The Night Before

  Don’t even think that way! She held on to the sides of the sink for support and waited until she’d forced the panic back. Don’t let this get to you. Do something! Be proactive, for God’s sake! She found a bottle of Excedrin Migraine in the mirrored cabinet and popped two tablets, then walked into her office, sat at the desk and picked up the phone. She needed a lawyer, a defense attorney, and fast.

  What about an alibi? Isn’t that what you really need?

  “Oh, shut up,” she muttered as she sat at her desk chair and quickly scanned her e-mail. Nothing from Kelly or anyone else. Wondering how to get hold of her twin, Caitlyn dialed Amanda’s office, but it was after hours and a recorded message asked her to leave her name and number. “Great,” she muttered under her breath. She slammed the receiver down. Where the hell were her sisters when she needed them? Kelly was never around, and Amanda was oftentimes buried in her work. Well, she’d just have to unbury herself. Caitlyn couldn’t afford to wait. No telling what the police had up their sleeves.

  Amanda had worked for the D.A.’s office for a couple of years before deciding the low pay, long hours and “working with every low-life slime who decided to crawl out from his personal, perverted rock” wasn’t for her. Years ago Amanda had seen the corporate light and transferred into domestic law, switching gears easily. Now she worked with low-life slimes when they wanted a divorce. But she would know the name of a good criminal defense attorney.

  Caitlyn punched out Amanda’s home number and leaned back in her desk chair, waiting for yet another machine to pick up. “Come on, be home,” she said under her breath and heard a noise behind her. She froze. Fear crawled up her spine as she hazarded a glance over her shoulder only to see Oscar ambling into the office. Relief washed over her but she noticed her own reflection. The door was slightly ajar, the mirror hanging upon it catching her image as she sat in her desk chair. And she looked horrible. Frazzled. Undone. Her hair was mussed from countless times pushing it off her forehead, her complexion pale, dark smudges visible beneath her eyes. She shifted her gaze to Oscar. “Hurry up,” she whispered, patting her lap impatiently as a machine answered and Amanda’s recorded voice asked the callers to leave their names and numbers. The recorder beeped.

  Oscar catapulted into her lap.

  “Amanda? It’s Caitlyn,” she said, hating to leave this particular message. She scratched the dog behind his ears. “Look, I need your help. Unlike Mom, I do know that you’re not a criminal defense attorney, but I was hoping you could give the name and number of someone you would recommend—”

  Click.

  “Caitlyn?” Amanda asked, her voice worried. “Are you still there? I just walked in and heard you leaving a message. What’s going on?”

  “The police were just here,” Caitlyn said, relieved to actually be speaking to her sister.

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Yeah. Big time uh-oh. They want a DNA sample from me,” she said, hoping to hide the panic that was creeping up her spine. Her fingers clamped over the phone. “They seem to think I was at Josh’s that night. They’re not saying much, but I think they don’t believe that he committed suicide and that someone killed him, and even though they didn’t come out and tell me, I’m sure I’m the primary suspect and . . . and . . . I need a lawyer and oh, God, I can’t remember and—”

  “Caitlyn! Get a grip!” Amanda snapped, then added more softly, “I’m sorry, but you’re scaring me to death and I can’t really follow what’s going on. Take a couple of deep breaths and start over, okay? Now, from the beginning, tell me what’s happening. Start with when the police arrived. Tell me everything.”

  As best as she could, Caitlyn recounted the entire conversation. The horrid sense of panic that had been with her since the morning she’d woken up to a blood-smeared bedroom burrowed deeper as she recounted Detective Reed’s pointed questions and her own feeble answers. She began to shake inside. She was going to be accused of Josh’s murder, she was certain of it, and she couldn’t remember what she’d done that night.

  “He didn’t charge me with anything, didn’t out and out accuse me, but . . . I’m sure he believes I did it.”

  “What about the suicide angle? I thought he left a note . . . isn’t that right?”

  “I don’t think the police believe it . . . maybe they think the killer left it . . . Oh, God, I don’t know.”

  “Maybe this isn’t as bad as it seems,” Amanda said thoughtfully.

  “Well, that’s a relief because it seems pretty damned bad to me.”

  “I know, and I’d be lying if I said you weren’t a suspect. Geez, you could be the number-one suspect, but you’re not the only one. I don’t believe they’re narrowing the field as Reed told you. I think they’re concentrating on you.”

  “I thought you said it wasn’t bad.”

  “We just have to remind them that there are other suspects. Now, get your story straight and your alibi down pat.”

  “Alibi?” She couldn’t believe the words. “You want me to lie?”

  “No, of course not. Let’s not add perjury to the potential charges. I know several good criminal defense attorneys, people I didn’t want to come up against when I was working with the D.A.’s office. They’re expensive, but worth it.”

  “Criminal defense attorneys,” Caitlyn repeated, disbelieving that she would ever need their services. She glanced again to the door and saw herself as she was—tired, beaten, scared out of her wits, not even certain if she’d killed her husband or not. “Okay, give me their names.”

  “John Ingersol. He’s fabulous.” Caitlyn scratched a note on the back of an envelope. “And Marvin Wilder. Or, if you feel more comfortable with a woman, then Sondra Prentiss in Atlanta is great. It all depends on their schedules. Tell you what, sit tight, have a stiff shot of something if that helps, and I’ll make some calls in the morning. In the meantime, don’t talk to the police, okay?”

  “What if they come back?”

  “Refuse to talk to them. Insist on having a lawyer with you.”

  “Okay.” She felt slightly better.

  “Do you want me to come over tonight?” Amanda asked. “Ian’s out of town, and I was just going to go over a deposition, but I can do it later.”

  “Thanks, but I think I’ll be okay.”

  “Are you sure? Maybe you should go out to Oak Hill. Troy thinks you should stay out there until this all blows over and really, it’s not such a bad idea. Besides, if not for you, then for Mom. She could use the company.”

  “She’s got Hannah.”

  Amanda snorted. “A lot of comfort that is. Mom doesn’t have Hannah,” she said with disgust. “No one does.”

  “Maybe no one has anyone.”

  “Pessimistic, Caitlyn. Very pessimistic. Oh—I’ve got another call, someone’s trying to beep in and I’m waiting to hear from Ian. I’ll phone you in the morning after I connect with one of the defense attorneys. Until then, avoid the police.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Don’t just try. Do it! You don’t have to speak to them. If you want to talk, call me or that shrink of yours, but not to anyone with a badge. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Good. Now try to calm down.”

  Oh, yeah. Right. Caitlyn figured there wouldn’t be any calming down, for a long, long time.

  “She’s lying.” Reed squinted through the windshield, certain that Caitlyn Bandeaux was hiding something, something about her husband’s death.

  “Yep.” Morrisette was at the wheel, her foot as leaden as always as she shot down the narrow, shaded streets on their way back to the station.

  “You ever locate her shrink?”

  “Still working on it, but get this, her office is being sublet by another psychologist. A guy by the name of Adam Hunt.”

  “So the first shrink, Rebecca Wade, isn’t coming back?”

  “Who knows? Not for a while. I talked to the manager of the building, a guy who had to be a descendent from one of the last Nean
derthals or Attila the Hun, and he didn’t want to give me any information, of course, but I strong-armed him a bit, suggested I’d check his record, find out if he was checkin’ in with his parole officer if he had one, the whole nine yards, but he stuck to his story, claimed she didn’t leave a forwarding address, so I checked with the utility companies. Ms. Wade stiffed the phone company for the past two months and up until that time was a perfect customer, paid all her bills on time. So I checked with the real estate management company who handles the house she leased. Same deal. She owes two months’ back rent. Before that she never missed a payment. In fact, she usually paid early.” Morrisette tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. “The woman I talked to at the real estate company said that Rebecca Wade had intended to move out as of June first, but left early. Half her stuff was packed, half not.”

  “So what the hell happened to her?”

  “That’s what we have to find out. I checked out the house, and a neighbor, Mrs. Binks, stopped by. Said she was worried.”

  “Has anyone filed a missing persons report?”

  “No one even knows if she’s missing.”

  “What about relatives?”

  “The neighbor said she was single, but divorced, she thought, and that she might have an aunt in Kansas or Wisconsin or somewhere in the Midwest.” Morrisette shot through a yellow light. “I’m looking into it. Apparently the lady shrink is a very private person. I have a theory about ’em, you know.”

  “About who?”

  “Shrinks. I think they’re all in the business because they need mental help themselves.”

  Reed grinned. “You think?”

  “Absolutely.” She reached for her pack of cigarettes. “And the management company checked their records, said Ms. Wade had left town once before, just took off for a few months, but that time she paid her rent in advance.”

  “You think this has something to do with Josh Bandeaux’s death?” Reed asked, the wheels turning in his mind. It was an odd link. With Caitlyn Bandeaux as the cornerstone. But stranger things had occurred.

  “Probably not.” She punched in the lighter. “You asked what happened to her and I told you. I did manage to get Rebecca Wade’s Social Security number from the management company, so that should speed things up. Already put it into the database.”

  “Good. Let’s go down to The Swamp. See if anyone remembers her.”

  “Your wish is my command,” Morrisette mocked as she sped toward the waterfront.

  “Just as it should be.”

  Caitlyn felt a sharp chill. Suddenly cold to the bone, though summer heat was blistering the sidewalks of Savannah. Maybe it was because the police had stopped by earlier or maybe it was because she’d gotten another call from Nikki Gillette at the Sentinel, but whatever the reason, she was suddenly ice-cold. Amanda had suggested that she rest, and though it wasn’t yet dark, was closer to dinnertime, she avoided her bedroom and stretched out on the couch. She pulled her afghan over her shoulders and imagined she could still smell the hint of Nana’s perfume in the complicated stitches. Nana Evelyn, who had painstakingly knitted and purled, keeping her stitches even, concentrating on the pattern, sitting in front of a television that blared everything from Lawrence Welk to the evening news, making sure her mind wouldn’t wander to forbidden territory.

  Knit a row, purl two rows, or was it the other way around? Nana had tried to teach Kelly and Caitlyn the art of knitting and they’d both failed miserably. The last time had been at Christmas in the lodge.... Caitlyn shivered, drew the knitted blanket up closer to her neck. She’d been little. Five . . . Or was it six . . . and snow had covered the ground. She’d played outside all day, her snowsuit and mittens discarded and drying near the fire. But it was nighttime and she was supposed to sleep in the room with Nana. Cold Nana. Knitting Nana. Weird Nana.

  “I don’t want to sleep there,” she’d told her mother.

  “That’s nonsense. You and Kelly always sleep with Nana when we come up here.”

  “Not tonight,” she’d whispered, for Nana had been quiet all day long, knitting, her needles clicking, her eyes following Caitlyn as she’d played outside and then later when she’d warmed her hands by the fire.

  “Don’t be silly.” Berneda had dismissed her, and both she and Kelly were tucked into the bunk beds in the large room. Nana had her own bed, a bigger bed with curtains around it and she’d peek through the folds of dark cloth while she was awake, or snore loudly as she slept.

  But that night, she left the drapes open and lay propped up on the pillows. Oh, she’d pretended to be asleep, but Caitlyn knew she wasn’t, caught a glimpse of a slit of eyeball beneath her lowered lids. She didn’t snore, didn’t say a word, and as the fire died and the night grew dark, Caitlyn stayed awake as long as she could, but eventually sleep overtook her and she’d drifted off.

  That was all she remembered until she felt a hand upon her shoulder, an arm around her waist. Drowsy, she opened an eye as Nana picked her up. She’d started to say something, but Nana pressed a bony finger to her lips. “Don’t wake Kelly,” she’d whispered, but Caitlyn looked over at Kelly’s mussed bed. A bit of moonlight filtered through the windows, and Caitlyn saw that Kelly’s bed was empty.

  “Where is—?”

  “Shh! Didn’t I say to be quiet? That’s a good girl, Caitlyn,” Nana whispered, carrying her to her bed. “Nana’s cold.” She bustled Caitlyn into the bed with her and drew the curtains tight so that it was dark.

  Caitlyn whimpered.

  “Oh, don’t make a sound, honey. Don’t you know you’re Nana’s favorite?” An icy hand smoothed Caitlyn’s hair off her face. Colder lips brushed a kiss on her forehead. “That’s it, snuggle closer. You’ll warm old Nana up . . .”

  Now, nearly thirty years later, she shuddered and threw Nana’s blanket off.

  Hateful old woman with her cold eyes and cold hands and cold, dark secrets.

  “Yeah, that’s the woman who was here,” the bartender said to Reed and Morrisette as he studied the black-and-white photograph of Caitlyn Bandeaux. A burly man in a polo shirt and slacks, the bartender wore a single earring and a graying ponytail that didn’t make up for the fact that male-pattern baldness was definitely setting in.

  The afternoon was young. Happy Hour was still fifteen minutes away, and The Swamp was nearly empty aside from the stuffed alligators, egrets, fake frogs and catfish that were suspended from the ceiling. An overturned canoe and paddles were mounted over the bar. Fishing reels and life preservers gathered dust on the walls. In one corner music stands, amps, cords, mikes and stools were stashed behind a drum set.

  Two regulars were nursing beers at stools near a couple of pinball machines, and a kid who didn’t look twenty-one was busy sweeping near the hallway that led to the rest rooms and a back exit.

  “I remember her because she ordered two drinks at a time. Not two of the same like most folks. She took ’em over to that table there.” He pointed to a booth of tufted black leather surrounded by mirrors, then grabbed a towel and swabbed the top of the bar. “Had herself a Cosmo and a . . . martini, I think. Yeah. Sat there and waited for someone . . . well, I assume it was someone . . . sat there and drank and smoked and spent her time looking at the door or the mirror . . . I mean, I didn’t pay a lot of attention when it got busy. She left after a while.”

  Reed glanced at the booth. “You remember what time she arrived?”

  The bartender grimaced. Rubbed harder at a ring on the bar. “Let’s see. I think it was after the band came on at nine . . . maybe even after the first set . . . I’m not sure. Like I said, things were starting to hop around here, but I think she hung around for a while. Can’t be sure how long . . . No, wait, the band was taking a break so it should of been ten-thirty, maybe a quarter to eleven. That’s their usual routine.”

  “Did she talk to anyone?”

  “I don’t know. She’s a good-lookin’ woman. I imagine someone might have tried to hit on her, but . . . hey, I don’t kee
p track of that kind of thing. I just remember looking up and catching her reflection in the mirror. She was sitting and smoking a cigarette. Then I lost track. It got crazy in here that night. Always does on Friday nights.”

  “If you think of anything else, call me,” Reed said and left his card as he and Morrisette walked outside, where sunlight cut through the narrow streets.

  “So she was here.” Morrisette unlocked the cruiser.

  “For a while.”

  “But she had time to do the deed and return.”

  “Seems as if.” She slid behind the wheel as Reed strapped himself in on the passenger side.

  “Bandeaux’s place isn’t too far from here. Let’s time it,” Reed suggested, “and go easy on the speed, okay? Caitlyn Bandeaux had downed a couple of drinks but, unless she’d been drinking before, should have been clearheaded enough not to want to be pulled over or attract any attention, so she would have obeyed the speed limits, driven to his house, shared a glass or two of wine with him to numb him.”

  “Or throw him into anaphylactic shock. Then slip him a mickey, slit his wrists and hightail it back to the bar. To make sure she had an alibi.”

  “Yeah . . .” Reed wasn’t certain. Morrisette pulled away from the curb and he checked his watch. She somehow managed to keep her speed right at the limit and didn’t run any yellow lights. “But if she was going to use the alibi, why admit to us that she was bombed out of her mind and couldn’t remember?”

  “Because the time frame isn’t gonna work. She’s covering up.” Morrisette maneuvered the cruiser through traffic as if she was on a Sunday drive. It took less than twenty minutes to reach Bandeaux’s home in the historic district. “Traffic would have been lighter at night. She could have made it door to door in about fifteen minutes.” She parked in Bandeaux’s driveway, and Reed stared at the yellow crime scene tape still stretched around the wrought-iron fence. It was loosening, had ripped in one place, would soon be taken down. Unlike the noose surrounding Mrs. Bandeaux’s long neck. With each of her lies, the rope just kept tightening.