“No,” Darcy said. “Although we’re all tip-toeing around each other a little more carefully than usual, I guess.”
“That’s probably normal.” Even if the situation wasn’t normal at all. “It’ll take us all some time to get used to this, I think. After twenty-eight years of having two siblings, suddenly I have three. And it’s not that I mind. It’s just... different.”
“Definitely,” Darcy said.
“Have you spoken to Audrey?”
Audrey, as we’d found out yesterday, is Darcy’s biological mother. She’s also been Mother’s best friend for the past thirty-plus years.
“Not since yesterday,” Darcy said.
“She’s probably giving you time to get used to the situation.”
She didn’t answer, and I added, “This must be hard for her. Normally, she and my mother would go to lunch and Audrey would talk and Mother would listen, and they’d both feel better. But they can’t do that now.”
And unlike Mother, who had all of us around her to listen and take care of things, Audrey was alone. No parents, no spouse, no boyfriend. No children apart from Darcy. She and my mother had been inseparable since Mother married my dad and moved to Sweetwater thirty-three years ago. I couldn’t imagine how hard this must be for both of them.
But since I couldn’t order Darcy to go see her mother, not until she was ready to do so on her own, I changed the subject. “Did Patrick Nolan call?”
Nolan was an officer with the Columbia PD, the nearest big town to Sweetwater. His partner was Officer Lupe Vasquez, with whom we’d had occasion to speak while we were trying to track down Darcy’s biological parents. Nolan had barely been able to take his eyes off Darcy during the conversation, and she hadn’t been much better.
But then he and Vasquez had gotten called out and had to go deal with a situation, and he hadn’t had a chance to ask her for her number. And I had assured her that he’d get in touch with her in the next day or two—he knew who she was and where she worked—but if he didn’t, we’d track him down and find out why.
“No,” Darcy said and sounded depressed.
“I can contact Lupe Vasquez, if you want, and have her give him a nudge.”
“No,” Darcy said. “If he isn’t going to call on his own, it doesn’t matter.”
I wasn’t sure I agreed with that, but if she didn’t want me to call, I wouldn’t. And besides, it was early days yet. He might call today.
I said so. Darcy sighed. “I doubt it.”
“Then maybe you should contact him. You know where he works. And it’s easy to make up an excuse for why you need a cop.”
“I’m not going to force him!” Darcy said.
“I doubt you would be. He seemed really taken with you on Sunday. He’s probably just worried that you don’t feel the same.” Either that, or he, too, had something going on in his personal life he had to deal with.
“Anyway,” I added, “it’s up to you. He might call today. And if he doesn’t and you want me to contact Lupe Vasquez and give him a nudge, let me know.”
Darcy said she would.
“Tell Dix to call me later. After he’s looked in on Mother.”
“I will,” Darcy said. “I’ll talk to you later, Savannah.”
She hung up before I could say anything else. I guess I was bothering her.
Lunch was over. I paid the check and headed out.
FOUR
The small town where Miss Harper lived, on Dickerson Pike north of Nashville, is called Goodlettsville. It was incorporated in 1958, with three thousand inhabitants, and named for A.G. Goodlett, pastor of the Cumberland Presbyterian Church. In 1963, when Nashville chose to merge with the government of Davidson County, Goodlettsville elected to remain autonomous.
In the interest of saving time, I took the interstate north. At Long Hollow Pike, I got off and headed west, and then north on Dickerson. A couple of minutes later, after a right onto Lickton Pike, I found myself in front of the old Harper homestead.
It was definitely antebellum. Early antebellum, at a guess. Smaller and a bit more squat than the house I grew up in.
The Martin Mansion was built around 1840, of red brick with tall, two-story pillars in the front. Your stereotypical Southern mansion: like Tara, but not all-white. A lot of the antebellum homes around here aren’t. They’re made of brick, and in a lot of cases, the brick is left exposed. In Middle Tennessee, Riverwood and the Belmont Mansion are stuccoed, white and blush respectively, while Two Rivers, Carnton, Rippavilla, Oak Lawn, and Rattle and Snap are all exposed brick. As is the Martin Mansion, a little further south. And they’re just a fraction of the antebellum homes that are available in this area.
At any rate, the Harper place was older. Early 1800s, at a guess. It sat close to the ground, and while the structure had two stories, the roof only came halfway up to what would have been the second story on the Martin Mansion. The ceilings must be much lower, and there was no wide and graceful staircase rising to an imposing double door. Here, there was a somewhat squat stoop in front of a single door. The windows were smaller than at home, and the front porch was narrow and only on the first floor. The house was built of wood, and was badly in need of painting. Even the pillars were unimposing.
It did look as if someone was getting started on fixing it up, however. Tim had told me that Miss Harper’s attorney had sent the renovators packing yesterday. Today, someone was back. A tall ladder leaned up against one side of the house, and on top of it stood a young man with a scraper, pecking at the house to make flakes of old paint rain down on the overgrown lawn.
I pulled the car into the driveway and rolled down the passenger side window. “Hello!”
I’m fairly certain he heard me. In fact, I’m sure of it, because by the time I had parked the car in front of the stoop and gotten out—which took a little longer than usual these days, seeing as I almost needed a shoe horn to extricate myself from behind the steering wheel—the ladder was empty. And not because the guy had come around the corner to see who I was and what I wanted.
No, he was gone. Completely and utterly vanished.
I stood for a second at the corner of the house and looked around.
Out here, beyond Nashville, things were pretty rural. The Harper house sat back from the road, with a field of overgrown lawn in the front, and a tangled mess of bushes and trees in the back and on the sides. It had definitely been a while since Miss Harper had had anyone out to do landscaping.
The young man in the white T-shirt and jeans was nowhere to be seen. I walked around the back of the house to be sure, picking my way carefully across the pitted ground. There were rocks and hollows hidden by the ankle high grass, and every step was an invitation to disaster. One of these days I really would have to make good on my promise to myself and stop wearing shoes with heels.
Today was not that day, however. I had put on wedge sandals when I left the house this morning, and I wasn’t about to kick them off and go barefoot. There could be all sorts of critters lurking in the grass. Snakes and frogs and salamanders, not to mention fleas and ticks and God knew what.
So I kept my shoes on and moved slowly past the ladder down to the corner, and along the back of the house.
No one was there. And whoever he was, he hadn’t gone in through the back door. There was one, but it was boarded up, with a sheet of plywood screwed to the door frame. I pushed on it, just to make sure it was securely fastened, and it didn’t budge.
It was a little eerie here on the backside of the house, between the dilapidated, peeling wall and the second wall made of tangled vines and branches. It was quiet. No buzzing of insects or chirping of birds.
Doesn’t that usually mean that something has upset the wildlife?
The intruding presence might be mine, I suppose. Or it might be the young man from the ladder. The idea that he was hiding in the shrubbery, watching me walk by, was a bit creepy, to be honest.
I made my way to the next corner and around to the othe
r side of the house. It looked the same as the first side, with the exception of the ladder. A tall sandstone chimney in the middle of the wall, with a window on each side, one set on the first floor and one on the second. They were smaller windows than I was used to: both the Martin Mansion and the Victorian house where I lived with Rafe had big, beautiful windows, as tall as me. This house was older, and built at a time when big panes of glass were harder to come by. The windows were small, six over six—six small squares on the bottom sash, six more on the top. I tried to peer in, but they were just tall enough that I couldn’t really get a good look. Besides, they were grimy.
Around the front, I climbed onto the worn stoop and tried the door. The knob turned, but the door didn’t open. I both pushed and pulled, but it remained stubbornly shut.
Eventually, I ended up back where I had started, at the foot of the ladder next to the chimney on the right side of the house.
It was still empty. The ladder, I mean.
There was a window next to it, however, up on the second floor. I couldn’t remember whether that window had been open or closed when I drove up to the house—I likely hadn’t noticed one way or the other—but was it possible that the young man had climbed inside the house rather than, as I had assumed, climbed down and run away?
I contemplated the ladder and my shoes. And then I contemplated the stomach that currently prevented me from seeing my shoes, unless I twisted and lifted my foot, like a Charleston dancer from the 1920s.
Climbing that ladder to the second floor probably wouldn’t be a good idea. If I fell off, Rafe would kill me.
But I probably wouldn’t fall off. I’d climbed ladders before, after all. And if the guy was inside, getting up there would be worth it.
I grabbed the ladder and put my foot on the first rung. And stepped up.
So far, so good.
I did it again.
And again.
And then I made the mistake of looking down.
I was only about four feet from the ground, but it looked a long way off. And I couldn’t get as close to the ladder as I wanted. My stomach was in the way, and although I could fit it between the rungs of the ladder between steps, I still had to lean back to take the next step. Take the stomach out of the current hole before I could gain a rung and fit it into the next one. And every time I leaned back, I felt like I was pulling the ladder away from the wall.
It took forever to get up to the top. And when I got there, I realized that the window was too far away to make for easy access. For someone who wasn’t six months pregnant and wearing a skirt and high heels, maybe it wasn’t. But it would take letting go of the ladder with one hand and moving one arm and one leg over to the window, two feet or so away. And then trust that I could hang on long enough to get myself through the opening.
I decided I wasn’t brave—or stupid—enough to try. It was bad enough up here on the ladder. Letting go of the ladder and swinging through the air toward the window was beyond me.
But I did lean over that way and call out. “Hello? Anyone here?”
I could only see a sliver of the inside from where I stood. Dusty wood floors, faded wall paper with what looked like magnolias. Quite fitting, considering.
I could hear, though. And as soon as I called out, there was a scramble from inside. Rapid footsteps across the floor and then the clatter of feet on the staircase inside.
Shit! I mean... shoot. He was getting away.
I started making my way back down to the ground, one rung at a time, but it was no quicker going down than going up had been. I was still several feet from the ground when I heard the front door slam open and hit the wall. The whole house shook, and for a second I thought the ladder was about to part company with the wall and dump me in the grass. I shrieked and leaned forward with all I had, willing the ladder to stay against the wall.
It took me a few seconds to get moving again. When I hit solid ground, all I wanted to do was spend a full minute catching my breath. Instead, I headed for the front of the house. There was no one in sight. But on the other side of the house, I heard the sound of a motor revving.
I legged it in that direction, careful not to turn my ankle on the uneven ground. Beyond the trees, I could hear wheels turning and gravel spitting as someone did his best to get away as quickly as possible.
The trees were old and it was a long time since anyone had done any gardening around the Harper place. The grass and weeds reached beyond my knees, and vines festooned the branches like Christmas garland. By the time I had fought my way through the dense growth to the other side, my legs and arms were scratched to the point of bleeding, and I had taken a branch to the face that had caused my ears to ring. I was pretty sure I was working on a black eye.
And to add insult to injury, there was nothing to see. Just a dirt track behind the trees, going in the direction of the real road. Before it got there, it disappeared beyond another bank of trees. All I could see was a cloud of dust down at the end of the path.
As I stood there, trying to catch my breath, a yellow school bus came lumbering up the road past Miss Harper’s property. When it drew even with me, I heard a squeal of brakes, and then the school bus came to a quivering stop. I imagined children inside falling like bowling pins.
A second later, a car rocketed down the road from the other direction.
I followed its passage from where I stood. Dark in color. It looked dark green, but that might have been a reflection of the trees above. It was boxy. A Jeep or Land Rover or something of that nature. An SUV type, but sporty. Something that looked like it wouldn’t be out of place on the beach in Waikiki or creeping up a mountain in Yellowstone.
As the green vehicle disappeared out of sight, the school bus started moving again. I deduced that the SUV had shot out from the track I was standing on, right in front of the bus, and that’s why the bus had stopped so abruptly. Hopefully no one onboard was hurt.
The bus lumbered away. After another moment I did the same. Slowly and carefully this time. I had enough scratches and chigger bites. I didn’t want any more.
* * *
MISS HARPER’S old friend Mr. Peretti had his law office in a small row of similar businesses on the main road in Goodlettsville, just up the street from City Hall. There was a big antique shop on the corner, taking up half the building; a consignment boutique that looked like it specialized in children’s clothing was on the other side of the law office, and then there was a yarn store at the end. Both looked interesting. The baby’s birth was close enough now that I found myself looking at layettes and cute little baby booties whenever I went somewhere that had them. I’d have to stop into the consignment store after I’d talked to the lawyer. And then maybe go and fondle some yarn. I know how to knit, even if I don’t do it much. But a baby blanket—soft and fuzzy and straight up-and-down—might be right up my alley.
But business before pleasure. There were two empty parking spaces right in front of the law office, and I slid the Volvo into one of them. Cut the engine, and sat for a moment peering out.
The building was whitewashed brick. The office was small: just a door next to a single, big window. Peretti and Son, it said on the window, in faded gold letters, Est. 1928.
Another family law business. I grew up in one of those, and almost ended up going into it. Until I dropped out of law school to marry, and then divorce, Bradley Ferguson.
I knew the buttons to push here. This was familiar territory.
I opened the car door and swung my legs out. And walked up to the door and twisted the knob.
Like at Miss Harper’s place, the knob turned but the door didn’t open. The lights were off inside. I pressed my nose against the window and blocked out the light with my hands. I could make out a small room with a single desk, filled with stacks of papers and an old-fashioned telephone, the kind where the ear piece is stuck to the phone with a curly wire.
Did those even work anymore?
There was no sign of life inside. The f
aded gold letters on the door announced that the office was supposed to be open another hour, but Mr. Peretti must have closed up shop early and gone home. Or somewhere else. Maybe to hold Miss Harper’s hand while all this got sorted out. She had to be beside herself with worry.
I knocked, just in case Mr. Peretti was holed up somewhere out of sight and had locked the door for privacy while he was using the bathroom. But no one answered. After a minute, I abandoned the law office and made my way over to the consignment store instead.
It was nice and air conditioned inside. We were now well into August, but the late summer has the potential to bring killer heat to Nashville. And the more pregnant I got, the more the high temperatures bothered me.
At least by next summer I wouldn’t be pregnant anymore. That was something to look forward to.
I spent a pleasant few minutes browsing the racks of baby clothes on consignment. There were some very cute things on display. A little strawberry-printed dress with matching bloomers and bonnet for a little girl; a little onesie with embroidered trains for a boy.
I didn’t know what I was having. We were far enough along in the pregnancy that we could find out, but we hadn’t yet. The first ultrasound had been a long time ago, too early, and the result of a fight I’d gotten into. We’d been more concerned with making sure the baby was OK than with figuring out what kind of parts it came with. And during the last ultrasound the baby had been stubborn in showing us its back, and had refused to move, no matter how much the ultrasound tech poked at it with the wand. I had some concerns about that stubbornness going forward.
Anyway, I didn’t know whether I was having a boy or a girl. And since I didn’t, there was no point in buying strawberry bloomers or trains. I ended up with some onesies and booties in unisex yellow and green, and took them up to the register. “Nice place.”
“Thank you.” The woman behind the register was maybe five years older than me, a little plump, with brown hair and freckles. Her hands were quick and capable as she sorted through the tiny clothes. “A couple of us got together when our youngest kids started school. We had all this kid stuff sitting around that we didn’t think we’d ever use again. We decided to try to get some money for it. Kids are expensive. But there wasn’t a consignment store in town we could take it to, so we started our own.”
Scared Money (Savannah Martin Mysteries Book 13) Page 4