Don't Close Your Eyes (8 page)

“Are you still there?” Dee demanded.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Well, I wish you wouldn’t call if you’re just going to daydream and not say anything.”

“Sorry. You free tonight?”

“Uh, no, not tonight,” she said abruptly. “Ma’s not so well. I can’t leave her.”

“I could come to your house.”

“No. She needs to sleep and she can hear a pin drop. We couldn’t watch TV or talk above whispers.”

“When do I get to see you?”

“I don’t know.” Petulant silence spun out on the other end. She lowered her voice, making it soft and husky. “Just be patient, baby, okay? I’ll make it worth the wait.”

“Okay,” Ted said sulkily. “But it’d better be soon.”

Well, hell, Ted thought after he’d hung up. A dull evening alone in front of the television lay ahead. Angrily he filled out another endless, boring report. Then a thought suddenly crossed his mind and he looked up, frowning.

Dee hadn’t asked how Tamara Hunt had been murdered.

Natalie and her father sat in near silence for the next hour. A second mug of coffee warmed her chilled body, and she was tempted to have a third, but Andrew St. John made strong coffee. Three jolts of caffeine would be too much, Natalie realized as she looked at her hands that already showed signs of chemically induced tremor. “Can’t I get you something to eat?” Andrew asked.

Food. Andrew’s panacea for all problems. “I don’t think I could eat a bite if my life depended on it.”

“If your life depended on it, you’d eat that dog standing over there,” he answered absently, although the dog’s head shot up as if in alarm. They both smiled. “I guess she understands more than I think.”

“I believe she’s quite intelligent, Dad. Sometimes mixed breeds are smarter than the pure breeds where there’s been too much interbreeding among the blue bloods.” She sighed. “I think she stayed with Tamara all night.”

Her father looked out the window again. “I remember when you were six. Shortly after your mother left, you ran off one December night. It was so cold. Harvey and Mary Coombs helped me search for you. We finally found you in an old boathouse half a mile from here. The dog Clytemnestra led us to you. If she hadn’t, you might have frozen to death.”

“I remember that night,” Natalie said softly. “I’d overheard Harvey talking about Kira. He said the responsibility of a child was too much for her. I decided she left because of me. I thought if I took off, she’d come back to you. Run

ning away on a freezing winter night wasn’t so easy, though. I made it to the boathouse. I thought I’d spend the night and be on my way the next morning, but I fell asleep.”

“And if it weren’t for the dog, you would have died.” Andrew shook his head. “Harvey thought you were asleep in bed or he wouldn’t have said that about your mother. He felt terrible. But Kira didn’t leave because of you. She was bored with me and with this town. She wanted to remain a kid having fun.”

“I know that now, but I’m still mad at her.”

“Then why do you always wear the ring she left for you?”

Natalie looked down at the lovely pearl surrounded by small diamonds. “It belonged to Great-grandmother Uehara. I wear it for her.”

“You never knew her.”

“Kira’s mother told me about her. I think I would have liked her.” Natalie paused. “Dad, do you wish Kira would come back?”

“I did for a long time but not anymore.”

“I wonder if she would come back if I were murdered like Tamara.”

“Don’t even think about such a thing! My God, if I lost you, Natalie I’d…” Her father stood up abruptly. “More coffee?”

“No thanks, Dad. I think I’ll take a shower. I need to feel hot water and soap on my skin.”

“Good idea. I’ll look after Fido for you.”

“Fido?”

“Is there a name on her tag?”

“She has no tags.”

“Okay, for now she’s Fido. Go take your shower.”

Natalie took one last sip of her lukewarm coffee and headed out of the kitchen toward her bedroom. As she passed through the living room, the phone rang. “I’ll get it,” she called.

She picked up the handset of the cordless phone and pressed talk. “Hello.”

Nothing.

“Hello.”

Finally Natalie heard a long sigh. “Na-ta-lie.”

Female voice, soprano, sweet, breathy.

A prank, obviously, but her heart beat a little harder. “This is Natalie. What do you want?”

“Na-ta-lie.”

That sweet voice caressing her name. Uneasiness tingled through her. “If you don’t tell me what you want, I’m hanging up.”

Another sigh. Then the gentle voice. “Their throat is an open tomb.”

Natalie drew a sharp breath. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’ll find out soon.”

Click. Silence.

Natalie stared at the handset as if it were a snake. A chill passed through her as she realized the voice had sounded exactly like Tamara’s.

SUNDAY AFTERNOON

Warren Hunt wiped perspiration from his upper lip and turned the car air conditioner to an even lower temperature. Usually he listened to classical music when he drove, but not today.

He’d returned to his hotel room to pack when he saw the phone light blinking. Voice mail told him to call Oliver Peyton’s house. When he did, Oliver’s sobbing housekeeper Mrs. Ebert told him Tamara was dead. No, she didn’t know any details. No, she didn’t know where Mr. Peyton was right now. But Dr. Hunt had to come home. He had to come home immediately.

What did the sobbing fool think I was going to do? Warren had thought irritably. Hang around here for another night? Why couldn’t people maintain a modicum of sense during an emergency? Nevertheless, when he’d hung up on the hysterical woman he’d noticed to his disgust that his hands were shaking.

And why not? he asked himself. He had to go home and face this damned mess—Lily and Oliver, the funeral, keeping his relationship with Charlotte a secret until a suitable period of time passed. And what was a suitable period of time? A year? Impossible. Charlotte would never stand for that. He’d lose her. Six months? He couldn’t possibly see anyone publicly for six months, but even that amount of time seemed impossible. Charlotte was demanding. She wasn’t the kind of woman you could stall. He didn’t want to stall her.

Valentine’s Day. That was when Charlotte had first walked into his office. He already knew who she was and

the story of her divorce. Everyone in town did. Nevertheless, when she arrived he tried to look pleasantly blank as he asked what troubled her. While she narrated the story, he thought about what an amazingly beautiful, sensual creature she was. He’d seen pictures of the woman Paul Fiori had dumped her for. Was the guy crazy? Well, crazy wasn’t a word Warren liked to use. Fiori was … tasteless.

During their second session Warren realized Charlotte was flirting with him. She wasn’t the first patient to do so. Every therapist knew the prevalence, as well as the danger, of this situation. Still, he couldn’t help responding, something he had never done before. He felt slightly guilty when he arrived home that evening to Tamara, but the guilt vanished as the night wore on and he realized he found her adoration cloying, her chatter about housework and gardening and the tribe of Jenkins kids excruciatingly tiresome, and her lovemaking totally unexciting.

Two weeks later he told Tamara he had an evening appointment and spent three hours having abandoned sex with Charlotte. He’d never experienced anything like that night and he drove home knowing he wanted the gorgeous, sexually adept, rich Charlotte Bishop in his life forever. She wanted him, too, but Warren knew that in her way Charlotte had adored Paul Fiori. She was rebounding from him, and rebounds didn’t last long. He would have to move fast if he didn’t want to lose her.

Now he was free. Almost. He still had to pretend great grief, a sense of being lost, regret for the life and children he and Tamara would never have together. No children, thank God. At least he didn’t have that problem to contend with. Charlotte didn’t want a child of her own, much less someone else’s.

Port Ariel city limits. Warren found the place rather picturesque when he moved here with Tamara six years ago. His father had told him he was a fool. Warren’s hands tightened on the steering wheel at the thought of his father. Richard Hunt was the senior partner in the biggest accounting firm in Cleveland. He’d made a fortune with investments. He

had just married his third wife, who was seven years younger than Warren. Richard thought Warren’s profession was ridiculous. He thought Warren was ridiculous. His pride and joy was Warren’s younger half-brother Bruce, who played football at Ohio State University and planned to go into the firm. Good thing his father had a business for him to enter, Warren thought bitterly. Bruce was a strong, amiable-faced buffoon. Warren knew he possessed the superior intelligence, looks, and culture, but he still hated Bruce for capturing all of Richard Hunt’s parental love.

And speaking of parental love, there was Oliver Peyton. The man couldn’t get through one day without talking to his precious Tamara and Lily. He was like a mother tigress and he’d always looked at Warren as a predator threatening one of his cubs. The chilly, pretentious, possessive guy was hard enough to take at the best of times. But now? Oh, well, he wouldn’t have to worry about Oliver much longer, either.

Warren pulled into the Peyton driveway behind a silver Mercedes. Wonderful, Warren thought. Viveca Cosgrove was here. Oliver had been seeing her for a year. Tamara didn’t like her. Even Lily didn’t like her. She said Viveca really cared about only one person—her daughter Alison. This was probably the only point on which he and Lily agreed. Oh, Viveca put on a good show of loving Oliver, but the girls saw right through her. So did Warren. Everyone seemed to except infatuated Oliver.

The front door swung open before he reached it. Oh, hell, Warren thought. Alison. Pretty, dainty Alison with her little girl voice, her predatory gaze, her irreparably fractured psyche. She was his patient. She had a crush on him. She made his skin crawl.

“Warren, I’m so glad you’re finally here!” Alison cried. Her blond hair hung straight, nearly touching her waist. She wore no makeup, a blue blouse with a Peter Pan collar, and Mary Jane shoes. Had Viveca known her daughter would look like Alice in Wonderland when she named her? “Lily and Oliver are just devastated,” Alison went on dramatically. “Mama and I came right over to help.”

I’ll bet you’re a big help, Warren thought with distaste. He forced a stiff smile. “Thank you, Alison.”

She did not step aside when he entered the house. He had to crowd past her, forcing their bodies into contact. He knew she’d fixated on her mother’s former young lover, Eugene Farley. After Farley’s death, she’d transferred her fixation onto him. She was twenty-two and he doubted she’d ever been to bed with anyone. He also doubted she thought about much except sex.

Warren drew a deep breath and was relieved to discover he could. Twenty minutes ago his lungs wouldn’t fill. Oliver Peyton walked toward him, his face rigid, his gaze conveying desolation, doubt, and contempt all at once. Even now he couldn’t pretend to like his son-in-law, and Warren, to his frustration, could not help being intimidated.

“Here at last.”

“Oliver, I’m sorry you had trouble reaching me. I was lunching with colleagues. We got carried away talking and…“Oliver’s gaze hardened. He didn’t want to hear this chatter. “What exactly happened to my Tamara?”

“Come into the living room,” Oliver said tonelessly.

Warren followed Oliver. Alison pattered along behind, nearly stepping on his heels. Warren’s heightened sense of smell vibrated like an animal’s. What was she wearing? Sweet Honesty? Heaven Scent? Some little-girl cologne. Warren could hear her breath coming quick and loud. She was enthralled. This situation was bad enough without her here enjoying the whole thing, a sickening voyeur. Oliver probably felt the same way, but he would suffer Alison’s presence because she belonged to his treasured Viveca. Warren didn’t like Viveca any better than he liked Alison. At the moment he didn’t like anyone except Charlotte Bishop and he didn’t dare even call her.

The Peyton living room used to be shockingly Spartan, decorated like the Catholic orphanage where Grace Peyton had spent her childhood. In the last year Viveca had wrought her magic and the place now looked as if it were ready for a photo shoot in House Beautiful. Warren did admire Viv

eca’s impeccable taste, although at the time of the redecorating he had resented the sizeable expenditure of money, which would diminish Oliver’s estate. He didn’t have to worry about Oliver’s estate any more. Max Bishop’s made it look like a pauper’s in comparison.

As soon as Warren entered the living room, Viveca descended upon him. Her hair, its dark golden hue maintained by careful coloring, was swept up in an elegant French twist to show off her magnificent cheekbones. She’d always reminded him of Faye Dunaway.

“Warren,” she said simply but with controlled, breathy feeling.

“Viveca,” he returned for lack of anything else to say.

“This has been such a shock for you. For all of us.”

“Yes.” He had the gift of gab. Why had it deserted him? “Yes,” he said again and his mind went blank.

Viveca leaned back and looked at him. Her gaze was earnest, searching. What was she looking for? Deep grief? Did she detect its absence? He lowered his gaze. His mouth twitched slightly from nerves. Apparently Viveca mistook the twitch as a close brush with tears because she quickly enfolded him in a Joy-scented embrace. “We’re all here for you.”

“Oh, yes!” Alison echoed fervently.

Over Charlotte’s shoulder Warren saw Lily curled onto a moss-green brocade-covered settee. Her makeup had washed away with tears and without it she looked so much like Tamara he caught his breath. But Tamara had never stared at him so coldly. “Hello, Lily,” he said uncertainly.

She nodded curtly. The antagonism between them had always been barely concealed and present circumstances made no difference. But soon he wouldn’t have to put up with her anymore, either.