Rafe...
I caught my breath on a sob. He was on the bedroll, but slumped down, his eyes closed and his body lax. A gun—a third gun—was still in his hand, held loosely.
I moved toward him, on legs that threatened to give out with every step.
“Oh, God, no...”
There was blood on his chest, too. Not as much as on Elspeth, though.
I sank to my knees in front of him, my hand shaking as I reached out. His skin was still warm, and his heart beat under my palm.
“God!” I sat back on my heels, tears running down my face. “Thank you!”
His eyelids fluttered and then his eyes opened. They were glassy for a second before they fastened on my face. He moistened his lips. “I thought I told you to stay in the closet.” His voice cracked.
“You got shot,” I said. “Did you really expect me to stay in the closet when you might be dying out here?”
He didn’t answer, so I guess maybe he did. Instead, he tried to push himself up. It was hard to do with a bullet in his shoulder. I reached out to help, but he sent me a hard look, and I let my hands drop.
In the back of my mind, I’d been vaguely aware of sounds outside the trailer, and now the back door was wrenched open and running footsteps came pounding down the hallway.
Rafe was still fumbling to get upright, and in no position to protect himself. I snatched the gun—his gun—from beside him, and pointed it at the doorway, scrambling into position between him and whoever was coming.
In the back of my mind, I could fully appreciate the delicious irony in the situation. I was doing the same thing Elspeth had done: putting myself between Rafe and danger, and look what had happened to her. I didn’t care, though. My hands were steady, and at that moment I would have shot anyone who threatened either of us.
It didn’t come to that. Tamara Grimaldi skidded to a stop beside Jorge’s body, followed a second later by Rafe’s associate, Wendell Craig, a middle-aged black man with a gray military haircut. Both were holding guns. Both looked a lot more comfortable handling them than I felt about handling mine.
Rafe reached past me and took the gun out of my hand, a second before I dropped it. That probably wouldn’t have been good.
Tamara holstered hers, with a wry look at me. “Way to go, Annie Oakley. How much of this carnage are you responsible for?”
Rafe answered for me. “None of it. Jorge shot Elspeth and I shot Jorge. Jorge shot me. Savannah wasn’t here.”
“He told me to hide in the closet,” I muttered.
“I see.” Tamara’s lips twitched as she bent to check Jorge’s pulse. She straightened again. “He’s gone. Looks like two rounds in the chest.”
“That’s where I was aiming,” Rafe confirmed, looking up as Wendell stepped over Jorge’s body and around Elspeth’s to reach us. The older man met my eyes for a second—I scrambled out of the way—before he bent to probe Rafe’s shoulder. Rafe sucked his breath in, and my stomach twisted in sympathy.
“Doesn’t look too bad,” Wendell pronounced.
Rafe shook his head. “The bullet’ll have to come out, and I’ll be sore for a couple days. But I’ve been hurt worse before.”
“You don’t have to tell me.” Wendell clasped Rafe’s forearm for a second before he let go and turned to me. “Miss Martin.”
“Call me Savannah,” I said weakly.
“I guess it’s time I call the sheriff.” Tamara reached for her cell phone.
“Hold off just a second on that,” Wendell instructed. “The fewer people who know about this, the better.”
“We’re in his town, though. And he needs to know that this young woman,” she glanced at Elspeth, “killed Mrs. Johnson and shot Ms. McCoy.”
Of course he did. That way he could stop bothering Rafe whenever something—anything—went wrong in Sweetwater, and Todd could stop throwing the horrible fate of poor Elspeth Caulfield in my face.
Except... how did Tamara know that Elspeth had killed Marquita and shot Yvonne? Elspeth had told Rafe that inside the trailer. While Tamara and Wendell were outside.
And then I realized: Rafe had said, “I wasn’t talking to you,” earlier. I’d assumed he’d been talking to himself, since no one else was here. But he’d also told me to be careful what I said. I had thought he was warning me not to say anything I’d regret, but what if he’d been telling me not to say anything I didn’t want anyone else to hear?
I turned to Tamara. “Are there microphones in here? Were you guys listening in?”
She nodded. Rafe met my eyes for a second but didn’t say anything.
“Surely you could just tell him that?” Wendell suggested, back on the subject of the sheriff again.
“I could,” Tamara agreed. “But why?”
“I had this idea.” He glanced at Rafe, who looked resigned, as if he already knew what Wendell was thinking.
“Before you get to that,” he suggested, “maybe we should let Savannah leave? I think she’s prob’ly had enough for one day.”
I opened my mouth. “I want to stay with you,” hovered on my lips. I swallowed it. “I should probably get back. Mother will worry about me.”
No one said anything to stop me. “I’ll walk you out,” Tamara Grimaldi said, when I had navigated around Elspeth and over Jorge, who stared up at me with dead, glassy eyes.
“Thanks.” I glanced over my shoulder one last time before I headed down the hallway. Rafe was sitting on the bedroll, holding a handful of fabric—probably his wadded-up T-shirt—against his shoulder. He was paler than usual, and there was some blood, but he didn’t look like he was in imminent danger of dying.
“You’ll make sure he gets to a doctor and gets that bullet out, won’t you?” I asked Tamara when we had reached the kitchen and were out of hearing range of the bedroom.
“Mr. Craig will take care of him. And like he said, he’s been hurt worse before.” She didn’t sound worried.
“So nothing bad will happen as a result of him not getting to the hospital right away?”
She shook her head. “He’ll be fine. I won’t let anything happen to him. Neither will Mr. Craig.”
“Thank you.”
We stepped out into the cool October evening, and I wrapped my arms around myself as goose bumps broke out on my naked shoulders.
“Drive carefully,” Tamara said.
“You too.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow. When I get back to Nashville.”
I nodded. “I’ll probably be going home tomorrow, too.”
“No reason why you can’t go back to your apartment. And your regular life.”
Exactly. “Make sure Rafe gets to a doctor. I don’t want anything to happen to him.”
She looked at me for a second. “Have you told him that?”
“He knows.” How could he not? Everything I’d done inside the trailer had been a great, big, honking giveaway.
Tamara didn’t argue. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow. Until then, don’t talk to anyone about what happened tonight, OK? I’m not sure what Mr. Craig’s plan is, but I have an inkling that it’ll be radically different from what really happened.”
I nodded. “I won’t say anything to anyone. Just let me know the party line when you figure it out. That way I’ll know what not to say if anyone talks about it.”
She promised she would. I resisted the need to tell her—again—to make sure Rafe got to the hospital and got taken care of, and then I walked through the dark to the Volvo, got in, and left the Bog.
Chapter 21
Dix called just as I was heading out the next morning. It was around ten. Mother had been asleep when I got home, and with everything that had happened—gunshots, confessions, revelations, not to mention the fact that I’d realized I was in love with Rafe, and no halfway about it—I had found sleep elusive. The result was that I woke up bleary-eyed, and didn’t get my act together until quite late. But at least mother was already out and about, and I didn’t have to worry about
her interrogating me.
And then, just as I was putting my overnight bags—both of them; one from last time I was down here, one from this trip—in the trunk of the car, the cell phone rang and it was my brother.
His greeting was unusually abrupt. “Where are you?”
I told him I was standing outside the mansion, about to get in the car to drive home.
“Don’t move. I’m on my way.”
He hung up. I arched my brows, but did as he said. It was a nice day, crisp and sunny, and it was nice to be alive. Not so nice to be in love with a man I couldn’t introduce to my family, but you can’t win them all.
It took Dix less than five minutes to pull up next to me in the circular drive. He leaned over and opened the passenger side door. “Get in.”
“How lovely to see you too,” I said pleasantly, nevertheless doing as he said.
He gunned the engine as soon as the door was shut behind me. I fumbled to fasten my seatbelt as his tires spit gravel down the driveway. “Where are we going in such a hurry?”
He glanced at me. “Damascus.”
“Why?”
“Long story. First I need to tell you something.”
“OK.” He sounded serious. I folded my hands in my lap and waited for him to lay the bad news on me.
“Todd called me this morning. His dad had called him. To say that there was a shoot-out in the Bog last night.”
“Wow.” I should probably act like I didn’t already know that.
“A couple of people died.”
“You’re kidding.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, sis. But Rafe Collier was one of them.”
“No,” I said.
“I’m sorry. But yes, he was.”
“No, he wasn’t.” He’d been shot, but not killed. I’d seen him. I’d touched him. Talked to him. He’d been alive when I left. And Tamara had assured me he’d be just fine.
Unless she’d been lying? If he’d been hurt worse than I’d realized, maybe she’d had to, to keep me from having hysterics. Maybe there was a reason they couldn’t get him to a hospital right away, and so he’d died. And it was all my fault, for leaving him there, for not making sure that he was safe.
My eyes filled with tears.
“I’m really sorry, sis.” Dix fumbled between the seats and came up with a box of Kleenex, which he dumped in my lap.
I pulled one out and dabbed at my eyes. “Maybe Todd misunderstood. Maybe he doesn’t have all the information. Maybe Rafe was shot but he’s still alive. Maybe...”
“I really don’t think so, Savannah.” Dix alternated between looking at the road and looking at me, concern on his face. “Todd had it straight from his dad. And the sheriff ought to know, don’t you think?”
“I suppose.” I’d passed the sheriff’s car on Main Street last night, just after turning off the Pulaski Highway, so they must have called him pretty much as soon as I left the trailer. But I’d seen Rafe. He’d been alive when I left.
“He said it was some kind of ambush. Apparently someone has been gunning for Collier for a while, and last night they found him. With a woman. I’m sorry, sis.”
I shook my head.
“Elspeth Caulfield,” Dix said. “Remember her? They had some kind of fling in high school. Apparently they were there together, in the trailer in the Bog, when this guy showed up. José somebody. Or maybe it was Jorge. Anyway, he killed them both.”
“No.”
“The sheriff told Todd there’s no doubt. He’s dead. And so is Elspeth.”
“No.” I shook my head, tears spilling down my face faster than I could mop them up. Dix reached over and squeezed my hand.
“I’m sorry, sis. D’you want me to pull over?”
I shook my head. “Just... don’t talk for a while. Give me some time to get myself together.”
He nodded. “Sure.”
“Or maybe you could talk about something else.”
“Like what?”
“Like...” I sniffed into the tissue. “Why are we going to Damascus?”
“Oh.” Dix flushed. “That’s something else I have to tell you.”
“God.” Sounded like more bad news. Although it couldn’t possibly be as bad as the last thing he’d said. I still had a hard time believing it. I mean, I’d seen Rafe. Felt his heartbeat. Talked to him. How could he be dead?
“Well...” Dix said, “Elspeth Caulfield died.”
“And?”
“Her father was a client of dad’s. When dad died, the account went to Jonathan, Catherine, and me. Since Elspeth inherited the house and a good bit of money from her parents, and since she wasn’t married and didn’t have any close kin, she made a will. She asked Jonathan to draw it up. Probably because she remembered me and Catherine from school and didn’t want us to know too much about what was in it.”
I nodded. That made sense. I didn’t want anyone to know too much about what was going on in my personal life, either.
“I hadn’t read it before today. But when Todd called to say she’d died, we pulled it out.”
“And?”
He looked over at me. “She left everything she owned to her son.”
“What?”
“She left everything she owned to her son.”
It sounded the same this time. “I didn’t know she had a son,” I said.
“Neither did I,” Dix answered. “Neither did anyone. And that’s why we’re on our way to her house. To see if we can figure out who he is.”
“Yikes.” I dabbed my face with the soggy tissue. “No offense, Dix, but why are you involving me in this? I don’t work for Martin and McCall. I didn’t know Elspeth. And to be honest, I think I’m probably the last person she’d want going through her things.”
“What makes you say that?” Dix wanted to know.
“Because she’s spent the past week trying to kill me. Just like she killed Marquita and tried to kill Yvonne.”
Dix stared at me. For long enough that I had to remind him to watch the road.
He focused forward again. “You’re kidding.”
I shook my head. “Tamara Grimaldi told me.”
“Wow.” Dix didn’t say anything else for a moment, just concentrated on driving. “Um... why? Why did Elspeth kill Marquita and try to kill you and Yvonne?”
I sighed. “Because of Rafe. She wanted him for herself. Apparently she thought we were all a threat to their happily-ever-after.”
“She and Collier had a happily-ever-after?”
“In her mind they did. She hadn’t even seen him for twelve years, but I guess she never got over that one-night-stand in high school.”
“Huh,” Dix said.
“Marquita lived with Rafe, to take care of Mrs. Jenkins, so Elspeth thought they were involved. Marquita may even have intimated that they were. Wishful thinking, you know? And Elspeth was at the cemetery the other day, and saw him kiss Yvonne, so Yvonne had to die.”
That was probably Elspeth who Millie Ruth next door had seen walking down the street that night. Instead of me.
“What about you?” Dix asked, in a weird echo of my thoughts. It took me a second to figure out what he wanted to know.
“I talked to Elspeth a couple of months ago, after Todd told me about her and Rafe. She wouldn’t tell me what happened between them in high school, but since I drove down here to ask, I guess she formed the impression that there was something between us.”
“Something?”
“I was sort of...” I swallowed, “...falling for him, a little.” And now he was dead. Before I’d had the chance to tell him how I felt. My eyes filled with fresh tears.
Dix muttered something. He was obviously lost for words, so he just reached over, fished out another tissue, and handed it to me. I sniffed.
Neither of us spoke again until we pulled up in front of Elspeth’s big, white house in Damascus. Dix got out and walked around the car. I waited for him to open the door for me. He’s been trained well, plus, I was
really, really reluctant to do this. Going through Elspeth’s things; Elspeth, of all people...
“You go ahead inside,” I told Dix as we stood on the wraparound porch and he fumbled the key into the lock. “I want to make a phone call.”
He looked at me for a second, but then he nodded. I waited until the door was closed behind him before I pulled out my phone and dialed.
And got Tamara Grimaldi’s voice mail.
Of all the mornings for her not to answer her phone...! Of course, it had been a late night for her. Later than for me, since she’d had to deal with the—my heart squeezed—bodies.
Still, I needed her. She ought to be there.
“Detective? This is Savannah Martin. It’s about ten thirty. I’m still in Sweetwater. At Elspeth Caulfield’s house, actually. With my brother. He’s her lawyer. We’re trying to figure out where her next of kin lives. Anyway... Dix told me—”
My voice broke, and I had to stop and get myself under control before I could continue.
“Dix told me that Rafe... that Rafe didn’t... oh, God!” I couldn’t force myself to say the words out loud. “Just call me, OK? Please? As soon as you can.” I hung up, and spent another few minutes sobbing into a tissue. Before I squared my shoulders and walked into Elspeth’s house.
And stopped inside the door like I’d walked into an invisible wall.
The interior of the house was almost surreal.
It’s not that I’m not used to old houses. The Martin mansion is antebellum, 1839, so fifty or sixty years older than this place, and full of antique furniture, including some of the original pieces from when the house was first built. Mrs. Jenkins’s house is another Victorian, with dark woodwork and immensely tall ceilings. And I’ve seen my share of other old homes too, in the three or four months I’ve had my real estate license. But this, this was freaky. It was like stepping into the 19th century. Heavy, dark furniture, lamps with fringe, tchotchkes everywhere. Waxed flowers under glass, ceramic kittens, old books with their distinctive leathery smell.
Except for the painting above the fireplace mantel. I would have expected some Victorian monstrosity of dead birds and lemons, or maybe a reproduction Renoir or Monet; the impressionists would fit the time period of the house. Instead, what I got was the cover of a Barbara Botticelli romance. Blown up to thirty times its paperback size, and stuck in an ornate gold frame.
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