[Cutthroat Business 01.0 - 03.0] Boxed Set

by Jenna Bennett

  “Rafe wouldn’t have said anything about it. Not if his mother didn’t want it to come out. But I asked and he told me.”

  “And you believed him?”

  I shrugged. “He didn’t have any reason to lie. Anyway, when we got inside, Walker pulled out a gun and threatened to kill us both. I kept him talking for as long as I could because I was hoping that the nursing home had called the police again. When the car pulled up outside and distracted Walker, I pushed Mrs. Jenkins out of the way and ran. He followed me. Just when I thought he was going to kill me, we heard Mrs. Jenkins crawl down the hallway, and he turned around and went after her instead.”

  “I’ve heard Officer Spicer’s report,” Grimaldi nodded, with an expression that might almost have been a smile in someone less severe. “Good job with the lipstick.”

  “It was nothing.”

  This time it was a real smile, no doubt about it. It transformed her angular face, and made her almost attractive. “Well, Ms. Martin, unless you have something to add, I think that’s it for now. I’ll have a statement typed up for you to sign. How about I contact you tomorrow?”

  I said that that would be just fine, and left. On the way home from picking up my open house paraphernalia from 101 Potsdam Street, I drove by the Milton House Nursing Home, and when I didn’t see Rafe’s motorcycle in the parking lot I stopped and went in, just to make sure that everything was all right. But when I inquired in the lobby, I was informed that Tondalia Jenkins had moved out suddenly, leaving no forwarding address. The nurse on duty this weekend was different from the one who’d been here afternoons during the week. She had no idea who I was, and when I asked if Mrs. Jenkins had left with her grandson, she said she was sure she had no idea, and popped a pink bubblegum bubble in my face. I smiled sweetly and gave her my business card, “in case you have need of a Realtor,” and went home.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The weekly sales meeting on Monday morning was interesting. Most people had no idea that Walker had been arrested, and for the first few minutes after I imparted the news, everyone was buzzing. Several people refused to believe it, and I guess I couldn’t blame them. I hadn’t believed it myself, until I had no other choice.

  Then Detective Grimaldi appeared and addressed the assembly, explaining that Walker had in fact confessed to murdering Brenda and Clarice. She refused to go into detail, although Tim said, with a malicious gleam in his baby-blue eyes, that he, for one, wasn’t surprised. Detective Grimaldi didn’t dignify his statement with an answer, other than to advise him that if he had something of importance to say, if he would please contact her privately. Tim smirked.

  To my, and I’m sure several of the others’, surprise, Walker had, at some point, arranged for Tim to take over the management of the office if something were to happen to Walker himself. Heidi Hoppenfeldt and I shared an uncomfortable moment of unity as we both contemplated the fact that we would have to work for Tim from now on. I wasn’t sure I had it in me, and from the expression on Heidi’s round face, she seemed to feel the same way.

  Detective Grimaldi came to visit me in my cubby after the meeting broke up, to get me to sign my statement from yesterday and, surprisingly, to ask me to have lunch with her.

  “Don’t worry,” she added, with something that wasn’t even a smile, but a grin, “I won’t interrogate you. It’s just that we got off on the wrong foot last week, and I wanted to make amends. I have a feeling we could get along quite well if we tried.”

  Now that I had proven I wasn’t as wimpy and helpless as she had previously thought, I assumed.

  “And you won’t ask intrusive questions about my love-life and whether I’m involved with... um... certain individuals?”

  “Certain individuals being Mr. Collier, I suppose? I guess I can avoid talking about him. If you can.”

  “I definitely can,” I said firmly. “In that case, I’d be happy to have lunch with you. As long as we don’t go to Fidelio’s. That would totally ruin my reputation.”

  “I was thinking more of McDonald’s or Burger King. Somewhere fast. I have a case to close.”

  “I suppose I can live with that. If I must.” I led the way through the lobby with the detective trailing behind. Tim was standing over a pouting Brittany, giving her orders, and he smirked when he saw us.

  “Have a good time, Savannah. Detective. Have her home by midnight.”

  “Very funny,” I answered coldly, while Detective Grimaldi merely showed Tim her teeth and said, “I’ll be in touch, Mr. Briggs. A few questions; nothing to worry about.”

  Her voice was a little overly reassuring, and so failed to be reassuring at all. It was a pleasure to see Tim’s expression fade from gloating enjoyment to uncertainty.

  Lunch was actually quite enjoyable, apart from the cuisine, and the detective kept her promise not to interrogate me. She didn’t keep the one about Rafe, but rather than trying to get me to admit that there was something going on between us, she seemed more interested in getting me to assure her that there wasn’t. So maybe she was hankering for him herself. Just because a woman eschews make-up and feminine clothes, doesn’t always mean she’s gay. They’d make an interesting couple, anyhow, although I admit I had a hard time seeing the amorous Rafe being attracted to the business-like Grimaldi. But if we became better acquainted, maybe I would have the opportunity to give her some friendly advice about her hair and clothes. It seemed the least I could do.

  When word got around of what had happened, my phone started ringing. Reporters called to interview me, friends and family called to congratulate me and/or to make sure I was OK, Lila called to invite me to lunch to dish the dirt, and Alexandra Puckett called to talk to me about Maurice. As soon as he’d heard that someone else had been arrested for the murders, he’d gotten in touch with Alexandra to tell her everything, and she wanted my opinion on what she ought to do.

  “Why haven’t you called me?” she demanded. “I thought you’d call to tell me that Walker killed my mom; not that I’d hear it from the police. I thought we were friends!”

  “We are,” I assured her. “I’m sorry. You’re right, I should have called and told you myself. It’s just...”

  “What? Tell me!”

  “Well... on Saturday night, when she drove me home, Maybelle told me it would be better if I stayed away from you.”

  Alexandra breathed a word she had probably learned from Maurice. I won’t repeat it. “Well, she can just lump it, because daddy likes you, and he won’t mind if you call.” She sounded triumphant.

  “If Maybelle is going to marry your dad, though...”

  “They’re not married yet!” The implication was that if Alexandra had anything to say about it, they wouldn’t be, either. “So tell me what to do, Savannah. About Maurice, I mean. You know men!”

  “Not as well as you think,” I said dryly. “I guess it depends on how you feel about him, after everything that’s happened. He came clean and told you the truth, and you know that he didn’t actually accept money from your mother to stop seeing you, but he left her on the floor without calling an ambulance, and that argues a degree of cowardice, don’t you think?”

  “He was afraid he’d be arrested,” Alexandra said, but halfheartedly. I nodded, and then realized she couldn’t see me.

  “He probably had good reason to be. I’m just not sure I could date a man who found my mother bleeding on the floor and didn’t do anything. No, let me change that. I’m sure I couldn’t.”

  Alexandra sighed. “I’m sure you’re right, Savannah. He just sounded so pitiful, you know.”

  I was certain he had. “You’ll be going back to school in a couple of weeks, and he’ll start college soon. Why don’t you give it some time?”

  Who knew, maybe they’d both get busy with their separate lives and the relationship would just die a natural death, without anyone having to say or do anything to end it.

  “That’s a good idea,” Alexandra said gratefully. “Thanks, Savannah.”

/>   “No problem. I didn’t really do much. Let me know how it goes.”

  She promised she would, and I hung up, pretending I didn’t hear her parting shot. “And give Rafe a big kiss for me...!”

  My mother called, of course, to make sure I was all right, and Dix, and even Catherine. Lila and I squeezed in a power-lunch, during which I dumped everything that had happened in her lap and she told me how clever I had been in figuring it out, and on Tuesday, Todd called and asked if I’d go to dinner with him. I accepted, and we ended up at Fidelio’s again. Todd appeared to have deemed it ‘our’ place, and since it didn’t seem to have occurred to him that I might prefer to go somewhere else, I didn’t say anything, just grinned and bore it. The gray-haired maitre d’ beamed paternally at me when I showed up with Todd; I guess he hadn’t approved of Rafe any more than anyone else did.

  We sat at the other end of the restaurant tonight, near where Walker and Tim had dined on Saturday, and talked mostly of inconsequential things. Todd’s work, my work, how I had caught a two-time murderer and nearly gotten killed in the process... Until Todd told me that his father had retired LaDonna Collier’s case file for lack of evidence. “I thought you’d like to know,” he said stiffly, “since you seemed so concerned about Collier taking the fall for it.”

  “I wasn’t concerned,” I said. And amended it to, “Or only because I don’t think he did it.”

  “He’s gotten away with it, anyway,” Todd said, “whether he had something to do with it or not.”

  “He didn’t. So you don’t have to worry.”

  Todd didn’t answer. “So what’s happening now?” he said instead. “With you and with the house?”

  “With me, not much. Walker had a back-up broker assigned, in case of emergency, and he’s taken over running the company. I expect the name will change at some point, since being associated with Walker is no longer a benefit to us. As for the house on Potsdam Street, Mrs. Jenkins is getting it back. She didn’t actually sell it, you know, even if Brenda did pay the Milton House a hundred grand for her room and board there. Maybe she’ll put it back on the market and get to keep all the proceeds this time.”

  If so, I hoped she’d consider using me to list it. Of course, Tim was hoping the same thing, and he hadn’t been pleased when I had explained the situation to him on Monday morning. There wasn’t anything he could do about it, though; Walker had taken the house out of our inventory and off the Multiple Listing Service, and that was pretty well that, as far as Tim was concerned.

  “So I guess you won’t be seeing Collier again,” Todd said.

  I shook my head. “Now that the house-business is settled, and the murders solved, there’s no reason why I would. He hasn’t even called.”

  And as I had mentioned to Lila, it rankled. After I had single-handedly (with the aid of a lipstick) stopped a cold-blooded murderer from shooting his grandmother, the least he could do was call to thank me, I thought. But no, not a word.

  “I guess blood will tell,” Todd said, with — I couldn’t help but notice — a certain amount of satisfaction. “He’s just not a gentleman.”

  “That he’s not,” I agreed.

  “So what are your plans for the rest of the week? Would you like to have dinner with me again one night? Friday? Or Saturday?”

  “Either would be fine.” Life is really too short to play hard to get, no matter what Mother says. I could be dead tomorrow. “And I don’t have many plans. Except that I have to go out to Riverbend Prison tomorrow. Detective Grimaldi called and said Walker had asked to see me.”

  Todd looked concerned. “Are you sure you want to, Savannah? It could be unpleasant.”

  “I’m sure it will be,” I agreed. “But yes, I do have to. He asked, and we’ve always had a good relationship.” Up until the moment he apologized for having to kill me.

  “Would you like me to go with you?” Todd offered.

  “Thank you,” I said, “but that won’t be necessary. Tamara Grimaldi is coming. She’ll make sure he doesn’t do anything to me.” Not that he’d try. Walker wasn’t crazy. He got rid of Brenda and Clarice because they stood in the way of his getting what he wanted, and he would have killed Mrs. Jenkins and me for the same reason, but now, with nothing left to protect, he had no reason to hurt me. “He’ll probably just apologize again, and try to make amends.”

  Todd looked as if he wasn’t quite convinced, but as it turned out, I was right. Walker seemed much like his old self again; suave and polite, and looking very out of place in the orange jumpsuit. I hoped he wouldn’t have too hard a time of it in prison, but at the same time, I realized that he was a lot tougher than he looked. A man who can slit throats and cut wrists and not bat an eye, is not a sissy.

  “Thank you for coming, Savannah,” he said softly. We were seated on opposite sides of a long table, with an impassive guard standing a few feet away at the door and Detective Grimaldi hovering anxiously in the hallway outside. Walker had asked to see me alone, and I had agreed to it, and although she didn’t approve, there wasn’t a whole lot she could do.

  “No problem,” I answered cautiously.

  “I wanted to apologize again. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “It’s all right,” I said. “I understand.” Of course I didn’t, but politesse commanded that I say I did. “I’m sure you would only have done what you thought was necessary.”

  He smiled faintly. “That’s kind of you. I have something for you.”

  I must have looked nervous, because he added, “Not here. Go see my lawyer, Barry Vinson. He’ll give you an envelope with all the paperwork for 101 Potsdam Street. I took it out of inventory and off the MLS.”

  “I noticed,” I said, “thank you.”

  Walker nodded. “The envelope will take care of the rest. Steven Puckett and I worked it all out to where Mrs. Jenkins can get the house back and the nursing home gets to keep the money they were given, while Brenda’s reputation won’t get any more damaged than it is. Steven is going to claim it as a charitable contribution. Let me give you the number.” He recited the lawyer’s phone number, and I plugged it into my cell phone. “Call him and tell him who you are and that you want to come get the envelope. He’ll give it to you.”

  “I appreciate it,” I said. “Um... I’m sorry, too.”

  He smiled. “I’m sure you only did what you had to do.”

  Touché. I shrugged.

  He added, “It appears I underestimated you, Savannah. I didn’t realize you carry a gun.”

  “I don’t,” I said sweetly. “It was a lipstick.”

  And I admit it, I enjoyed seeing the incredulous look on Walker’s face as I got up and walked — no, make that sashayed — to the door.

  I picked up the envelope from the lawyer’s office the next morning. And so it was noon on Thursday before I made it back to 101 Potsdam Street.

  I had tried calling Rafe a couple of times, at Wendell’s number, but I had never gotten an answer. The car lot/pawn shop must have gone out of business. Either that, or they had caller ID and didn’t want to hear from me. LaDonna’s shack in the Bog was about to be razed by bulldozers, and I had no idea where Rafe’s room on the south side of town was, so the house on Potsdam Street was the only place I could look for the two of them. I figured if they were anywhere, they’d be there. All the same, as I crunched up the circular drive on Thursday afternoon, I wasn’t feeling confident. The yard was still sadly overgrown and unkempt, and the house looked just as neglected and empty as the last time I’d seen it. Nevertheless, I stopped the car and got out, and made my way onto the peeling porch.

  The lockbox was gone from the door handle, and I knocked and waited. Nothing happened. I was just about to give up and go home when the door was opened. My friendly, professional smile froze into an uncertain grimace.

  “What you doin’ here?” Marquita asked, her stance confrontational and her elbows out and blocking the doorway. She was dressed in pale pink nurse’s scrubs, size 22 XXX, a
nd her yellow hair was braided into a complicated style that did nothing for her globular face.

  I could have asked her the same thing, but I decided not to. “I’m here to see Mrs. Jenkins,” I said instead, calmly.

  “She ain’t seein’ nobody.” She made to close the door. I put my foot in the gap, the way I’ve seen people do on TV. Marquita pushed harder. It hurt, and didn’t do my Italian leather slingback any good, but the door remained open.

  “She’ll see me,” I squeezed out between gritted teeth.

  Marquita scowled, but under the circumstances she couldn’t do anything but let me in. I swept past her with my head held high, trying not to limp conspicuously. Mother would have been proud.

  Inside, everything also looked pretty much the same, except that it was cleaner. There was the fresh smell of paint in the air, and the sound of a TV from the kitchen. I headed down the hallway and found Mrs. Jenkins sitting on a folding chair at a rickety card table, watching a talk-show and spreading peanut butter on Ritz crackers. She lit up when she saw me. “Hi, baby! I ain’t seen you in forever!”

  She looked about a hundred and ten percent better, and even seemed to be acting more lucid. The scratches on her face and legs were healing, her hair was washed and combed, and she was wearing a brand-new housedress and new, fuzzy slippers. Whatever else was wrong with Marquita — and I could see plenty — she seemed to be good at her job.

  “I’ve been busy the past few days,” I explained. “With Walker in prison and Tim in charge, there’s a lot to do. You look good. How have you been?”

  Mrs. Jenkins beamed toothlessly. “That handsome boy o’mine came to the nursing home, just like you said. He walked me right outta there, and nobody said nothin’. And then he brought me back here, and got me new clothes, and a TV, and a new bed, and got the water turned on again, and brought Marquita to stay with me...”

  “It sounds like he’s taking good care of you.”

  She nodded. “He’s a good boy. You lookin’ for him, baby?”