Maybelle didn’t admit anything, had just sat on my sofa with her hands primly folded in her lap, scowling. On the other hand, she didn’t deny it either, which went a long way towards making me think young Lenny might have a point.
When Detective Grimaldi took her away, Lenny went along, to make sure Grimaldi contacted the sheriff in Florence. By then it was getting late, and the detective agreed that I could give her my statement tomorrow instead. She said she’d call me in the morning to work out a time and place. I’d asked about Rafe, and she had told me he was on his way to Atlanta.
“The hospital called. Hector’s going to be just fine, and by the time he has to go to trial, his voice should be back to normal, too. Your boyfriend did a number on his larynx.”
“He fights dirty,” I said, with a touch of pride in my voice.
“And then some,” the detective agreed. “Anyway, Hector’s on his way to Atlanta, and Mr. Collier is riding shotgun.”
“He’s OK, isn’t he?”
“He’s armed,” Grimaldi said, “and Hector’s handcuffed. He’s also not alone. Wendell Craig is with him, and so is a representative for the FBI.”
“None of your people?”
“Our jurisdiction ends in Nashville,” Grimaldi said. “The TBI’s jurisdiction ends at the state line, technically, but since this is a joint investigation involving both the TBI and the FBI, and since your boyfriend’s spent the past few months undercover in Atlanta, it made sense for him to go back there. He wanted to. Said it was personal.”
“Any idea when he’ll be back?”
“A few days,” Grimaldi said. “Maybe a week.”
She waited a second to see if I had anything more to say. When I didn’t, she added, “I’ll call you tomorrow. And expect a visit from Spicer and Truman in the AM. The auto shop is done with your car. There are no more little surprises.”
“Thank you,” I’d smiled at Maybelle, who had growled back at me. Young Lenny had given me a nod when they walked out, and that was it. I’d finally made it to bed and had slept like—pardon the pun—the dead until this morning, when Spicer and Truman showed up with my car.
And now here I was, with my keys in my hand, my Volvo parked at the curb, and good news for Kylie.
She and Aislynn had called me after the whole debacle had ended last night, and had dictated a verbal counter for me to pass on to Tim. He’d called his clients, and this morning he’d called back and said they’d accepted the offer. All I had to do was get everyone’s signature on all the paperwork, and then it’d be a done deal. I hoped Aislynn and Kylie would be as thrilled as I was.
“Call if you run into any problems,” Spicer said with a tip of his cap, and then he and Truman got into their squad car and drove off. I headed back upstairs to the apartment to get ready, after directing a fond glance at the Volvo. It was nice to have wheels again.
By the time I got to the hospital, Kylie was ready to go. She was also alone. “Aislynn went to work,” she explained when I looked around at the empty room. “She’s been here pretty much 24/7, and we didn’t think it made any sense for her to miss another day of work and income to take a cab here just to drive back home with me. She’ll be home by three o’clock this afternoon.”
I nodded. “Makes sense. I’ll help you get settled.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Kylie said.
“I don’t mind. It seems the least I can do, seeing as—” I stopped, flushing.
“As what?” Kylie prompted.
“Seeing as it’s my fault you were hurt.”
“How can it be your fault?”
I opened my mouth to explain, but the rattle of a wheelchair in the hallway stopped me. A second later, a cheerful nurse had pushed herself and the chair through the door into the room. “Ready to go?”
Kylie nodded. “More than ready.”
The nurse turned to me. “You must be the sister. Dr. Simon said you looked alike.”
“Right,” I said. I’d forgotten all about the little white lie I’d told to gain access to Kylie’s room the night of the accident. Kylie looked surprised but she didn’t set the nurse straight.
“Are you driving your sister home?”
I nodded.
“We’ll just get loaded up, and you can be on your way.” She maneuvered Kylie from the bed into the chair, and dropped Kylie’s bag into Kylie’s lap.
“I can take that,” I offered as we set ourselves in motion through the door and down the hall.
Kylie shook her head. “I’ve got it. It isn’t heavy. So what’s this about it being your fault?”
“Oh.” I might have wished she wouldn’t have brought it up again while the nurse could hear, but I supposed it was no more than I deserved. I told her the whole story about Maybelle and the Volvos and how the fact that we looked alike and drove similar cars had been to blame for the accident that hurt her.
“So it was someone trying to get you?” There was a wrinkle between her brows.
I nodded.
“Dear me!” the nurse said.
“Does that happen often?” Kylie wanted to know.
More often than I like. I shook my head and smiled. “Hardly ever. And the police arrested her last night. She’s in prison. The auto shop went over the car in detail, and there’s nothing wrong with it. You’ll be perfectly safe.”
Kylie nodded, reassured. The nurse didn’t look so happy. However, she helped Kylie into the passenger seat without a word, while I put the overnight bag into the trunk and wandered around the car to the driver’s side.
I must admit I held my breath when I turned the key in the ignition. Spicer and Truman had assured me the car was safe, and if Rafe had threatened the auto shop owner, I had no doubt he’d done a thorough job, but even so, there was a tiny part of me that expected the engine to blow when the car started. I stopped breathing, my body tense and ready to jump if anything threatened to go wrong. It didn’t; the car just settled into its usual sort of growly purr. I pulled on the gear shift and rolled on out of the hospital area and onto Hillsboro Road South.
“Were you worried?” Kylie wanted to know.
I glanced at her. “Excuse me?”
“As soon as we left the hospital, you relaxed. Were you worried?”
Oops.
I bit my lip. It was probably better not to admit that I’d been afraid the car would explode; that wouldn’t be reassuring. So I did the next best thing and confessed to something else instead. “I don’t like hospitals. I’ve spent a lot of time in them lately.”
Kylie wrinkled her brows. “Something wrong?”
“Not anymore.” And since it probably also wouldn’t sound reassuring that I got shot recently, I skipped over that part and forced a smile. “I had a miscarriage a couple of weeks ago.”
Her face sort of crumpled. “I’m so sorry.”
“I am, too. It was really hard.” I concentrated on maneuvering the car through the intersection at Hillsboro Road and Wedgewood Avenue, blinking back the tears that still threatened every time I thought too hard about what I’d lost. “It was my second. One with my ex-husband and one with...”
I hesitated, not sure what to call Rafe. I’d gotten to the point of not objecting when someone else called him my boyfriend, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to use that terminology.
“Your partner?” Kylie suggested.
There were times I felt very much like we had a partnership, sure. In a way I’d never felt with Bradley or Todd. They loved me—in Bradley’s case, I’m sure it had been to the best of his ability, even if that didn’t amount to much in the end—and they wanted to protect and cherish me, but they’d never made me feel like an equal. Rafe did.
Yes, partner sounded good.
I smiled. “Something like that. I love him. He likes me. He might even love me, even if he’s never said it. He saved my life yesterday. Twice. And when he comes back from Atlanta, we’re going to try again.”
I’d told him I wanted another shot
at a baby, and he’d told me he had plans for me when he came back... in my mind, that translated to lots of lovely time spent between the sheets, and Rafe not being averse to knocking me up one more time.
“Aislynn and I want to adopt,” Kylie said.
“That’s wonderful. Rafe has a twelve year old son who’s adopted.”
“Rafe’s your boyfriend?”
I nodded.
“Sounds like a romance novel hero,” Kylie said with a grin. I grinned back, and didn’t tell her how right she was. “So you’ll be a stepmother?”
“Oh, no. He got adopted by someone else. Rafe didn’t even know David existed until a couple of months ago.”
She looked confused, and I added, “It’s complicated. But David is Rafe’s son, and he got adopted at birth by two lovely people, and everything is great. Adoption can be a wonderful thing.” And hopefully, if Rafe got out of his association with the TBI and the undercover ops, and got that normal life he’d told me about, Sam and Ginny Flannery would let him get to know David.
“Sounds like you have an interesting life,” Kylie said.
I smiled. “I guess I do. More interesting than I like at times. But at least it’s never dull.”
“I think I’d like mine to be dull for a while,” Kylie said, shifting in her seat. “This has been more than enough excitement for me. I just want to go home and rest.”
I imagined she did. I stepped on the gas to get her there faster, and the car responded just as it should. It was nice. I focused on driving and let Kylie snuggle into the seat and get comfortable.
I got her home and situated, and got her signature on the paperwork I needed for the house in East Nashville before leaving. From Kylie’s I scooted over to Sara Beth’s Café and got Aislynn’s signature, creating a binding agreement. It was the middle of the lunch rush, so Aislynn didn’t have time to talk, and all the tables at Sara Beth’s were occupied, so I couldn’t even sit down and eat. Instead, I got back into the car and headed for the office, to drop off the completed paperwork and earnest money check to Tim.
I was halfway there when the phone rang. “Morning, Ms. Martin,” Tamara Grimaldi said.
“Good morning. How are you?” She sounded a little better today, as if she’d actually gotten a good night’s sleep for once.
“Fine. I thought you might want to grab a bite while we do the report. It’s been a while since I’ve had a chance to sit down and eat.”
“Sure,” I said. We’d had lunch together a few times before, actually. “I’m on my way back to East Nashville. Where do you want to meet?”
We settled on a sports bar just down the street from the real estate office, and a time that would allow me to park and go inside to drop my paperwork off to Tim before wandering down the street to the FinBar.
Tim was gone when I got to the office, so I gave the paperwork to Brittany instead, and asked her to make sure I got a copy of everything in my mailbox. She flipped her ponytail and asked why I couldn’t just make my own copies.
I bit back my original retort, which was to tell her that as receptionist and office support, it was her job. “I’m having lunch with Detective Grimaldi in a few minutes. I don’t have the time.”
“I saw you on TV the other night,” Brittany said.
You and the rest of Nashville. “Good for you. Will you get me copies of that paperwork?”
“Sure,” Brittany said, shuffling the pages, clearly not focused on what she was saying. “Who was that guy you were with?”
“Nobody you know. A South American hitman named Jorge Pena.”
“Tim said he’s your boyfriend,” Brittany said.
“Tim’s crazy. I’d never date a hitman. My mother would disinherit me. And anyway, Jorge’s dead.”
“Oh,” Brittany said. “Is that why you’re meeting the police? Because you killed him?”
“Of course not,” I said. “I’d never kill anyone.” Although if it had been me instead of Elspeth, standing between Rafe and Jorge with a loaded gun in my hand two months ago, I’d have shot Jorge without hesitation before giving him a chance to shoot me. So I guess it would depend on the circumstances.
“What are you meeting the police for, then?”
“Lunch.” I smiled sweetly and headed for the back door. “Tell Tim to call me if he has any questions. About the contract, I mean. And make sure I get a copy of the paperwork in my mailbox.”
“What?” Brittany said, just as I closed the door behind me and set off down the sidewalk toward the FinBar.
The detective was already waiting when I got there, at a table for two over in the corner. As is Rafe’s habit, she had positioned herself with her back to the wall, in a location where she could see the whole room as well as the front door. As soon as I walked in, she lifted a hand. I drifted over there and sat down, and ordered a Diet Coke from the waitress who appeared. Once she’d taken herself off again, I smiled at the detective.
“Nice to see you. Under circumstances where I haven’t been in mortal danger immediately preceding.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Tamara Grimaldi said, with a thorough look at me. “How do you feel?”
“I’m fine.” I shrugged out of my coat and hung it over the back of the chair. “The headache’s gone. My wrists feel better. And Maybelle didn’t hurt me. Everything’s good.”
Grimaldi nodded. “I’m going to record your statement. Once I get it typed up, I’ll email you a copy for your signature.”
“That’s fine.” She set her phone to record and nodded to me. I launched into my story of what had happened after she and Rafe drove off yesterday, beginning with my stupidity in answering the door without checking the peephole first, because I thought it was Rafe coming back. The detective pursed her lips disapprovingly, but her eyes were laughing.
“That’s it?” she said two minutes later when I’d gotten to the end.
I nodded. “It was pretty simple. The knocking on the door distracted her for a second. I pushed the table at her, she dropped the gun, and I went and opened the door. Then I called you, and sat and listened to Lenny and Maybelle talk while I waited. Do you want me to go over what Lenny said?”
She shook her head. “No, thank you. It’s hearsay. And I got his statement last night. Thanks.” She turned the recorder off, after rattling off the salient details about where, when, who and why.
“So what will happen now?”
“Mr. Wilkins drove back to Alabama yesterday,” Grimaldi said. “Maybelle spent the night in jail. We got her on attempted murder and a few other, minor charges. Tampering with your car, trying to force you off the road, causing Ms. Mitchell’s and Ms. Turner’s accident.”
“That’s all?” She’d killed three people, and all the police could do was arrest her for tampering with my car?
“It’s the best I can do right now. The Davidson County DA will determine whether there’s cause for reopening the investigation into Harold Driscoll’s death. I’ve notified authorities in Florence, Alabama, as well as in Natchez, where they are waiting to see what we decide to do before making a decision about Joshua Rowland.”
I nodded. Harold was ashes, and so was Lenny Sr. There might be enough left of Joshua Rowland to prove murder, but that would involve my ex-in-laws having the body exhumed, and I couldn’t see Althea agreeing to digging him up. At this point, there may be no way to prove that Maybelle killed anyone. “So she might get away with it.”
“She’ll probably get away with some of it,” Grimaldi nodded. “But she won’t get away with what she tried to do to you. And she won’t be marrying Steven Puckett. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”
I shrugged. I guess. “Have you called him? How did he take it?”
“Not well,” Grimaldi said, and glanced up as the waitress appeared beside the table. “I’ll have a cheeseburger and fries.”
She waited for me to order—“Cobb salad, please,”—and for the waitress to remove herself (and the menus), before she continued. “A
t first he didn’t believe me when I said I’d arrested her. He seemed to think it was a joke. Then he refused to believe she’d done anything wrong. I don’t think he believes she did anything to her husbands. But it’s pretty tough to explain away what she did to you.”
I made a face. “I feel bad for him. He’s been through a lot these past few months. First Brenda’s murder and now this. Although I guess it could have been worse. He could have married her.”
“Definitely,” Grimaldi nodded. “I’m pretty sure you’re right, you know. She probably did kill all three of her husbands. There has to be a reason why she came after you, and that’s the only one I can think of. Mr. Wilkins made a good point when he brought up the ethylene glycol.”
“I meant to ask you about that,” I said. “What is it?”
It was antifreeze, according to the detective. Or maybe hydraulic brake fluid. “Sweet-tasting and highly toxic, not to mention readily available. Mr. Wilkins’s auto shop would definitely have had it, and it isn’t hard to come by for a civilian, either. Any auto-parts store or gas station carries antifreeze.”
“What does it do, when you drink it?”
“Bad stuff,” Grimaldi said. When I stared at her, unblinking, she added, “Ethylene glycol poisoning mimics drunkenness and results in a total systemic shutdown and maybe a coma.”
“That would explain what Lenny said about his father being drunk.”
She nodded. “I wouldn’t be surprised if, the nights before Harold’s and Joshua’s deaths, Maybelle poured a little antifreeze cocktail, too. If they survived the night, they’d just put any discomfort down to too much wine and excitement the night before.”
I had to agree. “But you can’t prove it?”
“Sadly, no. They were treated as natural deaths at the time. Heart failure in both cases. Which is what it was. Heart failure. So there were no autopsies and no tissue samples taken, and by now, there’d be nothing left to exhume. If the bodies weren’t cremated in the first place.”
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