(3T)Three Bedrooms, One Corpse

by Charlaine Harris

  “Older.”

  “Rich?”

  “Well-to-do.”

  “Of course, that doesn’t make any difference any- more, since you inherited all that loot.” “No, but it’s nice anyway. He likes having money.” “Tell me all!”

  “Well, his name is Martin Bartell, he’s forty-five, he has white hair but his eyebrows are black . . .” “Sexy!”

  “Yes, very . . . he’s tough, strong, intelligent, and . . . ruthless. You wouldn’t want to try to bullshit him.” “These are not Boy Scout attributes.”

  “You know, you’re right,” I said thoughtfully. “He’s definitely not a Boy Scout type. More of a street fighter.”

  “I hope he’s not too tough for you.”

  “No matter what he is,” I confessed, “this is the

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  worst I’ve ever had it. I’m scared to death. I couldn’t stay away from him if he were on fire.”

  “Oh, wow. You do have it bad. I hope he’s worthy of this. This sounds like a ‘love at first sight’ thing.” “Yes, the first time I’ve ever experienced it. And, I hope, the last. It’s awful.”

  “I’ve never had it like that,” Amina said. “So what else is happening?” It wasn’t like Amina to change the subject. Could she be a bit envious?

  But I filled her in on Tonia Lee’s murder and the re- sultant confusion. Then I told her about Susu Hunter’s husband and his strange secret persona as the House Hunter.

  “Oh, I’m like that to a lesser extent,” Amina said in- stantly. “It’s not so weird.”

  “You just like to look at houses?”

  “Sure, don’t you? I get a tingle at the base of my spine when I walk into a house that’s not mine, that I can look at all I want. It’s like stepping into someone else’s life for a while. You can open the closets, and find out what they pay for electricity, and how many clothes they have, and how clean their furniture is . . . I have had the best time since Hugh and I started looking for a house. I wish I could look at houses all the time. In fact, I thought about becoming a Realtor instead of a legal secretary until I realized I’d have to get out in all kinds of weather and deal with jerks who didn’t know what they wanted . . . you know.”

  “That’s interesting, Amina,” I said, and meant it. “Of course, now we’re looking at bigger houses,” she added, and we were back on her favorite topic of the moment.

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  By the time we hung up, I’d agreed to be the baby’s godmother and Amina had urged me to hurry and marry Martin if we were going to anyway, so she could be a matron of honor before her stomach got too big. I just laughed and said good-bye. It made me ner- vous to think of marriage and Martin in the same sen- tence, as if it were a jinx. I finished dressing, trying not to feel sorry for myself, only glad for Amina and Hugh. I found myself wondering if Jimmy Hunter had been Idella’s lover. It would make perfect sense, given his house-hunting aberration, for him to pick a Realtor as a lover. But how would that tie in with the things miss- ing from houses listed with local Realtors? Surely Jimmy hadn’t been lifting them while he toured the houses? He just couldn’t have, not without a Realtor noticing. And it wasn’t always Idella who’d shown him around. Hadn’t someone at the meeting at Select Realty said the Green- houses had always made sure Tonia Lee escorted him? Had something in Tonia Lee’s sharp nature punctured the balloon of Jimmy’s fantasy life as a house hunter, something so upsetting he’d killed her for it? Jimmy Hunter drove a blue Ford Escort, and so had Idella. Maybe it had been Jimmy’s car Donnie Green- house had seen Wednesday night. Come to think of it, what had Donnie been doing out himself? It must have been after the presumed time of Tonia Lee’s death, which must have taken place before the neighbors to the rear of the Anderton place had noticed her car had gone. About the time of Tonia Lee’s death, Jimmy had been parked outside the Tae Kwon Doe studio waiting for his son.

  I shook my head at myself while I peered in the mir-

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  ror applying my makeup. I was just getting confused. I wasn’t going to speculate about depressing things any- more. I was going shopping to buy a dress to wear to- night. I was going to find out if Emily Kaye had accepted my counteroffer on the house on Honor. It would be nice and tidy to have that little chapter of my life closed, Jane’s house settled and all my things ready to put into a home I owned. And I thought of the Julius house again: the sun through the windows, the warm kitchen, the porch.

  “You’d like it,” I told Madeleine, who was squinting at me doubtfully in the one pool of sunshine in my bed- room. She rolled on her back to invite me to tickle her stomach, and I obliged. We went downstairs together to change her water and fill her food bowl. I called Mother’s office before I set out for my petite dress shop in Atlanta. Eileen said that the police had given her the contract for my house, signed by Emily Kaye. It had been in Idella’s car. The changes I had stipulated had been penciled in, and Emily herself had called that morning after she heard the news of Idella’s death, to confirm that she had agreed to the price and to my wanting the washer and dryer. So on my way out of town, I stopped by the office and signed the con- tract, too. And Jane’s house was on its way to becom- ing Emily Kaye’s house, having never really been my house at all.

  I was willing to drive all the way into the city instead of going to Great Day, Amina’s mom’s store, because I wanted something that Amina called a “Later, Baby” dress. Amina had always been a dating specialist, one who picked her clothes with as much care as she picked

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  her makeup. Your clothes always said something to your date, she claimed, and she had had such a long and varied and successful dating career that I figured she knew what she was talking about.

  “It has to be modest enough to where you could see your mom while you were in it without turning red,” she had advised. “But it has to kind of growl to your date, ‘Later, baby!’ ”

  It was a slow day at the petite shop, Short ’n Sweet (hey, I didn’t name it), and the saleswoman who’d helped me before was glad to see me. I was too embar- rassed to spell out what I wanted, but I tracked it down eventually. It was a sweater dress, soft and beige and shapeless but clingy, with a big cowl collar—and you wore it almost off the shoulders. I had to buy a strap- less bra to go under it, and then big gold earrings, and then some shoes, so I made the saleswoman’s afternoon a happy one. Quite a switch for someone who had worn her college and high school clothes for ten years. I ate lunch in the city and visited my favorite book- store, so I came home to Lawrenceton fairly laden down with good things.

  I tuned in to the local radio station as I left the inter- state. It was time for the news. “Police are questioning a suspect in the murder of a Lawrenceton Realtor,” said the newswoman chattily. “Today a prominent local businessman was taken in for questioning regarding the death of Tonia Lee Greenhouse, who was found stran- gled in an empty home last week. Though police would not comment, an unnamed source says police will also question James Hunter in connection with the death of Idella Yates, whose body was found yesterday.”

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  I sucked in my breath. Jimmy Hunter. Poor Susu! Poor kids! I wondered what new evidence Lynn had un- covered that had led to Jimmy’s being taken to the po- lice station. I thought perhaps the police had found some of the stolen things in Jimmy’s possession. Or maybe . . . but it was no use speculating. Martin was ten minutes early.

  He took in the dress appreciatively.

  “I just have to brush my hair,” I said, my hands ex - tended to hold him off.

  “Let me,” he suggested, and I could feel a blush that began at my toes.

  “We’ll never get there if I do,” I said with a smile, and scampered up the stairs before he could grab me. “One kiss,” he said as I came back do
wn minutes later. He and Madeleine had been regarding one an- other warily.

  “One,” I said strictly.

  It was very sweet at first, but then it began to steam up.

  “My glasses are fogging,” I murmured.

  He laughed. “Okay, we’ll go.”

  But it wasn’t until a few minutes later that we got into his car. It didn’t take long to get to the Carriage House, which had actually formerly been what its name implied. It was the only fancy restaurant in Lawrenceton, and had very good food and service. It was small, dark, and ex- pensive, with a large added-on room at the back where local groups held dinners. We were shown a corner table and sat side by side on the L-shaped banquette.

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  Being so close to Martin was seriously interfering with my paying attention to anything else, but I was determined to get through a normal-date evening with him. We talked about what wine to order, and I se- lected my food; and he talked to the waiter, and the wine arrived.

  “Jimmy Hunter’s being questioned about the death of the woman whose body we found,” I told him. “I heard someone was. Do you know the man?” So I told Martin about Jimmy and Susu, and Jimmy’s little quirk.

  “He likes to look at houses with female Realtors? That’s pretty—kinky.”

  “But he’s never done anything to anybody,” I pointed out fairly. “And frankly, I hope the police have got something more on him than that, as I assume they must, because I find it very hard to believe that Jimmy did it.” I hadn’t known I felt that way until it came out of my mouth. “And they haven’t charged him in Tonia Lee’s murder, or Idella’s, and surely the same person killed them both.”

  But Martin hadn’t heard about my finding Idella’s body, and I had to tell him now, his light brown eyes fixed on my face.

  “I wish you had called me when you were upset,” he said. I had an uneasy feeling that he might be a little angry with me.

  “I thought about you. Of course. It’s just that— really—for all our emotions for each other, we really don’t know each other that well. And you’re the plant manager, you have all kinds of duties and responsibili- ties that I don’t know anything about, Martin. Even on

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  Sunday night, I just felt very hesitant about interrupt- ing you.”

  I had been able to picture all too clearly his exasper- ated face as he turned away from some important pa- pers to answer a call from his one-night flame. “Listen,” he said intently. “Don’t. We haven’t learned a lot about each other, but this is not just a bed thing. I hope. On my part, anyway, and I think for you, too.” I didn’t know, yet.

  He touched my hair. “If you need me, I’ll come. That’s all there is to it. We have time to get to know each other. But if anything bothers you or upsets you, you call me.”

  “Okay,” I said finally, with misgivings. Our salads arrived and we began eating, very con- scious of each other.

  “Martin, you’ll have to tell me about your com- pany,” I said. “I have only the vaguest idea of what Pan-Am Agra does.”

  “We arrange for the exchange of good used farm machinery for the produce from some of the South American countries,” he explained. “Also, we manu- facture some agricultural goods and food using raw materials from North and South America, which is what we do at the plant here. And we own land in South America where we’re trying to use North Amer- ican farming methods to produce better yields. Those are the main things Pan-Am Agra does, though there are a few other things, too.”

  “What kind of products does Pan-Am Agra make?” “Some fruit blends, some products containing cof- fee, some fertilizer.”

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  “Do you have to travel to South America much?” “When I was at company headquarters in Chicago, I had to go often, at least once every month. Now I won’t fly down as much. But I will have to visit the other plants.”

  “Is the government very much involved in what you do?”

  “As a regulatory agency, yes, too much so. They’re forever thinking we’re smuggling drugs in or weapons out, knowingly or unknowingly, and our shipments are almost always searched.”

  I thought of searching fertilizer, or the raw materials thereof, and wrinkled my nose.

  “Exactly,” Martin said.

  “So what is a pirate like you doing in an agricultural company?”

  “Is that the way you see me? A pirate?” He laughed. “What is a quiet, slightly shy, introverted librarian doing dating a pirate like me? Your life has changed a lot lately, if what you tell me and what other people tell me is true.” I noticed he hadn’t answered my question. “My life has changed a lot,” I said thoughtfully. “I’m changing with it, I guess.” Funny, I’d never thought of myself changing, just my circumstances. “I guess it started—oh, almost two years ago,” I told him, “when Mamie Wright was killed the night it was my turn to address Real Murders.”

  The salads left, and the main course came while I was telling Martin about Real Murders and what had happened that spring.

  “You’re certainly not going to think I’m quiet after

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  hearing all that,” I said ruefully. “You had better tell me about your growing up, Martin.”

  “I don’t like to think about it much,” he said after a moment. “My father died in a farm accident when I was six . . . a tractor overturned. My mother remarried when I was ten. He was a hard man. Still is. He didn’t put up with any nonsense, and he had a broad defini- tion of nonsense. I didn’t mind him at first. But I couldn’t stand him after a few years.”

  “What about your mom?”

  “She was great,” he said instantly, with the warmest smile I’d seen. “You could tell her just about anything. She cooked all the time, did things you just see mothers in old sitcoms doing now. She wore aprons, and she went to church, and she came to every game I played— baseball, basketball, football. She did the same for Bar- bara.”

  “You said you grew up in a small town, too?” “Yes. A few miles outside the town, actually. So I wasn’t sorry to get the chance at this job here. I wanted to see what it would be like to be back in a small town again, though Lawrenceton is really on the edge of At- lanta.”

  “Your mother isn’t alive anymore?”

  “No, Mom died when I was in high school. She had a brain aneurysm, and it happened very—very sud- denly. My stepfather is still alive, still on the farm, but I haven’t seen him since I came home from the war. Barbara goes back to town every now and then, just to show off how far beyond that little place she is now, I think . . . she doesn’t see him, either.”

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  “There was a rift?”

  “He won’t sell the farm.”

  I didn’t think that answered my question. “Mother left the farm to him for his lifetime, and left us a little cash. Of course, she didn’t have much. But we’re supposed to get a third of the proceeds if he ever sells it, or if he dies before selling it, we get the land. We wanted him to sell when she died so we could move into town. But he wouldn’t sell, out of some damn stubbornness. Now the situation for small farms is even worse, as I’m sure you’re aware.” I nodded soberly. “So the farm’s falling down, the barn has a hole in the roof, he hasn’t made money in years, and the whole thing is rotting. He could sell anytime to our nearest neighbor, but out of sheer meanness he won’t.” Martin stabbed his steak with his fork. We ate for a minute in silence. I thought over what he’d said.

  “Um—how many times have you been married?” I asked apprehensively.

  “Once.”

  “Divorced?”

  “Yes. We had been married for ten years . . . we had a son, Barrett. He’s twenty-three now . . . he wants to be an actor.”

  “A chancy profession.” I thought of my mystery- writer friend, Rob
in Crusoe, now in California writing a television movie script based on his latest book, and wondered how he was making out.

  “That’s what I told him. Funny thing—he already knew it!” Martin said wryly. “But he wanted so much to try, I gave him the money to get started. If he doesn’t

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  make it, he at least needs to know he gave it his best shot.”

  “You sound as though you didn’t get the encourage- ment you needed at some point.”

  He looked surprised for a moment. “I guess that’s right. Though it’s hard to say what I really wanted to do. I don’t know that I ever formulated it. Something big,” and his hands made a circle in the air. We laughed. “It had to be something I could leave my hometown for.”

  “I’ve never wanted to leave my hometown,” I said. “Would you?”

  “I’ve never had a reason to. I don’t know.” I tried to remember what it had been like when I went to college: not knowing anyone, not knowing where anything was, the first two weeks of uncertainty. The waiter came up at that moment to see if we needed anything. “Will you be wanting any dessert to- night?”

  Martin turned questioningly to me. I shook my head.

  “No,” he told the waiter. “We’ll have ours later.” He smiled at me, and I felt a quiver that went down to my shoes.

  Martin paid the bill, and I realized I hadn’t said a word about it being my turn. Something about Martin discouraged such offers. We would have to talk about that.

  But not right away.

  We were quite ready for dessert when we got to my place.

  Chapter Ten

  A

  ìMartin,” I said later in the night, “can you go with me to the Realtors’ banquet Saturday night?”

  “Sure,” he said sleepily. He wound a strand of my hair around his finger. “Do you ever wear it up?” he asked.

  “Oh, sometimes.” I rolled over so it hung around his face like a curtain.

  “Could you wear it up Saturday night?”

  “I guess so,” I said warily.

  “I love your ears,” he said, and demonstrated that he did.