[Cutthroat Business 01.0 - 03.0] Boxed Set

by Jenna Bennett

  I arched my brows. “Considering that that’s all the house is worth? I certainly do. It’s not as if they’ll be able to sell it to anyone else for more, is there? Not if it won’t appraise.”

  Tim looked surprised. He leaned back in his office chair and folded his manicured hands across his flat stomach, baby-blue eyes bright as he looked me over. “You look different, Savannah. Did you get some last night?”

  “None of your business.” But I blushed, and that was all Tim needed. He straightened up and leaned forward.

  “Oooooh! Tell all!”

  Even Heidi stopped chewing for a second to look at me.

  “There’s nothing to tell,” I said.

  “There certainly is! If you rolled around in bed with that megalicious hunk of manhood...!” He smacked his lips.

  “If I did, I’m not telling you about it.” I got up. “See what you can work out with your clients, please. And call me on my cell phone when you have their answer. I’m going back to Sweetwater for a few days. There’s a funeral I have to go to tomorrow.”

  “Meanie,” Tim said, pouting.

  I permitted myself a smile as I walked toward the door, since my back was to him anyway.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sweetwater has two cemeteries, in addition to the private one behind the Martin mansion, where Martins—and their slaves—of old were buried. It’s not in use anymore, of course; these days, people can’t arbitrarily bury dead bodies on their property, even if they are the Sweetwater Martins. Mother makes sure the small plot is mowed and taken care of, although it’s rare that anyone comes by to see it. Once in a while, an elementary school class will stop by for a lesson in history, but no one claims a kinship with any of the people who are buried there. Just us Martins.

  These days, folks either get buried in the old cemetery on Oak Street, the one that was started in the 1880s, or the newer cemetery outside town, only in operation since the 1970s. As the town of Sweetwater grew, there became more of a need for burial space, and the powers that be grabbed a couple of acres of ground on the south side.

  Since the 1880s, the Martins have ended up in the cemetery on Oak Street, and that was also where Rafe’s mother, LaDonna Collier, was buried earlier this summer. Next to her father Jim, her mother Wanda, and her brother James Junior, AKA Bubba. If your family’s already there, you get to put your newly deceased next to—or on top of—them. But if you don’t already have a family plot on Oak Street, you end up in the new cemetery outside town.

  Marquita was going in the ground on the south side of Waterfield. Not too far from where she’d grown up, ironically. Down a different road from the Bog, but as the crow flew, no more than a half mile away.

  I’d never spent any time in the new cemetery. My family’s not buried there, and I’m not at an age yet where my friends have started dropping like flies. The only close friend I could remember losing was Lila Vaughn, and her mother laid Lila to rest in Detroit, where she was from. All the other funerals I had attended recently had been in Nashville.

  It was a pretty place, as cemeteries go. Sloped and hilly, with groves of trees here and there to break up the monotony of gravestones. We were into October by now, but in Middle Tennessee, that still meant temperatures in the seventies and light clothes, and the leaves were just barely starting to turn from green to yellow. No bright oranges or reds yet. For that, we’d have to wait for the first frost.

  Dix had insisted on coming with me. I don’t think it was because he knew Cletus. Dix and Marquita had been in the same year in high school, so maybe he felt an obligation. He asked me to meet him at the office, and drove us both out to Hillside Cemetery in his Land Rover.

  We didn’t attend the actual church service, just the gathering at the graveside. I didn’t think I’d known Marquita well enough to sit in a pew at her funeral, especially considering that we’d pretty well loathed one another. It was enough to loiter under a tree nearby during the graveside ceremony, I thought.

  A whole bunch of other people must have felt the same way, because there was quite a crowd gathered. Cletus and his kids, of course, and his mother, and a handful of women who looked enough like Marquita to be relatives, with their own double handfuls of kids. Six or eight women, some of whom I recognized from high school; probably friends. A few couples clustered around Cletus; more friends or family. A skinny, bald guy I recognized as a journalist from the local paper. If Marquita had been someone more important, Aunt Regina would probably be here as well. She’s the society columnist. But Marquita’s funeral probably wouldn’t feature in the society pages of the Sweetwater Reporter.

  Sheriff Satterfield was present, naturally, along with a few of his deputies, all in uniform. I looked around—surreptitiously—for Todd, but couldn’t see him.

  “He’s not here,” Dix said.

  “Who?”

  He glanced at me. “Todd. That’s who you’re looking for, isn’t it?”

  I nodded.

  “You’re gonna have to talk to him sooner or later, sis.”

  “I know that.” It had better be later, though. Much later. The idea of having to face Todd and to have to respond to his proposal while I remembered—vividly—being in bed with Rafe, was more than I could handle right now.

  Sheriff Satterfield nodded at us from a distance, but didn’t approach. He might prefer to stay with his deputies, although I thought there was a chance that Todd had told him about the other night, and that the sheriff was giving me a wide berth either out of consideration or because he wanted to grab me and shake me until my teeth rattled.

  “Did you know that Mother and Bob Satterfield are involved?” I asked Dix.

  He looked down at me. “Who told you that?”

  I said that it had been Todd, the other night. “You knew?”

  “It was hard not to notice,” Dix said apologetically. “I mean, I see them together all the time. They tried to hide it at first, but that’s hard to do with people who see you regularly. It’s a lot easier to hide a relationship from someone you only see once in a while.”

  Please, God, I thought.

  “Well, I certainly had no idea. Not until Todd told me. I know they spend a lot of time together, but then they always did, didn’t they? Except it used to be with Dad and Todd’s mom, too.”

  Dix nodded.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “That our mother’s having an affair with the sheriff? That’s her business, don’t you think?”

  “She pokes her nose into mine often enough,” I said. And added, “Although I agree. It’s her business. Just like my love life is mine.”

  Dix glanced over. “You have a love life?”

  “It was a figure of speech.” I concentrated hard on not blushing, and luckily something happened to distract us both.

  “Hi, Savannah!”

  I turned, and looked into the bright face of Yvonne McCoy. She grinned at me, and turned to Dix. “Hiya, Dix!”

  Dix blinked, and I could see him flipping through the index card file in his head. To his credit, it took less than five seconds before he hit on the right name. “Yvonne.”

  She smiled, obviously thrilled that he remembered her. “How are you?”

  “Good, thank you. I didn’t realize you two were friends.” He looked from Yvonne to me and back.

  “Yvonne works at Beulah’s,” I said. “I’ve seen her a couple of times lately when I’ve stopped in for lunch.”

  “At Beulah’s?” Dix looked surprised.

  “Best meat’n three in Maury county,” Yvonne said. “Though your little sister usually orders salad.” She nudged me. I smiled.

  “I’m trying to keep my girlish figure. You know what it’s like.”

  Or maybe she didn’t, since Yvonne hadn’t had a girlish figure even when she was a girl. She was one of those women who matured early, and who’d had full-blown breasts while the rest of us were still playing with Barbies.

  “Do they know anything more about what ha
ppened to Marquita?” she asked now, looking at me.

  I shook my head. “I haven’t heard anything. Although I guess the investigation is ongoing.” That’s what they say on TV, isn’t it? It was what Tamara Grimaldi had said the other day.

  “The Sweetwater sheriff’s department is working with a Metro Nashville homicide team,” Dix added. “I spoke to Sheriff Satterfield yesterday. They’re trying to learn whether this certain man has been in Sweetwater in the past week or two. Have they come to see you?”

  Yvonne nodded. “One of the deputies stopped by during breakfast. Showed me a mug shot. Some Spanish guy.”

  “Jorge Pena,” I said.

  They both looked at me. “Excuse me?”

  “His name is Jorge Pena. I’ve seen him once.”

  “Here in Sweetwater?”

  I shook my head. “In Nashville. A few days ago. He was bothering Mrs. Jenkins. Detective Grimaldi thinks he might have killed Marquita. And broken into my apartment.” I turned my focus back on Yvonne. “Have you seen him?”

  She shook her head.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure I’m sure. How many good-looking strangers d’you think I get to see in a week, sugar? Not enough to forget any of’em.” She grinned.

  Right. If Yvonne had seen Jorge Pena, she’d have remembered. He was good-looking, in a deadly sort of way. “Had anyone else seen him?”

  “Nobody’s seen him,” Yvonne said. “If he’s been in Sweetwater, he didn’t eat at Beulah’s while he was here.”

  Down at the graveside, the ceremony got underway, and Yvonne excused herself to join the crowd. Dix and I stayed at a distance. To be honest, I hadn’t come to take part in the service, just to observe. Just in case something interesting happened, that Detective Grimaldi might need to know.

  But it seemed to be just the usual sad little gathering of family, friends, and ghouls like myself, who hadn’t known or particularly liked the dearly departed, but who were here out of curiosity, morbid or otherwise.

  Although she had known Marquita, Yvonne was probably in that latter group. She’d told me they hadn’t had much contact lately. Still, if they’d been friends once, she might have felt compelled to attend. Wes Lawrence from the Reporter was clearly here out of curiosity—and because it was his job. There’d probably be a mention of the funeral in the local paper tomorrow. Bob Satterfield and his crew were probably here in part to support one of their own, and in part to make sure that nothing happened. And maybe because they believed that old adage about the murderer returning to the scene of the crime, or attending the funeral.

  Did that really happen? Or was it just in fiction?

  I thought back. Walker had attended Brenda’s funeral. Hell, he had stood up in front of everyone, including Brenda’s husband and two kids, and lied through his teeth about what a wonderful person she’d been. And Lila...

  No, Lila’s murderer had not attended her memorial. Connie Fortunato had been there, but not Perry. And by the time Connie herself was laid to rest, Perry was dead, too.

  So obviously it didn’t always hold true.

  And not today. I looked around, but could see no sign of Jorge Pena.

  That was assuming Jorge had killed Marquita, of course. He certainly might have, but I still thought it was possible that Cletus was the guilty party. Or his mother. Maybe Marquita had become a threat to them, perhaps by wanting her kids back, and Cletus had whacked her. I mean, she was killed here in Sweetwater, and that had to mean something. And Cletus did have a gun, and knew how to use it. It was hard to imagine him driving all the way to Nashville late at night to take potshots at me and Rafe through the window, though. There was no love lost between the two of them—Cletus and Rafe—but I doubted that Cletus wanted Rafe dead. Much more likely that he’d frame Rafe and get him thrown in jail. And as the person who had found the body, Cletus had had every opportunity to do so, but hadn’t.

  If not Cletus, then who? Did she have a relationship with anyone else in Sweetwater, who might have called and asked her to drive down here?

  Cletus’s mother hadn’t seemed too thrilled with her daughter-in-law the other afternoon, when Mother and I stopped by. If Marquita was driving Cletus crazy, Cletus’s mom might have felt compelled to intervene. Mothers do anything for their children. And then there was everyone else I was looking at. The rest of the family and the rest of her friends. There could be all sorts of reasons why any one of them might have wanted Marquita dead. Of course, I’d never know.

  And then—I took a deep breath; Dix glanced at me—there was Rafe. It was his family’s trailer her car and body had been found behind. Given that, he was the most likely suspect. Of course, he wouldn’t have been stupid enough to leave her there if he had killed her, but I couldn’t expect everyone to realize that. And Marquita would definitely have come running if Rafe called her. If he said he couldn’t go home, perhaps, but he wanted an update on Mrs. Jenkins. Wanted to make sure everything on Potsdam Street was running smoothly. Or he wanted to hand her a wad of cash for expenses, to keep the household going while he was AWOL.

  And then when she showed up, he slipped out of the trailer and into her car, they talked for a few minutes, and then he pulled out a gun and shot her.

  And walked away. Got on the bike and drove off. Fairly secure in the knowledge that no one would see him, since the Bog was empty these days and nobody came out that way very much anymore.

  I suppressed a shiver. Not because it was cold, but because the scenario I’d built up in my head gave me chills.

  Down at the graveside, the preacher came to a full stop. After a few seconds, a low hum started, and then a squeaky sort of noise as the coffin was lowered slowly into the ground. Everyone watched until it disappeared. Then Cletus took a step forward, followed by his two small children. Two little brown kids, a boy and a girl, both with cornrows with beads on the ends. Both dressed in black; the little boy in black pants and white shirt, the little girl—slightly older—in a white blouse with a black pinafore over top. All three of them scooped up handfuls of dirt and flung it into the hole on top of the coffin.

  Cletus’s mom followed, then the group of women who looked like Marquita, and their children. Everything was silent, except for the sound of clumps of dirt hitting wood. Cletus was crying quietly; tears rolling down his cheeks. The kids weren’t; they were probably too small to fully understand that mom would never come home. The little boy was sucking his thumb.

  “Shall we?” Dix asked, gesturing to the crowd.

  I squared my shoulders. “I guess we’d better.” It would be rude not to join in.

  He took my arm and guided me across the grass, difficult to navigate on heels.

  I’d dressed for the funeral, of course—black skirt, black shoes, subdued blue blouse—and Dix wore a dark suit and a tie, so we didn’t look out of place at all. I couldn’t say the same for everyone, unfortunately. Yvonne McCoy, for instance, looked like she had come straight from work. Her black skirt barely covered the essentials, while the white T-shirt was skin tight and so low-cut that Yvonne’s cups were close to running over. But at least she had sensible shoes on: black hightop sneakers that made walking across the grass easy for her.

  We did our part in scooping up handfuls of dirt and tossing them into the hole on top of the coffin, and then we stood by for a few minutes waiting to offer our condolences to Cletus—again—while Sheriff Satterfield and the other deputies surrounded him. When they moved off (the sheriff with a rather pointed look in my direction), we moved into position next to Cletus.

  I let Dix do the honors this time, since I’d already given Cletus my own condolences—along with a casserole—the other day. As Dix expressed everyone’s deep sympathy, I looked around.

  The party was definitely breaking up. The preacher was hustling toward the parking lot, robes flapping. Sheriff Satterfield and the other cops were headed in that same direction. And Cletus’s mom was herding her grandkids toward the cars, as well.

&
nbsp; Yvonne McCoy, meanwhile, was headed the other way, up the hillock toward a stand of trees. I squinted into the late afternoon sun. Was someone up there, that she was going to meet?

  It seemed that way. If I shaded my eyes and strained, I could make out a tall figure between the trees. Dark pants, white shirt. Dark head.

  Dammit, had Jorge Pena shown up after all?

  I was just about to tug Dix’s sleeve when the man stepped out into view, and I dropped my hand as my stomach twisted.

  No, that wasn’t Jorge Pena. That was Rafe.

  Smiling as he watched Yvonne come closer.

  I shifted a little so I wasn’t looking straight at them. I wasn’t afraid that they’d notice me staring, but I didn’t want Dix or Cletus to realize that Rafe was here. Especially Cletus. The last time they’d come face to face, Cletus had given Rafe a black eye, while Rafe had returned the favor, and thrown in a split lip and bruised ribs for good measure.

  I had no desire to see a repeat. Especially not in a churchyard.

  So I watched out of the corner of my eye as I kept half an ear on what Dix and Cletus were saying, and the rest of my attention on what was going on up on the hillside. Rafe and Yvonne were much too far away for me to be able to hear anything they said, but I could see them and read their body language. And it spoke loud and clear.

  As soon as she got close enough, Yvonne held out both arms to embrace him, and if he minded, I sure couldn’t see any sign of it. He put his arms around her too, and when she tilted her face up, he bent to kiss her.

  I felt like I’d taken a sucker punch to the stomach, and for a second I couldn’t breathe. By the time my body had resumed normal functions, it was over. They had moved apart again—although not too far apart—and were just standing there talking. I concentrated on pulling air into and pushing it out of my lungs as I dug my nails into my palms and forced myself to stay rooted to the spot.

  What I wanted to do, was to storm up that hillside and tell Yvonne to get her hands off him; he was mine. Of course I wouldn’t actually do it, and not only because it isn’t something a lady does. He really wasn’t mine. I’d made sure of that by walking away from him. Granted, I couldn’t have kept him anyway, but by leaving his bed yesterday morning, and walking out of his life without a backward look, I’d given up any rights I might have had. If he wanted to kiss someone else, even just a day and a half after kissing me, there was nothing I could do about it.