Adverse Possession Page 10

  His lips quirked. “Dunno if I’d put it like that, darlin’.”

  “Did you?”

  He shrugged. “I told you she kept sending me letters in prison. Wasn’t like I could really forget about her while she was doing that.”

  I guess not. “Just out of curiosity, did you ever think about me?”

  His lips curved. “You didn’t send me letters, darlin’.”

  No, I didn’t. I hadn’t slept with him in high school, either. Nor for that matter thought about him during the twelve years between his graduation and the morning he showed up in my life again, last August. But he had mentioned once that he’d liked me back then—from afar, since he knew that Dix and his friends would gang up on him if he looked at me wrong—so it was possible he might have spared me a thought now and then. Not that I could really blame him if he hadn’t. But I was still curious.

  He shrugged. “I mighta thought about you once in a while. Not much else to think about in prison.”

  Given some of the things that I hear go on in prison, the less said about that, the better.

  “At any rate,” I said, “people get weird and obsessive sometimes. If someone has developed an obsession with Aislynn—or for that matter with Kylie—”

  “Or with the house,” Rafe said.

  I nodded. “There’s no way we’d know about it if someone did. The letters come through the mail. There’s no way to know who’s sending them. So everyone’s a suspect.”

  Rafe nodded. “What are you gonna tell’em tomorrow?”

  “I guess the truth. That I have no idea what’s going on, and I don’t think there’s any way I can figure out who’s behind it. If it was easy, they’d already know. You know?”

  He nodded.

  “Although...” I lowered my voice, with a glance across the aisle, “the fact that Virgil’s dead is suspicious. Don’t you think? Detective Mendoza must think so, or he wouldn’t want to talk to Aislynn and Kylie.”

  “I imagine so,” Rafe said.

  “Although that’s just more reason for Aislynn and Kylie to sell and get the hell—excuse me, heck—out of the house. If someone’s running around murdering people.”

  Rafe nodded. “Might be the safest for them. Or at least to take a trip somewhere for a week or two. Give the cops time to figure out whodunit and get the guy off the street.”

  “I’ll be sure to mention that,” I said. “A trip somewhere would probably be good for them, anyway. To reconnect.”

  “Just as long as they don’t run into the kind of trouble we had on our honeymoon,” Rafe said and slid out of the booth.

  Chapter Eight

  I followed suit. And no sooner had my feet hit the floor in the aisle between the tables, than Kenny looked up and over. His pale face flushed. “Are you following me?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said.

  “You were at my house. And then you called me. And now you’re here.”

  His voice was getting louder and louder, not to mention more hysterical. Rafe turned around, brows lowered, but before he could do anything, the big, black guy had slid out of the booth and put himself between me and Kenny. “Is this lady bothering you?”

  Up close, his voice was soft and lispy, and he looked ready to take me on to defend his friend’s honor.

  I rolled my eyes. “Nobody’s following anyone.”

  “You’re here,” Kenny insisted. “You were at my house this afternoon. And you called me!”

  “That doesn’t mean I’m following you,” I told him. “I live in the neighborhood, too. And we were here first!”

  The plural made them both look at Rafe. I saw two throats move in unison as they swallowed. Even the big, black guy looked intimidated.

  Rafe arched a brow. “Problem?”

  Neither of them spoke. Maybe what they’d swallowed were their tongues. My husband has that effect on some people.

  “No,” I said. “Just a misunderstanding.”

  He nodded. “Coming?”

  I nodded. It wasn’t like Kenny would tell me anything. Not here and now. Maybe not ever. So I told them both to enjoy their meal, and followed Rafe out the door.

  “So what do you think?” I asked when I was strapped in and we were on our way back home. Back in the old days—before my stomach took on the size and proportions of a basketball—I rode on the back of the Harley sometimes, but those days were over. My arms wouldn’t be able to reach around my stomach and around Rafe’s waist to hold on these days.

  He glanced at me, in the process of navigating the traffic lights on Main Street. “About?”

  “Them.” I tilted my head to indicate the FinBar, and Kenny and his friend.

  He shrugged. “Looked pretty normal to me, for a guy who’s just lost his lover.”

  To me, too. Listless and despondent and close to tears. “What about the other one?”

  “Looked like he was trying to make his move while he pretended to be supportive,” Rafe said.

  I nodded. “To me, too.”

  We drove in silence for a minute. It had gotten dark by now, and the lighted skyline of downtown was dead ahead. Until Rafe turned the corner of Fifth and Main, where my old apartment building was. The lighted windows of the downtown buildings reflected in the glass.

  “Do you think he might have killed Virgil?”

  Rafe quirked a brow. “You saying that because he’s black?”

  “No,” I said, insulted. “I’m saying it because he was trying to make a move on a guy who lost his lover to violence two days ago. Don’t you think that’s a little suspicious?”

  He shrugged. “Some people ain’t got no manners.”

  No, they don’t. At my colleague Brenda Puckett’s funeral last year, the woman from across the street was already hanging on Stephen Puckett’s arm, acting like the lady of the house.

  “He had motive, though. He might have wanted Virgil gone, to clear his own way to Kenny.”

  “He might could,” Rafe agreed, making a right turn onto Dresden.

  “Although I don’t see what any of that has to do with Kylie and Aislynn’s letters.”

  Rafe shook his head.

  “What am I going to tell them tomorrow morning?”

  “The truth,” Rafe said as he signaled to turn the car onto Potsdam Street, in front of the Milton House assisted living facility, where Mrs. Jenkins had been living last fall, after Brenda cheated her out of her house. “There ain’t no way to know who’s sending the letters. If it was easy, they’d already know. But if they’ll get outta the way for a few days, you’ll keep looking.”

  “I suppose I could tell them that.” And hope they’d see the sense in it.

  “You can only do what you can do,” Rafe said. “And if they wanna sell the house again, you make money.”

  I would. Assuming I could find someone to sell it to, and I guessed I probably could. Renovated Victorians on the historic register don’t come along all that often. Even if this one had the slight stigma of having a stalker.

  “I’d have to disclose the letters. Not sure anyone would want to buy it after that.” I’m not sure I would. It was a nice house, but who needs the hassle? “And with Virgil gone, I’ll never know whether he and Stacy were getting letters, too, before they left. And whether those letters had anything to do with what happened.”

  “Didn’t you ask Stacy?”

  I nodded. “He said they didn’t. But with Virgil dead, who’s around to contradict him?”

  “You could ask Kenny.” Rafe turned on the signal and aimed the car onto the driveway.

  “I doubt he’ll talk to me,” I said, as we crunched over the gravel up to the front door. “You heard him. He accused me of stalking him.”

  Rafe didn’t answer, just quirked a brow in my direction.

  “You’re right,” I said. “That might mean he’s been getting anonymous letters. Either that or it’s a guilty conscience.”

  Rafe nodded and cut the engine. I opened my door and got out on
to the gravel. “Maybe he killed Virgil,” I said across the roof of the car. “Maybe he’d rather be with the black guy.”

  “You know what they say about black men,” Rafe agreed, as he slammed his own door and headed around the car. I couldn’t see him clearly in the dark—we’d forgotten to turn on the porch light before we left—but I could hear from his tone of voice that he was amused. What they say about black men—that they’re well-endowed—is a standing joke between us.

  I waved it aside. “Yeah, yeah. You’re all that and a bag of chips. Moving on—”

  But I didn’t get to move on, because as soon as he got close enough, he grabbed me around the middle and swung me around so my butt was against the car and my front was against him. The baby poked against his stomach, but it didn’t slow him down. “You weren’t so dismissive earlier,” he told me, as he leaned in to nuzzle the side of my neck.

  I hadn’t been, no. I wasn’t feeling dismissive now, either. My knees turned weak and I hung on to his shoulders as I tilted my head to the side to give him better access. And that’s when I saw the figure sitting on the porch swing.

  Rafe felt my jolt of surprise, and in less than a second had gone from amorous husband to protective TBI agent. “Who’s there?”

  The figure moved. I watched from behind Rafe as it—she—stood up from the porch swing and moved to the stairs. It was only when she stepped down, out of the shadow under the porch roof, that I recognized her. Black clothes, pale face framed by long, black hair, quivering lips.

  “She’s gone,” Aislynn whimpered. “Kylie’s gone.”

  Five minutes later we were sitting around the kitchen table, where Rafe, Detective Mendoza, and I had sat a few hours ago.

  Unlike Mendoza, Aislynn was a quivering mess. Her Goth-girl makeup had run, giving her the look of a raccoon, and her eyes and nose were red and puffy. The box of tissues I had provided took care of the former, but not the latter. After wiping away the black smears, she sat there clutching a soggy tissue, alternately dabbing at her eyes and her nose. Both were running.

  “Tell us what happened,” Rafe said.

  Aislynn took a shaky breath. “The cop came.”

  “Detective Mendoza?”

  She nodded. “He asked us questions about the letters. When they started coming. Who we thought might be sending them.”

  “Did you tell him about Lauren?”

  She avoided my eyes. “He was from the police. I didn’t think it was a good idea not to say something.”

  “You did the right thing,” I told her. “What did he say?”

  Aislynn clutched her tissue so hard I was surprised water wasn’t dripping on the table. “He asked Kylie about her. About Lauren. Where she lived. What their relationship was. Whether Kylie thought there was any chance that Lauren was sending the letters.”

  “What did Kylie say?”

  “She said no,” Aislynn said miserably. “And after he left, she yelled at me. She said Lauren would never do something like that. That I was jealous.”

  And that might be the case. Aislynn herself had told me so when she brought up Lauren’s name earlier.

  “Did he ask about the last time Kylie had seen Lauren?” I asked.

  “They work together,” Aislynn answered. “They see each other all the time.”

  “I meant outside of work.”

  “He asked,” Aislynn said. “Kylie told him she hadn’t had anything to do with Lauren since they broke up last summer.”

  That might also be true. Then again, it might not. I had no proof one way or the other that the woman Kylie had had lunch with today was Lauren. It might have been someone else.

  Or Kylie could be lying.

  Or maybe she just didn’t consider lunch during the workday ‘outside of work.’

  “Then what happened?” Rafe wanted to know.

  Aislynn turned to him. “He left. The cop. And Kylie yelled at me. She said I shouldn’t have said anything about Lauren. That I was jealous. And then she tried to call Lauren—to warn her about the cop, I guess—but Lauren didn’t answer. So Kylie got in the car and left.”

  “To go find her?”

  “I assume,” Aislynn said. “She didn’t tell me what she was doing.” She sniffed and dabbed her nose with the tissue.

  “How long ago was that?”

  It couldn’t have been too long. Mendoza had left here around six, and it was just after nine now. Certainly not long enough to put out an APB on her.

  Aislynn shrugged. “A couple hours?”

  “Have you tried calling her?”

  Aislynn nodded. “She isn’t picking up.”

  “Prob’ly still angry,” Rafe muttered. Aislynn flinched.

  “You did what you had to do,” I told her, with a quelling glance at Rafe. “It’s always a good idea to be honest with the police. And it’s only been a few hours. I’m sure she’ll show up.”

  Aislynn looked unconvinced.

  “Did Mendoza tell you about the murder?”

  Aislynn nodded. “Something about the guy who owned the house before us being dead. The cop asked us if we knew him.”

  “And did you?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Did Kylie?”

  Aislynn blinked. “She said she didn’t.”

  Then it was probably true. She hadn’t said anything about recognizing Virgil’s or Stacy’s names back in December, when we’d been filling out the paperwork for the house. I couldn’t remember the buyers and sellers ever coming face to face—we’d closed at different times, in different places, so we hadn’t been sitting around the closing table together—but Kylie had certainly known their names. And there was no way to know whether she and Aislynn hadn’t taken a drive past the house at some point before it was theirs, and had run into Virgil and/or Stacy then. They might have met before.

  “Did Kylie ever say anything about suspecting anyone of writing the letters?”

  “She pointed the finger at my parents,” Aislynn said, her voice stronger now with indignation. “My parents would never do that! They love me!”

  “Kylie said they weren’t happy when you became involved with her.”

  Aislynn admitted they hadn’t been. “But they wouldn’t do something like this! Besides, they live in Kentucky. The letters were mailed here.”

  “Bowling Green’s only an hour away,” I pointed out. “It isn’t a long drive.”

  She scowled. “I know exactly how long it is. My parents haven’t been in Nashville since May. We had dinner together before they went to a show. And they wouldn’t come to Nashville without seeing me.”

  Maybe not. Although my family had been known to make the drive to Nashville—about the same distance as the drive from Bowling Green—without taking the trouble to see me.

  Of course, if someone had suggested the idea that any of them were behind a series of creepy anonymous letters, my reaction would have been the same as Aislynn’s. I would have refused to believe it.

  I abandoned the subject for the time being. “Just out of curiosity, where does Lauren live?”

  “Something Park,” Aislynn said vaguely. “I think it started with an S.”

  “Sylvan Park? Sevier Park? Shelby Park?”

  “Maybe Shelby Park?”

  “Shelby Park is right down the street from you,” I said. Right in the middle of the East Nashville neighborhood. Close to the post office. And it was where Virgil had been killed. “Are you sure?”

  But Aislynn wasn’t. “It could have been Sylvan Park. Or... what was the other thing you said?”

  I told her, and she shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe I was wrong. It might not have been an S.”

  In that case the field was wide open. Charlotte Park, Richland Park, Centennial Park. Neighborhoods with the word ‘park’ in them all over town.

  “How did you get here,” Rafe asked, since we hadn’t noticed a vehicle in the driveway.

  “Walked,” Aislynn said.

>   There was a beat, while we both considered Aislynn traipsing through the Potsdam neighborhood, on her own, in the dark. I’ve gotten to feel pretty comfortable here, especially with Rafe at home—the neighbors all know him, and nobody’s going to risk incurring his wrath by bothering me—but I wouldn’t have chosen to walk around at night. Chances are nothing would have happened if I did, but why take chances?

  “I’ll drive you home,” Rafe said.

  Aislynn glanced at me.

  “Maybe she should just stay here,” I suggested, trying to interpret Aislynn’s expression. She either didn’t want to go home with Rafe, or she didn’t want to go home at all. Maybe she was afraid Kylie would yell at her again. “I have to go over there in the morning anyway. She may as well spend the night and ride back with me then.”

  “Whatever you want,” Rafe said and got to his feet. “Scuse me. I’m gonna make a phone call.”

  He reached for his phone as he headed out of the room. Aislynn watched him go, and then turned back to me.

  “Anything you didn’t want to say in front of him?” I asked. “If so, now’s the time to tell me.”

  She glanced at the opening to the hallway. We could hear the murmur of Rafe’s voice from the front of the house, and then the sound of the front door opening and closing. “Is he going somewhere?”

  “Probably not,” I said. “More likely he wants some privacy for his phone call.”

  “Who is he calling?”

  I told her I had no idea. “Not Kylie. He doesn’t have her number.”

  He was probably calling Detective Mendoza, to tell him what had happened. Good relations between law enforcement agencies, and all that. Or maybe he was calling Detective Grimaldi, so she could notify Mendoza. Or maybe it had nothing to do with Aislynn or Kylie at all. Maybe he was calling a friend.

  “Come on,” I told Aislynn. “Let’s go upstairs and get you situated. Unless you’d like to go home? I’d be happy to take you. It doesn’t have to be Rafe.”

  Not that he was likely to let me drive off on my own at this time of night. If I insisted on going—if Aislynn wanted to go—it was more likely to be both of us driving her home.