A Cutthroat Business (32 page)

Rafe shrugged.

“Anyway, Maurice doesn’t call the cops, but he hangs around to make sure someone else does. You know, I agree with you. He lacks spine. Anyway, then you show up. But you don’t go in, and when you get tired of waiting, you call me, and between us, we find Brenda. And Maurice goes home to hide the check in his underwear drawer.”

Rafe nodded.

“The next thing that happened was that Clarice died. No, wait; that’s not true. The next thing that happened was that the
Nashville Voice
ran a derogatory article about Brenda, and dredged up the whole Kress-building fiasco. It could be unrelated, but then again, maybe not. Maybe someone tipped them off. Maybe the murderer did it.”

“Why?”

“Who knows? Out of plain maliciousness, or to throw suspicion on Clarice. Or to give her another reason for supposedly committing suicide, if the murderer had already decided to do away with her.”

Rafe nodded. I added, “But Clarice wouldn’t have done that, would she? She wouldn’t want to implicate herself, or dredge up the old business.”

“Don’t seem that way.” Rafe turned the car onto
East Main Street
. I was almost home. I began to talk faster. I wanted it all said by the time we got to my apartment, because there was no way I was inviting him in to continue the exposition. This time, come hell or high water, I would say goodnight in the car, outside the gate.
 

“So someone else did it. And then that same someone made an appointment with Clarice on Thursday night, and killed her too. With the same knife he or she used on Brenda. To make it look like Clarice had killed Brenda and then herself.”

“Works for me.” Was it my imagination, or was he driving more slowly? The roof of my apartment building was visible just over the next crest, so he might also want me to finish what I had to say before we got there. Maybe he thought the evening had been long enough. Maybe he couldn’t wait to get rid of me...

“The only thing left to do, is figure out who it was. Someone with a reason for wanting Brenda dead... that’s practically all of
Nashville
. Her husband, his mistress, her daughter, her daughter’s boyfriend, every real estate agent who’s ever worked with her, and at least half her clients, current and former, including you and your grandmother. Not to mention the wacko who peppered her billboard with buckshot last month. Who’d want to kill Clarice, though? And why?”

“At a guess,” Rafe said, slowing down a little more; I was sure by now I wasn’t imagining it, “she prob’ly knew who Brenda took with her on Saturday morning, and decided to try another spot of blackmail. It worked out real good last time.”

I nodded. That made sense. “Someone they both knew, then. Tim, maybe. He has plenty of income, and I don’t see him letting himself be blackmailed. The receptionist at the Stor-All did say she saw him on Monday morning, when he had no business being there. He said she’d made a mistake, but that’s what he’d say anyway, isn’t it? On the other hand, I can’t really see him cut someone’s throat. Too squeamish, don’t you think? Maybelle Driscoll would take it in stride, but I’m not too sure about Steven. Surely he’d find it hard to cold-bloodedly cut the throat of the woman he had lived with and slept with for twenty years, and who had given him two children?
Austin
is too young, and I just can’t believe it of Alexandra, but then there’s... um... your grandmother.”

He sent me a black look. “Keep my grandmother out of this.”

“I wish I could,” I said sincerely, “but she had every reason in the world for wanting to kill Brenda, either because she thought Brenda had broken into her house or because she understood that Brenda had cheated her out of it. And it’s not like she would go to jail even if she did do it; she’s clearly
non compus mentis
...”

I trailed off as I watched Rafe’s hands tighten on the steering wheel until the knuckles showed white. It looked like he was imagining squeezing something soft, like my throat.

“On the other hand,” I said, “let’s keep your grandmother out of it.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem. By the way, while I’m still thinking about it,
Walker
asked me if I thought you’d be interested in getting the house back, without having to pay the hundred grand, if he could arrange it. The only stipulation is that you keep it quiet.”

He sent me a suspicious glance. “Why?”

“He’s hoping to be elected for a spot on the real estate commission next spring. He’s been working toward it for a long time, and all of these tragedies haven’t improved his chances, poor man. I promised I’d ask you.”

“Sure.” He shrugged. “I ain’t proud.”

“I’ll let him know.” I leaned back in my seat and watched my apartment building come closer. This time I wasn’t going to be caught off-guard.

When he slid up to the curb, I had the door open before we’d even come to a complete stop. “Thanks again. For everything.”

“You sure you don’t want me to walk you up?”

I shook my head, a little too emphatically. His eyes crinkled. “You afraid of a repeat of last time, darlin’?”

I shrugged. No sense in denying the obvious.

He smiled. “I ain’t gonna hurt you, you know.”

“I know. It’s just... my mother would kill me.”

He cocked his head. “You planning on telling her?”

I shook my head. “Oh, no.” I would never breathe a word of this evening to my mother. Not for all the money in Clarice’s IRA account. But I wasn’t about to compound the offenses I had already committed by allowing myself to be kissed by him, either. There are limits.

I had been prepared for a prolonged argument, but to my surprise and — dare I say it? — merest hint of disappointment, he didn’t quibble. “Guess that’s it, then. Good night, darlin’. And thanks for a good time.”

He extended a hand through the car window. It seemed churlish and ungrateful not to take it, considering everything I’d put him through, so I placed my hand in his and prepared to shake. I daresay I should have known better. He lifted it to his mouth and brushed his lips over my knuckles before turning my hand over and kissing my palm. Scrubbing it against my thigh to get rid of the feeling of his lips on my skin would only make me look like I cared, so the kiss stayed there the whole way across the courtyard and up the stairs to my door, like the niggling of a mosquito bite.

So that was that, I reflected the next morning. I had made it through the previous night without being arrested for burglary and more importantly, without being kissed by Rafe. And considering the terms on which we had parted, it seemed as if he had realized — finally! — that any hopes he harbored in my direction — if he harbored any, and he didn’t just attempt to talk me into bed on principle — were bound to be unfulfilled. What a relief. That he realized it, I mean.

Of course, the rest of it was a relief, too; I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. But in this case, I mostly meant that it was a relief that he realized it and so, presumably, would stop bugging me. Not that I actually minded the bugging all that much, so long as he was just joking. It was the idea that he might not be, that was scary. And that was why it was a relief that he seemed to have accepted that I wouldn’t ever have anything of a sexual or romantic nature to do with him. It removed quite a load from my mind.

That settled, I moved on to more important things. After a leisurely breakfast of black coffee and the cheesecake from yesterday – yes, I’ll eat dessert as long as nobody masculine is around to see me do it – I spent a couple of hours freshening my manicure and pedicure, and doing my hair and make-up. That done, and once noon rolled around and it was acceptable to call people — it was a Sunday, after all, and we Southerners take our religion seriously — I got on the horn.

My first call was to Dix, who was having brunch at The Wayside Inn and Restaurant in Sweetwater, as he explained when I asked about the noise I could hear in the background.

“Who’s with you?” I inquired, since his voice had that unnaturally cheerful quality that voices tend to have when someone is listening. I could hear his children — three year old Hannah and five year old Abby — squabbling just far enough away that I couldn’t make out what the argument was about.

“Sheila and the kids, of course. And Todd Satterfield and his dad, and um... mom.”

In that case, I had probably better not tell him — and by extension the rest of them — who I’d had dinner with last night. Or, as had been my intention, ask advice about Rafe’s dilemma with regards to Mrs. Jenkins.

“Say hello to them all for me, would you?” I said instead, brightly. “I had something of a professional nature I wanted to ask you, but it sounds like you’re busy just now. Why don’t you give me a call later, when you have a few minutes to talk?”

“Sure. Bye, sis.” He hung up without waiting for my answer. I leaned back, gnawing the newly-applied lipstick from my lower lip. Had he been so abrupt because he — bless him — didn’t want the rest of the family (and Todd and Sheriff Satterfield) to insist on interrogating me, or was there something going on that he didn’t want me to know about? Were they, perhaps, having a council of war, discussing my supposed involvement with Rafe, and what they could do about it?

But no, I told myself, that was surely paranoia rearing its ugly head. They were probably just having brunch together, like family and friends were wont to do after church on a Sunday, and it had nothing whatsoever to do with me.

My next call was to Walker, whom I caught at home. “Yes,
Savannah
,” he said promptly when I introduced myself, “what can I do for you this morning?”

I explained that I had spoken to Rafe the night before, “About what we discussed in the ladies’ room last night. Remember?”

“Of course,”
Walker
said smoothly. “How did Mr. Collier feel about the idea?”

“He seemed to feel just fine about it. I’m sure he’d appreciate anything you could do.”

“And you made sure he understands that this depends on us being able to keep the transaction quiet?”

I assured him I had done everything I could to impart that understanding. “I don’t think he’ll say anything to anyone. Although I suppose you could always get it in writing.”

“I’d prefer to keep that part of the agreement verbal,”
Walker
said blandly. “Does he strike you as someone who’d come back later with demands?”

“For money, you mean? Like Cla... I mean, like he’d try to blackmail you?”

Walker
might not — probably didn’t — know that Clarice had been blackmailing Brenda all these years, and it wasn’t my place to tell him. That agreement had been between Clarice and Brenda, and hadn’t affected
Walker
in any way, and what he didn’t know, really couldn’t hurt him, so I didn’t even feel a twinge of guilty conscience over keeping mum. When he didn’t say anything, I added, “No, I don’t think so. He might steal your money, but he’ll steal it honestly. He’s not someone who’ll sneak around behind your back.”

“In that case,”
Walker
said, “I’ll see if I can’t take care of this right away. Thank you for letting me know so promptly,
Savannah
.”

“My pleasure,” I said. “Is there anything I can do to help out?”

It sounded like he hesitated for a moment. “Actually, there is. I had scheduled an open house over at
Potsdam Street
today, from 2 to 4. It is still our listing, and until we hear otherwise, it is our responsibility to do our best for our client.”

“Of course,” I said.

“But now, with this problem to work out, it would be more convenient if I didn’t have to be there. I don’t suppose you’re available to do it instead?”

“I’d love to,” I said (although, between you and me, I didn’t love the idea as much as I said I did).

“There’s nothing to it,”
Walker
said bracingly. “Just talk to people and be your usual charming self, and all will be well.”

“Charming I can do. I spent a year in
Charleston
learning how to be charming.”

“There you go, then. I know you’ll do wonderfully. And if I can work this little problem out in time, I might see you there myself.”

“That would be great,” I said.
Walker
excused himself to get to work, and I did the same.

In my naiveté, I thought that not many people would come to an open house at
101 Potsdam Street
. It wasn’t a property that would appeal to the masses, after all. Too expensive, needing too much work, and in the wrong part of town. Just to have something to do in case nobody showed up, I stuffed my most recent romance novel purchase in my handbag before I headed out. It was the latest release by Barbara Botticelli, my favorite writer. All Barbara’s heroines were blonde, beautiful, and well-bred – I could relate, at least to the blonde and well-bred part – and all her heroes, from highwaymen and pirates to Indian braves and Bedouins, were dark and dangerous and not at all well-bred. The cover showed an impressively muscled native dressed in nothing but war paint and a skimpy loincloth crushing the swooning heroine to his manly chest. Her double-D-cup breasts were threatening to explode out of her half-undone bodice, and she was clearly both weak-kneed and dizzy. At the last minute, I added a sedate real estate magazine to the bag, to have something to hide the book behind in case someone should sneak up on me while I was reading. I wouldn’t look very professional sitting there devouring
Apache Amour
.