Past Due

by Jenna Bennett

  Was someone else dead?

  Not Dix. We’d just left him. Catherine? The kids? Jonathan or Todd?

  I fumbled for Rafe’s hand and wrapped my fingers around his.

  The sheriff was still wearing his uniform, and his regulation boots clomped on the old wide-plank hardwood floors as he came toward us. “I’m sorry, son,” he told Rafe.

  Mrs. Jenkins? Had something happened to Rafe’s grandmother?

  “Hands behind your back,” the sheriff said.

  My thoughts came to a screeching halt, as if they’d slammed headlong into a brick wall. “What? You’re arresting him? Why?”

  Rafe gave my hand a squeeze before letting go. He didn’t protest, didn’t question the order, and for a second or two I wondered, crazily, whether the sheriff knew something I didn’t.

  Then I shook it off. “You can’t just come in here and arrest him for no reason!”

  “He knows why.” The handcuffs made a loud click as they snapped together around Rafe’s wrists.

  I glanced at his face before turning back to the sheriff. “I don’t think so. And anyway, I’d like to know.”

  “We found the gun that killed Billy Scruggs,” the sheriff said.

  Really? Not what I had expected, but that was good news. “That’s great. Where?”

  “In your boyfriend’s bike.”

  “In...?” That couldn’t be right.

  The sheriff held up a gallon-sized Ziploc bag with a gun inside. “Look familiar?”

  Not that I’ve really ever been able to tell one gun from another, but...

  I shook my head. “I’ve never seen that before. Rafe’s only ever had one gun that I know of, and it’s the one he’s wearing now.”

  We all turned to look at Rafe, or more specifically, at the gun on Rafe’s hip. The corner of his mouth curved up. If he was upset about being arrested, he didn’t show it. Maybe he’d been waiting for it. He probably had.

  “What gave you the right to look in his bike?” I demanded. “Isn’t it private property? It’s parked on private property.”

  “Probable cause,” the sheriff said.

  “What do you mean, probably cause? Nobody was calling for help from inside the bike!”

  “We gotta tip.”

  A tip? “From who?” Or whom, more correctly.

  “Can’t tell you that,” the sheriff said.

  “Why? Was it an anonymous tip? Or you just won’t share who called? Is it privileged information?”

  He didn’t answer, and I turned to Rafe. “This isn’t right!”

  He seemed a lot less bothered about it than I was. “It’s all right, darlin’. I’ll spend the night in jail and call the TBI legal department in the morning.”

  “Do you want me to call Wendell for you? Now?” It was something useful I could do. I felt pretty helpless about the whole thing.

  He shook his head. “It’s late. It can wait.”

  I put my hands on my hips and faced my mother’s boyfriend. “You’ll let him have his phone call tomorrow morning, right?”

  “Yes, Savannah,” Bob Satterfield said. “He’ll get his phone call. And I won’t bring out the rubber hoses until his lawyer’s been called. I promise.”

  “You’d better not bring out any rubber hoses at any point!”

  The sheriff rolled his eyes. “Your boyfriend’s safe with me. I won’t lay a finger on him. I won’t even talk to him. He knows how this works. He’s asked for a lawyer, and we both know I can’t question him until the lawyer gets there.”

  I looked at Rafe, who nodded. “Don’t worry, darlin’. I’ll be fine.”

  “You’re spending the night in jail!” How could that possibly be fine?

  “I’ve slept in worse places.” His voice was amused. “It’ll be just like old times.”

  “This is a mistake,” I told the sheriff. “Rafe had nothing to do with shooting Billy Scruggs. He was in Nashville when it happened. That isn’t his gun. And how can you even know it’s the right gun? You just found it. You can’t possibly have had time to test it!”

  The sheriff’s hand tightened around the bag, as if afraid I’d try to take it away from him. “We’ll test it. First thing tomorrow. But it’s gonna turn out to be the right gun.”

  I glanced at Rafe, who nodded.

  “How do you know?” And it wasn’t because he’d put it there. If he had driven down from Nashville to kill Billy Scruggs—and I didn’t think he had—he wasn’t stupid enough to bring the gun he’d used back to Sweetwater again, and leave it where someone could find it. He’d have ditched it at the first opportunity, long before he ended up back in Maury County.

  “This don’t make sense otherwise,” Rafe said.

  “Someone’s trying to frame you!”

  “Or just getting rid of the gun and leaving it with the most likely suspect. It prob’ly isn’t personal.”

  Good of him to take it so calmly. I’d be beside myself. In fact, I was.

  “Go get some sleep,” my boyfriend told me. “It’s been a long day.”

  It had. And I was tired. Too tired to fight any more over this. Especially as it seemed Rafe was just going to go along with it without demur. “I’ll come see you in the morning.”

  I waited to see if the sheriff would tell me I couldn’t. He didn’t. “After nine,” he told me.

  “Visiting hours don’t start until then?”

  “Sometimes we don’t bring in breakfast until after eight. And you don’t wanna get between a man and his pancakes.”

  “I’ll see you then,” I told Rafe.

  He nodded. “If you’re ready, Sheriff.”

  They walked out together. I waited for Sheriff Satterfield to maneuver Rafe into the truck, and for the truck to drive away, before I closed and locked the door. And turned to my mother, who was still standing outside the door to the parlor. She hadn’t said a word throughout this whole ordeal. “Is this your doing? I know you don’t like Rafe, but having him thrown in jail is going a little too far, even for you.”

  “No,” my mother said.

  “He didn’t do it. I know he didn’t.”

  She didn’t answer, just walked back into the parlor and closed the door. I trudged up the stairs on my own, too tired to pursue the matter any further tonight, but still wondering what on earth was going on.

  I could count the number of times I’d gone to bed alone since Christmas on a couple of digits on one hand, and still have most of my fingers left over. Rafe and I tended to hit the mattress together, one on top of the other. It was different, crawling into bed alone. And since I was back in my childhood room, in my childhood home, it was a little like going back in time.

  And it wasn’t like I didn’t have plenty of things on my mind. My boyfriend’s arrest. My best friend’s reservations about my relationship. Four murders and one attempted murder. A friend’s rape. Not to mention one of the murder weapons turning up in Rafe’s bike.

  None of that kept me from dropping off to sleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. The day had been long and crazy, and my body was working overtime producing a child. Rafe was right: I needed my rest.

  But being exhausted didn’t keep my subconscious from spinning. I couldn’t keep my eyes open, but my mind whirred... and turned its thoughts into a kaleidoscope of images and dreams.

  Charlotte and I walked into Matt Perkins’s house, where some sort of crazy party was going on. There were people everywhere, and strobe lights and music so loud it hurt my ears. Can you keep up... Make me lose my breath... A melody and words I remembered from high school, without being able to put a name to the song.

  Bodies were gyrating amidst the furniture, rubbing against each other. Darlene was there with Rhonda. Jan and Danny were dancing cheek to cheek. Epiphany and Tina were over in a corner, drinking something red from stemmed glasses. Every time one of them took a sip, red dripped from her lips like blood from a vampire’s teeth.

  Rafe was over in a corner with Yvonne McCoy. She had her arms ar
ound his neck and her fingers in his hair, arching her body against him. In high school, he’d worn his hair in cornrows. Yvonne was plastered against him, her breasts squashed against his chest.

  My fingernails dug into my palms, and I could feel steam coming out of my ears.

  “Don’t stare,” my mother’s voice said. “It’s rude.”

  I turned, but it was still Charlotte next to me. My mother was nowhere to be found, even if almost everyone else I knew was in this room.

  Mary Kelly and Matt were swaying together, like I’d seen them dance Saturday night, only this time Matt’s shirt was drenched with blood. It seemed to be spreading to—or maybe from—Mary Kelly’s red suit as they moved together. The lights flickered and the beat of the music pounded like jungle drums, or like the beating of a heart, pumping the blood out of the body.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  I opened my eyes.

  The music went away, but the banging didn’t. It took me a second of disoriented blinking before I realized where I was and that the noise came from downstairs.

  I stumbled out of bed and went looking for a robe. It took a few seconds to find one, and by the time I made it out into the hallway, Mother was already up and on her way down the curving staircase in front of me. I hustled to catch up, and got there just as she pulled back the deadbolt on the door and twisted the handle.

  The door opened, showing a tall, male figure on the mat. My heart skipped a beat, and then started beating doubletime as I took in the sheriff’s grim expression.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and then his voice turned to buzzing in my ears as the world narrowed and my vision tunneled.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I didn’t faint. I was still upright when I came back to myself. And I couldn’t have been out for more than a second or two, because we were still standing in the foyer with the front door open and the cool air snaking around my ankles. The difference was that now the sheriff was inside, supporting me on one side, while Mother had her arm around me from the other.

  “He’s fine,” the sheriff was saying, and I got the impression from his tone of voice that he’d said it before. More than once. “Nothing wrong with him at all.”

  ‘Him’ being Rafe, I assumed. Although it couldn’t hurt to make sure. I fumbled for Bob Satterfield’s arm and latched on. “Rafe’s OK?”

  “He’s fine. Back at the station. Asleep.”

  “Thank God. Thank you.”

  “This has nothing to do with the boy,” the sheriff said. For some reason, he often refers to Rafe as a boy. Then again, he talks about his son and Dix in the same way, so I don’t think it’s personal.

  “What’s it about?” I stiffened my spine, and he dropped his arm. Mother did the same, leaving me to manage standing on my own.

  “The Albertsons,” the sheriff said.

  “Charlotte’s parents?”

  He nodded. “There was a fire.”

  Oh my God. The world took another quick spin. “Are they OK?”

  “They’re fine. They’re in the car.”

  I peered out the door. So they were. All three of them. Two silhouettes in the back, one in the front. Mr. and Mrs. Albertson and Charlotte, I assumed.

  “I thought,” the sheriff said, “seeing as she’s your best friend, and seeing as you’ve got plenty of room, they might could stay here.”

  “Of course.” Mother turned to me. “Run upstairs and make up the beds in the blue and green bedrooms, darling.”

  I nodded. “How is their house?” I asked the sheriff as I turned toward the stairs.

  “Smoke and water damage. And the kitchen will have to be redone. But luckily Charlotte wasn’t asleep.”

  Good thing I’d given her that Coke at Dix’s house, wasn’t it?

  “She noticed the smoke almost right away and called the fire department.”

  “That’s great.” I headed up the stairs to fetch sheets and make beds, while the sheriff ducked outside to bring the Albertsons in.

  They were in their pajamas and nightgown, with bare feet inside shoes, and as soon as the beds were made, Mother bundled Mr. and Mrs. Albertson into one. I ushered Charlotte into the other. “You remember where the bathroom is, I’m sure.”

  “Down the hall on the right.” She wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Thanks for taking us in.”

  What, was I going to let them sleep outside? Or go to a hotel? “It’s our pleasure. We have plenty of space.”

  Charlotte nodded, looking around. “It looks just the same.”

  Yes, it did. The mansion hadn’t changed much in the last ten years. Or in the hundred or so before that.

  “What happened?” I asked, and she turned back to me.

  “The house caught fire.”

  I knew that. “Did someone leave a candle burning or something? Or was it a fault in the wiring?”

  “No candle,” Charlotte said. “Nothing left burning on the stove. And my parents updated the wiring two years ago, when they redid the kitchen.”

  The kitchen that now would have to be redone again.

  “Where did the fire start?”

  “Laundry room,” Charlotte said. “By the time I smelled the smoke, it had spread to the kitchen.”

  “I’ve heard of dryer lint catching fire.”

  She shrugged. “I guess they’ll tell us tomorrow. Right now I just want to sleep.”

  “Of course.” I padded toward the door. “Sweet dreams.”

  “Savannah?”

  I stopped in the doorway.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” I ducked out before she could say anything more. Ten years ago, it would have been unquestionably obvious that Charlotte and her parents would stay with us if something like this happened. The fact that she kept thanking me kept rubbing it in that we were ten years older and nothing was obvious anymore.

  By the time I woke up the next morning, the sun was shining and things were well. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and headed for the bathroom, where I brushed my teeth, emptied my stomach, and brushed my teeth again. Apparently all was well inside.

  Downstairs in the kitchen, my mother was feeding Mr. and Mrs. Albertson, while Charlotte was sitting at the island staring into a cup of coffee.

  “Good morning, Savannah,” Mother chirped when I came through the door. “Coffee?”

  “No. Thank you.” It occurred to me that I still hadn’t told her about the baby. We were supposed to do that last night, before Rafe got arrested. But I didn’t want to do it without him. I certainly didn’t want to do it with the Albertsons sitting across the table. And anyway, Mother was in such a good mood this morning that it seemed a shame to ruin it.

  “Eggs Benedict?” she chirped.

  I shuddered. “No, thank you.”

  Charlotte looked at me. I avoided her eyes. “I think I’ll go out for a bit.”

  “It’s not even eight o’clock,” Mrs. Albertson said.

  “It’s too early to visit the jail,” my mother added. And then she flushed when she realized she’d spoken the word out loud.

  “Jail?”

  All the Albertsons said it in unison. Even Charlotte.

  “The sheriff stopped by and picked up Rafe last night,” I explained. “He said I could stop by after nine. That way I won’t interfere with their pancake breakfast.”

  There. That was true, but it didn’t make it sound like my boyfriend had been arrested. More like he was helping the police with their inquiries, as the saying goes. All friendly-like.

  Mother looked approving, for the first time in a long time.

  I took the opportunity to head toward the door. Charlotte was watching me, and on impulse, I asked, “Do you want to come?”

  She hesitated, long enough to make me wish I hadn’t said anything. Just as I was about to retract the invitation, she slid off the stool. “Yes, please.”

  “Great.” I forced a smile. “Nice to see you again,” I told Mr
. and Mrs. Albertson. “I’ll see you when I get back,” I added, for my mother’s benefit.

  “Be careful, darling.”

  She didn’t wait for an answer. By the time I passed through the door to the hallway, she had already turned back to Charlotte’s parents. They were going to talk about me, no doubt.

  “How about we go to Beulah’s Meat’n Three,” I suggested when we were outside. “We can get something to eat.”

  “At Beulah’s?” Charlotte made a face. The same face my mother would have made at the thought of eating at Beulah’s.

  “You can just have a cup of coffee if you want. Or maybe they can rustle you up a fruit cup.”

  Charlotte didn’t respond, but her lips pinched. “I have to call Richard,” she informed me, and started digging through her purse for her phone. “And ask him to change my flight for me. I can’t leave until I know that mom and dad will be all right.”

  “You didn’t call him last night?”

  “There wasn’t anything he could do,” Charlotte said. “And it was late. I didn’t want to risk waking the kids.”

  She turned her attention to the phone. I focused on driving the car.

  By the time we pulled into the parking lot in front of the small cinderblock building, Charlotte was done with her phone call. Richard had been understanding, if slightly peeved about not getting his wife back on schedule, at least from what I had gathered by listening to Charlotte’s half of the conversation.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked as I slotted the car into a parking spot and killed the engine. “Surely he isn’t upset that you have to stay longer? Your parents’ house caught fire!”

  “He’s very busy,” Charlotte said loyally. “It’s a lot more work for him when he has to get the kids ready for school and picked up, and he has to make dinner and help them with their homework.”

  “All the things you usually do.”

  She shrugged. “He’s an important man.”

  Sculpting noses for socialites. Important work.

  I immediately chastized myself for my cynicism. Richard might indeed be doing important work. Maybe he was helping burn victims and children with cleft palates. Giving people better lives through cosmetic surgery. It’s possible. Some people do it.