A Midnight Clear Read online

  A Midnight Clear

  A Locust Point Mystery - Book 9

  Libby Howard

  Copyright © 2019 by Libby Howard

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Also by Libby Howard

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  I smoothed a hand over the white silk of the full-length, sleeveless dress, lightly tracing the black embroidery across the bodice and down the side as I looked at my reflection. My shoulder-length hair had spent the last hour in hot rollers, making it look like a silver-streaked curly bob. The new do and my professionally applied make-up seemed to take a dozen years off my appearance, but maybe that was wishful thinking on my part. I’d never fretted about my age when Eli had been alive. Growing old was one of the ever-shifting facets of our life and love together. I didn’t regret the gray in my hair, or the wrinkles edging my eyes and bracketing my mouth, but it had been a shock to look in the mirror after Eli’s funeral and wonder where the last few decades had gone. One moment I was forty, and the next I was sixty, a widow, and worried that I’d need to sell our beloved home before I even had a chance to order the headstone for my husband’s grave.

  I wished Eli could see me now. Actually, I wished the Eli prior to his accident could see me now. The Eli I’d been married to the last ten years of our lives would have felt a pang of regret to see this woman in the mirror. There had been moments when he’d expressed equal parts guilt and frustration over his condition, and claimed that he was nothing more than a heavy stone around my neck, weighing me down. He’d worried that his disability was eating away at our marriage.

  That hadn’t been true. Yes, there were days when caring for him was hard. There were times when he seemed so different from who he’d been before the accident. But together we’d found a different kind of love than we’d had in the first part of our marriage.

  Even though I tried to let my memories be a balm to the grief, there were days when the realization that he was gone stabbed sharply in my chest. I’d let him go. I hadn’t seen or felt his ghost since Thanksgiving. And although I knew that was the right thing, I missed the comfort his ghostly presence brought me.

  Tonight felt like a turning point somehow. It felt as if I were taking a step forward out of the old and into something new and different—into something scary.

  The woman staring back at me from out of the mirror appeared strong, confident, smart, beautiful—not beautiful like a girl in the first blush of womanhood, or a mother glowing with the frazzled beauty of one who creates and nurtures. No, this woman in the mirror had maturity. She had the beauty of a woman who has seen life, who knows what she wants, who sees through bullshit and isn’t about to let anyone—man or woman—take advantage of her.

  She was sexy. And that’s what scared me.

  I didn’t need to be sexy. Okay, a tiny part of me wanted to be sexy, but I didn’t need it. Not now. Maybe not ever.

  There was a little devil on my shoulder that called me a liar. I’d never been a beauty, but at sixty I felt as if I were closer to that adjective than I’d ever been. I knew that I would turn heads tonight. I knew that even in a culture that worshiped the cult of youth when it came to women, I would be seen, respected, admired, and desired. The little devil on my shoulder was excited about that.

  Actually the little devil was excited to see one man’s reaction in particular.

  What would Judge Beck say when he saw me? Unbidden, my imagination flew off into scenes of intimacy I had no business thinking of.

  Yes, he was a very handsome man. These months living with him had revealed him to be kind, honorable, intelligent, fair, and caring. He had a sense of humor. He was an amazing father. If I were to be completely honest with myself, I’d been fighting an attraction to him for quite a while now. But I worried that falling in love with the judge would only end in heartbreak for me. He was nearly fifteen years younger than me. He wasn’t divorced yet, and I wasn’t quite sure he was ready to move on from his failed marriage at this time. Even if some miracle occurred and he felt a spark of attraction for me, anything between us would be doomed to failure. I’d end up not just with heartbreak. I’d lose two kids I’d grown to love. I’d lose a friendship and companionship I’d come to cherish. I’d lose a roommate and the income that kept my house from foreclosure.

  I’d buried my husband less than a year ago. How could I possibly be thinking of another man so soon? What sort of horrible, disloyal wife was I to even think about a relationship with another man at this time?

  Glancing at the clock, I realized it was time to go. I straightened my shoulders, smoothed a hand once more down my dress, and turned away from the mirror. The stairs creaked as I headed down. Turning on the final landing, I caught a glimpse of Taco, Henry, and Madison, waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Henry grinned, giving me a less-than-subtle thumbs-up. Madison’s eyes grew wide, her mouth in an “O”. Then she did what I can only describe as a quick jig. Taco wasn’t as impressed. The cat eyed me, then proceeded to sit down and clean one of his paws.

  “She’s ready!” Madison announced, still hopping from one foot to the other.

  Two more steps down and Judge Beck came into my view. His back was toward me, a tall, muscular figure in black, his blond hair not quite short enough to hide the natural wave that curled the lighter bits around the back of his neck. He turned at his daughter’s words, and my breath lodged in my chest.

  I’d seen him in suits. I’d seen him in his judge’s robes. I’d seen him in khakis and a polo shirt, in swimming trunks, in pajama bottoms with an old t-shirt, but nothing compared to Judge Beck in a tux. Holy cow, the man should have been a model for formal wear.

  I’m sure it helped that the tux was obviously not a rental, and had been clearly designed and tailored not just to fit his body, but to accentuate his broad shoulders and slim waist. The back view had been darned fine, but from the front…

  I forced my eyes up to his face, and felt my legs turn to rubber. That one lock of blond hair had escaped the rest and staked a claim on his forehead, giving him a look of disheveled glamor. The tanned skin with his chiseled good looks. The curve of his mouth that softened all but the sternest of his expressions. Everything about him was breathtakingly handsome, but it was his eyes that truly held me—those beautiful hazel eyes.

  Suddenly I realized I was standing on the steps like a statue, staring at my roommate while two teens eyed us both in amusement.

  Do not fall down the stairs. I forced myself to take a cautious step, holding the railing just in case my unexpectedly weak legs failed me.

  “You look very nice, Kay,” Judge Beck told me in a husky tone.

  Madison rolled her eyes and shot her father an exasperated glance. “You look beautiful in that dress, Kay. Doesn’t she, Dad?”

  “Yes. The dress is very nice.”

  I bit back a smile, feeling more confident now that I knew my appearance had turned the usually well-spoken Judge Beck into a man who only knew
one, rather lame, adjective.

  “Thank you. I found it in the back of my closet and can’t remember when I must have bought it.” I shook my head, thinking I deserved an Emmy nomination for this. “It’s probably been in there for a decade at least.”

  Madison did not deserve an Emmy nomination. She laughed, clapping a hand over her mouth as she did that little jig again. I ignored her and walked over to the judge, picking my clutch up off the table and trying to smile up at him as if he wasn’t an Adonis of a man, as if we were just two friends heading out for a work function, or some charity event.

  He took a step forward, and suddenly we were too close. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I tucked my clutch under my arm and reached up and straightened his tie that most definitely didn’t need straightening.

  “You look quite handsome in that tux, Judge Beck,” I told him, refusing to use the word nice.

  “You, too. In the dress, I mean. Not tux. Very nice.” He drew in a ragged breath and ran a hand over his hair, freeing a few additional renegade locks to curl across his forehead. “We’ll probably be late,” he said to Madison and Henry. “We might not get back until well after midnight.”

  “Yes, yes.” Madison’s entire posture screamed that typical teen whatever. “We both have our phones. We’re to stay in the house and call if there’s any problem.”

  “No, you’re to call your mother if there’s any problem,” Judge Beck reminded her.

  “Or Miss Daisy,” Henry added. “Since she’s right down the street and can be here super fast in case we catch the house on fire or accidently fall on top of a butcher knife, or some dude in a hockey mask with a chainsaw tries to kill us.”

  “Stop.” I laughed. “You’re going to freak your father out, and we’ll never get to this Christmas party. No fires, or playing with butcher knives. And no opening the door to horror movie villains. Okay?”

  Henry held up a hand. “I promise.”

  “We better get going, before I decide I need to hire a babysitter.” Judge Beck pulled my wrap from the back of a chair, draping it over my shoulders and letting his fingers linger just a second on my neck as I hooked the clasp to secure it.

  “Taco has already been out,” I reminded the kids, struggling not to lose myself to the feel of what was probably an accidental caress as the judge removed his hands. “Not too many treats, and don’t let him convince you he hasn’t been fed, because he has.”

  The kids promised to not be conned by my cat as Judge Beck put a hand on my lower back to guide me to the door. I felt the heat and pressure through the silk of my dress and shivered. He kept the contact until we were outside, hesitating until he heard the kids lock up behind us before walking beside me down the wide stairs of my old Victorian home. We’d had a cold snap, and the frost on the sidewalk crunched under my pumps as we made our way to the judge’s SUV. His hand came out to take my elbow, and I appreciated the gesture. It had been a while since I’d worn more than modest heels, and I was a little uncertain how slippery the sidewalk would be.

  He opened the door, waiting for me to step into the SUV and get myself settled before closing the door and heading around to the driver’s side. The judge had always been polite and charmingly old fashioned in his manners, but this felt odd, as if we were two awkward kids on our way to the senior prom.

  We were silent as the slick black SUV pulled out of the driveway and headed down the street. I was determined to break the silence, and scrambled for something to talk about that would serve as a sort of ice-breaker between us.

  “What are you getting the kids for Christmas?” I finally asked.

  He chuckled, his long fingers sliding along the steering wheel as he turned the corner. “Madison wants a car.”

  “So you’ll be buying her a purse? Or a leather-bound set of law books?”

  “She’s mature, a good student, and she’s been a careful driver.”

  “But?” I eyed him, biting back a smile.

  “I keep thinking about that party she snuck out to this past spring. I hate to not trust her, but it would be a whole lot easier for her to do that with her own car.”

  “I think they have some sort of parental control GPS things you can put in cars now,” I told him. “Her phone as well.”

  “I know. There would be benefits to her having her own car as far as logistics in sports and school activities but I can’t help but feel absolutely terrified at the thought that she might be in an accident, hurt, or possibly killed. She’s not an experienced driver, and all it would take is one moment of indecision or inattention and that person running a stop sign or drifting across the center line will hit her.”

  “You’ll eventually have to trust her to drive your and Heather’s cars solo, even if you don’t buy her one of her own,” I pointed out.

  “Yes, but I don’t have to like it.” He sighed and shook his head. “This is just as frightening as when we brought her home from the hospital, a tiny little baby that I worried was going to stop breathing at any moment. It’s just as frightening as that time Henry fell and hit his head on the corner of the coffee table. It’s just as frightening as that time I found some man trying to kill you in the house across the street.”

  I took a moment to process that, perversely glad that I’d made the cut of people whose possible deaths frightened him.

  “And I hate the expectation that kids should be getting a brand new car the moment they get their licenses. I didn’t have a car until I was eighteen, and even then it was an Oldsmobile sedan made the year I was born that had mismatched seats and a broken fuel gauge.”

  “So you didn’t have to fake the whole ‘Oh my, I’ve run out of gas’ thing on a date?” I teased.

  He laughed. “I was too afraid of being chased down the street by some angry father waving a shotgun to try that one. Basically I topped the gas tank off every three days, terrified that I’d end up stranded on some back road and wind up a victim of the guy with the hockey mask and the chainsaw.”

  I nodded. “Wise choice. My first car was a 1972 Ford Pinto wagon complete with wood paneled sides. It was the mini-version of the big old family station wagons of the seventies. Like your car, my fuel gauge was faulty, although mine worked fine until it got to a quarter of a tank, then it stuck. First time I ran out of gas, I was convinced something else was wrong with the car because it still said I had a quarter tank of gas. Of course it had said I had a quarter tank of gas for almost two weeks. It never crossed my mind that my Pinto wagon wasn’t going to be getting sixty miles a gallon.”

  “Maybe I should get Madison a ’72 Pinto wagon, although one with a working gas gauge,” he suggested.

  “The gas gauge would be the least of your problems. I doubt you could find one still running. They weren’t exactly built to last, you know.”

  We drove for a few miles in silence before Judge Beck spoke again. “Heather asked me to get her the car. She said she’d chip in what she could afford and it would be from ‘both of us’.”

  I didn’t know how to respond to that. I liked the judge’s soon-to-be ex-wife, but I knew their divorce was stuffed full of anger, regret, and feelings of betrayal. I also knew that unless he was digging his heels in on something strictly out of anger and pride, that I’d always support his point of view—although I always tried to gently suggest a compromise.

  “What did you reply?” I ended up asking.

  “That I’d think about it.” He shot me a wry look. “And yes, my knee-jerk reaction was that I shouldn’t have to include Heather if I’m paying for ninety percent of the gift.”

  I shifted in the seat to face him. “What’s the real stumbling block? Is it that Heather wants this for Madison and you’re feeling contrary? Is it that you truly don’t think she’s ready for her own car and maybe she needs a few years of driving experience under her belt first? Fears for her safety? A philosophical stance that children shouldn’t have their own cars until they’re eighteen? Worry over the expense?”

  “A
ll of the above.” He shrugged. “I think I’d be willing to get her a used beater car to learn on. Something sturdy that won’t break the bank if she rubs a tire on the curb or backs into a concrete support in a parking garage. That way she could call it her own and she’d have some flexibility about meeting friends and going to sporting events without needing to take our only vehicle.”

  “So do it.” I reached out and tugged playfully at the sleeve of his tux. “I’ll start searching Craigslist for ’72 Pinto wagons. Heather will only need to contribute a couple of twenties at the most, and you can slap a bow on it for Christmas and make a young woman happy.”

  “I know you’re joking, but the whole ‘used car’ thing is also a problem.” He frowned. “I floated the idea to Heather and she was appalled. Evidently the kids at the high school either get a brand new car or none at all. I don’t really care if Heather thinks it’s beneath us to give our child a used car, but I don’t want Madison to hate it, to be disappointed.”

  I reached out again to touch his sleeve. “Do you know your daughter? Yes, Madison loves her fancy clothes and shoes and make-up. Yes, she wants to run with the popular crowd and date the hot boys, but when it comes down to it, she’s well-grounded. She sticks up for her friends, hangs out with kids who share her interests no matter if they’re rich or popular or not. She befriended Peony Smith, for goodness sake. And she’s continued to write to her and encourage her even after the girl went to prison. She’s not going to turn her nose up at a used car. I mean, maybe she would if you got her a ’72 Pinto wagon, but not a twelve-year-old Acura or something.”

  The judge chuckled. “You know Henry would be all about that ’72 Pinto wagon.”