Page 105 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

“Your phone recor

ds,” he said, hoping to jog her memory, but she stared at him blankly and he wondered if she was stupid, confused, or acting. What better way to avoid a murder rap than to plead temporary insanity? With her history, the insanity defense was a given.

“What about my phone records?”

“They prove that you called your husband that night, talked for about seven minutes, then went to visit him.”

“No. Wait a minute. They prove someone used my phone—right, my phone? Not my cell?—and then someone visited him after that time. Not necessarily me.”

“I have an eyewitness who saw your car there.”

She stared at him hard. “Did you come here to arrest me?” she asked suddenly, and he noticed that she looked pale and drawn. Sick.

“No. I just wanted to talk to you.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. Until I speak with my lawyer. Or have him present. I could call him if you’d like to wait.”

“That would work.”

She opened the door and he followed her inside to the kitchen. “Could I get you some coffee . . . or . . .” She glanced at the counter, where a half-full bottle of gin, a smaller flask of vermouth and a jar of olives were gathered around two stemmed glasses. A drink had been poured, and, from the looks of the empty toothpick resting against the side of the glass, half consumed. “I’m expecting company,” she explained and frowned at the open back door. She pulled the door shut. “If you’d like a martini . . .”

“I’ll pass.”

“I figured.” She managed what was the ghost of a smile, then reached for the telephone with one hand and picked up a business card she’d laid on the windowsill over the sink. Growling and snorting his disgust, the dog settled in beneath the table, head resting on his paws, distrusting gaze ever vigilant, never once leaving Reed.

Caitlyn punched a series of numbers, then stood on the other side of a bank of cupboards, fingers tapping nervously on the counter as she waited. She glanced at Reed and shook her head, then said into the phone, “This is Caitlyn Bandeaux. I’m a client of Mr. Wilder’s. Would you please page him and have him return my call? I’m at home.” She added her phone number and hung up. Looking at Reed, she confided, “His office is closed for the day. I don’t know when he’ll phone. So let me answer your one question. If you’re asking me about calling Josh on the night of his death, I don’t remember it. I already told you everything I do recall about that night.”

“Did you visit your mother at the hospital last night?”

“No, I—” She stopped. Her eyebrows knitted in confusion and color washed up her wan face. “Wait a minute. Are you asking me if I visited my mother in the hospital and then killed her? My God, that’s what you’re getting at, aren’t you?” She threw up her hands and sighed, looked as if she was fighting tears. Of anger? Regret? “Listen, Detective, I really think you’d better go. If you’re going to arrest me, just do it and charge me and get it over with, okay? Otherwise, please leave until I can get hold of my lawyer.” She was firm, her skin stretched tight across her face, her small fists clenched, but beneath her show of bravado, he sensed something else, something akin to desperation. This woman was definitely at the end of her rapidly unraveling rope.

From beneath the table her little dog growled.

“Oscar, hush!”

He knew when he’d pushed it as far as it could be pushed. For the moment it was game over. “I’ll be in touch,” he said as he walked to the front door and swung it open.

“I don’t doubt it, Detective.”

Reed stepped onto the porch, but turned to face her. Across the threshold she was standing ramrod stiff, her shoulders square, her gaze level. Hard again. He had the feeling he was in the company of a great actress; one who could not only make him question his own convictions, but one who would be able to play a jury any way she liked.

“I only wish I could say I was looking forward to it.” She slammed the door in his face.

Again.

But it was the last time.

It wouldn’t happen again.

He’d make certain of it.

Twenty-Six

Adam’s grandmother had always told him there was more than one way to skin a cat. He’d thought it an odd analogy for a woman who at any given time kept five or six strays on the back porch and even allowed them to stay in the kitchen around the stove in the cold Midwest winters. Nonetheless, with her cat-skinning example, she’d taught him to look at different ways to solve a problem.

Which he was now doing in his rented rooms, sitting at his computer, searching through the Internet for any mention of the Montgomery family of Savannah. But he’d been at it for hours, he’d finished a pot of coffee and the information on the screen was starting to blur. He was getting nowhere. Fast.

Sooner or later the police would figure out that Rebecca was missing.

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