Close to Home

by Jenna Bennett

  “If it has to do with Sheila, we’re going,” Dix said, in a voice that brooked no argument, and aimed the car toward St. Jerome.

  Chapter 16

  Tamara Grimaldi met us in the lobby of St. Jerome’s Hospital, and it was interesting to see mother’s and Dix’s reactions to her.

  Dix had met her before, of course, last week at the morgue. But he’d probably been too focused on other things then to really notice what she looked like. At least I got the impression, until she greeted him, that he didn’t recognize her.

  As for mother, she reacted much the same way I did the first time I met Tamara Grimaldi. Uncomfortable, intimidated, and struck by my own shortcomings. At first I’d wondered if the detective might be gay, because I was used to women making more out of themselves than she did. Not that she’s unattractive. Not pretty, by most people’s opinion, but striking, in an athletic, very competent sort of way. The sort of way that can give a woman like me—women who don’t hold down important, world changing jobs; women whose concerns revolve around men and babies—serious feelings of inferiority.

  She’s about my height, give or take an inch, and ethnic-looking. Olive complexion, dark eyes, dark curly hair cut short, aquiline nose, always dressed in low heels and a pantsuit or jeans. Today she was working, so it was a suit. Charcoal gray with thin stripes. Crisp blue shirt underneath. Very business-like. Very no nonsense. Very unlike the pink dress and gray cardigan I was wearing. It was the same gray cardigan with rosettes I’d bought at Target two days ago, thinking it would hide my growing belly well, and I must admit that wearing it now, when there was no more belly to hide, was hard.

  “Mr. Martin.” Grimaldi greeted Dix first. “I’m sorry to drag you out here.”

  “Savannah’s right,” Dix answered, and shook the hand she offered. “If it can help you figure out what happened to my wife, we want to help.”

  Grimaldi nodded and turned to me. Dix had made the trip to my apartment this morning to pick up the dress and cardigan, since the dress I’d worn to the hospital last night had been ruined. I’d even put on makeup, since mother has me trained to believe that a lady doesn’t set foot outside the house without her face on. I didn’t think I looked all that bad, considering everything I’d been through, but Grimaldi’s dark eyes registered worry. “You look like hell,” she said bluntly.

  Mother looked scandalized. I managed a weak smile. “You’ve seen me look bad before.” Most recently two months ago, when I’d arrived in her office fresh off an hour long crying jag, blotchy, wild-eyed, and beside myself, accusing her of having lied when she told me that Rafe would be fine, because I had it from a reliable source that he was dead.

  She smiled, although it didn’t reach her eyes. “He’s all right. I spoke to Mr. Craig. Mr. Collier made it to Atlanta without incident and is back to work this morning.”

  “Thank you.” I couldn’t help the catch in my voice.

  “Any time. I’m sorry things worked out this way.” She put her hand on my arm for a second. The detective is usually so undemonstrative that it was like getting a great big warm hug. Then she turned to mother. “Mrs. Martin. I’m Detective Tamara Grimaldi with the Metro Nashville PD. I’m in charge of the investigation into your daughter-in-law’s death.”

  “A pleasure,” mother said politely and shook the detective’s hand. I got the distinct impression she didn’t mean what she said. I think mother would have been much happier just going home to her safe little insular world where bad things only happened to other people. She’d had quite a few shocks in the past few days, between Sheila’s death and the suspicion of drug abuse, and my pregnancy and miscarriage and the fact that I was involved with Rafael Collier, who—oh, yes—wasn’t quite as dead as everyone had hoped.

  “Not quite suite what you can do here,” Grimaldi said when the formalities were over, “but I appreciate your willingness to help. Ms. Martin,” she turned to me, “you’ve been here before. Did you go into Dr. Rushing’s office yesterday?”

  I nodded. “He came in from outside while we were talking to the desk nurse. When she told him we were there to see him, he asked us to come back to his office.”

  Grimaldi led the way down the hall with a wave of her hand. “Just out of curiosity, what did you give as the reason you were here?”

  “I told the truth,” I answered. “I said I was pregnant—” my throat tightened at the realization that this was no longer true, “—and that I’d miscarried before. That’s true, too. The nurse looked up Sheila’s name and told me that Sheila had been here to see Dr. Rushing. Then the doctor came in and took us back to his office for a quick consultation before his first appointment. I mentioned Sheila, but he didn’t react to her name at all. He did react to Elspeth’s, but he refused to tell us anything about David.”

  I thought for a second before I added, “You know, it might have been Rafe who put the wind up Dr. Rushing. You saw them together.”

  Tamara Grimaldi looked confused for a moment before she caught on. “Mr. Collier and David? Yes, I did.”

  “They look enough alike to be father and son, wouldn’t you say?”

  “No doubt at all,” Grimaldi nodded. “So what you’re suggesting is that Dr. Rushing got worried when you and Mr. Collier started asking questions about David?”

  She pushed open the door to Dr. Rushing’s office and waved us through. “Look at anything you want, but don’t touch anything. We haven’t finished processing the scene yet.”

  I looked around, even as I continued the conversation. The body had been removed, thankfully, and if I squinted, the blood spatter wasn’t too noticeable. “There’s something strange about David’s adoption. And it has to have originated here.”

  I told her about the Caulfields and their religious background, how Elspeth had come to St. Jerome’s to have her baby, and how Dr. Rushing told her—and her gynecologist—that the baby was stillborn. “The hospital took care of the birth certificate, and when it arrived in the mail, it said that David was Ginny and Sam Flannery’s biological son. They weren’t about to make a fuss over it, and for almost twelve years things have been fine. But then Rafe shows up, and he looks just like David—or David like him—and Dr. Rushing gets nervous because he knows that everything wasn’t on the up and up with the adoption. Elspeth’s parents probably had the right to approve it on her behalf since she was a minor, but Rafe was over eighteen, and he didn’t agree to anything, and Dr. Rushing wouldn’t have known how much he knew. Elspeth could have told Rafe twelve years ago that David was stillborn, and if so, I bet Rafe would have a hell of a legal case.”

  I glanced at Dix, who nodded. “He could sue for custody and a whole lot of money, and he’d probably win.”

  Mother looked scandalized again. “Surely he won’t try.”

  “I doubt it,” I said. “He knows he couldn’t have provided any kind of home for David back then, and I doubt he would have wanted the poor kid to grow up the way he did, in the Bog with LaDonna.” Rafe had loved his mother, as evidenced by the fact that he’d spent two years in jail for beating up the man who had hurt her, but I didn’t think he would have wished his own childhood on anyone, let alone his own son. “He knows that Ginny and Sam have taken care of David better than he’d ever have been able to.”

  “You don’t think he’ll try to get custody?” Detective Grimaldi asked.

  I shook my head. “David is happy. Taking him away from Ginny and Sam after twelve years would be cruel. It certainly wouldn’t be in David’s best interest, and I think any judge would probably agree.”

  Dix nodded agreement.

  “And Rafe isn’t really in a position to provide a home for David now either. Not with the work he does. He goes away for weeks and months at a time, and it’s not like he can take a kid into the criminal underworld with him. Or that he’d want to.” I sighed. “I just hope the Flannerys see their way clear to let David and Rafe get to know one another—surely he has at least that right! —and now that they’ve me
t and know about each other, it would be just as cruel to deny them that.”

  Dix nodded again. I was happy to see that he agreed with me. Mother didn’t seem so sure.

  “What do you think?” Detective Grimaldi said, abandoning the issue of Rafe and David for the moment. She looked around Dr. Rushing’s office. “Anything look different to you?”

  I looked around too. It seemed the same. Desk, chair, filing cabinet, cork-board full of pictures of happy families. Rafe had mentioned seeing a photo of David from a few years ago pinned up. I wandered over to the wall where the cork-board hung to see for myself. Tamara Grimaldi, meanwhile, addressed Dix. “Did your wife know Elspeth Caulfield? Or Mr. Collier?”

  Mother sniffed, probably at the idea that Sheila would know Rafe. I looked at her—I knew Rafe—and mother blushed. Dix shook his head. “Not that I know of. Savannah’s the only one of us who’s had any kind of contact with him, and that’s only been in the past few months, since he came back to this part of Tennessee. I’ve only seen him once—until yesterday—and that was at Marquita Johnson’s funeral. I didn’t talk to him, just saw him and Savannah together. We’ve discussed him, but Sheila’s never said anything about having met him. And if she knew Elspeth, she’s never mentioned that, either. I doubt it.”

  “Elspeth seemed to be a bit of a loner,” I added over my shoulder. “Author, you know. She probably spent most of her time alone, interfacing with the computer.” And making up stories in which she and her most recent incarnation of Rafe got the happily ever after she’d been denied in life. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her, in spite of the fact that she’d done her best to kill me.

  Grimaldi said, “So Sheila wouldn’t have recognized David Flannery?”

  Dix had to think for a second. “I’ve had a picture of him at the office for a few months. She might have seen that. I don’t remember showing it to her, though, and it was kept in a file, not out in the open.”

  “Where is it now? The picture?”

  “Savannah took it,” Dix said, with a glance at me.

  I nodded. “Last Thursday. I have it at home.” I put my finger on an empty space on the cork-board. “There’s a picture missing here.”

  I hadn’t taken the time to inspect the board when we were in Dr. Rushing’s office yesterday. I’d been too busy talking. But I had noticed that it was filled, every square inch of cork covered. There hadn’t been any gaps.

  “The photograph of David Flannery?” Detective Grimaldi suggested.

  I shook my head. “That’s up there.” I pointed towards the top of the board, where a younger David was grinning at the camera from between his beaming parents.

  Everyone moved closer to have a look. Mother was the only one who’d never seen neither David nor a photograph of him, and when she did, and saw the resemblance to Rafe, whom she had seen recently, I could see the shock in her eyes. She turned to look at me. I have no idea why, or what the expression in her eyes meant, but personally the sight of David brought tears to my eyes. He looked so much like Rafe that it hurt, but more than that, he looked so much like my own child might have looked, had I been able to keep it.

  “Any idea what’s missing?” Grimaldi asked, her expression sympathetic, as if she knew what was going through my mind. I swallowed and shook my head.

  “I didn’t spend any time looking at the board. I left that to Rafe, while I talked to Dr. Rushing. Rafe might remember.”

  “I don’t think Mr. Craig would be best pleased if I asked Mr. Collier to drive back to Nashville so soon,” Grimaldi said dryly. “It seems they’re at an important point in the investigation. When Mr. Collier up and left night before last, it came close to blowing the whole thing sky-high.”

  I felt myself turn pale. “He’s not in danger, is he?”

  Tamara Grimaldi shrugged. “No more than he always is, I think. Or no more than he was before he dropped out of sight for twenty four hours.”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” I said.

  Dix glanced at me, and so did mother. Both their expressions were hard to read. At a guess, I’d say mother was surprised bordering on shocked, not to mention dismayed, about my obvious concern for a man she had never thought I’d show the least little bit of interest in. Dix, meanwhile, was under no illusions about my feelings for Rafe. If he was surprised at all, I suspect it was because I was no longer trying to deny them. But after everything that had happened, there just didn’t seem to be any point. Maybe that was the shocker. That I didn’t bother to pretend not to care.

  “He’ll be all right,” Grimaldi said. “He knows how to take care of himself. And if you don’t mind my saying so, he seems to have the devil’s own luck.”

  She had a point.

  “Take a picture of it,” I said, indicating the cork-board, “and send it to Wendell. He’ll show it to Rafe, and Rafe can tell you whether he remembers what was there.”

  “I could do that.” Grimaldi pulled out her phone to snap a shot of the cork-board. While she was busy, Dix turned to me.

  “What was Sheila doing here, Savannah?”

  “Dr. Rushing was a specialist in difficult pregnancies,” I said.

  “Sheila wasn’t pregnant. Was she?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Martin,” Detective Grimaldi said. “Yes, she was.”

  She jumped to grab his arm when Dix turned as white as a sheet. “Here. Sit down.” She lowered him into the chair I had occupied the previous day. “Put your head between your knees. Concentrate on breathing.”

  Dix took a breath, but his head popped up again almost immediately. And though his face was pale, his eyes blazed with anger. “Are you telling me this bastard killed not just my wife, but my baby as well?”

  Mother clicked her tongue. It was probably Dix’s language that offended her. If she was outraged at the idea that someone had killed her grandchild, or even shocked at the news that Sheila had been pregnant, I hope her reaction would have been stronger than just a tsk.

  “I’m afraid so,” Tamara Grimaldi said. She kept her hand on Dix’s shoulder for a moment. I hoped he derived some sort of comfort from it, although he probably didn’t realize what an outpouring of sympathy it was.

  Dix took another breath. “If he hadn’t been dead, I would have wanted to kill him.”

  Mother tsked again, and Dix turned on her. “You knew about this, didn’t you? For how long?”

  “She told me after her first appointment with Dr. Seaver,” mother said, in her well-modulated, ladylike voice. “Last Thursday.”

  “What about you?” Dix turned to me.

  “The detective told me a couple of days ago. After—” I swallowed, “the autopsy.”

  “And neither of you thought I had a right to know?” His angry question included the detective. She was the one who answered, her voice gentle.

  “It was just a few days since I’d had to tell you that your wife was dead. There seemed to be no need to call back two days later to let you know that she’d been pregnant. You were already grieving, and I didn’t want to add to it.”

  “I had a right to know!”

  “Of course you did. And I would have told you. I just judged that it was better not to tell you right then.” Her tone was soothing but not at all placating; there was an undertone of steel, of absolute certainty that she’d done the right thing. Dix must have heard it too, because he didn’t argue. Instead he turned to me.

  “What’s your excuse?”

  “I don’t have one,” I said, “other than that I’m a chicken. Like the detective said, you were already grieving, and there didn’t seem to be any point in adding to it. Especially not over the phone. And I was busy.”

  “Sleeping with your boyfriend,” Dix said bitterly. I flushed and bit my lip. I’d done more than that, including figuring out where Sheila had been on Friday afternoon and tracking down David Flannery, but yes, there’d been a little bit of self indulgent sex in there too.

  Before I could say anything in my defense—before I
could decide whether I should in fact say anything, or whether it would be better just to let him vent his anger and grief without interference—he’d closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, sis.”

  “That’s OK. I love you. I didn’t want to hurt you.” I put an arm around his shoulders and looked up at the detective. “I think maybe it would be best if we went home. Too difficult all around being here right now.”

  She nodded. “I’ll walk you out.”

  When we got out to the car, she added, “Thanks for stopping by. I’ll let you know if anything comes of the empty space on the cork-board.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  I’d appreciate it even more if she’d toss any little tidbit of information she had about Rafe my way. I knew I probably didn’t deserve his forgiveness after not telling him about the baby, his baby, the first chance I got, but the idea that I might never see him again, that he might not want to see me again after this, was more devastating than I could have imagined.

  Chapter 17

  We got to Sweetwater just before noon. Jonathan had dropped Abigail at school with his own two eldest on his way to the office, while Hannah was at home with Catherine and little Cole. With nothing else he needed to do, Dix headed to work. Mother and I ended up in the parlor. In spite of the early hour, she poured herself a sherry. I guess maybe she felt she’d earned it. Or maybe she needed the Dutch courage for the job ahead. When she sat down across from me, on great aunt Marie’s antique velvet love seat, I braced myself automatically.

  “I’m worried about your behavior, Savannah.”

  No doubt. Grabbing the proverbial bull by the horns, I said, “I know he’s not someone you would have chosen for me to get involved with.”

  “No,” mother admitted readily, “but—”

  “I never intended to fall for him. It just happened. He’s...” I hesitated, trying to put into words what it was that Rafe was, that was so appealing to me. The best I could come up with was, “...different. Being with him is...” I hesitated again, before settling for, “—easy.”