He laughed, tendons moving smoothly under the golden skin of his throat. “I wouldn’t be that crude, darlin’.”
The waitress gazed raptly at him, and the three men over at the pool table turned around to stare, as well. The bald one who had come over to the table to fetch Rafe earlier, gave me a leisurely once-over, and I turned away from the boldness of his gaze.
We left shortly thereafter; or I guess maybe I should say that I did, because I think Rafe went back inside after he walked me out to the car.
I unlocked my car door and turned to him. “Thanks for dinner.”
He grinned. “My pleasure.”
“Did you... um... have a particular reason for asking? We didn’t talk about anything in particular.” And he hadn’t hit on me, either. Much.
“Maybe I just like spending time with you, darlin’.”
My wide-eyed expression made him laugh, and he waited a few seconds before he added, “Or maybe it’s all part of my master plan to get you in the sack. Maybe if I just keep acting like I’m a nice guy, one of these days you’ll relax enough to let me have my way with you.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” I retorted, but I admit that as a brush-off it wasn’t very effective, mostly because the idea of Rafe having his way with me made me lose my breath for a moment. In terror. He chuckled softly, and it was the kind of noise that made all the little hairs on my arms stand up at attention.
“All the same it’s gonna happen one of these days, darlin’, so you may as well prepare yourself.”
I found I didn’t have anything to say, so I got into the car and, after a few tries, managed to fit the key into the ignition and turn it over. My hands were shaking when I drove out of the graveled lot and into the road, and when I looked in the rearview mirror as I started back toward town, he was still standing there watching me drive away.
Chapter Nine
Monday morning found me back in Brentwood, visiting the houses where the two robberies had taken place. Snooping.
The police must have been over the crime scenes after the robberies, gathering fingerprints and DNA and such, but when I’d called to set up the appointments, there hadn’t been any problem with going to see the houses, and there was no sign of any cops now. No yellow crime-scene tape across the doors, or anything. Everything was back to normal inside, neat and clean, and both houses were crammed with nice stuff, albeit with obvious holes where the missing objects must have been. What was left behind gave me a good idea of the quality of the things that had been taken. Whoever had planned these robberies, had known what they were doing. They must have had previous knowledge of what was here, in order to be able to pick and choose so accurately.
It begged the question of how they had known. There was a possibility that they simply had a truck on standby, and spent every Sunday afternoon visiting open houses until they came across one they liked. It would be a brilliantly simple way of committing robberies. Considering the price range of the houses in this area, the chances were better than 90% that each and every one of them had something in it worth taking, and keeping the selection random would ensure that they didn’t get caught, because there was no real common denominator, and no trail of clues for anyone to follow.
If the houses weren’t chosen at random, that meant that someone had picked them deliberately. (Obvious, I know, but sometimes it helps to state the obvious.) If the same person had picked both houses, that meant that out there somewhere, there was someone with a connection to both.
I ran over likely possibilities in my mind, starting with the truly basic and working my way down from there. The same listing broker – no. Kieran Greene worked for Re/Max, Lila (and her colleague whose listing it was) for Worthington Properties.
A selling broker who had seen both houses, with or without clients in tow? Possible, but the police would be better equipped to check that than me. I would suggest it to Detective Grimaldi the next time I spoke to her. Just to cover all the bases, however, I wrote down the names of all the Realtors who had left their business cards at both houses. There were a few names that appeared twice, but that wasn’t really surprising, when both houses were in the same area and the same price range, and a buyer looking in this area and price range would probably want to see both. As for Timothy Briggs, who had left his nicely laminated card in both houses, he had probably just wanted to see how they stacked up to his own listing, the Fortunatos’ house. Checking out the competition is common practice, and I would have thought less of Tim if he hadn’t.
The police would also have to check all the potential buyers who had come through with agents, and there would probably turn out to be a lot of them, as well. Moving right along, I considered the possibility of a shared home owners insurance agent. An insurance agent would have a detailed list of all the valuables in the house. It could be a case of insurance fraud, maybe, if the owners had decided to burgle their own houses and sell their property on the black market, while at the same time getting their money back from the insurance company. Something else I could suggest to Grimaldi, to take her mind off Rafe. If the houses were insured with different companies, I could point out that the owners wouldn’t necessarily even need an insurance agent to be in on the scheme; they could have hatched the plot between them. From family photographs and personal items left in both houses, I gathered that the Worthington property was owned by a family with two children; boy and girl of about 16 and 14, respectively, with a pretty, dark-haired mother and a tall and handsome, balding father. Kieran’s listing belonged to a gay couple with a penchant for leopard and zebra prints. Between the two families, they had enough tall males to make up a foursome, and in ski-masks and coveralls, it would be impossible to tell whether the men were young or old, gay or straight. The boy had inherited his mother’s dark eyes, and one of the gay men was brown-eyed also, although I personally wouldn’t have asked either to tie me to the bed. There’s no accounting for taste, however, and Lila had clearly been more impressionable than I.
If the families had friends in common, the scheme could have been orchestrated by someone who knew them both and coveted their possessions, but I couldn’t help but think that there had to be a connection to real estate somewhere. If it was just a matter of robbing the houses, a friend wouldn’t have waited until the houses were on the market before he/she acted. Much safer and easier to just break in some night when the family was out. It seemed as if the fact that these houses were on the market and open to the public had some significance. Which pointed to either a Realtor or someone else involved in the business; someone who wouldn’t have had access to the houses if they hadn’t been for sale.
After Brenda’s murder and Walker’s arrest just a week or two ago, and the new crop of reality TV-programs painting all Realtors as greedy, immoral, unethical sharks, our profession really didn’t need any more bad press. There didn’t seem to be any way to avoid it, however. I would have to call Detective Grimaldi and tell her my conclusions, and let the pieces fall where they may. If nothing else, at least she’d have to focus on someone other than Rafe as a suspect. And there was always the possibility that the robbers were posing as buyers, checking out the open houses first, and then coming back to do the actual robberies.
Tamara Grimaldi answered on the first ring, and after telling her where I was and what I was thinking, I hesitated for a moment. I wanted to control myself, but I wasn’t able to refrain from adding, “I hear that you and Rafe spent the night together on Saturday.”
Her voice sounded amused. “Is that what he told you?”
“At first. It took me a minute to figure out that he didn’t mean what I thought he meant.”
“That must have been a relief.”
I decided not to dignify that remark with a response. “You let him go again, so I guess I can assume he’s cleared?”
“Hardly.” The detective’s voice turned serious. “I didn’t have enough evidence to keep him, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten about him. Believe me,
I’m going to keep a close eye on Mr. Collier from now on. You can pass that on to him if you want.”
“I’m not sure when I’ll have the opportunity,” I said, “but I’ll be happy to. Wouldn’t that defeat your purposes, though, if I tip him off that you’re watching?”
“Just tell him to watch his step,” Detective Grimaldi said, as if through gritted teeth, and hung up in my ear before I had the chance to say anything else. I arched my brows. Had it been something I said?
I was in the process of locking the front door of the French Chateau when a bright blue Mini Cooper with white racing stripes zipped into the driveway and stopped at the bottom of the stairs. A young man jumped out. He looked to be in his early twenties, and was devastatingly handsome, in that glossy way that soap opera actors and matinee idols (and gay Realtors) are. His skin was luminous and as poreless and smooth as a baby’s bottom, his soft, brown hair flopped over his forehead in shining waves, and his eyes were midnight blue bordering on black and surrounded by lashes almost as luxurious as Rafe’s. “Hel-lo, beautiful!” he caroled when he saw me, his teeth shining with the radiance of a toothpaste ad. I smiled politely.
“Hi.”
He stuck out a hand. “I’m Beau. The house boy.”
“The what?”
“House boy. Here.” He dug into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a business card, which he handed to me. I caught quite a load of skin at the same time, because Beau – an awfully appropriate name, and one I doubted was legally his own; it was just too fitting – was bare-chested beneath. His jeans hung low on his hips, exposing a taut, tanned stomach and admirable musculature all the way around.
I looked away, down to the business card, blushing. Way to go, Savannah; ogle the gay guy, why don’t you?
Beau Riggins, the card said, House Cleaning, followed by a phone number. Feeling Dirty? the slogan underneath said, Call the House Boy!
“I’m sorry,” I apologized, “I’m sure you are who you say you are, but I really can’t let you into the house.”
“That’s OK, gorgeous. I’ve got my own key.” He pulled it out and dangled it in front of my face, something which necessitated another display of skin. “Mr. Givens will be here any minute himself, I’m sure. He always comes home for lunch on Mondays. To watch me work.” He winked.
“I see,” I said. “Um... not that it’s any of my business, but wouldn’t it be better to wear a uniform of some kind? What if you spill bleach on yourself or something?”
Beau ran a hand down his chest and stomach. It was as manicured as the rest of him. Whatever he was doing to the house, didn’t involve chapping his hands in hot water and ammonia. No calluses on Beau. “This is a bona fide, genuine tan, sweetie. The real thing; I was in Acapulco just two weeks ago, working on it. Bleach won’t take it off. And wearing a shirt would totally ruin everything. Nobody’s gonna pay me $100 an hour to vacuum the floors while I wear clothes.”
“You clean in the nude?” I said. “For $100 an hour?” Truthfully, I wasn’t entirely sure which was more shocking.
“I clean in a pair of Wonderjock,” Beau corrected, unconcernedly pulling down his zipper to show them to me. They were bright blue, the same color as the car, and fit him like a second skin. The waistband identified them as Property of Australia in bright red and white letters. I stared in horrified fascination, although I still felt like I was missing something.
“I’m sorry. Wonder... what?”
“Wonderjocks,” Beau repeated, with a fond look down at them. Or himself. “They work the same way as that bra you’re wearing.” He demonstrated on his own well-developed pectorals. “The Wonderjock lifts and separates, too.”
“Lifts and separates what?” I asked. “No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”
Beau grinned. “They’re wonderful, aren’t they? Boosts the appeal of even the smallest guy, and for those of us who are OK on our own, they take us out of the merely average and give us a little something extra. And $100 an hour is my starting price. It goes up from there.”
“Good Lord,” I said reverently, not quite sure whether I was reacting to Beau’s price or the briefs. They were the first pair of men’s undies I had seen since my divorce, and Bradley’s tighty whities sure hadn’t looked like this.
Beau chuckled. “I do just fine, darling. Nashville is full of rich gay men and bored housewives who’ll pay through the nose to watch me swing a feather duster. It’s a dirty job, but someone’s gotta do it.” He winked.
Just at that moment, a dark sedan pulled into the driveway and saved me the trouble of coming up with a response. A well-dressed, older man got out and came up the stairs. “Good afternoon, Beau.”
“Hi, Mr. Givens,” Beau grinned. Mr. Givens, Beau’s employer – and audience for the next hour or two – turned to me.
“Hello.” It was less a greeting than a request for me to explain who I was and what I was doing there, distracting his entertainment.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m Savannah Martin with Walker Lamont Realty. Previewing the house. I was just leaving.”
Mr. Givens nodded, but didn’t answer. His gaze had already returned to the beautiful Beau. “Did you lose your key, Beau?”
“Not at all, Mr. Givens,” Beau said, brandishing it. Givens’s eyes glazed over at the display of skin, and Beau’s dimple made a brief appearance. “I was just shooting the breeze with Savannah. But now that you’re here, I guess I should get to work.”
Mr. Givens didn’t answer, just turned toward the front door. It was answer enough. Beau winked at me and followed.
* * *
I was halfway home when the cell phone rang. I glanced at the display before I answered, hoping that it would be Detective Grimaldi calling to apologize for hanging up on me and maybe to share some new and thrilling tidbit of information. It wasn’t, and I had to talk myself into doing the right thing and answering the call.
“Savannah? Todd here. I was wondering if you were available for dinner tonight?” The query was unusually abrupt, without any of the usual introductory small talk. Most of the time, I could count on Todd to behave with better manners.
“Unfortunately not,” I said.
“Another date with Collier?” His voice held an undertone I didn’t like, and I had to tell myself sternly that there was no way he could have known I’d had dinner with Rafe the night before. Todd was just being his usual paranoid self.
“Planning meeting for some charitable event or other. I forgot to ask what. I’m taking Lila Vaughn’s place, since she can’t be there.”
My voice caught, but Todd didn’t comment. He hesitated for a moment, regrouping. “How about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow’s fine.”
“Would you mind driving down to Sweetwater to meet me? I have an early meeting on Wednesday morning.”
I moved the phone away from my ear for a second and stared at it. Usually, Todd drove to Nashville to take me to Fidelio’s, and sometimes we’d have dinner at the Wayside Inn if I was going to be in Sweetwater anyway, but he’d never before asked me to make the trek there just for him.
“I suppose I could do that,” I said hesitantly. “I have to be back in Nashville by Wednesday afternoon, though.”
“Date?” Todd wanted to know, with the same strained note in his voice.
“Funeral. Lila’s memorial service is Wednesday at 2 pm.”
“Oh,” Todd said.
I waited a moment, but when he didn’t say anything else, I added, “Is everything OK? You sound – I don’t know – strange?”
“Everything’s fine,” Todd said. “There’s just something I want to talk to you about. Something important. But it can wait until tomorrow. 6:30 at the Wayside Inn?”
I said I’d be there, and we hung up, me with the gravest misgivings. Lately, when Todd says he has something important to talk to me about, it means that he’s freaking out over my imagined relationship with Rafe. In this case, however, there was no way he could have
known about yesterday. I had made sure we went somewhere where no one would know me – and with the Shortstop, I was convinced I had succeeded – and furthermore, if any of ‘our’ people (as mother would say) had been there, they would have stood out like a sore thumb, the way I had done. So Todd couldn’t possibly have known. But if this wasn’t about Rafe, what was it about...?
And then it hit me, and I almost drove off the road. What if Todd was planning to propose? He’d been hinting last week, with his comments about my needing a husband, and I had pretended I didn’t understand what he was getting at. What if he’d decided to just come right out and ask, so as not to give me any wiggle-room? And Good Lord, if he did, what would I say?!
Chapter Ten
In the worry over Todd’s phone call and everything else that was going on, I almost forgot that I had promised to show Gary Lee and Charlene another house. In fact, I was so late that by the time I got there, they were getting back into their car again. I jumped out of mine.
“Sorry. I’m so sorry. Something came up and I totally forgot the time.”
Charlene grinned. “I told you that if something came up, you could call and cancel, Savannah.”
Oh, Lord! I flushed. “Not that! I just got a phone call from a friend, that’s all.”
“Ooooh!” Charlene giggled. “Phone sex.”
“That’s quite all right, Savannah,” Gary Lee said with a quelling look at his wife. “We’ve still got time.”
“Thank you. Let me open the door for you, and you can have a look around. I’ve got... um... another call to make, so I’ll just stay out here.”
“OK.” They bounded into the house like eager squirrels, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, leaving me on the porch. I pulled out the phone and dialed my mother.
“Hi, mom? It’s Savannah.”
“Hello, darling,” mother said. “How are you, dear?”
[Cutthroat Business 01.0 - 03.0] Boxed Set Page 38
