Adverse Possession Page 13

  And then pandemonium continued as Stacy pushed past me and knocked me back against the wall on his way out the door, running like a gazelle in black leather pants and biker boots.

  “Get him!” somebody screamed, and there was a stampede on the door, and a bottleneck as everyone tried to get out at the same time. People grunted, shoved, and swore, and propelled each other through the opening. I’m sure casualties resulted. Kenny—released from the embrace of yesterday’s dinner partner—flew past me without a glance. The dinner partner thundered after.

  In the silence after the storm, I looked around. The room was empty. It was just me and the overturned coffin, and funeral flowers scattered all over the floor. Many of them were flattened, from being trampled by the throng, and the scent was overpowering. Through the window, behind the somber red velvet curtains, I could hear whooping and hollering from the parking lot, like a pack of hounds scenting a fox.

  I gave Virgil a silent apology, and then I got out of there as quickly as I could, before the attendants showed up and discovered the carnage. I wasn’t sure I could explain what had happened, or that I wanted to.

  I ended up explaining to Detective Mendoza, though. He had told me to tell him anything untoward that happened at the funeral, and this definitely qualified.

  After I’d run through the chain of events, there was a pause. “Really?”

  “Yes,” I said, steering the car with one hand and holding the phone with the other. “Really. I barely got out of there with my life. When I drove away, Stacy had barricaded himself inside his Jeep while the mourners were rocking the car back and forth to try to get him out.”

  Mendoza sighed. “I guess I better dispatch a couple cars to break it up.”

  “That would probably be a good idea,” I agreed. “If they get their hands on Stacy, I’m afraid they’ll kill him. And while I know that pays your salary, it would probably be best if they didn’t.”

  Mendoza agreed that would be best, and disconnected the call, presumably to get a couple of squad cars over to Phillips-Robinson to break up the party, hopefully before Stacy took damage. I headed home to Rafe.

  He was back to mowing. When I pulled into the driveway, I saw he had picked up where he’d left off yesterday and was pushing the mower back and forth across the grass, shirtless and in the gym shorts he’d put on this morning. When I pulled into the driveway, he squinted at me but kept going. And when I got out of the car and stood for a second to admire the view, he waited until he got close enough that he didn’t have to yell, and then he announced, “Don’t even think about it.”

  “You can’t stop me from thinking,” I told him.

  “Well, then don’t tell me you’re thinking about it. I don’t need the distraction.” He turned his back and pushed the mower in the other direction. I watched the play of muscles under his skin and felt my mouth go dry and other parts go the other way.

  “I’m thinking about it,” I told him when he came back around.

  He groaned. “I told you not to tell me that. I gotta get this done or we’re gonna have weeds up to our knees.”

  “I don’t mind if you don’t.”

  “I mind,” Rafe said. “I’m an upstanding citizen these days. I gotta house and a wife and a kid on the way. I gotta keep things looking good.”

  “From where I’m standing, things are looking very good.” Hell—heck—just put a shirtless Rafe into the front yard, and nobody would even look at the grass. We’d probably have accidents as people—women—ran into the fence next door because they weren’t watching where they were going.

  “You’re good for my ego,” he told me on the third pass, “but you’re trouble. What happened to the girl who always did the right thing as per her mama?”

  “She married you. And now she wants her conjugal rights.”

  He shook his head. “I’ve got five minutes to go till I’m done. Just gimme that. After that you can have whatever you want.”

  “I’ll hold you to that,” I told him, and went to prepare a glass of iced tea, since I figured he’d be hot and thirsty when he came inside. I was hot, too, and I’d only been standing there a couple of minutes.

  He was as good as his word. Five minutes later, he sauntered into the house, still shirtless, and elevated the temperature by at least twenty degrees just by being present.

  I handed him the glass of tea and watched him tilt his head back and dispatch it. His throat moved smoothly as he swallowed. I swallowed, too.

  He was laughing as he reached around me to put the glass on the counter. “Still holding that thought?”

  “It comes back,” I confessed. “Pretty much every time I see you.” Especially if he was flaunting skin. Then again, he could be fully dressed, in a winter coat and gloves, and I’d still want him.

  “You poor thing.” He leaned in to nuzzle my neck, one hand on each side of me, braced against the counter.

  “It’s terrible. I need help.”

  He chuckled. “I’ve got what’s gonna help you.”

  “I know you do.” I looped my arms around his neck and let him carry me upstairs.

  “We’re having dinner with Tammy,” he told me an hour later, after I’d had enough help to make me feel nice and relaxed.

  We were still in bed, facing one another, and he was up on one elbow twisting a strand of my hair around his finger.

  That’s something I do—to my own hair—when I’m lying. But I didn’t see any reason why he’d lie about this.

  “That’s fine.”

  “At the FinBar.”

  We’d been there yesterday, but Grimaldi didn’t know that. “OK.”

  “She’s bringing Mendoza.”

  I blinked. And blinked again. “You mean... like a date? A double date?”

  Wasn’t Grimaldi dating my brother? Or wasn’t she at least sort of involved with him, even if it wasn’t strictly a dating relationship?

  And for that matter, wasn’t Mendoza still married?

  “I’m sure it don’t mean nothing,” Rafe murmured, as he continued to play with my hair. And of course the fact that he felt the need to point out that it didn’t mean anything, gave the impression that it did. “Just two colleagues going out together with friends.”

  “Friends who are married.”

  “A friend who’s also in law enforcement, and his wife.”

  When he put it like that, it made more sense. However—“What about Dix?”

  “He’s in Sweetwater,” Rafe said. “Ain’t he?”

  “I assume he is. He hasn’t told me differently.”

  “Then he prob’ly doesn’t even know.” And wouldn’t, the implication was, unless I told him.

  “That’s not the point,” I said. “I thought he and Grimaldi... you know.”

  “Your brother and Tammy are friends,” Rafe said. “Maybe they’re more than friends. Neither of’em has ever said anything to me about it, so I don’t know. There’s something going on there, but I dunno how serious it is.”

  I didn’t, either. It wasn’t something Dix would talk to me about—a big brother doesn’t discuss his sex-life (or lack thereof) with his little sister—and Grimaldi just wasn’t the type to indulge in girlish confidences. I’d spent enough time with them—together and alone—to be reasonably sure that there was something romantic going on between them, but I didn’t know how serious it was.

  Was he moving too slowly for her, maybe? She was tired of waiting, and so she was going out with Mendoza instead?

  Or was it the girls? My brother has two daughters. Maybe the idea of taking on someone else’s children was hard for Grimaldi to handle.

  Or maybe it was my mother she objected to. And if so, who could blame her?

  Grimaldi had been part of Rafe’s and my wedding, that Mother arranged, last month. Mother might have gotten on Grimaldi’s nerves. In fact, she was certain to have gotten on Grimaldi’s nerves. Maybe Grimaldi had decided she couldn’t under any circumstances tolerate being related to my mothe
r. It amazed me every day that Rafe had been willing to take her on. Especially as she’d made her disapproval of him abundantly clear. She would disapprove of Grimaldi, too. And might have let Grimaldi know it.

  “I can hear the gears turning,” Rafe said, tapping my temple. “Don’t worry about it, darlin’. Not till you know there’s something to worry about.”

  “If we’re having dinner with Grimaldi and someone other than my brother, there is something to worry about.”

  “They work together,” Rafe said, “Could be they have dinner all the time.”

  If so, Grimaldi had never mentioned it.

  She’d been my maid of honor less than a month ago. And she hadn’t told me she was dating someone else?

  “I don’t like this,” I said.

  “We’ll figure it out.” He slipped the hand that had been fiddling with my hair around my neck and pulled me toward him. “C’mere. I’ll give you something else to think about for a while.”

  I wasn’t sure I wanted anything else to think about. My mind was fully occupied with this, and wanted to twist and turn it, and think about the ramifications.

  But I knew what he was offering, and it isn’t anything I’d ever turn down. I leaned forward and let him take my mind off things for a bit longer.

  Chapter Eleven

  Rafe was insistent that we had to get to the FinBar before Grimaldi and Mendoza did. It wasn’t until we got there, beating Grimaldi and her ‘date’ to the punch, that I realized why. As he headed for a booth in the back corner, and put himself with his back against the wall, I saw the issue: if we’d gotten here last, he’d have had to sit with his back to the room, and he doesn’t like to do that. Grimaldi doesn’t, either, and when she came in and saw that we’d already taken the front-facing seats, she didn’t look happy.

  That was OK with me. She had Jaime Mendoza trailing her, and the sight of him made me angry.

  For the record, I had nothing against Mendoza. He seemed like a decent sort. He’d complimented my husband on his handling of the insane serial killer a month ago. He’d handled my mother beautifully when she invited him to marry me, and he’d done it without making me feel rejected. He was managing Virgil Wright’s murder case as well as anyone could expect, at least as far as I could tell. Grimaldi had told me he was a good cop. And he was extremely easy on the eyes. I had no problem with him, other than that he was here as Grimaldi’s date.

  Although I must say they didn’t look or behave like two people on a date. Grimaldi wasn’t dressed up at all, but arrived in the same severe business suit she must have worn to work all day. So did Mendoza, if it came to that. Then again, I’d had dinner with Grimaldi and my brother when she’d been wearing that same suit, and I was pretty sure that, at least, had been a date.

  They sat down across from us, both of them clearly bothered by the fact that they had to keep their backs to the door.

  Three cops walk into a bar... scrolled through my head, and I grinned.

  Grimaldi looked at me. “Something funny?”

  “Just watching the three of you jockey for position. We left early so Rafe could get the seat with his back to the wall. You have to admit it’s more likely someone will be gunning for him rather than the two of you.”

  Grimaldi shrugged. “Police work has been known to create enemies.”

  “Ten years undercover creates more.”

  She didn’t seem to have an answer for that. Mendoza looked at Rafe. “Ten years undercover? How did you pull that off?”

  Very carefully, I thought. In fact, it wasn’t until he got involved with me that his cover was blown. Sometimes I felt bad about that, about the fact that I’d cost him his career and had almost gotten him killed along the way. The rest of the time I was just grateful that he was out now, and wasn’t risking his life every day.

  They got to talking about it, and I sat back and listened. And watched, for any sign of a special intimacy between Grimaldi and Mendoza. Hand-holding under the table, sideways glances, playing footsie. But if there was anything like that going on, I didn’t notice.

  The waitress arrived in the middle of the conversation to take our drink orders, and seemed to be quite overcome by the testosterone hovering over the table. It took her two tries to get her voice to work, and when it did, she didn’t seem quite sure which of them to look at. “Something to drink?”

  Rafe ordered a beer, and I asked for sweet tea. Mendoza waited for Grimaldi to order—beer as well—before he asked for a Coke.

  The waitress could barely drag her eyes away from him. “Are you ready to order?”

  Rafe chuckled. “I’ll have a burger. Darlin’?”

  I’d had a burger too, yesterday, but today I wasn’t in the mood. “Chicken Caesar, please.”

  Grimaldi ordered another burger, and Mendoza a Philly cheese steak. The waitress came close to stumbling over her own feet as she walked away.

  “Can’t take you anywhere,” I murmured to Rafe.

  He chuckled. “It ain’t me getting the attention this time, darlin’. That was all for tall, dark and handsome over there.”

  Mendoza grimaced. “It’s a curse.”

  I could well imagine it might be. I look OK, and I get my own share of attention from men, but I’d gotten sick and tired of how some women behaved around Rafe when I took him out somewhere. They acted like I wasn’t even there, so they could slaver over him.

  “Does it bother you?” I asked Grimaldi.

  She looked at me like I’d lost my mind. So that either meant that it didn’t, and she was wondering why I’d even think it might, or she didn’t care, because this wasn’t really a date and Mendoza was on his own.

  “Have you spoken to Dix lately?” I asked, as the men went back to talking shop, or more specifically, talking about Rafe’s years undercover and Mendoza’s time as a cop. Male bonding, law enforcement style, I guess.

  I must say the idea bothered me some. The bonding, I mean. Not because Rafe doesn’t deserve friends—he does, and he has very few, since spending your life deep undercover isn’t conducive to forming deep friendships. Not with the people who have to rat out next week or next month. But he was making friends with Grimaldi’s date. When Grimaldi’s date ought to be my brother!

  “We talk every couple of days,” Grimaldi told me.

  That sounded promising. “Have you been in Sweetwater since the wedding?”

  “I’ve been working weekends this month,” Grimaldi said calmly. “And seeing as your brother works during the week, there’s been no good time.”

  It was a good excuse, but that might be all it was: an excuse.

  “You didn’t make it down for the Fourth of July picnic.”

  “I worked on the Fourth,” Grimaldi said. “Holidays are big business for murder cops.”

  “People kill each other on holidays?”

  She nodded. “More so than the rest of the time. Tempers get short when families get together.”

  No kidding. My patience is usually stretched pretty thin whenever I have to deal with my mother.

  Although at the moment Mother was still on her best behavior around Rafe, and had been downright friendly during the picnic. I didn’t know how long it would last—probably not forever—but I wasn’t about to look that particular gift horse in the mouth.

  “And the heat doesn’t help,” Grimaldi added. “It makes people cranky.”

  “I would have thought it made them lazy.”

  She shook her head. “It all contributes to making them angry. And when some people get angry they take it out on other people.”

  I glanced at Rafe and Mendoza, still in conversation. “Do you think that’s what happened to Virgil Wright? The heat got to someone and they hit him over the head with a rock?”

  Grimaldi glanced sideways too, before she answered. “According to the boyfriend, Mr. Wright ran the same route every evening. Someone who knew that about him, could easily have lain in wait in the only part of that route that was private and o
ffered the murderer cover while he committed the crime.”

  “Why would someone kill him? Was he rich?”

  “He was doing all right,” Grimaldi said. “White collar job. Good salary and a bit of savings. Most of it from the sale of the house last winter, and from not spending the proceeds to buy another. But it wasn’t like there was a greedy nephew next in line for the fortune. That only happens in books.”

  “Who inherits the money he’s got?”

  “In general? Because I have no specific information about Mr. Wright’s case.”

  “Sure,” I said. “In general. I guess.”

  “Unless there’s a will, and most people our age haven’t bothered with one, it’s next of kin. Spouse, if there’s a legal marriage. Children. Parents. Siblings.”

  I nodded. “Virgil wasn’t married, and I don’t think he had any children. I guess that would make his parents his heirs.”

  “Unless he’d written a will in favor of his lover,” Grimaldi said.

  “Meaning Kenny? I guess he might have. If they were that serious about each other. Although as far as I know they’ve been together less than a year.”

  “You and your husband haven’t been together any longer,” Grimaldi pointed out.

  “No. But we knew each other before.”

  Grimaldi shrugged. As well she might, since Rafe’s and my acquaintance in high school hadn’t stretched much beyond a word or two in the hallway, if he thought nobody was close enough to listen.

  “Now that Rafe and I are married,” I said, “if anything were to happen to me, I guess he’d inherit everything I own?” A run-down, seven-year-old Volvo that Bradley had paid for, and a lot of designer dresses and high heeled shoes I couldn’t fit into at the moment...

  “Why ask me?” Grimaldi wanted to know. “I’m a cop, not a lawyer. The person you should ask is your brother.”

  I shot a glance at Mendoza, who was still talking to Rafe, and showing no interest in what Grimaldi and I were saying. “Speaking of my brother...”