Mrs. J turned to me. “No, baby. She died. Broke her neck.” She shook her head sadly.
Then that didn’t sound like it would have had anything to do with the blood on Mrs. Jenkins’s clothes. Unless Ms. Bristol had fallen down the stairs and cut her head open. Head wounds bleed a lot.
Maybe Mrs. Jenkins had managed to walk off in the confusion. I guess that was possible. It might even explain—maybe—why no one had noticed that she was gone. Or if they had noticed, hadn’t called us—called Rafe—to let us know.
“Anything on the news?” I asked my husband.
He shook his head.
“I don’t suppose you’ve tried calling them?”
He hadn’t. “Not sure I wanna do that.”
“Why not?” Didn’t he want to chew someone out for losing track of his grandmother? I did. Anything at all could have happened to her out there. She might have been attacked. She might have gotten lost. She might have fallen in the river or been hit by a car or frozen to death.
Someone had to answer for that. We paid good money every month for them to take care of her. She was there because we thought she’d be safer than we could manage to keep her on our own. Rafe attracts some undesirable attention from time to time, and it was much better not to have Mrs. Jenkins around on those occasions. We couldn’t trust her not to open the door to someone who wanted to hurt Rafe by hurting her. And when she’d lived here, she’d had a habit of wandering off. The big estate in Brentwood had seemed like a nice compromise. Medical staff on site, other residents she could socialize with (when she remembered who they were), and lots of green space so she’d have the opportunity to get fresh air, but in a safe—walled—environment where nothing would happen to her.
And now this. Yes, I wanted someone to answer for it.
“Until I know what’s going on,” Rafe said, “I don’t wanna let’em know she’s here.”
I guess he was still worried that someone would put his grandmother in prison for murder. Even though there’d been nothing on the news about anyone being dead.
He added, “I’d feel better if they’d just call and tell me they’ve lost her. Then I’d have an excuse to go down there and look around.”
That made sense. “If they don’t,” I said, “I guess we can just wait until lunchtime, and head down. We usually do on Sundays, anyway, so there’s nothing unusual about it. And we can just pretend we don’t know that she’s gone. And see what they say.”
Rafe nodded. “If they don’t call, that’s what I’m gonna do. You’re gonna have to stay here with her.”
I had figured I would. I’d rather go with him to see what kind of excuse the staff came up with for why we couldn’t see Mrs. Jenkins—they might not even admit she was gone!—but someone had to hold down the fort. Mrs. J would wander off otherwise. And it wasn’t like we could bring her with us. That would defeat the whole purpose.
He pushed to his feet. “I’m gonna take a shower. You two OK on your own?”
“Fine,” I said. “We’ll just sit here and finish brunch until you’re done. And then we’ll figure out what else we can do.”
It wasn’t my first time babysitting Mrs. Jenkins. Last year, long before we were married, and before we were even involved (except emotionally), Rafe had been in Memphis, or maybe Atlanta, and Mrs. Jenkins had wandered off. The police had had to bring her back, and since the two patrol officers who had found her wandering the streets knew who she was, and since Detective Grimaldi knew that Rafe had asked me to keep an eye on his grandmother while he was gone, she called me. And I ended up spending a couple of nights with Mrs. J until Rafe came back. We’d gone to the movies and had ice cream and she had come with me to work when I’d had something I had to do that I couldn’t put off. We’d be just fine on our own for a few hours.
So Rafe took the stairs two at a time, and a minute later I heard the shower kick on. I spent a few minutes cleaning up the kitchen while Mrs. Jenkins watched me from the table. I wondered whether she recognized her old kitchen. It looked very different from what it did when she’d lived here, but she’d made it to the house last night, so she must remember the place, at least to a degree.
When the kitchen was sparkling, we moved out into the parlor, where I got Mrs. J situated in front of the TV. On the Home and Garden network, Bitsy and Bob were on a lakefront bargain hunt, and Mrs. J watched as they toured three houses and settled on one. And the renovations started. When a kitchen cabinet slipped out of Bob’s hands and hit Bitsy in the head, she even laughed.
I made sure she was comfortable, and that the front door was locked and bolted, and then I ran upstairs for a minute.
Or not ran so much as waddled as fast as I could, but you know what I mean.
Rafe takes quick showers, so he was already out and dry, but with a towel wrapped around his waist.
When I burst through the door into the bedroom he arched a brow at me.
“She’s watching TV,” I said. A little breathlessly, both from the climb and the fact that he was practically naked and there was a bed a few feet away.
Not that we could take advantage of it under the circumstances, but a girl can dream.
And in case I haven’t mentioned it, Rafe is gorgeous. In clothes and out of them. Especially out of them.
But since it was ten in the morning and his grandmother was downstairs, I resisted the temptation to push him down on the bed so I could have my way with him.
“I need to get her something else to wear,” I said instead. “She can’t spend the day in a nightgown.” Especially one so ill-fitting.
He nodded.
“You should put on some clothes, too.” It would make it easier for me to tear myself away.
He grinned. “In a minute.”
“You’re not making this any easier, you know.”
He nodded. “I know.”
“I have to get back down to her. I don’t want to leave her alone any longer than I have to.” Just in case she made a break for it. In my nightgown and bare feet.
He nodded sympathetically. And stood there, oozing testosterone and sex-appeal. In nothing but a towel that kept sliding lower on his hips.
Unless that was just my imagination. It might have been.
I sniffed and turned away. He chuckled and did the same. I could hear the towel hit the floor, but I resisted the temptation to peek. Mostly.
Digging through the drawers, I found a pair of thick socks for Mrs. Jenkins, since her slippers were destroyed. Her feet were a lot smaller than mine, so my shoes wouldn’t do her any good, but the socks would provide some warmth and a cushion against the floor. My underwear would have to do, too, since it was all I had. And then I dug up a short T-shirt dress I’d bought in a moment of insanity at some point, when I’d wanted something comfortable to wear that didn’t cost a lot. After I got it home, I’d realized it was about a foot too short, so the tag was still on it, since I hadn’t bothered to take it back for a refund. The few dollars it cost just hadn’t seemed worth the trip.
I added a cardigan to the pile, and turned to Rafe. He’d been taking his time getting dressed—probably pulling his socks on with his teeth, to make the process last as long as possible—so he was still only half dressed. And in the process of buttoning his jeans. As slo-o-o-o-o-wly as he could.
“Knock it off,” I told him crossly. “You know we can’t do anything about it. Not with your grandmother downstairs. And driving me crazy so I spend the rest of the day thinking about getting you naked when I should be focusing on keeping your grandmother safe, isn’t going to help.”
He must have seen the sense of that, because he grabbed a long-sleeved T-shirt and yanked it over his head. It was sad to see all those lovely muscles disappear, but having him decently covered did wonders for my peace of mind.
“Thank you,” I said.
“No problem.”
“I’ll make it up to you.”
He grinned. “No doubt.”
I took the stack of c
lothes for Mrs. Jenkins and headed for the door. “I’ll see you downstairs.”
“I’m coming,” Rafe said, and followed me out the door. “Let me take that, so you can hold on.”
He took the clothes out of my hands and nipped in front of me. He can move fast for a big man. “I’ll go first. That way, if you fall, I’ll be there to catch you.”
“I’m not going to fall,” I told him, but I let him take the clothes and go first, and I did hold onto the banister on my way down. I didn’t want to fall, either.
Three
Rafe spent an hour or so on the sofa with his grandmother, watching Bitsy and Bob muddle their way through their lake house renovation. Eventually, the house was ready, with big, gorgeous, floor-to-ceiling windows letting in the lake view, and Rafe got to his feet. “I’m gonna go.”
I nodded. “Good luck.”
“I’ll take the Harley, in case you wanna go somewhere.”
I glanced out the window. It was chilly outside, and looked like rain. Not very pleasant for a leisurely ride. Especially a leisurely fifteen-mile ride on a bike. “You can take the car. The weather looks questionable.”
He shook his head. “I’ll be fine on the bike. If you go into labor and you have to go to the hospital, the two of you need the car.”
He had a point. I tried to imagine maneuvering the heavy bike to the hospital, with Mrs. Jenkins hanging onto the back. The mind boggled.
“I don’t expect to go into labor today,” I said. “Not with three weeks to go. But leave the car, by all means. Better safe than sorry.”
“That’s my girl.” He bent his head and brushed my lips with his. “Take care of yourself. And our baby. And my grandma.”
I promised him I’d take care of everyone, and watched him shrug on his leather jacket and head out into the chilly November day. It wasn’t raining, not precisely, but the air was wet, even if nothing was specifically falling from the sky.
He took off down the driveway. I watched until he was gone, and then I went inside to Mrs. Jenkins. A new show had started, and another couple had replaced Bitsy and Bob. They wanted to buy a tiny home and live in it with their three children. All under the age of five.
Mrs. J was enthralled. I went looking for my phone.
I wasn’t going to give anything away to Detective Grimaldi. Rafe was worried about his grandmother, and I could understand that. I was worried, too. I didn’t think she could have killed anyone—certainly not without incurring some sort of injuries to herself—but I knew what it looked like. Somebody doesn’t get that much blood on them from a nosebleed.
At the same time, I needed information. About what, I wasn’t sure. But if anyone was dead, Grimaldi might know. And might tell me, if I probed carefully and without giving away why I wanted to know.
For all I knew, she might be off work this weekend, and knew nothing at all about anything. And in that case, it would just be a cordial check-in with a woman I considered a friend and who considered my brother—maybe—something more.
So I dialed. And waited for Tamara Grimaldi to pick up. On the TV, Saffron and Gus and their three kids were looking at a school bus turned into living quarters and marveling at how spacious it was.
“Just wait until the kids grow past three feet each,” I wanted to tell them, but of course I couldn’t. And the real estate agent didn’t, just watched them with a beaming smile while almost-visible dollar signs floated around her head.
I’m a real estate agent. I like dollar signs. But I wouldn’t be beaming while a family of five were talking about moving into a school bus. I’d be trying to talk them out of it.
The phone was picked up on the other end. “Savannah.”
Grimaldi has finally wrapped her brain around my first name, after calling me Ms. Martin for the first year we knew each other.
“Detective.” On the other hand, I’ve never wrapped my brain around calling her Tamara. And while Rafe calls her Tammy, no one else does. Not even her own family.
I’ve never asked my brother Dix what he calls her. They’ve been very circumspect about their relationship. To such a degree that I’m not even a hundred percent sure they have one.
“What’s going on?” Grimaldi wanted to know.
“Nothing,” I said.
Grimaldi didn’t answer. She has the interrogation technique down pat. Don’t say anything, and let the suspect squirm. I squirmed, until the silence got to be too much for me. “I’m just saying hello. It’s been a couple of days since we talked.”
“Is someone dead?” Grimaldi wanted to know.
That’s what I wanted to know. “I’m sure a lot of people are dead. But you’d know that better than I would. Are you working on anything interesting?”
“No,” Grimaldi said. “And it wouldn’t be any of your business if I were.”
“Just making conversation,” I said. Sort of airily.
“Uh-huh. Your husband around?”
I told her he wasn’t. “He’s on his way to Brentwood to see his grandmother.”
Mrs. Jenkins gave me a startled look over the back of the sofa. I smiled apologetically and wandered toward they foyer while I lowered my voice. She was already confused enough, poor thing. Hearing me lie about things wouldn’t make her any less so. “Speaking of...”
“Yes?” Grimaldi said.
“I heard that someone fell down the stairs at the nursing home and died. A Mrs. or Ms. Bristol. Can you shed any light on that?”
“None at all,” Grimaldi told me. “I had nothing to do with it. I don’t know that anyone else did. First of all, depending on where in Brentwood this place is, it could be Williamson County’s jurisdiction, and then the sheriff there would likely be in charge, if there were suspicious circumstances. If not, the attending physician might just have signed the death certificate and sent the body to the funeral home for cremation or burial.”
“Without an autopsy?”
“There’s not always an autopsy,” Grimaldi said. “People die in nursing homes all the time. It’s expected. Most of them expire quietly. The family can ask for an autopsy if they feel they have cause for concern, but with most elderly people, it’s bag and tag.”
It took me a second to wrap my brain around ‘bag and tag.’ When I had, I said, “What about a fall down the stairs? Would someone order an autopsy for that?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Grimaldi said. “It would depend. If someone saw her, and could testify that she just lost her footing and fell, then no. If it happened while no one was looking—an unattended death—then maybe. It would depend on the doctor. How suspicious he was that it wasn’t an accident. How eager he’d be to try to make something of it. And how likely it was that she didn’t just fall.”
So basically, there was no way to know. Not a particularly comforting thought, that someone could push you down the stairs in a nursing home, and just because you were old, nobody would bother to investigate.
“Did your grandmother-in-law say anything to make you think it was suspicious?” Grimaldi wanted to know.
She hadn’t. But then again— “You know how she is.”
Grimaldi agreed that she did. “I hope everything is all right?”
“As far as I know,” I said. “If it isn’t, I’m sure Rafe will figure it out when he gets there.”
Grimaldi said she was sure he would, too.
“So are you working today?” I asked.
Grimaldi said she was off, but on call in case anything needed her attention.
“You didn’t drive to Sweetwater to see Dix?”
“No,” Grimaldi said.
“Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine,” Grimaldi said.
OK, then. I could tell from her tone of voice that she didn’t want to talk about it, which made me want to talk about it more, but I respected her boundaries. Sort of. Instead, I came at the matter from a different angle. “Are you coming to Sweetwater for Thanksgiving?”
“No,” Grimaldi s
aid.
“Didn’t Dix invite you?”
He had.
“Do you have to work?”
“It’s a family occasion,” Grimaldi said. “I’m not family.”
She wasn’t. But Bob Satterfield would be there—Mother’s beau—and he was just as much family as Grimaldi was. Emotionally attached to one of the Martins.
“I’m sure you’d be welcome. Things are going to be awkward this year anyway, what with Darcy and all.”
Darcy had been my brother’s receptionist for the past couple of years. That was before we realized that she was also our half-sister, through a youthful fling of my father’s. Before he met Mother, naturally. But even so, Mother was a little leery around Darcy, and still royally pissed off at Audrey, Darcy’s biological mother, who had known for thirty-four years that she’d given birth to my father’s child, and had never mentioned it to anyone.
Every Thanksgiving for thirty-three years, Audrey had been there as part of the family. She’s been my mother’s best friend since Mother came to Sweetwater as a young bride.
This year, she probably wasn’t invited. Darcy probably was—Mother was doing her best to be polite—but it wasn’t like Darcy would enjoy it when she knew her biological mother was sitting at home alone, gnawing on a turkey-leg by her lonesome. So either way you sliced it, it would be an awkward evening.
“That’s all right,” Grimaldi said, as if I’d offered her a wonderful opportunity. “I usually work on holidays. That way, the detectives who have families can be home with them.”
That made sense. And was very nice of her. I said so. She grunted.
“Well, we should grab lunch sometime soon,” I said brightly, and then wished I hadn’t. She had the day off today—unless she got called in on a case—but I couldn’t have lunch with her. If she suggested it, I’d have to decline. And I couldn’t tell her it was because I had to babysit Mrs. Jenkins, since she wasn’t supposed to know that Mrs. Jenkins was here.
Luckily, she didn’t take the bait. “That sounds nice,” she said instead, politely. “I’ll see what I can find out about your Ms. or Mrs. Bristol, and get back to you.”
Home Stretch Page 3