Home Before Midnight

by Virginia Kantra

  Steve opened the door and signaled them to come in. “Conner volunteered.”

  Bailey hugged her arms. “Right. I’m sure she’s thrilled by the chance to baby-sit me again.”

  Without meaning to, Steve smiled.

  Bailey smiled back. She had a long, wide-lipped mouth, surprising in her thin face. He didn’t realize he was staring until her gaze dropped and she blushed. “So . . . before you put me out back, can I get you anything? Coffee?”

  Coffee was good. Coffee was safe.

  He remembered Bailey on Monday night, face pale, eyes stunned, bustling around the kitchen, pouring coffee into mugs, setting out milk and sugar for Conner, using simple, routine chores to maintain a measure of control, to hold the demons at bay.

  Do the job.

  Get through the day.

  Go through the motions.

  He recognized it. Hell, he lived it.

  “Coffee would be good,” he said. “Thanks.”

  AFTER two hours, the coffee was cold, and Bailey was sweating, her thighs sticking to her chair.

  The ghosts of Monday night haunted the patio. The lounge chairs sprawled at awkward angles, the table pushed out of the way, bore silent witness to the paramedics’ frantic activity. The tang of death and all trace of blood had been overlaid or eradicated by the smell of the pool chemicals and the very efficient pool filter. The lights shone, pure and eerie, beneath the sparkling surface. But every time Bailey glanced at the blue water, she expected to see Helen’s body floating dark against the glowing depths.

  Had Helen cried out? Had she struggled? Or had she slipped mercifully into unconsciousness and death?

  Had she slipped at all?

  Bailey shuddered and clasped her arms. “It’s taking him long enough.”

  Him. Steve Burke. When did he become so significant he could be identified simply by a pronoun?

  Officer Conner shrugged. “It’s a big house.”

  “He said the search was cursory.”

  “But thorough. Lieutenant’s a careful man.”

  “I hope so,” Bailey muttered.

  Despite Steve’s assurances, she was concerned about the condition of the house. Even if his team took care, they were not responsible for restoring the premises to their pre-search condition, and it would be impossible to get the house cleaned before the funeral service tomorrow.

  Worrying about disarranged drawers and furniture was bad, Bailey knew. But as a distraction, it beat worrying about what the police were looking for.

  Or what they might find.

  She slapped at a mosquito on her bare leg.

  “When will the Ellises be back?” Conner asked.

  Gratefully, Bailey focused on the little things she could control instead of the looming disaster she couldn’t. “Paul and Regan? Viewing hours are over at nine-thirty.”

  Which didn’t mean they would be home right away. Paul never left any gathering where he was the center of attention. And he would definitely attract attention tonight. Some of the mourners would be there to honor Helen’s family, to respect her memory and offer their sympathies. The rest would come to satisfy their curiosity. There was no getting around the fact that after the corpse, Paul was the night’s big draw.

  Bailey scratched the bug bite blooming on her leg, drawing blood. “Will Burke be done by then?”

  “Could be,” Conner said. Maybe she was itchy, too, because she offered, “Having only three officers to search slows things down.”

  “That’s not enough?”

  “Lieutenant told us he wants the location of every piece of evidence verified by two officers. He’s not taking chances the defense will throw anything out in court.”

  That was good. Wasn’t it? Bailey’s thoughts whined, as persistent and annoying as mosquitoes. Steve’s precautions meant he wasn’t planting evidence that would incriminate Paul.

  But what did he expect to find? And what consequences could it have for Paul? For her?

  A tall, dark shadow loomed beyond the French doors. Her pulse kicked up, her body recognizing Steve’s presence before her mind had quite identified him.

  The glass door opened, and he stepped out, soles silent on the patio tile. She thought again how quietly he moved for such a big man. The temperature on the patio crept up several degrees. Like, ten. The man practically exuded testosterone, his broad body in its rumpled suit seeming to absorb all oxygen, the indifferent light emphasizing the harsh planes and angles of his face.

  He nodded to the two women. “Nice night,” he drawled.

  Bailey folded her arms. “If you like bugs.”

  The corners of his mouth deepened in a near-smile. “You can come inside now. We’re done.”

  Bailey stood. “What did you find?”

  In answer, he handed her two thin, pink sheets.

  He’d given her a copy of the search warrant.

  Her heart pounded. “For me?”

  “I have to leave a copy with the home owner.”

  Bailey flushed. She knew that. Being so close to him was making her stupid. The man had the gravitational pull of a very large planet, Jupiter or something. And since he showed no signs of moving away, she stepped back, angling the paper to catch the light so her retreat didn’t look like a rout.

  He had written a list. A numbered list of maybe a dozen items, each with a description of where it was found and the names of the officers who found it. Heavy, flat items with straight, square edges. She flipped back to the first page. Objects consistent with injury on victim’s skull.

  Oh, God. Bile rose in her throat.

  Swallowing, she read through the list carefully, the neat print swimming in her vision. Tool box. Bookends. Trivet. Metal tray. Cutting board . . . She stopped and went back.

  “This is wrong,” she said. “You can’t take this.”

  He crowded her. “Take what?”

  She pointed. “This tray. It’s not ours—the Ellises, I mean. It wasn’t even in the house Monday night. Mildred Wheeler brought it over yesterday, a nice ham-and-cheese plate.”

  “We didn’t find any ham,” Steve said. “Or cheese.”

  Bailey searched for a likely explanation. “I guess Paul must have eaten it for lunch.” She frowned doubtfully. “Maybe while I was picking up Regan at the airport?”

  Steve raised his eyebrows. “And then washed the tray and put it away in the cupboard under the microwave?”

  Okay, not so likely.

  “But I can prove it’s Mildred’s tray,” she said.

  “How?”

  Bailey felt an uncharacteristic wave of gratitude for her mama. Whatever Dorothy’s faults, no one could say she hadn’t raised her daughters To Do the Right Thing. “When anybody drops off food, I write their name on the list for thank-you notes. And then I put a little piece of masking tape on the bottom of the dish so I can return it to the right person.”

  Steve’s eyes narrowed. “Show me.”

  She led the way into the house. Wayne Lewis and a tall, black officer were talking in the kitchen, their heads together over a large cardboard box. At Bailey’s entrance, they fell abruptly silent. Her gut clenched. Did they always react that way to Steve’s presence? Or were they silent because of her? Were they talking about her?

  “The list,” Steve prompted behind her.

  Bailey pulled herself together. “On the refrigerator.” She pulled down the list of funeral foods taped to the fridge. “Your mother brought a lemon cake.”

  His eyebrows rose. “You met my mother?”

  “I answered the door,” Bailey said, doing her best not to sound defensive. “She seemed very . . .”

  “Nosy?”

  Bailey flushed, remembering Eugenia Burke’s bright eyes and warm smile. “Nice,” she said firmly. She tapped her finger on the list. “See? There’s her name.”

  Steve studied the list over her shoulder. Crossing to the table, he removed the pewter tray from the carton and flipped it over.

  “Well?” Baile
y demanded, her heart thumping.

  He turned the tray so they all could see the piece of blue masking tape stuck on the bottom.

  And then he put it back in the box.

  “Hey,” she protested. “What are you doing? That’s Mildred’s.”

  “The sticker is in your handwriting.”

  “Of course it is. I wrote it.”

  “So how do I know you didn’t slap a piece of tape on this tray just to get it out of the house?”

  “That’s incredibly devious.”

  Steve shrugged. “You have to learn to think like a criminal.”

  “But I’m not a criminal,” she said. Too loudly. She caught the two male officers exchanging glances and made an effort to lower her voice. “I don’t know whether to be flattered you think I’m that resourceful or terrified you believe I’d actually do something that bent.”

  He looked amused. “If you’re innocent, you don’t have anything to worry about.”

  If you’re innocent. If.

  Condescending son of a bitch.

  “What about Mildred’s tray?” Bailey asked.

  “What about it?”

  “I need to return it to her.”

  Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll take the tray to Miz . . . Wheeler, is it? If she identifies it as hers, I’ll return it for you.”

  He’d made a concession of sorts. She should let it go. She had nothing to gain by antagonizing him and maybe everything to lose. If you’re innocent . . .

  Her teeth snapped together. “What else are you taking?”

  He nodded at the form in her hand. “It’s all listed there. You’re pretty much looking at it. One box and the computers.”

  “Both computers?”

  He watched her closely. “Is that a problem?”

  Normally, it would have been a disaster. Paul took his laptop everywhere. But hardware could be replaced. And she’d just backed up his files, all his files, on her flash drive so she could work from home. Thank God.

  “We’ll cope,” she said.

  Paul would complain, of course, about the inconvenience. But it would be several days, surely, before he got back to work? He didn’t interview Billy Ray again until next week. Plenty of time for her to shop for a new computer and reinstall his files. But . . . A doubt bumbled at the back of her mind like a moth against the patio lights.

  “Was there something else?” Steve asked.

  She blinked. Was there? Something? But it eluded her, blundering into the shadows. Should she tell him about the flash drive? “I don’t think so.”

  “Sure?”

  She was pretty sure his search warrant didn’t include the contents of her purse. And she wasn’t about to offer it up and risk losing all Paul’s work. Not to mention her job.

  She stuck out her chin. “Yes.”

  Steve scowled as if he didn’t believe her. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a business card and scribbled on it. “Here’s my cell number. You think of something, you can call me anytime.”

  The sharp white edges dug into her palm. Accepting his card felt vaguely disloyal, a connection she had not sought and did not want.

  Of course she wouldn’t call.

  But she tucked the card away carefully in her purse, along with her tissues and Tic Tacs, mace, condoms, and a tampon, small precautions against the unforeseen.

  She was as bad as her mother, Bailey thought as she drove home. Dorothy Wells had QVC on speed dial. As if Dale Earnhardt commemorative plates and coin sets from the Franklin Mint could protect her from death and the collapse of the global economy.

  But fifteen minutes later when Bailey let herself in the front door, she found her mother surrounded by a wave of tissue paper and the contents of the hall curio cabinet.

  “There you are!” Dorothy tucked a swaddled shape into a cardboard carton. “You’re late.”

  “Not really.” Bailey eased through the door to avoid colliding with a black plastic garbage bag. Outside, their neighbor’s dog announced to all the world that she was home. “It’s not even midnight.”

  Her old curfew. Twelve o’clock. The magic hour when, according to her mother, carriages turned into pumpkins, parties became unsanctioned occasions of sin, boys transformed to sex-crazed fiends, and good girls lost their clothes and their morals.

  If you’re innocent, you don’t have anything to worry about.

  Still fully dressed, Bailey slunk toward the steps.

  “How was the viewing?” Dorothy asked in a distracted tone.

  “Oh.” Bailey pushed her hair behind her ears. She didn’t really want to explain to her mother she’d missed visiting hours at the funeral home because Steve Call-Me-Anytime Burke was searching her employer’s home for a murder weapon. “It went all right, I guess. What are you still doing up?”

  “My chi is blocked,” her mother said. “I’m making room for new opportunities to come into my life.”

  “Your chi,” Bailey repeated. The last project she had edited before she quit her job had been a feng shui guide for Paragon. Was her mother attempting self-help through better bagua?

  Dorothy waved at the half-emptied shelves. “There’s too much clutter in this house. I need to free the flow of positive energy.”

  Bailey blinked. Her mother thrived on clutter. Doll collections and tea sets, candles and candy dishes, the relics of clearance shelves and QVC . . . Why change? Why now?

  Why not?

  “Positive energy is good.” Bailey edged towards the stairs. It was late. She had work to do. Just because her mother had decided to turn over a new leaf didn’t mean she had to give up her sleep or disrupt her own life.

  Dorothy grabbed a vase and rolled it vigorously in tissue paper.

  Bailey paused with one foot on the steps. “Aren’t you coming to bed?”

  The paper crackled. “In a while.”

  “Is Dad, um . . .”

  Dorothy nodded toward the living room. “He’s up.”

  There, but not there. Only the red glow of his cigarette and the muted sound of ESPN in the darkness beyond the hall indicated his presence in their house. In their lives.

  Bailey sighed. “Do you need any help?”

  Dorothy’s distraction dissolved in smiles. “That would be wonderful. If you could just hand me that bowl. . . . Oh, and can you put that box over there?”

  “Sure.”

  And forty minutes later, as Bailey taped the last carton to go into the attic, she had to admit the entry appeared lighter, cleaner, and more elegant.

  “Looking good, Mom.”

  “That wall opposite the door was blocking my ability to move forward in my life,” her mother asserted.

  “Yeah, I know how that goes.”

  Dorothy surveyed the space, her head to one side. “I was thinking a mirror would help.”

  Bailey’s satisfaction suffered a jolt. “What?”

  “A new mirror. To redirect my energy. And a fountain to activate my chi. I saw some really darling ones at Marshall’s today that would be perfect.”

  “A fountain,” Bailey repeated. Her mother hadn’t really changed. She’d just . . . redirected her energy.

  “You could go with me tomorrow,” Dorothy suggested. “To pick one out.”

  Right. Or she could take a sharp stick and jab herself in the eye. She hadn’t gone shopping with her mother since she’d rebelled against matching outfits at the age of ten.

  But Dorothy looked so happy. So hopeful.

  Bailey swallowed. “That would be great. But I, um . . . the funeral’s tomorrow, Mom.”

  “Oh, that reminds me.” Dorothy scrambled past the pile of cartons to the closet. “I bought you a purse.”

  Maybe lack of sleep was making her stupid. “A what? Why?”

  “A new purse,” Dorothy said, rummaging in a shopping bag. “Your old one looks so worn. You want to look nice tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Mom. That’s—”

  Hideous, Bailey thought, staring at her mo
ther’s latest bargain, a huge shapeless bag with an adjustable strap, gleaming with gold hardware and bristling with zippers.

  “—great,” she finished weakly.

  “And it’s black,” Dorothy declared. “I know you like everything to be black.”