A Cutthroat Business (22 page)

Fidelio’s was even busier tonight than last time we’d been there — not surprisingly, as it was Friday instead of mid-week — but Todd had called ahead, so there was a table waiting for us. He had sense enough to wait until the — excellent — meal was over, and we were lingering over coffee and dessert, before he returned to the same irksome subject.

“Has he been to your apartment before?” He wasn’t looking at me, but gazing around the room as he waited for my answer.

“Who?” I said, looking around, too. “Oh, Rafe? No, he hasn’t.”

“Did you tell him where you live?”

I shook my head. “I have no idea where he got my address. I have no idea where
you
got my address, if it comes to that.”

“I asked your mother,” Todd said.

Naturally. “Well, I’m sure Rafe didn’t. Mother wouldn’t have given it to him, and I think he’s smart enough to know that.”

Todd nodded approvingly. “I’m glad you don’t give your personal information to just anyone,
Savannah
. One can never be too careful, you know. After all, look at what happened to Miss Puckett!”

“Actually,” I said, “it seems Brenda Puckett was killed for personal reasons, by her assistant.”

“Oh, dear,” Todd said. “So someone else you worked with.”

I nodded. “I’m still not sure I understand it. Clarice did everything for Brenda. She picked up her dry-cleaning and booked her hair appointments and kept track of her children’s birthdays, not to mention all the demands of the business. If Brenda had a closing, Clarice made sure the paperwork got to the attorney. If Brenda needed a termite letter, Clarice called the exterminator, and if Brenda had a new listing, Clarice made the fliers. Brenda would have been totally lost without Clarice, and the way Clarice was blubbering at the memorial service, it certainly seemed like she felt totally lost without Brenda.”

“So why are you so sure Clarice killed her?” Todd asked, stabbing his cheesecake with his fork. I tried not to look envious as I sipped my black coffee. I love cheesecake, but mother has me firmly trained not to eat too much in front of a gentleman. It’s a holdover from the days when a Southern Belle should have a sixteen-inch waist and eat like a bird. I don’t have a sixteen-inch waist — far from it — but I never order dessert when I’m on a date.

I explained about the knife, and Todd protested, “But that doesn’t prove anything. Just because the same knife was used in both cases, doesn’t mean that Clarice was the one who used it. Any halfway decent defense attorney could make mincemeat of that argument in court.”

“Where it won’t ever go, since they’re both dead. But what you’re saying is that someone else may have killed Brenda, and Clarice held onto the knife so she could kill herself with it later? Or Clarice killed Brenda and someone else killed Clarice? Who would do such a thing?”

“Someone who wanted to avenge Miss Puckett’s death, obviously,” Todd said.

I shook my head. “There’s nobody who’s sorry that Brenda is dead. Not even her family. Her husband has a new fiancée already, and her daughter is probably snuggling up to her unsuitable boyfriend as we speak.”

“Fine,” Todd said impatiently, obviously irritated that I didn’t applaud his suggestions, “so maybe someone else killed both of them.”

I sat back in my seat. “That would explain why Detective Grimaldi asked me whether I had an alibi for last night.”
 

“The police think
you
may have killed Miss Webster?
Savannah
...!”

“It’s just because she caught me snooping in Brenda’s office last night,” I said.

Todd looked shocked, and I added, defensively, “I was just looking for the folder for
101 Potsdam Street
. For Rafe.”

“I actually asked you out tonight to talk to you about Collier,” Todd said, recognizing a smooth segue when he heard one.

I sniffed. “How flattering.”

“I didn’t mean it like that. I enjoy your company,
Savannah
; you know that. I’m just concerned that you’re getting involved with someone dangerous.”

“In that case,” I answered, “let me put your mind at ease. I am not getting involved with him. Quite the opposite. Our relationship is purely professional.”

“That’s not how I’d describe it,” Todd said.

I arched my brows. “What do you mean by that?”

“He showed up at your apartment, uninvited, after business hours, and without you even having told him the address. And the way he looked at you... there was nothing professional about that!”

“He’s a man,” I said. “Men look at women in tight dresses.”

“Not that way,” Todd said darkly.

“You’re being silly,” I answered.

“Well, I don’t think you should wear anything like that around him again.” He glowered at my — really quite conservative, considering — little black dress.

Now, I know he was just being chivalrous, but personally, I hadn’t found Rafe’s regard all that offensive. Most men ogle women, that’s just the way of the world, and although Rafe hadn’t bothered to be polite and well-bred about it — probably because he wasn’t well-bred or polite — he hadn’t made me feel like I had anything to worry about, either. If he truly had plans to tie me up and have his way with me, I doubted he’d be so cheerfully and lecherously up-front about it.

“I wore this dress to go to dinner with
you
, Todd,” I said soothingly. “Rafe Collier showing up was incidental. Any other time I’ve seen him, I’ve been more professionally dressed, believe me.”

Todd didn’t answer. I added, “So was that all you wanted to talk about, or was there more?”

“There’s more.” Todd put his fork down and stuck his hand into the breast pocket of his dark suit. He extracted a couple of folded sheets of paper. “After you told me Collier had shown up, I decided to look into him.”

“Dix told me.” My voice was cool, but Todd either didn’t notice, or chose not to let me see that he had. “And I don’t think you should have, not without a better reason. You can’t arbitrarily do background-checks on people just because you don’t like their faces.”

He unfolded the ominous-looking papers. “I didn’t go deep. All of this was available through official channels. There’s nothing personal here. He doesn’t own property anywhere; at least not in his own name. He doesn’t owe money. He doesn’t have a credit card. He has two bank accounts; a checking account with a few hundred dollars in it, and a savings account with a few thousand. He’s never been married and has no known dependents. He’s never been sued. He hasn’t been arrested in the past ten years, although he’s come to the police’s attention on several occasions.”

“For what?” I wanted to know, interested despite myself.

“Involvement in criminal activities,” Todd answered.

I wrinkled my forehead. “Is he involved in something criminal now?”

“His most recent brush with the law was over Brenda Puckett’s murder,” Todd said.

“But he wasn’t involved in that.”

“He was interviewed in connection with it.”

“So was I,” I said.

“That’s different,” Todd answered. “You didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Neither did he. I had more to do with it than him; at least I knew Brenda and wanted to murder her occasionally myself.”

Todd shrugged, as if my objection was a minor point of no consequence and not worthy of remark. Referring to his papers again, he added, “He files income tax, but doesn’t appear to have a steady job. He filed as an independent contractor last year, and didn’t have enough income to owe much.” Todd shook his head in amazement and came down off his high horse for a moment. “He made less than $25,000 after deductions, can you imagine?”

I smiled politely, and refrained from mentioning what my annual salary had been for the past two years. “I guess he’s used to living cheaply.” Although that didn’t explain the wickedly expensive Harley-Davidson he’d been riding. But maybe it wasn’t his. Or maybe Rafe, like so many other Americans, cheated on his taxes. Maybe he had an undeclared source of income, one that the IRS knew nothing about. Like drug dealing or gun running or murder for hire.

“Listen, Todd, I’m not sure this is any of our business.” If Rafe hadn’t done anything wrong, it didn’t seem right to snoop in his private affairs. And if he had, all the more reason to ask as few questions as possible.

“I just want you to understand what you’re dealing with,
Savannah
.” Todd folded the papers again, preparatory to putting them back in his pocket. “Collier is different from the people you’re used to. And it isn’t just the cultural difference, although...”

“What cultural difference?” I interrupted. “He grew up less than three miles from both of us. What kind of cultural difference is that?”

The Satterfields owned a big turn-of-the-(last-)century foursquare in the middle of Sweetwater, where Todd had been raised in almost as much musty splendor as Catherine, Dix and I. It was a far cry from the squalor of the Bog, but hardly a different world for all that.

Todd didn’t answer directly. Instead he said, “The Colliers were no better than they ought to be,
Savannah
. LaDonna got herself in the family way at fourteen, and Bubba was in jail by seventeen. Old Jim was in trouble with the law his entire life, and you remember what Rafe was like. Dad always used to say it was a matter of time before he ended up either in prison or six feet under. It didn’t come as a surprise to anyone when he was arrested.”

Of course it hadn’t. Everyone in town had been waiting and hoping, and some of us probably hadn’t cared particularly whether he ended up in one place or the other, just so long as we
didn’t have to deal with him anymore. No wonder he hadn’t come back to Sweetwater when he was released from prison. No wonder he had chosen to handle the arrangements for LaDonna’s funeral by phone. I was surprised he’d come back in person to clean out her belongings, instead of hiring a crew to pack them up. Although if he truly was as hard-up as Todd said, maybe he couldn’t afford it.

The conversation had put something of a damper on the evening, and we called it a night shortly thereafter. Todd drove me back home in his cushy SUV. He didn’t ask to come in for a nightcap, although he did give me a proper kiss this time. There was even an embrace and some tentative probing of tongues involved. It didn’t leave me feeling faint or dizzy, or even weak in the knees, but as kisses go, it wasn’t bad. I’d certainly had worse. Bradley...

But I won’t bore you with the details. Enough simply to say that I’ve come to the conclusion that the weak-kneed, fainting heroine is a convention that romance publishing has come up with to perpetuate the sale of their tawdry novels. They know that none of us are likely to ever meet a real man who sweeps us off our feet, so they keep publishing books with macho, masterful males, thus encouraging us to keep reading, thus perpetuating the myth of the weak-kneed, dizzy heroine. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

I
 
waited until Todd was safely underway before I called his father. “Sheriff? This is Savannah Martin.”

There was a beat, and some noise, before the sheriff answered. “Well, hello there, darlin’. What can I do for you?”

“I just wanted to ask you a question,” I said. It sounded like the sheriff was entertaining while his son was out, but it could just have been the TV, I suppose.

“And what might that be, darlin’?”

“Well,” I said, “I just came home from having dinner with Todd...”

“Oh, he’s on his way back?” The rustling immediately became more agitated, and I thought I could hear a female voice murmur something.
 

“I’m sorry,” I said, “is this a bad time? It sounds like you’ve got company...”

“No, no, darlin’. Nothin’ to worry about.” I heard the sound of bedsprings, and imagined the sheriff sitting down on the edge of the bed with the phone to his ear. Good thing technology hasn’t provided us with visuals yet, or I might have seen a scantily clad woman hurriedly gathering herself in the background.

“Are you sure? Because I can call back later. Or tomorrow. It isn’t urgent.”

“Now is fine. If Todd’s on his way back... That is, any time’s a good time to talk to you, darlin’.”

I hid a smile. “That’s awfully sweet of you, sheriff. This won’t take long, I promise. I just wanted to check something. Todd happened to mention that Jim Collier, LaDonna’s daddy, was a bit of a troublemaker...?”

“Sure was, darlin’,” Sheriff Satterfield agreed readily. The rustling in the background had stopped while I spoke, so I had either imagined it, or the person who had been there had left. “In and out of jail his whole life. Beat his wife, beat his kids, beat the dog, fought, drank and fornicated. And bigoted? Whoa! I remember once — long time ago now, before you young’uns were born — some black kids came into the Bog. Old Jim pulled out his shotgun and blasted’em off his property.”

“You’re kidding!”

I heard bedsprings squeak as the sheriff settled himself more comfortably. “Fraid not, darlin’. Filled their behinds full of buckshot, he did. Told me a man has the right to protect his property ‘gainst vermin. Had me shakin’ in my boots, I don’t mind tellin’ you.”