“Regan’s house,” Bailey corrected without thinking.
Paul glared.
She flushed.
“It’s ridiculous.” Lines of temper marred his lean, handsome face. “She’ll want me out next.”
“I’m sure she’ll calm down,” Bailey said soothingly. “Once I leave—”
“How am I supposed to get any work done?”
Had he always been this self-absorbed? Or was she simply more aware of it since the move back home? In New York, she had been dazzled by his notice and blinded by her own loneliness. Now, without even her little studio to provide escape, she saw too clearly how dependent she had become—financially, professionally, and emotionally.
The thought made her wince.
Paul depended on her, too, Bailey reminded herself. That’s why he was so upset.
“If you need anything, all you have to do is call,” she reassured him.
He studied her, his head angled to one side. “I suppose you could take the evidence boxes with you.”
Bailey blinked, sure she hadn’t heard him correctly. “What?”
“I’ll be far too distracted to work. You might as well use your little time away to go through the evidence boxes.”
After Billy Ray Dawler’s conviction, the evidence from his trial had been packed away into heavy cardboard file boxes. The police didn’t want to keep them; the department had a storage shortage. The district attorney’s office didn’t want to destroy them; the DA worried about the possibility of appeals. So for twenty years, the boxes sat forgotten in the DA’s property room. The current DA had been only too happy when celebrated crime writer Paul Ellis expressed an interest in the old case and offered to take them off his hands. But as far as Bailey knew, Paul had never touched them.
“What do you mean, go through them?”
“I want you to inventory the contents.”
Okay, that made sense. Paul was already reading the trial transcripts, hundreds and hundreds of pages. He had begun setting up interviews with Billy Ray and his jurors, his high school teachers, and the chief of police. Sooner or later, Paul would want to review the actual physical evidence.
But couldn’t he wait to play detective until after the funeral?
“You want me to do that now?” Bailey asked.
Paul looked pained. “I suppose you think I should do it.”
She felt hot and uncomfortable. Angry, and that made her even more uncomfortable. This was to be her punishment, she thought, for abandoning him. “I don’t even know what you’re looking for. Everything’s disorganized.”
“So organize it. That’s what you do.”
The implication was clear. That’s what he paid her for.
Bailey drew another deep breath.
“Right. Can do.”
Paul smiled, appeased. “I’ll help you take the boxes out to the car.” She must have looked surprised, because he added, “They’re heavy.”
She expected he’d forget his offer by the time she came back downstairs.
But her own packing didn’t take that long. Her apartment furniture—the stuff she didn’t sell, the rose wing chair with the velvet worn in spots, the 1920s steamer trunk she’d used as a coffee table—was still in storage. She planned to move her clothes in stages. Maybe by the time she emptied her closet, she’d have found a way to tell her mother she was moving home for good.
The thought made her shudder. Or maybe she’d find another place to live. Someplace close. Someplace cheap. In New York, she’d scrounged from paycheck to paycheck, and she hadn’t been in Stokesville long enough yet to save the security deposit for an apartment.
Paul carried the final carton to her mother’s car and closed the trunk with a final sounding slam. “I’ll see you tonight.”
She nodded. “Hobart Funeral Home, seven o’clock.”
“Come by the house first. I don’t want anything to go wrong tomorrow.”
She understood his concern. The funeral of Helen Stokes Ellis was sure to be well-attended. Helen might not have been well-liked, but she was One Of Our Own. And every soul at the church would show up at the house afterward, eager to eat and drink and talk in hushed tones about the flowers, the music, and the circumstances surrounding her death. Someone had to be on hand to see the silver was polished, the donated dishes were listed and labeled, and the ice didn’t run out. But . . .
“Is Regan going to want me handling the arrangements for her mother’s funeral reception?”
“I don’t give a damn what Regan wants. I need you, Bailey.”
Her objections stuck in her throat. She swallowed, unable to resist his appeal. “I’ll be there.”
Paul’s tired smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “That’s my girl.”
Thawing, she returned his smile. But when he reached for her, she stepped back, uncomfortably conscious of the watching windows.
“So, I’ll see you at six, then,” she said.
Which gave her barely enough time to drop off her suitcase and change into a black skirt. No time for dinner, which was bad. No time for explanations, which was good.
No time to think. Maybe that was best of all.
She let herself in through the back door less than an hour later to find dirty dishes in the sink and a scooped out casserole drying on the counter. Bailey shook her head over the mess. For this she got her BA in creative writing? But she was glad to see Paul and Regan had eaten.
Rolling up the sleeves of her good white blouse, she scraped, wrapped, rinsed plates and wiped counters.
Most girls your age are driving carpool, her mother had said. Or running errands for their husbands.
Or doing dishes or putting their kids to bed . . . Was she kidding herself, pretending she was any different?
At least she got paid. Bailey loaded the last glass into the dishwasher. At least she was appreciated.
“What are you doing here?” Regan’s hostile voice cut through the rush of running water.
Bailey turned off the tap and held on to her temper. The girl was grieving, she reminded herself. Distraught. “My job.”
“Washing dishes?” Regan sauntered forward, her face heartbreakingly young, her chic black shift accented by her mama’s pearls and her very own diamond studs. Big ones. Her gaze swept Bailey’s plain white blouse and simple black skirt. “Well, at least you’re dressed for it. You look like a waiter.”
Distraught, my ass. The girl was a bitch.
“Thank you, Miz Scarlett,” Bailey muttered.
Regan’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
“Was there something you wanted?”
“Yes. Your key.” Regan held out her hand. “You don’t live here anymore.”
The doorbell rang. Both women ignored it.
“But I work here,” Bailey said.
The two notes chimed again.
Regan held her gaze and smirked. “Then I guess you can answer the door.”
It would have been really satisfying to walk out at that moment. But not particularly adult. Not responsible. Not helpful. The girl had just lost her mother. Bailey couldn’t know what that was like. She couldn’t offer Regan sympathy, couldn’t alleviate her grief or her rage. All she could do at this moment was answer the damn door.
Steeling her spine, she stalked past Regan into the hall and jerked open the door.
“Lieutenant Burke!”
He looked so big in the lengthening shadows of the porch, big and solid and calm and safe, a rock against the storms of emotion that had swept the house all day. For one foolish moment, she was almost glad to see him.
Of course he spoiled it. “Is Ellis home?”
“I . . . He . . .” She glanced past him to the curb, where his truck vied for position with a black-and-white squad car and a dark blue sedan. This was so obviously not a social call. Where was Paul? Why hadn’t he answered the door? “He must be upstairs. The viewing is in half an hour.”
“Who is it?” Regan asked from behind her.
EIGHT
HE should have expected this, Paul told himself as he gazed down at Burke, looming over the two women in the foyer. He did expect it. Clegg, the old hound dog, could be shaken off. But Burke had a bite like a pitbull. He wouldn’t let go so easily.
Paul assumed a pained, polite expression and started down the stairs. “What seems to be the problem, Detective?”
He took some small satisfaction in not addressing the man by his rank. But Burke didn’t react, didn’t correct him, didn’t respond at all. How disappointing.
Bailey’s face turned up, her eyes dark and distressed. “He has a warrant. A search warrant.”
Not an arrest warrant. Paul breathed again. “May I see it?”
“This is my house,” Regan said. “I should see it.”
Paul turned on her. “My dear girl, you have neither the experience nor the presence of mind to have any idea what you’re looking at.”
Regan flushed an ugly red.
Paul held out his hand. “The warrant, Detective?”
Burke surrendered it.
Paul scanned the forms quickly. Personal home computer . . . His temples pounded. That was bullshit. Objects consistent with injury on victim’s skull . . . More bullshit.
The police had nothing. And they wouldn’t find anything, either.
He handed the warrant back. “This is hardly a convenient time. We’re expected at the funeral home in less than half an hour. I could accuse you of harassment.”
“Your attorneys will have to advise you on that, sir,” Burke said stolidly. “I figured it would be less distressing for the family if you all weren’t on the premises while my people do their job.”
Stupid, arrogant redneck. It would be an absolute pleasure to watch him waste his time.
“I won’t leave while you’re in the house,” Paul said.
“You’re not staying,” Regan blurted.
Paul allowed a hint of pain to show in his face, a trace of impatience to creep into his voice. “I don’t have any choice. Someone has to protect your home. Your inheritance.”
“That’s a crock of shit,” Regan said. So crude, his stepdaughter. So like Helen. “I’m not going to Mom’s wake alone.”
“Bailey will go with you.” He was rather proud of the suggestion, seeming to soothe, calculated to inflame.
Regan’s mouth opened to blast him.
But before she could expose herself in front of the police, Bailey intervened. “I’m sure Regan would rather have your support,” she said gently. Pointedly. Was she actually attempting to tell him what to do? “And of course all your friends will want to see you to pay their respects. If you want someone here to keep an eye on things, I can stay.”
Paul hesitated. She might be right. Not that he cared about the local yokels, but Helen’s friends would certainly expect to see him at her viewing. Speculation about his absence wouldn’t add weight to the police case, but perhaps it would be wise to keep public opinion on his side. Better if he appeared as the grieving widower while devoted Bailey kept tabs on the police.
“I don’t know . . .” He raised a shaking hand to his face. “I want to do what’s right.”
“You go,” Bailey said. “Let me stay. It’s no big loss if I’m not there.”
“You got that right,” Regan said.
Burke’s mouth thinned. Good. The man might be utterly lacking in intelligence and imagination, but even he couldn’t miss that Regan was a bitch. And that Bailey, dear Bailey, would do absolutely anything for her employer.
Paul lowered his hand, taking care not to smile. Yes, much better.
STEVE waited until the door shut behind Ellis and the sulky-mouthed blonde before he switched his gaze to Bailey. She stood controlled and motionless under the chandelier, plain and tidy in stark black and white, her dark hair loose on her shoulders. How the hell did she stand them?
“Are they always like that?” he asked.
Humor flickered in her dark brown eyes, and he felt that stir of instinct again. Not his back-of-the-neck cop instinct, either, but below-the-belt, male-to-female instinct. Shit.
And then she primmed up her mouth and said, “You show up at people’s homes with a search warrant, you can’t expect to see them at their best.”
He respected her loyalty, even if he thought it was misplaced. “All part of the job,” he said.
“Your job sucks. And so does your timing.”
“I’m just trying to make things easier for the family.”
“You are not. And you made me miss the viewing.”
He shrugged. “Your choice. I thought maybe you wanted out.”
She didn’t deny it. “I should still be there. In case anything goes wrong.”
“Uh huh. You make yourself responsible for everything that goes wrong around here?”
Awareness brought her gaze up to his. “Not everything. Only the things Paul can’t be bothered with.”
Like bumping off his wife? Steve wondered.
But he didn’t believe it. Or maybe he just didn’t want to believe it.
“That must keep you busy,” he drawled.
Her chin firmed. “All part of the job,” she said, mimicking him. “Are you going to call the others in, or did you want a private tour?”
He hid a grin. He liked her attitude. He didn’t want her to be guilty. But he wouldn’t put up with her getting in his way.
“No tour,” he said. “You sit.”
“While you cut up the carpets and get fingerprint dust everywhere?” She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
He forgot she had some idea how the police worked. It was something he’d never shared with Teresa. Or had to worry about, either.
“It’s not an issue,” he said shortly.
“Excuse me, but I have over a hundred people stopping by after the funeral tomorrow. So the condition of the house is most definitely an issue.”
“It’s not an issue,” he repeated, “because this is a cursory search. We processed the pool area Monday. Unless we find something unexpected, we’re not cutting carpets or throwing dust.”
“What exactly are you expecting to find?”
He didn’t answer.
She caught his eye and smiled crookedly. “Oh, well. You can’t blame a girl for trying.”
He didn’t blame her. He admired her. But he couldn’t let that stop him.
At his continued silence, her expression shuttered again, making him feel guilty. Which was stupid, he was just doing his job, and she was . . . Hell, maybe she wasn’t guilty, either, but he couldn’t take that chance.
“Where do you want me to wait?” she said.
He’d reviewed the layout of the house before coming over. Unfortunately, the only place he could stash her was the one area he’d already searched.
“Out back,” he said.
Her dark eyes widened. “By the pool?”
Steve rubbed the back of his neck. He knew the scene was clean. But it couldn’t be pleasant. She probably hadn’t been back there since the night she pulled Helen out of the water.
Or pushed her in. He couldn’t let himself forget that.
“Is that a problem?”
“No,” Bailey said, her tone grim. “Like you said, this was my choice.”
“Officer Conner will wait with you,” he offered.
“Is she the only female officer in Stokesville?”
The only female officer who would come tonight. He’d asked for a full team, but Walt hadn’t been willing to reduce police presence on the street or pay overtime for what he persisted in regarding as an unnecessary investigation.
“You got your warrant,” the chief had said. “You’ll have to grab whoever’s available.”
Steve had been relieved when rookie Wayne Lewis stepped up as responding officer, surprised when soft-spoken detecti
ve Sergeant Darian Jackson volunteered, and flat out grateful for Officer Margie Conner’s offer of help. Maybe the chief ’s current displeasure had lessened his colleagues’ resentment. Or maybe they regarded a little honest-to-God investigative work preferable to staying home with their spouses or pulling traffic duty at the funeral home tonight.
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