Читать книгу The Secret Lives of Doctors' Wives - Ann Major, Ann Major - Страница 14

The chapel was a grandiose, high-ceilinged room with tall stained-glass windows on all the walls. A floodlight shone down on the altar and the golden urn that contained Pierce’s ashes.

Oh, my God! Was that Mirabella Camrett, her next-door neighbor, in the very front row? Had she even known Pierce?

Oh, no. She was turning around!

Zippy lyrics of a contemporary Christian song seemed to roar in the sanctuary as Rosie ducked behind Todd and Yolie, who were threading their way down the aisle, through the throngs of people and extra chairs that had been crammed at the ends of each pew.

A little more than a year ago Rosie had attended this church with Pierce on the Sundays he hadn’t been on call. They were to have been married here. Instead she’d hacked her wedding cake to pieces and had chased him around with fistfuls of icing and a knife.

She’d forgotten all about that until now.

A knife. The memory brought a shudder.

Show your joy to the Lord with dancing.

The crowd was bigger than she’d expected. Maybe it was only natural that the notoriety and mystery surrounding Pierce’s death had attracted more than just family and friends. The mourners’ mood, although somber, was also edged with that curious excitement that goes along with scandal and murder.

Trying to be discreet, Rosie lowered her lashes. There had to be three thousand people assembled. Their jewels and silk and smooth faces made her feel a little old and dowdy, or at least most definitely past her first youth.

Her stomach went hollow. While a lot of faces were vaguely familiar, there were many more she did not recognize. When she looked closer, she saw lots of Pierce’s former patients, his staff and partners, other doctors and nurses and members of the medical community.

Doubtlessly, they recognized her, too. Not that they caught her eye or spoke.

Men in dark suits lined the walls. Just as she was wondering how many were police and how many were funeral directors, she spotted Michael in a black suit that was so rumpled, she wondered if he’d slept in it on a stakeout.

Suave, he was not. His broad back was glued to the wall as if he needed its support. Beneath his dark tan, his face was gray. His eyes were closed, with a look of fatigue rather than spiritual conviction. Indeed, he seemed so battered that despite his tough appearance she felt sorry for him.

Her heart hammered as she imagined him poring over blood and gore. Was Pierce’s murder getting to him? Or was it just his life?

Michael was a rougher, less elegant sort than Pierce. Maybe his father’s violent death had hardened him. Maybe growing up poor had done it.

Being a cop couldn’t be an easy job. Maybe he’d never had soft edges. For as long as she’d known him, he’d had a core of steel. Still, even with his eyes closed and his skin ashen, he oozed testosterone.

Quickly, before he opened his eyes and misconstrued her interest, she tiptoed faster and caught up with Yolie. Why hadn’t she headed their little parade up this aisle? She would have sat them down long ago so they wouldn’t call attention to themselves.

Clearly, Yolie wanted to flaunt her presence at Pierce’s funeral, as well as his sons’. Why was it so important to her that everybody see her grieve? Was the killer here, too, driven by his own agenda?

When Yolie saw Kylie Rae Carver, Pierce’s second ex-wife, sitting all by herself, she shot her former rival a Texas-size smile and then slid in beside her.

Rosie jerked her by the sash.

Normally, the two ex-wives avoided each other like they would a contagion. When Yolie kept sliding toward Kylie, the black satin ribbons came undone and flowed over the pew.

Kylie, who lived in their neighborhood and walked her poodle in their park, couldn’t be more than forty-one. She was razor-wire thin and looked years older than she was. Pierce had always said such unkind things about her, too.

My worst wife, and that’s saying something. Drug addict. Alcoholic. Poodle nut. Nymphomaniac. And now a lez.

Whether she was any of those things was anybody’s guess. Rosie had always been dying of curiosity to know. Kylie never drank in public. But as Pierce had pointed out, she did have those fleshless legs that alcoholics sometimes have.

Once, Rosie had asked Yolie if there was such a thing as a lesbian nymphomaniac.

Yolie had laughed. “In his wet dreams.”

“But Pierce always said Kylie hit on him even after their divorce, and told me that if I was smart, I’d keep my distance from her, too.”

“Liar liar, pants on fire. He just didn’t want you two talking. The bastard’s secretive. Not that she’s ever said more than boo about him to me. When forced to see each other, we always stick to safe subjects like our poodles’ latest neuroses or bowel habits. The truth is, I’d give anything to talk to her and to Vanessa, especially Vanessa—since I sort of ended up dealing with Darius, who wasn’t the easiest kid.”

Vanessa had been Pierce’s first wife, as well as Darius’s mother. The marriage had ended when she’d hanged herself in their newly decorated shower one gorgeous fall morning right after she’d driven Darius to private elementary school. She’d put the trash out, said hi to her neighbor and tidied up the house. Then she’d taken that final shower.

“Not that I really need to talk to Vanessa. The facts speak for themselves. Wife number one kills herself. Kylie drinks and gave up men for good, and me, wife number three, gets fatter than a house. Maybe you never made it down the altar with him, sweetie, but he did a number on you, too. You hyperventilate every time you gain an ounce, and I see the way you’re always looking scared when you get around a mirror, like you’re afraid to look. And that lifting the chin thing you do lately…not to mention the boob job you let him talk you into. What does that say about him? About us?”

As if Rosie had wanted to analyze that.

Kylie smiled coolly at Rosie without speaking, and then stared ahead in the direction of the urn, her tired face going blank again as she studied it. She did, however, resume singing, “Dancing With My Father in the Fields of Grace.”

Naturally, Rosie couldn’t help noting that Kylie’s diamonds were even bigger than Yolie’s or that real diamonds sparkled better than her own fake stones. Had Pierce bought every woman he’d ever known serious jewelry but her?

Arranging her plump, bejeweled hands in her lap so that every ostentatious diamond blazed to full effect, Yolie was overcome with sniffles every time she looked at the urn. While everybody else sang, her wet, glazed eyes grew fixed on that object. She sobbed and then dabbed dramatically at her running mascara, diamonds flashing, of course. Kylie’s face grew stonier with every sniffle.

Was Yolie for real? For all her usual show of bravado, did she still care about Pierce? Was that why she’d never married again? Why she’d never really had a serious relationship with a man unless you counted the handsome young hunks, like Xavier, who had paraded through her bedroom’s revolving doors? Not to mention Vicenzo, whom she’d met in Italy. Or was she faking this torrential flood for the sake of appearances?

Rosie stared at the urn, hoping Yolie’s deluge would inspire at least one tiny tear for Pierce.

Dry-eyed, she watched as the preacher stood up and lamented the violent death. Anecdotes about Pierce’s life—his adult life—were recited in glowing detail. Friends got up and spoke. Not that their eulogies captured the Pierce Rosie had known.

Was it just her? Or had Pierce concealed his real self from everybody else, too?

Fortunately, the service moved right along. Soon everybody was singing “Amazing Grace” and then saying the Twenty-third Psalm in unison. When the impersonal service was over and people were starting to get up, Rosie suddenly felt compelled to do something, anything, to make Pierce seem real and alive to everybody.

Hardly realizing her intention, she lifted her right hand and made the Hook ‘em Horns sign. Shakily, she began singing “The Eyes of Texas,” and for the first time was struck by its gruesome lyrics.

Everybody turned and gaped. Mirabella Camrett stared at her as if she’d gone crazy. Then, remembering what a huge University of Texas fan Pierce had been, individuals joined in. Soon the entire congregation, even Mirabella, were flashing the Hook ‘em Horns signal as their singing grew louder and louder.

“‘The eyes of Texas are upon you/all the livelong day…’”

When the University’s most sacred song was over, a shocked hush fell over the chapel. Except for Rosie, who was responsible for the spontaneous outburst, there wasn’t a dry eye.

Why couldn’t she cry?

Would everybody think it was because she was glad he was dead? Why was she always worrying about what other people thought?

Well-dressed women swept past her, commenting on how lovely the service had been. When Ticia Morgan passed her, she averted her gaze and quickened her pace. Several of Pierce’s staff, who’d worked with Rosie, rushed by without speaking, as well.

“Oh, my God. Yolie…they don’t think—”

“Don’t make me say I told you so.”

An hour later, at Pierce’s house, the crowd had thinned to a more manageable number. There were two gatherings after the funeral service—one in the church parlor for his patients and the general medical community, and one at his home for the family.

As the mother of his son and the stepmother who’d raised his other son, Yolie decided she was family—at least for today. Rosie knew she shouldn’t tag along, but she felt drawn to the scene of the murder and couldn’t stop herself. If the police suspected her, she had to learn all she could.

When Yolie and Rosie entered the grand salon, the first thing she saw were the shoes. Pierce would have had a fit. Everybody was wearing shoes on his spotless carpets, even the widow and her girls.

Anita, who was slim and dark, struck just the right note in black silk and hose and black pumps as she sat sobbing quietly between her sulky teenage daughters on grandiose, pink leather couches beneath Pierce’s portrait.

Couches I picked out, Rosie thought, trying not to feel resentful even as she avoided looking up at the painting she’d done of Pierce when they’d first met and she’d been in love.

Mother and daughters had the huge, teased hairdos and heavy makeup of Latin American movie stars. Even though Rosie felt an unpleasant jolt at the sight of her younger, showier replacement and her truly enormous diamond rings, she tugged Yolie’s sleeve.

“She looks so sad. Do you think we should go over and say something to her?” Rosie whispered.

“If you had a brain bigger than a peanut, you wouldn’t even be here, much less ask a stupid question like that.”

“Okay. I get it.”

Anita looked up at her, her dark eyes glittering with dislike…and something else.

“No, sweetie, you don’t,” Yolie said. “That’s the problem. She almost looks scared of you.”

Feeling worse by the second, Rosie scuttled quickly toward the dining room, where the table was piled obscenely high with platters of food—salmon, deviled eggs, fruit, fried chicken, ham, chips and dips. Even though she’d skipped breakfast, she had no appetite. She wanted one thing—to see the bedrooms upstairs.

Rosie left Yolie and the boys loading their plates, and stealthily headed for the staircase, which she ascended quickly. Trying not to look at the yellow tape that sealed off the master bedroom at the end of the hall, she marched up to the door of Pierce’s guest bedroom. This door was also shut, but the knob turned easily. She looked around the hall and, when she saw no one, slipped inside quickly, shutting the door behind her.

Walking briskly toward the bed, she knelt and lifted the dust ruffle so that she could peer under it. Her heart thudded, but all she saw were a few errant dust bunnies; no sexy bits of black lace.

Hopefully, Pierce had found them and hidden them from Anita before his death. Rosie got up and walked around the queen-size bed, kneeling several more times on the wild chance they were still there.

Nothing.

She stood up slowly. Then she raced out into the hall.

She was about to go downstairs again when she turned and stared at the yellow tape. Would it be so terrible if she went inside? She looked around, and when she saw no one, slipped under the yellow police tape forbidding entrance. Careful to make no sound, she went inside and shut the door.

The drapes of the master bedroom were partially drawn. The room was dark. Aware of an antiseptic smell, she shrank against the door. When her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, she shivered at the sight of dark stains and spatter on the light-colored carpet and ceiling.

Pierce had died here. Even in this taped-off room of death, why couldn’t she get that he was really gone?

Other than the bloodstains, the room with its purple bedcovers was exactly as she remembered when her designer had finished with it a year ago. Glancing furtively over her shoulder to reassure herself she was alone, she went toward the dark spots and stared down at them.

Pierce…At last she felt a warm wetness trickling down her cheeks. He was gone; really gone. She’d seen people die—many people, but not like this. Never like this. And she’d sent him into this room.

She wanted to scream that this couldn’t have happened, that this couldn’t be his dried blood. He couldn’t have been here, so vital one minute, and then just be gone. Not when he’d consumed so much of her heart and soul for so long. Not when he’d begged her to come back.

Death.

People died. She was a nurse. She knew that. But she was feeling mystical and sad, not professional. Everybody she knew, everybody she loved, would die, and who knew when or how?

She couldn’t take it in. She felt some huge disconnect with a universe and a God that could let things like this happen just when new possibilities had presented themselves. One minute you were rocking along, and then wham—a rampaging elephant stepped on you. Even vibrant, little Alexis could be gone in a heartbeat.

Rosie turned away from the blood stains, feeling exhausted and jittery.

She wanted to run out, to escape this horror, but, oh, God, she needed to think about this, too.

Cold beads of sweat trickled down her back. Instantly, fear snapped her out of her muddle. She had to get out of here before someone found her.

She was walking rapidly toward the door when the curtains were yanked open. “Looking for something, Ms. Castle?” Michael’s hard, all-too-familiar voice called.

She jumped, caught in a brilliant streamer of sunlight.

“An intimate item of apparel? Black lace, I believe? C-cup…? Matching thong panties?”

“Michael!”

When he stepped out of the shadows, she sprang toward the door.

“I—I saw you at the service,” she whispered. Her heart pounded so loudly she was sure he could hear it.

“Ditto.” His dark face was grim. “There’s a theory that killers like to return to the scene of the crime. I wondered who’d get curious and have to come up here.”

She notched her chin higher. “I’m not a killer.”

“What were you looking for then?”

“Nothing.” She dusted her hands together.