[Cutthroat Business 01.0 - 03.0] Boxed Set

by Jenna Bennett

  “I know,” I said humbly. “I was hoping to make it up to him today.”

  She shook her head. “Oh, I don’t think that’ll work, darling. He left for Chattanooga this morning. Business trip. A seminar. As far as I understand it, he won’t be back until sometime tomorrow.”

  “Really?” That was too bad. And a bit of a relief at the same time. I’d have a little more time to prepare myself.

  “I’m afraid so,” Mother said. “He’ll be sorry he missed you, I’m sure.”

  “Well, I was planning to spend the night. Assuming that’s OK with you. Maybe I can make it up to him tomorrow instead. If he’s home by then.”

  “Maybe so,” Mother agreed. “Bob and I were planning to have dinner together tonight, since he would be spending the evening alone anyway, but if you’d prefer that I stay here with you...” She trailed off.

  I shook my head. “That’s not necessary. I can fend for myself. Or maybe I’ll see if anyone else wants to have dinner with me. I still have a few friends in Sweetwater.”

  “Of course, darling,” Mother said.

  So that was that. I spent the rest of the afternoon helping Mother make chicken and dumplings, and then we got in the car and drove the casserole over to Cletus Johnson’s house, in a subdivision on the east side of town.

  In the old days, and even while I was growing up, Sweetwater was a very segregated sort of place. There were white churches and black churches, and white restaurants and black restaurants. Obviously there were white neighborhoods and black neighborhoods. The north side, along with the historic areas around the town square, was white; the south side, with its small tract houses and sad, overgrown lots, was black. Except for the Bog, the trailer park, which didn’t discriminate. As long as you were poor and common, you were welcome in the Bog.

  Over the past ten or fifteen years, that had changed, at least somewhat. The Bog was empty now, and was on its way to being leveled; someone had bought the land and was planning to put up a subdivision of ‘affordable’ housing. I made a mental note to figure out who was in charge of that, to see if maybe I could inveigle my way into selling a few of those affordable houses once they were built. Maybe I’d have the opportunity to ask a few questions at the same time.

  Cletus’s subdivision was also new within the past few years, and was on the east side of town. It was called Mulberry Downs, and the streets had names like Primrose and Azalea and Goldenrod. On our way to Hollyhock, where Cletus’s home was, we saw street after street of cookie-cutter houses, built of partial brick and vinyl siding, on postage-stamp sized lots. They all had big garages in the front, and the driveways held everything from BMWs and Audis to pickup trucks and minivans. Lots of minivans. Also many bicycles, trampolines, and skateboards. What realtors call a family friendly neighborhood. Mixed. It looked like Sweetwater was finally moving into the twenty first century.

  Mother looked uncomfortable, though, when she pulled the car to a stop outside 541 Hollyhock. While she opened the back door for the casserole, I gave the house a quick once-over.

  I’d certainly seen worse. The grass was cut, the windows were clean, and the driveway was free of toys. A black SUV was parked there, next to a white Saturn. There were curtains in all the windows and a black ribbon on the door.

  Mother looked around as if she expected ninjas to appear and drag her off. “Perhaps you should stay in the car, Savannah.”

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. She can’t help being the way she is, and it really isn’t her fault. Entirely. “That’s not necessary. This looks like a nice place.”

  Mom looked around again, the casserole dish clutched in her hands.

  “Cletus is a policeman,” I added. “I’m sure he wouldn’t live somewhere unsafe. Especially with his children.”

  “I’m sure that’s true.” She didn’t look convinced, though, and she kept looking over her shoulder as she picked her way up the driveway and along the flagstones to the front porch. “We won’t stay long, Savannah. We’ll just drop this off and go home.”

  “Really, I’m not uncomfortable at all. Believe me, I go to worse neighborhoods every day.”

  I didn’t say anything else, because now the door opened. I turned to it and smiled. “Hello.”

  The person in the opening wasn’t Cletus, although I might have been excused for thinking so, for a moment. She was in fact female, and about twenty five years older than me. Mid-fifties, at a guess, with short hair and no makeup. And she looked uncannily like her son, or at least like I remembered him from the last time I’d seen him, some years ago. Shorter by a few inches, but dark-skinned, dark-eyed, with a broad face and steady eyes. “Yes?”

  “I’m Savannah Martin,” I explained. “This is my mother, Margaret Anne. We wanted to drop off a casserole and give Cletus our condolences on the loss of his wife.”

  Mrs. Johnson blinked. After a second, she took the dish my mother mutely held out. Both of them seemed too overcome with emotion to speak when they made the transfer.

  “How is Cletus holding up?” I inquired. “And the children? This must be difficult for them.”

  “They ain’t seen Marquita much lately.” Mrs. Johnson finally got it together to look from Mother to me. “Ever since she went to Nashville to work, she ain’t been coming by but once every couple weeks.”

  “Still, she was their mother...”

  “A fine mother,” Mrs. Johnson opined, meaning the opposite. “Running off to Nashville to shack up with LaDonna Collier’s good-for-nothing troublemaker...!”

  I bit back the first retort that came to mind. And the second. “I believe she worked for him,” I said at last, mildly.

  Mrs. Johnson snorted. “Likely that’s just what she told you.”

  “No, actually, I—” ...happen to know for a fact that there was nothing going on between them. I swallowed that, too.

  We stood in silence for a few seconds, until Mrs. Johnson remembered her manners. She stepped back. “Would y’all like to come in?”

  “Oh, I don’t think...” Mother said, at the same time as I smiled brightly.

  “Just for a second. To give Cletus our personal condolences.” I scooted past her and into the house. Mother didn’t have any choice but to follow.

  Cletus’s house looked just like a million others. The walls were painted in neutral colors, the floors were fake hardwood and tan carpet, the decor was typical of houses with small children: big screen TV with game attachments, a pile of toys over in a corner, small jackets on hooks in the front hall, small shoes lined up underneath. Kindergarten art on the refrigerator.

  Cletus was standing in the kitchen, staring blankly at the array of casseroles ranged across the kitchen island. His mother put ours down next to the others and laid a hand on his arm. “Son.”

  He looked up at her, blankly. Then noticed that she wasn’t alone. “Oh. I’m sorry. Mrs. Martin. Savannah.”

  Mother murmured something. “Hi, Cletus,” I said. He and I had gone to school together, and although—again—we hadn’t had much to do with one another, we were on a first-name basis. “I’m so sorry about Marquita.”

  He nodded.

  “Does Sheriff Satterfield have any idea what happened?”

  Cletus shook his head.

  “I’m sure he’ll figure it out. Especially now that the Metro Nashville PD is involved.”

  I looked around, but could see no obvious clues. No letter from the divorce lawyer pinned to the fridge, no smoking gun. “We just wanted to tell you in person,” I added. “We’ll leave you alone now.”

  “Thanks for coming,” Mrs. Johnson said, as she herded us back toward the front door. Mother was in the lead, walking fast; her heels clicking against Cletus’s fake hardwoods. I straggled, peering left and right.

  Two minutes later we found ourselves in the car, on our way back to Sweetwater proper and the Martin mansion. Mother looked like someone who had just survived a walk through the Valley of Death, and I don’t think it was the recent de
mise of Marquita that had so flustered her. It was probably the first time in her life my mother had been inside a black person’s home, and I guess she had been surprised to see it looked quite a lot like her own.

  “Are you all right?” I said.

  She glanced over, with a polished, professional smile. “Of course, darling. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Can’t imagine,” I said, and concentrated on driving.

  Chapter Nine

  Sheriff Satterfield came to the house and picked Mother up in his truck just before seven. Looking quite handsome, too, in his sports coat and open collar.

  Todd takes after his mother Pauline, who was a cool blonde. The sheriff’s brown hair is shot through with gray now that he’s pushing sixty, but like his son he’s tall and lean, with clear, gray-blue eyes. He and Pauline and Mother and Dad used to hang out together when we were small, and now that Pauline and Dad are gone—Pauline from cancer, Dad from a heart attack—mother and Bob Satterfield have continued their friendship. They have dinner together regularly, and always seem to enjoy one another’s company. The sheriff did look a little surprised to see me, though.

  “Savannah.” He glanced at Mother. “What’re you doin’ here, darlin’?”

  “I drove down this afternoon,” I explained. “My apartment was broken into the other day, and there’s a policewoman staying there right now.”

  He nodded. “The boy mentioned that. What happened?”

  “Nothing happened. Other than that I came home and discovered that someone had broken into my place and gone through my things. Detective Grimaldi with the Metro Nashville PD thought it might be a good idea for me to get out of there for a few nights.”

  “I’ve been talkin’ to Detective Grimaldi,” Bob Satterfield nodded. “Seems like a capable woman.”

  “She is. Very. That’s right, she called you about Marquita Johnson, didn’t she?”

  “Sure did, darlin’. Seems Marquita left her job and never come back, and the detective thought we mighta seen her.”

  “And had you?”

  He shook his head. “Didn’t see hide or hair of her until this mornin’. And then it was only ‘cause someone had the idea of checkin’ the Bog.”

  I’d had the idea of checking the Bog, although I didn’t mention that, because the sheriff continued, “If I’d known she’d be there, I wouldna sent Cletus, though. Damfool woman was givin’ him enough trouble without him findin’ her like that.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  Sheriff Satterfield had turned to look at Mother, and now he turned back to me. “Pardon me, darlin’?”

  “What kind of trouble was she giving him?”

  He shrugged. “The usual. Movin’ out. Leavin’. Goin’ to Nashville to live with young Collier.”

  “She was working for him.”

  “You sure they weren’t just tellin’ you that?”

  “Positive,” I said.

  The sheriff shrugged. “Todd’ll be sorry he wasn’t here to see you.”

  “He’s coming home tomorrow, though, right? Mother told me he was.” I glanced at her.

  “Supposed to, yeah. You want I should call him, tell him you’re here?”

  “I wouldn’t mind,” I said, blushing prettily. “Mother always told me not to run after boys.”

  Of course, that wasn’t the reason I didn’t want to call Todd, but what the sheriff didn’t know, wouldn’t hurt him. And if he could set up a date with Todd for tomorrow night, I wouldn’t have to call and do it myself. And that meant I could postpone the inevitable conversation until then.

  The sheriff chuckled. “Leave it to me, darlin’. I’ll call him later. Right now...” He turned to my mother, “are you ready, Margaret Anne?”

  Mother simpered. “Ready, Bob.”

  He crooked his elbow. She latched on, and they walked out the door, leaving me alone in the house.

  No sooner had the car pulled away, than I was on the phone with Tamara Grimaldi. “Detective? Savannah Martin. Any news?” I tucked the phone between cheek and shoulder and opened the refrigerator.

  “Yes and no,” the detective answered. “Where are you? Sweetwater?”

  “My mother’s house. She and Sheriff Satterfield just went to dinner.” At the Wayside Inn. While I was reduced to pilfering my mother’s leftovers.

  Grimaldi sounded politely intrigued. “Your mother is dating the sheriff?”

  “Not really. At least not to my knowledge. They just have dinner a lot.”

  Probably discussing me. Plotting how they could get me and Todd together. When I dated him in high school, it was mostly because I wanted to make our parents and Dix happy, not because I had any romantic feelings for him. I had always thought he felt the same way; it was only recently I’d discovered that he’d actually liked me.

  “I see,” Detective Grimaldi said, although it was clear that she didn’t. “To answer your question, yes, we have made a little headway.”

  “Great.” I pulled out a package of sliced roast beef and a loaf of bread, and went back to hunt for the fancy remoulade.

  “I’m not so sure about that. Did you realize that there’s a knife missing from your kitchen?”

  “Knife?” There it was, behind the milk. I reached for it.

  “From your knife block. Medium sized chopping knife. Sharp.”

  “No,” I said, “can’t say as I did. How...?”

  “Megan Slater realized it wasn’t with the others and had a look around for it. It’s not in the apartment.”

  “It was there a few days ago. I used it to chop a tomato on Sunday night.” I felt a chill go down my spine as I closed the refrigerator door. “That must be the knife that was used to slash my pillows and my nightgown. And whoever was in my apartment took it?”

  “So it seems,” Grimaldi confirmed.

  “I’m not sure I like that.” The idea that someone was coming after me with my own kitchen knife. Like the tattooed man from the other day. Although I’d have expected him to have his own knife, and not to have to borrow mine.

  “Me, either. So be careful.”

  I promised I would be, while I layered roast beef on whole wheat bread with one hand. “Anything else?”

  Her voice got studiedly bland. “I had a chat with Mr. Collier this morning.”

  “And?” I was bound and determined to allow no emotion to creep into my voice, in spite of the fact that my heart started beating faster.

  “He can’t prove where he was three days ago.”

  So much for that resolution. “Surely you’re not thinking that he killed Marquita? Why would he?”

  “I don’t know that yet,” Tamara Grimaldi said, “but he would know where to get his hands on a gun.”

  No arguing with that. It wasn’t that long ago that he’d offered to get me one. Still...

  I slapped my sandwich together. “You know, Detective, I think maybe you need to consider that you have a slight hang-up where he’s concerned. In August you thought he’d killed Brenda Puckett. In September you thought he’d killed Lila Vaughn. Now you think he’s killed Marquita Johnson. If he didn’t kill Brenda or Lila, would you consider that maybe he didn’t kill Marquita, either?”

  “You know, Ms. Martin,” Tamara Grimaldi shot back, “I think maybe you need to consider that you’re the one with the hang-up where Mr. Collier is concerned.”

  She waited for me to respond, and when I didn’t, she added, “He’s a criminal. And although he’s been lucky so far, sooner or later his luck is going to run out. And then he’ll go back to prison. For a lot longer than two years.”

  “Maybe, but he won’t be going to prison for murder. He’s not a murderer.”

  “He killed Mr. Fortunato.”

  My mind flashed back in time for a second: to Perry’s face, to the knife, the blood. To Perry curled up on the floor, clutching his stomach. His gasping breaths. My question. “Is he dead?” Rafe’s unemotional response. “Not yet.”

  “Self defense.” My v
oice was perfectly steady. “And defense of me. And you know it. You didn’t arrest him.”

  “He left!”

  “He stuck around long enough for you to arrest him if you wanted to.”

  It was Tamara Grimaldi’s turn not to answer, because she knew I was right.

  “He’s not a killer,” I insisted. “He wouldn’t kill someone in cold blood. I may not know him well, but I know that much.”

  “We’ll see.” She changed the subject. “So what’s going on where you are? Obviously Sheriff Satterfield is confident, if he’s taking the time out to go to dinner with a ladyfriend.”

  “How could he not be confident, with the cream of the Metro Nashville PD on the case?” I didn’t wait for an answer. “You took the body and car to Nashville, so I’m not sure what he’s supposed to be doing. But I stopped by Cletus Johnson’s house today.”

  She sighed. “Ms. Martin...”

  “Savannah. My mother and I dropped off a casserole. It’s what you do when someone dies.”

  Now she sounded vaguely amused. “I see. And what did you discover?”

  “Not much. He drives a black SUV with tinted windows. Or maybe his mother does. She was there, too, and the SUV was parked in the driveway. There was a small white Saturn, too.”

  “So now you think Deputy Johnson was following you the other day?”

  “Probably not.” Much as I wished it would be that easy. “I’m sure Sheriff Satterfield would have noticed if Cletus wasn’t on duty. Unless it was his day off, of course.” I put the sandwich on a plate and carried it to the dining room.

  “I’ll find out,” Tamara Grimaldi promised. “Anything else?”

  “Mrs. Johnson—Cletus’s mother—thinks Marquita was living with Rafe.”

  “She was, wasn’t she? Until he left?”

  “Living with as in sleeping with. And she wasn’t doing that. But if Cletus thought she was—and he probably did—maybe he got mad enough to kill her.”

  “Far fetched,” Grimaldi said.

  “How about this, then? Cletus and Marquita were separated. The kids lived with him. He was the one with the house and the steady job. But what if she was trying to get them back? She’d been working for Mrs. Jenkins for a while now, and had a place for the kids to live. That house is big enough for a whole truckload of kids, and now that Rafe has done some work to it, it’s looking pretty good, too.”