Nowhere to Hide Page 12

She drove through the stone-columned entrance and turned right on one of the narrow roads curving through the cemetery. As she neared a towering, dense blue spruce tree, she slowed, hesitated, then pulled slightly off the road and stopped behind the police cruiser.

  He didn’t even glance at her until she said, “Hello, Eric,” as she held her pot of poinsettias and looked at the man crouched at the grave of Gretchen Montgomery.

  His blond head snapped up. He blinked twice as if coming out of a trance, then returned Marissa’s gaze stonily. “I didn’t hear you drive up.”

  “I know.” He started to rise, but Marissa crouched quickly on the opposite side of the grave and spoke, hoping he wouldn’t leave: “Gretchen loved Prestige Red.”

  Eric, hat in his hand, frowned at her. “What’s Prestige Red?”

  “Poinsettias.” She placed the large pot near the headstone. “This shade is Prestige Red.”

  Eric looked at the beautiful, vibrantly red plant. “Why didn’t I know that?”

  “I don’t think most girls discuss their favorite shade of poinsettia with their brothers. It isn’t as if you didn’t know her birth date.”

  “Or her death date.”

  Well, I stepped right into that one, Marissa thought regretfully. She wouldn’t give up, although she didn’t want to ask about Buddy. She didn’t want Eric to think she was pumping him for recent information about the murder. “Do you have any leads on who might have caused my wreck?”

  “No. I told you the blizzard destroyed any physical evidence he might have left.” Eric paused as if deciding whether he wanted to talk to her. “We went over the area as thoroughly as we could.”

  “I didn’t think you’d be able to find anything.” She paused. “Catherine was really unhappy with me for causing such a scene at headquarters on Monday, but you know how I get when I’m passionate about something.”

  Eric’s golden-flecked brown eyes seemed to bore a hole through her own until he said with quiet fury, “You certainly weren’t passionate about seeing Dillon Archer kill my sister.”

  Marissa felt as if Eric had punched her in the abdomen. She only had enough air to whisper, “What?”

  “You heard me. You saw Dillon push Gretchen off that balcony, but when the police questioned you the assertive, confident, tenacious girl I’d known for years vanished. ‘It happened so fast,’” he mimicked what she’d said to the police. “‘The light was bad.’ ‘Tonya was closer to her than I was.’ It’s no wonder Mitch Farrell didn’t arrest Dillon on the spot.” His voice grew louder: “And now here you are with your poinsettias as if they matter to my sister whose murder you could have avenged!”

  Fury and shock washed through Marissa. Eric started to stand up, but Marissa leaned across the grave, reached out, and with strength she didn’t know she possessed placed her hands on his shoulders and then pushed him flat to the ground on his rear. “How dare you imply I didn’t do everything I could for Gretchen that night?” she nearly shouted. “How can you mock me, claiming I said the light was bad, things happened too fast, Tonya was closer than I was to Gretchen? Dillon, Tonya, and Andrew were harping on those things, not me!”

  “You could have sounded like you meant what you said,” Eric flared. “No ifs, ands, or buts. No wavering. You could have sounded like you knew what happened!”

  Marissa drew a deep breath, seething. “Eric Montgomery, I told the truth. Did I acknowledge that the lighting was bad? Yes. It was. Did I argue when Tonya said she was closer to Gretchen than I was? No, because Tonya was closer. But I knew what I saw, I told the police what I saw, and I did not waver.”

  Eric still sat on the cold ground and turned his head away from her. Marissa kneeled, leaned over the grave again, her knees digging deeper into the snow, took hold of his chin, and forced him to face her. “Are you even listening to me? I told the police exactly what I saw,” she said between clenched teeth. “I saw Dillon lean closer to Gretchen, I saw him reach out with both arms. I thought he intended to grab her around the thighs and drag her down, but he only put his left arm around her. With his right hand, he pushed her. Then he did a lot of flailing around as if she’d fallen in spite of his efforts. I’ve gone over this hundreds of times in my mind. I saw what he did and I’ll never say differently.

  “Afterward, Tonya told the police the light was bad in that loft—there were a couple of flashlights and candles only—which was true,” Marissa continued. “She said she was standing closer to Gretchen than I was, which was also true. She swore she saw both of Dillon’s arms close around Gretchen’s thighs and pull her toward the loft. That was not what happened and I said so to the police.”

  “But not with any fervor.”

  Marissa was stunned. “So you were furious with me because I wasn’t strident enough to suit you?” Eric turned his head. “Look at me, dammit!” Eric’s gaze slowly returned to her. “No, I didn’t scream that Tonya was wrong because I would have seemed hysterical and I didn’t want the police to dismiss me as a horror-stricken girl not sure of what she’d seen. I admitted that the light was dim in the loft, but I told them about my above-average vision. I told them Tonya was closer to Gretchen than I was but only by a couple of feet. I wasn’t going to lie.”

  “Oh, God forbid that you sully your soul by lying!”

  “God forbid that I sully my credibility. And I wasn’t the only person on the balcony.”

  “Oh yes, Andrew was there. Andrew, Dillon’s brother.”

  “Andrew who said nothing except to agree that the light was bad. That’s all he said to defend Dillon, his own brother. I think he saw what I did. I always have. But he managed to lose himself in all the commotion that night.”

  Eric withdrew behind his eyes. Marissa knew the expression well. He was no longer looking at her. He was lost in the labyrinth of his mind. She glanced up to see a couple placing a small gold and red wreath on a grave. The woman sniffled into a handkerchief. The man glowered at Marissa and Eric. Marissa didn’t resent the expression. A cemetery was no place to have a shouting argument, but for the first time since Gretchen’s death Eric was really talking to her, spilling out his feelings—his hurt, his resentment, his blame—and Marissa would do nothing to stop him, no matter how many people they offended.

  Finally, she said, “Eric, Mitch Farrell came that night. He’s known me for all of my life. He knows my vision is especially keen. He knows I wouldn’t accuse someone of pushing Gretchen off that railing unless I was positive that’s what I saw. He also knew Tonya and Dillon. Neither one of them had a spotless reputation, especially Dillon.

  “Eric, I knew Mitch’s questions weren’t going to end that night in the church. I knew he’d question us again and again and, as crushed as I was about Gretchen, my answers weren’t going to change one tiny bit. They were only going to become clearer when I could better demonstrate that small difference in the placement of Dillon’s hands that made all the difference.” Marissa sighed. “But Tonya told the same story as Dillon. Mitch was stuck with conflicting eyewitness versions. Dillon didn’t have a shining reputation around here, but he’d never been arrested or even brought into police headquarters for questioning. Mitch didn’t have time to do a thorough investigation that night, but he did assign twenty-four-hour surveillance on Dillon, which protocol didn’t demand.”

  “Yes, he assigned that idiot deputy Buddy Pruitt, Dillon’s friend.” Eric took off his hat and ran his right hand through his hair. “I’ve always admired Mitch Farrell. He’s the reason I decided when I was twelve I wanted to be a cop. He was sharp and meticulous and relentless. Except for the night my sister was killed.”

  “Did you expect Mitch to come to Gray’s Island, arrest warrant for Dillon Archer in hand? He did have conflicting accounts of Gretchen’s fall.”

  Eric looked at Marissa. “There’s no point in going over this again. Intellectually I know Mitch did all he could. All I can blame him for was having Buddy Pruitt as his watchdog.” Eric put his hat back on and gave her a hard lo
ok. “But what about us?”

  “What about us?”

  “We should have been in that church, Marissa, but you suggested breaking away from the pack for a while to enjoy the stars. When I’d say we should go find the others, you’d say, ‘Just a few more minutes, just a few more minutes.’ Well, those minutes turned into an hour and look what happened!”

  Marissa gaped at him. “Eric Montgomery, I didn’t have you tied to posts in the ground. You could have left any time you wanted. You stayed and you’re blaming me! All these years you’ve been picturing me as this seductress, a Greek siren luring the sailors to the treacherous rocks. I cannot believe it!”

  “Marissa, you’re shouting.”

  “Are you worried about your public image? Well, I don’t care! The idea that I could have been in love with a man so weak he’d be manipulated by a couple of playful pleas from a woman for him to stay with her when he should have been looking for another one who was in danger is beyond insulting!”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t use those exact words, but it’s what you’ve been thinking.”

  Eric looked at her angrily. “Do not tell me what I’m thinking!”

  “Swear to me it never crossed your mind that if Marissa hadn’t been asking you to spend some ‘alone’ time with her, you would have gone to the church earlier and saved Gretchen.” A wave of guilt flashed over his face. “Yes, it has. And I’ll tell you again, you were never so malleable, so weak! You wanted to stay with me—alone—for a while. You weren’t worried that Gretchen briefly went off with the others. Only when you realized more time had passed than you realized did you get worried! And you knew so much time hadn’t passed because I was begging you to stay with me. It passed because you didn’t want to leave me any more than I wanted you to leave. Do you hear me? You didn’t want to leave so you could babysit your sister like you had most of your life!”

  Eric glared at her, took a deep breath, and rose so fast he swayed slightly. Something crunched under his shoe as he stepped forward to catch himself. “Oh, hell, what now?” He lifted his foot. “It’s a little box on Gretchen’s grave.”

  “A box? What’s in it?”

  “I don’t have X-ray vision, Marissa, but who the hell leaves a Christmas present for a dead person?”

  The man standing near tossed them one final searing look and then led away his weeping wife. “I don’t know who leaves a gift,” Marissa said, lowering her voice too late. “If you’ll move your big foot away from it, we’ll see.”

  The box, slightly crushed, measured about two inches by two inches. Wrapped in gold foil paper, it bore a small red bow but no name tag.

  Marissa glanced over the collection of bouquets, wreaths, and her own pot of poinsettias on the grave. “I’ve never heard of leaving a gift at a grave. I mean…who’s going to open it? Do you think we should open it? After all, we both know Gretchen was murdered. Isn’t it evidence?”

  Eric stared at it as if mesmerized and said after a moment, “Gretchen’s death was ruled an accident, not a homicide, so this can’t be considered evidence.” Eric continued to stare at the partly mashed box. “I’m getting a very strange feeling about it. I’m going to open it.” To Marissa’s surprise, he whipped latex gloves from an inside pocket of his coat and picked the box up. He untied the simple bow, peeled back the Scotch tape already coming loose in the cold, and slipped a navy blue box out of the gold paper. He opened the lid of the box, and on a bed of cotton lay a silver and moonstone ring.

  As soon as Marissa saw the contents, all thoughts of their argument vanished from her mind. “Her ring!” she gasped.

  “I haven’t seen this ring since she died,” Eric said slowly. “Mom was determined she would be buried wearing this ring because it meant so much to Gretchen, but she couldn’t find it anywhere.”

  Eric handed Marissa a latex glove and she lifted the ring from the cotton. Even in the dimming light, the marquise-shaped stone glowed with a pale rainbow of colors. It was bezel set in silver decorated with scrollwork. “She wore this on her index finger.”

  “It could be a ring just like hers.”

  “It isn’t. When my family went to Mexico, I bought rings for Gretchen and me. We vowed we would never take them off.” Marissa held out her hand to show the ring on her middle finger. “It was to exemplify our friendship, but it was also to celebrate Gretchen getting her driver’s license. Finally on her third try.” Marissa laughed softly. “We’d all just about given up hope of her ever passing the driving part of the exam.”

  “But you know the artist made more than two rings like this,” Eric insisted.

  Marissa shook her head. “Not just like this.” She removed hers and handed it to Eric, then turned the other ring so he could see the inside of the band: . “The same symbol is on each ring. It meant we would be best friends for infinity.”

  2

  The several halogen lights placed around the cemetery did not ease the nervousness Marissa felt as late afternoon turned to twilight and Eric held Gretchen’s ring in his hand. He withdrew small plastic bag from his pocket, placed the ring back in the box, and dropped everything into the bag. “You and Catherine would have made a great team,” Marissa said shakily. “Prepared for every occasion. Antibacterial wipes, latex gloves, evidence bags…”

  Eric seemed far away, although he answered, “When I was seven, I never went out without my yo-yo. Now it’s latex gloves. Habits change, I guess.” He frowned at her. “Why infinity instead of eternity?”

  “Eternity seemed so common. Everybody says it. Infinity relates to the idea of ‘without end.’ I thought it was unusual and perfect.” Eric stared at her and she sighed. “Okay, Catherine knew all about the infinity symbol and suggested it. She knows just about everything in the whole world.”

  Eric continued to stare at Marissa for a moment, then started laughing. “Do you know you sounded like an eight-year-old girl jealous of her big sister?” Marissa didn’t crack a smile, although she realized in embarrassment that’s exactly how she’d sounded. “Speaking of Catherine, it’s six thirty. Won’t she be worried about you?”

  At that moment, Marissa’s cell phone went off. “Yes, Catherine, I’m fine,” she said, pulling a face at Eric. “I took a detour on the way home. I should have told you. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “Catherine is going to make someone a fine mother someday.” Marissa smiled. “Loving, protective, encouraging, and maddening.”

  “Yeah, probably.” Eric’s voice had grown vague as he looked grimly at the evidence bag again. “We should be going. I need to get this back to headquarters and you need to assure your sister you’re alive and well.”

  He didn’t walk her to her car, which she’d parked directly behind his. He gave her a slight smile and told her to have a nice evening. He sounded as if he’d stopped someone on the road for going a bit too fast. The same thing he’d tell anyone, Marissa thought. He’d finally been opening up to her, telling her all the things he hadn’t when he broke off their engagement, sounding like the Eric she’d known and loved, but finding the ring had sent him right back into his shell.

  Marissa could have been annoyed with him, but the ring was such an important and unnerving discovery, she realized she had nothing more to say, either. She was too shocked to make conversation, too shaken to discuss the matter calmly and logically.

  Someone had wanted Gretchen’s ring found on her grave. Was it a message, or had it been put there strictly for shock value? What if somebody had simply opened the box and taken the ring? Did that mean someone was watching, making sure nothing like that happened? Had someone watched Marissa and Eric tonight? Had the watcher been satisfied that they had found the ring?

  The idea of someone seeing them bent over the grave, opening the box, comparing the ring to the one on Marissa’s hand, sent a shudder through her. She hadn’t even thought about it in the cemetery. While they lingered at Gretchen’s grave, Marissa had been concentrat
ing on the ring and what Eric had revealed of his feelings about her—feelings he’d harbored for so long. She regretted that he hadn’t finished.

  She stopped at a red light. At least she thought she regretted it. Most of what he described was pent-up anger and blame, all directed at her. He’d decided she hadn’t been forceful enough when she talked to the police. On a hot summer’s night on Gray’s Island less than an hour after Gretchen’s hideous death, he thought Marissa should have defeated Tonya’s version of the incident and had the police leading Dillon away in handcuffs.

  Eric also seemed to blame Marissa because they’d spent an hour away from the others. Yes, she had asked him several times to linger with her under the beautiful night sky, but when had Eric Montgomery ever let her dominate him when he felt a matter was important? In those cases, he’d always trusted his own judgment, admitting if he’d been wrong, but not shamed or embarrassed.

  When the light turned green, Marissa pushed hard on the accelerator. Eric hadn’t been fair to her then and he wasn’t being fair to her now, dammit. He’d felt guilty, but he’d also pushed his self-blame onto her. He still didn’t have a kind word for her. Just recriminations. The farther Marissa drove toward home, the more wounded and angry she felt.

  3

  When Marissa neared her house, she saw James Eastman’s silver Lincoln parked in the double driveway and the porch light glowing. She almost groaned. She was mad and hurt, but she’d have to act polite for the sake of James. Catherine would detect her mood immediately.

  Marissa parked by the curb and stared at the rose garden her mother and Jean Farrell had planted on the large side lawn. Annemarie had known little about growing roses and Jean had seemed happy to help her start her garden with eight bushes. Marissa remembered her father and Mitch digging eight holes with Jean standing beside Mitch and Bernard giving directions about depth and width. Then she’d sent the men into the house. One by one, Jean had set the plants in the ground, lecturing Annemarie about the magnificent tea rose, the floribunda, and the miniature rose. Every time Annemarie had attempted to plant one herself, Jean had nearly flown at her, telling her how she was doing it wrong—she was using too much mulch; she hadn’t used enough bonemeal; she was tamping the dirt around the roots too forcefully.