Read Online Home Before Midnight by Virginia Kantra - Free Book Online
Authors: Virginia Kantra
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publicity—whatever Paul needs me to do.”
“Give me an example.”
She drew a deep breath. “For example, right now I’m trying to find out how long it will be before we can get back into the house.”
He raised his eyebrows at her change of subject. “Your boss gave his consent to search.”
“Last night. But Regan—Helen’s daughter—is flying into town tomorrow. She won’t want to stay in a hotel.”
“My team won’t be out of the house until the day after.”
“Thursday?” Bailey heard her voice rise and struggled to control it. “But . . . That’s the day before the funeral!”
“It’s the best I can do.”
No apology, she noticed. As if his best was plenty good enough for her.
“You did get a signed death certificate, though, right?” she asked.
He inclined his head.
She didn’t want to ask. She had to know. “Cause of death?”
“Drowning.”
Relief weakened her knees. “That’s all right, then.”
He didn’t say anything.
“Isn’t it?” Bailey pressed. “If the medical examiner says Helen drowned—”
“ Cause of death is drowning,” he repeated. “Manner of death is still pending.”
Bailey squeezed the letters in her hand until the envelopes crackled. “What does that mean?”
“It means the ME is waiting for the results of the blood alcohol test to determine if loss of consciousness contributed to Mrs. Ellis’s fall.”
That sounded reasonable.
Her chest hollowed. Too bad she didn’t quite believe him.
Why would his team need another two days in the house? What was he looking for? And how could she get him to tell her?
“Would you like to come in for a minute?” she blurted. “For”— What? Coffee? Questioning? —“something to drink?”
His eyes narrowed in surprise. Well, no wonder, she thought, her heart thudding. She’d surprised herself.
“You’re inviting me in for a drink.” A statement, not a question.
“Yes, well, I thought . . .” She wasn’t thinking. Did she really want to introduce this man to her mother? “It’s awfully hot.”
He smiled at her, teeth white in his dark face, and the temperature climbed another ten degrees. “Yes, it is. But I’m afraid I can’t.”
No. Of course not. Good, she told herself, pretty sure that rush she felt was letdown and not relief.
It wasn’t like he was actually rejecting her. She wouldn’t care if he did. She was an aspiring writer, a veteran of New York’s Dating Wars. She should be inured to rejection.
Anyway, it wasn’t personal.
She stuck out her chin. “Right. You wouldn’t want somebody to catch you getting chummy with a suspect.”
“Actually, I have a prior engagement,” he drawled.
Like a date? He was dating someone?
Maybe it was personal.
“Well, hello.” Dorothy Wells’s greeting flowed down the drive, sweet and sticky as molasses.
Trapped like a fly, Bailey turned to see her mother picking her way down the gravel driveway in size six strappy slides from Marshalls.
Dorothy smiled at Steve like a toddler spotting the cookie jar. “And who is this?”
He nodded at her politely. “Steve Burke, ma’am.”
“Burke,” Dorothy repeated. “Eugenia Burke’s boy?”
Most men would have revealed some discomfort at being referred to as “boy.” The police detective didn’t even twitch. “Yes, ma’am.”
Dorothy’s smile widened. “And you’re here to see Bailey?”
Bailey groaned silently. Of course. Steve Burke was practically designed to her mother’s specifications: a white, Southern professional. Not a practicing Methodist—anyway, Bailey didn’t recall seeing him at Sunday services—and at least ten years older than Bailey. But clearly Dorothy was prepared to compromise.
Bailey was not.
“He was just leaving,” she said, fixing Steve with a “run away, run
“Give me an example.”
She drew a deep breath. “For example, right now I’m trying to find out how long it will be before we can get back into the house.”
He raised his eyebrows at her change of subject. “Your boss gave his consent to search.”
“Last night. But Regan—Helen’s daughter—is flying into town tomorrow. She won’t want to stay in a hotel.”
“My team won’t be out of the house until the day after.”
“Thursday?” Bailey heard her voice rise and struggled to control it. “But . . . That’s the day before the funeral!”
“It’s the best I can do.”
No apology, she noticed. As if his best was plenty good enough for her.
“You did get a signed death certificate, though, right?” she asked.
He inclined his head.
She didn’t want to ask. She had to know. “Cause of death?”
“Drowning.”
Relief weakened her knees. “That’s all right, then.”
He didn’t say anything.
“Isn’t it?” Bailey pressed. “If the medical examiner says Helen drowned—”
“ Cause of death is drowning,” he repeated. “Manner of death is still pending.”
Bailey squeezed the letters in her hand until the envelopes crackled. “What does that mean?”
“It means the ME is waiting for the results of the blood alcohol test to determine if loss of consciousness contributed to Mrs. Ellis’s fall.”
That sounded reasonable.
Her chest hollowed. Too bad she didn’t quite believe him.
Why would his team need another two days in the house? What was he looking for? And how could she get him to tell her?
“Would you like to come in for a minute?” she blurted. “For”— What? Coffee? Questioning? —“something to drink?”
His eyes narrowed in surprise. Well, no wonder, she thought, her heart thudding. She’d surprised herself.
“You’re inviting me in for a drink.” A statement, not a question.
“Yes, well, I thought . . .” She wasn’t thinking. Did she really want to introduce this man to her mother? “It’s awfully hot.”
He smiled at her, teeth white in his dark face, and the temperature climbed another ten degrees. “Yes, it is. But I’m afraid I can’t.”
No. Of course not. Good, she told herself, pretty sure that rush she felt was letdown and not relief.
It wasn’t like he was actually rejecting her. She wouldn’t care if he did. She was an aspiring writer, a veteran of New York’s Dating Wars. She should be inured to rejection.
Anyway, it wasn’t personal.
She stuck out her chin. “Right. You wouldn’t want somebody to catch you getting chummy with a suspect.”
“Actually, I have a prior engagement,” he drawled.
Like a date? He was dating someone?
Maybe it was personal.
“Well, hello.” Dorothy Wells’s greeting flowed down the drive, sweet and sticky as molasses.
Trapped like a fly, Bailey turned to see her mother picking her way down the gravel driveway in size six strappy slides from Marshalls.
Dorothy smiled at Steve like a toddler spotting the cookie jar. “And who is this?”
He nodded at her politely. “Steve Burke, ma’am.”
“Burke,” Dorothy repeated. “Eugenia Burke’s boy?”
Most men would have revealed some discomfort at being referred to as “boy.” The police detective didn’t even twitch. “Yes, ma’am.”
Dorothy’s smile widened. “And you’re here to see Bailey?”
Bailey groaned silently. Of course. Steve Burke was practically designed to her mother’s specifications: a white, Southern professional. Not a practicing Methodist—anyway, Bailey didn’t recall seeing him at Sunday services—and at least ten years older than Bailey. But clearly Dorothy was prepared to compromise.
Bailey was not.
“He was just leaving,” she said, fixing Steve with a “run away, run
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