Kickout Clause (Savannah Martin Mystery)

by Bennett, Jenna

  “I don’t want a gun,” I told them both. “I don’t have a permit. And I’d be afraid to use it. If I wouldn’t use it, I don’t need one.”

  Wendell didn’t argue with me. “You got anything else you can use to protect yourself?”

  “Knife and pepper spray.”

  They both looked at me like they thought I might be joking, so I went to retrieve my purse and pulled both knife and pepper spray out and held them up for inspection. They looked like lipstick cylinders, but one opened to a little 1.25 inch serrated blade, the other to a tiny nozzle. I hadn’t yet had occasion to use the knife, but I’d given my sister-in-law Sheila’s murderer a snootful of spray back in November. There was still enough left to douse someone else, though.

  Wendell looked at them both with brows elevated. Maybe I’d managed to surprise him.

  He’s an older man, mid-fifties maybe, African-American and with a grizzled military haircut. I first met him in August, just a few days after I met Rafe again. For a while, I’d been under the impression that they were criminal accomplices. It took me a couple of months to figure out the truth, that appearances to the contrary, they were both on the side of the angels.

  I turned from him to Rafe. “Now that we’ve established that I have weapons at my disposal, can I go? I’m sure you and Wendell have more important things to do.”

  “Dunno about more important,” Rafe answered. “If something happens to you on my watch, your mama’s gonna have my head.”

  No doubt. “Nothing’s going to happen to me. Walker is probably in Bermuda by now. Or Oregon.” Somewhere he could drive.

  “Not enough time for him to get to Oregon.”

  “New Hampshire. Whatever. The point I’m trying to make is that he wouldn’t hang around here. I’m not important enough for that. He’s hundreds of miles away by now.”

  “Unless he’s waiting for something.”

  “What would he be waiting for?”

  “Dunno,” Rafe said. “But I ain’t discounting it.”

  “Well, you have more important things to deal with today than me. I’ll be careful. I’ll park on the street, and I’ll make sure I don’t stay at the office by myself.” I didn’t really think I was in danger, but just in case I was wrong, it wouldn’t hurt to take precautions.

  “See that you do.” He turned to Wendell. “I’ll walk her out and meet you in your office.”

  Wendell nodded. “Nice to see you again, Ms. Martin.”

  “Likewise,” I said politely. Though he and Rafe had worked together for ten years, and I’d met him multiple times before, I hadn’t ever really spent enough time with Wendell to be comfortable with him. “Good luck today.”

  He nodded, and watched us walk out.

  Chapter Eight

  “That was embarrassing,” I said, as soon as we were outside.

  He glanced at me. “What?”

  “Getting caught making out, like two randy teenagers.”

  Rafe grinned. “Never been caught in the act before?”

  I shook my head. “With you a couple of times, but we were always standing up, at least.”

  The grin widened, and I blushed. “You make it sound like it’s an everyday occurrence for you.”

  He shrugged. “Not anymore. But I got caught a lot when I was a kid. Doing all kinds of stuff, including some of that.”

  “Who did you get caught with?”

  “None of your business,” Rafe said and opened my car door for me. “I’ll get a ride home tonight. Don’t wait up for me. Until we know what happened to Manny, this is gonna be my more than fulltime occupation.”

  “I understand,” I said, because of course I did. Manny’s murder had to take precedence over everything else, that was obvious. “Just be careful. And let me know what’s going on.”

  He nodded. “You too.”

  He kissed me again, but only lightly. I didn’t mind, since it was just a couple of minutes since he’d curled my toes down in the gym. And then he waited for me to drive away before he headed back inside the TBI building.

  I parked on the street outside the condo complex again, and sat in the car for a minute, looking around, before I opened the door. My heart was beating a little extra fast as I closed it behind me, and I scurried across the courtyard and through the door like a scared rabbit. Once upstairs, I kept the pepper spray in my hand while I searched the apartment.

  Yes, I know I’d told Rafe and Grimaldi and anyone else who’d listen that I didn’t think I was in danger. If Walker had any sense at all—and he does—he wouldn’t hang around Nashville just for a shot at me. Frankly, I didn’t think I was important enough to him for that. He’d make tracks instead, and get to somewhere where it was less likely that someone would recognize him. He was a fugitive, after all, and it didn’t make sense to stick around a place where people knew him.

  But I wasn’t so sure I was right that I neglected to take precautions. Both Rafe and Grimaldi are smart people, and are used to dealing with the criminal element. If they both thought I should be careful, I was perfectly willing to listen. Better safe than sorry, and all that.

  I made sure the deadbolt and security chain were on the front door before I went in the shower, and I took my cell phone with me, safely enclosed in a Ziploc bag, just in case.

  I didn’t need it, of course. When I turned off the water and pushed the shower curtain aside, no one was there. Even so, I made another circuit of the apartment, while water dripped on the floor from my hair.

  It was empty. Still. That didn’t stop me from keeping the phone next to me on the bed while I dried my hair and put on clothes and makeup.

  Then I made the trip down the stairs and across the courtyard into the car again, realizing as I closed myself in that if Walker was watching, he must be having quite a good laugh at my behavior. I’m sure I looked as much of an idiot as I felt.

  That didn’t keep me from making my way equally carefully across the parking lot behind the office and through the door.

  Inside, everything was normal. Tim’s office was empty, so he either hadn’t made it in for the day yet, or he had business somewhere else. A lot of real estate is listing appointments and running around showing properties, so there was nothing strange in that. A few of the other medium-to-big shots were in their offices, talking on the phone or working on the computer, and Heidi Hoppenfeldt, Tim’s assistant, was in the kitchen fixing herself a snack.

  (For the record, I’m neither a medium nor a big shot. I’m a very small fry indeed, and no one even acknowledged me as I walked down the hall. Heidi didn’t see me, and no one else cared.)

  Brittany was behind the reception desk in the lobby. For a change she wasn’t reading Cosmopolitan or Elle. Instead, her two inch long, iridescent green fingernails were clacking over the keyboard. The pink bubblegum was in full swing.

  “Anything new?” I asked as I stopped by the mail center to check my box.

  She shook her head and didn’t look up from the computer screen.

  “I’ll be in my office.”

  She nodded and kept typing.

  Everything in the former coat closet was just the way I’d left it yesterday afternoon. I’d cleaned up the mess Walker had made, and best as I could tell, no one had disturbed it since. So that was one good thing in the midst of everything else that was going on.

  Truth be told, I had a hard time even wrapping my brain around what had happened to Manny Ortega. I hadn’t known him beyond hearing his voice on the phone, but last night he’d been alive and well, and today he was dead. Rafe hadn’t shown much emotion beyond cold anger and determination to find whoever did it and make that person pay, but he must be upset. Anyone would be, and my boyfriend wasn’t anywhere near as hard as I’d originally thought. This had to be killing him inside. It hadn’t been his fault, hadn’t had anything to do with him, but the responsibility—not for what had happened, but for bringing the murderer to justice—must weigh heavily on him. It was personal, in a professional w
ay, and that always makes it harder.

  With everything that had happened, it was hard to concentrate on work. I did check my email, and found a message from the agent for the new buyers of the house on Potsdam telling me that they’d set up their home inspection for the following morning and that they were now in the process of finding a loan officer to qualify them for a mortgage. Since I had assumed they’d already prequalified for the mortgage, that piece of news was a little disconcerting, but legally they did have five days to take care of it, so I tried not to see it as the big, red flag it looked like. I shot him an email back saying I’d make sure the house was ready for inspection at nine the following morning, and that I’d see him then and there.

  That done, I sat back and twiddled my thumbs.

  I could have worked on some kind of mailing or something, I suppose. Some way to drum up more business. But my heart wasn’t in it. I’d gone into real estate because I liked looking at houses, but it was hard to concentrate on houses when Walker might be gunning for me and when someone had shot Manny Ortega.

  The possibility of a connection brought me up short.

  But no. Surely not. If Walker wanted to hurt me, he would have shot Rafe, not Manny. Manny and I hadn’t even met. There was no way Walker could have known that Manny even existed, let alone that I knew—or that my boyfriend knew—who he was.

  Unless he’d followed Rafe from our apartment to the TBI and seen him with Manny.

  But if he wanted to get at me, he would have been better off shooting Rafe.

  Unless...

  Was it a warning? Manny first, then Rafe, and then me?

  The idea gave me heart palpitations. Literally. My heart skipped a beat before picking up the rhythm, a bit faster than before.

  But again, why would he bother? I may have been responsible for putting him in jail, but he was out now. He’d be better off focusing on preserving his freedom than taking revenge on me. Nutcases get caught up in things like that, but unless Walker had done a total one-eighty during his time at Riverbend Penitentiary, he wasn’t crazy. He’d been all about self-preservation. Everything he’d done—the two murders he’d committed and the two he’d tried to tack on—had been in an effort to preserve the status quo, his business and his reputation. I couldn’t see him doing a total about-face now, and suddenly not caring about anything but getting revenge on me.

  But just in case, I dialed Tamara Grimaldi’s number.

  I figured I’d get her voicemail, but she answered, her voice harried. “Grimaldi. Homicide.”

  “It’s me,” I said.

  “Ms.... Savannah.”

  In deference to her obvious stress, I cut straight to the chase. “Any news on Walker?”

  “His house is empty. There’s no sign of him in Kentucky. We haven’t found the guard, alive or dead. We haven’t found the car.”

  “Is there any chance at all that Walker shot Manny?” I ran through my thought process, including all the reasons I thought I was probably wrong.

  “It does seem unlikely,” Grimaldi agreed, “but I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “There’s no news on Manny, I assume?”

  “It’s too soon.”

  Right. “I’ll let you go,” I said. “I just wanted to mention the possibility that Walker was involved, since it crossed my mind.”

  “No problem. Take care of yourself.” She didn’t give me time to answer, just hung up in my ear. I didn’t take it personally. I was stressed out myself, and it wasn’t even my job to figure out what had happened.

  By ten thirty I was sick of sitting there, so I got back into the car—very carefully—and drove to Germantown. If I was going to sit and twiddle my thumbs, I might as well sit in my car and keep an eye on Bradley.

  I hadn’t heard from Shelby this morning, which was a bit of a surprise. She had known that someone was following him last night, and I would have thought she’d be interested to know how things had gone down.

  Then again, she was pregnant. I remembered, from my own two truncated pregnancies, how hard it sometimes had been to drag myself out of bed in the morning. Maybe she was sleeping in.

  I drove down the street in front of Ferncliff & Morton. Everything looked normal. Then I drove down the alley past the employee parking lot.

  Bradley’s SUV wasn’t there.

  I almost stopped, so I could stare stupidly at the empty space. But I caught myself in time, and kept going.

  My mind went, too, into hyperdrive. Maybe he’d had an early appointment. Or maybe he and Shelby were both sleeping in. Maybe Shelby finally got some.

  Or—my stomach clenched at the idea—maybe something was wrong with the baby, and they’d had to rush to the hospital.

  It was that thought that made me pick up the phone and dial. I don’t know why it should matter to me that Shelby and Bradley’s baby was OK, but it did. After going through a few miscarriages myself, I knew just how devastating they could be. Mine had been in the first trimester. I could only imagine how horrible it must be to lose a baby you’d carried inside your body for seven or eight months.

  The phone rang. And rang. And rang some more. Finally voicemail picked up.

  “This is Shelby. I can’t get to the phone right now. Please leave a message.”

  “It’s Savannah,” I said, concentrating on keeping my voice even. “I hadn’t heard from you today, and I just wanted to check in. Call me.”

  And then, just in case Bradley had dropped his car off at the shop for an oil change and to have the tires rotated on his way to work this morning, I dialed Ferncliff & Morton. I’d ask for him, and if he was there, I’d just hang up before Carolyn transferred me. But that way at least I’d know one way or the other whether he had shown up for work today.

  Unlike Shelby, Carolyn answered on the first ring. “Ferncliff & Morton Family Law. How may I direct your call?”

  “I’d like to speak with Bradley Ferguson,” I said, only realizing as I did it that maybe I should have done something to disguise my voice, since Carolyn had been working for Ferncliff & Morton since before Bradley and I were married, and there was a chance she might realize who I was.

  Indeed, there was a hesitation before she responded, as if she might be trying to place me. If she recognized me, she didn’t say anything about it, however. “Mr. Ferguson is out of the office this morning. Can I take a message?”

  I thought fast. “He had an appointment here earlier...”

  “Mrs. Vandervinder?”

  No way was I claiming that.

  “No,” I said firmly. “I’m her assistant.”

  “What can I do for you, Ms....?”

  “Walker,” I said, since it was the first name that popped into my head. “We’re a little concerned, since Mr. Ferguson hasn’t arrived yet. Would you happen to know when he left?”

  “He hasn’t been in the office so far,” Carolyn said, her voice shaded by concern. For Bradley, I guess, or maybe for the fact that he had stood up an F&M client. It made me feel a little guilty. I pushed through it.

  “Have you spoken to him this morning? I hope everything is OK?”

  “I’m sure it’s fine,” Carolyn said. “His wife is expecting. Maybe something happened.”

  “Ah.” I made myself smile, because I knew it would show in my voice. “Of course. He mentioned that. I’ll let my employer know.”

  “I’ll leave him a note,” Carolyn said, “for when he comes in.”

  I thanked her and hung up, pondering who Mrs. Vandervinder might be.

  It wasn’t a common name, for certain. And she must be one of the Ferncliff & Morton clients, if Bradley had an appointment with her this morning.

  That’s probably where he was right now. Maybe the guy he’d met with at the Shortstop yesterday had been a red herring, unrelated to whatever was going on in Bradley’s life. Maybe he was getting it on with Mrs. Vandervinder.

  With a name like that, she shouldn’t be hard to find.

  I called the office and got Brit
tany. “I need you to look something up for me.”

  “Can’t you look it up yourself?” Brittany asked.

  “I’m in the car.” It was true. Even if I was parked and had both hands free.

  She rolled her eyes, audibly. “What do you need?”

  “Anything in the name Vandervinder.”

  “Spell it.”

  I did, to the best of my ability.

  “There’s only one,” Brittany said after a half a minute. “Dale and Ilona Vandervinder. They live in Brentwood.” She rattled off an address.

  “Any information about the house?”

  Another pause, and then Brittany came back on the line. “It isn’t on the market. According to the tax records, it was built four years ago. Custom. No one else has owned it. It’s appraised at 4.2 million. Seven thousand square feet, on three acres near the Brentwood Country Club.”

  “Wow.”

  Brittany didn’t reply, but I heard the sound of a bubble popping. “Anything else you need?” she inquired.

  “That’s it for now. Unless you know who the Vandervinders are and what they do for a living?”

  Brittany snorted and hung up on me. Couldn’t wait to get back to this month’s issue of Cosmopolitan, no doubt. I gave the parking lot behind Ferncliff & Morton another look—there was still no sign of Bradley’s car—before starting my own and rolling away from the curb.

  Brentwood is a sprawling neighborhood south of Nashville and north of Franklin, in wealthy Williamson County. The roads are good, the schools are better, and people have a lot of money. From where I was, it took me about twenty minutes to get there. Another ten before I was rolling slowly up the road in front of the Vandervinder mansion.

  And it was a mansion. Not in the sense that my ancestral home, the Martin Mansion in Sweetwater, Tennessee, is a mansion. The Martin Mansion was built in 1839, a true antebellum plantation home. As Brittany had told me, the Vandervinder mansion was brand spanking new. And huge. A typical, if hugely overblown, McMansion in pale pinkish brick with a lot of jutting gables and fake half-timbering. It looked bigger than seven thousand square feet, but the bank of five garages probably had something to do with that, as had the structure I suspected of being a pool house in the back of the main structure.