Survival Clause: A Savannah Martin Novel (Savannah Martin Mysteries Book 20)

by Jenna Bennett

  “Did she name any of these men?” Grimaldi wanted to know. There was no point in pursuing Frankie’s anger with Laura Lee, since he’d been in prison when she died and couldn’t have killed her.

  Mrs. Drimmel shook her head. “She said it was easier if she didn’t know their names.”

  I could well believe that. I abandoned the picture of Laura Lee and her kids, and went on to the next photograph. And found myself face to face with a face I knew.

  My jaw dropped. “Excuse me.” I picked up the photograph and turned to them. Mrs. Drimmel stopped speaking in the middle of a sentence. Grimaldi looked annoyed. I ignored it. “Is this your grandson?”

  Mrs. Drimmel nodded. “That’s Curtis. Laura’s boy.”

  I looked at Grimaldi. She looked back at me.

  “Frankie’s black,” she said.

  Mrs. Drimmel looked surprised. “Yes’m.”

  “You didn’t check?” I asked Grimaldi.

  She shook her head, looking chagrined. “It never crossed my mind. If there’d been an arrest photo attached to the file I pulled, I would have noticed, but…”

  But there hadn’t been. Obviously.

  Mrs. Drimmel was looking from one to the other of us. “Does it matter?”

  Grimaldi pulled herself together. “Not to your daughter’s murder, no. He wasn’t involved in that. But for the others, the profile indicates someone Caucasian.”

  Mrs. Drimmel blinked. “Oh.”

  “Most of the victims have been Caucasian,” I explained, as I put the picture of Curtis back on the mantel and drifted toward them. “The couple that haven’t been were light-skinned. It indicates a white killer.”

  Mrs. Drimmel nodded. “I don’t imagine it would matter to Laura what color someone was. She married Frankie, and he was black. Her boyfriend before Frankie wasn’t.”

  “Who was her boyfriend before Frankie?” Grimaldi wanted to know. It was hard to believe the police hadn’t covered that back then, but maybe she just didn’t remember the details.

  “You wouldn’t know him,” Mrs. Drimmel said. “His name was Noah.”

  “Trent?”

  She gave me a look of surprise. “How d’you know?”

  “Someone mentioned him,” I said, avoiding Grimaldi’s accusing stare. “It was in a different context. Nothing to do with your daughter.”

  Mrs. Drimmel nodded. “Why would you wanna know about Noah? That was a long time ago.”

  “Just tying up loose ends,” Grimaldi said lightly. “Noah Trent, you said? Where can I find him?”

  “The cemetery down in Sweetwater,” Mrs. Drimmel said. “Killed himself around ten years ago, Noah.”

  Grimaldi stared at me. I grimaced. In the silence, we heard the faint music and clanging of metal on metal from beyond the wall. “Is that your husband?” I asked.

  Mrs. Drimmel nodded. “He’s picked up an old car he’s working on. I never thought he’d retire—he worked until he was seventy-two—and now that he has, he’s still at it.”

  I smiled. “Was that his job before he retired?”

  “Diesel mechanic,” Mrs. Drimmel said, and shook her head. “I should have figured he wouldn’t be able to leave it alone. I thought after he retired, he’d settle in to play golf and tool around the house, but no. He went out and found himself an old car to tinker with. But at least he’s doing it here, so I get to see him more.”

  Good for Mrs. Drimmel.

  Grimaldi shot me a look and pushed to her feet. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Drimmel.”

  “Happy to help,” Mrs. Drimmel said while I grabbed Carrie’s car seat. “You working on Laura’s murder again? They never did arrest anybody for that…”

  “We’re looking at it again,” Grimaldi assured her as we made our way toward the door. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Fourteen

  “What’s this about Noah Trent?” Grimaldi wanted to know as soon as the car doors were shut behind us. She inserted the key in the ignition and started the car.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, pulling the seatbelt across my body and fastening it. “I assumed Rafe had told you. When we were at Beulah’s last night, before all the hoopla with the video and then the picture of Carrie—”

  She nodded.

  “We asked Mo—Maureen, the waitress—if she knew anything about Jurgensson and the kid he had the affair with. She’s around the same age Laura Lee would be, so we figured she might have attended Columbia High around that time, too.”

  “And she named Noah Trent.” The SUV rolled down the long driveway to the street.

  I nodded. “And told us he couldn’t be involved in the murders because he’s dead. And has been for about a decade.”

  “That does seem like it would give him an alibi,” Grimaldi agreed, “at least for two –thirds of the victims. I can’t really see how he would be connected.”

  I couldn’t, either. If the thing with Jurgensson had happened twenty-five or thirty years ago, and Laura Lee’s murder had happened sixteen or seventeen years ago, and Noah had killed himself ten years ago, there was no connection there that I could see. The incident with Jurgensson hadn’t triggered Laura Lee’s murder, and her murder hadn’t triggered Noah Trent’s suicide.

  “We can probably eliminate Noah Trent from suspicion,” Grimaldi agreed. “Although I’d still like to track down Jurgensson. If nothing else, I’d like to make sure he’s still alive and nobody did away with him.”

  “My uncle said he used to play golf with Jurgensson occasionally. And that one of the others kept in touch with him for a while after he left. Uncle Sid said he—Jurgensson—worked some menial job in Tucson or Tupelo last he heard.”

  “What’s your uncle’s friend’s name?”

  “Art Mullinax,” I said. “He lives north of Columbia somewhere, not too far from Fulton Street. That’s what Uncle Sid said. On something called Daffodil Hill Farm. I’ve never heard of it. But you should probably check with Rafe before you go over there. He went with me to Aunt Regina’s and Uncle Sid’s house yesterday, so he knows about Mullinax already.” And unlike Grimaldi and me, it was his actual job to follow up on leads.

  “Call him,” Grimaldi said.

  I resisted the urge to salute, but just barely. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She gave me a look, but didn’t comment. I pulled my phone out and dialed my husband’s number.

  It took a few seconds, but then he picked up. “Darlin’.”

  “Quick question,” I said. “Grimaldi and I have been to see the Drimmels, Laura Lee Matlock’s parents. Turns out Curtis—the kid from the other night—is her son.”

  Grimaldi took her eyes off the road to stare at me. Rafe just sounded amused. “No kidding?”

  “No. Mrs. Drimmel has a photograph of him on the mantel. I recognized him. Besides, same name.”

  “Small world,” Rafe said.

  “Small town. Anyway, Noah Trent’s name came up. Turns out he was Laura Lee’s boyfriend at some point.”

  “The kid who was involved with the Latin teacher?”

  “The same. Grimaldi wants to go talk to Uncle Sid’s friend, the one who was in contact with Jurgensson after he left here. Mullinax.”

  “OK,” Rafe said.

  “We’re making sure you haven’t already done that.”

  “No. I’m working on the last murder. Not the first.”

  Of course. “Are you getting anywhere?”

  “We’re still making lists of trucking companies,” Rafe said, “and drivers. Right now, we have about thirty suspects who came through the truck stop in the time period we figure Ramona’s body was left. Now we gotta cross-check their schedules with the other murders.”

  Some of which went back more than fifteen years. “It sounds like a big job.”

  “They don’t come much bigger. Go on and have fun. I’ll be at the sheriff’s office if you need me.”

  He sounded ready to hang up. “Just one more thing,” I said quickly.

  “Yeah?”

/>   “Anything on the stalker? Did Vasim Rehman manage to figure out the license plate?”

  “Not so far as I’ve heard,” Rafe said, “but he’s in Columbia and I’m in Sweetwater. I’ll check with him.”

  I told him I’d appreciate it. “I don’t want to pile anything more on your plate—”

  The silence was loud.

  “—but have you considered whether you ought to call Ginny and Sam?”

  The silence got even louder for a few seconds. Then it exploded. “Shit.”

  “Relax,” I told him. “Chances are this person doesn’t know you well enough to know you have another child, let alone who David is or where to find him. We haven’t made a big deal out of his relationship to you.”

  “No,” Rafe agreed, but he sounded distracted.

  “But like you said the other night, better safe than sorry. They should probably hear what’s going on. And from you.” Or I’d call David’s parents myself.

  “Sure thing, darlin’. I’ll call’em right now.”

  He was gone before I could say goodbye. I turned back to Grimaldi. “You heard him, right? We can go ahead and talk to Mullinax.”

  She nodded. “You two worried about the kids?”

  I nodded. “Rafe showed you the social media post, right? All it said was ‘beautiful baby’ and ‘she looks just like her daddy,’ both of which are true. And that’s not exactly threatening, I guess…”

  “Not exactly,” Grimaldi agreed, stabbing at the computer screen extending from the dashboard of the car.

  “But I don’t like how this woman is zeroing in. Following Rafe around and taking pictures of him is one thing. Posting pictures of his baby online is something different. I realize that everybody knows everybody in a small town, pretty much—”

  I’d grown up in Sweetwater, and I had a pretty good idea who all of Sheriff Satterfield’s deputies were and where they lived.

  “—and Rafe being who he is, and me being who I am, everybody would know where to find him anyway—”

  Aunt Regina had done a spread of our wedding in the Sweetwater Reporter last year, so the whole town—or at least everyone who subscribes to the Reporter—knew that Margaret Anne Martin’s younger daughter had married Sweetwater’s black sheep.

  “—but I don’t like all this personal information getting out. Even if this fruitcake isn’t a threat to Carrie, and just thinks she’s a pretty baby who looks like her father, there are other people out there who might not mind an opportunity to hit Rafe where it hurts.” And I wasn’t talking about Sergeant Tucker.

  “Your husband did a lot of damage to some very bad people,” Grimaldi nodded, “as you well know. We’re not taking this lightly at all, I promise. Officer Rehman is trying to track down the car. And the TBI is involved now. Your husband called Mr. Craig this morning.”

  Good to know. That hadn’t occurred to me—Wendell and Jamal were in Nashville, and probably wouldn’t be able to come down here for this; not when there wasn’t a specific threat of any kind—but I was glad they knew. Wendell was the closest thing to a father Rafe had, and he had spent a lot of years making sure Rafe survived whatever sticky situation he was in.

  “Your husband’s going around with Agent Yung,” Grimaldi added, “and she’s been apprised of the situation. She’s trained at Quantico and she’ll give him any kind of backup he needs.”

  Hard to imagine, considering how she’d probably still like to slap him behind bars. “You don’t suppose Agent Yung…”

  I didn’t have to finish the sentence.

  “No,” Grimaldi said, so the idea must have crossed her mind, too. “At least one of the videos was taken when she was inside the police station with me. And besides, you would have noticed her at Beulah’s yesterday. You might not have paid attention to some random woman, but if Agent Yung had been there, you would have seen her.”

  True. “I guess the FBI trains their agents well.”

  “They can usually hit what they’re aiming for,” Grimaldi said and turned off the main road onto a much narrower one that meandered into the sticks on the north side of Columbia. I looked around.

  “Is there where Mullinax lives?”

  She had both hands on the wheel as we bumped over ruts and rocks. The road wasn’t even paved. “According to his driver’s license and my GPS.”

  No sooner had the words crossed her lips than the road opened up and we saw a big, turn-of-the-last-century Victorian sitting on a carpet of green velvet up against a backdrop of spring-fresh trees. Daffodils and tulips bloomed in riotous color along the porch, and two flowering trees—ornamental Bartlett pears or dogwoods, probably—flanked the path to the front door.

  “Wow,” I said.

  Grimaldi gave me a sardonic glance. “Not what you expected?”

  “I expected a doublewide trailer and a toothless old redneck at the end of a road like that one,” I said, honestly, “although given that the man plays golf with my uncle, I probably shouldn’t have…”

  There were three vehicles parked outside the garage, and there might have been three more behind the doors. One car was a prosaic gray sedan, a few years out of date. One was a silver SUV, ladylike and dainty, not dissimilar to the one we were pulling up in. The last was a golf cart. I guessed Mr. Mullinax might use it to travel around the property and maybe down to the main road to pick up his mail. It was a long trek on foot.

  Grimaldi pulled our SUV to a stop and cut the engine. Silence descended. “Hard to believe we’re inside the Columbia city limits,” she said.

  It was. The place looked like it belonged way out in the country, and it had probably been well outside town when it was built. But that was a century and a quarter ago, maybe even more, and the town had steadily encroached.

  “I’ve heard of Daffodil Hill Farm,” I said, looking around. “I knew it was up here somewhere, but I’ve never seen it before.”

  “No reason why you would, I imagine.” Grimaldi pushed her door open. “Mr. Mullinax seems to like his privacy. Let’s go see if he’s in residence.”

  Sure thing. I climbed out and reached into the backseat for Carrie.

  Like at the Drimmels’ much humbler home, it was Mrs. Mullinax who answered the door. Or so I assumed, until she introduced herself as the housekeeper. Mr. Mullinax was in the study. Would we like to see him?

  Grimaldi indicated that we would, and we were shown into a spotless parlor with a stunning Victorian fireplace—all dark wood and glazed green tile—and offered refreshments. Grimaldi said no for both of us. I smiled apologetically. “That’s a lovely fireplace. Would you mind if I took a closer look?”

  The housekeeper waved her hand at it. “Help yourself. I just dusted it this morning.”

  It looked freshly dusted. And unlike the Drimmels’ fireplace, it sported no family photos. Instead, the mirror behind the mantel reflected stubby candles in silver holders, and a matching vase holding a spray of glossy magnolia leaves and waxy flowers.

  Mother would have approved. I guess I did too, or at least the professional part of me did. Although I have to admit Mrs. Drimmel’s family photos had set a much friendlier tone.

  The housekeeper wandered out, presumably to let Mr. Mullinax know we were there, and Grimaldi arched her brows at me as I ran my fingertips over the carved wood of the mantel.

  “Nice workmanship,” I said apologetically. “And I love the original wood. This is old mercury glass. See how wavy it is? And look at the tile. Isn’t it gorgeous? And it’s in pristine shape. Not a chip or crack in any of them.”

  I looked around the rest of the room, with the dark hardwood floors and eleven foot ceilings and narrow windows tall enough that either one of us could have stood upright on the sill and not come anywhere close to cracking our heads on the round top. “This is a gorgeous room. If the rest of the house looks like it, it must be worth a fortune.”

  “You’d know,” Grimaldi said.

  I shrugged. “It’s my job. And I grew up in the Martin mans
ion. I know the value of old houses. This is a beautiful one.”

  “Thank you, young lady.”

  The booming voice came from outside the door. A moment later, a man—Mr. Mullinax—sailed through.

  He must have been about a decade older than Uncle Sid. And he was as jolly as Santa Claus. The only thing missing was the white beard. The hair was white and fluffy, like down, the cheeks were rosy red, and the twinkling eyes were blue, but he was clean-shaven.

  “Mr. Mullinax.” I flushed. Mother would not be happy to hear that I’d been calculating the man’s value in his hearing, and given the probable antecedents and bank balance here, Mrs. Mullinax and Mother were most likely friends. It would undoubtedly get back to her. Since I had to tell him who I was and why we were here, there was no way to pretend I was some uncouth bystander, either. “I’m Savannah Martin. Collier. My Uncle Sid told me about you.”

  “Regina’s niece.” He grabbed my hand and patted it. “You married the cop.”

  I had. And Art Mullinax was nicer about the description of Rafe than some I’ve heard.

  “This is Police Chief Grimaldi,” I said, gesturing with my free hand. Mr. Mullinax dropped me like my hand was hot and turned to her, looking her over.

  “Charming,” he said.

  It was the first time I’d heard that word applied to Grimaldi, and from her expression, it might have been the first time she’d heard it applied to herself, too. “Mr. Mullinax.”

  When he snatched for her hand, she snatched back, and gave his a good shake before dropping it. “I wanted to ask you a couple of questions about Kent Jurgensson.”

  Art Mullinax’s blue eyes went sorrowful, and he shook his head, clucking. “Terrible tragedy. Just terrible what happened.”

  “Uncle Sid said you played golf with him,” I said.

  He turned to me. “Indeed, young lady. Sid, Kent, me, and Jacob Drimmel when he was available.”

  “Laura Lee Drimmel’s father? The same Laura Lee who used to date Noah Trent?”

  Mullinax nodded. “The very same. Now, what do you know about Noah Trent?”