The Devil Died at Midnight

by Cheryl Bradshaw

  “My husband Jeremiah could handle a lot things, but the one thing he couldn’t was the loss of respect from everyone around him after Elias’s crimes were revealed. People didn’t look at us the same. We were judged, labeled bad parents, like we were to blame for Elias turning out the way he did. It was too much for him.”

  Too much?

  Jeremiah still had a family who needed him. Family who didn’t deserve to lose him too. A wife. Other children. How selfish he was to hang himself in his own home for his wife and his children to find. Some people might justify his actions. Not me.

  “It must have been hard.”

  “What would you know about that?”

  Plenty.

  In that moment, the words I never seemed to find, the ones that stuck to my throat, always resisting the opportunity to find their way out, surged from me. “I lost my daughter.”

  “What do you mean you lost her?”

  “I mean she’s dead.”

  Loretta pressed a hand to her chest. “Why? What happened to her?”

  “I happened. I made a mistake, and she lost her life because of it.”

  Even after I’d said it, I couldn’t believe I had. I’d never discussed it before, and here I was revealing my deepest regret to a complete stranger. In an odd way, it was easier. I didn’t know her. She didn’t know me. I didn’t care what she thought. And then I remembered Finch. I’d become so caught up in the conversation, I forgot he was still there next to me, quietly taking it all in.

  I braved my nerves to tilt my head just enough to look at him.

  Now you see me.

  The real me.

  Raw.

  Stripped down.

  Broken.

  Maybe now he’d understand why I lived my life the way I did. Always looking for the next rush, the next fix, the next thing to make the numb feeling inside me go away, to feel alive again, even if it was only for a fleeting moment.

  As we sat there in silence, staring at each other, Loretta cut in. “What mistake did you make with your daughter? How is what happened to her on you?”

  Before I could reply, Loretta’s front door opened and shut, and a male voice said, “Mother?”

  “In here,” Loretta replied.

  A man appearing to be in his mid-forties came around the corner, stopping abruptly when he realized Loretta wasn’t alone. He seemed surprised. I doubted she received many visitors. He removed the outer jacket over his tailored gray suit, folding it in half before placing it over the edge of the sofa. His overall presence was polished and pristine, except for one oddity: a long, trimmed beard.

  “This is my son Ethan,” Loretta said.

  Ethan sat next to his mother. “You didn’t tell me anyone was stopping by today.”

  Loretta gestured at us with a hand. “I’ve only just met them. This is, umm, what did you say your names were again?”

  “Joss and Finch,” I said.

  “Right. Joss and Finch.”

  Ethan snorted. “Finch? Is that a nickname or something? I mean, what kind of name is—”

  “The kind you don’t question,” Finch replied.

  Ethan stopped laughing. “Why are you here?”

  “They were asking questions about Elias,” Loretta said.

  “Why?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Ethan’s forehead wrinkled. “You let complete strangers in the house without even asking what they wanted? You can’t do things like that.”

  “We’re trying to find out about what happened to Alexandra Weston,” I said.

  “What does she have to do with my mother?” Ethan asked.

  “I just had a few questions I thought she could answer, and she did. You have nothing to worry about.”

  “Oh, so you think you can say a few words, smooth things over, and I’m supposed to feel better now? I want you to leave. Now.”

  Finch stood. I remained seated.

  “What do you do for a living, Ethan?” I asked.

  “What business is it of yours?” he replied.

  “My son has a wonderful job,” Loretta beamed. “He owns a veterinary pharmaceutical company in Texas. Keeps him busy. Too busy, if you ask me. He only gets out here to see me a few times each year.”

  I faced Ethan. “Did you know Alexandra Weston was murdered this past week?”

  He shook his head, like there was no need for me to state the obvious. “Uhh, everyone knows.”

  “The police are still working on finding her killer, but they’re getting close.”

  He shrugged. “Good for them.”

  “Apparently there was a man following Chelsea the other day. He ran her off the road.”

  “A man following who?”

  “You know,” Loretta chimed in. “Chelsea.”

  He looked at his mother like he’d do just about anything to keep her from talking. “Right. Chelsea.”

  “So you know she’s your niece then?”

  He laughed. “She’s not my niece. I don’t even know her.”

  “You may not, but it’s still true.”

  “Yeah, well, as far as I’m concerned, she’s not my blood.”

  With the environment turning hostile, I stood, walked with Finch to the door, the entire time thinking about the fact that Ethan had a job that granted him access to poison. We reached the car, and I turned to see Loretta arguing with her son on the porch. Ethan went back inside the house, slamming the door behind him. Loretta approached me. “A moment, Miss Jax, if you don’t mind?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “I shouldn’t have said what I did earlier. You’re right. I don’t know you. And you don’t know me.”

  “No, you were right. I haven’t dealt with what you’ve dealt with before. It’s different for me.”

  “Pain is pain no matter how we choose to look at it. It’s easy to think of our own loss and assume no one else’s suffering is quite the same.”

  “We all face our own personal demons, don’t we?” I said.

  She nodded.

  I gave her the name of my hotel in case she remembered anything else. She turned and walked back to the house, saying, “You take care of yourself. Don’t spend your life wallowing in misery like I have. It’s no way to live.”

  CHAPTER 43

  “I have a confession to make,” Finch said.

  We were in the car headed back to the hotel. He’d been silent for almost ten minutes. Well, not completely silent, but humming. Humming while tapping his thumb on the steering wheel and staring out the window. Several miles back, we’d passed a billboard with a picture of Louis Armstrong playing a trumpet, and that was when the humming began.

  “What’s your confession?” I asked.

  “At Elias’s mother’s house, you mentioned what happened to your daughter, and I ...”

  Suddenly he couldn’t finish his sentence. I knew he was stalling, having second thoughts about telling me.

  “What’s your confession, Finch?”

  He pulled the car over, looked at me.

  “What are you doing?” I asked. “Why are we stopping?”

  “This isn’t the kind of thing I just want to blurt out. It wouldn’t feel right.”

  “Oh ... kay.”

  He gripped the steering wheel like he was revving a throttle on a sports car. “I knew about your daughter already, about what happened to her, I mean.”

  “How long have you known?”

  “Last year when you got hammered in that bar in Los Angeles ... I can’t remember what that place was called ...”

  “Tito’s.”

  He nodded. “That’s right. Tito’s Bar. I’d been working for you for a while, and I’d never seen you drink more than a glass of wine or two, even when you were at a party. Then December rolls around and you’re sitting alone at a table one night shooting vodka like it’s water.”

  “Millions of people do it all the time, Finch.”

  “You don’t. I figured whatever was going on with you, it m
ust have been personal.”

  “Why?”

  “I remember getting that drunk myself after finding out my wife destroyed our marriage.”

  “Still doesn’t explain how you found out. Who told you?”

  “No one. I’d never ask anyone else about your private life.”

  “How do you know then?”

  “I got curious, looked it up on the Internet.”

  He hadn’t just looked it up. He’d done a little digging. It wasn’t hard to find, but it wasn’t easy either. “If you knew, why ask me about it the other day?”

  “I wanted you to feel like you could talk about it when you were ready. If you didn’t, I’d wait and try again next year.”

  We drove several miles in silence before he spoke again. “I hope you’re not upset with me,” he said. “I should have told you. I know. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not upset. You’re right. I should have told you.”

  “No. I shouldn’t have pried. It wasn’t right.”

  “How much do you know?”

  “Not much. I found one article on an online newspaper site. I read it, then decided I shouldn’t have.”

  My cell phone buzzed, and the conversation with Finch was cut short. I spoke to Barbara Berry for several minutes, said I knew about Alexandra’s memoir, asked if she wanted to admit she knew about the memoir too. She stuck to the same thing she’d said before, adding that since we’d last spoken she’d learned what Alexandra was really writing. Now that the funeral was over, Barbara was headed back to Chicago. We put a plan in motion for later that day, and she suggested meeting at the bed and breakfast where she was staying.

  “Well, what did she say?” Finch asked after the call ended.

  “That idea we discussed? She’s game.”

  “We better get to the place she’s staying then.”

  “The sooner the better.”

  I interlocked my hands behind my head and leaned back, knowing if the plan went well, it would lead me right to Alexandra’s killer.

  CHAPTER 44

  Following the directions to Barbara’s room on the third floor of the house, I ascended the stairs, found a kid that looked like an employee standing in the hallway in front of her door, knocking. He seemed irritated. “Hello, ma’am, I’m here for your bags. Are you going to open the door so I can take them?”

  The door didn’t open. The employee reached his hand inside his pocket, took out a phone, and made a call. “Are you sure you sent me to the right room? No one’s answering.” There was a pause then he said, “I am standing in front of the presidential suite. Are you sure you have the time right?”

  “Excuse me,” I said. “How long have you been standing in front of Miss Berry’s room?”

  Without looking at me, he held a finger in the air, expecting me to wait until he finished his call. I lifted the phone out of his hand, pressed the end button.

  He swung for the phone. Finch grabbed his wrist and said, “Don’t touch her. Understand?”

  “What are you ... let go of me!” the boy yelled.

  “Answer the question,” I said. “How long have you been waiting at Miss Berry’s door?”

  “Couple minutes maybe.”

  “How long ago did she call to ask for help with her bags?”

  “She didn’t call. She asked at breakfast this morning.”

  “Was breakfast the last time you saw Miss Berry?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  I handed his phone back. “How can I get inside her room?”

  “Who are you?”

  “A friend she was supposed to meet. Right now, actually.”

  “If she was supposed to meet you here, why was she leaving?”

  “She was leaving after we spoke.” I looked at Finch. “I don’t have time for this. Go see if you can find a manager so we can get inside her room.”

  “I knew you weren’t really here to meet her,” the kid said. “Who are you?”

  Finch started down the hall.

  I looked at the kid, itching to smack the smug look off his face. “Did you hear about the murder of Alexandra Weston?”

  He folded his arms in front of him. “Yeah. Who hasn’t?”

  “Miss Berry was Alexandra Weston’s agent.”

  “So?”

  “The man who killed Alexandra Weston hasn’t been caught yet.”

  “Yeah, but what does that have to do with the lady staying here?”

  I stepped in front of the kid, tried the knob on the door. It was unlocked. I pushed the door open and stepped inside. “Miss Berry, are you here?”

  The kid came in after me. “You can’t go in—”

  I whipped around, slapped him across the face. Hard. “Shut. Up.”

  I searched the small, Victorian-style room for any sign of her. Finch called to me from downstairs. “Joss, get down here!”

  I followed the sound of his voice down the stairs and into a small room that had been converted into a library. On the floor, in front of a pair of chairs, coffee had been spilled, and in front of that, still clutching the handle of the cup, was Barbara Berry’s body.

  I bent down, checked for a pulse.

  A housekeeper entered the room and screamed, drawing the attention of everyone scattered around the house. As they gathered around, Finch stepped in front of Barbara, to keep the crowd at bay.

  “What do you think?” Finch asked. “Can you tell from looking at her?”

  “Is she dead?” one man asked.

  “It appears she is.”

  “How do you know for sure?”

  “I checked her pulse. There isn’t one. I also checked her pupils. They appear to be dilated.”

  The housekeeper leaned down.

  “Don’t touch her,” I said. “You could destroy the potential evidence on her body.”

  “How long has she been dead, do you think?” the housekeeper asked.

  “Not long. We just spoke on the phone.” I eyed the room. “Has anyone seen Barbara since breakfast?”

  A man raised a finger. “I have.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Let’s see. She came downstairs when I was watching TV so I’d guess about two hours ago.”

  “Did she say anything?”

  “Not a word.”

  “Do you know why she came downstairs?”

  Another finger went up. “I’m Lori, the innkeeper here. She wanted to know if I had any chocolate croissants left. The ones we served at breakfast. I heated one up for her, and I thought she took it back to her room. Maybe she didn’t.”

  I crouched down, scanned the floor, located the croissant, topside down, halfway across the room.

  “Why didn’t anyone notice she was in this room before now?”

  “This room is hardly ever used.”

  “There’s one other thing,” Lori said. “I overheard Miss Berry talking on the phone a while ago. She invited someone to stop by before she headed to the airport. She said she had something in her possession she’d be willing to return for the right price.”

  “Did she say what she had?”

  Lori nodded. “A flash drive.”

  CHAPTER 45

  While Finch remained downstairs waiting for the police, I returned to Barbara’s room, this time focusing on the room itself. Her luggage was open but empty, her clothes lined out on the bed like she was preparing to arrange everything in her bags. A laptop was on the nightstand. It was open, like she’d been using it the last time she was in the room. I walked over, running my finger along the keypad. The computer screen came to life, displaying a typed message. I bent down and read it.

  The guilt I feel over Alex’s death is constant, weighing on me more and more with each passing day. It consumes me, so much so I can no longer live with the evil truth of what I’ve done. I killed her, you see, poisoned her drink in the same way I poisoned my own this morning. It was me who ran Chelsea off the road. Me who broke into Alex’s house, making it look like a robbery. I needed the flas
h drive, and I was willing to kill a dear friend to get it. Not for greed or for money, but to ensure her memoir was never published. In the days since her death, nothing has eased my sense of regret, and I make no excuses for what I’ve done.

  A light tapping sound came from the opposite side of Barbara’s bedroom door. I turned. A young girl of about twenty poked her head in. Her hands were clasped together in front of her, like she was nervous and afraid.

  “Yes?” I asked.

  “A few minutes ago when you were talking to all of us downstairs, you asked if anyone saw anything suspicious. I did.”

  “Why didn’t you say something before?”

  “I don’t know. I’m new here. I just got this job a week ago, and I don’t want to cause any problems.”

  “A woman is dead,” I said. “Why would it cause a problem if you told the truth?”

  “What I saw might be nothing, but the more I think about it, the more I’m not sure.”

  “What did you see?”

  “A woman coming out of Miss Berry’s bedroom.”

  “What time?”

  “Within the last hour.”

  “Are you sure it was a woman and not a man?”

  She nodded.

  “How old?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You didn’t get a good look at her?”

  “I was coming around the corner, headed to the next room I had to clean. I assumed the woman was a friend of Miss Berry’s, so I didn’t think much of it. It all happened so fast, no more than five or ten seconds.”

  “Did you notice anything about her at all?”

  “She wore a hat, and honestly, her hair didn’t sit right.”

  “What kind of hat?”

  “A beanie.”

  I pointed to my head. “Like mine?”

  “It was longer and a charcoal color. It had a pom-pom on top.”

  “What do you mean her hair didn’t look right?” I asked.

  “What I mean to say is, it didn’t look real.”