The Night Before

by Lisa Jackson

  “If you say so.”

  “They’re great kids,” she repeated.

  “No argument here,” he said, hoping her motherly feathers would soon be unruffled. They were going to be spending a lot of time cooped up in the car together today, so it would be best not to start out irritating each other. Reed wanted to double-check a few alibis and witness reports for the night of Josh Bandeaux’s death. First on the agenda was Stanley Hubert, Bandeaux’s neighbor who reported spying a white car in the driveway. Next he hoped to catch Naomi Crisman, Josh’s elusive girlfriend, and finally he planned on visiting Oak Hill to talk to a few members of the Montgomery clan, see what they had to say about the man Caitlyn had married.

  It all could prove interesting.

  “You’ve totally tossed out the idea that Bandeaux offed himself?” Morrisette asked, scavenging in her bag until she found a mutilated pack of gum.

  “Pretty much.”

  “So whoever killed him just did a half-assed job of covering their tracks?”

  “That’s the way it looks,” Reed said, easing onto the narrow street where Bandeaux’s house stood. He pulled into a spot near the curb and cut the engine. “But then, looks can be deceiving.” As Morrisette plopped the gum into her mouth, he climbed out of the car and made his way up Stanley Hubert’s walk. She was only half a step behind.

  He’d barely punched the doorbell when there was a gruff bark from inside and the door swung wide.

  “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?”

  “The one he was still married to, Caitlyn Montgomery.”

  “Oh, her.” Naomi made an impatient sound. “The nutcase.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because she’s crazy. It’s a matter of record. Come on, you do know that.” When neither one of them responded, she rolled her eyes. “Check the local hospitals. According to Josh, she was in and out of mental hospitals or psych wards or something. She’s tried to commit suicide at least once, maybe more, and every time she seemed to get better, you know, like mentally—if you really can, I don’t know about that—she ended up regressing again. She’s a lost cause. Once a fruitcake, always a fruitcake.”

  “How about her relationship with the deceased?”

  “ ‘The decease?’ Oh, for crying out loud, is this some kind of cheesy courtroom drama? ‘The deceased.’ Josh would love that.”For a second her attitude faded and sadness stole over her features, as if she actually had cared for Bandeaux. “Their relationship wasn’t great, okay? He was divorcing her and suing her for their kid’s wrongful death, so how good do you think it was?” She rolled her eyes as if she were speaking with morons.

  Reed tried not to get angry, but he felt Sylvie’s temper rising with each of Naomi’s sarcastic comments. He was content to let Ms. Crisman rant. Sometimes suspects said more in their commentary than they did when actually answering a question.

  “Was he going to marry you?” Reed asked.

  “Of course! Why do you think she was so upset?”

  “She was still in love with him?”

  “Oh, who knows with her? Probably. Ask her.” For the first time Naomi cracked the barest hint of a smile. “Lots of women were in love with him.” Her gaze slid to Morrisette, and Reed felt his partner begin to seethe.

  “Where were you on the night he died?” Morrisette asked calmly as she popped her gum.

  “I’ve already answered this. I was visiting friends on the island.”

  “St. Simons Island?”

  “Yes. They have a place on the water down there. I had a little too much to drink and didn’t want to risk the drive home, so I spent the night in their guest room.”

  “And you can verify that you were there all night?”

  “God, yes! I thought I already explained what I was doing. I was staying with Chris and Frannie Heffinger. I have their phone number if you need it.” Her eyes narrowed. “Do I, like, need a lawyer or something? Am I a suspect?”

  “We’re just working things out”.

  “Then arrest Caitlyn, okay? We all know she did it. She’s still got keys to the place, for God’s sake and Josh was divorcing her. I already told you that she is totally mental. Really, this isn’t rocket science.”

  Morrisette just about came out of her chair. “What would you know about rocket science?”

  “Are we finished? I really do have an appointment. And just so you know, I’m moving. This place makes me edgy. Just thinking about Josh being . . . slaughtered over there—” She hitched her head toward the den and nervously scratched at her neck. “It’s too much for me.”

  “So you don’t think he committed suicide?” Reed asked again though he’d already made that call himself. Bandeaux had been murdered.

  “Josh? Are you kidding? He had too much to live for. Too much money to make, too much booze to drink and too many women to sleep with.” She must’ve seen Morrisette stiffen because Naomi looked straight at her as she said, “ ‘For the record,’ I know Josh . . . has had a few indiscretions in the past year or so. It’s not as if he really cheated on me. We were broken up at the time.” She lifted a slim shoulder. “That was going to end, once we were married.”

  “Was it?” Morrisette asked. “How do you know?”

  “Because he promised me. He was nuts about me.”

  “Or just plain nuts,” Morrisette said under her breath. Reed shot her a warning glare.

  “Look, I really have to go. Is there anything else?”

  “How about the names of the women he slept with, if you know them.”

  “I don’t. They were all just cheap one-night stands.”

  Morrisette wasn’t convinced. “Well, think real hard, would you? Sometimes a woman scorned is the best suspect.”

  “Then you’ve got your killer, don’t you? No one could be any more scorned than Caitlyn. It’s pathetic really. Kind of sad.”

  “You really think she was capable of killing Josh?” Reed asked.

  “I don’t know what she’s capable of. But I think she’s just off enough that she might, okay? And don’t ask me about proof, cuz I don’t have any, but she’s . . . freaky.”

  Naomi adjusted her purse strap as Reed stood and pocketed his notes. “If you think of anything else”—he handed Naomi his business card—“call me.”

  With a don’t-hold-your-breath smile, she dropped the card into her purse.

  Morrisette snapped off her recorder and they all walked outside. The afternoon was even hotter than before. Steamy. The air so thick it clung to your skin. Reed was already sweating as he climbed behind the wheel. Naomi took the time to lock the house, then slid behind the wheel of her Jag. She flipped a pair of sunglasses over her eyes, started the sleek car, and took off in a roar, barely braking as she entered the street. Her tires actually chirped at the corner and she had to be ten miles over the speed limit within a block.

  “Arrogant bitch.” Morrisette stared after the rapidly fleeing car. “And don’t even say it, okay? I get one free swear word a day and this is it. What’s she doing? Forty? Fifty in a twenty-five? It’s almost as if she’s begging for us to pull her over, a real in-your-lousy-cop-face attitude.”

  “That’s something coming from you, Andretti.”

  Reed put the cruiser into gear and pulled away from the shady curb.

  “I’m not just talkin’ about her driving. It was her entire holier-than-thou, or at least smarter-than-thou attitude. It sucked.”

  “That it did,” Reed admitted as he headed out of town.

  “I’d love to bring her down a notch or two.”

  “Wouldn’t we all, but before that you’d better level with me about Bandeaux. If you were involved with him, I need to know it and toss you off this case. We can’t taint it. Can’t give a defense attorney any reason to throw this case out.”

  She reached into her bag and pulled out a pack of Marlboro Lights. “Don’t worry about it,” she said, popping her gum as she found her lighter. “I told you I wasn’t involved with him, not personally.”

  “And if I find out differently?”

  “You won’t.”

  “I hope you’re not lying to me,” he said as he cut across town. “I assume you’re too good a cop for that.”

  “You assume right.”

  “I’d hate to have to tell the D.A. that we fucked up because one of the detectives on the case was involved with the deceased.”

  “Just drive,” she muttered, lighting up and pushing her sunglasses over her eyes in one motion. “And quit hassling me. We’ll both live a lot longer.”

  Caitlyn slid her car into the garage and told herself she could not, could not fall for her shrink. That was crazy. Nuts! Exactly the reasons she’d gone to him to begin with. She walked into the house and greeted Oscar, stooping down to pet him for a second before checking her
messages and deleting them one by one. Not a peep from Kelly.

  “The suddenly silent twin,” she muttered to herself as she started for the stairs and stopped in the foyer. Something felt wrong . . . a little off. A scent. Someone’s perfume?

  Or was she imagining it?

  On edge and telling herself that she was losing her grip, she walked up the stairs and into the den. Everything was as it should be . . . or was it? She always pushed her computer mouse to the side of her monitor and today it was in front, a few inches out of place.

  Or had she, distracted these past few days, left it where it was?

  “Odd,” she whispered and clicked on her e-mail.

  At last a message from Kelly.

  Caitlyn sat in the desk chair and opened the letter. It was short.

  Sorry I haven’t reached you. Been out of town. Work, work, work! Wish I could say I was sorry about Josh, but really, Caitie-Did, we both know he was a prick. Good riddancé. Hope this doesn’t offend. xoxo, Kelly.

  That was it. The entire message. Offend? Since when did Kelly worry about offending anyone? Caitlyn clicked off the computer, set the mouse back in its place and told herself that she was just tired; she’d forgotten where she’d put the damned mouse after the last time she used the computer.

  No one had been in her house.

  She was almost certain of it.

  Almost.

  Sixteen

  “Caitlyn! Caitlyn Bandeaux!”

  Kelly inwardly cringed as she handed the girl behind the counter two bucks and accepted her cup off iced coffee. “Keep the change.” Maybe the woman who had confused her with Caitlyn, whoever she was, would realize her mistake and leave her be.

  No such luck.

  “Remember me?”

  Kelly glanced over her shoulder. The answer was a definite no. “I’m sorry.”

  “Nikki Gillette.” The woman, around thirty with wild strawberry-blond hair, sharp features, and confidence oozing from her, extended her hand. “With the Savannah Sentinel. I called you once, remember? Asked for an exclusive. I’d really love to talk to you.”