A Cutthroat Business

by Jenna Bennett

  I explained that I had spoken to Rafe the night before, “About what we discussed in the ladies’ room last night. Remember?”

  “Of course,” Walker said smoothly. “How did Mr. Collier feel about the idea?”

  “He seemed to feel just fine about it. I’m sure he’d appreciate anything you could do.”

  “And you made sure he understands that this depends on us being able to keep the transaction quiet?”

  I assured him I had done everything I could to impart that understanding. “I don’t think he’ll say anything to anyone. Although I suppose you could always get it in writing.”

  “I’d prefer to keep that part of the agreement verbal,” Walker said blandly. “Does he strike you as someone who’d come back later with demands?”

  “For money, you mean? Like Cla... I mean, like he’d try to blackmail you?”

  Walker might not — probably didn’t — know that Clarice had been blackmailing Brenda all these years, and it wasn’t my place to tell him. That agreement had been between Clarice and Brenda, and hadn’t affected Walker in any way, and what he didn’t know, really couldn’t hurt him, so I didn’t even feel a twinge of guilty conscience over keeping mum. When he didn’t say anything, I added, “No, I don’t think so. He might steal your money, but he’ll steal it honestly. He’s not someone who’ll sneak around behind your back.”

  “In that case,” Walker said, “I’ll see if I can’t take care of this right away. Thank you for letting me know so promptly, Savannah.”

  “My pleasure,” I said. “Is there anything I can do to help out?”

  It sounded like he hesitated for a moment. “Actually, there is. I had scheduled an open house over at Potsdam Street today, from 2 to 4. It is still our listing, and until we hear otherwise, it is our responsibility to do our best for our client.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “But now, with this problem to work out, it would be more convenient if I didn’t have to be there. I don’t suppose you’re available to do it instead?”

  “I’d love to,” I said (although, between you and me, I didn’t love the idea as much as I said I did).

  “There’s nothing to it,” Walker said bracingly. “Just talk to people and be your usual charming self, and all will be well.”

  “Charming I can do. I spent a year in Charleston learning how to be charming.”

  “There you go, then. I know you’ll do wonderfully. And if I can work this little problem out in time, I might see you there myself.”

  “That would be great,” I said. Walker excused himself to get to work, and I did the same.

  In my naiveté, I thought that not many people would come to an open house at 101 Potsdam Street. It wasn’t a property that would appeal to the masses, after all. Too expensive, needing too much work, and in the wrong part of town. Just to have something to do in case nobody showed up, I stuffed my most recent romance novel purchase in my handbag before I headed out. It was the latest release by Barbara Botticelli, my favorite writer. All Barbara’s heroines were blonde, beautiful, and well-bred – I could relate, at least to the blonde and well-bred part – and all her heroes, from highwaymen and pirates to Indian braves and Bedouins, were dark and dangerous and not at all well-bred. The cover showed an impressively muscled native dressed in nothing but war paint and a skimpy loincloth crushing the swooning heroine to his manly chest. Her double-D-cup breasts were threatening to explode out of her half-undone bodice, and she was clearly both weak-kneed and dizzy. At the last minute, I added a sedate real estate magazine to the bag, to have something to hide the book behind in case someone should sneak up on me while I was reading. I wouldn’t look very professional sitting there devouring Apache Amour.

  After a stop at the store and another few stops to put arrow signs with balloons pointing the way on the corners near the house, I arrived at 101 Potsdam Street at ten minutes to two, to find a half dozen people already waiting in the driveway, panting to get inside, and not only because of the heat. And I wish I could say I thought they were potential buyers, but as far as I could tell, they were all more interested in the murder than in the house itself. Several had cameras they kept using, and one woman even went so far as to ask me in which room the ‘tragedy’ had taken place. Would I mind pointing to the exact spot on the floor where Brenda had breathed her last? When I did, she sat down cross-legged on the hardwood, rolled her eyes back into her head, and emitted mooing sounds while she attempted to contact Brenda’s lingering spirit. It was enough to put me off my feed for another week. The rest of the looky-loos gave her a wide berth while they stared avidly at the remains of bloodstains on the floor and munched on cookies, scattering crumbs everywhere.

  One young couple had some potential, though. As clients, I mean. They came through the door about thirty minutes into the ordeal, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as squirrels, looking around curiously. I greeted them with a smile. “Good afternoon. I’m Savannah Martin with Walker Lamont Realty.”

  “Gary Lee Hodges.” The young man grinned at the girl next to him. “This is my wife, Charlene.” Charlene giggled and clung to his arm. They acted like newlyweds, and looked to be in their early twenties. I hoped for their sake that they’d fare better than Bradley and I had. Then again, I’d never giggled and clung to Bradley the way Charlene did to Gary Lee, so maybe they’d do all right.

  “Nice to meet you both,” I said. “And welcome to 101 Potsdam Street. The kitchen is through there, down the hallway. There are some cookies and lemonade out there if you want a snack, and also a sign-in sheet, if you wouldn’t mind. We like to keep track of how many visitors we have. Would you like a brochure?” I offered them one, and Charlene took it. They bent their heads over it; one dark and disheveled — Gary Lee looked like he might be a musician, or belong to some other profession where they keep their hair long — and one fair and sleek. Charlene’s hoop earrings were big enough to fit around my upper arm.

  “Where are the bedrooms?” Gary Lee asked.

  “All the bedrooms are on the second floor. There’s a third floor, too, but that’s just one big ballroom. And down here there is a dining room, a parlor, a library, and a kitchen, plus a laundry room and a pantry.”

  “Thanks. Come on, Charlene.” He tugged on her hand. She followed, giggling.

  “Let me know if you have any questions,” I called after them as they ascended the stairs.

  I got busy after that, and didn’t see them for twenty or thirty minutes. Other people arrived, some people left, and most everyone wanted to know about the murder. I said as little as I could, and did my best not to give anyone the impression that I knew more about it than the average person. Above all, I wanted to avoid letting anyone know that I’d actually found Brenda and had seen the whole messy, awful scene. If I did, I’d have to talk about it, and I still felt a little queasy whenever I thought too hard about what it had been like. (The memory of fainting dead away in Rafe’s arms wasn’t one I particularly wanted to relive, either. Not that I’d have to talk about that, but I didn’t even want to have to think about it.) The lady — and I use the word loosely — who was trying to contact Brenda’s wandering soul went into a trance right there on the library floor, and started moaning and groaning in a way that bore very little resemblance to the shrill tones of the late Brenda Puckett. The rest of the group looked on with a blend of amusement, pity, and exasperation. A few rolled their eyes. I wondered if I ought to interfere, but I was afraid of what might happen to me if I did.

  And then Charlene and Gary Lee came back downstairs, still giggling and holding hands, and saved me from having to get involved in the séance. I ignored the rest of the assembly to escort them into the kitchen, just to be sure I could get their contact information on the sign-in sheet. I suspected they were first-time buyers, newlyweds looking for their first home, and semi-serious about buying something. If I could get my hooks into them and hold on, I might get a commission at some point. Maybe not in what was left of this
year, but eventually.

  “So how long have you been married?” I asked while Gary Lee was writing their information on the sheet. His handwriting looked like the rest of him, spiky, uneven, and dramatic. Charlene giggled and looked adoringly at him. “Two months.”

  “Congratulations. And now you’re looking for your first house?”

  She nodded.

  “What do you think of this one?”

  “Too big,” Gary Lee said without looking up. “Too expensive. Needs too much work.”

  “But it was a good house, didn’t you think, honey?” Charlene squeezed his arm. He nodded.

  “Yeah. It was good. But too big.”

  “What sort of size were you looking for?” I asked. They agreed that something with at least two, maybe three bedrooms would be good. I crossed my fingers. “I’d be happy to help you find something. Unless you’re already working with another Realtor...?”

  They looked at each other. “No...”

  “If you’ll give me your e-mail address, I can send you a list of all the houses for sale in your price range. Then we can narrow it down to the ones you’re interested in and go look at them.”

  They exchanged another look. “Yeah. That’d be good.”

  “Great.” Yes! “Here’s my card. I’ll send you a list of properties this evening, and then you can let me know which ones you’d like to see.”

  “Sure.” They nodded eagerly. I watched them walk out the door, still hand in hand and giggling, and although I managed to restrain myself from jumping up and down in undignified excitement, it was difficult.

  Dix called at 3:30, just as things were starting to slow down. The lady in the library had come out of her trance and departed. I was glad to see her go; if there was one thing I didn’t need, it was for Brenda’s spirit to be summoned back to haunt the house. Not that I’d be likely to see her if she came back, but if Mrs. Jenkins returned, or Rafe moved in, or someone else bought the place and renovated it, I doubted they’d be any happier about her presence than I.

  When the medium left, most of the others did too, as it seemed the entertainment was over. A single guy was roaming around on the second floor, so I took the phone out on the porch to talk to Dix.

  “Sorry,” Dix said. “I’ve been busy.”

  “No problem,” I answered. “I’ve been busy, too. So what was going on earlier?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It sounded like you were having a family conference. Is something wrong?”

  “Why would you think that?” Dix said.

  “No reason. Well... call it paranoia, but both you and Todd have been lecturing me about getting involved with Rafe Collier, and I thought maybe...”

  “We’d all get together for Sunday brunch and talk about you and the guy you claim you’re not involved with? Sorry, sis. I believed you when you said there wasn’t anything going on between you. Now I’m starting to wonder, though. It sounds like a guilty conscience to me.”

  “You’re wasted in family law,” I muttered. Dix snorted. I added, reluctantly, “All right, so I’ve got a guilty conscience. I had dinner with him yesterday. But only so I could make sure he understands that I’m not going to get involved with him. It wasn’t a date or anything. Please don’t tell mom!”

  “Is he giving you a hard time?” Dix wanted to know, without promising that he wouldn’t tell our mother.

  “No, he’s not. Not at all. I promise. He’s actually quite nice.” He’d certainly given me plenty of help the night before. Fetching Alexandra, interrogating Maurice, picking the lock on Clarice’s storage unit...

  Prudently, I added, “Not my type, of course.”

  “Yes, you’ve said that before.”

  “Well, he isn’t. Could you imagine mom’s face if I brought Rafe Collier home to meet her?”

  “She’d be polite,” Dix said, fairly. “Mom’s always polite.”

  “Of course she is. She taught us, didn’t she? But she’d never let me hear the end of it if I started dating a man with a criminal record. So I would consider it a personal favor if you wouldn’t mention anything about it.”

  Dix hesitated for a second. “I suppose what mom doesn’t know can’t hurt her,” he agreed, finally. “As long as you’re telling the truth. He’s not bothering you, right?”

  “He’s not. I swear.” It wasn’t even really a lie. In fact, it was amazing how un-bothered I was. “Thanks, Dix. You always were my favorite brother.”

  “I’m your only brother,” Dix pointed out.

  “That, too. And that’s why I’m sure you won’t mind giving me some free advice.”

  “Does this have to do with Collier?” He sounded suspicious.

  “Only indirectly.” I explained the situation with Mrs. Jenkins — in hypothetical terms, without mentioning any names — and asked Dix’s advice for what to do. He waxed poetic for minute after minute while I made mental notes. The lone browser came out of the house while Dix was talking, and I lowered the phone to tell him goodbye and thanks for coming. Dix didn’t even notice; when I put the phone back to my ear, he was still going strong.

  “Thanks,” I interrupted eventually. “That’s great. Lots of information. Once I figure out what it means, I’m sure I’ll know exactly what to do.”

  “Give me a break, sis. You took pre-law; you understood every word.”

  True, I had. “I appreciate it. You’re a brick, Dix. If you weren’t my brother, I’d kiss you.”

  “That’s all right,” Dix said. “Just don’t go kissing anyone else. And tell Collier that next time he wants information, he can call me himself, instead of making my sister do his dirty-work for him.”

  “It was my idea. I wasn’t sure you’d be willing to help if he called.”

  “I’m always willing to help,” Dix said. “For a fee.”

  He hung up. I stuck my tongue out at the phone, for all the good it did me.

  It was almost a quarter to four by now, and it appeared as if the rush of visitors was over. I stayed on the porch, rocking gently in the creaky, peeling swing, admiring my newly manicured toes, and enjoying the fact that the temperature had finally dropped below 90°. That, and avoiding being alone inside the house.

  After a couple of minutes, I was rewarded by the sight of a small figure trotting up the driveway. (If rewarded is the right word.) It was old Mrs. Jenkins, still wearing the same dirty housecoat and the same slippers, with her hair sticking out in every direction. If Rafe didn’t do something about her living situation soon, I’d damned well do it myself. I wasn’t family, so my options were much more limited than his, if he could ever prove he was her grandson, but surely I could do something. It wasn’t right that the poor old dear should have to live in that sorry excuse for a home, where no one even bothered to comb her hair or make sure she changed her clothes once a week. For a hundred grand, Brenda ought to have been able to do better, and if she hadn’t been such a greedy witch, and had paid Mrs. Jenkins even half of what the property was worth, Mrs. J could have been sitting pretty for the rest of her life.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Jenkins,” I said politely when she came within range. I wondered what sort of state she was in today and what kind of behavior I could expect to see. Would she remember me? And if she did, would she know who I was, or think I was LaDonna Collier?

  Her first words gave me no clue at all. “Hi, baby. What you doin’ here?”

  “I’m having an open house,” I said. She nodded vaguely and looked around.

  “Where’s that handsome boy of yours?”

  “Um...” Rafe? Or Tyrell? “Not here, I’m afraid. It’s just me today.”

  “You’re being careful, ain’t you? He’d be just sick if summat happened to you or the baby.”

  Tyrell, then. Rafe couldn’t care less what happened to me. And I wasn’t — thank God! — expecting his child. “Yes, I’m being careful. I don’t want anything to happen to me, either.”

  “That’s good.” She patted my hand;
her own was tiny and spotted and wrinkled and brown. I smiled back, and although I suspected it wouldn’t make any difference, I tried anyway.

  “You know, Mrs. Jenkins, I’m not LaDonna. LaDonna was Tyrell’s girlfriend and Rafe’s mother. Rafe’s your grandson, not your son. And I’m Rafe’s... um... well, Rafe and I are just friends. But I’m not LaDonna. I’m Savannah.”

  Mrs. Jenkins nodded, but vaguely, her eyes on a car that was slowing down out on the road. It turned into the driveway and then started crunching its way up to the house. Mrs. Jenkins jumped. “He’s comin’ to get me!”

  “That’s not the police...” I began, remembering what had happened the first time I’d met her, when Spicer and Truman appeared to take her back to the Milton House.

  She snorted. “I know it ain’t the police, baby. That’s the bad man!”

  I shook my head. “You must have him confused with somebody else. That’s just my boss. He’s coming to talk to me about something.”

  Mrs. Jenkins shook her head right back at me. “He’s gonna hurt me. He said so. He showed me his gun, and then he said, if I told anyone I’d seen him, he’d kill me too. Just like my baby. I gotta get inside!”

  “Oh!” I said, as light dawned, “you mean...”

  But she was already gone, into the house as quickly as her ancient legs and fuzzy slippers could carry her. The door slammed behind her.

  While we’d been talking, Walker had pulled his Mercedes up to the bottom of the stairs and stepped out. Because it was Sunday, he was more casually dressed than at the office, but the khakis had a knife-edged pleat down the front, and the pale canary-yellow Oxford shirt was starched to within an inch of its life. I could have seen my reflection in his loafers, and not a hair on his dignified, salt and pepper head was out of place. He was quite amazingly good looking, and if he hadn’t been my boss, and gay, and about fifteen years too old, I would have made a dead set for him. As it was, I smiled in a friendly, but distinctly non-sexy manner. “Hi, Walker.”