To the Grave (34 page)

Now, Beth smiled, then said, “You look beautiful, Catherine.”

Catherine inspected herself in the cheval mirror. Her sheath gown with its short sleeves and unadorned square neckline was far from an attention grabber. Patrice had selected it. When Catherine got it home, she put it on, looking at it critically in her full-length mirror as she modeled it for her sister.

“Well? What do you think?”

Marissa, nearly always blunt, had commented, “It borders on plain, Catherine.”

“It fits well. The lines are nice—classic,” Catherine had offered halfheartedly.

“True.” Marissa had frowned, her gaze traveling over the gown as if she were looking for a tiny flaw in a gem. “I think Patrice meant to cast you into the shadows, but with the right makeup and accessories,
you'll
be stunning.”

“But it's
her
day.”

“Hey, Sis, she chose the dress. Is it my fault a few changes can make you look more than just acceptably attractive?”

“Marissa, are you planning something?”

“Don't worry. I'll be subtle as always.”

“‘Subtle' is not a word I'd ever apply to you!” Catherine had called after Marissa as she left the bedroom.

Now Catherine stood in front of the pier-glass mirror, looking at herself wearily, glad James wasn't here to see her looking just “acceptably attractive” in the pretty dress and the sweet, small silver locket and tiny stud earrings Patrice had given her to wear as her only accessories. She didn't want to outshine the bride, but she'd hoped to look a bit more striking.

At that moment, someone knocked on the door and then opened it before anyone had time to say a word. Catherine's eyes brightened when Marissa whisked through the doorway, full of smiles and giggles and exaggerated movements, all of which Catherine recognized as tactics to divert Patrice's attention.

“I'm sorry to burst in uninvited,” Marissa said loudly, although nearly everyone was already exclaiming over her rose-colored sleeveless dress with a deep-cut crossover neckline. Catherine was glad Eric had been able to accompany her sister to the wedding to see how beautiful she looked. “Patrice, I
just
thought about this today,” Marissa raced on. “I know you picked that lovely locket for Catherine, but I remembered a set of jewelry we have that would be spectacular with that elegant dress you chose. Marissa flipped open a black, felt-covered box to reveal a silver chain from which dangled six teardrop-shaped, filigreed charms, along with a matching set of dangle earrings. “Don't you think this would be just stunning with the dress?”

Patrice neared, looking at the high-polished jewelry glittering against the black background. “Well, it wasn't really what I'd pictured.…”

Marissa's wide smile trembled a bit. “I know, but this set was our mother's—you know she just passed away less than a year ago—and she always thought it would look lovely on Catherine. I thought if it suited Catherine and of
course
was all right with you, Patrice, my sister might wear it tonight?”

Marissa should have been an actress, Catherine thought, trying not to smile as she realized Marissa had remembered the silver filigree jewelry set days ago. She's been planning this all along, having sense enough not to mention it to me because I might have asked Patrice about substituting it for the locket and Patrice would have probably said
no.
Now here's Mitzi, already unfastening the locket and reaching for the filigree necklace to try on “just to see how it looks.”

Twenty minutes later, Catherine walked slowly down the aisle, knowing the soft church lighting picked up the glow of the silver jewelry and heightened the silvery sheen of the gown.

For the reception, Lawrence had booked the largest dining room of the Larke Inn, the one with sliding walls that could be opened to expose a smaller dining area, making one large venue. Patrice, in charge of decorating for the reception, had chosen white with accents of the same darkly vivid steel blue that covered the walls of Lawrence's office. “It's his favorite color!” she announced when some of the guests—obviously expecting pink—gasped at the sharp color contrast. “Blue for the sky!”

“That'd be one helluva blue sky!” someone exclaimed, eliciting laughter and a guffaw from Lawrence, who answered, “When I'm behind the wheel of a plane, the sky turns this color from pure joy!”

Catherine caught sight of Marissa, diligently taking pictures with and talking into her cell phone, no doubt preparing material for the article covering the wedding that would appear in Monday's
Gazette.
She knew the article had been assigned to a reporter whose work experience consisted of three months on the weekly five-page bulletin of a tiny town forty miles away. “The editor doesn't like her and wants to give himself an excuse to get rid of her. Messing up coverage of a wedding as important as this one will do the trick, but I'm not going to let him get away with it. The poor girl just needs a little more experience.”

“And an undercover agent with a top-notch cell phone to help her,” Catherine had said, as usual touched by the deep, quiet kindness and altruism she so often saw in the Marissa other people thought was too brash and self-absorbed. “Good luck, Mrs. Bond.”

“You don't need luck when you have skill,” Marissa returned.

“Missing James tonight?” Eric asked as he turned away from a man Catherine quickly recognized as the mayor.

“Oh, Eric, I didn't even see you! Yes, I miss James. I just called him and told him the wedding went off without a hitch.”

“Now we have the reception to get through.” Eric leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “Jeff is here. He, Marissa, and I will be watching you all evening. Please don't wander out of this room—we're your protection.”

All through the wedding, Catherine had been telling herself she wasn't nervous or uneasy. Hearing Eric reassure her that she was under so much surveillance, though, made her muscles immediately relax a notch. James had been right—coming tonight had been taking a risk. Still, she knew she couldn't hide indefinitely. She had to dig up the courage to face the world. Thank God she had help, though.

“Thank you, Eric.” She smiled. “I promise to behave myself tonight and not try to dodge you and Jeff.”

Eric pretended to wipe sweat from his forehead. “Well, that's a relief.”

Catherine looked around the large room where a band played “I Will Always Love You.” She saw Ian dancing with Robbie, whom she hardly recognized in a dark and light blue satin dress with a crossover halter neck. She'd let down her heavy brown hair to hang in tousled ringlets pulled toward the right and exposing most of her taut, smooth back. Catherine had never seen her look so glamorous, and from the look in Ian's eyes as he gazed fixedly at Robbie neither had he.

Catherine drank a glass of champagne. She hated champagne, but she didn't want to seem rude when an eager and obviously inexperienced young waiter offered it to her, a man she recognized as a headwaiter looking on. She danced once with Eric while Marissa was off inconspicuously conversing with the photographer from the
Gazette.
“She thinks the editor gave him bad advice about what pictures to take,” Eric told Catherine. “She's setting him straight.”

“I wasn't aware she knew so much about photography.”

Eric grinned. “She doesn't. She's determined to help out that new girl on staff, though. Don't worry—the photographer knows what he's doing. He'll pretend to do what she's telling him, and then do what he pleases. The pictures will turn out great.” He paused. “She's also taking pictures of all the guests to help us with the case, you know. If the killer is here, at least she'll probably get a photo of him.”

If the killer is here. The phrase tolled in Catherine's head. What if he was here? What if James had been right and the murderer had merely spared her earlier because he wanted to kill her later? What if—

As soon as the dance ended, Catherine turned and stumbled into the grip of a thrice-married local lothario. He immediately swept her away from Eric and launched into a speech about her grace, her beauty, how when she'd “floated” down the aisle she'd nearly taken away his breath. I wish I had taken it away, she thought, then felt a flicker of shame. Only a flicker. Some men should know when to give up or at least get new seduction material. He'd probably been using the same tired lines for forty years.

Nearby, Patrice held tightly to Lawrence's arm as he talked to a couple Catherine didn't recognize. While Lawrence's attention was fastened on the man, who tended to speak using grand gestures to illustrate his meanings, Patrice rarely stopped beaming at her groom. She's loved him so much for so long, Catherine thought. I wonder if when he married Abigail she felt like I did when James married Renée.

Renée. Why did her image always flash in front of her at what should be the happiest times? Catherine thought in annoyance. What if
she
were here tonight? She certainly wouldn't let Patrice shine—she'd try to steal all the attention for herself, no matter what means it took. Poor James. How he must have dreaded attending occasions such as this one with her.

Would he have enjoyed it with me? Catherine wondered, suddenly missing him so much she knew she had to talk to him. Soon. She automatically reached for her cell phone and realized she didn't even have a clutch purse with her. She'd left it upstairs and she'd told Eric she wouldn't leave the main room. She couldn't go get it.

She looked around for Marissa. She'd memorized the number of the landline phone beside James's hospital bed. If his cell wasn't close by, answering the phone wouldn't entail his fumbling around looking for it. But Catherine didn't see Marissa. She didn't see Eric, either. However, she did see Robbie dancing with Lawrence while Ian watched.

She walked toward Ian. “Do you happen to have your cell phone with you?”

“My cell phone?” He frowned. “Honestly, I've heard about adolescent girls who can't stop calling and texting every ten minutes, but I thought someone your age might have outgrown the compulsion.”

“Well, you were wrong. Actually, I just got an urge to call James and I left my cell phone upstairs. Or I forgot it.
Or
I lost it.”

“Lost it? According to Marissa, you're the most organized person in the world. I never thought you lost anything.”

“Marissa tends to exaggerate my strong points.”

“I wish not losing my cell phone was one of mine. I think I should tie mine onto my wrist.”

“I'm sure you're not that absentminded.”

“You'd be surprised.” Ian smiled at her. Then, slowly, his smile faded and his gaze grew slightly distant. He looked toward the band, playing a fervent version of U2's “Beautiful Day,” and his inner presence seemed to drift away from them. Catherine turned and followed his line of vision to his father, whose flushed face grimaced as he tried to swing Robbie in a smooth turn and almost fell. With Robbie's help, he caught himself, and she guided him sideways, slowing the pace, subtly helping him find his center again.

“Dad had better get control of himself,” Ian mumbled. “Patrice won't like it if he falls down in the middle of the dance floor while he's dancing with
my
pretty young date.”

That's an understatement, Catherine thought as she saw Patrice, watching with her laser eyes, from the sidelines. She immediately started talking and laughing with the woman beside her, as if taking the scene in stride, but Catherine could tell Patrice was inwardly angry, maybe even worse.

“I don't think too many people noticed,” Catherine said softly to Ian. “I guess he's not used to champagne.”

“He drinks a lot and you know it.”

“But champagne might have a different effect.” The only way out of this one seemed to be a change of subject. “Anyway, naturally all of this romantic stuff makes me think of my guy and I wanted to give him a call to say good night, but I can't find my cell phone, so if you have yours, I'd appreciate—”

Someone bumped into Catherine so hard she would have fallen if Ian hadn't reached out to catch her. While she was still trying to regain her balance, she heard a man's voice: “Well, I can't turn around without running into a pretty girl!”

Catherine stiffened as Lawrence boomed the comment loud enough for one whole area of the room to hear. People turned to see what drunken lout was making such a commotion, saw it was the groom and their host, and quickly looked away.

Lawrence nearly pushed Robbie toward Ian, who caught her gently, then wrapped a protective arm around her waist. “God, I'm sorry, Robbie—”

“Know what you saw in her now, boy. A real good-looker. Definitely put her name in that little black book you keep locked away in your apartment.” Lawrence looked conspiratorially at Robbie. “He never lets
anyone
in his apartment, but with your skills as a cop, I'm sure you could pull off a break-in without getting caught.” His right arm snaked around Catherine's waist. “How about a dance, Maid of Honor?”

“Oh, I don't know, Lawrence. I was just about to call James—”

“That stick-in-the-mud? He can't hold a candle to me.” He winked. “And I don't mean just on the dance floor.”

Oh God, what should I do now? Catherine thought, horrified, when she suddenly felt trembling in the arm Lawrence had wrapped around her waist—a deep trembling that might not even be noticeable on the surface. Alarm shot through her just as Ian, anger in his blue eyes, reached roughly for his father. But as his hand clamped on Lawrence's arm Catherine caught Ian's gaze and quickly shook her head “no.”

Ian, not letting go of his father's arm in spite of Lawrence's protests, leaned close to Catherine.