A Done Deal

by Jenna Bennett

  “I would, but he’s in jail right now.”

  “Of course he is.” Her voice was amused. “The next time you see him will be soon enough. Make sure he knows I didn’t know any better. If you’re bringing this guy into the family, at least let him know I’m on his side. Or your side.”

  I promised I would.

  “And make sure he knows that if he hurts you, I’ll nail his hide to the wall,” Catherine added. “I know you think he won’t, but just make sure he knows.”

  “You can tell him yourself. If he ever comes back.”

  “He will,” Catherine said. “And don’t think I won’t.”

  Chapter 14

  The phone calls continued as soon as I woke up the next morning. First it was Tamara Grimaldi, and as always when I saw her name on the caller ID, I felt a little stab of fear. When she called it was rarely good news, and I’d spent enough time worrying about Rafe’s safety to be able to let go of it easily. At this point he should be safe, but what if something had gone wrong?

  “Detective?”

  “Ms. Martin.” She sounded exhausted. As well she should, considering that she’d had a lot to do last night, and presumably a lot of people to process. I doubted she’d gotten to bed at all yet.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes and no. I’m calling to update you.”

  “I appreciate that,” I said, leaning back against the pillows and smoothing the comforter across my lap. No, I hadn’t gotten out of bed myself, it was that early. “Although the ‘yes and no’ has me a little worried. What’s wrong?”

  “The Atlanta PD screwed up,” Grimaldi said. “They let Hector Gonzales slip through their fingers.”

  Uh-oh. “That’s not good. Is it?”

  “No,” Grimaldi said, “it isn’t.”

  “Do you think he might come after Rafe?”

  “If he has any sense,” Grimaldi said, “he’ll run in the opposite direction.”

  “But?”

  “He doesn’t seem to.”

  I could feel myself turn pale. “He’s coming here? Why?”

  “Because,” Grimaldi said, “instead of sticking to the plan, your idiot boyfriend staged a kidnapping and got himself all over the news. As soon as Hector realized it, he called.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s what we don’t know,” Grimaldi said. “Could be he wants to compare notes, to see if he can figure out what went wrong.”

  “Or?” I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like what was coming next. I was right.

  “Or he could have realized that your boyfriend isn’t actually Jorge Pena and that’s how the whole thing unraveled.”

  “You mean he’s coming to kill Rafe.” My voice was remarkably steady, considering.

  “It’s possible,” Grimaldi said.

  Possible? It seemed pretty certain to me, and I said so. “I suppose you’ve got him staked out somewhere, just waiting for Hector to drop in and snuff him out?”

  The answer to that question was so obvious that the detective didn’t even bother to respond. “Hector might not have realized it,” she said instead. “He might just want to combine forces and rally the few troops he still has. And he might think the fact that they have a hostage could play in their favor.”

  “What do you mean, they have a hostage? I’m right here!”

  “Megan Slater is playing the hostage,” Detective Grimaldi said.

  Someone else was playing me?

  “Isn’t she the same girl who stayed in my apartment back when Jorge—” the real Jorge, “was looking for Rafe?”

  “That’s her.”

  “Todd says she looks like me.” He had shown up at my place for a date I’d totally forgotten about, and had met Megan Slater. I hadn’t had the pleasure myself; I just had his word for the resemblance.

  “She does,” Grimaldi confirmed. “Enough to fool anyone who doesn’t know you.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me where they are?”

  “I don’t suppose I will,” Grimaldi said.

  “I just want to make sure he’s all right.”

  “I’m sure. But you have to trust me on this. He needs you like he needs a hole in the head right now. Let him concentrate on doing his job. Which he can’t do if you’re there, distracting him. You’ll be doing him a favor by leaving him alone.”

  Probably. But I still wanted to see him. “You’ll tell me the minute you catch Hector, right?”

  She promised she would. “By the way, your boyfriend happened to mention that the two of you had company last night. Any ideas on who might have been following you?”

  “Probably just someone who trailed us from the nightclub, thinking they’d be a hero,” I answered. “But when they saw Rafe coming, whoever it was took off instead of risking a confrontation.”

  I’d have done the same thing. If Rafe Collier had been coming towards me with a gun in his hand, I’d have made tracks as fast as I could in the opposite direction, too. But it was probably better not to mention the gun to Detective Grimaldi. I added, “It couldn’t have been Hector. Not unless he was already in Nashville last night.”

  “He wasn’t. The Atlanta PD saw him at eight PM. He wouldn’t have had time to get to the nightclub by the time everything happened. Any other ideas?”

  “Rafe suggested it might have been my ex-husband’s current wife. Bradley has a history of cheating. Maybe she thought he was having dinner with someone else, instead of with me.”

  “Does she drive a white compact?”

  “I have no idea what kind of car she drives,” I said, “but I doubt it. Then again, she’d probably realize that she couldn’t trail her husband in her own car, and arrange for a substitute. She’s not stupid.” Much as I’d enjoy thinking so.

  “Did your ex have any of the information you were looking for?”

  “Some of it.” I told her what Bradley had said about Maybelle meeting Uncle Joshua on the cruise ship and marrying him, and about the prenup Bradley’s father had insisted Uncle Joshua sign. “He died of a heart attack too, after they’d been married a few years.”

  Grimaldi’s voice sounded a little easier now that we were off the subject of Hector Gonzales. “Would the prenup prevent her from receiving half of everything if they divorced?”

  “So I assume,” I said. That’s what a prenuptial agreement is for, right?

  “How much did she inherit when he died?”

  “She didn’t. That’s the thing. According to Bradley, the prenup covered that, too. She got a quarter million, I think, but nothing like what she would have gotten without it.”

  “Then I doubt there’s anything there,” Grimaldi said. “If she knew about the prenup, and that she wouldn’t inherit, she had no reason to do away with him.”

  Sadly, she was probably right. “He’s supposed to contact me with the name of Maybelle’s first husband.”

  “Another one?”

  “So it seems. Once I get it, do you want me to let you know?”

  “You can,” Grimaldi said, “but there’s no hurry. I’ll have my hands full until we catch Hector, and to be honest, I don’t think there’s anything I can do about any of this. There’s no law against marrying rich men with bad hearts.”

  There wasn’t.

  “You don’t mind if I keep looking into it, do you?”

  “If it means you’ll stay out of my hair,” Grimaldi said, “and away from my stakeout, you can look into anything you want. At least this way I don’t have to worry about anything bad happening to you. I had to tell your boyfriend you got yourself shot last month, and he wasn’t happy. I don’t fancy having to do it again.”

  If he’d been unhappy about me getting shot, he hadn’t mentioned it to me. “I’m more concerned that you’ll call me and tell me he’s been shot.”

  “We’ll try to make sure that doesn’t happen,” Grimaldi said and hung up before I had time to tell her that she’d better do more than just try.

  I leaned
back against the pillows, chewing on my bottom lip. Dammit, why couldn’t fate just be kind for once? Was it too much to ask that things just go according to plan? My own interference last night notwithstanding, Rafe had done enough to bring down Hector Gonzales and his organization. Why did he have to put himself in danger again?

  But as Detective Grimaldi had said, it was what he did. He’d chosen this. I couldn’t change him, and I wouldn’t if I could. He was who he was, and that’s who I’d fallen in love with.

  Nonetheless, the situation was scary. To distract myself so I wouldn’t stay in bed and fret all day, I forced myself to think about Alexandra’s situation instead.

  When Bradley told me that Uncle Joshua had died of a heart attack, just like Harold Driscoll, I’d been so sure there was something to it. But Grimaldi was right: there’s no law against marrying rich men with bad hearts. As long as you don’t kill them, and there was no proof that Maybelle had. Grimaldi had checked on Harold Driscoll’s death, and had found no suggestion of foul play. And knowing my ex-father-in-law, Bradley’s dad, as I did, if there’d been anything suspicious about Uncle Joshua’s death, John Ferguson would have had Maybelle slapped in chains so fast her head would have spun. No, they had been heart attacks, pure and simple.

  Hopefully Stephen Puckett didn’t have a weak heart.

  I swung my legs over the side of the bed and put my feet on the floor... and the phone rang again. The floor was cold, so I pulled my feet back under the covers as I answered. “This is Savannah.”

  “Morning, darling,” a male voice said.

  I snuggled into the blankets. “Hi, Tim.”

  “Was that the scrumptious Mr. Collier you were with last night?”

  He must have seen the news, too. My phone would probably be ringing off the hook today. “Not at all,” I said. “Didn’t you hear the news anchor? They said he’d been identified as Jorge Pena, international hitman.”

  “No offense, darling, but I’ve met the man. And he’s not someone I’d forget.”

  “I’m sure,” I said. Tim had developed a crush on Rafe the first time he saw him—on TV—and the fact that Rafe is a hundred percent heterosexual didn’t deter Tim in the least. They’d come face to face a couple of times, and it had been entertaining, if slightly annoying, to watch Tim practically turn himself inside out to be charming. Not that Rafe had minded; he’d flirted right back.

  “I assume he’s in jail? Since you’re home and seemingly safe and sound?”

  “He is. And he’ll be there a while. And if you don’t mind, I’d prefer not to talk about it. Is there something else I can do for you?”

  “Yes, darling,” Tim said, “you can tell your clients that my clients have countered their offer. I’ve sent the counter to your email, but I thought I’d call and give you a head’s up, too.”

  So he could ask about Rafe, of course.

  “Thanks,” I said. “What’s the counter?”

  He told me, and all in all it wasn’t too bad. Tim’s clients would sell Aislynn and Kylie their house for a few thousand dollars more than the girls had offered, and they had countered a few of the other details in the contract too. But the differences seemed like they could be worked out, assuming Aislynn and Kylie still wanted the house. With what had happened, and Kylie in the hospital and medical bills and having to buy a new car, things might have changed.

  “I’ll let them know,” I told Tim, “and get back to you.”

  “You do that, darling. And one of these days, I expect you to tell me the whole story about Mr. Collier. Because I think there’s more to it than what you’ve shared.”

  “Of course,” I said, crossing my fingers. It would be a cold day in hell before I told Tim anything. “I’ll let you know what my clients say.”

  I hung up before he had the chance to respond. Unforgivably rude, of course—mother would have had something to say about it—but she wasn’t here.

  I made another attempt to get out of bed, and this time made it all the way into the bathroom before the phone rang again. This time the caller was Alexandra Puckett.

  “Oh my God, Savannah, are you all right?!”

  “I’m fine,” I said, taking a seat on the toilet lid and digging my toes into the fluffy bathroom rug. “It wasn’t what it seemed.”

  Her voice turned diffident. “It looked like Rafe.”

  Like Tim, Alexandra had met Rafe during the week or two after her mother’s murder, and like Tim, she had developed a schoolgirl crush on him. Unlike Tim, she didn’t flirt, and she had also been more upset when I’d told her he was dead. Tim might have been shocked and dismayed, but I doubted there’d been any real mourning going on. Alexandra had cried.

  “It was,” I said.

  “You told me he was dead.”

  “I lied.” I heard her draw breath, and hurried on before she could start yelling at me. “It wasn’t just you, OK? I lied to everyone, even my own family. Nobody knew he was alive.”

  Alexandra sniffed. “Why?”

  “Someone sent a hitman after him. He got shot. He pretended he was dead and then he went undercover to figure out what was going on.”

  “Oh.” She sniffed again. “Is he back now?”

  “No,” I said. “He’s still undercover. As far as everyone else knows, he’s dead. You can’t tell anyone that he isn’t. If everything works out, he’ll be back. If not, I’m not sure what’ll happen.”

  “Wow.” Alexandra was quiet for a moment. “Um, Savannah...?”

  “Yes?”

  “Have you figured out anything about Maybelle? Something I can use to stop her from marrying my dad?”

  “Not yet,” I said apologetically. “I’m sorry. I’m trying. I did track down the husband she had before Mr. Driscoll. He’s dead, too. Another heart attack. And I think she may have had another husband before that. I’m trying to find out. How’s your father’s health?”

  “Fine,” Alexandra said, “as far as I know.”

  “Does he take any kind of medicine?”

  “He has high blood pressure,” Alexandra said.

  That was related to the heart, wasn’t it? My dad died from a heart attack, and he’d had high blood pressure. Then again, he’d also been a lawyer, and lawyers statistically have high levels of stress.

  “I’ll let you know if I find out anything else,” I said, “but I don’t know what good it’ll do, to be honest. I’ve been talking to my friend in the police department, and she says there’s nothing she can do about any of it. Harold Driscoll died of a heart attack, and so did the previous husband. There’s no proof that Maybelle did anything to either of them.”

  “She’s up to something,” Alexandra answered darkly. “She’s been gone half the weekend. I’ve hardly seen her at all.”

  “Christmas shopping?”

  “Maybe. But I think she’s plotting something.”

  “She’s probably just planning the wedding,” I said. “But I’ll keep digging, OK? If I learn anything else, I’ll let you know.”

  “OK, Savannah,” Alexandra said. And hesitated. “Savannah?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m glad Rafe’s alive.”

  “I am too,” I said.

  “Are you gonna marry him?”

  “If he asks me,” I said.

  “I knew it!” She hung up.

  I did the same. Poor Alexandra, I felt for her, really. The idea of acquiring Maybelle Driscoll for a stepmother would be enough to throw me into a tizzy, as well. There was just something about her, about that placid, sweet face, and those guileless blue eyes, and that demeanor of helpless feminine docility, that screamed at me like nails dragging across a chalkboard. I had no problem imagining Maybelle as a murderess. I’d considered her the front-runner in Brenda’s murder. She was just the kind of woman I could picture taking out a rival and then showing up at the memorial service to console the grieving widower, all womanly flutters and concern.

  But she hadn’t killed Brenda. And she probably hadn’
t killed her late husbands, either. Enthusiastic sex isn’t a crime. If it were, many more of us would be dead. Harold and Joshua had probably died happy. And if he married her, Steven Puckett might die happy, too.

  The phone rang again, and I picked it up without checking who it was.

  “Good morning, darling,” my mother’s voice said.

  I winced. A lot of people call me darling. I live in the South, after all. Tim does it, girlfriend to girlfriend. Todd’s dad Sheriff Satterfield does it, to the daughter of the woman he’s dating. Rafe does it, his voice alternately amused and heated enough to curl my toes. And my mother does it, with a well-bred coolness that almost belies the endearment.

  Almost.

  It isn’t that she doesn’t love me. I know she does. But the way she talks sometimes conveys those feelings of exasperation and disappointment I’m sure all parents occasionally feel toward their children, especially when those children get romantically involved with screw-ups like Rafe Collier.

  “Mother. Hi.” I exited the bathroom and went back to the bed, curling up on top of the comforter. If I crawled back underneath, I probably wouldn’t get up for a couple of hours, and I had things I needed to do.

  “Are you all right, darling?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, for what felt like—and probably was—the seventh or eight time since the events last night.

  “The phone has been ringing off the hook, darling. People are worried about you.”

  “My phone’s been ringing, too. But it’s nothing to worry about. I’m fine. So is everyone else.”

  Mother was quiet for a moment, probably assessing her angles of attack. “Would you like to tell me what happened?”

  Not really. But I felt I owed it to her, so I went over the events of last night again, making sure to emphasize the fact that it had been my own fault that I was there, that I hadn’t been in any danger, that Rafe hadn’t hurt me and never would, and that everything was fine now; I was home, safe and sound, with everything back to normal.

  “And young Mr. Collier?” mother said.

  It would be nice if she got used to calling him Rafe, since I planned to keep him around, but I supposed that was too much to ask, too soon. “The police have him. He’s in a safe house somewhere, staked out as bait for a crime boss.”