The First Wife (28 page)

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.

This was her chance.

In her mad dash through the cottage, she hadn’t run across any packing boxes—or places
to store them. Bailey did a mental accounting. No garage, attic access from the back
hallway, via pull-down ladder, nearly nonexistent closet space.

That left here. She did a slow three-sixty, gaze stopping on two doors at the back
of the studio. Both closed. Storage closets? Perhaps.

The first one she tried proved to be a washroom, not a closet. Basic head, sink, mirror.
Light was burned out. The next door she found locked.

A ring of keys. Hanging off the ear of a small gargoyle, sitting watch near the studio
entrance. Car key. What she assumed were house keys. She wondered if Raine had a key
to her and Logan’s. The thought left her uncomfortable.

She snatched up the ring and crossed to the locked door. Raine had a half-dozen keys
on the ring; Bailey tried each one.

The last opened the door. She flipped on the light.

A storage room. Almost a mini gallery. Paintings on the walls, on easels, on racks.

And they were all of True.

Bailey stood in the middle of the room and turned in a slow circle, taking it all
in. Some lovely portraits. True’s features glowing, as if from the inside, making
True appear an ethereal beauty. An angel come to earth. Others dark. Vile and violent.
True with the black heart of a beast. Of a True torn apart by imaginary wolves, screaming
in pain. Her fear and despair as palpable in this oil painting as Raine’s was in real
life.

And in one of these terrible images, True wore red shoes.

Heart thundering, Bailey studied the painting, those small red splashes. Unmistakable,
although with them rendered in Raine’s expressionistic style, it was impossible to
tell what style of shoes they were.

It didn’t prove anything. But it could mean everything. It could be the answer she’d
come here looking for. Had she painted those shoes from imagination? Or memory?

Only Raine had the answers.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Bailey whirled around. Raine stood behind her, face white with rage.

Bailey held a hand out. “This painting of True, she—”

“Get out.”

“The shoes, Raine, the red shoes, I have to know—”

“These are private! This room is private!”

“Please—” She lowered her voice. “I meant no harm, I promise. I have to know, why
did you put her in red—”

She curled her hands into fists. “I should kill you.”

“What did you say?”

“I could. Right now, with my bare hands. Or I could get my gun—” She took a lopsided
step toward Bailey, eyes glittering. “I have one, you know. I grew up hunting with
Logan and Roane. And I’m an excellent shot. I could just”—she lifted her hands in
a facsimile of a gun—“blow you away.”

Shatter every window ’til it’s all blown away …

“You’re talking crazy.”

She swayed and grabbed the doorjamb for support. “That’s me, poor, crazy Raine.”

“I’m leaving.”

“No.” Raine caught her arm as she moved past, her grip surprisingly strong. “What
were you looking for?”

Why not? Bailey wondered, looking her straight in the eyes. What did she have to lose?
“True’s shoe size.”

The other woman looked comically surprised. “What the hell for?”

“You wouldn’t tell me anyway.” Bailey jerked her arm free. “Forget it. Enjoy the brownies.”

“Maybe you’re the one who’s crazy!” Raine called after her. “Not me.”

Bailey reached the door, opened it, started through.

“What does it matter!” Raine’s voice turned high-pitched, hysterical. “Same size as
mine! Six and a half!”

Bailey didn’t turn back or even slow her steps until she reached her own driveway.
There, she stopped. Breathing hard. Legs rubbery.

Six and a half. About the size of the red shoe.

The garage door stood open. The big, blue trash bin there to the far left. Mocking
her. Taunting her to take a look.
“Come see,”
it seemed to call,
“then you’ll know for certain!”

Even as she tried to reason herself out of it, she started toward it, a sensation
rolling over her. Heavy. Almost smothering.

Her head filled with the image of Raine’s painting. True, wearing red shoes.

Size six and a half.

What are you doing, Bailey? Just leave it alone. You’ve already damaged your marriage.

She couldn’t leave it alone. It felt as if she was being drawn by some invisible but
powerful force. She stepped into the garage. Crossed to the bin. Lifted the lid. Peered
inside.

The shoe was gone.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Wednesday, April 23

10:00
A.M.

All the Wholesome old-timers had turned out for Henry’s funeral as well as a smattering
of others. Stephanie’s friends and coworkers. The staff of Abbott Farm. The curious.

Oddly, Billy Ray was not one of them.

Bailey stopped in front of a table displaying photographs and memorabilia from Henry’s
life. He’d been movie star handsome before the accident. Dark and dashing. He’d been
an accomplished horseman, she saw by the number of show ribbons and medals.

And kind. She saw it in the photos, shining from his eyes.

No wonder Elisabeth Abbott had fallen in love with him.

Faye came up beside her. She had closed the diner so she and the staff could pay their
respects. “He was a heartbreaker, that’s for sure. Wasn’t a woman in the parish who
set eyes on him who didn’t swoon.”

She chuckled, almost to herself. “Him, he hardly noticed. He was just good people.
Before the accident and after.”

Before Bailey could reply, a collective murmur moved through the room. She turned.
Two uniformed officers. One young and gangly, the other old and portly, both in uniform,
sidearms included.

Bailey heard the whispering. The word
“murdered”
breathed from one ear to the next. She saw by Stephanie’s expression that she heard,
too. It infuriated her. This day was to honor Henry’s life, his good spirit, not to
gossip about his death.

She cornered the young one. “What’s your name, Officer?”

“Earl Stroup, ma’am.”

“You should be ashamed,” she said softly, so no one but him would hear. “Coming here,
armed like that. It’s disrespectful.”

“I have a job to do, ma’am.”

“And what, exactly, is it?”

His face reddened. “Surveillance, ma’am.”

“You couldn’t do that in a suit?”

He cleared his throat and shuffled from one foot to the other. “I don’t mean any disrespect.
Henry was a sweet old guy. But me and Bob got our orders.”

Just like she figured. “More like, your boss’s vendetta to carry out.” From across
the room, Logan caught her eye, then motioned that the service was about to begin.
“Excuse me, Officer Stroup, I need to join my husband.”

Bailey returned to Logan’s side. He guided her, his hand resting at the small of her
back, steadying her. He stood so close she could smell his spicy aftershave, feel
the warmth of his body. Yet it felt to her as if miles separated them.

They’d hardly spoken the night before. He’d returned from the barn distant, distracted.
She had been grateful not to have to pretend her world wasn’t falling apart.

Logan had taken the red shoe. Why?

The viewing room of the tiny funeral home was filled to overflowing. Stephanie had
asked Bailey and Logan if they and Raine would sit in the front row with her. Not
only because she didn’t want to be alone, but because Henry had considered the Abbotts
his family.

As she scooted into the pew, Stephanie touched her hand. Bailey bent and hugged her.
“I’m so sorry, Steph.”

“Thank you for being here.”

Bailey nodded and took the seat next to Logan. Paul and August were directly behind
them, but Raine was nowhere to be seen. She turned and scanned the rows of faces,
but still didn’t see her.

She leaned toward Logan. “Where’s your sister?”

He, too, scanned the pews, then shook his head. “She was here earlier.” He looked
over his shoulder at Paul. “You know where Raine is?”

“No clue.” He looked at August in question; he, too, indicated he did not know.

“You want me to go look for her?” Bailey asked.

“Don’t bother. She’d be here if she thought she could handle it.”

Bailey pictured the other woman, curled up somewhere. Falling apart. But still, she
knew he was right. Raine wouldn’t accept her—or anyone else’s—offer of comfort.

She opened her hand in a silent invitation for Logan to clasp it. He did and the minister
began. He spoke of life and death. Hope and resurrection. Of a simple man who had
loved generously.

The room was warm. Too warm. Bailey breathed deeply through her nose, hoping the oxygen
would steady her.

She tried to focus on the preacher, her gaze kept drifting back to the casket.

Could she have done something? Could she have intervened? She’d been close by, so
close his blood had soaked her clothes. Coated her hands.

Red. Everywhere.

And now Henry was in a box.

A box.

A small wooden box. Henry beaming at her. A gift. For her.

Bailey brought a hand to her mouth, feeling like she might be sick. No. She had to
hold it back. She couldn’t, not here. Not now.

She pressed her lips together, gaze fixed on the minister. She began to sweat. Her
heart to race.

Henry.

Beaming at her as he lifted the box’s lid.

Hand to her mouth, Bailey jumped to her feet. She felt everyone’s gaze turn to her,
heard the minister stumble over his words.

Logan was saying something. She couldn’t stop, couldn’t pause to listen. She scooted
out of the pew and raced to the ladies’ room. She made it safely inside but no farther
than a sink. She bent over it and lost her breakfast.

Bailey rinsed her mouth first, then the sink, using paper towels and hand soap to
clean it up. Only then did she see that she wasn’t alone.

Raine was curled up on the small settee. Staring at her with puffy, bloodshot eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Bailey said. “I didn’t see you there.”

“I have a mint. If you’d like one.”

The kindness surprised her. “I would, thanks.”

Feeling wobbly, Bailey crossed and sat on the opposite end of the settee. Raine dug
an aluminum box out of her purse and held it out.

Another box, Bailey thought.

“They’re curiously strong,” Raine said.

Bailey smiled weakly at her reference to the brand’s campaign line and her sister-in-law’s
attempt at levity. “I still think I’ll need two.”

“Keep the box.”

“Thanks.” She closed her fingers over it. “I appreciate it.”