She clears her throat. “Yes, that’s correct.”
“Thank you. And about what time did you arrive at Chantilly’s?”
“Just after ten.”
Her answers are a bit stilted but considering the subject matter and situation, I can’t find fault with any of them so far.
“And what time did you leave Chantilly’s?”
“Just before midnight.”
“I spoke with the bartender on duty Saturday night, Ray Simmons. He said it looked like you met someone there. Sat with him at the bar the entire time. Can you tell me who that was?”
She coughs to clear her throat. “Yes, I met my brother, Silas, there. We had a drink and caught up since I haven’t seen him in a while.”
I was surprised when she mentioned this earlier when we were going over the case; otherwise Sullivan would see the shocked reaction I hadupon hearing it. It was my understanding that she and Silas were not that close, and I can’t help but think there’s something here I’m missing.
“You were at Chantilly’s with your brother, Silas Everett?” Sullivan’s pen is poised over the pad while he studies Camille.
She nods then remembers the recorder. “Yes.”
“Did you plan to meet him there? Was it a coincidence?”
Camille is blinking rapidly, which isn’t good. It makes her look nervous and twitchy. Sullivan is seeing it too.
“I saw Silas at a charity event a few weeks ago and we made plans to meet for a drink since Corbeau is so close to St. Francisville.”
This is the same thing she told me too, and I have to wonder if Sullivan is as skeptical about this as I am.
“Would it be possible for me to speak to your brother?”
I hold a hand up, stopping Camille from answering. “Just want to make sure we’re on the same page. We’re not opposed to you contacting Silas Everett, but my understanding is you need information from Camille about this past weekend, since she is a witness, not a suspect. Is that correct?”
I’m forcing his hand a bit here, but if he sees her as a suspect, I’m shutting this down immediately.
Sullivan leans back in his chair and looks at me. “Camille Bayliss is not considered a suspect. At this time.”
That last part was deliberate. I nod to Camille to answer his question.
“He’ll be here to pick me up when we’re finished and he’s prepared to tell you exactly what I just did.”
It takes everything in me not to bang my head on the table. Phrasing it like that is about the worse way to put it when you’re looking for someone to corroborate your story.
This is the tricky part. It’s not just the anatomy of an alibi—havingsomeonevouch that you were somewhere else when the crime was committed—but it’s the psychology of it: that thatsomeoneis believable. A family member automatically brings skepticism, especially one who is “prepared,” as she put it.
“Okay, I’ll speak to him if he’s out there when I leave; otherwise I will need him to come to the station.” Sullivan looks up from his notepad. “Is there anyone you can think of who would wish your husband harm? Has he had a falling-out with a friend? Gotten sideways with a neighbor? Anyone from his past make a reappearance?”
She’s gnawing on her bottom lip. First time she’s really looked nervous about answering a question.
“No, no one that I can think of.” I don’t know how I know it but she’s lying.
Sullivan nods slowly. He sees everything I do.
The detective puts his pen down again and pulls a picture from his bag, passing it to us. It’s one the news stations have used several times when reporting on Ben’s case. A Louisiana lifestyle magazine had done a story on Ben recently, and this photo they took of him in his home office was included in the article. In the image, Ben is leaned back in his chair, his feet propped up on the corner of the desk. When I first saw this picture, I thought he looked like a smug asshole. Not my favorite shot of him.
And now I’m really curious why Sullivan is showing it to us.
“We’ve all seen this picture,” he says, leaning forward. “Mrs. Bayliss, could you look at the items on his desk.”
