“That’s so sad.”
“Don’t let on I told you all this, he’s a proud guy.” He stood and carried his bowl to the sink, rinsed it, then looked back at her, expression arch. “I’m beginning to think you’re a little too interested in the men around here.”
“Men? What are you talking about?”
“Last week it was August?”
She frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Asking about his family, if he’d ever been married, where he came from.”
“When was that? The day of the accident?”
“It was. That morning.” His smile faded. “Up out of the blue, you asked if he dated much, if he’d ever been married.”
“I wonder why?”
“Because you’re nosy?”
She returned his smile, simultaneously acknowledging it felt like more. Because of the timing.
“Have you talked to Raine today?” she asked, changing the subject.
“No. But I suppose I’d better.”
“I thought I might walk over and check on her.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Take her a brownie or two. Do you think she’d like that?”
“I do. But you know Raine, she’ll behave badly. Maybe I should come along?”
“I can’t be scared of her forever. Besides, I’m sure you have things to do.”
“I do. Paul wanted to go over the show budget. Make certain you have your cell phone. Just in case.”
“Of what? She tries to kill me?”
But he didn’t laugh and Bailey wondered if maybe she should be afraid of the unstable Raine.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Tuesday, April 22
4:55 P.M.
Raine answered the door in her pajamas. She looked a wreck—face pale, hair sticking out every which way, mascara smudges under her eyes. Bailey’s first thought was that the woman was ill.
Then she invited her in, slurring her words. Wobbling as she turned and headed back inside.
She wasn’t sick, Bailey realized. She was loaded.
Bailey followed her, shutting the door behind them. It was the first time she’d been inside Raine’s home; it was an eclectic and energetic mix of styles and art, country and contemporary.
Here, Bailey saw only a hint of the studio’s creative chaos, the pillow and afghan bunched up on the comfy-looking couch, magazines spilled over the coffee table and onto the floor, a few pairs of shoes, a coffee mug and a couple of glasses.
Raine went straight to the couch, plopped down onto it.
“I’ve brought you a treat.”
“More of Logan’s good wine?”
“Brownies. I made them this afternoon and thought—”
“Funeral’s t’morrow.” She dragged the blanket onto her lap.
“Yes,” Bailey said, setting the plate on the coffee table.
“Making brownies.” Raine peered over at the foil-covered plate. “I wonder what it’s like.”
“What’s that?”
“Being happy.”
Bailey laced her fingers together, uncertain what to say. “Is there anything I can do to help you, Raine?”
“I’m so tired.”
“I know. I’m sorry for all your loss.”
Raine reached for the plate, selected one of the fudgy squares, then changed her mind. “Sorry.”
She curled up on her side, head on the pillow. Bailey’s heart went out to her. “Can I make you something else? Eggs or some soup?”
“No.” She stared straight ahead, eyes curiously blank.
“It will get better.”
“No. It won’t.”
Bailey cleared her throat. She had come hoping for information, she saw now that that wasn’t going to happen. Today. Maybe ever. “Are you certain I can’t get you anything?”
“A drink.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Go away then.” Her lids fluttered closed and Bailey thought she might have drifted off.
Then she opened them. “Remember.”
Bailey frowned, uncertain what she meant. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure what—”
“You. I need you … to…”
Her voice lowered, trailed off. Bailey moved closer, squatted in front of her. “What, Raine?”
“To remember.”
“What do you need to know?”
“If you”—her lids fluttered, obviously having a difficult time keeping them open—“saw … him.”
“Who?”
“The … who shot—”
Henry.
It suddenly occurred to Bailey that Raine may have ingested more than alcohol.
“Wait! Raine?” She shook her. Her eyes snapped open. “What did you take? Pills? What?”
“Nothing. Jus’ sleepy—” She closed her eyes again.
“No, don’t—” Bailey jumped to her feet. If Raine had taken something, there would be evidence of it. Bailey made her way through the single-story cottage. A near-empty vodka bottle on the kitchen counter, the drained orange juice carton beside it. Wine bottles in the trash. No sign of any food being consumed but a box of Triscuit crackers and a package of Oreos.
No medicine vials. Even the bathroom medicine cabinet seemed to have been wiped clean. Advil. Tylenol. Generic sinus medicine. She checked the box and found it with only two doses missing.
Raine’s purse. Jacket pockets.
Bailey found her handbag and rifled through it. Nothing. In her coat closet, she found a variety of jackets, checked the pockets and came up with a couple of business cards and tissues.
She turned from the closet to the bed. A pile of clothes on the floor: jeans, T-shirts. As if she had shed them, then left them be. Yesterday’s, Bailey thought.
She quickly went through them. Nothing. Where else might Raine have squirreled away some medication?
Her studio.
Bailey checked on the sleeping woman, found her breathing was deep and even, then went to check the studio.
It was just as it had been the other time she had been here. Bailey quickly made her way through the cavernous space, checking workbenches and equipment carts. Nothing.
She stopped and let out a pent-up breath, feeling a bit silly about her panicked search. But Raine obviously wasn’t thinking clearly, and people died all the time from mixing prescription medications and booze.
Thinking. Clearly. Neither was she. She’d come here to see what she could uncover about True. See if, by any chance, Raine had stored True’s things here.