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  “Marissa, Mitch loves you and Catherine and Eric so much and you love Mitch,” Jean went on.

  “Oh, we do,” Marissa said through her own tears.

  “Mitch wants to see all of you. He asked if I’d delay his morphine dose tomorrow evening and the three of you could make a short visit. Do you think you three could come together? I don’t want to string out the visits over two or three evenings—it would be too hard on him and there might not be time.”

  Marissa took Jean’s cold hand. “Of course I can come, and I know that even if Catherine has plans she’ll change them.”

  “I’ll bring Catherine and Marissa if they’ll let me,” Eric said. “What would be a good time?”

  “Six thirty? I usually give Mitch some morphine at seven, but I know he can hold off for at least half an hour.” She smiled and squeezed Marissa’s hand. “Thank you, my dears. I hope you don’t feel like I’m stalking you, but I just happened to see you pull up to the police station, Marissa, and Eric run out to the car. It was my chance to tell you this in person. I know how much seeing you will mean to my dear Mitch.”

  2

  Although darkness had fallen, Marissa parked her car three spaces away from Eric’s. He carried the big bag with the barrel of fried chicken and all the side dishes up to the second floor, where he unlocked his door and almost shoved her inside. Then he shut the door, drew shut the draperies, and turned on a lamp.

  Marissa hung her coat in the closet and looked around the small living room with its gray carpet, eggshell-colored walls with no pictures, navy blue couch and one chair, bare coffee table, small television, and an end table bearing the only lamp in the room.

  “Gosh, Eric, you went wild decorating this place, didn’t you?” she asked dryly. “All these colors, knickknacks, paintings, framed family pictures, so much furniture—it makes me dizzy. And exactly how close do you have to sit in front of that television before you can see anything? Would two feet be stretching it?”

  “There’s a television show on Saturday mornings where two people visit homes for sale and tell the owners how crappy their houses look and that’s why they won’t sell. You should audition for the show. You’d be perfect.”

  “Well, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I was just—”

  “Giving your opinion, for which I didn’t ask, by the way.” Eric set the bag of food on the small kitchen counter. “Will you deign to eat here, Miss Interior Design?”

  Marissa tried to smother a grin, sensing that beneath his teasing Eric was just the tiniest bit insulted. “Your apartment might not win awards for interior decorating, but it’s so clean you could eat off the floor.”

  “How gracious of you to say so. Would you care to prove what you claim?”

  “No, tonight I think I’ll try to act like a lady, not like Lindsay.”

  “She seemed like a lady to me.”

  “She has lapses.” Marissa looked at Eric’s tired face and his slightly slumping shoulders. She opened the refrigerator door. “Ah, beer! Thank God!” She took out two cans. “Why don’t you get out of that uniform, take your shower, drink your beer, and then we’ll eat. You look like you’ve been run over by a truck.”

  “You just can’t turn off the charm tonight, can you?” Eric asked, although he was beginning to grin. “When is it I’m supposed to drink my beer, ma’am?”

  “Before or after you take off the uniform, in the shower, after the shower—whenever you like.”

  “And what will you do if I decide to lounge in a bubble bath and drink my beer slowly, like nectar from the Gods?”

  “I’m certain you keep plenty of bubble bath around here, not to mention exotic oils. And this beer can looks like a container for honey mead, so just go to it. I’ll watch TV. We can dine when you’ve finished your nightly beauty ritual.”

  By now the grin had deepened his dimples—the dimples she’d once found irresistible. “You make a great handmaiden, you know it?”

  “Ah—I’ve always wanted to be a handmaiden, never having to think, getting to wear gossamer gowns with a wreath of flowers on my flowing locks, always at my master’s bidding, being his lover whenever he wants me. Yes, I think it’s the career for me.” Marissa realized that Eric’s grin had lessened and her own voice had slowed and deepened slightly. She forced a laugh. “Go take your shower, Chief Deputy, so we can eat. I’m starving.”

  “So am I,” he said huskily as he turned and walked into another room, closing the door behind him.

  Marissa stood staring at the door, trying to push down an almost irresistible impulse to follow him, take off the uniform piece by piece, lie down with him on the bed, run her hands through his soft hair the way she used to, encircle his lips with tiny kisses—

  “Oh God,” she whispered. “I won’t let this happen again. I won’t.”

  With that she popped open a can of beer, took a gulp, turned on the television, and forced herself to concentrate on a game show, not the gorgeous naked man in the next room.

  3

  “First of all, I’d like to know if you’ve found out anything about the moonstone ring left on Gretchen’s grave,” Marissa asked, sitting on the floor with a plate of chicken, coleslaw, mashed potatoes and gravy, and a beer in front of her on the coffee table. She’d always liked eating this way. Eric had opted to sit in the chair.

  “Nothing, I’m afraid. Absolutely no fingerprints. That was to be expected. The lab is going over it for any traces of DNA. We won’t find out about that for a few days.”

  “Damn,” Marissa said forcefully. “I get so mad thinking that someone has had her ring all of these years—the ring I bought her, one part of the pair we were going to wear our whole lives.”

  “Almost like a wedding ring,” Eric said softly.

  “Yes, I guess it was.”

  “Is. We have it back now.”

  Marissa nodded but couldn’t smile. “What about the postcard and the ‘Tyger’ note?”

  “Once again, no fingerprints. Someone did the typing on the postcard on an old manual typewriter, though. We’re not absolutely certain yet, but the type looks like that of a 1940s or ’50s model Underwood.”

  “Who would still be using one of those?”

  “I don’t know who would be using one, but I’m sure some people have them as collectible pieces. I think Olivetti bought into Underwood in the early sixties.” Eric poured more gravy over his mashed potatoes. “My parents have one. A 1949 Underwood. After he retired, my great-grandfather wrote a mystery story on it and the story was published, so he made everyone promise they’d never get rid of the typewriter.”

  “My gosh!” Marissa exclaimed. “I’d completely forgotten, but Gretchen had a copy of the story.” She paused. “‘Midnight Movie’!”

  “Right! He wrote some more, but no publishers bought them. Anyway, I’m sure we’re not the only people in town with an old manual typewriter.”

  “No. The ‘Tyger’ stanza was written on a computer, but everyone has one of those, too.” Marissa sighed. “Okay, my turn to tell you what I know about the case. Where you want me to begin?”

  “How about with Tonya’s visit to you last night?” Eric took a bite of coleslaw. “Start from the beginning.”

  Marissa told him how surprised she’d been when Tonya showed up at the door. “She came around eight and couldn’t have been more pleasant. She said Andrew had to work late and it was Christmas—I guess that meant she was feeling sentimental—and she wanted to patch up our friendship.” Marissa saw Eric tense and knew he was thinking of when their friendship had ended. She plowed ahead. “We talked a bit about what we’d seen that night on the island. I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt, but especially I didn’t want to get in an argument, so I ended that topic with something weak about the dark and angles and our seeing things differently.”

  Marissa took a bite of buttery biscuit, not caring about calories, and chewed slowly as she focused on the evening. “Tonya talked about her relationshi
p with Andrew and how surprised people were when they eloped and how happy she is—was.” Marissa swallowed and looked at Eric. “Then she went off on a tangent about James dating Catherine. She all but asked if they were sleeping together. She talked about how much she’d disliked Renée and said Renée had vanished just like Dillon.”

  Marissa closed her eyes, trying to remember everything Tonya had said and wishing she’d had a tape recorder on last night. “Then I asked why she’d come to see me besides to simply renew our friendship and she became a different person. Offended. Really nervous. She talked about Dillon again and how they’d just been friends. They’d never been more than friends.” Marissa sighed. “I’m not getting all of this in the right order, Eric.”

  “That’s all right. At least you’re remembering most of it.”

  “Well, after the last mention of Dillon, she made some remark about me pumping her for information about Dillon because I thought that would win you back. I was stunned and she said everyone in town knew about us. You’d been at my house a lot. She told me not to go whining to Andrew about our argument. Then off she went in a huff.”

  “Ummm,” Eric mumbled thoughtfully. “Do you think everyone knows about us?”

  “What’s there to know, Eric? That we’ve talked as two people who know each other very well?”

  “Do you believe that’s what Jean thinks?”

  “I don’t believe Jean is thinking about much of anything except Mitch. Even if we were having a torrid romance, she wouldn’t say a word. You know Jean—she’s just like my mother about keeping confidences. I suppose that’s why they became such good friends in their way.” Tears rose in Marissa’s eyes. “I’ll never forget the day they planted the rose garden.”

  Eric laughed. “You told me about it. It’s hard to imagine now, but Jean’s life can be happy again.”

  “I wish my mother were alive to help with that job.”

  “My mother is. She and Jean were friends, too, although I don’t think Jean and Mitch visited our house as much as yours, but maybe if Mom will reach out to Jean, it would help both of them.” Before Marissa could say anything about having arranged an interview with his mother for tomorrow afternoon, Eric cleared his throat and said in a professional tone, “Okay, back to business. What time did Tonya leave your house?”

  “I didn’t look at the clock but I’d say it was around eight thirty. I told you it was a short visit.”

  “So she was at your house an hour at the most.”

  “Less than an hour. I’m certain.” Marissa paused. “Do those times coincide with the times Andrew gave you?”

  “He said he had a lot of work to do at the office last night. There’s a message from him on the home answering machine made around eight fifty to tell Tonya he’d be home within half an hour. We didn’t find anything on her voicemail.”

  “Her cell phone didn’t ring while she was here. Apparently Andrew wasn’t trying to find her. Are you thinking the answering-machine message was used to set up an alibi?”

  “If so, it was clumsy, because Andrew says he left the office at nine fifteen. The medical examiner puts Tonya’s death at about nine. A phone message from his office at eight fifty wouldn’t give him an alibi for her murder at nine. He could have made it home by nine. Of course, estimated times of death aren’t as accurate as they are on television. They can’t tell if someone was murdered at nine precisely or nine ten. Andrew called nine-one-one at nine thirty. The reports say that at nine fifty, her body temp had barely dropped.”

  Marissa frowned. “If she left my house at eight thirty, it wouldn’t have taken her until nine to get home. I wonder where she went after she left my house?”

  “Wherever she went, she didn’t stay for long. She probably just got some coffee, although we haven’t found anyone who claims to have seen her.” Eric’s gaze became more intense. “Did she tell you she was pregnant?”

  “No!” Marissa took a breath. “But she looked a little heavier than I remembered her being, and today I wondered if pregnancy could have been responsible for her mood swings. Did Andrew know?”

  “Andrew was in tatters about Tonya’s murder, but when we mentioned the fetus, he completely fell apart. If he was acting, he’s very good at it. Tonya was about seven weeks along. She would have had to tell him soon, and I have a strong feeling that part of the reason she came to your house to reconcile was because of the baby. Maybe she felt guilty ever since Gretchen’s death but she didn’t try to mend fences. Getting pregnant might have spurred her into action, though. She wanted a perfect family with good friends, no one to hold a grudge against her, no one who would ever tell her child that its mother absolutely had lied about a murder. The story of what happened to Gretchen was all a big mix-up.” Eric shrugged. “Just a guess.”

  “But a good one,” Marissa said, almost in awe. “My goodness, Eric, what a discussion you and Catherine could have!” She paused. “What do you think of Tonya’s talking about Dillon?”

  “Maybe she’d heard the gossip that he’s back in town and that he tried to kill you.” Eric paused. “There’s something else….”

  “What else? Tell me.”

  Eric stared at her for a moment as if making up his mind. “But this is confidential. I shouldn’t—”

  “Eric! I don’t care what the rules are; Tonya has been murdered and whatever is going on involves me! Don’t you think I have a right to know everything?”

  Eric stared at her for another moment and Marissa was on the verge of shouting at him when he said quietly, “Tonya got a Christmas card signed ‘D.A.,’ too. It was a photograph of her and Andrew decorating their Christmas tree in front of the picture window and it said: ‘Hope you’re enjoying your new life, Tonya.’ It was signed ‘D.A.’”

  Marissa felt as if her neck had been touched with ice. “She was frightened. That’s why she came to see me. She probably wanted to know if I’d received something similar signed ‘D.A.’ She was just so nervous, she blew out of the house before she had a chance to ask.”

  “I think you’re right. Andrew said she was really shaken up about it. Now he thinks he should have insisted she bring it to the police. Instead, he told her to just cool down. He’ll never forgive himself.”

  “It wouldn’t have helped. Would you have put her under surveillance because of one picture?”

  Eric shook his head. “We have two people out with the flu as it is. I couldn’t have justified surveillance for a picture signed ‘D.A.’”

  Marissa leaned forward, rubbing her neck muscles growing annoyingly tight again. “If Dillon is in the city, I can understand why he’d try to kill me. I’m the one who claimed he pushed Gretchen off the railing,” Marissa said, “but why would he murder Tonya? And what about Buddy?”

  Eric slowly chewed a piece of chicken. “Maybe Dillon didn’t ‘escape’ the day after Gretchen’s death. Maybe Buddy let him go.”

  “And that’s a motive for murder?”

  “The only long-term friend Dillon ever had was Buddy Pruitt. I always thought it was because he liked to control people. Dillon Archer loved to play God. That was easy to do with poor Buddy. Maybe he boasted to Buddy about some of the petty crimes he’d committed and gotten away with, or maybe there were worse crimes he confided to Buddy. I always sensed Buddy was afraid of him, Marissa, and maybe he had good reason to be. Maybe he knew more about Dillon than any of us did and Dillon decided it was time to shut him up for good.”

  “And Tonya?”

  “Same reason.”

  “But she had more spine than Buddy. People couldn’t boss her around like they did Buddy. She was spirited. She could even be aggressive at times.”

  “I agree, but could she act the same way with Dillon as she did with other people? Couldn’t he have held something over her head, something he didn’t want known and would punish her for revealing?”

  “Edgar Blume,” Marissa almost whispered.

  “Edgar Blume? That high school teacher that died from
an overdose? What about him?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve just always wondered….” She stopped rubbing her neck and looked at Eric. “You think Dillon Archer had a God complex?”

  “Yes, I do. Your sister would have a more educated view of his psyche, but in my opinion Dillon wanted to have power over everyone he could. His father mistreated him. Everyone knew it. No one did anything about it, not even his mother. Abused children can grow up to be like Buddy or they can be like Dillon. They were a perfect pair. As for Tonya?” He shrugged.

  “My God, I’d never thought of that before.” A terrible thought crossed Marissa’s mind and she shivered but said nothing.

  “What is it?” Eric asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Marissa, tell me.”

  Marissa didn’t want to hint that Gretchen could be guilty of anything, but she didn’t have a choice. “Could Dillon have had something to hold over Gretchen’s head? Is that why she left Will Addison and turned to Dillon? Because she was forced to be with Dillon?”

  Eric’s face went rigid. Marissa had been afraid to ask the question about his beloved dead sister, but they were talking honestly tonight. If she couldn’t ask him now, she could never ask him.

  Marissa hardly breathed as his gaze grew hard and she could almost feel the strength it took for him to control his answer. At last, he asked in a coldly angry voice, “What in God’s name is it you think Dillon was holding over my sister’s head?”

  “I didn’t say he was. I asked if there could have been something. After all, you’re the one who said Dillon liked to play God, to have power over everyone, to be in control.”

  “I was in Philadelphia most of the year. You were my sister’s best friend. I know she’d just graduated from Juilliard and the two of you weren’t together throughout the winters, but you’d each been home during the summers. Wouldn’t you know more about her life then than I do?”

  “Yes, I should have.” Marissa could hear the defeat in her own voice. “She spent a lot of time practicing for the fall concert tour. I was making wedding plans for August. I did get the feeling she was being slightly distant with me, but she was seeing Will and I was glad. I know many people thought Will was spoiled and wild and wouldn’t turn out to be anything, but I never felt that way about him. Besides, as far as I knew, Gretchen had never had a serious boyfriend before Will.