Hot Property

by Jenna Bennett

  “I see,” Dix said. He didn’t say anything else, but I could hear his thoughts loudly and clearly.

  “I love you, Dix,” I said. “Don’t worry, OK? If I thought he was dangerous, I wouldn’t have anything to do with him.”

  “That’s good to know,” Dix said in a half-choked voice. “Are you out of your mind, sis? He is dangerous, and you know it; you just refuse to acknowledge it.”

  “Let me rephrase,” I said. “If I thought he was a danger to me, I wouldn’t have anything to do with him. But he’s not. He won’t hurt me. On that score, at least, you can relax.”

  “I’m not sure that’s possible,” Dix said and hung up. I made a face and did the same.

  And then I tried to get back into the bodice ripper, but found that the token struggles of the petite, blond heroine left me cold. More than that, chilled. Somehow, she ended up looking a lot like Elspeth Caulfield – a glorified Elspeth, since I couldn’t remember her well enough to picture her features – while the dark and dangerous rogue in whose arms she was swooning, had Rafe’s face and physique. I closed the paperback with an irritated snap and tossed it across the room. I meant for it to land on the other chair, really I did, but somehow it smacked against the wall instead. Hard. Quite unintentionally, of course.

  I got to my feet. It was still early; maybe I could get hold of Rafe and ask him what had happened. If nothing had – nothing illegal, immoral or embarrassing – maybe he wouldn’t mind telling me.

  The house at 101 Potsdam Street was mostly dark, except for a flickering light in the kitchen window. I knocked on the door and waited.

  “Oh,” Marquita said when she saw me, “it’s you again. Rafe ain’t here.”

  “I assumed as much,” I said, “seeing as there’s no motorcycle. When will he be back?”

  Marquita shrugged. She was wearing turquoise scrubs today, and they undulated gently whenever she moved. I glanced across her shoulder into the semidarkness of the house.

  “Is Mrs. Jenkins around?”

  “She’s sleepin’,” Marquita said, in a tone that dared me to do something about it. Of course I didn’t, not only because the poor old dear needed her sleep, but because there wasn’t anything she could tell me. She hadn’t known Rafe when he was in high school.

  “Would you mind if I asked you a question?”

  Marquita blinked, and I could see that she was weighing her options. Refuse outright, or play along while retaining the right to refuse later? “What?”

  “You knew Rafe in high school, right?”

  “Sure,” Marquita said.

  “Do you remember a girl named Elspeth Caulfield?”

  “Bitch,” Marquita said.

  I blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “Why you wanna know ‘bout Elspeth Caulfield?”

  “Your ex-husband told my brother that Elspeth and Rafe had... um... been together in high school. I was just wondering if it was true.”

  Marquita folded her massive arms across her even more massive chest. Dolly Parton, the queen of cleavage, has nothing on Marquita. “You gonna stop chasin’ him if I tell you it’s true?”

  “I wasn’t aware of chasing him,” I answered, with dignity. “But you know what? You don’t have to tell me. I’ll just ask someone else instead. Like Rafe. Or Elspeth.”

  Marquita muttered something. It sounded like a repetition of that word that rhymed with witch, so I decided not to ask her to elaborate. Instead I just added sweetly, “Don’t bother telling Rafe I here. I’ll probably see him before you do. He knows where to find me when he wants me.”

  Marquita’s only comment was to slam the door in my face. I wasn’t surprised; in her position, I would have done the same thing. If I could have. The door must have weighed almost as much as she did, and Marquita managed to close it with a no doubt satisfying bang.

  It was way too late in the day to drive down to Sweetwater to track down Elspeth, but that was OK. Common courtesy dictated that I should call ahead to tell her I was coming.

  Or maybe not; maybe it would be better to take her by surprise. It’s horribly ill-bred to show up uninvited and unannounced, but mother would never know, and the surprise might make Elspeth more inclined to talk. If I called first, she might try to put me off, or make sure not to be there when I arrived. I didn’t have any plans for the following day, now that Gary Lee and Charlene had cooled on the house-hunting, so maybe I could just get up tomorrow morning and head for Elspeth’s house. I could be there by ten and back home by one, without anyone being the wiser.

  That settled in my brain, I looked up Elspeth’s address online and printed out a MapQuest so I’d know where to go, and I then went back to my book again. This time I skipped the love scene and went on from there, not wanting to tempt fate again. But no sooner had I got into the action, than the phone rang once more.

  “Ms. Martin?” Tamara Grimaldi’s voice was terse, and my heart started speeding up. What had happened now?

  “Yes, Detective? What can I do for you?”

  “I got your message. I’d like to talk to you a little more.”

  “Sure,” I said, settling into the sofa.

  “Could you come by my office in the morning?”

  “Oh. I suppose.”

  “Thank you.” She made to hang up, and I yelped. She added, impatiently, “What?”

  “Is something wrong? You sound strange.”

  “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” This time she really did hang up. I went back to the book, but gave up after ten or fifteen minutes, when I realized that I’d just read the same page over and over, and I still had no idea what it said.

  Nashville Police Plaza is located in downtown, in a modern brick building across the street from the municipal offices and the newly renovated courthouse. Detective Grimaldi’s office is on the second floor, and she was waiting for me when I got there at a few minutes after nine. “Come in, Ms. Martin. Have a seat.”

  There were two chairs in front of her desk, one piled high with a leaning tower of folders, the other conspicuously empty and free from dust. She must have cleaned it off before I came.

  “Thank you,” I said, touched and a little uneasy. She sat, too, folding her hands on top of the desk. She looked horrible, with tight lips and dark rings under her bloodshot eyes. I added, with a mounting sense of dread, “What’s wrong?”

  She looked at me in silence for a moment. “There’s been another murder.”

  “Another...? A murder like Lila’s, you mean? Who died?”

  “Not a realtor this time. The owner of a house in Brentwood, that was also on the market. She must have surprised a burglar when she came home yesterday afternoon, and he killed her. Her jewelry is missing, and so is a priceless painting that was hanging on her wall. She was found by a friend who came by to spend the evening with her while her husband was out of town.”

  “Oh, my God!” I said, wild-eyed. “You’re not talking about Connie Fortunato, are you?”

  This may sound like a giant leap of deduction, but in actuality, it wasn’t so big. Connie owned a house in Brentwood, which was for sale. I had seen the priceless Georgia O’Keeffe on her wall. Her husband was out of town, and I had heard her arrange with Heather Price that Heather would come by last night.

  “You know Mrs. Fortunato?” Detective Grimaldi asked.

  “Of course I know Mrs. Fortunato! I spent Sunday afternoon at her house, hosting an open house for Tim. I saw her again on Monday night, at the planning meeting for the Eye Ball – she’s another of the volunteers – and she was at Lila’s funeral yesterday. She asked Heather Price to come over to her house last night, to give her advice on staging it.”

  “Ms. Price was the person who called us,” Detective Grimaldi said. “Which is why I called you, because I knew, from the message you left me, that you know Ms. Price.”

  Silence reigned for a moment, while I tried to catch my breath and get my brain around the fact that another woman I knew had been murdered. Detective Grimaldi s
tarted talking, more to give me time to gather myself than because these were facts I needed to know.

  “When Ms. Price left the funeral yesterday afternoon, she drove to East Nashville, where her boyfriend has his home and his business. They had an early dinner together, and then she left and drove to Brentwood, to the Fortunatos’ house. She got there around 7:30. When there was no answer to her knock, she tried the door. It was locked, but she carries one of those digital key-code boxes that Realtors have...” I nodded, “...and she used that to get the extra key and open the door. Mrs. Fortunato didn’t answer when Ms. Price called her name, and Ms. Price thought it was strange, seeing as Mrs. Fortunato had told her she’d be home alone all evening. Also, Mrs. Fortunato’s car was parked in the garage.”

  “And when Heather walked into Perry and Connie’s bedroom, she found Connie?”

  Detective Grimaldi nodded. “Tied to the bed and strangled, just like Lila Vaughn.”

  “Oh, my God!” I said, burying my face in my hands. “What’s going on? Who is doing this?”

  “If I knew,” Tamara Grimaldi said, “I’d be arresting him, not sitting here talking it over with you. There was no sign of forced entry, and so far, we’ve gathered a surprising amount of physical evidence – hairs, fibers, fingerprints – which isn’t so surprising after all, if you hosted an open house there this weekend. Do you keep a list of the people who visit those things?”

  I nodded. “I can keep in touch with them until they either buy something, or die of old age. Would you like a copy of my list?”

  Detective Grimaldi said she would, and gave me her fax number so I could fax it to her when I got home. I wrote it down, and then I hesitated for a moment before facing the music. “I may as well tell you. Rafe Collier’s name is going to be on that list. He showed up at the Fortunatos’ house after you finished with him on Sunday afternoon.”

  “You don’t say?” Tamara Grimaldi said.

  “He told you he would, didn’t he? Anyway, I’m sure, once you get around to matching your physical evidence, you’ll find his fingerprints all over the place. Along with a lot of other people’s, of course. There are eighteen names on the list, if I remember correctly. And then there are all the other people – prospective homebuyers and their agents – who have been visiting the house in the three weeks it’s been on the market.”

  “I don’t suppose you have any idea where Mr. Collier was yesterday afternoon or early evening?”

  I hid a grimace. “I’m afraid not. He wasn’t with me.”

  And he hadn’t been home, either. Unless Marquita had lied. Which was certainly possible; she’d never made a secret of wishing I’d stay the hell away from Rafe.

  “If you should happen to speak to him today,” Grimaldi said, “let him know I’d like another word, would you?”

  “You’re not arresting him, are you?”

  She looked up at that. “No, Ms. Martin. Not yet. I’ll need more evidence before I can arrest anyone. I just want to know if he can provide an alibi for yesterday.”

  “If I see him, I’ll let him know,” I said.

  She nodded her thanks, and then, just before I left the room, she did a Columbo. “By the way, Ms. Martin, since you’re here... Here’s the information about that store we discussed, where you can purchase defense spray. Tell them I sent you. This seems like an excellent time to arm yourself, if you’ll forgive my saying so.”

  I took the business card she handed me and beat it out of there.

  Chapter 14

  Elspeth Caulfield lived on the northwest side of Sweetwater, in a little community called Damascus. It was closer to Nashville but further from the interstate, so it took me as long to get there as it would have to go to Sweetwater. With everything I had on my mind, though, the drive flew by, and before I knew it, I was standing in front of a run-down Queen Anne Victorian badly in need of a paint-job. Four big, black Labrador Retrievers were barking and slavering at me from inside the fence, and I was considering my next move carefully. If I opened the gate and walked in, they’d jump on me and knock me to the ground, and then they’d either maul me or lick me to death. And even if I got away with my life, my silk blouse and linen skirt would be beyond help. On the other hand, if I didn’t open the gate and go in, I wouldn’t be able to see Elspeth.

  I was still standing outside the fence, dithering, when the front door opened. A petite blonde came out. Looking at her, I realized I did indeed remember Elspeth Caulfield.

  A few weeks back, Todd had told me I didn’t look a day older than when we’d dated in high school. It was a blatant lie, and I was well aware of it. Elspeth, however, really didn’t look any older. She was still just a fraction over five feet tall, and her figure hadn’t developed much in the past ten or twelve years, either. In her oversized denim shirt and with her hair pulled up into a pony-tail, she looked like a little girl playing dress-up in her daddy’s clothes. She had wide, unblinking, very pale blue eyes, and a smooth face totally devoid of make-up. Even her voice was girlish, high pitched and breathy. “Can I help you?”

  “I hope so,” I answered. “My name is Savannah Martin. You probably don’t remember me, but we went to high school together. For a year or so. Before you... um... left.”

  “Of course.” She looked like she didn’t actually remember, but was too polite to say so. Mother had brought me up to do the same thing. There’s nothing more galling to a man’s ego – to anyone’s ego, I suppose – than to be forgotten.

  “I hope you don’t mind my stopping by without calling first? I was in the neighborhood.”

  “Of course not,” Elspeth said. Politesse dictated that she invite me in, but she didn’t, just waited for me to continue. I looked around, at the house and overgrown yard, searching for something to say. Something complimentary, to break the ice and ease into what I really wanted to talk about.

  “Nice place.”

  “Thank you.” She glanced around at it.

  “Did I mention that I’m a Realtor now?”

  “It must have slipped your mind. Although I’m afraid I’m not interested in selling.”

  “Oh, I didn’t think you were,” I said. “Although, if there comes a time, I hope you’ll keep me in mind.” I took a breath. “So how have you been? I haven’t seen you since… um…”

  “High school,” Elspeth supplied.

  I nodded. “What are you doing with yourself these days? How long have you been back in town?” And where did you go, anyway? And more importantly, why…?

  “I work from home,” Elspeth said.

  “I see. Um…” I looked around, vaguely. “Would you like to go get a cup of coffee or something? It’s almost lunch time.” I had passed Beulah’s Meat’n Three just a few miles down the road.

  “I should probably get back to my computer,” Elspeth said. “It was nice to see you again, Savannah.” She started to turn away.

  “Wait a second!” I exclaimed. “I actually came to ask you something.”

  “Really?” Her tone was politely inquiring, but nothing more. Neither curious, nor even especially interested. Surely it wasn’t possible for someone to be so completely, utterly, unfailingly polite all the time? I mean, God knows I try, but I’ve got a long way to go before I stop putting my foot in my mouth on a regular basis, and even Mother has her moments of really quite astonishing rudeness. Deliberate ones, usually. Elspeth’s measured responses made me want to shake her to try to get some other kind of reaction from her, but of course I couldn’t do that. She was on the other side of the fence, for one thing, and for another, the dogs would probably hurt me if I did.

  However, I watched her closely as I asked, “You remember Rafael Collier, don’t you?”

  If I hadn’t been watching, I’m not sure I would have caught it. Her expression changed for just a tenth of a second, and then it was back to being smooth and bland. “Naturally.”

  “Have you seen him lately?”

  Elspeth shook her head. “Not for years.”

/>   I hesitated. “I understand you two hooked up once back in high school?”

  “Oh...” She laughed, a tinkly, little laugh. “I wouldn’t say we hooked up, exactly. ‘Hook up’ is such an unattractive expression, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose,” I said, although it had never struck me as such. There are certainly a lot of uglier words one could use for a couple of teenagers having sex, if one were inclined. “But you were... um... together, right?”

  “I knew him,” Elspeth said.

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. She was approximately as easy to pin down as... well... Rafe. “So did I.” Although not in the Biblical sense. The way Elspeth supposedly did.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Elspeth said.

  “I understand. And I hate to ask. But what happened to you might have some bearing on a criminal case – a rape and murder – that happened in Nashville recently.”

  Someone else might have looked shocked or appalled. Elspeth just looked suspicious. “Are you working for the police?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “For him?”

  I shook my head. “As I told you, I’m a Realtor. The woman who died was a friend of mine. I’m trying to find out who killed her.”

  “And you think he might have done it?”

  The way she kept saying he and him, but never Rafe’s name, was interesting. If I had specialized in psychology instead of law in college, it might have been even more interesting. As it was, I assumed she had been traumatized by whatever had happened to her, and avoiding his name was helping her keep the memories at a distance. I was getting a bad feeling about this.

  “Actually,” I said apologetically, “I’d be very surprised if he did. But the police think he might have.”

  “So you’re trying to help him?”

  Admitting to trying to help Rafe would probably be a bad idea. “Not really. I’m just trying to find out who killed my friend. But she knew him. And I thought, if what happened between you two back then could shed some light on whether he’d be capable of doing something like this now…” I trailed off.