I opened my mouth to protest, but she continued, “However, I guess I do owe you a little something. What do you want to know?”
For a second or two, too many possible questions swirled around in my head, making me dizzy. Then I grabbed one, the one that seemed the most important to me at the moment. “Did you just arrest Heather Price?”
“How do you know about that?”
“I was having lunch with her,” I said, as I unlocked my car door and put my handbag inside. “The waiter said a uniformed officer in a squad car came and escorted her away.”
Detective Grimaldi sounded resigned. “How do you manage to always be in the thick of things, Ms. Martin? It’s not even because you try, is it?”
I didn’t answer, and she added, her voice dry once more, “No, we haven’t arrested Ms. Price. She is assisting the police in their inquiries.”
“But that means you suspect her, doesn’t it? In mystery novels, that’s what it means.”
I got into the car and fumbled the key into the ignition.
“We’re trying to ascertain whether or not she was aware of her boyfriend’s actions with regards to the robberies,” Tamara Grimaldi said. “Clearly, it was her knowledge of the houses and their contents that spurred the idea for the robberies, but we’re not sure whether she participated in their planning, or if Mr. Melendez used her for his own purposes.”
“Oh, God, I hope not!” I said.
Detective Grimaldi’s silence was eloquent, and I added, reluctantly, “She’s obviously worried about him. She cares what happens to him. She’ll be devastated if she finds out that he was using her all along.”
“You hope she helped him plan the robberies instead?”
“Well...” I said. No, I guess I didn’t really hope that, either. “I’m not sure what I hope. Whatever she did, though, I don’t think she had anything to do with the murders. Did Julio say anything about them?”
I looked both ways before I eased the Volvo out into traffic on Murphy Road.
“He admitted to receiving stolen goods, and that he accepted the items from the robberies, but he denied killing anyone. He and Heather were together Wednesday after the funeral, until she went to Brentwood and found Connie Fortunato, so in other circumstances he’d have an alibi. But of course, with her possible involvement, I can’t accept it on its own, without some corroboration. They stayed at home, so nobody else can vouch for either of them.”
“What about the night Lila died? Does he have an alibi for that?”
“Yes and no.” It was another alibi the detective couldn’t take seriously. “He said he was playing pool with some men in a dive in South Nashville. A place called the Shortstop Sports Bar.”
“Did he give you their names?” I asked, my heart starting to beat faster.
Grimaldi sounded disgusted. “He said he didn’t know their names. However, when I threatened to charge him with murder unless he gave me something to work with, he managed to remember something. I’ve identified one of the men. His name is Ishmael Jackson, and he has a rap sheet as long as my arm. Among other things, he’s served time for breaking and entering before.”
“No kidding.” My mouth was dry. If she had Ishmael Jackson’s name, how long could it be before she had Rafe’s?
“Every black-and-white in Nashville is looking for him, and I’m sure it’s just a matter of time before I identify the others.”
“Congratulations,” I said.
“Thank you.” The detective’s voice was triumphant, so much so that she didn’t notice how my voice was anything but. “And now I guess I’d better go. Lots to do before Spicer and Truman show up with Ms. Price.”
“Let me know what happens, would you? If it’s acceptable for me to ask, that is. Being a member of the general public, and all.”
“When this is over, Ms. Martin,” Detective Grimaldi said, “we’ll go out to lunch again, and go over all the details, just like we did after Mr. Lamont confessed. In the meantime, I’ll let you know what I think you need to know, and you can do the same. Deal?”
“I suppose,” I said grudgingly, and hung up.
My second call was made when I got to the office, and it was to the beautiful Beau Riggins. But Beau must have been working – posing in the semi-nude with a feather duster in his hand in someone’s house somewhere – because I got his voice mail. “You’ve reached the voice mail of Beau Riggins, house boy extraordinaire. Sorry I missed your call,” he cooed, in a voice as rich as Elvis Presley’s. “Please leave me a message, and I’ll call you back just as soon as I can. Promise!” I could practically envision him winking as he said it.
“Hi, Beau,” I said, and was pleased to notice that my voice didn’t wobble at all. “This is Savannah Martin with Lamont, Briggs, and Associates. I had a question I wanted to ask you. When you have a minute to talk, would you mind giving me a call?” I left my number and hung up.
By the time Gary Lee and Charlene walked through the door, Beau still hadn’t called back. I left my teeny-tiny office and ushered the two of them into the conference room, where the three of us could fit more comfortably. “Have a seat.”
Gary Lee and Charlene exchanged a glance before they sat down beside each other on one side of the conference table. I seated myself on the other, folded my hands demurely on the glass table top, and smiled. “What can I do for you?”
They looked at each other again, and it was painfully obvious that neither of them wanted to speak. Eventually, Gary Lee cleared his throat. “We have something to tell you, Savannah.”
“Great,” I said.
More silence. Finally, Charlene took charge. “Listen, Savannah. When we first met you, at that open house over on Potsdam Street...”
“Yes?”
“We weren’t really there looking to buy the house.”
I nodded. No surprise there. Most people who come to open houses are gawkers; they’re not serious about buying, they just want to see how other people live. That had been especially true for the open house at 101 Potsdam Street, where the majority of the visitors had come to stare at the place on the floor where Brenda Puckett had had her throat cut. One woman had even sat down and attempted to contact Brenda’s disembodied spirit. Unsuccessfully, I’m happy to say. At least Rafe hadn’t mentioned anything about an overweight woman haunting the place (apart from Marquita), and it was reasonable to assume that he would have, had he encountered her.
“But then you offered to show us other houses, and we figured it would be fun to... um...”
“See which bedroom had, like, the best vibe,” Gary Lee finished.
“I see.”
Charlene shook her head. “I don’t think you do, Savannah. See, we rent this apartment in Germantown. It’s on the top floor of an old Victorian house, and the walls are thin, and the floors sag, and there are gaps under all the doors, and whenever we want to... um...”
She glanced over at Gary Lee for help. He shrugged.
“Make love?” I suggested.
She nodded gratefully. “Whenever we want to make love, the old woman who owns the house complains about the noise. We’d probably be arrested for indecent exposure if we went outside, and you can only do it in elevators and fitting rooms and the back seat of the car so many times before that becomes old hat.”
I’ve never made love in an elevator, a fitting room, or the back seat of a car – mine or anyone else’s – and I couldn’t imagine it becoming old hat, but I’d take her word for it. “So you thought telling me you were interested in buying a house and making me waste my time showing you houses you had no intention of buying was the way to go? So that you could make love in other people’s bedrooms? I’m sorry, but that’s just creepy. Not to mention probably illegal. It’s certainly enough to ruin my career. If word about this gets out, I’ll be known as the Realtor for the sex-crazed.”
Gary Lee and Charlene exchanged a look. “We’re sorry, Savannah,” Gary Lee said, but not without a betraying twitching of the lips. Ch
arlene wasn’t even trying to hide her smile.
I fumed in silence for another moment – it was a serious matter, darn it! – before I opened my mouth again. “Fine. You’ve told the truth. Now what?”
“Well...” They glanced at each other. “See, there’s this house we want to see...”
I shook my head. “Oh, no! We’re not going through that again.”
“But this time we’re serious, Savannah. We really think this might be the one. It’s the perfect price, and the perfect size, and it’s got mirrors on the ceiling above the bed, just like that house in Brentwood...”
“I’m not letting you into another house so you can have sex in the bedroom!” I yelled, and then subsided, with a guilty look at the closed door. Lord, what if somebody heard me?!
“Please, Savannah. Just one more. If we like this one, we’ll buy it. I promise.”
Charlene folded her hands and was giving me what my brother Dix refers to as his daughter Abby’s ‘frog-face’, with bulging eyes and an out-thrust lower lip. My niece Abigail is so firmly convinced of its efficacy that none of us have the heart to disillusion her by refusing to give her whatever it is she’s trying to obtain by the use of it.
“Well...” I said, weakening. (Yes, it was the possible commission that did it. Shallow and horribly immoral of me, no doubt, but I desperately needed the money.)
Charlene saw the opening and took it. “Oh, thank you, Savannah!” She jumped up and ran around the table and threw herself around my neck. I grimaced, but allowed the hug.
“You’re welcome. But that’s it. If I catch you doing something you shouldn’t be I’m never showing you another house. And I’ll tell every other Realtor in Nashville what you’re doing, so they’ll watch you every minute you’re inside someone else’s house.”
It was an empty threat – I hoped to God no one else ever heard about what had been going on – but it worked. Gary Lee and Charlene exchanged another look. “OK, Savannah,” Charlene said meekly. Gary Lee nodded.
We agreed to meet the next day at the usual time – I tried not to see any significance in that – and then I walked them out through the reception area and to the front door, just in case they had some idea of going at it like rabbits on the conference room table if I left them alone.
Chapter Eighteen
Beau didn’t call back until after 5 pm, and then he told me he couldn’t get together until the next day, if then. “I’ve got a date, sweetie,” he said, “with the most gorgeous little Latin spitfire..!”
I winced, picturing Beau and some swarthy guy named Jorge doing the town. “Spare me the details, if you don’t mind. We can just talk on the phone, if that works for you.”
“Sorry, darling,” Beau said, “but I’ve got a lot to do between now and 6:30. Cleaning can be so hard on the hands, and I wanna do a manicure and paraffin wrap, to be sure I’m ready for whatever might happen later. It’s no good touching all that soft skin with work-roughened hands, you know.”
“Fine,” I said. “I’m doing floor-duty at the office tomorrow from 8 until noon, and then I’ve got an appointment to show a house at 3:30, but I’m free in-between, if that’ll work for you.”
“Unfortunately, I have to do floor-duty too. So to speak. I’m doing Caleb Horwitz tomorrow.”
“Doing...?”
“His house, darling. I’m doing his house.”
“Right,” I said, flushing. “Sorry.”
He waved it away. “Happens all the time. How about Sunday? It’s the Lord’s Day, and I don’t figure He’d want me strutting my stuff, so I don’t work.”
“That’s fine. What time?”
“How about I call you in the morning?” Beau suggested. “I like to sleep in, seeing as it’s the only day of the week I don’t have to be up early.”
I agreed that that would be fine, and we hung up. No sooner had I put the phone down, than it rang again. “Savannah? Todd.”
“Oh,” I said.
Todd hesitated. “You don’t sound very excited to hear from me.”
I did my best to force some cheer into my voice. “Forgive me, Todd. Of course I’m excited to hear from you. It’s just... it’s been a long couple of days, and I’m tired and not really in the mood to argue.”
“Why would we have to argue?” Todd wanted to know, with what sounded like genuine surprise.
I suppressed a sigh. “I assume you’ll bring up the subject of Rafe Collier again, just like you always do, and if you do, then we’ll argue.”
“You make it sound as if we never talk about anything else,” Todd said stiffly. When I didn’t answer – because, frankly, I felt as if we never did talk about anything else, or not at any length – he added, “How about if I promise not to mention Collier’s name at all? Would you have dinner with me tonight?”
“I’m not sure...” I hedged. Partially it was because mother always told me not to appear too available, but more so, it was because I really, really didn’t want a repeat of Tuesday night’s dinner. Plus, I really was tired. Ever since Todd had dropped his bomb on me, I felt as if it had been just one thing after another.
But Todd was persistent. “How about tomorrow night?”
“Well...”
“Fidelio’s at 6:30? I’ll pick you up at 6?”
“I guess...”
“Wonderful,” Todd said. “I’ll see you then.”
He hung up before I could say anything else.
I spent the rest of the evening at home with a book, alternately hoping for and dreading the next phone call. It might be Rafe, calling to tell me he was in Arkansas or Florida, or Detective Grimaldi, telling me he was in jail. It could be a potential client, calling to ask me to show him or her a house, or it could be my mother, if Todd had gotten around to showing her those pictures of me. All in all, it was more a relief than a disappointment when the phone stayed silent for the rest of the night.
* * *
Ever since I got my real estate license, I had made a habit of doing floor duty in the office every Saturday morning. I’m not sure exactly why, because it wasn’t as if the phone rang a lot there either. Mostly I guess it just made me feel as if I was doing something. Leaving no stone unturned in my quest to become a successful Realtor. Nobody else was there, so it was nice and quiet, and on the occasions when the phone did ring, unless the caller specifically asked for someone else by name, the call went to the agent on duty, i.e. me. That was how I’d ended up with Rafe Collier for a client a few weeks back. He had arranged to meet Brenda Puckett one Saturday morning, to see the house on Potsdam Street, and when she didn’t show up – because she was dead – he’d called the office. Tim and Heidi and Clarice Webb, Walker’s second victim, had kicked up a fuss about it later, because they thought Rafe should have been referred to one of them, but Walker had backed me up. I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about it at this point. On the one hand, my life might have been a heck of a lot easier if someone else had gone to meet him, but on the other hand, I hadn’t done too badly. I had gotten him his grandmother’s house back, and had kept Mrs. Jenkins alive (despite overwhelming odds), and – in spite of what I was telling Todd and Dix and anyone else – I rather liked Rafe. Or maybe I just liked the way he made me feel. Being with him was relaxing, because he didn’t put any pressure on me to pretend to be anything but what I was. I could ask him anything I wanted, without having to worry that I’d shock him, and he wouldn’t judge me, or think less of me, or tell my mother.
Anyway, today I started out surfing the internet, because I was thinking about getting myself a real estate website, just in case I’d get some leads that way. I also familiarized myself with the houses that had come on the market in the past couple of days, while I’d been too busy worrying about Lila and Connie and Rafe to keep my mind on business. It’s important to keep up with what’s going on, even if I didn’t actually have any clients looking to buy anything right then.
No, I didn’t have great hopes for Gary Lee and Charlene. Mostly, I
assumed they were trying to throw me a bone, to make up for having dragged me around to house after house to cool my heels while they were having sex inside. If it hadn’t been for Connie’s murder, and Gary Lee’s DNA, and Detective Grimaldi’s no doubt stern lecture, I doubted they would have told me anything about it at all. Nonetheless, I looked up the information on the house they wanted to see later, and printed out an information sheet. It looked like a nice house, apart from the mirrored ceiling. I could see why it would appeal to the artistic Gary Lee; the construction was modern, the paint colors were funky – deep teal, dark mustard, rich burgundy – and it was in the heart of a neighborhood that was rapidly becoming one of the choice areas for musicians and artists. In a moment of abandon and outrageous optimism, I fished a Purchase and Sale Agreement out of the file-drawer and put it in my briefcase. It never hurts to be prepared.
Once that was done, I sat back in my chair and waited for the phone to ring. And while I waited, I did my best to finish my book. But for once, Barbara Botticelli’s beautiful, blonde heroine and dark and dangerous hero failed to hold my attention. Usually, I identified with the heroine and her token struggles against the hero’s smoldering sex-appeal, even if I knew she’d surrender in the end, but today, like last time, I pictured Elspeth swooning in Rafe’s arms, and the image just wasn’t sitting right with me.
The phone rang just before I was ready to head out. My cell phone, not the office phone. The display number was unfamiliar, but the overly familiar voice on the other end wasn’t. “Savannah? This is Perry.”
“Oh,” I said. “Hello, Mr. Fortunato.”
Perry chuckled. “Don’t let’s be so formal. After all, you’ve made out in my house, haven’t you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well,” said Perry in a reasonable voice, “you brought your boyfriend to the open house last weekend, and of course I couldn’t help but notice that the bed had been used…”
“I’m sorry,” I said icily; not sounding a bit like I meant it, but quite a lot like my mother, “but I have no idea what you’re talking about. He’s not my boyfriend, and even if he were, we’d certainly not be making love in your bed. Such a thing would be totally inappropriate, not to mention grossly unprofessional on my part. It would never cross my mind. And if someone else made use of your bed...” Gary Lee and Charlene, obviously, “then I apologize for it having happened on my watch, but I assure you, I had no part in it.”
[Cutthroat Business 01.0 - 03.0] Boxed Set Page 47