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  “No. Nothing.” Definitely not. I didn’t want anyone in Sweetwater to know what had happened this morning. Or almost happened. If one person knew, it was just a matter of time before word got around, and then I’d be unable to show my face in Sweetwater ever again. “I saw him for a minute this morning. When I had to bring his grandmother to the police station to talk about Marquita Johnson. I suppose you’ve heard?”

  Yvonne nodded, snapping her bubblegum. “Bless her heart.”

  “Did you know Marquita?”

  “Oh, sure.” She leaned against the edge of the table. “We went to school together. Hung out some. Not lately, though. She married Cletus and left Cletus and then she moved to Nashville to work for Rafe. I ain’t seen her in a while.”

  “She didn’t come in while she was in town?”

  Yvonne shook her head. “I didn’t know she was here till this morning. Suddenly everyone’s talking about the other body in the Bog.”

  The first body in the Bog had been Rafe’s mother. LaDonna Collier had died from a drug overdose sometime in July. No one was exactly sure when, since it had taken a week or more before anyone found her, and by then it was more difficult to determine time of death. Sheriff Satterfield had investigated the situation as a homicide for a while, mostly because Todd wanted Rafe to be guilty. But there had been no evidence of anything criminal—and certainly no evidence that Rafe was involved—so eventually the sheriff had had to close the case.

  Now I started wondering, though, as Yvonne took in my distracted expression and wandered away to check on my salad.

  Two dead bodies found in the Bog within three months of each other? That was quite a coincidence. Was it possible that the sheriff’s suspicions were right, and LaDonna’s death hadn’t been accidental? Or self-administered? Had someone killed her, and gotten away with it, and now that same person had killed Marquita?

  Not Rafe, I told myself. Rafe had been in Memphis when LaDonna died, and he’d been in Memphis again now. Five hours away. Of course, I had no way of knowing that positively, but I knew he hadn’t killed his mother. I’d seen his face when I blurted out what Sheriff Satterfield was thinking. That icy menace in his eyes, on top of my knowledge that he’d spent two years in prison for almost killing the man who had beaten LaDonna black and blue twelve years ago, had removed any lingering doubts I may have had. And he had been in Memphis last week. Detective Grimaldi had said so.

  My Cobb salad came, and Yvonne left me alone to eat it and to think. She didn’t talk to me again. Not until it was time for me to go. “Say hi to Rafe,” she told me then, as I was taking my credit card back at the cash register. I glanced around, guiltily, worried that someone I knew was nearby and had heard. She grinned, enjoying my discomfiture, and added, “Tell him if he’s ever down this way to look me up. I’m between husbands.”

  “I’ll do that,” I said. When hell froze over.

  “Here. Take my phone number.” She scribbled it on the back of my receipt for lunch. “Tell him...”

  “To call you. I will.” I tucked the receipt into my pocket. Where, hopefully, I’d forget about it by the time I sent the skirt to the cleaners, and by the time I got it back, the ink would have run and the number would be illegible.

  “Hey.” She shrugged, grinning. “If you don’t want him, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t throw my hat in. You don’t want him, right?”

  “Of course not.”

  “So, no problem.”

  I smiled back. “None at all. I’ll make sure he gets it.” When pigs fly.

  Yes, I was in fact aware of the total incongruity of my feelings. As I got into the Volvo and drove out of Beulah’s parking lot toward the Martin mansion, I tried to justify the discrepancy to myself, but without much success.

  The thing is, for as long as Rafe had been gone, I had been able to tell myself that I didn’t really miss him, that I wasn’t worried about him, that I just didn’t want anything to happen to him because I’m a nice person and I don’t want bad things to happen to people I know. That it wasn’t him, specifically, I was worried about.

  All of which went out the window when I saw him.

  My reaction had, frankly, scared me a little. That overwhelming relief that he was back, that he was safe, that nothing had happened to him.

  The sight of him, sitting there on the edge of the bed, had been like a punch to the stomach, leaving me breathless and shaking.

  And then that kiss...

  I had kissed him. Granted, it hadn’t taken him long to get with the program, but in that first instance, I had kissed him. And surprised him. As well as myself. I’d never kissed him before. He had kissed me a few times; once when I’d responded, once when I hadn’t. But this was the first time I had initiated the kiss.

  The Savannah who had launched herself at him this morning was a far cry from the prim and proper Southern Belle who had been afraid of standing too close to him just two months ago.

  And I did want him. For as long as he was the one initiating the contact, the one kissing me, I could tell myself that I didn’t, that I didn’t enjoy his kisses, or enjoy being close to him, but after this morning, I hadn’t a leg to stand on. If the phone hadn’t interrupted us, I wouldn’t have lifted a finger to stop things from going much, much farther.

  But the thing is, I didn’t want to want him. Wanting him was scary. And would surely end in misery. He wasn’t someone I could have a relationship with. I couldn’t marry him. Couldn’t have his children. Couldn’t even bring him to Christmas dinner at my mother’s house, unless I wanted to make my entire family—and him—uncomfortable.

  And I didn’t.

  Besides, he wasn’t the settling-down kind, anyway. So even if I were willing to go out on a limb and get involved with him—and this morning, that had definitely been part of what I wanted—he wouldn’t stick around. He might give me a few weeks, or even a few months, but marriage and children weren’t options for him either. Not judging by his lifestyle so far. He might like me, but he didn’t like me enough for that.

  So I should just do everyone a favor and leave him alone. No matter how difficult it would be, or how much I just wanted to grab him and hold on. I should give him Yvonne’s phone number and tell him to call her, and then I should sit back and wait for Todd’s proposal.

  Or precipitate it. There are things a woman can say to make a man want to propose. I’d gotten a thorough grounding in all the tricks during that year in finishing school. Maybe if I was engaged to Todd, my thoughts wouldn’t constantly turn back to Rafe, to the feel of his mouth on mine, and his hands in my hair, and his body...

  When I pulled the car to a stop at the bottom of the steps outside my childhood home, I had to keep the engine—and the air conditioning—running for a few minutes while I waited for the color in my cheeks to calm down and my breathing to return to normal. If I walked in looking like I’d been having pornographic daydreams while driving, mother would be sure to notice. I forced my mind onto innocuous subjects and waited until I could get out of the Volvo and climb the steps without setting off any alarms.

  The Martin mansion is a large antebellum structure built in 1839, back in the days when the Martins grew tobacco and cotton and owned slaves. Rafe once compared it to a mausoleum, and I guess there is a sort of resemblance. It’s big and red, with two-story white pillars out front.

  I didn’t bother knocking, just pushed the door open and walked in. This was, after all, my childhood home. “Hello? Mother?”

  There was a scuffling sound from the direction of the kitchen, and then my mother’s face appeared in the doorway, topped by her usual halo of perfectly tinted champagne-colored hair. “Savannah? Darling!”

  The rest of her looked just as pulled together and amazing as she came down the hallway toward me, her high heels clicking a rapid rhythm against the hundred and seventy year old wood floors. As usual, she was dressed in her version of hang-out-at-home casual wear: elegant slacks and a loose silk shirt. They were covere
d with an old-fashioned 1950s style apron, green and white check with a bib.

  The apron was covered with flour, so I leaned in from the side to peck her cheek. “What are you doing?”

  She made a moue. “Didn’t you hear, darling? Poor Deputy Johnson’s wife died. I’m making a casserole.”

  Of course. When someone dies, you have to drop off a casserole. Even if the deceased has been murdered, and was separated from the spouse receiving the food. And who might even be a suspect. Usually, the police take a close look at the husband or wife when someone is killed. I wondered if Cletus would be exempt, by virtue of being a deputy, or whether Sheriff Satterfield would investigate him.

  And then I wondered if he might be involved. They were separated, so obviously there had been some kind of animosity there. He had custody of the children, I knew, since he had the steady job and the income. Detective Grimaldi had told me they were fighting over visitation rights. But what if Marquita had filed some kind of motion to take them back? She had a steady job now, and God knew there was plenty of room in Mrs. Jenkins’s house for couple kids. If something like that was going on, it might have given Cletus reason to want to get rid of her.

  It was pure speculation, of course, but it might be worth looking into. I made a mental note to mention it to Bob Satterfield the next time I saw him. Or maybe Tamara Grimaldi would be a better recipient for this particular brainstorm.

  “What are you doing here, darling?” Mother had grabbed me by the arm and was towing me toward the kitchen. Now both our sets of heels were clicking on the hardwoods.

  “Didn’t Dix tell you? My apartment was broken into. I’ve spent a few nights at a friend’s house, but this morning her grandson came to stay with her, and I decided to leave.”

  Mother nodded. “Dix called last night. As did Todd. He was terribly worried, poor boy.”

  “I’m sorry. We were supposed to have dinner, and I forgot.”

  “Oh, dear.” Mother clicked her tongue disapprovingly. I’m not supposed to forget my manners, and obviously she didn’t think having my apartment broken into was reason enough for the lapse.

  “I know,” I said humbly. “I was hoping to make it up to him today.”

  She shook her head. “Oh, I don’t think that’ll work, darling. He left for Chattanooga this morning. Business trip. A seminar. As far as I understand it, he won’t be back until sometime tomorrow.”

  “Really?” That was too bad. And a bit of a relief at the same time. I’d have a little more time to prepare myself.

  “I’m afraid so,” mother said. “He’ll be sorry he missed you, I’m sure.”

  “Well, I was planning to spend the night. Assuming that’s OK with you. Maybe I can make it up to him tomorrow instead. If he’s home by then.”

  “Maybe so,” mother agreed. “Bob and I were planning to have dinner together tonight, since he would be spending the evening alone anyway, but if you’d prefer that I stay here with you...” She trailed off.

  I shook my head. “That’s not necessary. I can fend for myself. Or maybe I’ll see if anyone else wants to have dinner with me. I still have a few friends in Sweetwater.”

  “Of course, darling,” mother said.

  So that was that. I spent the rest of the afternoon helping mother make chicken and dumplings, and then we got in the car and drove the casserole over to Cletus Johnson’s house, in a subdivision on the east side of town.

  In the old days, and even while I was growing up, Sweetwater was a very segregated sort of place. There were white churches and black churches, and white restaurants and black restaurants. Obviously there were white neighborhoods and black neighborhoods. The north side, along with the historic areas around the town square, was white; the south side, with its small tract houses and sad, overgrown lots, was black. Except for the Bog, the trailer park, which didn’t discriminate. As long as you were poor and common, you were welcome in the Bog.

  Over the past ten or fifteen years, that had changed, at least somewhat. The Bog was empty now, and was on its way to being leveled; someone had bought the land and was planning to put up a subdivision of ‘affordable’ housing. I made a mental note to figure out who was in charge of that, to see if maybe I could inveigle my way into selling a few of those affordable houses once they were built. Maybe I’d have the opportunity to ask a few questions at the same time.

  Cletus’s subdivision was also new within the past few years, and was on the east side of town. It was called Mulberry Downs, and the streets had names like Primrose and Azalea and Goldenrod. On our way to Hollyhock, where Cletus’s home was, we saw street after street of cookie-cutter houses, built of partial brick and vinyl siding, on postage-stamp sized lots. They all had big garages in the front, and the driveways held everything from BMWs and Audis to pickup trucks and minivans. Lots of minivans. Also many bicycles, trampolines, and skateboards. What realtors call a family friendly neighborhood. Mixed. It looked like Sweetwater was finally moving into the twenty first century.

  Mother looked uncomfortable, though, when she pulled the car to a stop outside 541 Hollyhock. While she opened the back door for the casserole, I gave the house a quick once-over.

  I’d certainly seen worse. The grass was cut, the windows were clean, and the driveway was free of toys. A black SUV was parked there, next to a white Saturn. There were curtains in all the windows and a black ribbon on the door.

  Mother looked around as if she expected ninjas to appear and drag her off. “Perhaps you should stay in the car, Savannah.”

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. She can’t help being the way she is, and it really isn’t her fault. Entirely. “That’s not necessary. This looks like a nice place.”

  Mom looked around again, the casserole dish clutched in her hands.

  “Cletus is a policeman,” I added. “I’m sure he wouldn’t live somewhere unsafe. Especially with his children.”

  “I’m sure that’s true.” She didn’t look convinced, though, and she kept looking over her shoulder as she picked her way up the driveway and along the flagstones to the front porch. “We won’t stay long, Savannah. We’ll just drop this off and go home.”

  “Really, I’m not uncomfortable at all. Believe me, I go to worse neighborhoods every day.”

  I didn’t say anything else, because now the door opened. I turned to it and smiled. “Hello.”

  The person in the opening wasn’t Cletus, although I might have been excused for thinking so, for a moment. She was in fact female, and about twenty five years older than me. Mid-fifties, at a guess, with short hair and no makeup. And she looked uncannily like her son, or at least like I remembered him from the last time I’d seen him, some years ago. Shorter by a few inches, but dark-skinned, dark-eyed, with a broad face and steady eyes. “Yes?”

  “I’m Savannah Martin,” I explained. “This is my mother, Margaret Anne. We wanted to drop off a casserole and give Cletus our condolences on the loss of his wife.”

  Mrs. Johnson blinked. After a second, she took the dish my mother mutely held out. Both of them seemed too overcome with emotion to speak when they made the transfer.

  “How is Cletus holding up?” I inquired. “And the children? This must be difficult for them.”

  “They ain’t seen Marquita much lately.” Mrs. Johnson finally got it together to look from mom to me. “Ever since she went to Nashville to work, she ain’t been coming by but once every couple weeks.”

  “Still, she was their mother...”

  “A fine mother,” Mrs. Johnson opined, meaning the opposite. “Running off to Nashville to shack up with LaDonna Collier’s good-for-nothing troublemaker...!”

  I bit back the first retort that came to mind. And the second. “I believe she worked for him,” I said at last, mildly.

  Mrs. Johnson snorted. “Likely that’s just what she told you.”

  “No, actually, I—” ...happen to know for a fact that there was nothing going on between them. I swallowed that, too.

 
We stood in silence for a few seconds, until Mrs. Johnson remembered her manners. She stepped back. “Would y’all like to come in?”

  “Oh, I don’t think...” mother said, at the same time as I smiled brightly.

  “Just for a second. To give Cletus our personal condolences.” I scooted past her and into the house. Mother didn’t have any choice but to follow.

  Cletus’s house looked just like a million others. The walls were painted in neutral colors, the floors were fake hardwood and tan carpet, the decor was typical of houses with small children: big screen TV with game attachments, a pile of toys over in a corner, small jackets on hooks in the front hall, small shoes lined up underneath. Kindergarten art on the refrigerator.

  Cletus was standing in the kitchen, staring blankly at the array of casseroles ranged across the kitchen island. His mother put ours down next to the others and laid a hand on his arm. “Son.”

  He looked up at her, blankly. Then noticed that she wasn’t alone. “Oh. I’m sorry. Mrs. Martin. Savannah.”

  Mother murmured something. “Hi, Cletus,” I said. He and I had gone to school together, and although—again—we hadn’t had much to do with one another, we were on a first-name basis. “I’m so sorry about Marquita.”

  He nodded.

  “Does Sheriff Satterfield have any idea what happened?”

  Cletus shook his head.

  “I’m sure he’ll figure it out. Especially now that the Metro Nashville PD is involved.”

  I looked around, but could see no obvious clues. No letter from the divorce lawyer pinned to the fridge, no smoking gun. “We just wanted to tell you in person,” I added. “We’ll leave you alone now.”

  “Thanks for coming,” Mrs. Johnson said, as she herded us back toward the front door. Mother was in the lead, walking fast; her heels clicking against Cletus’s fake hardwoods. I straggled, peering left and right.

  Two minutes later we found ourselves in the car, on our way back to Sweetwater proper and the Martin mansion. Mother looked like someone who had just survived a walk through the Valley of Death, and I don’t think it was the recent demise of Marquita that had so flustered her. It was probably the first time in her life my mother had been inside a black person’s home, and I guess she had been surprised to see it looked quite a lot like her own.