Hot Property

by Jenna Bennett

  “Thank you, Ms. Martin.”

  “No problem, Tammy.”

  “Ms. Martin?”

  “Yes, Tammy?”

  “Nobody calls me Tammy. Not even my mother.”

  I smiled. “Would you like me to relay that information to Rafe?”

  “No,” Tamara Grimaldi said, her voice grim, “that won’t be necessary. I’ll do that myself.”

  I suppressed a giggle. “I don’t doubt you will. Thanks, Detective. I’ll talk to you later.”

  Tamara Grimaldi grunted something noncommittal, and I hung up, feeling well satisfied with my morning’s work. (And if I felt just a little bit guilty, too, I managed to suppress it.) The police had needed to hear what Lila had told me, but – I told myself – naming names would have served no purpose. The man Lila had described sounded like Rafe, yes, but a lot of men have dark eyes with long eyelashes. She hadn’t seen any other physical characteristics, so it was hardly conclusive identification. Men who call women darlin’ are a dime a dozen, especially here in Nashville, and Rafe wasn’t the only male in town with sex appeal. If Detective Grimaldi and her colleagues dug up some actual evidence, I’d come clean about my suspicions, but until then, I’d keep mum.

  Chapter 4

  The house that Gary Lee and Charlene wanted to see was an attractive 1940s pseudo-Tudor cottage in Inglewood. Gary Lee and Charlene were charmed. They charged into the house and started poking around in closets and under the stairs while I followed, smiling maternally, like a nanny with two boisterous charges.

  “Look at this, babe. A what-d’ya-call-it... butler’s pantry!”

  “Oh, isn’t that cute!” Charlene was hanging on Gary Lee’s arm as well as on his every word. They were only a few years younger than me, but in their newlywed bliss they seemed impossibly young to my jaundiced, divorced eyes.

  “Where are the bedrooms at?” Charlene asked after a few minutes. I pointed them up the stairs, just as my cell phone started ringing.

  “Knock yourselves out. I’ll just stay down here and take this call. Let me know if you have any questions.”

  Giggling, they promised they would, and then skipped upstairs hand in hand. I wandered out onto the deck and pulled the phone out of my purse. “This is Savannah.”

  “Hi, girlfriend!”

  “Lila? How are you? Is everything all right?”

  “Everything’s great,” Lila said. “I just wanted to let you know that I just took my first listing. For a cute little ranch in West Meade. 1800 square feet, $350,000. If you know anyone who’s interested.”

  “Good for you.” I suppressed an unbecoming twinge of envy. “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.” She hesitated for a second. “Hey, listen, Savannah…”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday. You know, about me being careful and not taking any chances…?”

  “Yes?”

  “I appreciate you worrying about me. And I won’t do anything stupid, I promise. If he calls, I’ll sic the cops on him.”

  “Oh.” I said. “OK. Yes, that’s probably a good idea.”

  “That’s what you wanted me to do, right?”

  “It was. Yes.”

  “OK, then.”

  “OK.” I didn’t know what else to say. Lila didn’t say anything, either. I added, awkwardly, “You know…”

  “Yes?”

  “I may have been a little… um… pushy when I said that. I mean, I don’t want anything to happen to you, and it’s always good to be careful, but I may have come on a little too strong. I’m sure you’re able to decide for yourself who you should trust and who you shouldn’t.”

  Lila sounded surprised. “Really?”

  I nodded firmly. “Really.” After all, if it was Rafe she had met – and I was pretty sure it was; if it hadn’t been, surely he would have said so – it wasn’t as if she was in any danger. Even if he did call her, and she agreed to get together with him, he wouldn’t harm her. That was one thing I was sure of.

  We hung up after another few words, and I headed back into the house. Gary Lee was on his way down the stairs as I came into the foyer. “Charlene’s using the little girl’s room,” he said, tossing his half-long, dark locks in the direction of the upstairs. I smiled.

  “No problem. Make yourselves at home.” The more comfortable they felt, the more likely they were to want to buy the house, right? That’s why we Realtors recommend to our sellers to remove any personal photographs from the house before offering it for sale, and also adding lots and lots of mirrors. Buyers should be able to see themselves in the house. Literally as well as figuratively. Or so goes the conventional wisdom. “What do you think?”

  “It’s nice,” Gary Lee said, looking around, “but I think we’d like to see one or two more before we decide. The bedroom wasn’t quite as mind-blowing as we’d hoped.”

  “All right,” I said.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve got any time tomorrow to show us a house? There’s one over on Avalon Drive we’d like to see. One of the ones you sent us. Nice brick cottage, new kitchen, full basement, master suite upstairs with a double shower...”

  “Sure. I’d be happy to. When would you like to meet?”

  Gary Lee said that 3:30 would work well again, and we agreed to meet outside the house on Avalon, just as Charlene came skipping down the stairs. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shiny, and it looked as if she had liked the present house just fine. But when Gary Lee explained that I had said myself willing to show them the house on Avalon tomorrow, she hooked herself onto his arm and nodded eagerly.

  “It’s just darling, Savannah. The maple kitchen, and the fireplace, and the master bedroom...” She looked dreamy for a second, and then glanced over at me, apologetically. “I mean, this one was OK, too. It was fine. Great. It’s just...” She squeezed Gary Lee’s arm and giggled, “that we think we can do better.”

  Gary Lee nodded.

  “It’s no problem at all,” I said politely. “It’s what I’m here for. I’ll see you tomorrow at 3:30, outside the house on Avalon. Then we’ll see if that one works better for you.”

  Gary Lee and Charlene exchanged a look and a giggle before Gary Lee tucked his long legs into the couple’s tiny hybrid, and Charlene folded herself into the seat next to him, and they drove off with a squeal of tires. I got into the Volvo and sat there for a moment, contemplating my life.

  So Gary Lee and Charlene wanted to see another couple of houses before they made up their minds about which they wanted to buy.

  Oh, well... nothing wrong with that. I had plenty of time to spare; it wasn’t as if I had any other clients fighting for my attention. And if I stuck with them, sooner or later they’d buy something, and I’d finally get that first coveted commission check. Hopefully it would come soon enough to keep me from ending up on the street. And meanwhile, I had plenty of other things to worry about. Not the least of which was Lila and the man who may or may not have been Rafe.

  Pretty sure is not the same as absolutely certain, and after having just essentially told Lila that I didn’t think she had anything to worry about, it’d be really nice to be absolutely certain, or at least almost positive. I picked up the phone again and called Kieran Greene.

  Kieran worked for one of the big national real estate chains, and he must have been pretty good at what he did, because he arrived for our appointment in a brand new Lexus.

  He had tried to tell me that he didn’t want to talk about what had happened to him, but I had been adamant. Nice, of course, but adamant. And then he had tried to tell me that we could talk on the phone, but I had been firm on that score, as well. I’d have to go further into debt, but Kieran had agreed to meet me for an early dinner at Rotier’s, where, over the best cheeseburgers in Nashville, I intended to wring any and every usable scrap of information from him and then hang it out to dry. If he could give me just one piece of information that could either prove or disprove that Rafe had been among
the burglars, I could set my mind at ease. About several things.

  Rotier’s is a tiny hole-in-the-wall near Centennial Park. Once a carriage house for a fashionable West End Avenue home, the building has been occupied by the family-owned restaurant since 1945. The interior is straight out of the 1950s, with naugahyde-upholstered booths and lighted Budweiser-signs on the knotty-pine paneled walls, and the menu – thankfully – leans in the same direction. I may have been spending money I didn’t have, but at least I was spending less than I would be elsewhere. Kieran Greene, bless him, was a cheap date.

  Up close and in person, his resemblance to Timothy Briggs was less obvious. He was at least ten years older, for one thing, and not as dashing as in the picture I had seen. Possibly the media had dusted off an old photograph, or maybe Kieran himself preferred to use it, because he liked the way he had looked back then. Now he was a middle-aged fuss-pot with thinning hair and the beginnings of a paunch. He was dressed in chinos and a tasteful pale pink shirt under a navy blazer, and his shoes were so highly polished they reflected the ceiling lights. He even wore an ascot, which he tweaked fussily as he took his place on the opposite side of the table with a polite smile. “You must be Savannah.”

  “And you’re Kieran. I recognize you from your picture.” A well-placed compliment never hurts.

  We shook hands across the table. His was cool and soft.

  “Thank you for agreeing to meet me,” I added. “I appreciate it.”

  “A body has to eat,” Kieran said demurely, “and you sounded so fierce on the phone, I didn’t dare say no.”

  Oops. My mother would have been mortified to hear me described as fierce. A properly brought up Southern Belle should be docile and pleasant in all circumstances, and always defer to any man in the vicinity. Mom might have made an exception in Kieran’s case, but then again, she might not. He did have x-chromosomes, after all, even if he acted prissier than the most properly brought up maiden aunt.

  “I’m sorry I upset you,” I apologized. “I didn’t realize I came on so strong.”

  “That’s OK,” Kieran said forgivingly. “I know you didn’t mean it. It’s just that I’ve been so emotional lately. After my ordeal weekend before last, you know.”

  I nodded. “Something like that would be enough to make anyone emotional, I would think. I don’t blame you in the least.”

  “Thank you, sweetie. That’s so darling of you.” He leaned over and patted my hand.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind talking about it? I hate asking you to relive a frightening episode.”

  Kieran sighed bravely. “No, I don’t mind. If my horrible experience can help someone else, I’ll be happy to tell you about it.”

  “Thank you.” I glanced around. “Let’s find a waiter and order, that way we won’t be interrupted. And you can tell me all about it while we wait.”

  Kieran agreed that this made sense, and we ordered our drinks and cheeseburgers and got down to business.

  “Like I told you on the phone, I’ve already spoken to Lila Vaughn,” I said, as kind of an introductory statement. Kieran made a moue. I hesitated. “Do you know Lila?”

  He shook his head. “Oh, dear me, no. No, no. Not personally. Although I have certainly seen enough of her lately. On the news, in the papers, online...”

  I nodded. “She’s a lot more resilient than I would be in her situation.”

  Kieran murmured a musical, “Mmm-hmmm…” as the waiter arrived, and we sat in silence for a moment or two, while he set down our drinks. I was having water again, while Kieran had ordered something with cherries and pearlized onions on a stick upright in clear liquid.

  “Well, dear,” Kieran said, after a taste, “what exactly is it you want to know about my ordeal? I can tell you about it, or you can ask whatever questions you have. The latter may be more productive. Although maybe I should give you a precís first.”

  “Please,” I said. Kieran drew breath and threw himself into a spirited recounting of what was probably the most terrifying – and exciting – thing that had ever happened to him.

  I won’t bore you with the details. They matched what I had read online in every particular. Kieran had had a relatively successful open house, with more than two dozen visitors, but by the time 3:45 rolled around, the house was empty. He was just beginning to think about closing up shop when he’d heard the rumbling of a big engine in the driveway. Looking out, he saw a moving van backing up to the side door. It confused him, because the owners hadn’t told him that anyone was coming to pick anything up, but it didn’t worry him.

  “I just assumed that they’d forgotten to mention it,” he explained. “The stager I brought in recommended that they put some furniture and bric-a-brac in storage, to open the rooms up a little bit, and we’d talked about taking the valuable paintings down and putting them away while the house was on the market. So I didn’t think anything of it.”

  I nodded. “When did you realize that something wasn’t right?”

  Kieran had realized what was up as soon as the movers walked in. Four men – four big men – wearing ski-masks and gloves.

  “Yes,” I murmured, “that would probably tip me off, too.”

  Kieran puffed a shaky laugh. As he had been talking, some of the affectations had dropped away, revealing what I recognized was a severely shaken man. “Three of them pushed past me into the house. The fourth grabbed my arm and led me into the kitchen. He was very big.” Kieran shuddered.

  “How big?” I wanted to know. Kieran shook his head despairingly.

  “Height, maybe six-two or -three. He towered over me, anyway. And he probably weighed over 200. He was just solid, you know. All muscle. I could feel it through the padded coveralls. And he had dark brown eyes and dark brows, and his skin color was medium. He might have been a light-skinned black, or Hispanic or Mulatto, or even Middle Eastern.”

  I nodded. “And what did he say to you?”

  “He said...” Kieran swallowed, “that if I just did what I was told, he wouldn’t hurt me.”

  “He, or they?”

  Kieran shrugged. “He, they... does it matter?”

  “Probably not. Was there anything distinctive about his voice? Accent? Dialect? Any words he used?”

  I crossed my fingers. I should have known better; whoever it was – Rafe or someone else – wasn’t likely to have called Kieran darlin’.

  Kieran informed me that no, there hadn’t been anything distinctive at all about his voice, other than that he was clearly from the South. Or had been here long enough to be able to manage a reasonable approximation of the dialect.

  “So what did he tell you to do?” I asked.

  Kieran closed his eyes. “To be quiet and sit on the chair. I did, and he tied my hands and my legs. And then he told me to sit tight until he came back. So I did. They went past with paintings and other things that they put in the truck, but none of the others talked to me.”

  “And did he come back?” He had for Lila, so I was interested to know if he had for Kieran too, or if it had been just because Lila was Lila.

  Kieran nodded. “The others went out with the last load, and I could hear the truck starting. He stopped in the kitchen to make sure I was OK.”

  “That was nice of him,” I said, inanely. Kieran rolled his eyes.

  “No, it wasn’t. It was horrible and cruel and mean.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “Although it sounds as if, everything considered, he could have treated you worse.”

  Kieran admitted, grudgingly, that he could have. “He explained that they were leaving, and that I had to stay tied up, because if I didn’t, I’d be on the phone to the police before the truck had left the yard. He said he was sure that someone would be home to find me before long, but just in case, he’d check later to make sure.”

  “And you told the police that, of course.”

  Kieran nodded. “They put a policeman outside and took down the license plate numbers of all the vehicles that drove
down the street for the rest of the night. But no one came.” He shuddered.

  “Maybe someone did, and you just didn’t realize it,” I said comfortingly. Kieran shook his head. I insisted, “No, really. Maybe your clients got a phone call or something, which they didn’t think had anything to do with what had happened. A wrong number, or someone pretending to be from the newspaper or collecting for the police benevolence fund or something.” That last lie would appeal to Rafe, I felt sure. To make a phone call pretending to be from the police benevolence fund to see if anyone was home to answer the phone was just the sort of thing he’d do. “I’m sure he wouldn’t have let you sit there all night.”

  “He might!” Kieran said petulantly. I opened my mouth to argue, but thought better of it. We may not be talking about Rafe Collier here, and even if we were – especially if we were – I didn’t want to give Kieran the idea that I knew anything.

  Luckily, this was at the exact moment when the waiter arrived bearing our food, and Kieran didn’t notice my lapse. I watched him cut his burger into neat quarters before he began to eat, daintily, with both pinkies sticking out. His face looked drawn. I decided that I had tormented the poor man enough, and that I needed to leave him alone to eat his dinner in peace. I attempted to put him at ease with an innocuous question about how long he had worked in the real estate business, and we spent a pleasant half hour eating and talking shop. Kieran had twenty years of experience, and was a fount of knowledge. I’d been in the business for roughly two months, and needed all the help I could get. Walker had been very helpful during my first six weeks, but I couldn’t exactly call him in prison every time I had a question, and Tim was no help at all. I processed as much as I could of what Kieran was saying, wishing I had thought to bring a tape recorder.