Contract Pending Page 18

“What happens now?”

  “We can’t loan.”

  Thank you, Einstein. “I mean apart from that.”

  “There is no apart from that,” Brandon said.

  “You mean the deal is dead?!” After all my work? And all this time? I needed this commission! I was close to hitting bottom in the savings account, and there were no other transactions lined up behind this one.

  “Afraid so,” Brandon said, without sounding like he meant it.

  “What can I do?” I opened the top drawer in the desk and fumbled for a pen while Brandon told me my options. The first thing I pulled out was a knife, and I put it aside, my entire focus on the phone call.

  “You can try to talk the seller into dropping the sales price by 6K. Or you can ask your clients if they can come up with six thousand more in cash.” His tone of voice said as clearly as words, fat chance.

  I had to agree with that. The sellers wouldn’t want to drop their price, and Gary Lee and Charlene didn’t have six thousand dollars sitting around. Six thousand more dollars, on top of the money they were already putting down. However, I had another concern now.

  “Thanks, Brandon. I’ll have to call you back, OK?” I hung up without waiting to hear his reply. And then I pushed my chair back, as far as it would go, away from the desk.

  There was a knife on my desk. A sharp one. One I recognized from my kitchen.

  It could have been worse, I suppose. I could have touched the blade instead of the handle and cut myself. There could have been blood on it—mine or someone else’s. Or if this was a Barbara Botticelli novel, the knife could have been rigged, via some intricate mechanism, to embed itself in my throat when I opened the drawer. It didn’t. And it was singularly bloodless. It was, however, big and scary. And sharp. And here, where it had no business being.

  I dialed the phone again. “Detective? Savannah Martin. There’s a knife in my office.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  My voice started shaking. “A knife! In my desk drawer. At work. A chopping knife! Mine. I recognize it.”

  “The knife that disappeared from your apartment? Are you sure you didn’t just bring it to work sometime and forget?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” I said, my teeth chattering. “There are knives in the kitchen here; it isn’t like I’d have to bring one from home. And even if I did, I wouldn’t keep it in my desk drawer. This is a threat. From whoever broke into my apartment and slashed my nightgown. The Hispanic guy. Jorge Pena. There’s even a thread caught in the handle!”

  “All right. Calm down.” She took a couple of deep breaths. I did the same. It actually did make me feel a little calmer. “How would someone get into your office to leave it there?”

  “The code to the alarm was hanging on my bulletin board at home. Along with a spare key. Just in case I lost mine. I didn’t think about it in the excitement the other day. I mean, I still had my key in my purse, you know? And someone was here last night. Brittany set the alarm when she left yesterday. This morning it was off.”

  “Fine,” Detective Grimaldi said. “Bring me the knife. Don’t touch it. Wrap something around it when you pick it up. Like a handkerchief or a scarf.”

  “Kleenex?”

  “That’ll work. Hold it by the blade, that way we may be able to get prints off the handle. And be careful not to cut yourself. Put it in a bag or something. And bring it to me.”

  “OK.” My hands shook as I followed the instructions. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  “Just leave it downstairs at the desk. I’ll have someone from the lab pick it up and dust it for prints. I’ll call you as soon as I know something, OK?”

  “OK,” I said.

  I was just about to hang up when she added, “Oh, by the way. We’ve released Mrs. Johnson’s body. Her husband will be burying her tomorrow. In Sweetwater.”

  “Cletus?”

  My surprise must have been clear, because— “They’re still married,” Tamara said.

  I supposed. And then, of course, there were the children to consider. They didn’t need to know about the problems their parents were having, if they didn’t already know. Cletus probably didn’t have much of a choice but to bury the wife who had left him and her kids.

  “Are you going?” I’d seen Grimaldi attend funerals before. Brenda Puckett’s, Lila Vaughn’s.

  “Not this time. I figure I’ll leave that to the locals.”

  Bob Satterfield would probably be there. To support Cletus, Cletus being a deputy and all.

  “I may go,” I said. If I went back to Sweetwater, I could pick up the rest of my belongings from the mansion at the same time.

  “You’ll let me know if anything interesting happens, won’t you?”

  “Like, if Jorge Pena shows up?”

  “That, of course. Or anything else.”

  “Sure,” I said. “If anyone throws themselves into the grave, I’ll be sure to take notes.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “Um...” I waved to Brittany as I walked past the desk and out the front door, clutching the bag with the knife inside, “did you tell Rafe about Jorge Pena?”

  “I did.”

  “How did he take it?”

  She hesitated. “He didn’t seem concerned, if that’s what you mean. Just said he’d keep an eye out.”

  “Oh.”

  “And asked what’d happen if he killed Jorge.”

  “What?!”

  Her calm voice didn’t change. “I told him it would depend on the situation, but would likely be considered self defense. Depending on the circumstances, of course.”

  “You don’t think he’ll try to find Jorge, do you?” Or stake himself out as bait? It was something he’d do. It was pretty much what he’d done last night.

  “I have no idea,” Detective Grimaldi said cheerfully. “But if he does, and if Jorge ends up dead in the process, I don’t think anyone will grieve.”

  Except me, if Rafe ended up going to prison for murder.

  “Don’t worry,” Tamara Grimaldi said, reading my mind, “he’s been inside before. He’s not going to do anything to land there again. If he kills Jorge, he’ll make sure it looks like self defense. He doesn’t want to go back to prison.”

  “Good to know.” And I couldn’t believe what I was saying. After just two months of hanging out with Rafe, I was already talking about cold-blooded murder without batting an eye! “I’m getting in the car. I’ll drop the knife off in the next ten or fifteen minutes.”

  “I’ll let you know as soon as I know something,” Grimaldi said, and hung up.

  Gary Lee and Charlene were not happy about the news from Brandon. They didn’t have an extra six grand sitting around to make up the difference between the sales price and the appraised value of the townhouse they wanted to buy, and they weren’t sure they’d want to pay more for it, anyway, if they’d had the extra money.

  “I mean, really, Savannah,” Gary Lee told me over the phone, “why would we pay more than it’s worth? What happens in two years, if we decide to sell it?”

  “You’re planning to sell again in two years?”

  “I don’t know,” Gary Lee said, “but what if we did? We wouldn’t be able to get our money back, would we?”

  “Probably not,” I admitted. “If you overpay now, there are no guarantees that in two years, or whenever you’re ready to sell, the market will have appreciated enough that the house will be worth more. Or even worth what you’re paying now.”

  “So what are our options?”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. “If you can’t come up with the money to make up the difference, and you’re not sure the house is worth 145K to you anyway, now that you know it won’t appraise for that...” When, dammit, it had been worth 145K to them yesterday! “...the only other option is trying to talk the seller into lowering the price. The loan is contingent upon the appraisal...”

  “What’s that mean?” Gary Lee said.

  “That if the appraisa
l doesn’t match or exceed the sales price, you won’t get a loan. Right now, the bank can’t lend you the money you need to buy the house, because they’ll be lending you more than the house is worth, and that’s not in their best interest.”

  “Uh-huh,” Gary Lee said.

  “Either you come up with the difference in cash, or the price has to come down.”

  “Can’t you just tell the people who own the house?”

  I smiled tightly. “I can try. But since that means they’ll be making six thousand dollars less than they thought they’d make, I’m sure they won’t be happy.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” Gary Lee was silent.

  “I’ll talk to the other agent and do my best, OK? But we may have to start from scratch.”

  And wouldn’t that be fun? Especially if Gary Lee and Charlene had to test-drive every bedroom the way they’d been doing when I first started showing them around. They’d been having quickies upstairs in every house I took them into, while I stood downstairs wondering what was taking them so long. They’d finally told me they’d been looking for the one that would give them the biggest bang for their buck.

  “Really?” Gary Lee said now, in response to my warning that we may be forced to start the house hunting process over. He didn’t sound as resigned as I felt.

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. I’ll talk to the other agent and see what we can work out. I’ll get back to you.”

  “Sure,” Gary Lee said.

  I dropped off my carving knife for Detective Grimaldi and headed back to the office. Where I bearded Tim in what used to be Walker’s office, and explained the situation. And heard what I expected to hear: Tim did not think his sellers would be willing to take six thousand dollars less for the townhouse.

  “Why don’t you ask your clients to make up the difference, Savannah?”

  “I have,” I said. “They can’t.”

  “So you expect our clients to take the loss?” He glanced at Heidi, whom he’d asked to sit in on the conversation, as well. She was chewing, and couldn’t contribute anything but a tight-lipped smile.

  I arched my brows. “Considering that that’s all the house is worth? I certainly do. It’s not as if they’ll be able to sell it to anyone else for more, is there? Not if it won’t appraise.”

  Tim looked surprised. He leaned back in his office chair and folded his manicured hands across his flat stomach, baby-blue eyes bright as he looked me over. “You look different, Savannah. Did you get some last night?”

  “None of your business.” But I blushed, and that was all Tim needed. He straightened up and leaned forward.

  “Oooooh! Tell all!”

  Even Heidi stopped chewing for a second to look at me.

  “There’s nothing to tell,” I said.

  “There certainly is! If you rolled around in bed with that megalicious hunk of manhood...!” He smacked his lips.

  “If I did, I’m not telling you about it.” I got up. “See what you can work out with your clients, please. And call me on my cell phone when you have their answer. I’m going back to Sweetwater for a few days. There’s a funeral I have to go to tomorrow.”

  “Meanie,” Tim said, pouting.

  I permitted myself a smile as I walked toward the door, since my back was to him anyway.

  Chapter 15

  Sweetwater has two cemeteries, in addition to the private one behind the Martin mansion, where Martins—and their slaves—of old were buried. It’s not in use anymore, of course; these days, people can’t arbitrarily bury dead bodies on their property, even if they are the Sweetwater Martins. Mother makes sure the small plot is mowed and taken care of, although it’s rare that anyone comes by to see it. Once in a while, an elementary school class will stop by for a lesson in history, but no one claims a kinship with any of the people who are buried there. Just us Martins.

  These days, folks either get buried in the old cemetery on Oak Street, the one that was started in the 1880s, or the newer cemetery outside town, only in operation since the 1970s. As the town of Sweetwater grew, there became more of a need for burial space, and the powers that be grabbed a couple of acres of ground on the south side.

  Since the 1880s, the Martins have ended up in the cemetery on Oak Street, and that was also where Rafe’s mother, LaDonna Collier, was buried earlier this summer. Next to her father Jim, her mother Wanda, and her brother James Junior, AKA Bubba. If your family’s already there, you get to put your newly deceased next to—or on top of—them. But if you don’t already have a family plot on Oak Street, you end up in the new cemetery outside town.

  Marquita was going in the ground on the south side of Waterfield. Not too far from where she’d grown up, ironically. Down a different road from the Bog, but as the crow flew, no more than a half mile away.

  I’d never spent any time in the new cemetery. My family’s not buried there, and I’m not at an age yet where my friends have started dropping like flies. The only close friend I could remember losing was Lila Vaughn, and her mother laid Lila to rest in Detroit, where she was from. All the other funerals I had attended recently had been in Nashville.

  It was a pretty place, as cemeteries go. Sloped and hilly, with groves of trees here and there to break up the monotony of gravestones. We were into October by now, but in Middle Tennessee, that still meant temperatures in the seventies and light clothes, and the leaves were just barely starting to turn from green to yellow. No bright oranges or reds yet. For that, we’d have to wait for the first frost.

  Dix had insisted on coming with me. I don’t think it was because he knew Cletus. Dix and Marquita had been in the same year in high school, so maybe he felt an obligation. He asked me to meet him at the office, and drove us both out to Hillside Cemetery in his Land Rover.

  We didn’t attend the actual church service, just the gathering at the graveside. I didn’t think I’d known Marquita well enough to sit in a pew at her funeral, especially considering that we’d pretty well loathed one another. It was enough to loiter under a tree nearby during the graveside ceremony, I thought.

  A whole bunch of other people must have felt the same way, because there was quite a crowd gathered. Cletus and his kids, of course, and his mother, and a handful of women who looked enough like Marquita to be relatives, with their own double handfuls of kids. Six or eight women, some of whom I recognized from high school; probably friends. A few couples clustered around Cletus; more friends or family. A skinny, bald guy I recognized as a journalist from the local paper. If Marquita had been someone more important, Aunt Regina would probably be here as well. She’s the society columnist. But Marquita’s funeral probably wouldn’t feature in the society pages of the Sweetwater Reporter.

  Sheriff Satterfield was present, naturally, along with a few of his deputies, all in uniform. I looked around—surreptitiously—for Todd, but couldn’t see him.

  “He’s not here,” Dix said.

  “Who?”

  He glanced at me. “Todd. That’s who you’re looking for, isn’t it?”

  I nodded.

  “You’re gonna have to talk to him sooner or later, sis.”

  “I know that.” It had better be later, though. Much later. The idea of having to face Todd and to have to respond to his proposal while I remembered—vividly—being in bed with Rafe, was more than I could handle right now.

  Sheriff Satterfield nodded at us from a distance, but didn’t approach. He might prefer to stay with his deputies, although I thought there was a chance that Todd had told him about the other night, and that the sheriff was giving me a wide berth either out of consideration or because he wanted to grab me and shake me until my teeth rattled.

  “Did you know that mom and Bob Satterfield are involved?” I asked Dix.

  He looked down at me. “Who told you that?”

  I said that it had been Todd, the other night. “You knew?”

  “It was hard not to notice,” Dix said apologetically. “I mean, I see them together all the time. Th
ey tried to hide it at first, but that’s hard to do with people who see you regularly. It’s a lot easier to hide a relationship from someone you only see once in a while.”

  Please, God, I thought.

  “Well, I certainly had no idea. Not until Todd told me. I know they spend a lot of time together, but then they always did, didn’t they? Except it used to be with dad and Todd’s mom, too.”

  Dix nodded.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “That our mother’s having an affair with the sheriff? That’s her business, don’t you think?”

  “She pokes her nose into mine often enough,” I said. And added, “Although I agree. It’s her business. Just like my love life is mine.”

  Dix glanced over. “You have a love life?”

  “It was a figure of speech.” I concentrated hard on not blushing, and luckily something happened to distract us both.

  “Hi, Savannah!”

  I turned, and looked into the bright face of Yvonne McCoy. She grinned at me, and turned to Dix. “Hiya, Dix!”

  Dix blinked, and I could see him flipping through the index card file in his head. To his credit, it took less than five seconds before he hit on the right name. “Yvonne.”

  She smiled, obviously thrilled that he remembered her. “How are you?”

  “Good, thank you. I didn’t realize you two were friends.” He looked from Yvonne to me and back.

  “Yvonne works at Beulah’s,” I said. “I’ve seen her a couple of times lately when I’ve stopped in for lunch.”

  “At Beulah’s?” Dix looked surprised.

  “Best meat’n three in Maury county,” Yvonne said. “Though your little sister usually orders salad.” She nudged me. I smiled.

  “I’m trying to keep my girlish figure. You know what it’s like.”

  Or maybe she didn’t, since Yvonne hadn’t had a girlish figure even when she was a girl. She was one of those women who matured early, and who’d had full-blown breasts while the rest of us were still playing with Barbies.

  “Do they know anything more about what happened to Marquita?” she asked now, looking at me.