Mrs. Jenkins thought for a moment, then shook her head. “Don’t know, baby. Marquita talked to her. She didn’t mention no name.”
“Figures. Well, if—when—Marquita comes back, we can ask her then.”
I looked left and right before I crossed the intersection of Main Street and Interstate Drive. We were almost in sight of my apartment building when Mrs. Jenkins added, pensively, “Guy called, too. Few times. Every week or so.”
“A man? Did he give a name?”
“Can’t rightly say, baby. Marquita talked to him, too. She said he just wanted to know how everything was goin’.”
“Interesting.” I calculated rapidly for a moment, then made an abrupt right turn on 5th, causing Mrs. Jenkins to fall against my shoulder. “I just thought of something. Do you mind if we go for a drive?”
“Sure don’t, baby. Don’t get out much these days. It’ll be fun.” She settled herself back in the passenger seat and folded her hands in her lap. They were tiny and wrinkled and specked with age-spots. I hoped she’d enjoy this particular outing, although I rather doubted it.
The trip didn’t take long. Only ten minutes later, we were where I wanted to be.
On 8th Avenue South, right in the middle of the antiques district, there’s a small, brightly-painted bungalow with pretty flowers outside. The name on the door is Sally’s. From the street, it looks as if Sally ought to sell, if not seashells at the seashore, at least colorful lawn ornaments or vintage clothes or something else quaint and pretty. Sally doesn’t. Sally is a middle-aged, beefy woman with a tattoo and a rooster-red Mohawk haircut, and she peddles security. More specifically, weapons and self-defense type stuff. Detective Grimaldi had recommended her to me a month or two previously, for the purpose of arming myself. She didn’t say it, but I thought that Tamara Grimaldi may have wanted me to have some protection in case Rafe got out of hand—this was back when she suspected him of having cut Brenda Puckett’s throat.
I pulled the Volvo into the parking lot and helped Mrs. Jenkins out of the passenger seat. She looked around curiously. “What kinda place is this?”
“Police issue security gear,” I said, looking around. There were no other cars in the lot at the moment, which boded well for my visit. Sally was likely to talk more freely if no one was around to hear. The Harley-Davidson parked by the side of the house caused my pulse to quicken, but only for a moment. Rafe’s Harley is midnight-black, and if he had plans of replacing it, he wouldn’t choose something bright red. This Harley belonged to someone else; most likely Sally herself. The color matched her hair, and she looked like she’d feel perfectly at ease riding it. “Detective Grimaldi recommended it to me. She was worried about me and wanted me to have some protection.”
“Nice lady, that detective.”
I nodded. “She is. Sally is a friend of hers, I think. Are you ready to go in?”
“Sure, baby.” She grabbed my arm and shuffled along beside me. Even in three-inch heels I walked faster than she did in her fuzzy slippers, so I moderated my steps to hers and gave her a boost up the steps to the front door.
Inside, everything was as I remembered it. Displays of various lethal and non-lethal but nonetheless scary implements stood along the walls. Tasers, handcuffs, cans of mace and pepper spray. Under the counter, guns and Chinese stars rubbed elbows with trays of miniature knives masquerading as deceptively innocent-looking tubes of lipstick. Behind the counter, Sally herself stood, muscular forearms braced on the glass counter.
“Morning, princess,” she boomed when she saw me.
“Hello, Sally,” I answered, as Mrs. Jenkins and I made our slow way toward the counter. The trip wasn’t made any easier by the fact that Mrs. J was slowing down to gawk at everything we passed.
“You use up all your pepper spray already?”
I smiled. “Not really. In fact, I haven’t had occasion to use it at all. The one time I needed it, I couldn’t get my hands on it, so it did me no good.”
“Sounds like maybe you could use some self-defense training, princess. How to break a man’s arm in three easy steps. Tamara told me what happened last month.”
I nodded. “It was pretty scary. But I got out of it all right, so I guess I can’t complain.”
“Never a good idea to complain when you walk away in one piece,” Sally agreed. “So what can I do for you today, missy? You need a bigger knife? Pistol? Handcuffs?”
“Information,” I said, and watched as her face closed.
“Can’t help you with that, I’m afraid.”
“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask,” I said.
“Know the look on your face, though, princess. But I guess I could hear you out. Least I can do.”
“Thank you.” I indicated my companion. “This is Tondalia Jenkins. Mrs. Jenkins, this is Sally. I’m sorry, I don’t know your last name, Sally.”
“Harmon,” Sally said. She extended a beefy hand across the counter and very gently shook Mrs. Jenkins’s much smaller one. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”
“Pleasure’s all mine, baby,” Mrs. Jenkins replied. She calls everyone baby: Rafe, me, Marquita, Detective Grimaldi, even Walker Lamont, up until the moment he tried to shoot her. “Nice place you got here.”
Sally grinned. “Look around all you want. Maybe you’ll find something to buy. Like one of them lipsticks princess here bought last month.” She winked. I watched as Mrs. Jenkins shuffled off, peering around nearsightedly, before I turned back to Sally.
“Her grandson left town five weeks ago. If Tamara Grimaldi talks to you about her cases, you’ve probably heard of him. His name is Rafe Collier.”
“Happens I have heard of him,” Sally agreed. “Saved your life last month, didn’t he?”
“He did. And then he left town the next day. He asked me to keep an eye on his grandmother while he was gone. She has a live-in nurse, but as he put it, she’s paid to care and it isn’t the same.”
Sally nodded. “Can’t fault that.”
“Especially as the nurse is now nowhere to be found. She left a few days ago, supposedly for a half day off, and never came back. No one seems to have seen her since. Nobody knows where she is. She isn’t where she’s supposed to be, which is with Mrs. Jenkins.”
“Tricky,” Sally said.
“Tamara Grimaldi has all her squad-cars keeping an eye out, and in the meantime, she wants me to try to track down Rafe.”
“Wish I could help,” Sally said, “but I don’t know him. From what Tamara says, sounds like I’m missing out.” She winked.
“You two would probably get on like a house on fire,” I agreed. Aside from the fact that Rafe seems to be able to wrap any female around his finger, regardless of age, marital status, and sexual orientation, he and Sally had a lot in common. “Is that your Harley outside? He rides one, too.”
“My kinda guy.” Sally grinned. “If you find him, you bring him by to see me, princess.”
“I’d love to,” I said, “if I could find him. And that’s why we’re here. I think you might know an associate of his.”
“Yeah?” Her eyes turned watchful. “Who’s that?”
“His name is Wendell. At least that’s what I was told. Older man, mid-fifties, maybe. Black. Military haircut. I’ve met him once or twice, and spoken to him on the phone a few times more. Not a big talker, at least not with me. The last time I saw him was here, last month. He came in while I was going out, and he held the door for me.”
I paused, expectantly. Sally contemplated me, and I could see options ticking over in her brain. “Happens I might know who you’re talking about,” she admitted at last, reluctantly. I beamed. “Can’t give you his name or number, though, princess. Though if you’ve spoken to him on the phone, sounds like you’ve got it already.”
“I did,” I said. “Then I gave it to Tamara Grimaldi last month, when she was trying to track down Rafe, and next thing I knew… poof! It was disconnected.”
Sally hid a smile. “Can’t say I
’m surprised. Some of these guys can be kinda secretive. The ones that are involved with the criminal element, especially. If you want, I can try to get a message to him. That work for you?”
“That would be great,” I said, relieved. “If you could just tell him that Savannah is trying to track down Rafe, I’d appreciate it. If he asks, you can tell him what I told you about Mrs. Jenkins and the nurse, although I doubt he will. He never asks me any questions.”
“I’ll see what I can do, princess,” Sally promised, and looked up as the door opened. A young cop in full uniform came through the door, hat in his hand. Sally grinned at the stunned look on his face as he looked around, and I smiled.
“Hi, Officer Truman.”
He looked at me, somewhat wild-eyed, for a second before my face seemed to register. “Oh. Hi, Miz Martin. How are you?”
“Just leaving. This is Sally. She’ll take care of you.”
Officer Truman, peach-fuzzed and as bright and shiny as a new penny, looked at Sally and swallowed.
Chapter 4
We stopped at 101 Potsdam Street on the way home, in the hope that Marquita had returned, and to pack an overnight bag for Mrs. Jenkins if she hadn’t. The house looked just as it had when I was there a couple of days ago, only more dirty and messy, and there was no sign of Marquita. The nurse’s disappearance was worrying me. Between Detective Grimaldi and Sheriff Satterfield, they probably had things well in hand, though; or so I had to trust.
Mrs. J didn’t own an overnight bag or suitcase, but she told me Rafe might, and dispatched me to his room to look for it. I had misgivings, but she was ancient and her feet were sore from wandering the neighborhood in fuzzy slippers, and I couldn’t in good conscience refuse.
I’d never been in Rafe’s room before. That is, I had, but it hadn’t been Rafe’s room then. This was two months ago, when the house was on the market. He’d had me show him all around, before we discovered Brenda’s body in the library. Mrs. Jenkins’s bedroom, which was now a lovely lavender with gleaming white trim and a nice reproduction four-poster bed with lilac-printed sheets, had been home to an old mattress and a colony of mice. (Rafe said they were rats, but I prefer to hold on to my illusions.) And what had ended up being Rafe’s room, in the front of the house, overlooking the overgrown yard and circular driveway, had been sporting peeling wallpaper with a faded pattern of twining roses, along with several broken windows, a waterlogged ceiling and crumbling windowsills.
I’d been back to the house many times since then, especially in the five weeks since he left, but I’d endeavored not to go into his room. I didn’t think Marquita would let me, for one thing, and for another, I was feeling ambivalent enough towards him already; I didn’t need any more temptations thrown in my path.
I stopped outside the door and took a deep breath, steeling myself before I turned the knob and pushed the door open.
I don’t know what I had expected, but whatever it was, I wasn’t disappointed.
The first thing to strike me was the smell. Spicy and citrusy, just like Rafe himself. Aftershave, shower gel, shampoo, laundry detergent... I had no idea what it was—maybe a mixture of a lot of things—but it was distinctly his, and heady. If I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, I could imagine that he was standing right next to me.
The second thing I noticed (after I opened my eyes again) was the bed, and before you think too badly of me, I should mention that it did rather dominate the room. King size, with crisp white sheets and a black duvet-cover. Satin. Horribly clichéd, but it packed a punch nonetheless. It didn’t take much effort to picture him there: all hard muscle and golden skin warm against those cool sheets, with hot dark eyes under long, smudgy lashes, and that melting grin...
Giving myself a hard mental kick, I turned toward the closet. Nothing good would come of having erotic daydreams about Rafael Collier, especially since I couldn’t act on any of them.
There was a black duffel in the closet, and I grabbed it and carried it back down the hall to Mrs. J’s lavender and white bedroom. There, we layered flowered housecoats with several more pairs of fuzzy slippers and old-lady underwear. I zippered the bag and hoisted it over my shoulder, and away we went. Leaving a note for Marquita on the kitchen table, pinned down by a salt shaker, to the effect that I had removed Mrs. Jenkins from the premises, and if Marquita was ready to take up her duties again, she could call my cell phone and let me know. If Rafe happened to come home—and there was a little flutter under my breast bone at the thought—he’d know where to find us, as well.
My apartment is only a couple of miles from Potsdam Street as the crow flies, but it’s a whole other world. East Nashville is one of those transitional areas of historic homes that have done a whole lot of changing over the past twenty years, but which still has a ways to go. And it’s comprised of several different neighborhoods, that are not all at the same level of gentrification. In the area where I live, on the corner of Fifth and East Main, renovating has been going on for years and years. It started with the bachelors, back when no one else dared move into the ghetto, and these days, you’d be lucky to touch a house for less than a half million dollars. The Potsdam area, on the other hand, is still lagging behind. There are a few big and impressive houses—like Mrs. Jenkins’s Italianate Victorian—but mostly the neighborhood is made up of small mid-century cottages. And where renovators are always happy to get their hands on big, potentially beautiful Victorians and Craftsman Bungalows with tiled fireplaces, pocket doors and built-in china cabinets, they’re not so excited about rows of cracker box houses built in the 1950s, with no particularly fine features and not a lot of room. So gentrification is slower in coming to Potsdam. In my neighborhood, nice-looking young people jog and push strollers and walk their well-groomed dogs on the spic-and-span sidewalks. On Potsdam Street, unshaven homeless men and kids with pants falling down around their ankles scowl at you as you drive by, and the only dogs are mongrels, scavenging for food.
“Nice place,” Mrs. Jenkins said when we pulled up outside my condo complex on the corner of Fifth and East Main. I looked around, too.
“Thank you.”
Her grandson was well aware of where I lived, having a habit of knocking on my door at inopportune moments—like, when I was getting ready to go on a date with Todd—but this was the first time Mrs. J had visited.
“That’s my apartment, up there.” I pointed to the balcony and the sliding glass doors on the second floor. “It’s just a one-bedroom, but you can take the bed and I’ll sleep on the sofa in the living room.”
“OK, baby.” I’m not sure whether my words actually registered or not; she was already on the move toward the gate. I snagged the duffel from the back seat, grabbed my purse, and followed.
It took some time climbing the stairs to the second floor, and I had to keep my hand under Mrs. J’s elbow the whole way, and boost her from step to step the last few times. Upstairs, I pointed down the hallway. “Just down there. Third door on the right.”
Mrs. Jenkins nodded and made a beeline for it, her speed better now that she was on level ground. She tilted to one side, though, and I hurried after her, hands outstretched to catch her in case she over-balanced.
“Door’s open, baby,” Mrs. Jenkins said.
I stopped and lowered my arms. “Pardon?”
She nodded to it. I looked.
Yes, it was. Open, that is. The heavy metal slab was pulled to, but not latched: a small corner of the welcome mat had gotten caught in the crack and kept the door from shutting all the way.
My first reaction was telling. A stab of excitement jabbed me in the pit of my stomach, and I caught my breath quickly.
A moment later I was chastising myself for my response: in order for Rafe to get here this quickly, he’d have to be in Nashville already, and if he were in Nashville, I’d already know about it. Or Mrs. Jenkins would. Still, there was that shiver of anticipation when I pushed the door open. Or maybe it wasn’t anticipation so much as apprehension. Or
fear.
“Hello?”
No one answered.
“Don’t think nobody’s here, baby,” Mrs. Jenkins said from behind me.
Maybe not, but it didn’t hurt to be careful. I dug Sally Harmon’s little bottle of pepper spray out of my purse and thumbed the lid off before I ventured into the apartment. Slowly.
It isn’t a big place. A tiny foyer with a coat closet and a postage stamp-sized powder room leads directly into the living room/dining room combination. The kitchen is on the way, opposite from the coat closet and half bath, and the single bedroom is to the left of the living room, with the master bath behind the kitchen. It’s less than 1,000 square feet all told, and it was empty.
Though someone had clearly been by. It wasn’t just the open door: the stack of mail on the kitchen counter had been riffled. An electric bill had pride of place on top of the stack, where I last remembered looking at a circular from the Opry Mills Outlet Mall. Ditto for the stack of magazines and paperwork on the coffee table; the corners were squared, where I’m not usually that neat. And hadn’t I left “Desire under the Desert Moon” on the sofa, pages splayed and spine up, last night when I went to bed? Now it was sitting on top of the stack of magazines, closed, with a piece of scrap paper—a coupon from Starbucks—in lieu of a bookmark.
It was something my mother would do, but she didn’t have a key to my apartment, and even if she did, I couldn’t for the life of me imagine Margaret Anne Martin driving all the way from Sweetwater to Nashville, just to straighten my living room.
So if not my mother, then who? And why?
Nothing seemed to be missing. My little laptop was still sitting on the dining room table, open but intact, and the TV and other electronics were in their respective places, as well. I don’t own much of value; anything joint stayed with Bradley after the divorce, including the expensive furniture, and my apartment was furnished mostly with reupholstered second-hand furniture and things I’d bought at Target. It was bright and cheerful, but not valuable.
So if not a thief, then who? Someone looking for something? But what?
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