Uncertain Terms (Savannah Martin Mysteries Book 12)

by Jenna Bennett

  “I’m sure they were just grieving,” I said soothingly.

  Yvonne snorted. “Didn’t look like it to me.”

  Perhaps not. I hadn’t been there, so I couldn’t say. “I didn’t even know Beulah had family,” I said.

  “Nobody did,” Yvonne answered. “In all the time I worked for Miz Beulah, I didn’t see the two of them even once. Nor Miz Beulah’s brother, neither. They never came to see her, and she never mentioned they invited her to visit them. She was alone for all the holidays and everything. And as far as I know, they never set foot in the restaurant. I never saw’em.”

  She shook her head. “I really hope there’s nothing wrong with Miz Beulah’s will and that I get the place. Not just because she wanted me to have it, and I want it, but because I don’t want them to get it.”

  I could certainly understand that. “Let me take a look at the will and we’ll see.”

  We finished eating, and then Yvonne handed me a manila envelope she said contained the will and told me to go sit in the living room while she cleaned up after dinner.

  I wandered into the living room and sank onto the sofa with a muffled groan. I had eaten way too much, and my feet hurt. Pretty soon I’d have to stop wearing heels altogether, and then where would I be?

  They don’t call it barefoot and pregnant for nothing, do they?

  I pulled the will out of the envelope and started reading.

  It was pretty straight forward. Beulah must have bought a kit to help her put it together.

  I, Beulah Marie Odom, residing at 405 Hackberry Lane in Sweetwater, Maury County, Tennessee, declare this to be my last will and testament, and I hereby revoke any and all wills and codicils I have previously made.

  So far, so good. That part was legal, anyway, and removed any questions of previous wills and testaments.

  Beulah then went on to the division of her assets. Yvonne got the restaurant, on the condition that she kept calling it Beulah’s Meat’n Three, and didn’t change the name to Yvonne’s. The house Beulah had lived in, on Hackberry Lane, was to be sold and the proceeds—after debts, funeral expenses, and taxes were paid—were to go to the Diabetes Foundation.

  The will was duly signed and witnessed by two people. I didn’t know either name, and when Yvonne wandered back into the living room, I asked her, “Who are the witnesses?”

  She didn’t even glance at the will. “Two of the regulars at the restaurant. They’ve been coming in every morning for decades.”

  “So when they say that Beulah was of sound mind, memory, and understanding when she made this will, they’d know what they were talking about.”

  “Oh, sure.” Yvonne nodded. “They’ve known her longer than I’ve been alive, probably.”

  And again, excellent. “It looks fine to me,” I said, folding it up and putting it back into the envelope. “It’s properly put together. It has all the necessary verbiage and components. It’s witnessed, and the witnesses agree that Beulah was of sound mind when she asked them to sign. I don’t see any reason at all why it wouldn’t hold up.”

  “They’re saying I pressured her,” Yvonne said, taking a seat on the other side of the table, her lower lip jutting.

  “Did you?”

  She sniffed. “Of course not. I had no idea she would consider leaving the place to me. She liked me, sure, but she had family. That—” she gestured to the manila envelope and the will inside, “is huge.”

  Yes, it was. Simply handing off an on-the-face-of-it successful, long-running business with a clientele that had been eating there for three decades... that wasn’t hay. The place was probably worth a fortune, or at least a pretty tidy sum. No wonder the sister-in-law and niece were loath to see it go to Yvonne.

  “So she never mentioned it to you? That she was going to leave the place to you, I mean.”

  Yvonne shook her head. “Not a word.”

  “When did you find out?”

  “She had the will in her bedroom,” Yvonne said. “In a drawer in the bedside table. Sheriff Satterfield showed it to me.”

  So Bob was involved in this. I’d have to ask him some questions, unless Mother provided the answers after dinner tonight. Hard to guess whether she’d ask the same questions I’d ask, or not.

  “How did she die?”

  “Heart attack,” Yvonne said. “Or that’s what the sheriff said. It happened overnight. When she didn’t come in to open the restaurant in the morning, one of the cooks drove up to Columbia to see if something had happened to her. He saw her through the window and called 911, but she was already dead.”

  “Any sign of foul play?”

  “Not that I know about,” Yvonne said with a shrug. “She was old.”

  She was. But not that old. Although people do die of natural causes sometimes. Most of the time. I’d just seen more than my share of unnatural deaths, and that was probably why I was overly suspicious.

  “Had she been ill?”

  Yvonne shook her head. “She had diabetes, but she took insulin for it. And her blood pressure was high, but she took pills for that, too. I don’t think anything else was wrong.”

  “Do you know why she felt it necessary to write a will? Most people don’t.” Fifty to seventy percent of people who die, die without one.

  “I guess she wanted to make sure the business was taken care of,” Yvonne said. “That place was her life. She probably just wanted to make sure she left it in good hands. Didn’t mean she expected to die, or anything.”

  No, it didn’t. Or maybe something had been wrong, something we didn’t know about—something she hadn’t wanted to share with Yvonne—and she’d thought it best to put her affairs in order, just in case. Maybe she’d been scheduled for heart surgery, or something like that.

  The sheriff might know. Yvonne obviously didn’t. And this wasn’t what she’d asked me here for, anyway.

  I put the envelope with the will on the coffee table. “Best as I can see, there’s nothing wrong with it. Who’s the lawyer they hired to represent them?”

  “Some hotshot from Columbia,” Yvonne said, with a curl of her lip. “I think he got his law degree online.”

  Possibly. Although he’d have had to pass the bar in order to practice. Not just anyone can hang out a shingle and say they’re a lawyer.

  “Do you have any idea when a judge is going to rule on this? Or anything else about it?”

  Yvonne shook her head. “It’s only been a couple of weeks since Beulah died. They hired the lawyer last week. I’m sure it takes longer than that.”

  It does. Probate can take anywhere from a couple of months to years. This should have been a fairly simple one—Beulah hadn’t died intestate, but had written a will laying out how she wanted her assets distributed, and her estate was fairly small, considering. The will was beyond simple. The wrench in the works was the sister-in-law and niece contesting it. With that wrinkle in the mix, the timeline for this was anyone’s guess. But it wouldn’t be quick.

  “That’s what I figured,” Yvonne nodded, when I said so. “Do you think I need a lawyer?”

  I hesitated. “Probably not. Not right now. But it wouldn’t hurt to talk to one, just in case you need one later. I’ll give you my sister Catherine’s number.”

  Yvonne’s lips turned down.

  “You could call Dix,” I added, since I assumed he was the reason for the pout, “but he’s staying pretty busy. He might not have time to take on something like this. Catherine doesn’t practice much anymore, so she has the time, and she’s a real bulldog.”

  Yvonne didn’t look convinced.

  “Besides,” I added, “you’d get to see Dix when you went to the office to talk to her.”

  Yvonne brightened. “That’s true.”

  “It’s been less than a year since Sheila died, you know. He’s not ready to get married again.”

  Yvonne chuckled. Ripely. “I don’t wanna marry him, Savannah. Just have some fun. I told you, I don’t wanna get involved with anyone right now.�
�

  She had. Although she had indicated her desire to stay away from losers. My brother isn’t a loser.

  However, while I wasn’t sure Dix was ready for Yvonne’s definition of fun—correction: I was pretty sure he wasn’t—he was a big boy. He could tell her that himself.

  I gave her Catherine’s phone number and decided to let the chips fall where they may. None of my business.

  Seven

  Rafe didn’t call that night. I hadn’t expected him to—I knew he had his hands full—but I was still sad I didn’t hear from him. And I was out cold when Mother came home from her date with the sheriff, whenever that was. All I know was, she was there in the kitchen when I stumbled in just after eight the next morning.

  “Food.”

  “Goodness,” Mother said, looking me up and down as I reached into the cabinet for a bowl. “Rough night, darling?”

  “No worse than usual.” I pulled a box of raisin bran out of the cabinet, dumped some in the bowl, poured milk over the top, and dug in. “I have to hurry. I’m picking up Darcy in thirty minutes.”

  “Then you might not want to hear what Bob told me about Beulah Odom,” Mother said, sitting there at the island sipping her tea, with every hair in place.

  I did. “I do. Just talk fast.”

  Mother arched her brows, but spoke. No faster than usual, though. “She lived in Columbia. One morning a couple of weeks ago, she didn’t show up to open the restaurant at five so the cook could get started on the biscuits and grits. He tried to call her, but couldn’t get a response. So he made his way to Columbia to see whether something was wrong.”

  “And found her dead from a heart attack,” I nodded. “Yvonne told me.”

  Mother ignored me. “The gentleman called 911. Because it happened in Columbia, the police there got the call instead of Bob.”

  Bob Satterfield is the Maury County sheriff. Columbia is a town in Maury County, but it has its own police force. I’d had to deal with them briefly a couple of months ago, during that murder spree at my ten-year high school reunion.

  “Makes sense.” I spooned up more raisins, bran, and milk.

  “Bob wasn’t involved, but he stopped by the crime scene, since it happened in his jurisdiction. He said she was lying on the floor next to the bed, as if she’d woken up in the middle of the night because she felt bad, but had died before she made it to the phone to call for help.”

  I nodded.

  “The M.E. ruled it a natural death. Her heart stopped. Bob said there’s no reason to think it was anything but old age and diabetes.”

  “Except for the will.”

  “Having a will is not suspicious,” Mother said. “I have one.”

  “Who gets the house?” I slurped up the rest of the raisin bran.

  Mother looked at me down the length of her nose. “That’s an inappropriate question, darling.”

  Of course it was. I rose and put my bowl in the sink. “Don’t leave it to me. It would freak Rafe out to have to live here.”

  “But you would appreciate the history of it,” Mother said. “And unlike your brother and sister, you don’t have a career.”

  I had a career. I just wasn’t very successful at it. And what that had to do with the house, I had no idea. Maybe she was intimating that I couldn’t afford to buy my own?

  A moot point anyway, since Rafe had a house.

  “Darcy and I are driving to Nashville,” I said. “We’re meeting Detective Grimaldi at police headquarters at ten. We’re looking at adoption records until we’re done, or until about twelve forty-five—whichever comes first. Then we’re meeting Alexandra Puckett for lunch. After that, we’ll either drive back to Sweetwater or go back to the police station to finish up the records. We should be back sometime this afternoon or early evening. If something changes, I’ll let you know.”

  Mother nodded. “Don’t forget your bag.”

  “Bag?”

  She gestured to it. A plastic bag from the drugstore with an empty Kit-Kat wrapper and a pregnancy test inside.

  “Oh,” I said, flushing.

  “I don’t mean to pry, darling. But if Darcy is pregnant, your brother and Jonathan need to know, so they can make arrangements.”

  I scooped up the bag. “She’s not.” Or not as far as I knew. If she were, she hadn’t confided in me. “This is for someone else.”

  Mother looked unconvinced.

  “Alexandra Puckett,” I said.

  Mother blinked. “But she’s just a girl!”

  “She’s three years older than LaDonna Collier was when she got pregnant with Rafe.” And since that wasn’t likely to be a point in anyone’s favor, I added, “And she’s not sure. That’s why she needs the test.”

  “You better take it to her, then. And hope it’s negative.”

  There was no need to tell me that. I already did.

  Darcy lived in what she said was a rental house in a little 1960s subdivision on the south side of Columbia. I passed Beulah’s Meat’n Three on the way there, the small cinderblock building sitting dark and the dusty parking lot empty of cars. The orange and white sign in the window said Closed.

  It really was a shame. Beulah’s had been a fixture in Sweetwater for as long as I could remember. So had Beulah herself.

  I could understand why Yvonne wanted the place, and not just because of the value. She wasn’t afraid of hard work. She had worked hard every day of her life, and she’d probably looked on Beulah’s Meat’n Three as partly her own for twelve years now. Not because she expected to inherit it—I thought she had told me the truth about that—but because the place was her job, and most of her life. She had no family that I knew of—an only child from a single mother—and although she probably had friends, I bet most of her waking hours was spent at Beulah’s. Beulah was her family.

  It would be a damn shame if Beulah’s sister-in-law and niece managed to take it away from her.

  At this point in my ruminations, I arrived at a sign saying Stonehenge, and had to focus on making my way through the winding roads of Darcy’s subdivision over to her house.

  It was low-slung and not much bigger than Yvonne’s little 1940s tract house. Red brick, with a tiny porch and a big picture window in the front. The front door was painted a cheerful blue. The grass was neatly trimmed, and a few yellow flowers were still clinging to life in pots on the front steps. The temperature was approaching ninety, and it wasn’t even nine yet. By three o’clock, it would be a hundred, and the flowers would be dead.

  Darcy must have been watching for me, because as soon as I pulled into the driveway, the blue door opened, and she stepped out.

  Unlike yesterday, when she’d been dressed in a proper skirt and blouse, with high heels, today she was wearing Capri pants and sandals, with a yellow T-shirt. Very summery and light. The sunny color set off her short black hair, brown eyes, and tan skin.

  “You look great,” I told her when she slid into the car next to me. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in anything this casual before.”

  She smiled. “I don’t think your brother or brother-in-law would appreciate it if I showed up to work looking like this. It’s too hot to make much of an effort today, though.”

  Yes, it was. Although I’d made the effort anyway. I always make the effort. I’ve had effort ingrained in me from an early age.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” I said, as I put the car in gear and headed out of Stonehenge, toward the Columbia Road and the interstate, and beyond it, Nashville.

  “Go ahead.” Darcy stowed her big shoulder bag on the floor between her feet and got comfortable.

  “It’s kind of personal. I don’t mean to pry. I’m asking because I think it might be important. Or have some bearing on... something.”

  “I don’t care,” Darcy said. “I’ve already told you some pretty personal things about myself. And if I think it’s none of your business, I’ll tell you so.”

  OK, then.

  “Tamara Grimaldi w
ondered whether you’d been dating anyone since you got here. Or whether anyone has been trying to date you.”

  Darcy looked at me.

  “I swear I’m not just nosy,” I said. “Grimaldi suggested that maybe some guy wanted to date you, so he made sure you knew about the job opening, so he could get you up here.”

  “That’d be a lot of trouble to go to for a date,” Darcy said. “I guess we should be looking for someone without a lot of social graces.”

  Maybe so.

  “I did wonder if maybe my ex had sent the clipping. Or his new girlfriend. Or old girlfriend.”

  I arched my brows, and she added, “He cheated on me, and left me for his mistress.”

  I nodded. “Been there, done that.” Or rather, been there, experienced that. Bradley was the one who had done it. “My ex left me for his mistress, too.”

  “Bastards,” Darcy said.

  Yes, indeed. Although Bradley was in prison and Shelby was dealing with a newborn on her own, so I’d had my revenge.

  “Did you ask him about it? Or her?”

  “Not her,” Darcy said. “We’re not on speaking terms. I asked him, though. He laughed at me.” She shrugged.

  “Do you think he was lying?”

  She hesitated. “Not sure. He might have done it, if he wanted me out of the way. Not that he’d care himself, but if the new girlfriend was cutting up about me still being around, or something. But he didn’t act like he’d done anything.”

  I nodded. “And her?”

  “I asked Lew if maybe she’d done it, that she wanted the reminder of me gone, in case she was afraid he’d go back to me, and he said she didn’t have to worry about that. Pissed me off.”

  It would have pissed me off, too. There’s nothing quite like having your husband telling you that his new wife couldn’t care less about you being around since you’re absolutely no threat to her newfound happiness, and he wouldn’t go back to you in a million years and can’t understand what he ever saw in you in the first place.

  As Darcy had said, bastard.

  Filing away the possibility that her ex or his new wife in Birmingham might have sent the clipping, I asked, “So have you gone out with anyone since you moved here? Been asked on any dates? Turned anyone down?”