Home Stretch

by Jenna Bennett

  Home Stretch

  Savannah Martin Mystery #15

  Jenna Bennett

  Contents

  Untitled

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  The end is near.

  * * *

  The end of Savannah’s pregnancy, that is. Less than a month to go, and she’ll be the mother of what will surely be the most adorable baby boy or baby girl in the world.

  * * *

  But before that, there’s Thanksgiving with the Martins to get through. Not to mention a little spot of murder at the group home where Mrs. Jenkins, Savannah’s grandmother-in-law, lives.A spot of murder that leaves Mrs. Jenkins covered in blood, and with no memory of who else might have hurt night nurse Julia Poole.

  * * *

  With Savannah’s friend, homicide detective Tamara Grimaldi, investigating, and Savannah’s husband Rafe insisting that the detective can’t find out about Mrs. Jenkins’s involvement, in case she doesn’t share his rock-solid belief that Mrs. Jenkins would never kill anyone, Savannah’s caught between a rock and a hard place.

  * * *

  Can she help Mrs. Jenkins figure out the truth before Detective Grimaldi throws them both in prison… or before the real murderer comes back to finish the job?

  One

  By the middle of November, I was feeling like the Thanksgiving turkey. Stuffed. I was within a few weeks of giving birth. I couldn’t see my toes. I couldn’t see my swollen ankles, either, although that was probably a good thing. And I waddled when I walked. My back hurt. Sleeping was impossible—good training for after the baby was born, my sister told me; she’s had three, so she should know.

  I couldn’t wait for it to be over.

  Not because I wanted to finally meet the baby, this tiny, miraculous human who was supposed to be the perfect combination of me and my husband.

  No, I just wanted to go back to having a waistline and ankles that didn’t hurt.

  And the worst thing was that when it was all over and done with, I still wouldn’t fit back into my shoe wardrobe, because my arches were history and my feet looked like they belonged to Wilma Flintstone. Flat as flapjacks. I’d be lucky to fit into a pair of Birkenstocks by the time this was over.

  “You’re beautiful,” my husband told me, not for the first time, as we cuddled together on the sofa the Saturday before Thanksgiving.

  And by cuddling, I mean that I was sitting sideways on the sofa with my feet in his lap, and he was rubbing them.

  “I’m fat.” I scowled at him across the mound of my stomach. From this vantage point, I could have sworn I was giving birth to twins. Or a baby elephant. It felt like I had gestated long enough to create one.

  He kept rubbing. “You’re not fat. You’re pregnant. And beautiful.”

  One hand moved past my—swollen—ankle to my calf, and massaged a little there, too. I sighed. When he moved to the back of my knee, and stroked the thin skin there, I told him, “If you want sex, it’s going to have to be doggie style. It’s the only way that works anymore.”

  He grinned. “Far be it from me to turn down doggie style, darlin’, but are you sure it’s safe?”

  “The doctor said we could carry on as usual until the last month,” I reminded him.

  “And we’re in the last month now.”

  “By a day!” Or maybe two or three. Or four.

  But really, who was counting?

  “I love you,” Rafe said, and smoothed a hand over my thigh. I moved my leg a little. “And I love that you can’t get enough of me.” He grinned as his hand moved north, with no complaint from me. “But are you sure this is a good idea?”

  With the way he was touching me, it seemed like a very good idea. Very good.

  And it seemed like he might be thinking so, too, because he didn’t stop.

  However, I did understand his concern. And loved him more—or would have loved him more if I didn’t already love him so much it hurt—for it.

  But on the other hand— “It’s almost a month until the baby comes. Or at least three weeks. Are you going to go without for three weeks?”

  He looked thoughtful at that. “I’ve gone without for longer than that before, you know.”

  “You have?”

  He arched a brow. “Two years in Riverbend Penitentiary, remember?”

  “Of course, but...” I flushed. “I mean, don’t things happen in prison? You hear stories...”

  He chuckled. “Big Ned didn’t make me his bitch, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Big Ned? There was a Big Ned?”

  He shook his head. “No, darlin’. There was nobody named Big Ned. And I didn’t have sex with the other inmates. Or the female guards.”

  “There were female guards?” Who’d want to be a female guard in an all-male prison?

  Then again, if all the inmates looked like Rafe, I could see the temptation. But they don’t.

  “Lots,” Rafe said. “But for the most part they didn’t look like anybody I’d wanna have sex with. Although there was this one woman...”

  I held up a hand. “Please.”

  He laughed. “I’m just messing with you. I was celibate for two years, unless you consider the company of Mary Thumb and her four sisters. I think I can survive three weeks.”

  “It’ll be more than that. Things have to come back together after the birth, too. You’re probably looking at two months.”

  “I waited two years,” Rafe said. “I can wait two months.”

  “But in this case you don’t have to. You may have to wait after the birth. But you don’t have to wait now. It’s only a week or so into the last month. I’m sure it’s safe.”

  He arched a brow. “You want me.”

  “Always.” And I probably always would. At least I didn’t see myself getting tired of him anytime soon. “And anyway, I wouldn’t cry if the baby decided to come early.”

  We were at a point where it was safe. A little premature, but safe. I’d had a risky early pregnancy—it was my third, and the first two had ended in miscarriages; one a year ago, one a couple of years before that—and the doctor had told me that anything after week 36 was considered full term, so I just had to hold on until then. Although with my luck, now that I was past the danger point, the baby would probably dig in and refuse to come out, and I’d have the only 10-month baby ever born.

  “It’ll be worth it,” Rafe told me as he walked his fingers lightly up my thigh.

  “You don’t have to convince me.” I knew what he was capable of. It would be very worth it.

  He grinned. “I meant the baby. Carrying the baby. It’ll be worth it once it’s born. You won’t remember any of this.”

  Easy for him to say. “Let’s just get this show on the road. You know I drop off to sleep at nine o’clock these days. And it’s close to that now.”

  “I’ve got it.” He moved out from under my feet and onto the floor. “Just relax. I’ll take care of you. If you just turn around like this...” He pulled me down to the edge of the sofa. “That’ll work. Just relax and enjoy.”

  He gave me a smile, one where his eyes were hot and liquid.

  “I love you,” I told him.<
br />
  “You’ll love me even more after this.” The smile turned into a cocky grin, and then he set to work.

  He waited until I was boneless and spent, sprawled across the sofa—to the degree that a nine-months-pregnant woman can sprawl—before he told me, “We have to go visit my grandma tomorrow.”

  I tilted my head to look at him, wedged into the sofa next to me, as naked as the day he was born. “You didn’t have to soften me up for that. Don’t we usually go visit your grandmother on Sundays?”

  “When we’re not visiting your family.”

  “We’re going to Sweetwater for Thanksgiving,” I reminded him, “so we’re here this weekend. I figured we’d go see your grandmother. We usually do.”

  Or at least he usually did. I often came along. Sometimes he brought his son David instead of me.

  Not because I don’t like Mrs. Jenkins. I do. She’s a nice old lady. But I’ll readily admit that going to see her can be draining. She struggles with dementia, and we can never be sure whether she’ll be lucid or not when we visit. It can change from one breath to the next, too. Sometimes she knows exactly who we are. Other times, she thinks Rafe is her late son Tyrell—the father Rafe never knew, since he was killed before Rafe was born—and I’m LaDonna Collier, pregnant with Rafe.

  When we introduced David—Rafe’s son from a high school fling—into the mix, things got even more complicated, since she’s never sure whether David is David, or whether he’s Rafe or Tyrell.

  At any rate, I go along and visit Mrs. J a lot of the time. David comes along sometimes, when he isn’t busy doing something else, and when his adoptive parents agree to let him spend time with his biological father and great-grandmother. Rafe goes every weekend, unless we’re out of town.

  “I just wanted to let you know,” my husband said, with a jaw-cracking yawn.

  It was my turn to grin. “Did I wear you out?”

  “I had to do all the work,” he informed me, with an arch of an eyebrow.

  He had done all the work. “You volunteered.”

  A corner of his mouth turned up. “Guess I did. You ready to head to bed?”

  I nodded.

  “I’ll give you a hand up.” He scrambled across me and onto the floor. I took the hand he extended and planted my feet. It took effort to get upright these days. I’d never been a lightweight, and with the extra thirty pounds or so of pregnancy weight I was carrying, I imagine it must have been a lot like hauling a small hippopotamus. Good thing he’s strong.

  “Clothes?” I suggested when I was upright and we were both standing in the middle of the parlor in our birthday suits. Everything we’d worn earlier was scattered across the sofa, table, and floor, where he’d tossed it or pushed it when he was taking it off.

  “I’ll get it tomorrow.” He put an arm around me and nudged me toward the hallway.

  “I can’t walk around the house naked!”

  Especially not in my condition. What if someone was outside, looking in? They’d get quite an eyeful. Rafe is gorgeous, of course—all smooth golden skin and hard muscles—but I look like a great, white whale at the moment.

  “You’re gorgeous.” He kept nudging me along. He’s stronger than me, so I kept moving. Across the floor to the doorway, into the foyer, toward the stairs. “Just a few more steps, and then you can run up the stairs.”

  No way was I running up the stairs in the nude, with my naked butt jiggling. His arm around my shoulders didn’t provide much cover, but it was better than nothing.

  “I’ll walk,” I said. “With what dignity I have left.”

  He grinned. “That’s the attitude.”

  Easy for him to say. He could model underwear. Or model naked. Unlike me, he’d had all of the fun and his stomach was still flat and shaped like a perfect eight-pack.

  But we made it up the stairs without hearing jeers from the outside. (And no, I hadn’t really expected any. People tend to avoid hanging around our house. They know Rafe carries a gun and has a legal right to use it. We rarely have to worry about trespassers. At least when we’re home.)

  “Bathroom,” I told him when we reached the second floor. He pointed me in the direction of the door and gave my derriere a swat. It probably jiggled, because he grinned appreciatively. I stuck my tongue out at him before I went inside. It feels like the baby has taken up permanent residence on my bladder, and I have to pee every hour or two. All through the night.

  That was the reason why, six hours later, I happened to look out the window into the dark gloom of a November night, and saw a shadow move among the bare trees in the yard. I was on my way back to bed from another trip to the bathroom, and just happened to catch the movement out of the corner of my eye.

  I stopped and squinted, peering down into the front yard.

  “Something wrong?” my husband’s sleepy voice asked from the bed. He’s a light sleeper. Two years in prison and another decade deep undercover will do that to a guy. I wasn’t the only one not getting much sleep these days.

  “Thought I saw something,” I told him, still peering through the gloom.

  “On the street?” He already sounded more alert.

  I shook my head. “In the yard.”

  The bedsprings squeaked as he moved. His bare feet were silent on the wood floor. I knew he was next to me because I felt the warmth of his skin, not because he made a sound.

  I kept looking down. “There.”

  Something had moved between the trees. Something, or someone.

  “Damn,” Rafe said, and turned.

  “Pants,” I reminded him.

  “There’s a pair downstairs.” He ducked out the door.

  So there was. Somewhere on the floor in the parlor, where he’d told me to leave them last night. Convenient.

  I stayed at the window. There was definitely someone outside. A shadow flitted between the trees and bushes in the yard, making its way toward the house. But it was dark—overcast with no moon, and raining buckets—and it was hard to see the details.

  I heard the front door downstairs open and close. A second later, I saw my husband’s silhouette come across the grass. He was dressed—if you can call a pair of jeans in November dressed—but he was barefoot and wasn’t carrying his weapon.

  I thought about opening the window and yelling at him. But I was naked, and it was cold outside. And I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. And it helps when I trust him. His night-vision is a lot better than mine. Maybe he’d recognized the intruder and knew there was no reason for fear.

  Maybe it was David. Maybe something had happened at home, and he’d wanted to see his father. His biological father. It wouldn’t be the first time. David had run away from home a couple of times before, to find Rafe. So there was precedent.

  Compared to Rafe, the shadow was short. So it might be David, who was just thirteen, and not fully grown yet. He’d probably end up being tall, but he had a ways to go before he caught up to Rafe’s six-three.

  My husband wended his way between the tree trunks and bushes. I heard him call out, but not what he said through the closed window. It wasn’t a “Hey, you!” sort of demand—more an “I see you and I don’t want you to worry, so I’m speaking softly so I don’t scare you off,” kind of call.

  The shadow froze, halfway behind a tree. Rafe stopped in front of it. I assumed they talked for a moment, and then they both began to move toward the house. I left the window to find something to wear, since I’d have to go downstairs to find out what was going on, and since I wasn’t about to make the trip naked so I could put on the clothes we’d discarded in the parlor last night. That was fine for Rafe, if he wanted to do it, but I wasn’t about to.

  Half a minute and a nightgown plus an oversized bathrobe later, I made my careful way down the stairs. I’m so front-heavy these days, I’m always afraid that if I don’t hold on and lean back, I’ll topple over.

  By then, Rafe had guided our visitor into the parlor and deposited her on the sofa where we’d made lo
ve last night. The front door was locked and bolted. I checked the position of the lock and the chain on my way past.

  And turned into the parlor. Only to stop two steps in, aghast.

  “Oh, my God! What happened?”

  Speak of the devil... It was just a few hours ago that we’d been sitting here talking about going to visit Mrs. Jenkins tomorrow. Or today, now.

  And here she was, sitting in the parlor.

  A good ten or fifteen miles away from where she should have been at this time of night, safely tucked away into her bed.

  And not only that, but she looked awful. Soaked to the skin, her hair—the consistency of a gray Brillo pad—was sticking out every which way, when it’s usually neatly tamed and pinned back. She had left in her house slippers, and had walked far enough—Dear God; hopefully not the full ten or fifteen miles!—to wear holes through both soles. The parts of her feet that peeked through the holes were black from the dirt outside. A blue housecoat stuck to her skin, and just the fact that she wasn’t wearing anything else was bad enough, seeing as it was November.

  Now, we’re talking about Nashville and not North Dakota, so it could have been worse. We weren’t dealing with temperatures below freezing yet. But it got chilly at night. And she shouldn’t have been out without a coat and without proper shoes and without something to cover her spindly legs.

  She shouldn’t have been out at all. She should have been tucked up in her dry bed in the very nice facility Rafe had found on the other side of town, where they had always taken good care of her.

  Until now.

  But the worst of it was the blood. Some must have washed away in the rain, or so I assumed, but there was plenty left. It was streaked across the front of her housecoat and in rivulets down her legs. The fuzzy slippers were caked with it. And there was blood on her hands and under her nails, too. There was even some on her face, probably where she’d touched herself.

  My stomach objected. I got over the morning sickness—and afternoon sickness and evening sickness—sometime in the fourth month. I didn’t empty my stomach every morning when I tried to brush my teeth anymore. But I’ll readily admit that part of me is a little more sensitive than usual these days. I’m a bit more prone to tossing my cookies when something upsetting happens.