“But this doesn’t say that, does it?” I asked Rafe after I had detailed what I remembered. “This says that Brenda has to pay Clarice 40 percent of everything she makes. Everything Brenda makes. Right?”
Rafe nodded.
“But that’s . . . that’s criminal! No wonder Brenda complained!”
“Explains a lot, don’t it?”
“It sure does! Brenda sells a couple of million dollars worth of real estate every month, and sometimes a lot more. Three percent of two million is . . . um . . .”
“Sixty grand,” Rafe said. “Sounds like I’m in the wrong business.”
“We’re not all that successful. Walker gets 15 percent off the top. That’s . . . um . . .”
“Nine grand.”
“Which leaves . . . um . . . fifty-one grand?”
He nodded.
“Brenda keeps 60 percent, and Clarice gets 40 percent. That’s . . . um . . .”
“That’s $20,400 for Clarice, $30,600 for Brenda.”
“Thank you. Over a year, that would be . . .”
It didn’t take him more than five seconds. “Just less than 245 grand for Clarice, and just over 367 for Brenda.”
“You’re good at this. Are you in banking? A CPA? How about a bookmaker?”
“Shame on you,” Rafe said lightly, “don’t you know that gambling is illegal in Tennessee?”
“Like that would stop you? Two hundred and fortyfive grand. That’s not bad for typing and filing and keeping track of Brenda’s appointments.”
Rafe agreed. “For that kind of money, I’d go to work for her myself.”
“I wouldn’t. There’s not enough money in the world to pay me to work for Brenda Puckett. Plus, she didn’t like me.” I hesitated for a second before I added, “She wouldn’t have liked you either.”
“Most women like me just fine.” He grinned.
“Brenda wasn’t most women,” I said. “All she cared about was money, and you don’t have any. All the sex appeal in the world wouldn’t make up for that. Plus, she liked people she could bully, and you’re just not pliable enough.”
“Depends on who’s doing the plying, darlin’.” I rolled my eyes. “Give it a rest, would you? It’s getting almost as old as my family throwing every eligible bachelor they can find at me.”
He smiled, but didn’t answer. Instead he looked around. “We done here?”
I did the same. “I guess we are. Unless you think there’s something else we might find if we keep looking?”
“I think we’ve found enough, don’t you?”
I nodded. I guess we had.
So we locked up again, and hoofed it back to the office, where Rafe went back inside and put the master key wherever he found it and just generally made sure no one could tell he’d been there. If they came through with a fingerprinting kit, they’d find his prints, of course, but as long as everything looked normal, there was no reason why anyone would suspect we’d ever been here.
“All right,” I said when we were driving down Dickerson Pike again. “Let’s see if we can figure this out.”
Rafe nodded encouragingly.
“Fifteen years ago, Clarice’s husband got involved in a business deal with Brenda. When it fell apart, he killed himself.”
Rafe nodded.
“Clarice filed a suit with the Real Estate Commission. But nothing ever came of it, because Brenda paid Clarice to withdraw the charges.”
Rafe nodded.
“So Clarissa Webster became Clarice Webb, and went to work for Brenda. As the years went by, Brenda— thanks in no small part to Clarice—became more and more successful, and Clarice became richer and richer. She had every reason in the world to help Brenda make money, because the more money Brenda made, the more Clarice made.”
Rafe nodded.
“And she had absolutely no reason to want Brenda dead. Brenda was much more valuable to her alive. So Clarice didn’t kill her.”
“Unless there’s something you don’t know,” Rafe said. “Like, Brenda got tired of sharing and fired her, or something.”
I nodded, grudgingly. “True. What did you think of Maurice Washington, by the way?”
“Nasty tick,” Rafe said, but without excitement. “I don’t think he killed Miz Puckett, if that’s what you’re asking. Not man enough. That prob’ly happened as soon as she got to the house. Whoever did it would wanna get it over with, just in case Maurice was early. It don’t take long to cut someone’s throat.”
I swallowed. “Not to be rude or anything, but how do you know that?”
“Not ’cause I ever had occasion to do it to anyone. Old Jim used’ta take me out hunting. Ain’t much difference when it comes to it.”
“Ugh!” I said. He shrugged. “All right. So the murderer cut Brenda’s throat and then got in the Lincoln Navigator and drove it down to the Milton House, where he or she exchanged Brenda’s car for his or her own car. Then he or she drove home, and waited. Meanwhile, Maurice showed up and found Brenda dead. He rifled her handbag, just to be sure she hadn’t written his name anywhere, and made off with the check she was presumably planning to use to make him stay away from Alexandra. You realize that he had every reason in the world to do away with her? She wouldn’t have stood for Alexandra continuing to see him. The poor girl would have been on her way to finishing school in Charleston before you could have said ‘boo.’” Rafe looked at me askance, but didn’t ask. “He don’t have the guts,” he said instead, dismissively.
“I’ll take your word for it. By the way, do you think whoever killed Brenda missed the check, or did they leave it on purpose, to implicate Maurice?”
“Depends on whether they knew about Maurice or not. If they didn’t, maybe they were hoping to pin it on me.” He didn’t sound too bothered by the possibility.
“Clarice knew,” I said. “She was the one who saw Maurice and Alexandra together, and told Brenda. Although she might not have known that Brenda had set up an appointment with him that morning.”
Rafe shrugged.
“Anyway, Maurice doesn’t call the cops, but he hangs around to make sure someone else does. You know, I agree with you. He lacks spine. Anyway, then you show up. But you don’t go in, and when you get tired of waiting, you call me, and between us, we find Brenda. And Maurice goes home to hide the check in his underwear drawer.”
Rafe nodded.
“The next thing that happened was that Clarice died. No, wait. That’s not true. The next thing that happened was that the Nashville Voice ran a derogatory article about Brenda, and dredged up the whole Kress-building fiasco. It could be unrelated, but then again, maybe not. Maybe someone tipped them off. Maybe the murderer did it.”
“Why?”
“Who knows? Out of plain maliciousness, or to throw suspicion on Clarice. Or to give her another reason for supposedly committing suicide, if the murderer had already decided to do away with her.”
Rafe nodded. I added, “But Clarice wouldn’t have done it, would she? She wouldn’t want to implicate herself, or dredge up the old business.”
“Don’t seem that way.” Rafe turned the car onto East Main Street. I was almost home. I began to talk faster. I wanted it all said by the time we got to my apartment, because there was no way I was inviting him in to continue the exposition. This time, come hell or high water, I would say goodnight in the car, outside the gate.
“So someone else did it. And then that same someone made an appointment with Clarice on Thursday night, and killed her too. With the same knife he or she used on Brenda. To make it look like Clarice had killed Brenda and then herself.”
“Works for me.” Was it my imagination, or was he driving more slowly? The roof of my apartment building was visible just over the next crest, so he might also want me to finish what I had to say before we got there. Maybe he thought the evening had been long enough. Maybe he couldn’t wait to get rid of me . . .
“The only thing left to do is figure out who it was. Someone with a reason
for wanting Brenda dead. That’s practically all of Nashville. Her husband, his mistress, her daughter, her daughter’s boyfriend, every real estate agent who’s ever worked with her, and at least half her clients, current and former, including you and your grandmother. Not to mention the wacko who peppered her billboard with buckshot last month. Who’d want to kill Clarice, though? And why?”
“As a guess,” Rafe said, slowing down a little more; I was sure by now I wasn’t imagining it, “she prob’ly knew who Brenda took with her on Saturday morning, and decided to try another spot of blackmail. It worked out real good last time, after all.”
I nodded. That made sense. “Someone they both knew, then. Tim, maybe. He has plenty of income, and I don’t see him letting himself be blackmailed. The receptionist at the Stor-All did say she saw him on Monday morning, when he had no business being there. He said she’d made a mistake, but that’s what he’d say anyway, isn’t it? On the other hand, I can’t really see him cut someone’s throat. Too squeamish, don’t you think? Maybelle Driscoll would take it in stride, but I’m not too sure about Steven. Surely he’d find it hard to coldbloodedly cut the throat of the woman he had lived with and slept with for twenty years, and who had given him two children? Austin is too young, and I just can’t believe it of Alexandra. But then there’s . . . um . . . your grandmother.”
He sent me a black look. “Keep my grandmother out of this.”
“I wish I could,” I said sincerely, “but she had every reason in the world for wanting to kill Brenda, either because she thought Brenda had broken into her house or because she understood that Brenda had cheated her out of it. And it’s not like she would go to jail even if she did do it. She’s clearly non compos mentis.”
I trailed off as I watched Rafe’s hands tighten on the steering wheel until the knuckles showed white. It looked like he was imagining squeezing something soft, like my throat.
“You’re right,” I said, “let’s keep your grandmother out of it.”
“Thank you.”
“No problem. By the way, while I’m still thinking about it, Walker asked me if I thought you’d be interested in getting the house back, without having to pay the hundred grand, if he could arrange it. The only stipulation is that you keep it quiet.”
He sent me a suspicious glance. “Why?”
“He’s hoping to be elected for a spot on the Real Estate Commission next spring. He’s been working toward it for a long time, and all of these tragedies haven’t improved his chances, poor man. I promised I’d ask you.”
“Sure.” He shrugged. “I ain’t proud.”
“I’ll let him know.” I leaned back in my seat and watched my apartment building come closer. This time I wasn’t going to be caught off-guard.
When he slid up to the curb, I had the door open before we’d even come to a complete stop. “Thanks again. For everything.”
“You sure you don’t want me to walk you up?”
I shook my head, a little too emphatically. His eyes crinkled. “You afraid of a repeat of last time, darlin’?”
I shrugged. No sense in denying the obvious.
He smiled. “I ain’t gonna hurt you, you know.”
“I know. It’s just . . . my mother would kill me.”
He cocked his head. “You planning on telling her?”
I shook my head. “Oh, no.” I would never breathe a word of this evening to my mother. Not for all the money in Clarice’s IRA account. But I wasn’t about to compound the offenses I had already committed by allowing myself to be kissed by him, either. There are limits.
I had been prepared for a prolonged argument, but to my surprise and—dare I say it?—merest hint of disappointment, he didn’t quibble. “Guess that’s it, then. Good night, darlin’. And thanks for a good time.”
He extended a hand through the car window. It seemed churlish and ungrateful not to take it, considering everything I’d put him through, so I placed my hand in his and prepared to shake. I daresay I should have known better. He lifted it to his mouth and brushed his lips over my knuckles before turning my hand over and kissing my palm. Scrubbing it against my thigh to get rid of the feeling of his lips on my skin would only make me look like I cared, so the kiss stayed there the whole way across the courtyard and up the stairs to my door, like the niggling of a mosquito bite.
19.
So that was that, I reflected the next morning. I had made it through the previous night without being arrested for burglary and, more importantly, without being kissed by Rafe. And considering the terms on which we had parted, it seemed as if he had realized—finally!—that any hopes he harbored in my direction, if he harbored any, and he didn’t just attempt to talk me into bed on principle, were bound to be unfulfilled. What a relief. That he realized it, I mean. Of course, the rest of it was a relief, too; I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. But in this case, I mostly meant that it was a relief that he realized it and so, presumably, would stop bugging me. Not that I actually minded the bugging all that much, so long as he was just joking. It was the idea that he might not be that was scary. And that was why it was a relief that he seemed to have accepted that I wouldn’t ever have anything of a sexual or romantic nature to do with him. It removed quite a load from my mind.
That settled, I moved on to more important things. After a leisurely breakfast of black coffee and the cheesecake from yesterday—yes, I’ll eat dessert as long as nobody masculine is around to see me do it—I spent a couple of hours freshening my manicure and pedicure, and doing my hair and makeup. Once noon rolled around and it was acceptable to call people—it was a Sunday, after all, and we Southerners take our religion seriously—I got on the horn.
My first call was to Dix, who was having brunch at The Wayside Inn and Restaurant in Sweetwater, as he explained when I asked about the noise I could hear in the background.
“Who’s with you?” I inquired, since his voice had that unnaturally cheerful quality that voices tend to have when someone is listening. I could hear his children—threeyear-old Hannah and five-year-old Abby—squabbling just far enough away that I couldn’t make out what the argument was about.
“Sheila and the kids, of course. And Todd Satterfield and his dad, and um . . . Mom.”
In that case, I had probably better not tell him—and by extension the rest of them—who I’d had dinner with last night. Or, as had been my intention, ask advice about Rafe’s dilemma with regards to Mrs. Jenkins.
“Say hello to them all for me, would you?” I said instead, brightly. “I had something of a professional nature I wanted to ask you, but it sounds like you’re busy just now. Why don’t you give me a call later, when you have a few minutes to talk?”
“Sure. Bye, sis.” He hung up without waiting for my answer. I leaned back, gnawing the newly applied lipstick from my lower lip. Had he been so abrupt because he— bless him—didn’t want the rest of the family (and Todd and Sheriff Satterfield) to insist on interrogating me, or was there something going on that he didn’t want me to know about? Were they, perhaps, having a council of war, discussing my supposed involvement with Rafe, and what they could do about it?
But no, I told myself, that was surely paranoia rearing its ugly head. They were probably just having brunch together, like family and friends were wont to do after church on a Sunday, and it had nothing whatsoever to do with me.
My next call was to Walker, whom I caught at home. “Yes, Savannah,” he said promptly when I introduced myself, “what can I do for you this morning?” I explained that I had spoken to Rafe the night before, “about what we discussed in the ladies’ room last night.
Remember?”
“Of course,” Walker said smoothly. “How did Mr.
Collier feel about the idea?”
“He seemed to feel just fine about it. I’m sure he’d
appreciate anything you could do.”
“And you made sure he understands that this depends
on us being able to keep the transact
ion quiet?” I assured him I had done everything I could to impart that understanding. “I don’t think he’ll say anything to anyone. Although I suppose you could always get it in
writing.”
“I’d prefer to keep that part of the agreement verbal,”
Walker said blandly. “However, does he strike you as
someone who’d come back later with demands?” “For money, you mean? Like Cla—I mean, like he’d
try to blackmail you?”
Walker might not—probably didn’t—know that
Clarice had been blackmailing Brenda all these years, and
it wasn’t my place to tell him. That agreement had been
between Clarice and Brenda, and hadn’t affected Walker
in any way, and what he didn’t know really couldn’t hurt
him, so I didn’t even feel a twinge of guilty conscience
over keeping mum. When he didn’t say anything, either, I
added, “No, I don’t think so. He might steal your money,
but he’ll steal it honestly. He’s not someone who’ll sneak
around behind your back.”
“In that case,” Walker said, “I’ll see if I can’t take care
of this right away. Thank you for letting me know so
promptly, Savannah.”
“My pleasure,” I said. “Is there anything I can do to
help out?”
It sounded like he hesitated for a moment. “Actually,
there is. I had scheduled an open house over at Potsdam
Street today, from two to four. It is still our listing, and
until we hear otherwise, it is our responsibility to do our
best for our client.”
“Of course,” I said.
“But now, with this problem to work out, it would
be more convenient if I didn’t have to be there. I don’t
suppose you’re available to do it instead?”
“I’d love to,” I said (although, between you and me, I
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