Page 39 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

“What about phone messages? E-mail?”

“None and deleted.”

“Mail?”

“Still being sorted, along with the garbage. So far the crime scene team hasn’t come up with much. Except that a button was found on the floor near the desk. It looks like it came from Bandeaux’s dress shirt.”

“So it fell off?”

“Nope. Was cut. The thread was clipped neatly, not frayed, nor unraveled. Someone deliberately cut the button off that night. No way would Josh have worn a shirt without a button.”

“Why would someone do that intentionally?”

“Maybe they were trying to hit a vein and missed.”

“Or maybe not,” Reed said aloud, not liking the turn of his thoughts. “Maybe whoever did it was making a point.”

“Which was . . . what? ‘Hey, Josh, you’d look better in cuff links’?”

“No—more like, ‘Hey, Josh, look what I can do to you.’ ” Reed tried to imagine the scene of the crime and his thoughts turned dark as he imagined Bandeaux at his desk with a killer in the room, the victim paralyzed, the wineglasses—two of them—the music that had been playing, the open doors to the verandah. The scene had somehow been intimate. “I think it might have been that the murderer was adding a little bit of terror to the scene. Bandeaux was immobilized, couldn’t move. So why not show him how sharp the weapon was? Why not take the time to scare him to death?”

Ten

The funeral was excruciating.

Caitlyn felt th

e weight of dozens of curious gazes, not only in the church, but also here in the graveyard as a preacher finished the service with a final prayer and sunlight streamed from between the clouds. The mourners, primarily dressed in black, had scattered among existing graves. Expressions grim, eyes downcast, they’d bent their heads to pray, all the while whispering among themselves.

It had been three days since Josh’s body had been discovered, and if anything, the media interest in Josh Bandeaux’s death had been intensified. Whether they were admitting it or not, the police seemed to think that Josh had been murdered; the talk of suicide had muted, though it was still a consideration, or so she thought.

Caitlyn noticed members of the press in attendance, and standing slightly apart from the rest of the crowd, Detective Pierce Reed was leaning against the bole of an ancient oak tree, dark glasses hiding his eyes, though, Caitlyn guessed, he was surveying the people who came to pay their respects to her husband. Or maybe he was watching her reaction.

The entire ceremony in the church had seemed surreal. The organ music, the prayers, the candles and eulogy seemed as out of sync as the funeral procession that had snaked through the city streets to this remote cemetery with its ancient gravestones, tombs and moss-draped trees.

Other than his two ex-wives, Josh had no family of his own. A single, spoiled child who had come to his parents late in life, he had no siblings and his mother had died not long after her husband nearly ten years earlier. Caitlyn had never met one member of Josh’s family. Other than his first wife, Maude, and stepson Gil, both of whom were in attendance. As was Naomi Crisman, dressed in elegant black. But there was not an uncle, aunt or cousin to be seen; nor had she ever heard of any. Caitlyn, as his wife, had asked that his body be released. He had no other familial ties.

Caitlyn took in those who’d shown up.

She slid a glance in Josh’s first wife’s direction. Maude was tall and elegant in her designer suit. She hid behind wraparound sunglasses and a broad-brimmed hat. Contrarily, her son looked as if he’d just rolled out of bed after a hard night of rock music and drugs. He wore jeans, an Ozzy Osbourne T-shirt and an attitude that suggested, “bite me.” His hair was pushed out of his eyes, but he hadn’t bothered to shave, and his mouth was pulled into a tight I-would-rather-be-anywhere-else-on-earth scowl. Where Maude was reed-slender, Gil was already running to fat, his stomach rolling over the top of his jeans.

A few feet from Gil, Naomi Crisman kept to herself. She was Josh’s most recent love interest, another woman who’d hoped to become the next Mrs. Bandeaux, but she pointedly avoided everyone’s gaze by averting her eyes and staring at the ground. Barely twenty-five, Naomi was suitably subdued in a simple black sheath. Her long streaked hair had been loosely piled up on her head and held with what appeared to be enamel chopsticks. She sighed often, whether from sadness or boredom was anyone’s guess.

Standing a few feet away, close enough to be considered part of the mourners, but distanced so as to draw attention to the fact that they didn’t quite belong, were the Biscaynes. Sugar, Dickie Ray and Cricket. All dressed in their Sunday best, standing a little apart from the crowd, and yet blending in. For as much as the Montgomerys fought the truth, the evidence of Benedict’s betrayal—the genetic stamp—was evident in the faces of his illegitimate grandchildren. Their hair might have been lighter, thanks to their grandmother’s natural blond shade, but the eyes were round, their noses straight and strong, their cheekbones high, all characteristics of Benedict Montgomery.

Don’t discount your own father, for God’s sake.

It’s possible that one or more of them are not only your cousins but half-sisters or brother.

Caitlyn’s stomach turned, but she remembered playing hide-and-seek with Griffin in the carriage house and hearing the bedsprings of an old iron four-poster creak and groan in the attic above. Later, still hidden in the shadows of the tractor, she’d seen two people sneak down the back stairs. Enough moonlight had filtered through the windows for her to recognize her father, Cameron, and a tousled-haired woman. They’d paused at the foot of the steps and the woman had curled her sinuous body into him and kissed him long and hard, their mouths locking, his hand cupping her buttocks beneath the short summer dress with its button front.

“Later,” he’d growled.

“Don’t forget.” Her voice was deep, husky, and as she’d turned to light a cigarette, the match flaring enough that Caitlyn could see her features, Caitlyn had recognized Copper Biscayne. She’d gasped and a bat had swooped out of the carriage door as Copper had searched the dark interior.

“Someone’s here,” she’d whispered, but Caitlyn’s father had chuckled. “It’s just the bats. You’re jumpy. Go on. Git. Before somebody does come along.” He’d patted her on her rump and she’d hurried off, her high heels crunching on the gravel path that lead to a side shed and equipment access road.

Cameron had looked over his shoulder, as if assuring himself that no one was hiding inside. Caitlyn had held her breath. Griffin stared at her with round, frightened eyes, and then her father had slipped through the open door, closed it behind him and latched it shut.

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