“Boys spray,” Denise Seaver told me, not without a fair amount of malicious glee in her voice.
No kidding. I snatched a diaper out of the package and shook it open, and wrestled it around the baby. He kept wailing the whole time. It wasn’t until the diaper was on and he was wrapped back up in the blankets that the squealing died down to hiccupping sobs. I picked him back up and cradled him.
“He’s hungry,” Denise Seaver said dispassionately.
I gave her a look. “You have formula, don’t you? The lady at the Catholic Church said she gave you both diapers and baby formula.”
For a second, her eyes narrowed. I guess she didn’t like the fact that we knew everything she’d done since she escaped from prison.
At any rate, there was formula. I filled up a bottle and was about to sit down and feed the baby when Denise Seaver said, “Time to go.”
“Now? But what about feeding the baby?”
“In the car,” Denise Seaver said, and waved the gun toward the door. “Go.”
Perforce, I went. Denise Seaver followed, wheeling the empty suitcase behind her. “Get your purse.”
It was hanging on the newel post in the hallway. I guess she didn’t want to risk having me drive without a license, just in case we got pulled over. Although if we got pulled over, she’d have bigger problems than that.
I had to thread the arm with the bottle through the strap of the purse and sort of scoot it onto my arm. It dangled there as we walked out.
“Keys.” She let go of the suitcase and wiggled her fingers.
“Hands full,” I said, extending the arm with the purse. “You’ll have to dig them out.”
She scowled but did it, and locked the door. For a crazy second, I contemplated hurtling down the stairs and away while she had her back turned. But she’d turn around and shoot me before I could get out of sight, and with holding the baby, I wouldn’t be able to get the car door open, both of us inside, and the car locked again before she killed me. And besides, while Volvos are good, safe cars, I don’t think they boast bullet-proof windows.
So I waited sedately, holding the baby and the bottle, for her to finish locking the door. If nothing else, our possessions would be safe. Then I headed down the stairs to the car with the gun pointing at my back.
We hadn’t gotten around to buying a car seat, of course, so the baby ended up in the suitcase on the back seat. The seatbelt held the suitcase in place, and the luggage strap inside the suitcase kept the baby down. It wasn’t as good as a car seat, but better than nothing. Denise Seaver tossed the secondhand stroller into the trunk, and got into the back seat next to the baby. “Drive.”
I turned the key in the ignition. “Where are we going?”
She scowled at me in the mirror. “Sweetwater. You said you’d gotten my money.”
“It isn’t your money,” I told her, as we rolled slowly down the driveway. “It’s my sister’s money. But I’ll take you there to pick it up.”
“Just drive carefully. If you try anything, this brat won’t survive the trip.”
She gestured with the muzzle of the gun at the baby, whom she was feeding with her other hand. She wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. On the interstate, I could get the car up to speed and then slam on the brakes. She might go tumbling, while the baby might be OK, being strapped in as it was.
Then again, as Denise Seaver went tumbling, her gun could go off and shoot me in the back of the head, and we didn’t want that. It would probably be safer just to take her to Sweetwater, give her the money and the car—if she wanted it—and wave her off. Just as long as she didn’t want the baby. I wasn’t giving her that.
So I drove. Down Potsdam Street, down Dresden, down Dickerson Pike, past the buffalo statues, and onto the interstate. The gas gauge was at less than half, but I didn’t say anything about needing to stop and fill up. We had enough to get to Sweetwater, and what happened after that wasn’t my problem. If Denise Seaver wanted my car, the gas would be her problem. If she didn’t want the car, I could always fill up before I drove back. At that point, time would no longer be of the essence.
And if she shot me, the gas in my tank would be the least of my problems.
We headed south, adhering strictly to the speed limit and rules of the road. I didn’t pass anyone, I didn’t cut anyone off, I didn’t make eye contact with anyone in another car. I stayed in the right lane and kept moving, slowly but steadily.
We were about halfway there, past Franklin and coming up on Spring Hill, when my phone rang. I reached for it, and Denise Seaver growled.
“It might be Rafe,” I told her. “If I don’t answer, he’ll wonder why.”
However, it wasn’t Rafe. It was the Martin and McCall law office. “It’s me,” Darcy said. “I have the money.”
“I’m on my way. Where do you want to meet?”
“What’s wrong with meeting here?” Darcy wanted to know. “I’m carrying fifty thousand dollars in cash around with me.”
While I could understand that she’d prefer to stay safe where she was, I didn’t think Denise Seaver would want to park on the square in Sweetwater and walk into the Martin and McCall law office carrying a gun and a suitcase with a baby inside.
Nor did I particularly want to expose my brother or sister—either of them—to that.
“It would be better if we met somewhere else. Somewhere private.”
There was a second’s pause. I wondered whether Darcy was catching on that there was something not right. But no, probably not. She didn’t know me well enough for that yet. To be honest, I’m not sure Dix would have caught on, either, and he’s known me my whole life.
Both Grimaldi and Rafe would have. They hadn’t known me more than a year each. But they were both in law enforcement and were used to thinking in terms of the worst case scenario. Most people wouldn’t really consider that I might be in a hostage situation with a woman holding a gun on me as I answered the phone. But I had a feeling Rafe and/or Grimaldi would.
“OK,” Darcy said slowly at last. “Where do you want to meet?”
Here was a chance to maybe give her a clue. If she was adept at all at picking up clues. I had no idea if she was. “Remember where we went Sunday night?”
“Doctor Seaver’s house?” Darcy said doubtfully.
“Yes. There.”
“You want me to meet you there?”
“Please.” I glanced at the clock, and at the gun in the rearview mirror. The hole in the barrel looked big and black. In the suitcase, the baby made a soft, whimpering sound before going back to sleep. “We’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
Denise Seaver’s eyes narrowed in the mirror, and that was when I realized I’d used the plural instead of the singular.
Darcy didn’t question it, however. Maybe she thought I had Rafe with me. I wished I did. If I’d only taken him up on the offer of going with me, I wouldn’t be in this predicament. “I’ll see you in thirty minutes, then.”
“If you get there before me,” I told her, “you can just go in through the back door—it’s probably still open—and leave the money inside. You don’t have to wait for me.”
Darcy hesitated, probably wondering what was wrong with me, for suggesting that she leave fifty thousand dollars in an unlocked, unoccupied house, and walk away. What I wanted to do, was tell her to stay far, far away so she wouldn’t get hurt by the escaped prisoner with the gun, but this was the best I could do.
“I really appreciate your help,” I added. “I don’t know what I would have done without you.”
“It’s no problem,” Darcy said. “I’m happy to help. Is everything OK?”
“Fine.” I manufactured a smile. “Or it will be soon. Once this is over.”
“I hear you. I’ll see you in thirty minutes.” She hung up. I went back to concentrating on driving.
“Where did you go Sunday night?” Denise Seaver asked suspiciously.
I met her eyes in the mirror. “Your house.”
�
�My house?”
“We were looking for your medical records for thirty-four years ago, to see if we could find Darcy’s birth mother. I and my brother and sister went there to look.”
“You broke into my house?”
“The back door was open,” I said. “And it’s not like we took anything.” Other than some medical records.
She breathed heavy for a minute. To be honest, she didn’t smell so good. Stomping around in the woods, helping Carmen give birth, and thrift store clothes, not to mention no toothbrush or shampoo, hadn’t done her any favors. I wrinkled my nose, and straightened it back out. “She’ll meet us there with the money. I assumed you didn’t want to walk into the Martin and McCall office to pick it up.”
“No,” Denise Seaver admitted after a moment.
“And I thought maybe you’d like to pick up some of your own clothes, too. Those look a little tight.”
They did. The blouse gaped across her chest, and she looked like the skirt pinched. The sandals were a size or two too small; just enough that her big toes extended beyond the soles.
There was a pause. “You’re being very accommodating,” Denise Seaver said, her voice hostile.
I met her eyes in the rearview. “We want the same thing. Or more or less the same thing. You want the money, I want the baby kept safe. We both want to walk away from this. If we cooperate, we can both get what we want. You’ll have an easier time getting away without the baby, so you may as well give him to me. And I’m willing to give you the money as long as you walk away.”
She didn’t answer, and I added, “Besides, you have a gun. I don’t want you to shoot me. You’ve done it once already, and it hurt. Making sure you don’t do it again is a pretty powerful inducement to making you happy.”
Denise Seaver grunted. It wasn’t a dissenting grunt, though. And on that note, we continued south on I-65.
TWENTY-ONE
We reached Sweetwater just before two in the afternoon. The road to Denise Seaver’s old subdivision lay past the Martin Mansion, and I glanced up at my childhood home as we moved past. The big, old house stood bathed in afternoon sun, looking like something out of Gone With the Wind, but other than that there was nothing to see. Mother had no visitors, and if she had been out today, she’d put the car back in the garage. Unless she was out somewhere right now, but I doubted it. By now, she had probably moved on from mimosas to manhattans, and was sitting in the parlor—or lying in bed—drinking herself into oblivion.
The subdivision was another five minutes down the road. We passed Copper Creek, where Dix lives, and then turned into the next fancy community. I made my slow way through the winding roads before pulling into Denise Seaver’s driveway.
“I don’t suppose you have a garage opener?”
The look she gave me spoke volumes. She’d been in prison for nine months. Why would she be carrying a garage opener?
“I didn’t think so,” I said. “You probably don’t have a key, either. The back door is busted, though. If you want to go in and open the garage door, I can pull the car in.”
“And have you drive away with the brat the second my back is turned? No, thank you. You go around and open the garage door. I’ll drive the car in.”
Fine. While I’d normally be loath to leave my car in her care, I didn’t think she’d drive away with it and the baby and leave me here. If that was what she’d wanted, she’d have done it in Nashville. No, as long as she didn’t have the money, we were sticking together.
So I left the car running and the door open. When I attempted to take my bag, Denise Seaver growled, “Leave it!”
I left it, and headed around the garage and over to the back door.
Last year, I had followed Marley Cartwright across her lawn and through the band of trees between her property and Denise Seaver’s. Marley had knocked out the window in the back door, and when I came on the scene she was out cold on the kitchen floor, courtesy of a frying pan to the head. And just a few days ago, Darcy, Dix and I had been here, digging through the house for medical records. Being here again brought back memories.
I stuck my hand through the broken window and unlocked the door. Then I walked inside and through the laundry room over to the kitchen, and from there to the door leading into the garage. The remote for opening the car door was on the wall. I pushed it and listened to the door rumble up, letting in a widening band of sunshine for the first time in almost a year. The Volvo pulled into the garage. Once it was clear of the door, I pushed the button again, and the door closed, shutting out the light.
Denise Seaver opened the driver’s side door. “Has she been here?”
“I haven’t looked,” I said. “But I didn’t see anything on the way in.” And Darcy probably wouldn’t have walked all the way through the house to leave the money next to the front door. She’d be more likely to drop it somewhere near the back. “We’re a little early.”
Dammit. I had hoped that Darcy would have come and gone before we got here. At least she’d be out of harm’s way. Not that Denise Seaver had any reason to hurt her, not if Darcy brought the money, but it would have made me feel safer to be the only one in the crosshairs.
“So we wait.” She gestured me back up the stairs to the kitchen.
“We should take the baby out of the car,” I said.
“We should leave him there,” Denise Seaver answered. “When your sister shows up, she won’t expect to see a baby.”
True. However— “I thought you wanted the suitcase so you could put the money in it.”
“This is my house,” Denise Seaver said. “If I had realized we were coming here, I wouldn’t have bothered with your suitcase. I have suitcases of my own.”
Right. I left the baby where it was, asleep on the back seat of the car, tucked into the suitcase, and headed up the stairs to the kitchen.
No sooner had we both navigated the short staircase, than we heard the crunching of footsteps on the patio outside the back door. Darcy must have arrived and parked her car out front while we’d been inside the garage.
The footsteps faltered a little as she saw the open back door. “Savannah?”
Denise Seaver’s brows drew together.
“That’s my sister,” I said, before she could raise the gun and shoot. “I have two sisters now, remember? This is Darcy.”
I didn’t wait for her to respond, just called out. “Just put the money down and go, Darcy.”
“No, no,” Denise Seaver said, and moving more quickly than I thought she could, she shoved me out of the way.
I stumbled and had to catch myself on the kitchen counter. For a second, my stomach—and the baby inside—smacked against the hard edge of the granite. Meanwhile, Denise Seaver leapt like a gazelle for the back door. “Come on in, Darcy. Bring the money.” She sounded quite genial, and if it hadn’t been for the gun in her hand, I might even have believed she was.
Of course, she had every reason to be. Fifty thousand dollars were walking through the door.
Darcy had the money in a brown paper bag, and as it turned out, I had seriously overestimated how much space it would take up. A suitcase wouldn’t be necessary. A medium sized medical bag would do the job.
Denise Seaver snatched it out of her hand. Darcy wasn’t quick enough to let go, and one of the paper handles ripped. Denise Seaver clucked and gestured with the gun. “Go on. Over there. Next to your sister.”
Darcy took a couple of steps toward me.
“Sorry,” I said, still out of breath from bumping into the counter.
Darcy’s brows furrowed. “You OK?”
“Not sure. I just hit my stomach on the counter.”
“Unless you start bleeding,” Denise Seaver said unfeelingly, “you’re fine.”
“You know,” I told her, still cradling my stomach with both hands, “your bedside manner could use some improvement.”
It didn’t feel like I was starting to bleed, though, so hopefully nothing had happened. I was keeping my fingers cr
ossed that the baby was cushioned well enough inside, that a concussion was unlikely.
Denise Seaver gestured with the gun. “Go on.”
“Where?”
“Back in the garage,” Denise Seaver said.
It didn’t occur to me to say no. I figured she was going to give me the baby now that she had her money. So I traipsed over to the door with Darcy behind me, and opened it. And walked down the couple of steps to the concrete floor.
“Thank you,” Denise Seaver said. The next thing I knew, I heard a sort of meaty thunk. I swung on my heel just in time to grab Darcy before she crumpled to the floor.
I staggered. “What did you do to her?”
Stupid question, I guess. The gun hadn’t gone off—I would have heard that—so she must have hit Darcy on the back of the head with the butt of it.
“The same thing I’ll do to you if you don’t do as I say,” Denise Seaver said.
This wasn’t going the way I wanted it to at all. “I am doing what you say, dammit! And so was she. There was no need to hit her.”
Denise Seaver didn’t answer, and I added, “What is it you want me to do?”
“Drag her to the car and put her in,” Denise Seaver said.
“You know, I’m not sure dragging a full grown woman is the best idea for me, in my condition.”
She just looked at me, and I huffed. “Fine.” I got my hands under Darcy’s arms and hauled. She’s tall, my sister—taller than me, and I’m five-eight; she has Audrey’s height—but she also has Audrey’s build. Tall and lithe. It could have been worse. Even so, it must have taken me a good two minutes to get her over to the passenger side door. I dropped her for long enough to get the door open and my purse out of the car, and then I wrestled her up into the seat. I had to move it back to make it easier.
“You didn’t have to do this, you know.” I told Denise Seaver breathlessly. “She wasn’t a threat to you. I’m not, either. We just want the baby. You can take the money and leave.”
“Oh,” Denise Seaver said pleasantly—while her eyes weren’t pleasant at all, “I intend to. After I take care of you.”
Scared Money (Savannah Martin Mysteries Book 13) Page 23