Kickout Clause (Savannah Martin Mystery)

by Bennett, Jenna

  “Just curious,” I said. “He trashed my office.”

  “Did you think you were going to trash his house?”

  “Of course not.” It was my turn to sniff. “I would never do that.”

  Tim was silent. It was a judgmental sort of silence. My mother is good at that sort of thing, so I’ve encountered it before. I resisted the temptation to babble, to reiterate that I’d never vandalize someone’s house, no matter what they’d done to my office.

  Finally Tim spoke again. “Did you need anything else?”

  “Actually,” I said.

  “Yes?”

  “When was the last time you spoke to Walker?”

  Reluctance wafted down the line again. Eventually Tim said, “He called me yesterday.”

  “Did you tell the police?”

  “No,” Tim said.

  Of course not. And since I could imagine the reasons—as well as the excuses—why he hadn’t, I didn’t push it. “What did he want?”

  “Money,” Tim said.

  “Your money?”

  “His money. Before he was arrested, he transferred most of his own money into the company accounts. He was afraid his personal assets would be frozen. Now he wants to draw the money back out.”

  “Was that what he was looking for at the office the other night?”

  “Not the money,” Tim said, “but statements and things. I guess he wanted to make sure I’d taken care of what he entrusted to me.”

  Yikes. I hoped for Tim’s sake that he had, because an unhappy Walker wasn’t someone I personally wanted to encounter.

  “I suppose you’ll have to get him the money. He can’t go to the bank himself.”

  Tim didn’t contradict me.

  “And I suppose it takes a bit of time to get a lot of money in small, unmarked bills.”

  “He didn’t mention unmarked bills,” Tim said, sounding worried.

  Too many action-adventures on my part lately, probably. I’m partial to romantic comedies, with the occasional romantic drama or historical thrown in for good measure. But Rafe likes action. And because I like Rafe, I’d sat through some of his movies, while he’d sat through some of mine. In his movies, the kidnappers always ask for the money in small, unmarked bills.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “If he didn’t say anything, I’m sure he doesn’t care. And it’s his money, after all.”

  “Right,” Tim said, sounding relieved.

  I navigated the light at Hillsboro Road and Abbot Martin, taking a left in front of the Donut Den. “I assume you were planning to tell the police about this, so they can be there and take him back to prison?”

  “Um...”

  Just as I thought. “He killed two people, Tim. And then he tried to kill two more. And although they haven’t found him yet, the police think he killed the guard who escorted him from prison to his mother’s supposed funeral, too. Walker’s a murderer. He belongs behind bars.”

  “Yes,” Tim said, “but I don’t want him to kill me.”

  “He won’t kill you. Not if the police are there and catch him. Then he’ll go back to prison.”

  “But what if they don’t catch him? Then he’ll be out there. And he’ll be angry with me!”

  Instead of with me. And next time it’d be Tim’s office he tore to pieces.

  “Call the police. They’ll get him. And then we’ll all breathe easier again.” I turned the Volvo into the townhouse complex where Shelby and Bradley lived, the same place where I’d spent two years as Mrs. Ferguson.

  “I’ll think about it,” Tim said and hung up. I pulled to a stop in front of Bradley and Shelby’s townhouse and cut the engine.

  It was strange to be back. I hadn’t been here since Bradley and I divorced almost three years ago and he got the house as part of the settlement. I’d done an open house once, in a different part of the development, but I hadn’t been here.

  I sat in the car for a minute or two just looking at it.

  It looked the same, except in subtle ways. The wreath on the door was Shelby’s: shaped of twigs, with lots of spiky sunflowers and adorned with a little birdhouse. Very spring-like and cheerful. Mine had been an elegant concoction of yarn and felt flowers. It hadn’t crossed my mind to take it with me when I left; now I kind of wished I had. I also wondered whether it was still inside somewhere, maybe in the hall closet, or whether Shelby had delighted in throwing it in the trash when she moved in.

  The living room curtains were different too—a solid color, while mine had had stripes—and the mat in front of the door was different. I didn’t care about that, though. I’d never been particularly attached to the mat we’d had, nor to the curtains.

  The garage door was closed, and unlike at Walker’s house, there was no side or front window I could look through. Shelby’s minivan wasn’t parked in sight, so it was either in the garage, or she had left. I got out of the Volvo and made my way up to the front door.

  Chapter Ten

  It took a while. Several minutes passed while nothing happened. There was no sound from inside, and no one came to the door. I was about to give up—maybe Shelby was out shopping or something—when the chain finally rattled.

  Shelby opened the door, and for a second—or five—we stared at each other. She didn’t say a word, and I didn’t either. I was waiting for her to acknowledge me, but when she didn’t, I smiled tentatively. “Hello.”

  Shelby blinked, and it was as if some spell was lifted. “What are you doing here?”

  “I tried to call,” I said, “but you didn’t answer.”

  “I was...” She hesitated, “sleeping.”

  Sure. Only... she didn’t look like she’d been sleeping. She was fully dressed, in maternity jeans and a blouse, with makeup on her face and big hoops in her ears. Surely, if she’d been lying down, she’d have taken those off, at least?

  My doubt may have shown on my face because she flushed. “What do you want?”

  Whoa. Not exactly the reception I had expected. We would never be best friends, but surely we’d been on better terms than this recently.

  I tried to arch a brow the way Rafe does, and arched both instead. My voice was nice and cool, though. “I just wanted to make sure you were OK. You didn’t answer the phone this morning. I thought you’d want to know how the surveillance went last night.”

  “Oh.” She flushed again.

  I waited in vain for her to invite me in. When she didn’t, I took it upon myself to give her a little nudge. “Do you want to talk about this on the stoop?”

  She finally took a step back. “Come in.”

  “Thank you,” I said graciously, as if it had been her idea all along.

  Walking into the townhouse was a little like stepping back in time. The interior hadn’t changed much more than the outside had. The carpets were still tan, the walls still a toasty shade of oatmeal. The brown leather sofa Bradley had insisted on acquiring had worn well. Shelby had substituted solid panel curtains for the striped silk I had had, and the picture above the fireplace was a rather dull reproduction landscape, not the brightly colored print of people dancing I had talked Bradley into buying for me. But other than that, it was a lot like walking into my previous life.

  “We can sit in the kitchen,” Shelby said and led the way down the hall toward the back of the house. I followed, looking around.

  She had updated the kitchen, anyway. When Bradley bought the place, it had had the old oak kitchen cabinets and laminate kitchen counter from the mid 1990s. Shelby had substituted white Shaker style cabinets and a marble counter, with glossy white subway tiles on the backsplash. It looked very nice, and I told her so.

  “Thank you.” She glanced around, negligently. I bit back... not envy, exactly, because to have this kitchen, I would have had to stay married to Bradley, and there was no part of me that wanted to be married to Bradley. Especially with what I thought might be going on between him and Mrs. Vandervinder. But at the same time, it seemed grossly unfair that
Shelby, who had basically stolen my husband out from under me, should have gained this beautiful kitchen while I was stuck with 1980s cabinets and vinyl flooring.

  And Rafe. Don’t forget Rafe.

  I relaxed, my priorities straight once more. “What can you tell me about Mrs. Vandervinder?”

  Shelby looked surprised. “Who?”

  “Vandervinder. Ilona. She’s a Ferncliff and Morton client.”

  “Why?”

  “I have no idea.” And it was something I’d have to explore when I had more time. “Bradley’s at her house right now.”

  “I know. He had a...” She trailed off, her eyes on the clock on the stove. The gorgeous stainless steel gas stove, far superior in every way to what I had in my apartment.

  Not that I’d trade Rafe for a stainless steel gas stove, but still.

  “He had a what?”

  “Appointment,” Shelby said, her gaze coming back to me. “With Mrs. Vandervinder. At nine thirty.”

  I glanced at the clock too. It was past twelve.

  “He’s still there?”

  “He was there thirty minutes ago. At least I’m pretty sure it was his car I saw parked out back. And he wasn’t at the office as of an hour ago.”

  Shelby blinked. “But that’s not...”

  Possible, I assumed. “Why not?”

  She shook her head. “What happened yesterday?”

  “He went to the post office and to a bar in South Nashville,” I said. “He was meeting someone there.”

  Shelby looked like she was bracing herself. “Who?”

  “Not Mrs. Vandervinder. Some guy.”

  “Did you recognize him?”

  “I didn’t see him,” I said. “Middle-aged, going gray, suit and tie. Ring any bells?”

  Shelby hesitated. “Nathan Ferncliff.”

  Now that she mentioned it, it might have been. The description fit him. I would have recognized Nathan, but of course Manny had no way of knowing who Nathan Ferncliff was. And now we had lost the chance to ask him.

  Although why would Bradley and Nathan meet on the sly in a dive in Tusculum? They worked together all day. You’d think they’d have plenty of time to converse during business hours.

  Unless this was something they had to keep outside the office. Something fishy that they didn’t want Carolyn or Diana to find out about.

  I made a mental note to pursue this line of thought sometime when I was alone, and filed it away. “Tell me about Mrs. Vandervinder.”

  “She’s getting a divorce,” Shelby said. “Bradley is her attorney.”

  “Is she attractive?”

  Shelby gave me the evil eye. “My husband isn’t cheating.”

  Fine. Whatever. “Why is she getting a divorce?”

  “How would I know? Bradley doesn’t talk about work. Attorney-client privilege, remember?”

  Of course I remembered. I’d taken a year of pre-law before dropping out. I knew the basics. Bradley hadn’t always kept completely mum while I’d been married to him, though. Sometimes he had talked things over with me, to get my opinion. But maybe he was more confident in his judgment these days, and didn’t feel the need to double-check his instincts with his wife before acting.

  “Have you met her?”

  “No,” Shelby said.

  “I don’t suppose Bradley told you what he was doing last night?”

  “He said he was working,” Shelby said. “And he didn’t come home that late, you know. It was before seven.”

  I nodded. There was no reason why Shelby would have questioned it if he’d told her he’d worked until six thirty. I often work later than that. Bradley probably did, too.

  There was nothing more Shelby could do for me, though. And she seemed eager to get rid of me. She was sitting on the edge of her chair, as if half a moment away from jumping up. I got to my feet. “I should go.”

  She didn’t try to keep me, just began the process of rising. With an extra twenty five pounds right up front, gaining her feet wasn’t as easy for Shelby as it was for me.

  “I’ll see myself out,” I said. “I know the way.” And I couldn’t resist an extra parting jab. “I like what you’ve done to the kitchen.”

  Just a little reminder that it had been my kitchen first.

  Shelby flushed but didn’t answer. She also didn’t get up. I made sure the lock clicked shut behind me, and then I got into my car and drove away.

  By now it was lunchtime, and I was out and about, so rather than go home to be good and save money, I stopped at a restaurant on my way back to the office, picked up a salad to go, and ate at my desk at the office.

  When that was done, I called Rafe.

  I expected to get his voicemail, because I expected him to be busy investigating, or training someone, or doing something that would preclude him from answering the phone, but he picked up. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “I mean... other than what was already wrong.”

  He waited, and I picked up the conversation again. “I spoke to Shelby. Turns out Bradley spent all morning with a client, a Mrs. Vandervinder. She’s getting a divorce.”

  “OK,” Rafe said.

  “I told Shelby about last night. Not about Manny,” that wasn’t any of her concern, and besides, I was still struggling with it myself, “but about Bradley and the guy he was meeting.”

  “OK.”

  “She suggested it might be Nathan Ferncliff.”

  “Who’s Nathan Ferncliff?”

  “Bradley’s boss. One of the senior partners.”

  “Another lawyer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t they work together?”

  “Maybe this is something they can’t talk about in the office. Maybe they don’t want Diana to find out. She’s the other senior partner.”

  Rafe thought for a second. “Could be. Don’t sound like either one of’em would know how to find the Shortstop, though.”

  He was right about that. “You’ll have to go talk to the people there, right? About Manny?”

  “I don’t think the Shortstop had anything to do with happened to Manny, darlin’.”

  “I don’t either,” I said, “but I thought maybe you’d have to—you know—trace Manny’s movements last night, or something.”

  “Ain’t no need to trace his movements,” Rafe said patiently. “He told me his movements. He left the Shortstop, followed your ex-husband home, and went home himself. And seven or eight hours later, somebody shot him.”

  Right. “I thought maybe taking photographs of Bradley and Nathan to the Shortstop, to see if anyone could identify them, would be a good idea. I mean, I know Bradley was there. I just wanted to know if it was Nathan Ferncliff he was meeting. But if you’re not going...”

  I trailed off.

  Rafe sighed. “I guess maybe I could make a special trip down there.”

  “You’d do that for me?”

  “Ain’t much I wouldn’t do for you, darlin’. Just get me the pictures and I’ll do my best.”

  “Could I... maybe come with you?”

  There was a pause. “You didn’t like it all that much the first time. Or did you forget?”

  I hadn’t forgotten. “I just thought it would be a way for us to spend some time together. With you being so busy today and all.”

  He sighed. “Hell, I’m prob’ly gonna have to do this on my own time anyway. And I could go for one of their burgers.”

  I couldn’t. It had been delicious, but I swear I’d gained five pounds just from that one meal six months ago. However, I wanted him to take me with him, so I didn’t say anything. “When will you pick me up?”

  “At home at six o’clock,” Rafe said.

  I told him I’d be waiting, and then I let him get back to work.

  There wasn’t a whole lot more I could do—not to help figure out who killed Manny, not to try to discover where Walker was, nor to learn what was going on with Bradley—so I left the office again, and drove over to Potsda
m Street, where Mrs. Jenkins’s house is located. Tomorrow at 9 am, I’d have to be over there to let the other agent, his clients, and their home inspector in, and it was just as well to make sure there was nothing wrong with the place beforehand. Some little thing that maybe needed tweaking before the home inspector did his thing. Rafe had been over all of the house in the past few months, painting and redoing and replacing plumbing and electric, but you never know when a tree branch might fall and knock out a power line, or when the air conditioning system might cease to work because someone’s stolen the condenser.

  Or for that matter when someone might throw a rock through the front window.

  That was the sight that greeted me when I drove up the circular driveway. The big window in the front of the house was shattered, shards of glass littering the ground below.

  Mrs. Jenkins’s house is an old 1880s red brick Victorian, three stories tall, with a tower on one corner and a ballroom across the entire top floor. The first time I saw it, in August, it was a dilapidated, run-down, overgrown mess, but since then, Rafe has sunk a lot of time and money into bringing it back to something of its former glory. He’d left the old, hand-blown windows alone, though. They’d been glazed and painted, of course, but the old glass remained. And now one of the panes was shattered. Not only would it cost a pretty penny to replace—we’re talking a big window here—but there was no way to replace the original hundred and twenty five year old glass. That was lost forever.

  I got out of the car and just stood, staring, for at least a minute. The senseless vandalism gave me a pain in my stomach. I know some people just enjoy ruining other people’s hard work for the sake of their own enjoyment, but so far we’d mercifully avoided anything like this. Rafe looked like he belonged in this neighborhood, and no one had given him any trouble about fixing up the house and making it shine. Not that anyone would dare give Rafe trouble under most circumstances. He looks like he can take care of himself. But nobody had ripped out the condenser—which happens a lot in empty houses—and no one had crawled underneath the foundation to yank out the copper pipes, and no one—so far—had broken any of the windows.

  After I finished fuming, I made my way onto the porch and over to the door, where a gray MLS lockbox hung from the handle. It was closed up tight, as opposed to the first time I’d been here, when the box had been hanging open. Then, Rafe and I had walked in to find Brenda Puckett dead on the floor in front of the library fireplace.