A Done Deal

by Jenna Bennett

  We ended up in the living room, facing one another.

  She was still wearing her coat, a peacock blue that set off her blonde hair and blue eyes. It was the same color as the almost-too-celebratory dress she’d worn to Brenda’s memorial; I guess someone must have told her once she looked good in it.

  I, on the other hand, was wearing considerably less. I was practically naked, just dressed in a lavender lace bra and matching panties. Maybelle looked me up and down. “Put on some clothes, for God’s sake.”

  I did, not because I cared that I made her uncomfortable, but because I didn’t want whoever found me after she shot me to find me in my skivvies. It’s like mother always said: be sure to put on clean panties in case you’re in a traffic accident and end up in the hospital.

  And besides, I was cold. There were goose bumps breaking out all over my body. All the little hairs on my arms and the back of my neck were standing at attention.

  My skirt was still on the living room floor, and I scooped it up and slipped it on, pulling the zipper up as slowly as I could to buy time. The blouse had ended up on the floor of the bedroom, and Maybelle kept a narrow eye on me while I walked over to it and grabbed it.

  “Sit.” She gestured—with the gun—to the sofa.

  I walked back into the living room, still buttoning the blouse, and sat. “So now what? Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  “You know what’s going on,” Maybelle said.

  I tried to keep my own voice calm. “Actually, I don’t. I’ve always thought we’ve gotten along well.”

  Maybelle snarled wordlessly, and it looked like her fingers tightened on the gun. I made a mental note not to mention what a good relationship we had again.

  It was true, though. I may not have liked her, but I had never let her know that I didn’t. I was brought up a Southern Belle, and we’re nothing if not circumspect. I’d been friendly to Maybelle. I’d been courteous. I hadn’t let my true feelings show when I’d heard that she’d gotten herself engaged to Steven Puckett before the earth had settled on Brenda’s grave. I had never let on that I’d suspected her of murder.

  I’d done the right thing, and once again it had exploded in my face. It was the last time I tried that. For real this time.

  “You’re interfering in my life,” Maybelle said.

  “I can’t imagine what you’re talking about,” I retorted.

  I’d been doing some research into her past, yes. But it wasn’t like she could have known about that. Carolyn Driscoll wouldn’t have contacted her, and Bradley certainly wouldn’t, and I doubted the second Lenny Wilkins would have had time. So how had she found out?

  “I’ve always endeavored to have a close, strong relationship with my neighbors,” Maybelle said demurely.

  No kidding, I thought. I mean, Steven Puckett lived right across the street, and her relationship with him had certainly been close. Both before and after his wife died.

  And then it hit me. The next-door neighbor who had called the cops on me the other day must have told Maybelle that I’d been there. A blonde in a blue Volvo. He or she might even have listened to my conversation with Spicer and Truman in the backyard, and so had heard my name.

  Damn. I should have thought of that.

  “It’s not like I found anything incriminating,” I said.

  “That’s beyond the point, dear. You shouldn’t have been in my house in the first place.”

  There was no arguing with that, so I didn’t try. “Holding me at gunpoint because of it seems like overkill, though. Don’t you agree? I mean, you could just have filed a formal complaint and had me arrested.”

  “Bernice called the cops,” Maybelle said, her face darkening, “and she said they came out there and then just let you go.”

  Again, there was nothing I could say. I couldn’t tell her it was because I hadn’t technically broken in, since that would implicate Alexandra. If she didn’t know that this was Alexandra’s idea, it was better not to tell her. At this rate, Maybelle may end up marrying Steven after all, and if so, Alexandra would have to deal with her. At least until Maybelle murdered Steven and moved on to her next well-to-do man in his forties.

  “Even so, killing me seems like a lot of trouble. I can’t prove anything.”

  Maybelle didn’t answer, just stared at me, and I added, “There was nothing suspicious about Harold’s death. No red flags. Nothing. And his body is ashes. I don’t think it’s possible to autopsy ashes. For all I know, you took them and dumped them in the ocean. So even if you killed him, nobody can prove it. And as far as Uncle Joshua goes—”

  “Who?” Maybelle said, and the word sounded as if it was surprised out of her.

  “I guess I neglected to mention that.” I smiled sweetly. “I was Mrs. Bradley Ferguson for a few years. Althea was my mother-in-law. Joshua Rowland was my uncle by marriage. Hello, Auntie Maybelle.”

  Maybelle didn’t answer beyond looking disgusted, and I added, “That was after your time, of course. Uncle Joshua was already dead when I married Bradley. I never met him. I don’t know if you remember Bradley?”

  “I remember his mother,” Maybelle said, her jaw tight.

  No surprise there.

  Bradley’s mother is like my mother, only more so. We’d gotten along reasonably well, Althea and I, everything considered. I was a Martin from Sweetwater, and I could trace my antecedents back to the War Against Northern Aggression and beyond, same as she could, so I could prove that my family had been on the right side in that epic conflict. My Southern heritage and good manners and that stint in finishing school had made me an acceptable mate for Bradley. Althea had liked me, as much as she was able to like anyone, especially someone who’d married her precious baby boy. She and my mother had been like peas in a pod.

  I imagined Maybelle may not have fared as well. No finishing school for Maybelle Hicks from the wrong side of the tracks in Florence, Alabama.

  “It must have been a disappointment when you didn’t inherit any of Uncle Joshua’s money. Why did you bother killing him when you knew you wouldn’t get anything?”

  “Who says I killed him?” Maybelle asked sweetly.

  I smiled back, with about as much warmth. “Nobody says you did. If my father-in-law had suspected anything, he would have nailed your hide to the wall. There was nothing suspicious about Uncle Joshua’s death, either. And just like Harold, Joshua’s dust by now. Nobody can prove anything. Congratulations. You got away with murder.”

  Maybelle smiled complacently.

  I added, “Except now you’re racking up a whole bunch of new charges. Charges that someone might be able to prove, even if I’m dead. There were witnesses this morning, on the interstate. When you tried to make me crash into that truck.”

  “I can’t imagine what you’re talking about,” Maybelle said airily.

  “You drove me home once, back in August. I should have remembered that you drive a white Toyota.”

  “Blizzard Pearl,” Maybelle murmured.

  I managed to avoid rolling my eyes. “Excuse me. Of course, Blizzard Pearl. I suppose you unhooked my fuel line this afternoon too? And cut Aislynn and Kylie’s brake cables last weekend?”

  “That was a mistake,” Maybelle said.

  Well, duh. “You almost killed two women. Women you don’t even know, who did nothing to you. Yes, I’d call that a mistake.”

  I looked at her for any hint of remorse, and found none. I added, “The police are investigating the accident. Sooner or later they’ll figure out that you were in that parking lot that night. I’m sure there are security cameras, and someone might remember seeing you.”

  “Let them,” Maybelle said. “They can’t prove I did anything. It’s a public place. I had no reason to want to do away with your friends. I don’t even know them. And I imagine, with their backgrounds, there are lots of other people who would like to get rid of them.”

  “Their backgrounds?”

  “Alternative lifestyles,” Maybell
e said.

  Of course. “I don’t suppose you care that you could have killed Rafe this afternoon, either.”

  “That young man who was just here?” Her nose wrinkled. “Really, Savannah, didn’t your mother teach you better than to throw yourself away on riff-raff like that?”

  “Keep my mother out of this,” I answered. “You don’t know her. And you don’t know him, either. You have no idea who or what he is.”

  Or that, if she managed to hurt me, he’d land on her like a ton of bricks.

  Not that that thought gave me much solace at the moment. I was having a supremely crappy day. As Grimaldi had once said, it had been just one damned thing after another ever since I woke up this morning.

  Ever since last night, really. I’d had a hell of a twenty four hours, if you’ll pardon the language.

  And unless I could extricate myself from this mess, it would be the last twenty four hours I’d ever get.

  “I guess Steven wasn’t much a problem for you after taking Harold away from Carolyn.” I put my naked feet up on the edge of the coffee table and inspected my toenails. “Harold at least liked his wife. Nobody liked Brenda.”

  The polish was chipped in places. I would have to give myself a manicure before Christmas Eve. Gone are the days when I could afford to have someone do it for me.

  Maybelle permitted herself a tiny smile at my witticism. “I love Steven,” she said primly.

  “Of course you do. And it doesn’t hurt that he’s well off. He probably had a pretty sizable life insurance policy on Brenda, didn’t he?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Maybelle said. When I arched my brows, she added, “Life insurance is common. A lot of people have it.”

  “Of course they do. Harold Driscoll certainly did. It made you quite wealthy when he kicked the bucket.”

  Rather than lowering my feet to the floor, I kept them on the edge of the table. It was an unladylike position, and mother would have been shocked had she seen me, but it seemed worth it, in case I could leverage the position into an attack on Maybelle. The edge of the table would hit her in the stomach if I pushed it forward. It might be enough to shock her for a moment. Long enough that I could make a grab for the gun.

  “I loved Harold,” Maybelle said demurely.

  All I needed was a distraction. The phone ringing, a car backfiring outside on the street. A sonic boom. The hand of God coming down out of the ceiling...

  “Oh, sure. What’s not to love? He took good care of you. Expensive vacations, lovely things. Makes me wonder why you found it necessary to kill him in the first place.”

  Maybelle didn’t answer, and I continued, “I don’t think you loved him, though. You may have wanted what he and Carolyn had. And of course you wanted the money. And the house. The kitchen with the glass fronted cabinets and the marble counter. Carolyn’s life, with a husband who doted on her. But you didn’t love him. I saw the pictures. He was always the one touching you. You didn’t touch him back.”

  Her face darkened. “Men are all the same. Only interested in one thing.”

  I had a flashback to Perry Fortunato, waving his gun and telling me that all women are the same, always flaunting their bodies and then saying no.

  “If you didn’t want to put out, you shouldn’t have offered,” I said.

  Dammit, my distraction wasn’t coming. There was no sonic boom. No car backfiring outside. The phone didn’t ring and God didn’t personally interfere. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep this up, while looking into the muzzle of that gun.

  And then it happened, almost as if I’d conjured it. There was a knock on the door.

  Maybelle’s eyes flickered that way for a second, and I channeled Rafe, seizing the moment and straightening my legs, hard, pushing the coffee table forward. It hit Maybelle in the stomach. She said “Ooof!” as all the breath was squeezed out of her. I’m sure tightening her finger on the trigger was automatic.

  The same thing had happened just a few weeks ago, in much the same way, minus the table to the stomach but including the jumpy trigger finger. Then I’d tried to duck out of the way, and had taken a bullet in the shoulder. This time I didn’t have time to dodge, and the bullet whizzed past, close enough that I felt it tear through the fabric of my sleeve. It embedded itself in the back of the sofa with a meaty sort of thwack.

  Maybelle lost her grip on the gun, and it fell and hit the top of the coffee table with enough force to crack the glass. I scooped it up and turned it on her. “Don’t even think of moving.”

  She didn’t look like she could move even if she’d wanted to. At the moment she was sort of green and too busy trying to catch her breath. I hoped she wouldn’t throw up all over my living room. Maybe I should go get her a bowl.

  But first I had something else to deal with. The knock on the door hadn’t been divine intervention, or at least not in the supernatural way. Someone was out there, banging. I headed that way, while making sure to keep Maybelle covered with the gun. If she came at me, I was totally prepared to shoot her. Theoretically, at least.

  I half expected it to be Rafe outside. The banging had his trademark: large, angry male. However, when I turned the lock and pulled the door open, it wasn’t Rafe. It was someone I’d never seen before. A young man around Truman’s age, early twenties, with fair, shaggy hair and blue eyes, dressed in faded jeans and a padded jacket with sheepskin collar, camouflage patterned. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a hunting rifle slung over his shoulder, but it was missing. When he saw the gun in my hand, he took a step back and lifted his hands. “Whoa!”

  “Sorry.” I lowered the gun.

  “You Savannah?”

  I nodded.

  “What’s up with that?” He nodded to the gun.

  “I had a little problem,” I said.

  “Mind if I come in?”

  I did, kind of. I didn’t even know who he was. But I did have the gun, so if he tried anything I could shoot him. And he didn’t seem interested in me anyway. He just slipped past me and headed down the hallway into the combination living room/dining room. Once there, he stopped in the middle of the floor and contemplated Maybelle.

  “You two know each other?” I said.

  Maybelle lifted her head and looked him over, head to toe and back, before shaking her head. The young man’s mouth twisted.

  “Been a long time,” he said. “Hello, mother.”

  Chapter 21

  “Clean bill of health,” Officer Spicer said the next morning when he and Truman dropped off my car. “The shop said it’s fine. They checked everything, and there are no little surprises set to go off.”

  “I appreciate it.” I accepted the keys he dropped into my hand. “I think I’d probably be worried about driving again if someone hadn’t taken a good look.”

  “They were thorough,” Truman said, one of the few times he’d actually spoken to me. “Your boyfriend put the fear of God in them yesterday.” He grinned.

  I blushed. “Sorry.”

  “No need to apologize, Miz Martin,” Spicer said, scratching the top of his head. “He was just making sure the car was safe for you.” He put the uniform cap back on. “With Miz Driscoll behind bars, you’re welcome to go pick up your friend Miz Mitchell from the hospital yourself. The detective said we could do it, but to give you the choice. Ain’t nobody else out there who’ll bother you no more.”

  I nodded. I guess that was true. Maybelle was locked up, along with Hector and Heather. After Lenny Wilkins Jr. showed up at my apartment and introduced himself, I called Detective Grimaldi. And while I waited for her to arrive, I kept the gun pointed at Maybelle while she and Lenny got reacquainted.

  By the time the detective got there, I had the whole story pretty straight in my head. Maybelle and Lenny Sr. had gotten married pretty much straight out of high school. Maybelle had gotten pregnant shortly after that, and given birth to Little Lenny. A couple of years into motherhood and being the wife of an auto mechanic in a small town in Alabama,
she’d had enough. I was a little unclear on exactly what happened after that, but Little Lenny was pretty adamant that Maybelle had waited until Big Lenny went on a drinking binge, which he did with some regularity—Little Lenny was totally upfront about it—and then they’d gotten into an argument. Maybelle had told Little Lenny to run down the road to his grandma’s house, which Little Lenny had done. He’d gone to sleep there, just like all the other times his parents had been fighting. I got the impression it had happened a lot. Everyone knew about it and no one lifted a finger. So it had been business as usual... until a few hours later, in the middle of the night, when the Wilkins trailer had gone up in flames.

  Maybelle had had an alibi—she’d been down at the local bar sporting a black eye and a fat lip, garnering sympathy—and everyone figured the fire had been an accident. Big Lenny had been a smoker, and according to Maybelle he’d been dead drunk; the consensus was that he’d been smoking in bed, and had lit himself and the trailer on fire. It burned to the ground with him inside.

  Maybelle left town the next week, and nobody missed here. Little Lenny ended up living with his grandma. However, it didn’t take long for the manure to hit the fan, especially after it got out that Lenny had had a lot of money in the trailer. He was running a lucrative and illegal sideline the IRS didn’t know about, dealing in luxury cars that happened to fall of trailers. Organized car theft, something along the lines of what Hector Gonzales had been involved in, only on a smaller scale twenty years ago. And although all the money he’d had could have gone up in flames, and probably should have, there was speculation that Maybelle had put it somewhere else before the fire. Like, her handbag or the glove compartment of her car.

  And now Lenny Jr. was standing in my living room accusing his estranged mother of having had a hand in the fire. That perhaps there was a reason Big Lenny hadn’t made it out of the trailer alive. Like, he hadn’t just been drunk, he’d been suffering from something else too.

  “Lots of antifreeze sitting around the shop,” Lenny Jr. told his mother, bitterly. “And you knew what it was. I was just a couple years old, and I remember you showing me the bottle and the skull and crossbones on it.”