Contract Pending Page 19

  I shook my head. “I haven’t heard anything. Although I guess the investigation is ongoing.” That’s what they say on TV, isn’t it? It was what Tamara Grimaldi had said the other day.

  “The Sweetwater sheriff’s department is working with a Metro Nashville homicide team,” Dix added. “I spoke to Sheriff Satterfield yesterday. They’re trying to learn whether this certain man has been in Sweetwater in the past week or two. Have they come to see you?”

  Yvonne nodded. “One of the deputies stopped by during breakfast. Showed me a mug shot. Some Spanish guy.”

  “Jorge Pena,” I said.

  They both looked at me. “Excuse me?”

  “His name is Jorge Pena. I’ve seen him once.”

  “Here in Sweetwater?”

  I shook my head. “In Nashville. A few days ago. He was bothering Mrs. Jenkins. Detective Grimaldi thinks he might have killed Marquita. And broken into my apartment.” I turned my focus back on Yvonne. “Have you seen him?”

  She shook her head.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure I’m sure. How many good-looking strangers d’you think I get to see in a week, sugar? Not enough to forget any of’em.” She grinned.

  Right. If Yvonne had seen Jorge Pena, she’d have remembered. He was good-looking, in a deadly sort of way. “Had anyone else seen him?”

  “Nobody’s seen him,” Yvonne said. “If he’s been in Sweetwater, he didn’t eat at Beulah’s while he was here.”

  Down at the graveside, the ceremony got underway, and Yvonne excused herself to join the crowd. Dix and I stayed at a distance. To be honest, I hadn’t come to take part in the service, just to observe. Just in case something interesting happened, that Detective Grimaldi might need to know.

  But it seemed to be just the usual sad little gathering of family, friends, and ghouls like myself, who hadn’t known or particularly liked the dearly departed, but who were here out of curiosity, morbid or otherwise.

  Although she had known Marquita, Yvonne was probably in that latter group. She’d told me they hadn’t had much contact lately. Still, if they’d been friends once, she might have felt compelled to attend. Wes Lawrence from the Reporter was clearly here out of curiosity—and because it was his job. There’d probably be a mention of the funeral in the local paper tomorrow. Bob Satterfield and his crew were probably here in part to support one of their own, and in part to make sure that nothing happened. And maybe because they believed that old adage about the murderer returning to the scene of the crime, or attending the funeral.

  Did that really happen? Or was it just in fiction?

  I thought back. Walker had attended Brenda’s funeral. Hell, he had stood up in front of everyone, including Brenda’s husband and two kids, and lied through his teeth about what a wonderful person she’d been. And Lila...

  No, Lila’s murderer had not attended her memorial. Connie Fortunato had been there, but not Perry. And by the time Connie herself was laid to rest, Perry was dead, too.

  So obviously it didn’t always hold true.

  And not today. I looked around, but could see no sign of Jorge Pena.

  That was assuming Jorge had killed Marquita, of course. He certainly might have, but I still thought it was possible that Cletus was the guilty party. Or his mother. Maybe Marquita had become a threat to them, perhaps by wanting her kids back, and Cletus had whacked her. I mean, she was killed here in Sweetwater, and that had to mean something. And Cletus did have a gun, and knew how to use it. It was hard to imagine him driving all the way to Nashville late at night to take potshots at me and Rafe through the window, though. There was no love lost between the two of them—Cletus and Rafe—but I doubted that Cletus wanted Rafe dead. Much more likely that he’d frame Rafe and get him thrown in jail. And as the person who had found the body, Cletus had had every opportunity to do so, but hadn’t.

  If not Cletus, then who? Did she have a relationship with anyone else in Sweetwater, who might have called and asked her to drive down here?

  Cletus’s mother hadn’t seemed too thrilled with her daughter-in-law the other afternoon, when mom and I stopped by. If Marquita was driving Cletus crazy, Cletus’s mom might have felt compelled to intervene. Mothers do anything for their children. And then there was everyone else I was looking at. The rest of the family and the rest of her friends. There could be all sorts of reasons why any one of them might have wanted Marquita dead. Of course, I’d never know.

  And then—I took a deep breath; Dix glanced at me—there was Rafe. It was his family’s trailer her car and body had been found behind. Given that, he was the most likely suspect. Of course, he wouldn’t have been stupid enough to leave her there if he had killed her, but I couldn’t expect everyone to realize that. And Marquita would definitely have come running if Rafe called her. If he said he couldn’t go home, perhaps, but he wanted an update on Mrs. Jenkins. Wanted to make sure everything on Potsdam Street was running smoothly. Or he wanted to hand her a wad of cash for expenses, to keep the household going while he was AWOL.

  And then when she showed up, he slipped out of the trailer and into her car, they talked for a few minutes, and then he pulled out a gun and shot her.

  And walked away. Got on the bike and drove off. Fairly secure in the knowledge that no one would see him, since the Bog was empty these days and nobody came out that way very much anymore.

  I suppressed a shiver. Not because it was cold, but because the scenario I’d built up in my head gave me chills.

  Down at the graveside, the preacher came to a full stop. After a few seconds, a low hum started, and then a squeaky sort of noise as the coffin was lowered slowly into the ground. Everyone watched until it disappeared. Then Cletus took a step forward, followed by his two small children. Two little brown kids, a boy and a girl, both with cornrows with beads on the ends. Both dressed in black; the little boy in black pants and white shirt, the little girl—slightly older—in a white blouse with a black pinafore over top. All three of them scooped up handfuls of dirt and flung it into the hole on top of the coffin.

  Cletus’s mom followed, then the group of women who looked like Marquita, and their children. Everything was silent, except for the sound of clumps of dirt hitting wood. Cletus was crying quietly; tears rolling down his cheeks. The kids weren’t; they were probably too small to fully understand that mom would never come home. The little boy was sucking his thumb.

  “Shall we?” Dix asked, gesturing to the crowd.

  I squared my shoulders. “I guess we’d better.” It would be rude not to join in.

  He took my arm and guided me across the grass, difficult to navigate on heels.

  I’d dressed for the funeral, of course—black skirt, black shoes, subdued blue blouse—and Dix wore a dark suit and a tie, so we didn’t look out of place at all. I couldn’t say the same for everyone, unfortunately. Yvonne McCoy, for instance, looked like she had come straight from work. Her black skirt barely covered the essentials, while the white T-shirt was skin tight and so low-cut that Yvonne’s cups were close to running over. But at least she had sensible shoes on: black hightop sneakers that made walking across the grass easy for her.

  We did our part in scooping up handfuls of dirt and tossing them into the hole on top of the coffin, and then we stood by for a few minutes waiting to offer our condolences to Cletus—again—while Sheriff Satterfield and the other deputies surrounded him. When they moved off (the sheriff with a rather pointed look in my direction), we moved into position next to Cletus.

  I let Dix do the honors this time, since I’d already given Cletus my own condolences—along with a casserole—the other day. As Dix expressed everyone’s deep sympathy, I looked around.

  The party was definitely breaking up. The preacher was hustling toward the parking lot, robes flapping. Sheriff Satterfield and the other cops were headed in that same direction. And Cletus’s mom was herding her grandkids toward the cars, as well.

  Yvonne McCoy, meanwhile, was headed the other way
, up the hillock toward a stand of trees. I squinted into the late afternoon sun. Was someone up there, that she was going to meet?

  It seemed that way. If I shaded my eyes and strained, I could make out a tall figure between the trees. Dark pants, white shirt. Dark head.

  Dammit, had Jorge Pena shown up after all?

  I was just about to tug Dix’s sleeve when the man stepped out into view, and I dropped my hand as my stomach twisted.

  No, that wasn’t Jorge Pena. That was Rafe.

  Smiling as he watched Yvonne come closer.

  I shifted a little so I wasn’t looking straight at them. I wasn’t afraid that they’d notice me staring, but I didn’t want Dix or Cletus to realize that Rafe was here. Especially Cletus. The last time they’d come face to face, Cletus had given Rafe a black eye, while Rafe had returned the favor, and thrown in a split lip and bruised ribs for good measure.

  I had no desire to see a repeat. Especially not in a churchyard.

  So I watched out of the corner of my eye as I kept half an ear on what Dix and Cletus were saying, and the rest of my attention on what was going on up on the hillside. Rafe and Yvonne were much too far away for me to be able to hear anything they said, but I could see them and read their body language. And it spoke loud and clear.

  As soon as she got close enough, Yvonne held out both arms to embrace him, and if he minded, I sure couldn’t see any sign of it. He put his arms around her too, and when she tilted her face up, he bent to kiss her.

  I felt like I’d taken a sucker punch to the stomach, and for a second I couldn’t breathe. By the time my body had resumed normal functions, it was over. They had moved apart again—although not too far apart—and were just standing there talking. I concentrated on pulling air into and pushing it out of my lungs as I dug my nails into my palms and forced myself to stay rooted to the spot.

  What I wanted to do, was to storm up that hillside and tell Yvonne to get her hands off him; he was mine. Of course I wouldn’t actually do it, and not only because it isn’t something a lady does. He really wasn’t mine. I’d made sure of that by walking away from him. Granted, I couldn’t have kept him anyway, but by leaving his bed yesterday morning, and walking out of his life without a backward look, I’d given up any rights I might have had. If he wanted to kiss someone else, even just a day and a half after kissing me, there was nothing I could do about it.

  So I clenched my fists and bit my tongue and sank my heels into the soft ground while I waited for Dix and Cletus to finish their conversation.

  It seemed to take forever. Long enough that Rafe and Yvonne finished talking before Dix and Cletus did. She came back down the hillside and walked past us with a wink and a grin. I managed a smile in return, as I thought about that phone number she’d given me a few days ago, that I’d never passed along to Rafe. Looked like he had her number now, without my help.

  Cletus and Dix kept yapping. They’d moved into discussing business; Cletus was talking to my brother the lawyer about drawing up some sort of document to provide for his kids in case something happened to Cletus. Given Cletus’s job, the possibility wasn’t as remote as one might think. Most cops and other law enforcement types die of natural causes in their own beds, but enough die on the job, too. Or as a result of the job, like when some wacko comes after them with a gun. Some wacko like Jorge Pena.

  I turned to the grove of trees.

  Rafe was still there.

  I looked around. Nobody else was left. Just Dix and Cletus, and they’d started moving slowly away from the grave, in the direction of the parking lot, still talking. Rafe watched them for a few seconds, to make sure they weren’t coming back, and then he left the trees and came toward me.

  Chapter 16

  I stood where I was and waited. Not because I didn’t want to go meet him, but because I didn’t want anyone, including Rafe, to know I did.

  He stopped in front of me. At a safe distance. If I wanted to touch him, or wanted him to touch me, I’d have to step forward.

  He didn’t speak, just looked at me.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here,” I said, not quite believing just how much I wanted to take that last step.

  He glanced at the still open grave. “She was a friend. And she worked for me.”

  While I watched, he took a sideways step, scooped up a handful of dirt, and threw it into the hole. And didn’t speak or turn back to me for a second, just stood there, looking down.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, clenching my hands so I wouldn’t reach out.

  He glanced over. “I feel responsible.”

  “You’re not.”

  “If someone did it to get to me, then I am.”

  Unfortunately, there was nothing I could say to that. Whoever killed Marquita was ultimately responsible, but if it was done to get to Rafe, then of course he’d feel that some of the onus was on him. “Detective Grimaldi told you about Jorge Pena.”

  He nodded.

  “The sheriff’s department is canvassing Sweetwater to see if anyone has seen him.”

  “They ain’t gonna find anyone.” He must have read the question on my face, because he answered before I could ask. “Guy like Jorge moves like the wind. In and out, without nobody seeing.”

  “I saw him.”

  “That’s ‘cause he wanted you to see him.”

  “Why would he want me to see him?”

  He shrugged, muscles moving smoothly under the thin, white shirt. I could see the dark outline of the viper tattoo through the fabric. “Guess he figured you’d give me the message that he’s coming for me. Or maybe he just got off on the look on your face.”

  “It sounds like you know him.”

  He shook his head. “Never met him. Figure I prob’ly will soon, though.”

  And one of them probably wouldn’t walk away from the meeting.

  My voice caught. “You’re being careful, aren’t you?”

  He flashed a grin. “Didn’t realize you cared, darlin’.”

  I cared. More than I wanted to admit. “Just because I don’t want to sleep with you again, doesn’t mean I want you to die.”

  “Glad to hear it. I can take care of myself.”

  “I don’t doubt that. But apparently this guy is very good at what he does, and...”

  “I’m very good at what he does, too.”

  I felt myself go pale. “Have you ever... I mean...”

  His eyes were steady. “You watched me kill Perry Fortunato. You know I have.”

  Right. And because I’d been there, I knew he hadn’t had a choice. Between the gun and the insanity, Perry wasn’t a good candidate for mercy. Not that Rafe had been inclined to show him any.

  But there’s a big difference between killing in self defense, in the heat of the moment, and cold-blooded assassination. Jorge Pena was a hit-man. I wanted to know if Rafe was too, or ever had been. But there were limits to what I thought I could get away with asking. I may have shared his bed, but he wasn’t the type to confuse physical intimacy with emotional closeness, and this was clearly over the line. Plus, I was a little afraid of the answer. I changed the subject.

  “I saw Yvonne McCoy found you.”

  He smiled. “She’s between husbands, she said.”

  “That’s what she told me. Last week, when she asked me to give you her number.”

  “The one you left in your pocket. Right.”

  “I told you,” I said. “It was an accident.”

  “Sure,” Rafe answered. “No worries, darlin’. I got her number now.”

  That’s what I thought. “So are you going to stop by while you’re in town?”

  He looked at me for a second. “You think I’d go from screwing you two nights ago to screwing her tonight?”

  I couldn’t help the kneejerk reaction. “You’re a man, aren’t you?”

  “You should know.”

  Damn him. I took a deep breath. And let it out slowly. “For the record, you can sleep with anyone you want. If you want
to stop by Yvonne’s tonight, be my guest. I couldn’t care less.”

  “Funny,” Rafe drawled, “for a second or two, seemed a lot like you did.”

  Right.

  “You spending the night in Sweetwater?” he added.

  I nodded. “My mom will be hurt if I don’t.”

  “Hot date with Satterfield tonight?” He scanned the cemetery as he asked.

  I shook my head. “God, no. Not after... I mean...”

  He grinned, meeting my eyes again. “Afraid he’s gonna read it on your face, darlin’?”

  The fact that I’d slept with Rafe. “He won’t have to. He asks about you. Always. And when he does—”

  “You ain’t gonna lie?”

  “Oh, I’ll lie. He just won’t believe me. He never does.” And under the circumstance, who could blame him? I’m a poor liar, and the guilt—not to mention the memories—would make me blush as red as a beet. And Todd never needed much encouragement to jump to conclusions.

  I shot him a glance under my lashes. “So... um... are you staying in Sweetwater overnight?”

  “I thought I might.”

  “Where?”

  “You thinking you might wanna stop by for round two, darlin’?”

  “In your dreams,” I said.

  His grin widened. “Better believe it.”

  Right.

  I looked over my shoulder. “I should go.” Before I said anything stupid. More stupid. Or before I fell into temptation and told him that yes, I wanted to do it again. Because I didn’t. Much. At all.

  Rafe nodded solicitously. “That’s prob’ly a good idea. Your brother’s been watching us for a while. I’ve been waiting for him to come over here and drag you off.”

  Oops. I’d forgotten all about Dix, at least for the past few minutes.

  “Then I should definitely go.”

  “You do that, darlin’. I figure I’ll prob’ly spend the night in the Bog. Just in case you change your mind about that second round once you’ve had some time to think about it.”

  “Don’t hold your breath,” I said.

  He grinned. “No worries, I won’t. There’s always Yvonne, if I get desperate.”