To the Grave (44 page)

“Wait! Patrice, what do you mean about his neurons degenerating?” Catherine asked. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, don't act so innocent, Catherine. You may not be a medical doctor, but don't tell me you didn't suspect something the night of the reception when he nearly knocked you down, then you pushed him into Ian's arms and told him to take his father someplace to rest.” Patrice waved a handful of papers in Catherine's face. “ALS. Lou Gehrig's disease! Lawrence has it. Lawrence was diagnosed the first time two years ago and five times since then!”

Lawrence savagely grabbed Patrice's arm. “You've been in my office! You broke into locked files, drawers, my
safe.
How did you learn the combination? Secret cameras?”

“Exactly,” Patrice hissed. Then she looked at James. “The early symptoms have been getting worse. The choking. The loss of muscle control and the muscle weakness. The slurring. All of his laughter at the wrong times. How much easier he gets tired than he did just a couple of years ago. I chalked it up to nerves over this Star merger, but he got too out-of-control even for that explanation. Then came the marriage proposal I've waited for ever since my sister killed herself. I was elated.
Elated!
How ridiculous. I should have
known.
”

Suddenly Lawrence looked at her, as alert as he'd ever been. “The proposal you waited for ever since your sister
killed
herself?”

“Maybe. She wanted to die. Did you even know that? I doubt it. You and Mother never knew anything you didn't want to know.”

“You pushed her into killing herself.”

“I didn't!”

“You visited. You stayed in her room and you talked and you talked and you talked. And whenever you left, she seemed sadder, even more withdrawn. Mrs. Frost told me.”

“Oh, did she? That woman has always hated me. And if you did believe her, why didn't you do something about it? Why didn't you ban me from the house? I'll tell you why. Because I took up Abigail's time. She wouldn't come here looking for you, embarrassing you, making you come home. I babysat!”

“And that day of the wreck?”

“I'd had years of loving you, of seeing her with your wedding ring on her finger and doing nothing except drooping around her room in a fog of pills. She was worse that day than ever and I wanted to strangle her. Instead, I told her about your other women. I always kept track of you, Lawrence. I knew there were others. And she got more and more upset. And suddenly she ran out of her room with the keys to her car.” At last tears shone in Patrice's eyes. “I didn't know she was going to grab Ian on her way out and take him on that nightmare ride with her. I didn't want anything to happen to Ian, I swear to you.”

“But you pushed her over the edge!”

“You saw her going and you did nothing to help her!”

“I was building a business. I was putting in all my time and effort on building a good life for my family!”

“For yourself! And look how it turned out, Lawrence. You're dying and your son is a lunatic, a murderer. He killed Arcos and Nordine and he would have killed you and Catherine all because he thought you killed his precious Renée, the woman who'd preyed on an innocent teenage boy.”

Catherine felt as if a gong had gone off in her head. “Patrice, how do you know Ian became involved with Renée when he was a teenager?”

“What? Oh, I don't remember. He told me, I guess.”

“He … did … not … tell … you. He wouldn't have told anyone. You kept track of Lawrence. You kept track of Ian, too.”

“I didn't. I'm too busy.”

“I don't think you're ever too busy to do what you really want to do.”

Lawrence was looking at Patrice, stunned. “You knew my son was with that whore?”

“Like you were? She probably had to keep track on a calendar—”

“I was with Renée
once.
Just once.”

“But you didn't want it to be just once. I saw how you looked at her. You didn't care that James was your friend and she was his wife. And then you had the gall to buy that painting of her! You said it was for Ian, but it wasn't. It was for
you.
”

“As an investment, dammit!” Lawrence shouted. “Why didn't you tell me about Ian?” Patrice didn't answer. “Why didn't you tell me about Ian?” No answer. “You wanted to hurt me for never turning to you, didn't you? All those years after Abigail died, I never took you for my lover, much less my wife. So letting Renée have Ian, letting him get more and more involved with her, was my payback.”

Lawrence's voice was growing deeper and grittier, the look in his eyes more venomous, the grip on Patrice's arm tighter.

“Let her go,” James said. “Let her
go
.”

“I only figured out lately they'd been lovers for a long time.” Patrice began talking so quickly she was almost gibbering. “I just guessed about the teenage stuff.”

“I doubt if you just
guessed
about anything,” Catherine said. “I think you've been keeping track of them for years, especially after your mother died and left her money to Ian. You suspected Renée would be coming back for him. After all, he would be rich soon.”

Patrice glared as Catherine continued. “Ian left his cell phone at my office a couple of days before he was supposed to meet Renée. I took the phone to the law office and gave it to Mitzi to give to you since you'd probably be seeing Ian that night.”

“She didn't give it to me,” Patrice said.

“I'm sure she did. Ian hadn't erased his recent texts. You read them and saw that he was supposed to meet Renée on Saturday night. You sent her a text from
his
phone changing the meeting to Friday night. Renée went to the cottage on Friday, thinking she was meeting Ian, but instead, she ended up having a fatal meeting with you. When Ian went to the cottage on Saturday night, Renée was already dead, but he didn't have a clue. There were no bullet holes in the wall for him to see. After you shot her, you must have dragged her out on that heavy hooked rug the police found in the cistern where you stuffed her until you could find a better place to hide her body, so you didn't even leave a trail of blood to clean up and maybe leave a streak for Ian to see. You cleared out anything she'd brought into the cottage, put it in her car, and hid the car in a neighbor's garage. By Saturday evening, there was no trace of her at the cottage.”

“That's absurd!” Patrice shouted.

“You did kill her,” Lawrence said, a sound of wonder in his voice. “By God, you
did
kill her.” He shook her hard. “Admit it!”

“Okay! I did it for you. Ian's always leaving his cell phones around and it
has
been easy to keep up with his activities. I knew what he and Renée planned. You're in trouble, Lawrence. You spent too much money on Blakethorne. You're desperate. My mother's death was a godsend—you so desperately needed that money she left to Ian, and he was going to run off with and give it to
Renée.
I couldn't stand it. She was a blight, not just on him or you—on everyone. The world was better off without her. I had to do it. I had to get rid of her once and for all for everyone.”

“For
you,
” Lawrence said. “If my son had run off with her a week before our wedding, it would have been the end of us. It would have destroyed me and that would have destroyed all your plans. You'd waited twelve years to become Mrs. Lawrence Blakethorne, and Renée was going to ruin it all for you.”

“She was going to ruin
you.
”

“And that would have ruined
you.
” His eyes bored into hers. “Did you know who killed Arcos and Nordine?”

“Oh God, no!”

“You're lying.”

“Lawrence, how could I have known?”

“It was obvious their killer and the person who shot James was trying to avenge Renée.” He was silent for a moment. “Admit it, Patrice. You
knew
.”

“I … I wondered. His brain injury. His passionate attachment to her…”

“But you didn't come to me with your wonderings. Instead, you let that boy go on killing and now,” Lawrence choked, “and now he'll spend the rest of his life in a mental institution.”

“Well, at least you won't have to watch it! You'll be dead in two years. The strong, successful, macho Lawrence Blakethorne will be a twitching, jittering, drooling hunched-up being who can't hold anything, who can't walk, who can't even
swallow
. That's the perfect end for a man like you. What will the women think of you then when you won't even be able to
swallow
!”

Suddenly Lawrence jerked Patrice's arm, pulling her closer to the plane. She began to shout, then suddenly to whimper as Lawrence's grip must have tightened. James rushed forward, but with an unexpectedly powerful thrust Lawrence pushed him backward, nearly knocking him down.

“James!” Catherine called helplessly as she stepped behind him, trying to steady him. “What's he doing?”

“Putting her on the plane.”

“Patrice!” Catherine called, stunned by the brute force of Lawrence's movements, of slender Patrice's futile efforts to wriggle free of him to somehow break his grip. James started toward the couple again, but Lawrence kicked backward, this time connected with James's leg, and sent him stumbling back to the concrete.

By now, Lawrence had managed to literally stuff Patrice into the cabin of the plane. Just like Patrice must have stuffed Renée's body into that cistern, Catherine thought distantly. Lawrence slammed the door and began to start the plane.

“Oh no,” Catherine said faintly. “What's he going to do?”

James simply stared as Lawrence, without looking at the instrument panel or picking up a microphone, took the plane to a runway, and began idling. Catherine could see Patrice struggling inside the cabin, but Lawrence held the back of her hair. She thought he might break Patrice's neck.

Abruptly Catherine remembered the women of the bridal party getting ready in the Larke Inn suite. “Lawrence has business to take care of now, but in two weeks we'll be walking on the Champs-Élysées,” Patrice had said gaily. “Think of it—the specialty shops, the cafés, the cinemas…” Incredibly, Catherine felt pain at the memory. There would be no Champs-Élysées for Patrice now.

Lost in the recollection, Catherine didn't focus on the plane again until it began roaring down the runway. Around her, she saw workers gathering, stunned by Lawrence Blakethorne's behavior, the danger of taking off without clearance. Catherine grabbed James's hand, terrified to look at what might happen but unable to look away.

After what seemed an interminable time, the plane lifted and soared. The pale afternoon sun flashed on the wings and the plane circled and then headed straight ahead without gaining altitude. In one brilliant flash, sun sparkled on thundering water before Lawrence headed the Cessna straight into Aurora Falls, ending the whole tragedy in a giant ball of fire.

 

EPILOGUE

Two weeks later

“It's a beautiful day and we've been hermits for the last couple of weeks. That's not like a couple of workaholics like us,” James said. “How about going for a drive to clear the cobwebs out of our heads?”

“Do you have cobwebs?” Catherine asked. “I feel like I just have sand. I'd love to go for a drive.”

As they sped along, the seriousness gradually leaving their faces, James mentioned again how happy he was that Eric had won the election and was now Sheriff Montgomery. “I'll be getting out of parking tickets right and left.”

“That's what you think. Eric isn't big on breaking the rules.”

She seemed to drift away for a moment, then snapped back when James mentioned Gaston. “Eric had someone at the morgue call him when Gaston came to claim Renée's body. He cornered him and asked a few questions—there wasn't much else he could do because Gaston hadn't broken any laws. Anyway, the old pervert told Eric he'd come here to search for the person who'd killed his daughter. He told Eric if he'd found the person and had proof, he would have brought it straight to the sheriff.” He paused. “Both Eric and I have doubts about that last statement.”

“Well-founded doubts,” Catherine said. “With a man like Gaston, you don't know if he just wanted to know who killed Renée, or if he would have murdered her killer. It's impossible to know how he felt about her. Probably just possessive. He wanted to avenge her death because she was his property, not because he loved her. He's incapable of love.”

“Well, at least he's taken her home. And I think she'll be placed in the Moreau mausoleum, no matter what Audrey says.”

They drove on in silence for a while. Then Catherine noticed they were traveling south, passing the Aurora Falls she hoped she would be able to look at again by spring without the dreadful memory of the explosion. On they drove, James slipping in a Tchaikovsky CD he knew she liked, until she began to recognize the remains of cornfields and remembered a bright October day when she'd traveled this way in Marissa's red convertible Mustang.

“James, where are we going?”

“It's a surprise.”

“No, it isn't. James, I think you're taking me somewhere I
really
don't want to go.”

“You can make up your mind when we get there. For now, just give me the benefit of the doubt.”

Catherine sank unhappily in her seat, not at all surprised when James made a right turn just past the November ruins of cornfields. Finally they turned onto Perry Lane. Catherine remembered how annoyed Marissa had been that Catherine had yelled, “Turn right” and scared Marissa into slamming on the brakes in the middle of the highway, then tried to divert her anger by asking if the Beatles had done a song named “Perry Lane.”