“I see,” Perry said, and had the nerve to sound disappointed. I guess he liked the idea that I’d been having sex in his bed, even if it was with someone else. Hypothetically with someone else. “In that case, please accept my apologies. I guess I jumped to conclusions.”
“That’s OK,” I said graciously.
“I was really calling to ask a favor. When you called me yesterday – thank you so much – you said for me to call if there was anything you could do...?”
“Yes?” I crossed my fingers, and for good measure my legs too, hoping he wouldn’t ask for anything icky.
“...and I was hoping that maybe you’d be willing to host another open house here tomorrow. Now that my dear wife is gone...” His smooth voice wobbled, “...it’s more important than ever to sell the house quickly. The memories...”
He trailed off.
“Of course,” I said. Poor man! “I’d be happy to.”
“Thank you,” Perry choked out.
“It’s no problem. Although I’d only just met her, I liked your wife. It’s nice to know I’m able to do something to make things easier for her widower during this trying time.”
Hopefully that little zinger would keep him in line and off my back while I was at his house tomorrow. “I’ll be there a little before two, like last time.”
“Thank you,” Perry said again. I assured him, again, that it was no problem, and hung up.
* * *
I still had plenty of time to kill before I had to go meet Charlene and Gary Lee at their latest house of choice, so I stopped off at home for some lunch – a dry crust of bread with some Brie and a pear, which was all the refrigerator yielded – and then I headed back out. Call me a Nervous Nellie, but with two women already dead, one of them in the very house I’d be going to tomorrow, I decided I’d feel better with some protection. So I dug the piece of paper with the address Detective Grimaldi had given me earlier in the week out of my bag, and set out for the store that sold the Mace and other police issued self-protective gear.
I guess I expected it to be dark and dingy and scary – maybe an industrial-looking building in a not-so-nice area of downtown – but as it turned out, the store was located in a sunny, renovated bungalow in the heart of the antique district on 8th Avenue South. Its big windows and high ceilings had nothing dark or dingy about them; in fact, the only scary thing about the place was the proprietor.
She looked to be in her late forties, and if she couldn’t bench-press my weight without breaking a sweat, I’d be very surprised. Her upper arms bulged with muscle, nicely off-set by the sleeveless shirt she wore with her skin-tight jeans, and her hair was shaved on the sides and left in a mohawk on top. It was colored a virulent red, like a particularly brilliant sunset, and made her look like a rooster. “Hello, princess,” she said, looking me up and down from her vantage point behind the counter.
“Hi,” I answered, picking my delicate way through the displays of tasers, surveillance equipment, and spray-bottles full of various lethal and non-lethal substances. “My name is Savannah Martin.” I gave her one of my business cards.
She glanced at it. “Realtor, huh? Guess you want some personal protection, dontcha, Miss Priss?”
“I do,” I said, deciding not to take the name-calling personally. “Detective Tamara Grimaldi told me to come here.”
“Oh, you know Tamara, do you? Well, tell me what you want, missy, and I’ll see what I can do.”
“I don’t know what I want,” I said.
“Well, how big a hole d’ya wanna put in the bad guy, missy? D’ya want him to get back up again, or stay down?”
“I’d prefer for him to stay down,” I said, “but I don’t want to kill anyone, if it’s all the same to you. I’d prefer something debilitating, but not fatal.”
“Faint heart never won fair lady, princess. Much safer to get him down and keep him there. But you’re the customer. I guess what you’re looking for would be a nice, safe defensive spray, then?”
“Something like that,” I agreed, relieved. “I mean, I’m sure a gun would be more useful in certain situations, but I just don’t know that I’d be able to use it, you know. And if I can’t, I figure I’m better off not having one. I’d rather have something I feel comfortable with.”
She sneered, but didn’t argue. “I have just the thing. Look at this.” She pulled out a tray from under the counter. It was full of what looked like lipsticks, their holsters shiny and glossy in three different colors, plus black and silver. They looked exactly like what I sold from behind the make-up counter at Dillard’s back in my retail days, six months ago. Not to mention that they looked exactly like what I’d taken Walker down with two weeks ago. I wrinkled my brows.
“I don’t get it.”
“They’re pepper sprays. Here.” She grabbed one and pulled the cap off, just like a real lipstick. A tiny nozzle appeared. “Weighs just a half ounce, but contains 6-10 one second bursts, and can spray up to eight feet. Available in five classy colors. Just the thing for a pretty girl to carry in her purse. Indistinguishable from all the other lipsticks.” She grinned.
“I guess I’ll take one of those. I just point and shoot, right?”
“That’s right. Now, how about a little something else to go with it?”
She selected another tube and twisted it apart. I took an involuntary step back as the harmless-looking cosmetic transformed itself into a miniscule knife, its blade glittering wickedly. She smiled fondly at it as she explained. “By twisting the applicator, you get a 1.25” serrated blade, and no one will know it isn’t just another lipstick. The blade ain’t long enough to reach the heart, lungs, or kidneys, so it won’t kill anyone, unless you use it to cut a wrist or a throat.”
“Great,” I said, trying to keep myself from remembering what Brenda Puckett’s throat had looked like after Walker cut it. “I’ll take one of those, too. Matching colors, please.”
“Of course.” She selected two that matched – silver – and put them in a brown paper baggie. I handed her my credit card, with a silent prayer that the machine wouldn’t emit strident jeers of derision when she tried to run the charge through.
Once the deal was done, I said my goodbyes, took my bag and headed for the door. Just as I got there, another customer walked up the steps outside, and held the door for me. I passed him with a murmur of thanks and a bright, impersonal smile, the way one does a stranger under the circumstances, and then I did a double take when I realized that I actually knew him. Or didn’t know him exactly, but at least I’d met him before.
He recognized me, too. “Afternoon, Miz Martin.”
“Good afternoon. Are you… um… looking for me?”
“Why’d I be lookin’ for you?” Wendell wanted to know.
I shrugged, blushing. “I thought maybe you had a message for me, or something. Or maybe Rafe asked you to keep an eye on me while he’s gone.”
“He ain’t gone,” Wendell said.
“What do you mean, he isn’t gone?” I had assumed, once he realized that Julio Melendez would probably give the police his name, he’d be leaving Nashville as quickly as he could.
“The job ain’t done,” Wendell said.
I hesitated. “When you say ‘the job’, I suppose you’re talking about the robberies? The open house robberies?”
Wendell didn’t answer, and his eyes were as flat and uncommunicative as brown pebbles.
I decided not to think too hard about what ‘the job’ might be, or which part of it wasn’t finished. Instead, I returned to what was really, ultimately, the most important thing. In this exchange, anyway. “So Rafe hasn’t left town?”
“Not as of last night,” Wendell answered.
“He’s not in jail, is he? Or in hiding?”
An almost-smile tugged at the corners of Wendell’s mouth. “No, he ain’t hiding. Just goin’ about his business, as usual.”
“I see,” I said. And because I saw that I was asking too many questions about a ma
n I professed to have little interest in, I added, with an attempt at off-handedness which didn’t quite come off, “Well, if you see him, tell him I said hello.”
“Sure thing, Miz Martin.” Wendell inclined his head politely. I did the same. He brushed past me into the store, and I continued down the steps and across the parking lot to the Volvo.
* * *
Gary Lee and Charlene were ready and waiting by the time I got to the latest in the long line of houses they wanted to see. It looked like it might be a nice one, too; not too big, not too small, new, but with enough character to blend in with the older homes surrounding it. I opened the door for them, and we all went inside, into the living room/dining room/kitchen combo, where we stopped and looked around at the fireplace, gleaming wood floors, and granite-topped breakfast bar. “Nice place,” Gary Lee commented. Charlene nodded.
“The bedrooms are upstairs,” I said, consulting the MLS-sheet I had brought with me. “There are three of them, although one is pretty small and might be a better music room or study.”
Charlene and Gary Lee exchanged a glance. “Um, Savannah…” Charlene said. “Are you going to follow us around everywhere?”
“Do I have to follow you around everywhere?” I asked, looking from one to the other of them. They both shook their heads. “In that case, I guess not. Have a look around on your own. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, and if you do, make sure you clean up after yourselves. Perry Fortunato noticed the bed had been used last weekend.”
“OK.” They glanced at each other and started looking around. I watched them walk up the stairs to the second floor before I headed back out to the porch. Out of sight, out of mind, kind of. If they were going to do anything icky, I’d just as soon not know about it. If it hadn’t been for Connie’s murder and the MNPD’s no doubt fine-tooth-combing of the Fortunatos’ bedroom, no one would ever have known what Charlene and Gary Lee had been up to, and I was just fine with that.
They stayed gone for long enough to have managed a quickie, and when they came back out, Charlene’s cheeks were flushed and her hair was messy. So was Gary Lee’s, although it always was, so that wasn’t indicative of anything except a disinclination to comb it.
“We really like it, Savannah!” Charlene burbled.
“Great,” I said, and because I still felt put-upon by the whole thing, I turned to Gary Lee. “And was it good for you, too?”
Gary Lee had the grace to look embarrassed, but he nodded. “We think we might like to live in this house.”
“Really?” If I sounded surprised, it was because I was. I had expected some run-around about waiting and thinking about it, and to be put off and put off until I forgot I’d ever known Gary Lee and Charlene, but maybe there was hope after all. “Are you sure?”
They looked at each other. “Um… pretty much…”
“Great!” I said. “I brought a purchase and sale agreement with me. All we have to do is fill it out. Then you give me an earnest money check, and I’ll call the other Realtor.”
“Oh. Um…” They exchanged another glance.
“Yes?”
“We didn’t bring the checkbook.”
“Oh,” I said. And rallied. “OK. We can go to your place and write the contract there. That way you can get the checkbook.”
“Oh. Um…”
“Yes?”
“How much does an earnest money check have to be for?”
“Enough to show you’re serious about making the offer. That’s why they call it earnest money.”
“Oh. Um…”
“Yes?”
“We think we need to talk about this before we do anything.”
“OK,” I said, giving up. I should have known it was too good to be true. “Give me a call, then, when you’ve finished talking. Hopefully the house will still be on the market.”
“Right.” They didn’t look at each other, or at me, when they said their goodbyes and headed for the car. I locked up and got into my own car, grumbling.
Chapter Nineteen
Todd rang the doorbell promptly at six, and handed me a big bunch of roses. They were interspersed with tiny sprigs of baby’s breath, like a wedding bouquet. Had they been red, I would have been worried. As it was, they were yellow, so I decided I had no cause for concern. At least not tonight.
I had gotten dressed up for the occasion in one of my nicest cocktail-dresses, bright blue with little beads along the décolletage, and Todd was very complimentary. “You look absolutely stunning, Savannah,” he said sincerely, looking deeply into my eyes across the table in Fidelio’s Restaurant. I preened.
Both the maitre d’ and the waiter had greeted me familiarly when we arrived. I’d been there so many times over the past couple of weeks, I guess I was becoming something of a regular. Maybe they were as heartily sick of seeing me as I was of being here.
We were seated at our usual table, in the darkly romantic section of the restaurant, screened by ferny plants and surrounded by tinkling fountains to drown out private conversation. Not that there was anything to drown out tonight; Todd had taken my warning to heart, and was careful not to mention Rafe by name or in any other way. Not even obliquely. It was wonderful not to have to watch my every word, nor to keep looking for hidden meanings in everything Todd said. It brought me back to my sophomore year in high school, when life had been simple and Todd and I had been an item. He and I, along with Dix and my best friend Charlotte, had gone everywhere together that year. Football games, swimming, ice skating, the prom…
“Have you seen Charlotte recently?” Todd wanted to know, as if he’d been reading my mind.
I shook my head. Charlotte had married a cosmetic surgeon after college, and had moved to – of all places – Charlotte, North Carolina. The last time I’d seen her was four years earlier, at my wedding to Bradley. “She calls me every so often, just to talk, but I haven’t heard from her for a couple of months. I guess she’s busy.”
I took a dainty bite of chicken and rosemary stuffed ravioli and chewed.
“That’s a shame,” Todd said, picking at his veal piccata. “You two were such good friends in high school.”
I shrugged. “It’s what happens when people move away. You lose contact. And we’re in different places in our lives. She’s still married with a husband and children. I’m not.”
“That could change, though,” Todd said. I swallowed too quickly, and had to take a sip of wine to stop coughing, totally ruining my intention of changing the subject before he could say anything else about it. But then he didn’t. Or not directly. “Did you hear about old Mr. Patton?”
I shook my head. I didn’t even know who old Mr. Patton was, let alone what had happened to him. The name was vaguely familiar, but that was all.
“He owned that big farmhouse down by the river, near where we used to go swimming in the summer,” Todd said. “You know the place. White house, a barn or two, flagpole…”
“Oh, yes.” I remembered Mr. Patton. “What about him?”
“He passed away recently.”
“Really?” Why did Todd think I might be interested in curmudgeonly old Mr. Patton’s passing?
Todd forked up a piece of veal. “Dix is handling the estate. He says they’ll probably end up selling the house once they’ve gotten through probate. The old man didn’t have any children, and his sister’s children and grandchildren don’t want to move back to Sweetwater.”
“I see,” I said.
“I’ve always thought it would make a great place to live and raise a family.”
It seemed to me he already had a great place to live – with his father in the house on the square – but I decided to let it lie. “Well, of course it would. Nice, old house, lots of land, beautiful view, and that private stretch of river…”
Todd grinned. “We had some fun, didn’t we, Savannah?”
I smiled back. “Yes, we did.”
“Do you remember that time I bet Dix he couldn’t hoist Charlotte’s pom-poms
to the top of Mr. Patton’s flagpole without the old man seeing him, and he did it?”
I nodded. Who could forget something like that?
The conversation lingered in the past all the way through dessert. It was nice and comfortable, like a familiar place after a long absence. And I’m not talking about the past so much as Todd’s and my relationship. Until he came back to Sweetwater and started giving me a hard time about Rafe, I’d always felt very comfortable with him. He’d been my brother’s best friend growing up, so I’d known him practically my whole life, and although our going steady in high school had been more about making my parents – and Dix - happy than because I was so much in love with Todd, we’d always been friendly. When he didn’t hassle me, he was good company, very charming and considerate, with the old-fashioned manners of a true Southern gentleman. We had a lot in common. If he hadn’t left Sweetwater to go to law school, and I hadn’t gone to Nashville and met Bradley while he was gone, I might have ended up becoming Mrs. Todd Satterfield.
In its way, it was a seductive, comfortable fantasy. It was what I had signed on for when I married Bradley. But then fate – and Shelby – had intervened, and the perfect life I had envisioned – the perfect life I had been led to believe I’d have if I did everything correctly – had fallen apart. Instead of being the safe, cherished, protected wife of a successful attorney, with a townhouse in Green Hills and no worries, I was single, celibate, and hustling to try to make a success of myself in one of the most competitive businesses in the country, before the savings account ran dry and I started defaulting on my rent and my bills.
[Cutthroat Business 01.0 - 03.0] Boxed Set Page 48