When he’d arrived at Marissa’s, he’d talked to her parents for a minute; then Marissa had come down the steps in a sapphire-colored dress—the same color as her eyes—something knee length and soft, with a skirt that flared gently when she turned. Her light brown and golden hair rippled long and loose the way he liked it best, and he’d noticed she wore her mother’s pearl necklace and earrings. He’d never seen Marissa look so beautiful.
His beautiful, smart, energetic, funny Marissa. How could he have ever thought he could live without her? What would he do if he lost her like he had lost Gretchen or Andrew had lost Tonya?
He thought for a moment and then went to the phone. Within seconds, he heard a young, crisp female voice: “Roberta Landers.”
“Eric Montgomery.”
“Yes, sir. I saw that on the caller ID.”
“You don’t have to keep calling me sir, Robbie,” Eric said.
“All right, sir. I mean Chief Deputy Montgomery.”
Eric rolled his eyes. “
Sir
is better than that. I sound like royalty. Anyway, I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“No, sir. I was just watching television.”
“I have an assignment for you and I’d prefer that you keep it to yourself. That’s why I’m calling you at home. Too many ears at headquarters.”
“I understand, sir, and I won’t tell a soul.”
“Do you know what Dillon Archer looks like?”
“Well, yes. I mean, I know what he looked like when he ran away from Aurora Falls. I kept all the news clippings about him.”
“Do you have them at your apartment?”
“Yes, but Dad covered most of the stories about Gretchen’s death and Dillon’s disappearance, so he’d have an actual photograph in his files at home. I could get one.”
“No,” Eric said quickly. “I don’t even want Hank knowing about this. Tomorrow I want you to start canvassing all of the local motels looking for Dillon. Cut a picture from one of your newspaper articles to show.
Don’t
mention his name. Just say he’s someone we’d like to talk to as the witness of a minor incident. If someone recognizes him as Dillon Archer, just say something vague about us trying to close old files.” He paused. “I don’t quite know how to say this without offending you, but when you show the picture I want you to smile a lot. Giggle. Bat your eyelashes.”
“Sir?” Robbie asked doubtfully.
“I know this sounds terrible, but I don’t want you to seem smart. If you act sharp, if this seems like an important investigation, someone is going to connect Dillon Archer to the recent murders and the city will go wild. If they think you’re just some cute little airhead I sent out on an unimportant errand, they might not pay too much attention.” Robbie remained silent and Eric knew she was insulted. “Believe me, if you
were
some cute little airhead, I wouldn’t be sending you on this particular assignment. You’re smart, but you can act giggly and not too bright.”
“Thank you, sir. I guess.”
Eric finally laughed. “This is coming out all wrong, Robbie. I’ve never been a master of words. What I’m trying to say is that I trust you implicitly. I know you’re the person for this job because it calls for special skills, which you have. It’s important, Robbie.” He paused. “It concerns the murders of Tonya Archer and Buddy Pruitt and the attempt on Marissa Gray’s life in the car wreck. Perhaps other people are involved, but right now I’m most concerned about Marissa.”
Robbie’s voice immediately warmed: “I understand, sir.” I understand you’re probably still in love with her, the undertone said. “And if any of those people are mentioned in connection with the picture, I’ll just look blank.”
“Great. Concentrate on the less ostentatious places. I can’t see Dillon marching nonchalantly through the Larke Inn lobby.”
“I understand, sir. Thank you for trusting me with this assignment. I’ll do the very best I can.”
“I know you will, Robbie. And practice that giggle.”
“I’m on my way to find my volumizing mascara and neon green eye shadow as we speak.” Robbie giggled mindlessly and said in a slow, drawling voice, “Night night, Mr. Chief Deputy.”
She hung up. Eric stared at the phone for a moment and then broke out laughing.
2
Marissa put her arm through his as they walked into the candle lit dining room of the Larke Inn. With pleasure, Eric saw several people turn their heads to glance at the beautiful blonde on his arm. He gave the name Montgomery to the maître d’, who escorted them to a table by the windows overlooking the waterfall—a table with a centerpiece of two white roses and two apricot-colored roses. Marissa noticed them immediately and murmured, “Ah,” in delight. Eric pulled out her chair, looked away for an instant, and pulled out the chair a fraction more just as she started to sit down. She emitted a, “Whoop!” as she missed falling in the floor by no more than two inches. People looked, Eric turned crimson, launched into frantic apologies, and Marissa had begun giggling.
And giggling.
And giggling.
And…Eric opened his eyes. Dammit, he thought. He wasn’t hearing Marissa giggling. He was hearing his phone ringing.
He picked up the handset and barked, “Montgomery here.” He listened for almost five minutes and said, “I’ll be right there.” He replaced the phone, groaned, ran a hand over his eyes, and made a difficult decision.
It was two thirty-three in the morning when he called Marissa.
The phone rang. Marissa, wide-awake, looked at the caller ID that read:
Eric Montgomery,
picked up the handset, and muttered a sleepy, “’Lo.”
“Marissa, it’s Eric.”
“Who?” Marissa asked, still sizzling over the “friendship” kiss.
“Eric Montgomery.
Eric.
Are you awake?”
“Oh well, I guess I am now.” She hadn’t slept at all, but she tried to sound half-drowsy, half-peeved: “What is it?”
“Marissa, this is serious. No one has been murdered, but we have a situation that involves you. I don’t have time to explain, but I need for you to dress in something for outside wear. Your surveillance deputy, Randall Crane, is parked outside your house. He’ll bring you and Catherine.”
“Bring us where? What’s happened?”
“I just told you I don’t have time to explain. Randall will—”
“Pick us up. I got it,” Marissa snapped.
Marissa hung on to the phone, her heart fluttering, perspiration popping out along her hairline. Eric sounded shaken. It took a lot to shake Eric. Fright had flooded through Marissa and she’d immediately become contentious. She always reacted the same way when she was frightened. Eric would have expected it, she thought.
Fifteen minutes later, Marissa and Catherine climbed into the patrol car. “Deputy Crane, what’s happened?” Marissa asked as soon as they settled in the backseat. “Eric said no one has been murdered. Is someone injured? Why does he want both of us to come? I don’t understand.”
Catherine laid a calming hand on Marissa’s thigh. “Please stop firing questions at the poor man. You’re not giving him a chance to answer anything even if Eric wanted him to, which I don’t believe Eric does.” She leaned forward. “We appreciate the ride.”
“You’re welcome, although I wish it was under better circumstances.”
He looked as if he could have bitten his tongue when Marissa fired out, “What
are
the circumstances? We’re just supposed to go somewhere in the middle of the night because there’s some kind of bad situation Eric can’t explain and we don’t know what we’re in for or—” Marissa abruptly stopped talking, then asked in disbelief, “Are you turning into the cemetery?”
“Uh, yes, ma’am.”
Marissa looked around in astonishment. Then she saw halogen lights shining on the area near a large weeping willow. As they drew closer, she noticed two patrol cars, a white truck that must hold a generator, crime scene tape, and—
The ruin of her mother’s grave.
Chapter 14
1
Marissa and Catherine sat like statues in the back of the patrol car, their faces expressionless and their eyes unblinking. Catherine reached over and clenched Marissa’s gloved left hand. “They don’t want us to go over…there, do they?”
“They can’t make us. Eric won’t let them,” Marissa murmured in a daze.
But apparently he would. He walked over to the car and opened the door. The sisters drew closer together like little girls, huddling, drawing strength from each other, hiding from the horror. “Marissa, Catherine, you don’t know how sorry I am to do this, but I have to ask you to look at something.”
“Something?”
Marissa felt sudden fury. “Why don’t you just say ‘your mother’s grave’? I think we’re past using euphemisms.”
His voice remained mild: “I hated to ask you to come, but I felt you should. We have a Romeo and Juliet whose parents don’t want them to see each other, so they made a brilliant plan to meet secretly in the cemetery. They were walking around quoting poetry to each other, at least according to them, when Juliet almost fell in an unexpected hole. Romeo pulled her back. Their first impulse was to run, of course, but they thought they saw someone—large and wearing a cape lurking around. They were certain this person or ‘being’ was waiting to kill them if they tried to leave the cemetery. So they called nine-one-one on a cell phone.”
“And where did the cloaked ‘being’ go?” Marissa asked sharply.
“Vanished while they clung to each other shuddering. We haven’t called their parents yet—the kids say they’ll be furious and we didn’t need four other people out here shouting. Enough is going on.”
“That’s an understatement,” Marissa said bitterly. Then her lower lip started to quiver.
“Did the person dig all the way down to my mother’s casket?” Catherine asked in a tremulous voice. “Did they break open her casket?”
Eric answered firmly and professionally, “Catherine, your mother’s casket is in a vault and whoever disturbed the grave didn’t even dig down to the vault. He only went down about two feet, maybe on purpose, maybe because the ground is so cold it’s hard as a rock.” He looked at both women. “I know this is hard on you, but it will be harder when people begin to gather, and even at this hour they will. Four or five already have. I wanted you to see this for yourselves, not hear about it tomorrow when local citizens have created a scene even worse than it is. Let’s do this, ladies, the sooner the better.”
Although Eric’s voice wasn’t harsh, he made it clear he wanted no further delays. He stood back and motioned for them to get out of the car. Marissa led the way, trying to look strong when she felt as if everything in her was quaking. She wished she could prevent Catherine from having to endure this ordeal, but Eric had been adamant about her coming along.
Two deputies and several people who appeared as no more than blurs stepped away when Marissa and Catherine neared the grave. The icy night lay silent and deep, making Marissa feel as if she were floating through a void without atmosphere, without a hint of other human presence. One of the cemetery lights shone harshly into the desecrated grave. Marissa walked as close to the hole as possible and kneeled.
She saw objects, but at first her jumbled thoughts could make no sense of them. Catherine stooped down beside her and gripped her gloved hand. “Marissa,” she said softly, “I know it’s cold, but I’m here with you. Neither of us has to be here alone.”
At first everything seemed blurry. As much as it hurt, though, Marissa drew knife-sharp air into her lungs, held it for a moment, and then the objects took form. With a sense of unreality, she saw a dainty, puffy-sleeved satin and organza dress spread carefully on the cold dirt and a tiny matching cap placed slightly above the dress. The dress collar bore a small, gracefully embroidered pink
M.
On the narrow bodice, in the location of the heart, spread a pool of red liquid pierced by an ice pick driven in to the hilt.
The world spun for a moment and Marissa gratefully felt Catherine’s arms close tightly around her. Marissa blinked, regained her balance, and said to Eric in a thin, high voice, “It’s my christening dress.”
2
Eric paused and then asked, “Are you sure it’s your dress?”
“Yes. My mother embroidered the
M.
She embroidered a
C
on Catherine’s.”
“The two of you didn’t wear the same dress.”
“No. My parents believed we should each have our own dresses.”
“Did your parents give you the dresses to keep when you became adults? Did you have yours when you were in Chicago, Marissa?”
“No. I had a small apartment then—I didn’t have room for keepsakes.”
“And I live in a small apartment now,” Catherine said. “Mom said someday we’d both have houses with room for all the things she’d saved from our childhoods, but for now she had plenty of space for them at home.”
Eric frowned. “So this dress has always been in the Gray home, Marissa.”
“Yes. Packed away with Catherine’s, I suppose. We don’t get out our christening dresses and look at them every time we visit.”
“You never loaned your christening dress to anyone else?”
“No,” Marissa snapped. “That would have hurt my mother’s feelings. And besides…I just wouldn’t want anyone else—even a sweet baby—to wear it. There you have it—I’m a selfish bitch.”
“Oh, you are not,” Catherine soothed. “You’re the most generous—”
Eric spoke quietly but firmly: “Ladies, I hate to interrupt this beautiful moment, but let’s not forget someone wanted to put Marissa’s christening dress on your mother’s grave and stick an ice pick through it.” Marissa flinched. “Have there been any signs that someone broke into your house?”
“Of course not!” Marissa flared. “Don’t you think we would have noticed?”
“Have you checked every window lock? Every door lock for traces that somebody skillfully picked one? Do you know who has keys to your house?”
“No one except Marissa and me,” Catherine said, for the first time sounding stern. Marissa thought her sister might have had enough of Eric’s unsympathetic tone. “Do you think we go around passing out keys to our home?”