A Cutthroat Business

by Jenna Bennett

  I guess I should be grateful that he didn’t decide to try it on for size. Attempting to explain why I was hiding behind the desk would have been even more awkward than explaining what I was doing in Brenda’s office in the first place. Luckily, after a moment Tim turned the light off again, leaving me crouched in darkness, before he pranced on down the hall and out the door, whistling merrily. Just before the back door opened again, I heard his voice. “Hey, Larry? It’s me, Tim Briggs. Do you have a minute? There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”

  The door closed with a dull smack, but I waited until I heard the growl of his Jaguar’s engine outside before I crawled out from behind the desk.

  And now I was standing outside the door of 101 Potsdam Street, preparing to do my duty and then get out of there ASAP. There was only one problem. There was a light on in the library, spilling out into the front hall. The forensic team must have forgotten to turn it off when they left.

  I suppose I could have decided to come back the next day to deal with it, but that would mean another 20 minute drive. It was easier, if more unpleasant, just to take care of it now. After all, I had a key.

  A piece of yellow police tape hung across the front door, and I had to snake my hand under it to find the doorknob and insert the key in it. I took a deep breath before I pushed the door open.

  It had gotten darker in the thirty minutes it had taken me to get here — I hadn’t driven hell for leather this time, so the trip had taken a few minutes longer — and the interior of the house was pitch black, except for the glow from the library, casting a yellow square on the dusty hall floor. I took a tentative step into the foyer and stopped. Silence and darkness enveloped me like a shroud. My heart started beating faster. I reached out and flicked the ancient light switch, on the wall next to the door. It turned over with an audible click, but no light came on. The bulb had probably burned out.

  The next second, as if in response, the light in the library went out, too. I stopped breathing, and I had the dizzying feeling that at the end of the hallway, someone else was doing the same as I: peering in my direction just as I was peering in theirs, and blinking at the sudden absence of light.

  The way I saw it, there were two things I could do. I could run right down there and investigate, like a good little girl-detective. Maybe one of the forensic experts had discovered that he was missing his petrie dish or wedding band or something, and he had come back to look for it. There might not be any danger at all.

  On the other hand, it could be someone a lot worse. I could end up with my head partially severed from my body, like Brenda.

  It wasn’t much of a contest. I’ve never hankered after being the next Nancy Drew, and I wanted even less to be the next Brenda Puckett. I exercised option 2: swung around on my heel and ran for safety, down the rickety steps and across the gravel, without bothering to secure the door behind me.

  As soon as I was safely locked in the car and on my way down Potsdam Street, I dialed Tamara Grimaldi. “Detective? Sorry to bother you so late, but I was just over at the house on Potsdam to lock up, and someone else was there.”

  “Did you see someone?” Detective Grimaldi wanted to know. I said no. “So how do you know someone was there, if you didn’t see them? Was there a car parked outside? Or nearby?”

  I explained about the light in the library. “When I opened the front door, it went off. I didn’t hang around.”

  “And you don’t think it was just a malfunction? That you accidentally tripped a switch?”

  I contemplated, then shook my head. “It didn’t go off the same instant I flipped the hall switch, like they were on a circuit. It was more like someone heard the click, and then turned off their own light.”

  Detective Grimaldi didn’t sound like she was convinced, but she agreed to dispatch a squad car. “By the way,” I added, just as she was about to hang up, “since you mentioned cars… I was wondering about Brenda’s. A navy blue Lincoln Navigator, brand new. It wasn’t in the driveway yesterday. Have you found it?”

  Detective Grimaldi hesitated for a moment. “As a matter of fact we have. In a parking lot a few blocks away.”

  “I see,” I said. Although I wasn’t sure I did. “Um... was it intact?”

  “There didn’t seem to be anything missing. It was wiped clean of fingerprints, of course, and the only DNA we found is accounted for. Herself, her husband, her children, a co-worker or two...”

  “It wasn’t because someone wanted the car, then?”

  “It doesn’t appear that way.” Detective Grimaldi was remarkably forthcoming tonight. I decided I might as well push my luck and see if it held.

  “Why would someone drive her car a few blocks and then leave it?”

  “Afraid it might attract attention sitting in the driveway?” Grimaldi suggested. “Anyone who saw it — like you or Mr. Collier — would know that Mrs. Puckett was somewhere about.”

  I nodded. Nashville is not the kind of place where anyone sane would walk, especially in the area surrounding Potsdam Street. “So what did the murderer do with his own car while he was moving Brenda’s?”

  “We’re looking into the possibility that he or she may have arrived in Mrs. Puckett’s car.” Detective Grimaldi’s voice was carefully neutral.

  I blinked. “You mean, Brenda picked him up? Or her? But why?”

  “For protection?” Grimaldi suggested. “If she was concerned about going to meet Mr. Collier on her own?”

  “And then the person she asked to come along to protect her, killed her instead?” Talk about irony...

  “If she were to ask someone to ride with her, who would she ask?”

  My response was automatic. “Not me. I told you we weren’t that friendly.”

  “So who?”

  I thought about it. “Her husband, I suppose. It was the weekend, and he wasn’t home yesterday morning. At least he didn’t answer the phone when I called.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Someone from work. Clarice Webb, her personal assistant. Or Heidi Hoppenfeldt, her protégé. Or Tim, her... um... partner.”

  I could hear Detective Grimaldi’s ears prick up. “Partner, as in lover?”

  I sputtered. “Good God, no. He’s as gay as a meadowlark, bless his heart. He’s a good realtor, though, and Brenda took 10% of everything he made. She was his mentor for a while, and then took him on as a partner when she started working with Heidi.”

  “And he might have gone with her to Potsdam Street?”

  “He probably would have, if she had asked, although I don’t know any reason why she should. He would swoon at the first sight of Rafe Collier.” And not necessarily in fear. I smothered a giggle, imagining Tim’s reaction to Rafe.

  “Something funny?” Detective Grimaldi asked courteously.

  “Not really. I was just thinking about something.”

  “I see.” Detective Grimaldi’s voice was bland, but I got the feeling that she knew exactly what I was thinking. She was a woman, too, after all, so it wasn’t impossible that she was thinking about Rafe Collier’s broad shoulders and hard muscles and considering swooning herself. Then again, she was a police detective, so it was more likely that she was considering his potential for violence. Unless she wasn’t thinking about him at all, of course. It wasn’t like she didn’t have more important things to worry about.

  “I’ll send someone out to see if anything’s going on at the house,” she said finally, “and if you think of anything else that might help, please give me a call.”

  I said I would, and we both hung up. I amused myself the whole way home by picturing the imaginary meeting between Timothy Briggs and Rafael Collier.

  Chapter 4.

  Every Monday morning, The Walker Lamont Real Estate Agency has a sales meeting. Everyone is required to attend. All of us full time people anyway, although the ones who teach school or wait tables during the week, and who only sell real estate on the weekends, are exempt. On this particular Monday, ever
yone was there. High school teachers and accountants, supermarket cashiers and guys who cut lawns; one and all had called in sick at work today. When I walked through the door at a few minutes to ten, every face in the room turned toward me. Timothy Briggs, sitting as close to the head of the table as he could get without actually being there — in Brenda’s customary seat, in fact — showed every one of his capped teeth in a blinding smile. “Top of the morning to you, Savannah!”

  I smiled back, or more accurately, showed teeth. “Hi, Tim.”

  “You look smashing today. Have a good weekend?” His bright baby blue eyes were malicious.

  “Great,” I said dryly, knowing full well that I looked like death warmed over. “Stumbling over a bloody corpse, especially one I know, is definitely my idea of a good time. There’s nothing quite like a whole lot of blood to give a girl some color in her cheeks.”

  Tim tittered. A couple of the others stuck their heads together, whispering, and the rest just stared at me.

  “Look,” I added, and my mother would have been shocked to hear me tackle the situation so aggressively; we Southern Belles are supposed to be more circumspect, “let’s not beat around the bush. I had a lousy weekend, and I’m sure some of you did, too. We may not all have liked Brenda, but she was our co-worker, and I’m sure there are some of us who are feeling the loss.” I looked around the table.

  “Well, I never...!” Clarice Webb puffed herself up, aiming for righteous indignation, but managing only to look like a small, ruffled bantam hen. “I’m sure we were all shocked to hear about what happened to poor Brenda. Shocked!”

  She looked around. The others nodded and murmured, but no one actually looked back at her. Even Heidi, Brenda’s protégé, kept her eyes on her folded hands. All except Tim, of course. “She was an inspiration to us all,” he said primly.

  Nothing more was said until Walker glided in and the meeting got underway. I can’t really remember much about it, just that there were a few announcements of new listings and sales, and an open house or two were scheduled for the next weekend. I volunteered to sit in one of them for a couple of hours on Sunday afternoon. It’s a good way to pick up clients. Or so they say; like everything else I’ve tried, it hasn’t worked that way for me. But if nothing else, it would make me feel as if I was doing something worthwhile.

  After the new listings and open houses were dispensed with, and we had gotten an update on how much money the office had generated in the last month — less than last month, although Brenda had sold well over a million dollars worth of real estate in July, while I had, of course, not contributed so much as a dime — the discussion got around to the events of Saturday morning. I had to explain again what had happened, and how I had come to be the one receiving the call from Rafe Collier.

  “Since he was Brenda’s customer,” Clarice said with a sniff, “I don’t think you should have gone, Savannah. You should have called one of us.”

  One of the people on Brenda’s team, she meant. There were four of them: Brenda herself, Clarice, Tim, and Heidi. The pecking order had Brenda firmly on top and Heidi just as firmly on the bottom, with Clarice and Tim fighting for top middle spot. Tim had the other two beat hands down on sales volume, but Clarice had Brenda’s ear. Heidi had neither, but she took abuse neither Tim nor Clarice would have permitted. All four of them had stuck together like molasses until now, and with Brenda gone, the in-fighting and back-biting would begin. But first they had to put me in my place.

  “Savannah was here,” Walker pointed out, gently. “It’s only fair that she should get to take the calls that come in.”

  Clarice sniffed again, but didn’t say anything else. Walker is outrageously handsome and just as gay as Tim, in an older and a lot more sophisticated way, but he has a spine of steel underneath the stylish designer suits, and he runs a tight ship. Clarice seemed to know it wouldn’t do her any good to complain further. When Walker has spoken, the fat lady has sung.

  “That’s all well and good,” Tim said, with another show of caps, for Walker’s benefit this time, “but I always got Brenda’s leftovers, and he sounds like a particularly tasty one.”

  He winked at me. A couple of the younger women, and the other gay guys, tittered. Except Walker, of course, who is above that sort of thing. As am I.

  “You’d be wasting your time,” I said coolly.

  “Ooooh!” Tim giggled. “That was fast! How do you know that, Savannah?”

  The implication was that Rafe and I had engaged in something less than businesslike while Brenda was bleeding to death on the library floor. Or perhaps over the body, while we waited for the police to arrive. I’m sure I looked as disgusted as I felt. “I went to high school with him. He was popular with some of the girls.”

  The ones who thought his reputation was exciting and who were more susceptible than I to smooth-talking rakes with exotic looks and in-your-face sex-appeal.

  Tim opened his mouth to reply, something suggestive judging from the gleam in his eyes, but Walker banged his folder on the table. “Enough!”

  It didn’t make much noise, but had the desired effect. Tim sank back in his seat, not without an amused smile, and Clarice folded her hands piously on the table in front of her.

  “Savannah...” Walker turned to me, with a tone that brooked no argument, “if he calls back, he’s yours.”

  I nodded, although I wasn’t by any means sure I wanted Rafael Collier.

  Walker added, over the outraged mutterings, “Clarice, I need you to go over Brenda’s workload and divide it between Tim and Heidi. Fairly, if you please.”

  Tim smirked. Clarice glowered, and I got the impression that she would have favored Heidi outrageously if Walker hadn’t said anything.

  “For now, at least, I’ll handle the listing for 101 Potsdam Street personally. Not to disparage anyone,” Walker’s gaze flickered to Tim, who closed his mouth again and pouted prettily, “but under the circumstances, I’m sure the owner would feel better if Brenda’s superior handled the sale rather than assigning it to a less experienced agent.”

  I nodded. It made perfect sense to me. I knew that Walker didn’t usually take part in the buying and selling anymore — he contented himself with supervising the rest of us — but with the situation being what it was, I thought he’d done the best he could under the circumstances. Tim looked put out. Probably he had hoped the listing would come to him now that Brenda was gone.

  “The memorial service is Wednesday at 2 PM,” Walker said. “I trust that all of you will attend.” It wasn’t a question, nor a request; it was an order. Clarice nodded vehemently. Tim raised his hand, like an elementary school pupil, and Walker said tiredly, “Yes, Tim, I know you have a closing. But it won’t take all day, and I’ll expect to see you after you’re done. Wear something suitable, please.”

  Tim, who likes to dress as if he’s still 19 and attending drama classes in NY, glanced down at his shiny satin shirt, in a particularly heinous shade of eggplant, and widened his eyes innocently. “Don’t I always?”

  After the meeting was over, I stepped into Walker’s office, to tell him I would be going out of town for a couple of days. As I had expected, it was no problem at all. “You’re your own boss, Savannah; you know that. You can go away whenever you want.”

  I nodded. “Especially since I have no listings to service and no buyer clients to show around.”

  Real estate had turned out to be much harder to break into than I’d realized, back when I’d been on the outside and thought it looked like fun.

  “It’s a competitive business,” Walker said sympathetically. “And times are especially tough right now. But if you stick with it, you’ll do all right. It takes time. Maybe you’ll meet someone in Sweetwater who wants to buy or sell a house. It’s always easier to start with your own sphere of acquaintances at first.”

  Like Rafe Collier. I grimaced. “I’m concerned that, with what’s been going on this weekend, and with Tim and Heidi fighting for clients...”
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  Walker smiled thinly. “Don’t worry about them. If Mr. Collier calls while you’re gone, I will personally ensure that the call goes directly to your voice mail.”

  I smiled back. “You’re all right, Walker. Thanks a lot.”

  “No thanks necessary. I hired you, Savannah. I’m not going to have Clarice and Tim telling what you can and cannot do. Brenda was a valued member of the company, but she wasn’t the managing broker here. This is my company, and I’m in charge.” He nodded decisively. “Have a good time at your mother’s. And don’t forget Brenda’s memorial service.”

  I promised I wouldn’t, and left, wishing I could forget, even for a few minutes. But it was going to be a long time before I could close my eyes again without seeing her lying there in front of that damned fireplace.

  I got underway a little after three, just in time to catch the beginning of rush hour as the first wave of time-clock lemmings left work and headed south to their homes in the suburbs. It was an awful crush for about thirty miles, until we passed the towns of Franklin and Spring Hill, and after that it was pretty smooth sailing. Just before I reached the Sweetwater city limits, I pulled over to the side of the road and stopped.

  What’s left of the Martin plantation sits on a few acres of rolling ground just outside Sweetwater proper. It’s an authentic antebellum plantation house, completed in 1839, and now that I was looking at it with the eye of someone who no longer lived there, I could see its resemblance to a mausoleum.

  It’s a good sized building — about 5000 square feet — built of red brick, but with tall, white pillars in the front, and a second story balcony that runs the entire width of the house. Think Tara, but red. There are eight rooms on either floor; bedrooms upstairs, common rooms downstairs. And yes, we do still have some of the old outbuildings. There’s a smokehouse, an old dairy, and one of the slave cabins that Rafe Collier had mentioned. My mother, with her customary elegance, has turned the whole thing into an upscale, very exclusive event venue. Rather than ignoring the Martins’ history as plantation- and slave-owners, my mother is capitalizing on it. People come from near and far to get married on the grounds or the balcony, and occasionally a magazine or film company will pay an outrageous sum of money to snap pictures or shoot film in and around the mansion. It’s chock full of atmosphere, and looks very much like it did a hundred and sixty years ago, in the Old South glory days. Great-great-grandmama Agnes’s dressing table is still sitting in what used to be my sister Catherine’s bedroom upstairs, and great-great-great-aunt Marie’s fanning couch is in one of the downstairs parlors.