Carlene Thompson - Don

"You got the business sense." Natalie opened the closet door. "And the fashion sense. Help me pick out an outfit."

Tamara's wardrobe bore little resemblance to Lily's. All her summer clothes were muted tones, her winter in gray, black, or navy blue. "My sister didn't own one piece of red clothing," Lily said, shaking her head slowly. "Mom's influence. She wanted Tam and me to look like little nuns. Tam, as always, wanted to please. I, as always, rebelled."

"You each wore what was right for your personality."

Lily thumped down on the bed. "Damn it, Natalie, will you stop sounding so reasonable and placid? I'm not going to fly into a million pieces if you show a little emotion. I am going to jump up and down and scream if you don't."

Natalie turned away from the closet. "I'm sorry if I'm annoying you. I don't know how to act. I don't want to do anything to make things worse for you."

"You couldn't possibly make things worse except by acting like some impassive woman I don't know. I need my good old emotional, expressive Natalie right now."

"Okay. I'll be emotional and expressive. I won't be old."

Lily grinned. "That's more like it." She screwed up her face. "How about that powder-blue suit by your right hand? I know it doesn't really matter because the casket will be closed given the state of her face, but she liked that suit. We'll put Mom's pearls with it."

Natalie hesitated. "The suit is perfect, but the pearls? They were a birthday present from your father and they're worth a fortune."

"I took Mom's diamond earrings. The pearls are Tam's."

"Your mother wanted one of you to wear the pearls. She wouldn't have liked for them to be buried forever."

"Do you have a direct line to the afterlife?" Lily asked half humorously. "First you know Tam wants me to be kind to Warren. Now you know Mom wants me to have Tam's pearls. Did you stay up all night communing with the dead?"

"Lily!" Warren said severely from the doorway. "Have a little respect for your sister. This is no time for jokes."

"It's exactly the time for jokes," Lily snapped. "If we don't laugh, we'll cry." She paused. "At least some of us will."

Warren 's eyes narrowed. "And what does that mean?"

"Nothing," Natalie intervened. "Could you call the florist and tell her we'll be there soon? I don't suppose you want to go with us, do you?"

"No. I don't know anything about flowers. I don't even like them. I think we should ask for donations to the suicide hotline in lieu of flowers."

"Tam loved flowers and she didn't give a damn about the suicide hotline," Lily fired back.

Warren looked incensed. "There you go, giving all the orders as usual. You see, Natalie, this is why I'm not getting involved in the funeral arrangements." He turned and stalked downstairs.

"Lily, Tamara organized the suicide hotline," Natalie said.

"She only organized it to please Warren. Writing grant applications, making public pleas for donations, was pure misery for her. Besides, I want her to have flowers," Lily fumed. " Warren just wants to stick her in the ground as quickly and cheaply as possible." Good lord, Natalie thought. Were all funerals so fraught with familial antagonism?

"Okay, you can fill the funeral home to the roof with flowers, but please try to get along with Warren for the next few days."

"No. I hate him."

"Lily, you sound like a petulant five-year-old."

Lily ignored her and Natalie could have been angry with her if she hadn't known the petulance was simply a manifestation of unbearable grief. While Lily seethed on the bed, Natalie finished assembling clothing for Tamara, insisting that the pearls be excluded. She placed everything in a shopping bag.

Lily took one last look around the room. Her gaze lingered on a silver-framed wedding picture of Tamara and Warren. In the photo Tamara looked young, lovely, and unsure of herself. Warren smirked-impeccably handsome and self-satisfied. "It was a beautiful wedding," she said softly. "Tam thought Warren was so wonderful then."

"She thought Warren was wonderful until the day she died," Natalie said softly. "She was happy, Lily. Warren did not make her miserable."

"I guess you're right. I don't like him and I don't trust him, but Tam loved him. I just hope he was worth her love."

The phone rang once. Warren must have picked it up. "We're ready to go," Natalie said. "They'll be expecting us at the florist's."

She descended the stairs first. The lush carpet muffled her footsteps. When she reached the bottom, she saw Warren sitting in an armchair with the phone receiver in his hand. His head was slightly lowered, his face turned away from the stairs. "I can't. Not today. Not for several days," he said. Something in his tone made Natalie freeze. After a brief pause he went on. "I don't want you to come to the funeral. You weren't friends with Tamara. It might look suspicious." Silence. "I need to see you, too, but-" Silence again, then a sigh. "All right. Tonight." He glanced up and saw Natalie. A burgundy stain bloomed across his face. "I must go now," he said formally. "Thank you for your condolences."

After he hung up, Natalie glanced behind her. Lily stood there, rigid, her hazel eyes simmering with hatred.

Nick Meredith swiveled his desk chair around and looked out the office window. Another beautiful, crystal-clear day in Port Ariel, where the air was pure, the scenery spectacular, the crime rate low. He'd spent his childhood in a tough Bronx neighborhood where learning how to fight was essential for survival. When he was twenty, his younger brother had been stabbed to death on a street corner. Fifteen years later his wife Meagan had been shot to death in a liquor store. So he'd left New York City and brought his little girl to a place that was safe, a place where murder was nearly unheard of…

Until now.

Not all the toxicology reports on Tamara Hunt had come back yet, but Nick didn't really consider them important. Someone dragging a razor-sharp, smooth-bladed knife across her slender neck had killed Tamara Peyton Hunt. According to the preliminary M.E. report, she bore a three-inch single incised wound at the base of her neck, directed backward, medially and downward. The carotid artery and external and internal jugular veins had been severed. Bruising appeared around the throat, indicating that the victim had been grabbed from behind and held while the fatal wound was administered. The state of rigor placed the time of death between eight and ten p.m. the previous evening. The pattern of lividity showed that the body had not been moved. There were no signs of sexual assault and no skin had been retrieved from beneath the victim's fingernails. Human hair not belonging to the victim had not been recovered, although ca nine hair was found on the hands and around the neck.

And, finally, Tamara Peyton Hunt had been eight weeks pregnant.

Nick remembered when his wife Meagan had told him she was expecting. She'd been finishing her master's degree in English. He'd just made detective second grade. He'd been at work when she called and said abruptly, "Nick, you're going to be a father," then hung up. He'd immediately called home, but there had been no answer. When he arrived back at the apartment for dinner, Meagan was furiously stirring a pot of spaghetti sauce. She'd looked at him almost fearfully with her big brown eyes. Then she saw the yellow roses and the bottle of sparkling cider topped by a bow he carried, and she'd burst into happy tears.

He hadn't told her how much he wanted a child because he knew becoming a college professor was so important to her. He didn't want her to feel pressured to interrupt her education. He later learned she hadn't talked about how much she wanted a child because he was the eldest of seven children. She thought he was sick of kids and she didn't want him to feel pressured. But the day Paige was born was the happiest of their marriage.