A Done Deal

by Jenna Bennett

  “The thing is,” Bradley said, around a mouthful of bread—I guess I wasn’t important enough to rate a display of proper table manners, “I don’t know anything. Not really. Just that I don’t like her.”

  “Why don’t you just let me ask you a couple of questions?” I tried not to feel too much like Sally Baxter, girl reporter.

  Bradley nodded, his mouth full of bread. “Shoot.”

  It was clear to see where those extra twenty pounds had come from. He was happily married, settled in his career, and past thirty... I guessed he’d decided that it wasn’t important to keep his boyish figure.

  Rafe was past thirty, my treacherous mind reminded me, and he hadn’t let himself go. Of course, he wasn’t married or settled in his career; maybe that would make a difference.

  And then I remembered that I wasn’t likely to be around to see whether he went to pot after he settled down, and turned my attention back to Bradley.

  “Your uncle was in his late forties when he married Maybelle, right? Had he ever been married before?”

  Bradley shook his head, chewing.

  “Was he shy? A misogynist? Questioning his sexuality?”

  “Just busy,” Bradley said, swallowing. “Married to this work. He started day trading in his twenties, and spent the next two decades doing it. There was no time for a wife.”

  “Day trading?”

  Bradley nodded, his hand descending into the bread basket again. “Playing the stock market.”

  “Did he do well?”

  “Well enough to leave a couple million dollars when he died,” Bradley said, dunking another piece of bread in oil. “Maybelle would have gotten it all, except my dad insisted on a prenup. Said he knew a gold-digger when he saw one. Uncle Joshua wasn’t very happy about that, but he didn’t expect to die anytime soon, and he said he’d tear it up on their tenth wedding anniversary. Dad told him that if she stuck for ten years, she would have earned half of everything.”

  “But she didn’t.”

  Bradley shook his head. “Two and a half years later Uncle Joshua was dead. And Auntie Maybelle was half a million dollars richer.”

  It wasn’t two million, but it wasn’t anything to sneeze at, either. “How did it happen? Your uncle’s passing?”

  “He died quietly in his own bed,” Bradley said. “Heart attack in his sleep. After, apparently, an evening of passionate lovemaking.”

  He grimaced, as if the idea was unwholesome, and popped another piece of bread into his mouth.

  I felt a frisson go down my back. That was exactly how Detective Grimaldi had described Harold Driscoll’s demise, almost word for word.

  “What?” Bradley said thickly, watching my face. I guess he still knew me well enough to be able to tell when something was going on in my head.

  I shook it. Bradley’s a lawyer; there was no sense in giving him ideas. Where Carolyn Driscoll wouldn’t automatically think of causing a stink if she suspected something criminal, Bradley might. “Do you have any idea where they met?”

  “Sure,” Bradley said, swallowing. “A cruise. New Orleans to Mexico. Uncle Joshua needed a break from the stock market. Everyone said he was working too hard, and he needed to relax. So he booked a cruise. By the time he got back a week later, they were engaged.”

  He reached for the bread basket. When he relinquished it, I snagged a piece of bread for myself, figuring it was the only way I was likely to get one. “What did you think of Maybelle?”

  “To be honest,” Bradley said, dragging his piece of bread through the oil dish, “I didn’t know her well. She didn’t seem to like us, and of course mother hated her.”

  “Did you go to the wedding?”

  He shook his head. “It was a private ceremony. Just the two of them.”

  “I guess Maybelle didn’t care about making nice with Uncle Joshua’s family.”

  “No,” Bradley said, lifting the piece of bread, “but I don’t know that I can blame her, the way my dad was going on and on about the prenup. Not that he was wrong.” He popped the bread in his mouth and chewed.

  “Anything else you can tell me about her?”

  Bradley pondered while his jaws kept chomping. I nibbled daintily on my own piece of dry bread while I waited. “Can’t think of anything,” he finally said when he’d swallowed. “But you might check into her former husband.”

  Another one?

  “Supposedly,” Bradley said in response to my query, leaning back from the table as the waiter appeared with two steaming plates of food. He deposited them in front of each of us and stepped back, running an experienced gaze over the table for refills.

  “A little more bread?”

  Bradley glanced at the basket, which was empty, and then at me. “Savannah?”

  “That would be lovely,” I said, and did my best not to feel resentful that Bradley had tried to make it look like I’d been the one who had eaten all the bread.

  The waiter removed himself and the basket.

  “Any idea who her first husband was?” If Maybelle had married Uncle Joshua while still in her twenties, surely whoever she’d been married to beforehand would have to have been her first.

  “No,” Bradley said, eyes on his food, “but I can find out. After dinner.”

  “How?”

  He glanced up. “My dad did a background check on her, when she first showed up. He’ll have it somewhere.”

  “How about now?” It’s rude to make a call while you’re sitting down to dinner with someone else, but we were divorced; those courtesies didn’t really matter. He’d already broken the big one by cheating on me with Shelby. And if we waited, it might be too late. John wasn’t known for keeping late hours.

  “He’ll be at dinner,” Bradley said and reached for his fork. “And besides, the food will get cold.” He dug in. I smothered a sigh and did the same.

  He did make the call, but not until we were back in the car on our way home. By then, my former father-in-law had finished dinner as well, and was relaxing in front of the TV. Or so Bradley reported after getting off the phone with him. “The information is at the office. He’ll look for it in the morning.”

  “I appreciate it,” I said, since it was the only thing I could say.

  He sent me a sideways look. “What are you trying to accomplish with this, Savannah?”

  “I’m not entirely sure,” I admitted. “Steven Puckett’s daughter is afraid that something bad will happen to her dad if he marries Maybelle. I started out with the idea that Maybelle may have caused her last husband’s heart attack. But it doesn’t seem that way. So I guess I’m just winding up threads, really. One thing leads to another. From Harold to Uncle Joshua to—maybe—a former husband.”

  Bradley nodded. “And what do you plan to do with the information once you have it?”

  I didn’t know that either. Although— “I have a friend in the police department. If I discover anything that seems significant, I’ll let her know. Maybe there’s something she can do about it. And if not, I can at least let Steven Puckett know. He might change his mind about marrying her if he realizes she’s been married several times and they’ve all died.”

  “You’re being careful, aren’t you?” Bradley asked. He looked a little uncomfortable, I noticed. “I know we’re not married anymore, but I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

  “That’s sweet.” Even if I knew it was motivated mostly by guilt. I was a poor divorcée with no man to take care of me, and it was all his fault. “I’m doing my best.”

  Bradley nodded. “It was nice to spend time with you again, Savannah.”

  “You too,” I said politely, since it hadn’t been too painful, everything considered. And the food had been good. I hoped he hadn’t gotten the impression that it was something I wanted to continue doing, though. I guess it was good that we’d put the past behind us and were able to be civil to one another, but I’d been happy not seeing him for the past couple years, and would be happy to continue in tha
t same vein.

  Bradley hesitated. “Are you seeing anyone these days?”

  Just in case this was the opening volley in an attempt to talk me into going out with him again, I said firmly, “Yes. Todd Satterfield and I see one another occasionally. He has proposed.”

  Bradley’s brow furrowed as he thought about it. “He was at our wedding, right?”

  I nodded. We’d gotten married in the church in Sweetwater, and mother had invited everyone who was anyone to the wedding, including my old boyfriend. “He’s the assistant D.A. for Maury County. I’ve known him my whole life.”

  “Did you say yes?

  I shook my head. “Not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m also seeing someone else. Someone you’ve never met.”

  “And has he proposed, too?” Bradley wanted to know.

  No, and he wasn’t likely to. And even if he did, I probably shouldn’t accept anyway. Marrying Rafe would be awful. I’d always worry. If he were ten minutes late for dinner, I’d be in a panic, certain that he’d never come home again.

  “Well,” Bradley said, effectively stopping the conversation dead, “I hope you’ll work it out. And that you’ll be happy. I never wanted to hurt you, Savannah.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t,” I said. “Don’t worry about it, Bradley. It’s in the past. Forgotten.”

  “Thank you,” Bradley said.

  We drove the rest of the way in silence, until we pulled up to the curb outside my building. Bradley cut the engine.

  “Don’t worry about walking me up,” I said. “I can manage.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course. I come and go all the time by myself. I’m sure you’re eager to get home. Shelby might be there soon.”

  Bradley nodded, a flicker of guilt crossing his face. I guessed he might be wondering whether she could already be there, and what he’d say if she asked him where he’d been.

  “You’ll call me tomorrow, right? To tell me what your father says?”

  He promised he would. I was just about to say goodbye and open the car door when it opened on its own.

  I jumped, and I think Bradley did too, although I wasn’t looking at him.

  “Ready?” Rafe’s voice said, his tone unusually tight. I took his hand and let him help me out of the car. My skin tingled where I touched his.

  “Savannah?” Bradley said from inside the SUV, and I turned to see a worried expression on his face as he leaned across the passenger seat to stare at Rafe.

  I smiled. “It’s all right. You should get home to Shelby.”

  “Will you be OK?”

  “I’ll be fine,” I said, although given the look on Rafe’s face, maybe not. “Just call me tomorrow, OK?”

  Bradley hesitated, but eventually he nodded and put the car in gear. I slammed the door and waited for him to pull away from the curb before I turned to Rafe, my heart beating faster. “What are you doing here?”

  He didn’t answer, and I wasn’t surprised. Instead, he glanced at the taillights of the car disappearing down the street before turning back to me. “Shelby?”

  “His wife. I told you he got remarried.”

  “Who?”

  “Bradley,” I said. “My ex-husband.”

  “That was Bradley?”

  I nodded. Rafe’s lips twitched.

  “What?” I said crossly.

  He shook his head. “What’re you doing, dating your ex?”

  “It wasn’t a date,” I said.

  “Dinner at a nice restaurant? Just the two of you, without his wife? I’d call it a date.”

  Part of me wanted to ask if he was jealous, but what if he said no? “How do you know where we were?” I asked instead.

  “Followed you,” Rafe answered.

  To Fidelio’s? “Why?”

  “Wanted to talk to you.”

  “So why didn’t you come inside?” It couldn’t have been any fun sitting outside in the car for the hour or more we’d spent lingering over dinner.

  “Didn’t wanna disturb you,” Rafe said. “Just in case you got lucky.”

  “He’s my ex-husband!” The guy I’d had to fake orgasms for during our entire marriage. A fact Rafe was perfectly well aware of.

  “I didn’t know that,” Rafe said. “Wasn’t like he had loser tattooed on this forehead.”

  That was true. He couldn’t know whether Bradley was Bradley or someone else from looking at him. I conceded the point. “What did you want to talk about?”

  “Carmen,” Rafe said.

  “Excuse me?” After all that effort—showing up at my apartment, following me to Fidelio’s, and sitting outside in the parking lot before following me back home again—it would have been nice if he’d wanted to discuss something important. “Who’s Carmen?” As if I couldn’t guess.

  “The woman you were following around this afternoon,” Rafe said. “What the hell were you thinking, Savannah?”

  Oops. The tone of his voice as well as the name—my own, as opposed to the endearment he usually uses—told me how deadly serious he was.

  “Did she see me?”

  “No,” Rafe said, with barely discernable patience, “I did.”

  “I didn’t see you.”

  “You weren’t supposed to,” Rafe said.

  Touché. Well, technically, he wasn’t supposed to have seen me either. I guess I’m just not as good at sneaking around as he is.

  “I just wanted to know who she was,” I said.

  “Uh-huh. Why?”

  “Curiosity.”

  He nodded. “Sure.”

  “You don’t think I have the right to be curious? A couple weeks ago we were up there—” I gestured to the second floor, where my apartment was, “—rolling around on my bed, naked. Now you’re eating at Fidelio’s with someone else. Someone you look at the way you used to look at me. And you didn’t even have the courtesy to call and tell me you were back in town! After everything that happened, you couldn’t do me that favor?”

  His eyes softened, and I rushed on, before I could look too closely and see pity. “What’s the big deal, anyway? So I followed your new girlfriend from the mall to her job. Why do you care, if she didn’t even see me?”

  “I don’t want anything to happen to you,” Rafe said.

  That took some of the wind out of my sails, I admit. I fought against it. “Like you care.”

  His voice didn’t change. “I never wanted you to get hurt.”

  “You should have thought of that before you walked out on me two weeks ago,” I said.

  And then, before he could open his mouth, I shook my head. “Never mind. Your girlfriend’s safe. The next time I see her, I’ll pretend I have no idea who she is. Just like I’m supposed to do with you. Anything else?”

  He shook his head.

  “In that case, I think this conversation had better be over. And next time you come to me and want to talk, I suggest you find something to talk about other than your new girlfriend!”

  I stalked away from him, toward the gate. Part of me hoped he’d follow, and all of me was on the alert for a sound from behind, my body already jangling with anticipation... but it didn’t come. By the time I’d unlocked the gate, stepped through, and closed it behind me, and looked back, he was gone.

  Chapter 11

  I’d barely had time to walk into the apartment and hang my purse on the hook in the hallway when my phone rang. For a second my heart jumped, and I was sure—I was absolutely certain—it would be Rafe.

  It wasn’t.

  I punched the button and put the phone to my ear. “Heather?”

  “Hi, Savannah,” Heather Price’s cool voice said. “What can I do for you?”

  I blinked. That was certainly straight to the point. Then again, the last time I’d seen her, she’d been called away from the lunch table to be arrested, so I guess maybe the thought of me didn’t inspire fuzzy feelings.

  “I just had a quick question.”

  �
��What?” Heather said.

  “About your boyfriend. Or ex-boyfriend.”

  She was silent, and I added, “Julio?”

  “What about him?” Heather said.

  “I just wanted to know whether he was still around. You know... out and about.”

  “He’s in jail,” Heather said. She didn’t say ‘thanks to you,’ but her tone implied it.

  “Does he still own that warehouse down by the river?” I twisted a tendril of hair around my finger. “I have a client who’s looking for a commercial property like that.”

  “He never owned it,” Heather said.

  “He didn’t?”

  “That’s what I said. It belongs to his boss. Julio was just running it.”

  “I see,” I said. “What’s his boss’s name?”

  “Hector,” Heather said. “Hector Gonzales.”

  “What does Hector do?”

  “Anything he wants.” She chuckled, and it wasn’t a nice laugh. I had my mouth open to continue the conversation, but she’d already hung up.

  But at least I’d gotten a name. And as I wandered into the living room and sank down on the sofa, to relieve some of the stress on my feet from the high heels, I pondered. Julio Melendez was Hispanic. Hector Gonzales was a Spanish name. So was Carmen.

  Come to think of it, Jorge Pena had also been Hispanic.

  And then there was the nightclub in South Nashville, the one that must also be owned by Mr. Gonzales. It was called La Havana. Again, Spanish. Or perhaps Cuban.

  I looked down at my lap, covered in red satin, and my feet, in strappy silver sandals.

  I could go to a nightclub and not look out of place.

  I didn’t look even a little bit Hispanic, of course. But surely Caucasians went to La Havana, too? It couldn’t just be Nashville’s Hispanic population, could it?

  Maybe it could. And if so, I guess I’d stick out like a sore thumb. But I’d never know unless I tried.

  Five minutes later I was in the car heading for South Nashville. Twenty minutes after that, I pulled into the parking lot outside La Havana. And by night, it was a very different place than it had been this afternoon. The parking lot was full, the building itself was literally vibrating with Latin rhythms, and the reinforced steel door was standing open, with people spilling out. The women were dressed much as I were, in skimpy dresses and high heels, while the men were more casual, in jeans or slacks, T-shirts or open-collared dress shirts.