“Can’t,” Alexandra said with disgust lacing her voice. “Maybelle has plans.”
Maybelle always had plans. And not just for Saturday afternoons.
Maybelle Driscoll lived across the street from the Puckett family on Winding Way, in a very nice neighborhood not too far from my own. Brush Hill, with big properties with lots of trees, close to the river.
Sometime over the past couple of years, since Mr. Driscoll died, Maybelle had started an affair with Steven Puckett, Brenda’s husband. Or Brenda’s widower, now. Back in August, when Brenda was murdered, I had seriously wondered whether Maybelle, or Steven, or both of them together, had killed her. Steven didn’t seem the type, but Maybelle would have slit Brenda’s throat without a second thought and then square-danced on the remains. She showed up to Brenda’s funeral in a bright blue dress, and got herself engaged to Steven less than a week later. Ever since then, she’s done her best to replace Brenda in the Puckett family dynamic. But where Steven seemed happy about it, and Austin—the boy—was non-committal, Alexandra had been actively resisting. She didn’t like Maybelle, and she didn’t want another mother.
“Sunday, then?” I had to sit an open house for a colleague in the afternoon, but other than that, my time was my own.
“Can’t,” Alexandra said again. “Maybelle...”
—had plans. Right.
“I’ll stop by your office in the morning and talk to you,” Alexandra decided. “That OK?”
“Of course. You know where...?” I cut myself off. Of course she knew where it was. Her mother had worked there for years.
“I’ll be there by nine or so,” Alexandra said. “Bye.” She hung up. Without letting me answer. I didn’t take it personally, since it wasn’t the first time it had happened. Maybe someone had come into the room to see who she was talking to on the phone so late, or maybe she just had no manners. Brenda had been lacking in that department, too.
Leaving the phone on the counter to continue charging, I headed back to the living room, dragging my feet. If I looked anywhere near as bad as I felt, I must be a horrible sight. I should probably chop up a cucumber to take some of the swelling down around my eyes, or steep a couple of teabags or something, but I lacked the energy. All I wanted to do was go to bed and forget this night ever happened, but I figured I didn’t stand a chance of actually falling asleep. My body was dragging, but my head was still buzzing. Instead of sleeping, I’d probably lie there, tossing and turning, thoughts spinning, until daybreak. And then I’d look even worse than I did now.
Maybe a shower would do me good. Or better yet, a bath. With lots of warm water and bubbles. Candles. Soft music. Something soothing, to calm my jangling nerves and help me relax.
I padded into the single bathroom and started the water running into the tub, adding bath salts and sweet-smelling bubble mix. And then, when the tub was full, I stripped down to my skin, piled my hair on top of my head—I’d washed it in the afternoon, in preparation for my date with Todd, and I didn’t have the inclination to blow it dry a second time today—and sank down into the bubbles.
By the time I got out and dried off, I was feeling a lot more mellow. I’d finished rinsing with cold water, so the face that stared back at me from the mirror above the sink didn’t look as awful as I’d feared. My eyes were still bloodshot and a little puffy from all the crying, but other than that, I’d looked worse. Recently, too. The first few weeks after I lost the baby had been pretty bad.
It was my second miscarriage. Losing Bradley’s baby three years ago had been disappointing as well as physically exhausting, but it hadn’t been devastating. Losing’s Rafe’s baby—and then on the heels of it losing Rafe himself, too—let’s just say I’d had a rough few weeks.
I looked better now than I did just after it happened. Tired, sure. Like I’d spent the night crying. But there was color in my cheeks and light in my eyes; I didn’t look like I was near death.
Abandoning the bathroom mirror, I wrapped a robe around myself and headed out of the bathroom. It was almost one o’clock. Definitely time to go to bed. I’d have to be in the office by eight the next morning to answer the phones on the receptionist’s morning off—floor duty, in RealtorSpeak—and at this rate, I’d be dragging myself out of bed right about the time I should be unlocking the door over there, bright and chipper.
The lights were still on in the living room, and I headed that way to turn them of before crawling under the covers. Only to stop in the doorway when I saw that I had company.
Chapter 3
“Evening, darlin’,” Rafe said.
He was lounging in the sofa where Todd had sat earlier, and when I walked into the room, he’d turned his head to greet me.
I regret to say I had no response. Nothing witty or even halfway clever. I couldn’t even manage coherent. I had thought the apartment was secure. I’d locked and bolted the door when Todd left, and a quick look in that direction assured me that the deadbolt was indeed still turned and the security chain was hooked across the jamb.
I knew Rafe could work wonders with a lock pick—or for that matter with a couple of bobby pins. I wasn’t surprised that he’d gotten past my deadbolt. But surely that security chain must have given him a little trouble?
And entirely aside from that, what was he doing here? Hadn’t he done enough damage to my psyche?
“Cat got your tongue, darlin’?”
I took a breath, and then another. When I thought I could trust that my voice wouldn’t break, I said, “I didn’t expect to see you.”
He nodded but didn’t speak. As I walked around the sofa over to the chair where I’d sat earlier, he watched me.
“What are you doing here?” I added, tucking the robe around my legs, suddenly very aware of the fact that I was naked underneath.
And speaking of nakedness, I was also barefoot and totally without makeup and my eyes were red and puffy from crying. Talk about being emotionally stripped.
“Saw you at the restaurant,” Rafe said. “Figured I’d clear the air.”
He must have come directly from what’s-her-name, because he was still wearing what he’d worn at Fidelio’s. And they were clothes I’d never seen him in before. Usually it’s jeans and a T-shirt; occasionally slacks and a button-down. Tonight it was a suit, beautifully cut, something Bradley or Todd might wear, over a starched white shirt and conservative tie. He had loosened the tie already, and had removed both that and the jacket. It was tossed negligently over the back of one of the dining room chairs with the tie peeking out of the pocket, and he was in the process of rolling up the sleeves of the shirt.
His hands and forearms are just as nice as the rest of him, and I averted my eyes. “I didn’t see you. You should have stopped by to say hello.” My voice was remarkably steady as I spouted these lies.
“You and Satterfield looked pretty chummy,” Rafe said. “I didn’t wanna interrupt.”
Right.
“I’m surprised you were there in the first place. At Fidelio’s. Not really your kind of place, is it?”
“Business dinner,” Rafe said.
Hah, I thought. She’d been much too pretty and flirtatious for that. And he’d looked much too appreciative.
But since I’d told him I hadn’t noticed them, I couldn’t really say anything about it. I chewed on my tongue, frustrated.
He leaned back and stretched his arms out along the back of the sofa. I could see the outline of his viper tattoo like a dark smudge through the left sleeve. And the posture—wide open—didn’t fool me for a second. There was nothing open about Rafe. There never had been. Posture or no, he was as closed off as ever. He’d show me only what he wanted me to see and no more. “Satterfield propose again?” he inquired, with a quirked brow.
“Not tonight.” Not for a few weeks, actually. I’d been pretty fragile after the miscarriage and everything else that had happened, and he’d given me some peace. I wasn’t about to tell Rafe that, though. “Something I can do for you?”
I added.
For a second he just looked at me. Then— “I hear you got shot.”
He’d come here to talk about that?
“In the shoulder.” The same place he’d been shot two months earlier. We’d have matching scars. I didn’t say that, either. “It wasn’t a big deal. Hurt a lot, but it’s better now.” And I wasn’t about to slip the robe off my shoulder to show him the wound. If things had been different I would have, but not now.
He nodded, and we sat in silence again. It was awkward, different from all the other times we’d been together. I’d never had a problem talking to him. Most of the time I talked too much, telling him things I shouldn’t. But now it seemed we both had a problem finding words.
“So you’re back in Nashville,” I said.
He shifted his weight on the sofa. It squeaked. “Drove in yesterday.”
And he was already dating. That must mean he’d known her from before. He must have known her while he was sleeping with me. Maybe he’d been sleeping with both of us at the same time. I was aware of a bad taste in my mouth, and because I wasn’t thinking straight, I blurted out something that would probably have been better left unsaid.
“Were you planning to let me know? If we hadn’t both been at Fidelio’s tonight?”
I would have taken the words back if I could, but it was too late. All I could do was wait for his answer, holding my breath and worrying about what it would be.
“Eventually,” he said. Eventually. I wasn’t sure whether that was better or worse than a straight yes or no. A yes would have made me feel better, like there might be hope. A no would have made me feel worse, but would have settled things once and for all. But ‘eventually’... what did that mean? That if his fling with tonight’s girlfriend didn’t work out as planned, I might make an acceptable substitute for a quick roll in the hay?
“And if I happen to see you again? Out and about? Are you Rafe Collier these days? Or Jorge Pena? Or someone else?”
“If you happen to see me,” Rafe said, “you don’t know me.”
Wonderful. “That can be arranged. I ignored you tonight; I can ignore you next time.”
“Good,” Rafe said and got to his feet.
I stayed where I was, in the chair, staring at him. That was it? He was just going to walk away? Again?
It looked like he was. He grabbed the suit jacket from the chair and slipped it on. It fit him beautifully—with a physique like his, everything fits beautifully—but I preferred him in jeans and a T-shirt. Or in nothing at all.
“Are you putting yourself in danger again?” fell out of my mouth.
He glanced at me, in the process of making sure the conservative tie was still safely tucked in the pocket. “No more than usual.”
And with that he walked to the door, undid the deadbolt and chain, and walked out, closing the door gently behind him. By the time I got there and looked out into the hallway, he was gone. Without a goodbye, without a kiss, without flirting or even smiling at me. And without bringing up the pregnancy or miscarriage. No word at all about what had happened last time we’d seen each other. No anger, no accusations—from either of us—and no resolutions. It was like it never happened.
I was more confused than ever when I went to bed.
The real estate company I work for started life as Walker Lamont Realty. When Walker went to prison for murder, Timothy Briggs became broker, and the name was changed to Lamont, Briggs and Associates. After a few months, Tim—in an effort to remove the stigma of Walker’s name—shortened it to LB&A.
The office is located just a mile or two down the road from where I live, and I made it there a little after eight the next morning, after taking the time to put on nice clothes and to slap rather a lot of makeup on my face to hide the circles under my eyes. Just because I felt like crap, didn’t mean I could show the world an unfinished face.
Alexandra showed up just before nine. By then the phone hadn’t rung and nobody else had stopped by. I had done what little bit of work I could dream up, I had checked the new property listings and organized Brittany’s pencil tray by length and color, and I had given up and was flipping through one of Brittany’s fashion magazines while I waited for it to be noon so I could leave.
Back in the old days I used to bring romance novels to the office for something to do during the downtimes. Then I’d learned that my favorite romance author, Barbara Botticelli, was actually a woman named Elspeth Caulfield, who lived in a little town named Damascus about twenty minutes from Sweetwater. We’d gone to high school together. I hadn’t noticed her, and I don’t think she’d noticed me either, but she had noticed Rafe. In fact, she’d had a bit of an obsession with him. One that didn’t go away during the twelve years she didn’t see him, between high school and this September.
She spent that time developing a reputation as a bestselling author of bodice rippers. Books where the heroines were always virginal, blonde good girls, and the heroes were always tall, dark, and dangerous bad boys: highwaymen, pirates, Bedouin sheiks and Apache warriors. I saw Rafe in every one of them, even before I knew who Barbara was. And ever since I realized that he not only looked like a Barbara Botticelli hero, but that she’d actively imagined him when she was writing, I haven’t been able to read another of her books. Knowing that she’d slept with him in high school and was imagining doing so again was bad enough; reading the sordid details was more than I could stomach. I had tried to find another author to take Barbara’s place, but so far no luck. There are entirely too many tall, dark and dangerous bad boy heroes in romance novels, and frankly, I just didn’t need the reminder.
As a result, when Alexandra came through the door, I was leafing through the December issue of Cosmo, admiring a rather lovely green velvet dress that would be perfect for Christmas Eve.
“Oh.” I looked up when the door opened and put the magazine down. “It’s you.”
“Hi, Savannah.” Alexandra came inside, bringing a blast of frigid air with her, and glanced around the small lobby. “Wow. It looks just like it did when my mom worked here.”
I looked around, too. It had always looked like this, as far as I knew. Tasteful and elegant. Walker had lovely, classic taste, and when he furnished something, it stayed furnished. A pity he was a coldblooded murderer, because he was a very nice man apart from that.
Alexandra unwound a long scarf from around her neck and slipped out of a short padded black jacket.
When I first met her, at Brenda’s funeral, she’d been dressed in a black cocktail dress that made her look older than she was, with long hair wound into a complicated updo on top of her head. The last time I’d seen her, a month ago, her hair had been shoulder length and choppy, and she’d been wearing jeans and a cropped top showing off her navel ring.
Today the hair was even shorter: a spiky mess with streaks of purple to match the heavy makeup outlining her eyes. She was dressed all in black: boots, jeans, turtleneck and coat. Only the scarf showed a hint of color. Purple, of course.
“Are you going Goth?” I asked, interested.
Alexandra looked down at herself and shook her head. “I just felt like wearing black today.”
I’d felt like wearing black too. I frequently do. It’s slimming, and I carry a few pounds too many. And besides, it’s easy to accessorize. Black goes with everything, and everything goes with black.
My blouse, however, was pink and happy. When I got dressed, I’d thought maybe the bright color might make me feel better. So far it hadn’t.
“Are you OK?” Alexandra asked, peering intently at my face from across the desk. “You don’t look so good.”
Gee, thanks.
“I’m fine, thank you. I didn’t sleep well last night.” Understatement of the century.
Alexandra nodded sympathetically and dropped into one of the chairs on the other side of the desk. “Bad cold, huh?” She twined one leg around the other.
Not really. But then I remembered telling her I had a stuffy nose when we spo
ke on the phone last night, and I realized where she’d gotten the idea from. “Something like that. So what’s going on?”
“Maybelle,” Alexandra said and blew out a breath.
“Did something happen?”
She shook her head. “Nothing new. My dad’s marrying her the day before New Year.”
That was fast. Brenda died the first weekend in August. So five months, almost to the day, before her husband planned to marry again. That wasn’t even the minimum six month’s requisite mourning period.
Not that it would have been Steven’s idea. Oh, no. He’d been firmly under Brenda’s thumb, and now he was just as firmly under Maybelle’s. This was her doing.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Alexandra leaned forward, her hands fisted. “I have to stop them, Savannah. I can’t have Maybelle for a stepmother.”
I wouldn’t want Maybelle for a stepmother either, but exactly what did she think she could do about it?
“I’m not sure,” she said when I asked. “I thought, since you figured out who killed my mom...” She trailed off.
Figuring out who killed Brenda hardly qualified me to get rid of her replacement. First of all, it had been pure luck, or unluck, that had put me in the path of Brenda’s killer. And secondly, what did catching murderers have to do with stopping a wedding?
“I thought you’d ask that,” Alexandra said.
“So?”
“What if Maybelle killed her first husband? What if she’s planning to kill my dad after they’re married?”
I sat up a little straighter. “Do have any reason to think she killed her first husband? Or that she’s after your dad?”
Alexandra admitted she didn’t. “There’s something about her, though, Savannah. I don’t like her.”
I didn’t like her either. But that didn’t make her a murderer. “What do you want me to do about it?”
Alexandra dug in her jeans pocket. Then she held her fist above Brittany’s desk and opened it. A key dropped in front of me. I looked at it for a second—it was attached to a key chain shaped like a small star—and then back up at her.
A Done Deal Page 3