Heather shook her head. “I met her this spring. We worked on another volunteer committee together. That good-for-nothing jackass Perry wasted no time hitting on me. Oh, thanks.” She grabbed her scotch out of the waiter’s hand and downed a third of it in a single gulp. The waiter turned to me, and his expressionless face managed to convey his opinion of her quite well as he placed my glass on the table in front of me.
“Thank you,” I said politely. “I’ll have a blackened salmon Caesar salad, please.”
Heather surfaced for long enough to order a lunch portion of the chicken Alfredo with broccoli – comfort-food – and the waiter withdrew. I waited until he was out of ear-shot, and then I added, “So does Perry have a habit of hitting on people? I thought it was just me. Not that he hit on me, exactly; it was more a suggestion that he might if I encouraged him...”
Heather snorted. “Perry fancies himself a ladies man. One of those dashing types in the old movies. Instead, he’s just a nasty piece of work with a roving eye and – if you get too close – roving hands, as well.” She took another, more ladylike sip of her drink, and continued, “To do him justice, he’s been discreet about it. If he embarrassed Connie publicly, I believe she’d divorce him. Or...” Her voice caught, and then she drained most of the rest of the scotch as Connie’s death hit her anew. Her voice was raspy when she finished the thought, “she would have. If she hadn’t been killed first.”
“I remember when Brenda Puckett died a few weeks ago, I kept doing what you’re doing. Talking about her as if she were still alive, and then realizing she wasn’t, and feeling awful.”
Heather nodded.
I added, “I found Brenda’s body. I don’t know if you knew that.”
She stopped looking around for the waiter, probably to order a refill, and turned to me. “No, actually I didn’t. I remember hearing about it on the news, but I didn’t realize it was you who found her. She was horribly butchered, wasn’t she?”
“Her throat was cut,” I said. “It wasn’t pretty. Lots of blood.”
“Connie was strangled,” Heather said, twisting her empty glass around and around in her hands. “There was no blood, but her face was purple, and her tongue was sticking out.”
I nodded, with a suppressed shiver. I remembered the photograph Tamara Grimaldi had shown me of Lila. “I heard the same thing happened to her that happened to Lila.”
“I never saw Lila,” Heather said, “but I guess so. Connie was naked and tied to the bed, anyway. And dead.” She shuddered.
I lowered my voice. “So who do you think did it?”
I watched her closely, hoping for some clue as to what she knew or guessed – a furtive look in her eyes, a flash of fear, worry – but I didn’t see anything.
“Hell,” she said, “how should I know? Some crazy person, obviously. Who else goes around and rapes and strangles women?”
“It would have to be someone who knew them both. And if the murders are connected to the robberies, someone with a connection to all three of the houses.”
This time, I saw fear in her eyes. Her voice was even, albeit with just a hint of a tremor that she couldn’t quite eradicate. “I staged both the houses that were robbed, and I’d been to Connie’s house before, but I don’t have the equipment I’d need to rape someone.”
Her attempt at humor fell woefully flat.
I was planning to ask her about her boyfriend, but now the waiter arrived with the food, and we got busy eating. I let the subject rest for a few minutes while we chewed. “How is your food?”
“Great, thanks. Yours?” She sounded a little calmer, as if the carbohydrates had kicked in and mellowed her out.
“Very good. It always is. I hear the police talked to your boyfriend yesterday. How did that go?”
She stopped eating to stare at me. “How d’you know that?”
I’d already figured out my answer, and since it wasn’t really a lie – just a slight truth-adjustment – I was able to get it out without looking like I was fibbing big-time. “They’ve been talking to a friend of mine, as well.”
“Who’s your friend?”
“His name’s Rafael Collier,” I said, keeping an eye on her to see if she’d give anything away. She didn’t.
“Sorry, I don’t know him.” She shrugged lightly.
“That’s OK. I think your boyfriend does, though.” She didn’t answer. “And of course Connie met him. So did they let your boyfriend go? Or are they still talking to him?”
Her voice was tight. “They’re still talking to him. What about your friend?”
“They kept him for a long time last weekend, after Lila died. I’m not sure if they’ve managed to get hold of him again, but I know they were looking for him yesterday.”
My voice, I’m pleased to say, held just the right amount of worry.
“Is he your boyfriend?” Heather asked.
I shook my head. “Not exactly. More of a... um...”
“Future boyfriend?”
“Well...”
She smiled, leaning back in her chair. “You obviously care about him.”
“Well...” I said again, my cheeks pinking. And that betraying flush wasn’t all pretend. I did care, at least enough that I didn’t want him to go to jail for two murders he didn’t commit. Maybe even enough that I didn’t really want him to go to jail for committing the robberies, even though I knew he was guilty. On that score, though, Detective Grimaldi had every right to lock him up and throw away the key, and she wouldn’t get any argument from me if she chose to exercise her option. The funny thing was, I didn’t think Rafe would argue the point, either. He’d do what he could to stay out of jail for as long as he could, but if he was caught, fair and square, he’d take it like a man.
“You know,” Heather said, “someone else who worked in all three of the houses – Connie’s and the two that were robbed – was that really hot house cleaner guy.”
“Beau Riggins? The House Boy?”
“That’s the guy. The one who cleans in his underwear.”
“Wonderjocks,” I said. Heather looked surprised, and I added, “He showed them to me. How do you know that he worked for all three of the houses?”
She counted on her fingers. “He was at the funeral the other day with Connie, and she told me she’d hired him. I saw him at the Caldwell family’s house when I was staging it a couple of weeks ago, and Kieran’s clients have his business card on their refrigerator. Behind a magnet of a guy whose clothes come off, like a paper doll’s.”
“I must have missed that,” I said. “Not to be crude or anything, but why would he rape someone?” Looking like he did, Beau probably had all the female – or male – companionship he could want.
“He has to be a little weird to clean houses in his underwear,” Heather said.
“Wonderjocks. And I don’t think he does all that much cleaning. He probably just bends and stretches a lot. He said his clients like to watch while he works.”
“I’m not surprised,” Heather said.
Personally, I’m not someone who enjoys nudity, my own or anyone else’s. I don’t even wear a bikini on the beach, but prefer to cover up in a bathing suit when I go at all. Beau’s easy sexuality had made me feel uncomfortable. But he hadn’t seemed like the type who’d tie up, rape, and strangle someone. Rather, I thought he was an exhibitionist; someone who got off on being watched, not someone who’d do nasty deeds under cover of darkness. To Beau, his job was probably the equivalent of working as a stripper or being a porn star. Totally icky professions, both, but the total opposite of whoever had killed Lila and Connie. At least that was how it seemed to me, but I’d be the first to admit I have no personal knowledge and can’t be expected to know what I’m talking about.
“It sounds like I’ll have to give Beau a call,” I said, and looked up as someone stopped next to our table. It was the waiter. I expected him to ask if everything was OK, the way waiters do, and maybe inquire if we needed a refill on our drinks, bu
t instead he addressed Heather.
“Ms. Price? There is someone to see you in the lobby.”
Heather looked surprised for a moment, and then her eyes lit up. I guessed maybe she’d left Julio a message about where she was going to be, and she thought he’d tracked her down after being released by the police. Personally, I wasn’t so optimistic. There was no reason why Julio wouldn’t just come over to the table. Unless he was wearing jeans and the maitre d’ had refused to let him pass. However, I didn’t let her see my doubt, but just smiled encouragingly. “Go ahead.”
Heather didn’t have to be asked twice, but jumped up and hurried toward the reception area, leaving her summer jacket hanging over the back of her chair and her handbag sitting on the floor beside it. The waiter smiled apologetically as he picked them up and followed.
She didn’t come back, but the waiter did. Eventually. “Ms. Price was compelled to leave,” he murmured as he placed the check on the table next to me.
“Did her boyfriend come for her?” I dug through my wallet, looking for the credit card I thought would be most likely to withstand the charge. I hadn’t expected to have to pay for Heather’s lunch as well as my own.
The waiter shook his head, dropping his voice another notch, to where I almost couldn’t hear him over the clinking of silverware and muted conversations all around us. “The police escorted her out. A uniformed patrol officer in an official car.” He shuddered.
“Dear me,” I said, not at all surprised. “I hope nothing’s wrong.”
The waiter rolled his eyes and shrugged in an eloquent, Gallic way. “I shall return momentarily, Mademoiselle.”
I nodded and sat back on my chair, hoping he wouldn’t return momentarily to tell me my credit card has been rejected.
Gary Lee and Charlene Hodges arrived at the office promptly at 3:30, but before they got there, I had found the time for a few phone calls. The first was to Tamara Grimaldi, made just after I left Fidelio’s and was walking to my car. I figured that by then she must have gotten tired of talking to Julio Melendez, but that Heather wouldn’t have had time to get there yet, and I might catch her between interviews.
“Detective? Savannah Martin.”
“Hello, Ms. Martin,” the detective said resignedly.
“I just wanted to know if there was any news.”
“You know, the general public isn’t supposed to call the police for updates on ongoing investigations.”
“Oh.” I guessed that was probably true, although it hadn’t actually occurred to me before she mentioned it. “Sorry.”
“It’s my fault. I’ve talked to you about too many things I shouldn’t have mentioned.”
“I did help you catch Walker Lamont,” I reminded her. “And without me, you wouldn’t have known that there was a connection between the open house robberies and Lila’s murder.”
“I assure you, Ms. Martin, that’s a connection we would have found sooner or later.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but she continued, “However, I guess I do owe you a little something. What do you want to know?”
For a second or two, too many possible questions swirled around in my head, making me dizzy. Then I grabbed one, the one that seemed the most important to me at the moment. “Did you just arrest Heather Price?”
“How do you know about that?”
“I was having lunch with her,” I said, as I unlocked my car door and put my handbag inside. “The waiter said a uniformed officer in a squad car came and escorted her away.”
Detective Grimaldi sounded resigned. “How do you manage to always be in the thick of things, Ms. Martin? It’s not even because you try, is it?”
I didn’t answer, and she added, her voice dry once more, “No, we haven’t arrested Ms. Price. She is assisting the police in their inquiries.”
“But that means you suspect her, doesn’t it? In mystery novels, that’s what it means.”
I got into the car and fumbled the key into the ignition.
“We’re trying to ascertain whether or not she was aware of her boyfriend’s actions with regards to the robberies,” Tamara Grimaldi said. “Clearly, it was her knowledge of the houses and their contents that spurred the idea for the robberies, but we’re not sure whether she participated in their planning, or if Mr. Melendez used her for his own purposes.”
“Oh, God, I hope not!” I said.
Detective Grimaldi’s silence was eloquent, and I added, reluctantly, “She’s obviously worried about him. She cares what happens to him. She’ll be devastated if she finds out that he was using her all along.”
“You hope she helped him plan the robberies instead?”
“Well...” I said. No, I guess I didn’t really hope that, either. “I’m not sure what I hope. Whatever she did, though, I don’t think she had anything to do with the murders. Did Julio say anything about them?”
I looked both ways before I eased the Volvo out into traffic on Murphy Road.
“He admitted to receiving stolen goods, and that he accepted the items from the robberies, but he denied killing anyone. He and Heather were together Wednesday after the funeral, until she went to Brentwood and found Connie Fortunato, so in other circumstances he’d have an alibi. But of course, with her possible involvement, I can’t accept it on its own, without some corroboration. They stayed at home, so nobody else can vouch for either of them.”
“What about the night Lila died? Does he have an alibi for that?”
“Yes and no.” It was another alibi the detective couldn’t take seriously. “He said he was playing pool with some men in a dive in South Nashville. A place called the Shortstop Sports Bar.”
“Did he give you their names?” I asked, my heart starting to beat faster.
Grimaldi sounded disgusted. “He said he didn’t know their names. However, when I threatened to charge him with murder unless he gave me something to work with, he managed to remember something. I’ve identified one of the men. His name is Ishmael Jackson, and he has a rap sheet as long as my arm. Among other things, he’s served time for breaking and entering before.”
“No kidding.” My mouth was dry. If she had Ishmael Jackson’s name, how long could it be before she had Rafe’s?
“Every black-and-white in Nashville is looking for him, and I’m sure it’s just a matter of time before I identify the others.”
“Congratulations,” I said.
“Thank you.” The detective’s voice was triumphant, so much so that she didn’t notice how my voice was anything but. “And now I guess I’d better go. Lots to do before Spicer and Truman show up with Ms. Price.”
“Let me know what happens, would you? If it’s acceptable for me to ask, that is. Being a member of the general public, and all.”
“When this is over, Ms. Martin,” Detective Grimaldi said, “we’ll go out to lunch again, and go over all the details, just like we did after Mr. Lamont confessed. In the meantime, I’ll let you know what I think you need to know, and you can do the same. Deal?”
“I suppose,” I said grudgingly, and hung up.
My second call was made when I got to the office, and it was to the beautiful Beau Riggins. But Beau must have been working – posing in the semi-nude with a feather duster in his hand in someone’s house somewhere – because I got his voice mail. “You’ve reached the voice mail of Beau Riggins, house boy extraordinaire. Sorry I missed your call,” he cooed, in a voice as rich as Elvis Presley’s. “Please leave me a message, and I’ll call you back just as soon as I can. Promise!” I could practically envision him winking as he said it.
“Hi, Beau,” I said, and was pleased to notice that my voice didn’t wobble at all. “This is Savannah Martin with Lamont, Briggs, and Associates. I had a question I wanted to ask you. When you have a minute to talk, would you mind giving me a call?” I left my number and hung up.
By the time Gary Lee and Charlene walked through the door, Beau still hadn’t called back. I left my teeny-tiny office and ushered the
two of them into the conference room, where the three of us could fit more comfortably. “Have a seat.”
Gary Lee and Charlene exchanged a glance before they sat down beside each other on one side of the conference table. I seated myself on the other, folded my hands demurely on the glass table top, and smiled. “What can I do for you?”
They looked at each other again, and it was painfully obvious that neither of them wanted to speak. Eventually, Gary Lee cleared his throat. “We have something to tell you, Savannah.”
“Great,” I said.
More silence. Finally, Charlene took charge. “Listen, Savannah. When we first met you, at that open house over on Potsdam Street...”
“Yes?”
“We weren’t really there looking to buy the house.”
I nodded. No surprise there. Most people who come to open houses are gawkers; they’re not serious about buying, they just want to see how other people live. That had been especially true for the open house at 101 Potsdam Street, where the majority of the visitors had come to stare at the place on the floor where Brenda Puckett had had her throat cut. One woman had even sat down and attempted to contact Brenda’s disembodied spirit. Unsuccessfully, I’m happy to say. At least Rafe hadn’t mentioned anything about an overweight woman haunting the place (apart from Marquita), and it was reasonable to assume that he would have, had he encountered her.
“But then you offered to show us other houses, and we figured it would be fun to... um...”
“See which bedroom had, like, the best vibe,” Gary Lee finished.
“I see.”
Charlene shook her head. “I don’t think you do, Savannah. See, we rent this apartment in Germantown. It’s on the top floor of an old Victorian house, and the walls are thin, and the floors sag, and there are gaps under all the doors, and whenever we want to... um...”
She glanced over at Gary Lee for help. He shrugged.
“Make love?” I suggested.
She nodded gratefully. “Whenever we want to make love, the old woman who owns the house complains about the noise. We’d probably be arrested for indecent exposure if we went outside, and you can only do it in elevators and fitting rooms and the back seat of the car so many times before that becomes old hat.”
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