausted beyond words. But the frightening thing was how beaten up he looked, like a prizefighter, like the survivor of a train wreck.

His eyebrow was split, held together with a butterfly bandage. His left eye was black, and his left cheek was scraped, as if he'd been given a rug burn.

And his neck was covered in bruises.

“Dear God.” She dropped her hands. “What happened to you?”

He shook his head, as if that were an answer. “Richie Graham is dead.”

She stopped breathing. She looked at his eyes. For the first time, they looked defeated, which frightened her.

“Did you kill him?”

“No. I tried to save him. I was too late.”

“Do they
think
you killed him?”

He shook his head again. “No. He was shot, but the gun is a different caliber than mine. It was a .25. I have a .36.” He laughed roughly. “Apparently the devil
really is in the details. This time they're focusing on someone else.”

She was trying to absorb it all, but she couldn't think clearly. Perhaps, she thought, human beings were like sponges. There seemed to be only so much horror she could accept before her mind simply began to reject it.

“Mike,” she said. “You need to sit down. How about something to eat?”

He frowned, as if he couldn't remember when he last ate, so she didn't wait for an answer. She pulled him into the kitchen and turned on the light.

“You sit,” she said, indicating the breakfast table, which right now held only her dying ivy. “I'll scramble eggs. Unfortunately, I didn't restock. I just bought some eggs and bread on the way home today.”

He tilted his head back, as if it were too heavy to hold up anymore. Because his eyes were closed, she was able to study the bruises on his throat without being seen. They were dark and splotchy, with colors forming.

Someone had really tried to strangle him, and from the look of it, had almost succeeded. Her hand trembled as she whipped the eggs, spilling some all over the white countertop. She cleaned it up quickly and poured the eggs into the hot butter.

He didn't open his eyes until he could smell the eggs cooking.

“Thanks,” he said. He gave her a smile. “I think I am hungry after all.”

“Well, I guess so. Unless you had a big midnight snack, and I would presume you didn't, since you've clearly been out wrestling alligators, you haven't eaten all day.”

He pulled his eyebrows together. “I haven't?”

“That's right. There wasn't time.” She put the plate in front of him. “It's been the day from hell.”

He reached out and grabbed her hand. “Not all of it.”

She felt a trill of excitement, both an echo and a promise.

“No,” she said, “I guess some of it was okay.” She ruffled his hair, which felt very soft, as if he'd just showered and washed it. “Now eat.”

She added a bottled water, toast and some old orange marmalade that she hoped wasn't too stale. He didn't seem to have any complaints.

She sat down at the other chair and picked at her ivy, refusing to talk until he'd eaten. By the time he was on his last piece of toast, some of his color had returned.

He finished off the bottled water as if he'd been living in the desert for the past several years. She got up and pulled another from the fridge.

“Thanks,” he said. He looked up at her. “Do you want to hear about it?”

She nodded, and sat again. He told the story quickly, without a lot of frills, but she didn't press, as she usually did, for details. She had enough imagination to provide her own, and it was enough to send chills through her. She hugged herself and rubbed her arms, as if she had a fever.

When he stopped, she asked the question she should have asked half an hour ago.

“You said they are focusing on someone else this time. Who?”

“They're holding Rutledge,” he said wearily. “He was there, almost immediately after the attack. He didn't have a good explanation, and when the police interrogated him, he admitted that Graham had been
blackmailing him, threatening to expose that he'd been sleeping with Justine.”

She frowned. “Did he ever tell them about the hair? And the blood?”

“Yes, he finally came clean about that tonight—” He looked at his watch. “I mean last night. I think that's when they decided to let me go.”

He sighed, touching his bandaged eyebrow. “Or maybe they only let me go because Quigley wasn't there to insist on grilling me for the next twelve hours.”

“He wasn't?” That surprised her. The D.A. had seemed to relish hassling Mike through every other step of the investigation. Why not this one, as well?

“No. Apparently they couldn't find him. A temporary reprieve, no doubt. When he turns up, he'll probably come after me waving a pair of handcuffs and an arrest warrant. I doubt that he'll let go of his favorite suspect that easily.”

“Do
you
think Rutledge did it?”

He didn't answer quickly, and that was really all the answer she needed.

“Never mind,” she said. “Time will tell.”

He nodded. He toyed with the remnants of his eggs, pushing one little glob around on her plate, which was rimmed in blue flowers. Her table was blue, too. That wasn't quite a blue kitchen, but she hoped it was close enough.

“I didn't tell them about the room,” he said, and his voice was somber. “I'm not sure why. I just—” He looked up. “I just couldn't.”

“Well, I would
hope
you didn't,” she said. “For God's sake. We don't know what's in that room. Maybe nothing. Maybe your fingerprints. Maybe Rutledge's. We can't just serve it up to them like a birthday
present, not until we have some idea exactly where it fits in.”

“I guess,” he said. He touched his fingers to the inside corners of his eyes and pressed hard. “I'm tired, Suzie. I'm so tired of living this way. I don't know what was worse, those two years when I had no idea what had happened to her, or the past two months, when I seem to discover something new and terrible around every corner.”

She had a couple of reassuring lines ready on her lips. But they seemed inadequate. This had simply been too much for anyone to bear. And yet he'd been so strong.

He leaned over and edged back the curtain of her breakfast nook window. She didn't have a lake outside, but she had a pretty garden with an apple tree that was not quite finished blooming. With the pink early-morning sky behind it, it looked nice. She hoped he found it soothing.

“Sometimes I just wish I could take Gavin and run away.” He shook his head, still staring out the window, though she realized now he wasn't seeing the apple tree at all. “To some other place, some other country. Somewhere where we can forget.”

She had to swallow back her response to that one, too. She wanted to say,
okay, but take me with you
. She couldn't ask that, of course. She had no right. They'd been temporary allies in this strange war, and they'd had one evening of fantastic sex. That didn't add up to forever, and she knew it.

He didn't mean what he'd said about running away, anyhow. He would never leave his family. The Fromes had been a closely knit Firefly Glen family for a hundred years. He'd rather see his parents and grand
parents and cousins and nephews from behind bars on visitors' day than never see them at all.

Besides, his momma had raised him well. The Fromes knew all about honor, and held it above rubies and gold—even above happiness, if the choice became necessary.

When they encountered problems, they didn't look for easy outs.

Funny, how Suzie could see that now—now that she didn't have to hate them because she was so darn jealous. In Firefly Glen, they'd been the royalty, and she'd just been a peon. She had to get out in the world and find herself before she could discover how she really felt.

She had discovered that she liked and admired the Fromes. They were fighters, just as she was. They just had a different style.

Yes, they were fighters. And they were winners.

Mike was just exhausted right now. He'd remember who he really was when he woke up again.

“Come on,” she said. She took his hand and tugged him to a standing position. “You need to sleep.”

He tightened his grip. ‘With you?”

“No,” she said, surprising herself. She wouldn't have thought she had this much sainthood in her. “I have to paint. You sleep by yourself this time, and after that…we'll see.”

D
EBRA HAD JUST FINISHED
putting the last of her clothes into the last of her suitcases when the doorbell rang. She assumed it must be Rutledge, finally back from the police station. He'd probably forgotten his key.

Or maybe he figured she had changed the locks. It wasn't a paranoid assumption. She would have done exactly that, if she'd been intending to stay.

She opened the door wearily, steeling herself for the inevitable scene, but to her surprise it was Judy.

“Hi,” Debra said. She summoned up a smile. “Aren't you supposed to be at school?”

Judy looked…the word that came to mind was
downtrodden
. It gave Debra a shock. Though there were many differences between the two women, they were alike in one major way. Neither of them was a beauty, and they both compensated for it with meticulous grooming. This might be the first time she'd seen Judy without lipstick.

“I took a personal leave day,” Judy said. “After last night, I just couldn't—”

Debra had forgotten that Judy had been on the scene when they found Richie's body. It must have been gruesome, to put her in such a state.

“Are you okay?” Debra held out her hand. “Come on in.”

Judy looked around the living room as she entered. She took the nearest chair and sat with a heavy sigh. She didn't seem to notice that most of Debra's personal things were gone. “Rutledge isn't here, is he?”

“No, the police haven't released him.” Debra pulled out the desk drawer and began going through the papers that had piled up in there, to see if there were any she wanted to take with her. “I'm not sure why. They can't really believe he had anything to do with Richie Graham's death.”

Judy closed her eyes, and she seemed to shudder slightly. “Are you so sure?”

Debra frowned. “He hardly even knew Richie. Why on earth would he kill him? Rutledge is a bully and a tomcat and a heartless bastard. I've accepted that now. But he's not a murderer.”

Judy's mouth worked, as if she were trying on words, checking them out to see if she could find some that were both honest and humane.

“Judy, what?” Debra was impatient. She had a lot more packing to do, and she was almost desperate to get out of this town. “Just tell me. I'm leaving him anyhow, so it doesn't matter.”

“You are? You're really leaving him?”

“Yes. I've had enough. I'm going home.”

Judy's eyebrows went up. “Home to
Kansas
?”

“Yes.”

Debra didn't defend her decision against the shock she heard in Judy's voice. She didn't care whether it made sense to Judy. It made sense to
her
. Whether you were eight or twenty-eight, home was where you went if you had traveled as far down a lonely dead-end street as you could stand to go.

No matter how stupid it had been, Debra had loved
Rutledge. Now she was tired, and she was hurting. Her mother might say “I told you so,” but then she'd roll up her sleeves and help Debra figure out how to start over.

Debra didn't hold Judy's lack of understanding against her. Judy had a beautiful home here in Tuxedo Lake, and a loving husband, and a career that was both prestigious and secure.

It had always flattered Debra that a well-educated professional like Judy would be interested in a struggling nobody like her. They'd met at a school function that Debra had attended with Gavin, as a favor to Mike, shortly after Justine had disappeared. Debra had been impressed with the special attention and gentle concern Judy had shown the little boy.

After that, Debra and Judy had become friends quickly. The relationship, in which Judy, though only about seven or eight years older, had definitely taken the maternal role, had been good for Debra. It had filled some of the lonely spaces.

But not enough of them. She realized sadly that Judy, Mike and Gavin were the only people she'd really miss when she was gone.

“Judy, please. Just tell me.”

“Okay…it's just that…you know that we were all out on the beach when the police arrived.” Judy hesitated again. “Deb, do you know why Rutledge happened to be at the house right then?”

“I assumed he was looking for Mike.”

“No.” Judy bit her lip, but then apparently decided to continue. “I heard him giving his statement to the police. He was there because Richie Graham was blackmailing him.”

“
Blackmailing
him?” Debra's hands froze, an elec
tricity bill in one hand, and an old Christmas card that had been kept for some unknown reason in the other. “Over what?”

“I don't know.” Judy looked miserable. “He mentioned something about a videotape, but he didn't say what was on it. I guess he never mentioned anything like that to you?”

“No. Of course not.” Debra let the papers fall back into the drawer. She fell, too, onto the desk chair. “It was something about Justine, no doubt.”

Judy didn't look shocked. She was too smart, naturally, not to have considered that possibility.

“I had wondered about that,” she admitted. “I had hoped not, for your sake, but… Were they having an affair?”

Debra nodded. The pain was a little less intense now than it had been when she first found out. She'd confronted Rutledge about the anklet yesterday morning, demanding to know if he'd been Justine Frome's lover. He'd caved immediately. He had wanted to rationalize, to offer all kinds of mitigating details, but she'd refused to listen.

She didn't care where, when, how often, or even why.

He'd lost her at “yes.”

“Maybe Richie had seen them together,” Judy said. “He must have taped them somehow. But why would a guy like Rutledge be so concerned about having an affair? I mean, he did it all the time, didn't he? What was one more?”

Her eyes widened, and she took a deep breath. “Oh, Deb. You don't think—you don't think Rutledge could have killed Justine, do you?”

Debra put her hands together tightly in her lap.

She couldn't answer. She didn't know. She simply didn't know.

But she did finally understand why, though she'd already known Rutledge wasn't faithful, this particular affair had made her open up her suitcase and book a plane for Kansas.

She wasn't sure anymore how far he'd go. And that mattered.

Because she didn't want to die.

She looked up and saw that Judy had come to stand beside her. The older woman held out her hand.

“Come on, Debra,” she said. “I'll help you pack.”

 

S
UZIE HAD BEEN PAINTING
with her back to the window, getting the best of the late-morning light. But the sun must have been too soothing. She didn't realize she'd dozed off until she woke suddenly when she heard a knock on her studio door.

Mike! She sat up, wide-awake.

He must have been knocking for quite a while, because he cracked the door and peeked in. “Suzie? Are you okay?”

She rose quickly, tossing her drop cloth over the painting. She wasn't ready to show this to him yet.

“You're awake!”

“Finally,” he said, running his hand through his hair. “I called Gavin first, then came to find you. What is it, noon?”

“Almost. But you needed the sleep.”

She crossed the room and checked his injuries. They didn't look as bad, now that the rest of him wasn't quite so drawn and pale. Heck, she'd seen him look worse than this after a football game with the Arborville Airedales.

She touched his cheek, which still looked pretty raw. “Does it hurt much?”

He smiled. “It hurts something terrible, ma'am.” He reached up and caught her hand. “I need a whole lot of tender loving care.”

She rolled her eyes. “Not a chance, you big faker. The photographs you asked about are on the table over there. I couldn't find anything, so now you have to look.”

He gave her a crestfallen expression that was ridiculously sexy, but she remained firm. He turned over her hand and planted a quick kiss in her palm.

“Okay,” he said. “Show me what you've got.”

She led him to the table. As he passed her little blue-and-red waitress uniform, which hung on the wall, he raised his eyebrows. He reached out and flicked the ribbons on the cap, then gave her a quizzical look.

“Sailor Sam's Fish and Chips,” she said, sighing. “It's complicated, so don't ask. Basically, I use it for inspiration.”

He fingered the short-shorts. “Yes, I think I see. I'm fairly inspired right now. How about a fashion show?”

“Sure.” She smiled. “I don't think they'll fit you, but hey…if you really want to…”

He slapped out at her backside, but she dodged neatly. “Look, Frome, stop being a dork. You have real work to do.”

His eyes widened as he looked at the table. She knew he'd underestimated the job. She sometimes shot five or six rolls of film when she was preparing to paint a child's portrait.

The parents always had weird ideas, so first she needed to shoot those poses, just to prove her point
that, in the end, the parents wouldn't really be happy with a painting of little Joey kissing his puppy on the lips.

Then she had to try out some ideas of her own. She showed them to the parents, and she always learned a lot from their reactions. If they said, “But you've made Janey look so fat,” then she knew she'd have to shave off a few pounds in the portrait. Or if they said, “But Tommy's nose looks so crooked from that angle,” she write that down in her book.
Nose job
, she'd say, and move on.

Best of all, the photo sessions were a great opportunity to bond with the child, which was important. The two of them would be spending a lot of time together before the portrait was finally finished.

Gavin had been so much fun. He'd been a natural subject, not too shy of the camera, but not too in love with it, either. The sessions had turned into playtimes. Sometimes Justine had seemed jealous. Suzie tried to get her involved, even hinting that it would be good for her relationship with Gavin. But Justine had always pulled back, too busy, or perhaps unwilling to get mussed.

Suzie had felt like a fool. Why should she give Justine tips on parenting, anyhow? Justine was the one who'd walked away from their embarrassing high school feud holding all the prizes.

The wedding ring, the husband, the adorable little boy.

But, much as Suzie might have liked for Justine to be miserable, she couldn't help wishing, for Gavin's sake, that the Snow Queen had somehow found the heart to be a better mom.

Oh, well. That was ancient history now.

Suzie sat back down at her easel while Mike pored over the photos. She tried to paint, but her gaze kept wandering to him. His profile was toward her. He had a great profile. No nose job required there.

And it was fun to watch him smile a little every time he ran across a particularly cute shot. After last night, it was great to know he still
could
smile.

He sure did love that kid.

Occasionally, he'd look up, too, and point that smile at her. It would go through her warm and deep, like an arrow-tipped sunbeam. She'd look back at her easel, but she knew she had a dumb grin on her face.

They'd found an oasis here, she thought. A safe bubble, a moment out of time. She wished she could stop time and make it last forever.

After a while, they got used to each other and settled into a comfortable rhythm. She began to paint in earnest. She mixed cerulean and cobalt, then added some white and held the palette up to the window to check the color in the light. It was important to get the perfect blue. The sound of Mike sifting through the photos settled into a pleasant background soundtrack.

Suddenly, with an inarticulate noise, he jerked forward. A tremor of urgency splintered the peace of the room.

He bent low over one of the pictures. “Who is
that
?”

She dropped her palette and joined him at the table. The picture he held was one of Gavin climbing in the oak in Justine's backyard. Gavin had laughed, proud of his agility, one foot braced on each side of a big fork in the trunk.

“What?” She scanned the picture. “What do you see?”

Mike pointed to the top right corner, deep background. Two people stood there, completely out of focus. They were just two flesh-colored blurs.

But as she looked harder, she saw what Mike had seen. If you untangled the masses, you saw that one of the people was pulling away, and the other one was trying to hold on, grabbing a wrist.

“Wait,” she said. She ran to her supply cabinet and pulled out the big square magnifying glass she used for the fine detail when she painted.

“Here.” She handed it to Mike. “See if you can make out who it is.”

He stood to get a better angle and moved the magnifying glass up and down, trying to find the perfect distance.

Finally, he stopped. He looked at it that way a long time.

Standing on tiptoe, Suzie peered over his shoulder. The figures were clearer, but hardly in focus. She recognized Justine, of course. She knew her well enough to identify the shape of her face, the contours of her hair. She even knew Justine's face well enough to realize that, at the moment this picture had been snapped, she was a very angry woman.

But she didn't recognize the man who held her arm.

“Who is it?” She touched Mike's back. “Do you know him?”

“Yes,” he said. His voice was bewildered. Suzie knew that, whoever it was, it wasn't who he'd been expecting.

“Well, who is it? Is it Rutledge?”

“No. I just can't believe—” Mike shook his head and squinted. “But it
is
.”

She was getting mad.

“Come on,” she said. “Is it the gardener?”

“No,” he said again. “Heaven help him, it's poor Phil Stott.”

 

T
HE DREAM DIDN'T EVEN WAIT
for sleep anymore. Now it came whenever it wanted—even when he was wide-awake, or working, or talking to his wife.