Page 61 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

“I saw you pull up,” a stiff-backed man admitted as they flashed their badges. A graying bulldog stood bristling at his side.

“We’re looking for Stanley Hubert.”

“You found him. Come in, come in.” Hubert was probably in his late seventies or early eighties, wore thick glasses, a panama hat and seersucker suit. He stepped out of the way, and the grumpy dog with a grizzled muzzle let out a raspy growl. “Hush, General,” Hubert commanded, then poked at the dog with the tip of his cane. “Ignore him,” he said to the officers. “He’s just upset that you ruined his nap. Come on out to the back porch. We can talk there.”

Hubert whistled to the dog. Then, using his cane, he headed toward the back of the house. Through a door scratched to the point of losing its stain, they walked outside to a verandah completely encircled by a six-foot brick wall. Birdhouses were suspended from the limbs of a giant oak tree planted in one corner of the enclosed yard while ivy climbed tenaciously up the uneven brick and mortar of the fence. “Sit,” Hubert suggested and they all took seats around a glass-topped table. A few drops of rain still lingered on the smooth top. “What can I do for you?”

Reed said, “We just want to double-check some facts about last Friday night.”

Hubert was only too glad to comply. His story hadn’t changed an iota. Around eleven-thirty, just after watching the local news, he’d walked outside with the dog. He’d seen a white car, one that seemed identical to the Lexus Caitlyn Bandeaux drove. He’d recognized the make because Caitlyn had been driving the same car before she’d moved out of the house next door a few years back. He hadn’t actually seen the driver as he’d smoked his cigar and waited for his dog to “do his business” that night, but Hubert was ready to testify that the car was identical, if not the very car owned by Josh Bandeaux’s estranged wife.

“I’d hate to take the stand against her,” he admitted, fishing inside his jacket for a cigar. “I like that woman. She’s . . . troubled, I’d guess you’d say, but a decent enough person. Always managed to wave and smile at me when she lived next door and oh, did she love that little girl. A shame about Jamie.” Hubert let out a sigh and some of the starch seemed to fade from his muscles. “That child was the glue that held that marriage together and even she wasn’t enough in the end.” He adjusted the brim of his hat against the sun. “I don’t understand it, you know. I was married for forty years before the Good Lord took my Aggie. I would’ve given my right arm and probably my left for a few more years with her and today . . . most marriages are thrown away before they’ve even begun. A shame, that’s what it is, a damned shame.” He snipped off the end of his cigar and scowled. From the corner of his eye Reed caught Morrisette, four times divorced, tensing.

“Did you ever talk to Mr. Bandeaux?” she asked, masking her irritation. “Did he seem depressed?”

Hubert scoffed. “You mean, do I think he’d commit suicide? I doubt it. Seriously doubt it. Stranger things have happened, I suppose, but he didn’t seem the type to end it all. Not Josh Bandeaux. He was just too interested in self-preservation. ”

“But you think his wife would kill him?” Morrisette kept pushing.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Well, do you?”

He frowned, studied the end of his unlit cigar as he fumbled in his suit pocket for a slim gold lighter. “I wouldn’t think so, no. But . . . sometimes when a person’s pushed too far, he or she will go to extreme lengths, take matters into their own hands, do things they or anyone else never thought they were capable of. I’ve seen it time and time again. I was career military before I went corporate. I’ve seen some men I’d thought were weak overcome incredible odds and watched other stronger, bigger men crumble into a heap when they were called upon to do something they couldn’t. It’s just damned hard to say.”

They’d learned nothing new, but Reed felt confident in the witness as they finished the interview. Hubert promised to call the police if he thought of anything else that might be relevant; then, with General huffing ahead, he’d escorted both detectives through the front door. Hubert was older, his glasses thick, but he was as sharp as a tack. Reed doubted that Stanley Hubert, retired major and nuclear engineer in private business, made too many mistakes.

“So Caitlyn was here,” Morrisette observed, chewing her gum thoughtfully as they walked next door. “She just doesn’t remember it.”

“Seems like.”

“That’s way too flimsy and way too handy of an excuse if you ask me.”

Reed wanted to argue, but couldn’t. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to get on Morrisette’s bad side again. That happened on a daily basis and was just part of dealing with her. But he couldn’t argue with her logic. Not when it mirrored his own.

They walked through the iron gate leading to Bandeaux’s front door. The yellow crime scene tape had been stripped away and a silver Jaguar was parked in front of the garage.

“Somebody’s home,” Morrisette observed halfway up the walk when the front door banged open.

Naomi Crisman flew down the steps, her hair billowing away from her sculpted, worried face and the skirt of her wraparound dress opening with each long stride. She nearly barreled into Morrisette. “Oh!” She stopped short. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you . . .” Her expression changed instantly when she recognized them as cops. Annoyance drew lines in her forehead and pulled her finely arched brows together. “Detective Reed.” She inclined her head and adjusted the strap of her purse, seeming to pull herself together in the same motion. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Just answer a few more questions.”

“I thought we went through this.”

“Just double-checking some facts.” Reed flashed her a disarming smile as slow-moving traffic eased down the narrow street in front of the house. “Can we talk inside?”

Naomi made a big show out of checking her watch, then sullenly walked into the house without nearly the enthusiasm she’d felt while bolting out the door a couple of minutes earlier. “This place gives me the creeps,” she admitted, leading the detectives to the right of the staircase and into a cozy parlor that was directly across the foyer from Bandeaux’s den.

Statuesque but small boned, Naomi Crisman had a knock-out figure with big breasts, tiny waist and well-rounded hips. Her hair was streaked several colors ranging from dark brown to white-blond and cut in fashionable layers that accented her high cheekbones and large eyes. A body that women would kill for, Reed thought and noted that she showed off the whole package in the s

hocking pink dress and five-inch heeled sandals. Not the usual mourning attire for a grieving girlfriend. It seemed Naomi was already moving on.

Once inside the parlor, she motioned to a couple of Queen Anne chairs for the detectives, chairs that were upholstered in the same sage green print as the drapes. She stood in the archway to the foyer, her arms folded under her breasts, her lips pursed in irritation. “I’ve answered tons of questions already,” she said as Reed took out his notepad and Morrisette switched on her recorder and placed it on the table.

“I know, just a couple more. To clarify things,” Reed said. “Let’s start with your boyfriend’s wife.”

“Which one?”

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