“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 9
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 voice 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.�
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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.”
“So you think Deputy Johnson might have killed her because she was trying to take her kids back from him?”
“It’s worth looking into, don’t you think?” I pulled out one of the dining room chairs, circa 1877, property of great-great-a few more greats-aunt Marie, and sat. “I was going to mention it to Sheriff Satterfield, but it’s probably better if you do it. He might feel uncomfortable investigating his own deputy.”
“He might,” the detective agreed blandly. “All right. I’ll make some inquiries. I don’t think Deputy Johnson did anything to his wife, but you’re right, it bears looking into. If nothing else, we can put the idea to rest.”
“Thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me. I’m just doing my job.”
“Right.” I looked at the sandwich. It didn’t look as appetizing as it had earlier. “I’ll probably be down here another day, at least. It turns out that Todd went to Chattanooga for the night. I’ll have to wait until tomorrow night to make him propose.”
“Pardon me?”
“Nothing.” I thought about knocking my head against the mahogany tabletop.
Her tone fell somewhere between incredulous amusement and amused horror. “You’re trying to make D.A. Satterfield propose?”
“It occurred to me that if I’m engaged to be married, I won’t be tempted to sleep with Rafe.” And I couldn’t believe I’d said that. Out loud.
“I see,” Detective Grimaldi said. “That’s drastic, don’t you think? Couldn’t you just practice saying no?”
“It’s hard to say no.” Especially to a man who has his tongue in your mouth. And when you don’t want to. And God, just the thought of it had me blushing again. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
“I imagine because you can’t tell anyone else. You need a friend, Ms. Martin.”
“I have friends, Detective. They’re just not friends I can talk to about this. And I kind of thought we were friends. Sort of. Except friends generally call one another by their first names.”
She sighed. “All right. Savannah.”
I smiled. “Thank you, Tammy.”
“I told you, not even my mother calls me that.”
“Rafe does.”
“Not to my face,” Tamara said grimly. “OK, Ms.... Savannah. You want some advice?”
“I’d love some advice.”
“Then I think you should run as far and as fast as you can from Rafe Collier.” She hung up.
So that was it. I gnawed on my sandwich and thought dark thoughts until bedtime.
I didn’t hear mother come home. I fell asleep pretty early, trying to recover from two very restless nights and a couple of rough days. She was there when I came downstairs the next morning, though, so Bob Satterfield must have brought her home at some point.
And of course she was bright-eyed and polished when I stumbled into the kitchen at seven thirty: her hair perfectly coiffed, her make-up perfectly applied, her clothes perfectly matched and accessorized. While I looked like a troll, with my tangle of hair, my heavy eyes, and my worse-for-wear lacy nightie.
Mother looked me over. “Oh, dear. Sleepless night?”
“Kept waking up,” I mumbled, crawling onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar and resting my chin on my hand, struggling to keep my eyes open.
Mother clucked sympathetically while she stirred grits on the stove. “Bad dreams, darling?”
“Not exactly.” Although she’d probably think so. A glimpse into her perfect younger daughter’s subconscious would likely turn her pale with fright. Picturing me naked in bed with Rafe Collier would be pretty close to my mother’s worst nightmare.
Once upon a time I would have agreed with her. It was amazing to realize that it was only a couple of months ago. Whereas now...
It would be fair to say that the idea didn’t fill me with the same horror as before.
Still, it would be nice if these dreams would leave me alone. I had hoped that after I saw Rafe again, and knew that he was safe, and after I got some of the frustration out of my system, maybe I wouldn’t dream about him anymore. So much for that comforting fantasy. Not only was I still dreaming about him, but the dreams had gotten quite a boost in verisimilitude since yesterday morning. Which didn’t exactly make them easier to ignore.
“So what are you planning to do today, darling?” mother inquired, pulling my thoughts away from things I ought not to be thinking about anyway.
I yawned. “I didn’t really have any plans. Specifically, I mean. I need to scrounge up a dress for tonight—” since the right dress is imperative for soliciting proposals, and since I hadn’t realized I’d need a cocktail dress three days ago, when I packed my bag for the move to Mrs. Jenkins’s house, “and I also thought I might stop by the Bog to see if I could find the contact information for the construction company that’s going to build the houses there. I want to introduce myself and give them my card, and see if I can’t get some business from it. Someone has to market and sell those houses, and it may as well be me.”
Mother smiled. “How is the real estate going, darling?”
“It’s going well. I have a house under contract in Nashville. A nice young couple I started working with a couple of months ago found a house they want to buy. They’re supposed to close by the end of month.” And then—fingers crossed—I’d finally make a few thousand dollars to offset some of what I’d been spending over the past three or four months of having no income.
“That’s wonderful,” mother said warmly. “So where are you going for your dress, darling?”
Dress...? And then I realized we were back on the subject of Todd again.
“I wasn’t planning to buy one. Surely someone has a dress I can borrow. Sheila, maybe. Or Catherine.”
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�You can’t go to dinner with Todd in one of Catherine’s old dresses,” mother said. “Why didn’t you bring a dress, darling?”
“I didn’t think about it. Didn’t realize I’d need one. And I can’t afford a new dress. Plus, I have lots of dresses at home already.” Old dresses, from two years ago, when I was married to Bradley and had the money and the responsibility to look up-to-date. I hadn’t had the money to buy anything new for a while.
“That doesn’t help you here and now,” mother pointed out.
“I know that.”
“Audrey will make you a good deal on a dress.” She let go of the wooden spatula and reached for the phone.
“I don’t want...” I began, but she had already speed-dialed her best friend.
“Audrey? It’s Margaret Anne. Listen, Savannah’s in town and needs a new dress for a date with Todd Satterfield tonight. Do you have anything you think might work?”
Audrey is my mother’s best friend from childhood, and she owns the closest thing to a designer boutique Sweetwater has to offer: Audrey’s on the Square. Mother shops there; that should tell you a little about the kind of place it is. Very choice merchandise, very expensive.
“I can’t afford one of Audrey’s dresses,” I protested when mother had hung up the phone and was back to stirring her grits.
She smiled beatifically. “She’ll give you a good price, darling. Or wait... why don’t I buy the dress for you? As an early engagement present?”
“We’re not engaged yet!”
“But if the dress is all Audrey described, you will be by midnight.” She beamed. “We’ll have lunch on the square after you try on the dress.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to try on the dress after lunch?” That way I’d know that I’d be able to eat in it.
“Darling,” mother said, shaking her head sadly, “what have I told you about gorging yourself on a date?”
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