To the Grave (4 page)

“Why, no, I didn't know,” Marissa drawled. “He hasn't discussed the matter with me.”

“Well, he does,” Catherine maintained, ignoring Marissa's grin. “He sold his house after Renée left. I'm sure he wants another one.”

“But he doesn't know you're looking at this place as a potential site for
his
new home,” Marissa said as Catherine smiled serenely. “Okay, let explore.” Marissa looked at the cottage. “Can we go inside?”

“No. I don't have the key, but we can look through the windows.”

The boards of the long, uneven porch creaked as the women walked across it to the large front window with curtains parted less than a foot. They made tunnels of their hands and looked into a dim room lit only by sunlight coming through a back window to show a sagging couch, an oval coffee table, a hooked rug, and one lamp topped by a crooked shade.

Marissa made a face. “Obviously the cottage wasn't decorated to impress anyone.”

“They probably kept things simple so they didn't have to worry about anyone breaking in to steal nice furnishings. It's better than I'd have expected from looking at the outside. I think someone cleans a couple of times a year and the Eastmans maintain the utilities—water, electricity, and gas for a furnace so they can keep the place warm enough in the winter that the pipes don't burst.”

Catherine gazed around a large, raggedy flower bed filled with bright sunflowers, purple wild asters, and goldenrod. Several yards beyond the flower bed stretched a line of oak and maple trees shedding their brilliant, late October leaves. When she took a deep breath, she picked up the bitingly sweet scent of apples. James once told her his grandmother had planted a small grouping of apple trees, which she'd called her orchard.

“Forget the cottage,” Catherine said. “Look at this three-acre lot. It could be beautiful with a little tender loving care.” She grinned. “Let's go look at the river!”

The grass stood tall, some weeds as high as their knees. As they walked around the cottage, Catherine was glad she'd suggested they wear jeans and sneakers with socks. Behind the building, untrimmed trees had blocked most of the sun and the grass grew in patches. She and Marissa linked arms and began down the gentle slope to the river and the old dock.

“How far would you say it is between the house and the river?” Marissa asked.

“I'm not good with distances.” Catherine frowned in thought. “Maybe eighty yards before it drops onto that steep bank leading down to the river. I'd put a fence in front of the bank.”

“Especially if you don't want your toddlers rolling down into the river. How many are you planning on having? Toddlers, I mean.”

“A dozen,” Catherine answered, seemingly oblivious to Marissa's teasing. “I think this would make a great backyard.”

“It sure would. You were right about this place. It's a nice spot for a house.”

“What about your bad vibe?”

“I think it came from that dreadful cottage. The rest of this area is great. There's plenty of room for a nice, sizable house for all of those children you're planning to have, a big lawn for them and their little friends, and you'd even have room to build a large boathouse. You could keep the
Annemarie
here,” Marissa said, referring to the Gray family's cabin cruiser that their father had named for his wife and the sisters now jointly owned. “And doesn't James also want a motorboat?”

“Yes.”

“Well, there you go. It's perfect.” Marissa raised her eyebrows. “What I wonder is why you're showing this place to your sister as if you're trying to persuade
me
it would be a great site for a new house? Why aren't you talking to James? Do you think he really doesn't want another house, a real home for a wife and children?”

Catherine sighed. “Here's my problem. James has talked about wanting a house. He hasn't asked me to marry him, although he says he loves me. Does he never want to marry again because of the way things went with Renée? Because I won't be a live-in girlfriend who maybe gives him the couple of kids I think he wants, Marissa. I know a lot of people would consider me old-fashioned, but I want commitment.”

Marissa looked at her seriously. “You should just come out and ask James if he ever plans to remarry. After all, you're the psychologist and I thought you people believed in talking about your feelings.”

“We do, except—”

“Except this matter concerns
you
and also you're afraid of what you'll hear. In that case, I'll give you my opinion. I think James wants to marry you, but he's someone who plans everything and who won't move ahead with a project until he thinks he has ironed out every wrinkle. The two of you deciding where you would like to live is a wrinkle he wants gone when he asks you to marry him. He's not impetuous, which is good, because neither are you. You'd have a nervous breakdown if you were married to an impetuous man.”

Catherine stood still for a moment, looking out over the Orenda River. The breeze created ripples that sparkled in the sun. The water lapped softly against the thick layer of granite riprap neatly piled along the shoreline to prevent erosion. Off to her left, she heard a robin singing and she saw a squirrel running back to the trees with a nut in its mouth, storing food for the coming winter. Yes, this place could be beautiful, Catherine thought. What a perfect place for a house to share with James and the children both Marissa and she thought James wanted.

She turned back to Marissa. “This would be a
wonderful
spot for a house!”

“So give James a little push, silly, and tell
him,
not me. Don't be shy about making suggestions to the man you love. I'm certainly not.”

“I know,” Catherine said drolly. “So does your Eric.”

“Eric appreciates my candor.” Marissa paused. “Most of the time. Occasionally he gets stubborn and I don't think he listens to me. Just because he hasn't asked for my opinion, though, doesn't mean he shouldn't hear it—” Marissa frowned. “Are
you
even listening to me?”

Catherine had wandered away and was snapping a photo of bright leaves sailing toward the river on a crisp, buoyant breeze. Whimsy swept over her and she whipped around to face Marissa. “More pictures! Just a few more pictures before we go!”

Marissa beamed. “You've made up your mind, haven't you?”

“I've decided to give it a try, but if James doesn't go for it I want memories of seeing this gorgeous spot on this gorgeous day with my gorgeous sister.”

Catherine took several photographs, her smile never fading. She heard herself giggling and felt as if she were listening to someone else—Marissa or her mother, Annemarie, both with their unadulterated joie de vivre. The feeling was foreign and heady.

When they'd worked their way to the front of the cottage again, Catherine insisted Marissa shed her denim jacket and sit on the hood of her red convertible Mustang.

“You're not going to sell James on this place by showing him a picture of me sitting on the hood of a car,” Marissa protested.

“This is for Eric. He can frame it and put it on his desk when he's elected sheriff next month,” Catherine said as Marissa slid onto the hood. “Let down your ponytail.”

Marissa pulled the rubber band from her long ash-blond hair with its sunny highlights and shook it free around her shoulders. “How's that?”

“Great. Now slip your sunglasses on top of your head for that carefree, beach-girl look.”

Marissa laughed but obeyed.

“Wonderful!” Catherine crowed. “Now put your right hand slightly behind you and lean on it. I'll take a few more steps back.…”

“Do you have to keep backing up to make me look good?”

“No, you look great, but you could look even better. Thrust your left shoulder forward slightly and—”

Catherine's heel banged against something hard. She looked behind her and saw old, widely spaced wooden planks cut into a circular shape and set on a low, round concrete rim. She took a step up onto the planks and looked back into her viewfinder.

“Perfect! Eric will love this picture.”

Marissa's eyes widened. “Be careful! You're standing on a cistern—”

Suddenly Catherine heard the boards groaning. Old wood splintered and snapped beneath her feet, and with stunning shock she plunged into a vat of cold water. Deeper, deeper, deeper she fell until her feet touched a hard surface. She'd swallowed water and fought the reflex to open her mouth and cough. Terrified, Catherine thrust upward, flailing arms weighed down by the sleeves of her sopping-wet flannel-lined corduroy jacket until she collided with something large, something soft yet with a hard core she instinctively knew was a body. She thrashed wildly, panicked, and gulped more water. Then she tried to calm herself. It's an animal, she thought. It's just a large animal—

With arms just like mine, Catherine's stunned mind registered as her own arms slipped beneath the others and slid up to where they joined a torso. She tried to shake loose, but her right hand had tangled in what seemed like thousands of long threads attached to her limp companion. She couldn't keep writhing to jerk free of them without losing the momentum of her upward surge, though. Her feet paddling frantically, her lungs nearly bursting from the struggle to hold her breath while handling the extra weight, she finally rose to the surface, gasped for air, and opened her eyes.

Catherine shrieked as she looked into the mutilated, bloated face of a dead woman.

 

CHAPTER TWO

1

In her shock, Catherine's feet went limp and her head slipped underwater. Then pain shot through her scalp. She rose once more to see Marissa lying on the ground and reaching forward over the cistern. Catherine realized her pain came from Marissa grasping a sizable hank of her hair and using it to pull Catherine's body back to the water's surface.

Catherine looked at the corpse she still clutched and screamed, “Oh my God!”

“Let go of it!” Marissa shouted. “Let loose of the body!”

Catherine looked at the atrocity in front of her, opened her mouth to scream again, and then raised her right hand tightly tangled in long, thick black hair. “Caught!” Water splashed into her mouth, but she managed to spew it out before swallowing. “I'm caught!”

Marissa pulled on Catherine's hair, dragging her closer to the cistern's side. “Help me, Catherine. Reach for the concrete edge!”

Concrete edge? Catherine went blank. Concrete edge of what? She couldn't see anything except for a horribly swollen face only inches from hers.

“Catherine, snap out of it!” Marissa shrieked.
“Now!”

Catherine coughed, blinked, looked around, and finally focused on a rim of concrete. She tried to stretch her arm, but the mass of hair tangled in her fingers wouldn't allow enough extension for her to reach the rim. She sobbed and tried to propel both herself and her dark companion closer to the edge of the cistern, seeing the strain on Marissa's face and knowing she couldn't keep her grip on Catherine much longer.

Marissa ordered, “Pull the hair out of the head!”

Catherine cringed as she tugged. “Can't! Too much hair!”

“Dammit, the skin's spongy. Just rip out the hair with all your might!” Marissa yelled with brutal desperation.

With Catherine losing her strength and panicking, her squeamishness vanished. She slid her left arm from beneath the corpse's armpit and braced her hand against the chest. She stopped paddling, raised her legs until her feet made contact with the body, and pushed backward as hard as possible until her hand jerked loose from the head.

Catherine sank for a moment until she began using her feet again. As she surfaced, the corpse lowered into the water. She moved closer to the concrete rim of the cistern, grabbed it, and then reached for her sister's grasping left hand. Marissa let go of Catherine's hair and with both hands began pulling her by the upper arms.

After what seemed like an eternity, Catherine completely emerged from the water and collapsed. Marissa lay crumpled beside her. Both women gasped loudly from exertion and Catherine shook violently. Finally, she glanced at the fingers of her right hand—fingers twined with long, black hair and pulpy roots. “Oh God,” Catherine moaned, almost retching.

“Stop looking at your hand,” Marissa said flatly. Then, “We have to call nine-one-one.”

“I can't. Not now.” Catherine shuddered. “Marissa, I think that was—” She rolled on her side, wanting to cry, but she had no tears. Instead, she emitted an agonized bleat that sounded hardly human.

After a moment, Marissa asked just above a whisper, “Are you all right?”

“No.” At last, Catherine began sobbing. “Marissa, I think that's Renée.”

2

After Marissa called 911 on her cell phone, time crawled for Catherine. She felt as if an hour passed before sirens shredded the cool, peaceful ambience of the October afternoon. Marissa had retrieved a blanket from the trunk of her car, and after demanding Catherine unwind from her fetal position and stand up she had removed Catherine's jacket, wrapped her in the blanket, and made her rest on a reclining bucket seat of the Mustang. As soon as the EMS ambulance stopped, two paramedics spilled out and led Catherine to the vehicle. She sat inside the open rear doors as they checked her heartbeat, blood pressure, temperature, and flipped a small, sharp light back and forth into her eyes. She felt tender and hypersensitive and didn't want to be touched. She told them three times she was fine—only cold and filthy—but they merely gave her patient, empty smiles and continued their examination.

The first police officer to arrive was Deputy Roberta “Robbie” Landers, a tall, slender young woman with a fine-boned, serious face, glossy brown hair, and steady dark blue eyes. Catherine and Marissa had met her the previous Christmas when she was a new deputy. Her father, Hank Landers, worked with Marissa at the
Aurora Falls Gazette.
While the paramedics continued checking out Catherine, Deputy Landers approached, notebook in hand. I can't talk to her, Catherine thought, her muscles tensing. I can't answer questions sensibly. I can't tell Robbie I think someone murdered James's ex-wife and stuffed her in that cistern.