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  Anyway, as we passed the place, the lights were on inside, and a string of small, colored lights hung under the eaves of the building. It’s hard to make a small, decrepit cinderblock shoebox look festive, but it was nice that someone had made the effort. I looked for the neon flickering OPEN on and off in the window, but couldn’t see it. There was a GRAND RE-OPENING SOON sign in the window, though.

  “Do you know anything about that?” I asked Rafe as we zoomed by.

  He glanced over and shook his head.

  “You don’t talk to Yvonne?”

  This time he glanced at me. “Why’d I talk to Yvonne?”

  No reason. They’d been friends in school. More than friends on one occasion. But I guess she wouldn’t have any reason to be calling him in Nashville.

  “I just thought maybe you’d heard something,” I said. “I mean, I know the judge in the civil trial ruled that the will was valid and the Odoms lost. But they were still trying to pin Beulah’s murder on Yvonne.”

  “Alleged murder.”

  Right. It wasn’t even clear whether there had been a murder. Maybe that was why the Odoms were still, presumably, walking around. After two different autopsies, the medical examiner still hadn’t been able to say conclusively that it hadn’t been natural causes.

  I kind of hoped it had been. I was fine with murder if the murderer was brought to justice, but if he—or she or they—were left to wander free, I’d rather believe it had been a natural death and leave it at that.

  I glanced at the lights disappearing in the rearview mirror. “The grand reopening probably won’t be today or tomorrow.”

  Rafe shook his head. “Prob’ly not.”

  “I guess we’ll have to wait until next time we’re in town.” I settled back into the seat as Beulah’s disappeared behind us.

  “Anytime’s a good time for meat’n three,” Rafe said.

  * * *

  It isn’t a long drive from Beulah’s to the mansion. It sits on a little knoll outside Sweetwater proper, on the road to Columbia, so it was just a few minutes later that Rafe made the turn into the driveway.

  It was still early, just past lunchtime, so it was just the caterer’s van and the decorators parked in the driveway. The usual Christmas topiaries flanked the wide staircase, and a wreath adorned each of the double front doors.

  Carrie blinked her eyes open when I hauled her car seat out of the car and she felt the crisp air bite her cheeks. But after a second, she must have decided it wasn’t time to wake up yet, because she closed her eyes again and went back to sleep. I looped my arm through the handle and carried the seat and the baby up the few steps to the front door.

  It was open, or unlocked, I should say. The caterers and decorators had probably been carrying things in and out, so it made sense to leave it unlocked. Nice to live in a place where you could do that and not worry.

  Not that we had to worry much in Nashville, either. Everyone in the neighborhood knew who Rafe was, and that he was armed and had a license to kill, so to speak. Any troublemakers tended to give us and our house a wide berth. Although I still wouldn’t want to leave the door open.

  And besides, anyone who opened Mother’s door had to deal with Pearl, and she was enough to strike fear into the heart of any burglar stupid enough to attempt to burgle the mansion.

  Pearl was a pitbull terrier mix we had stumbled across at a crime scene up at the Devil’s Backbone a couple of months ago. She had taken to me, and I to her, so we had brought her back to Sweetwater with us, with the intention of taking her to Nashville when we left. But when it came time to go, Pearl had indicated that she preferred to stay with Mother. She might have been nice to have around the house in Nashville, actually—another deterrent, like Rafe and his license to kill—but I wasn’t going to force her. So we left her in Sweetwater with Mother and went home without her. Now we were back, and she was excited to see us. Her compact body came barreling down the hallway from the kitchen, and skidded into the front foyer, where she clipped the two-story Christmas tree. A few needles dropped, but nothing worse happened. Her deep barks reverberated under the high ceilings, and woke Carrie, who gave a startled squawk and began wailing.

  “Ssssh!” I hissed, although I wasn’t sure whether I was talking to the baby or the dog. Carrie’s wails only made Pearl bark harder, and Mother’s antique glass Christmas tree ornaments jingled in the onslaught.

  “Quiet!” Rafe roared from behind me. Pearl subsided with a startled yip, and even Carrie opened her eyes wide for a second. Then her little face scrunched up, and she went back to shrieking.

  Mother burst out of the kitchen door at the end of the hall and came toward us, heels clacking on the hardwood floors. I handed the baby carrier to Rafe—with Pearl, I wasn’t sure how safe it would be to put it on the floor; she might want to investigate the small, shrieking thing—and squatted to try to calm her. “Hello, sweetheart. It’s good to see you again. Yes, it is.”

  She stopped barking and started wiggling happily as I rubbed her short coat and compact body. Her stubby tail wagged furiously, and her jaws split in a doggy grin of welcome.

  Rafe, meanwhile, slid Carrie out of the seat and put her against his shoulder. She hiccupped a couple of times, then stopped crying and started looking around, those big, blue eyes still swimming with tears. Until she caught sight of the Christmas tree, with all those bright lights and colorful bulbs, and then she made a sound I swear sounded like, “Oooh!”

  Mother headed straight for her, and stared. Never mind me, her youngest daughter, or Rafe, the son-in-law she adored. All she had eyes for was the baby. Her voice was hushed. “She’s beautiful.”

  Of course she was. “The dog scared her,” I said, and got to my feet with a last scratch behind Pearl’s ears. She looked up at me adoringly, pink tongue lolling. “You’ll have to keep her in the kitchen tonight, or she’ll scare everyone else, as well.”

  She wasn’t the kind of elegant show hound you’d imagine Mother having, and when she came running hell for leather toward you, barking, I’d defy the strongest man to run for cover.

  “She’s spending the night at Bob’s house,” Mother said. “It’ll be stressful for her otherwise.”

  Never mind her. It would be stressful for the people who came to visit.

  Although I totally got the concern. Pearl was protective. She’d feel she had to protect us from all the strangers coming and going. Every time the front door opened, she’d worry about another threat coming into the house. Much better for her to be tucked away somewhere out of range, with a chew toy and a bowl of food.

  Of course, that does rather defeat the purpose of having a guard dog, if you won’t let it guard you, but I wasn’t really worried about the people of Sweetwater bursting into the mansion and holding us all hostage. And if they did, I figured between Rafe and Bob Satterfield, who would be here even if the dog wouldn’t, they’d figure it out.

  Mother held her arms out. “May I?”

  Rafe grinned. “Sure.” He passed the baby over. Mother tucked her into the crook of her arm, and they looked at one another.

  After a second, Mother glanced at me. “She looks like you.”

  If she said so. “I think she looks more like Rafe.” Or maybe Darcy, my half-sister, who was also Audrey’s daughter and thus Rafe’s… second cousin or something like that.

  We’ve woven a pretty tangled web between us. And none of it our fault.

  Mother shook her head. “She has your nose. And your eyes.”

  “She’ll probably lose those,” I pointed out, since everyone had told me so.

  “Maybe not.” Mother headed back down the hall toward the kitchen, still holding the baby. After a second, Pearl followed, her nails clicking on the hardwood.

  I glanced at Rafe. He shrugged. “I’ll start hauling in the luggage.”

  “I’ll help you,” I said.

  Three

  The annual open house Christmas party got underway as usual around six o’clock. By
seven, most of the family was there, and I’d been right about Carrie: they only handed her back to me when she got hungry or started fussing for another reason. All the women in the family took turns holding her, even my oldest niece, Abigail. The two younger girls, Abigail’s sister Hannah and Catherine’s daughter Annie, were deemed too young, but they crowded around Abigail and cooed over the baby. I think they saw her more like a living doll they could play with than anything real and breathing, but it wasn’t like I could complain too much about that, since I kind of saw her as a living doll I could play with, too.

  Audrey—Mother’s best friend, Dad’s girlfriend before Mother, and Mrs. Jenkins’s niece—got a little quiet when it was her turn. She held the baby and looked down at her, her expression arrested, and I swear I saw tears glittering in her eyes. She was probably remembering the newborn daughter she’d given up for adoption almost as soon as Darcy was out of the womb, and all those years in-between, before Darcy came back, that she lost.

  And Darcy must have realized it, too, because she put her arm around Audrey’s shoulders and smiled at her. Here I am, and it isn’t too late. After a second, Audrey smiled back, and the two of them went back to admiring Carrie together.

  “You did good,” Aunt Regina told me, lifting her glass of wine in a toast. It was the second year we’d been sitting here together, during Mother’s open house. Last year, Aunt Regina had told me about the original Carrie—my great-great-great-grandmother Caroline, the mistress of the mansion during the War Between the States, or the Civil War to those of you above the Mason-Dixon Line—and Caroline’s illegitimate son William, the result of an affair with one of the grooms.

  And that was when, during last year’s conversation, there had been a knock on the door and Rafe had shown up. I glanced at him now, across the room, where he was sitting with my brother Dix and with Jonathan, Catherine’s husband. “He did most of the work.”

  “I’m sure you did your share,” Aunt Regina said. “It takes a lot of practice, making a baby.”

  It did.

  Anyway, the doorbell rang again. Last year, Dix had been the one to go into the foyer to answer it. This year, it was Bob Satterfield, after a quick glance at his watch and an almost equally quick apology to my mother. Maybe he was expecting Todd, his son.

  That might be a little awkward. Todd and I had dated in high school, and as late as a year ago, he’d still wanted me to marry him.

  Of course, once I’d married Rafe, that had become a moot point, and the last time I’d had occasion to talk to Todd, it had been almost pleasant and pleasantly normal. But this would be the first time he’d encounter Carrie, and that could potentially prove to be a little more awkward.

  However, when the sheriff came back in, he was accompanied by someone I knew, and knew well, but it wasn’t Todd.

  My jaw dropped. Not that I was all that surprised to see homicide detective Tamara Grimaldi from the Nashville PD here. We were friends, and so were she and Rafe. She’d been maid of honor at our wedding this summer.

  As far as Grimaldi and Dix, they were more than friends, although I wasn’t sure just how much more. Grimaldi had investigated my sister-in-law’s murder in November last year, and she and Dix had struck up a kind of friendship in the aftermath of Sheila’s death. But Dix was still moving through the grieving process, and he had Abigail and Hannah to think about; he wasn’t ready for any kind of new romance yet. Although I had a feeling that when he got to that point, Grimaldi was going to be near the top of the list.

  However, that wasn’t why I was gaping. I had seen her wear many things over the year and a bit more I had known her. Her usual business suit and shirt. Capris and a T-shirt for hanging out in Dix’s back yard. A navy blue chiffon dress for my wedding.

  I had never seen her wear a spiffy police uniform, complete with cap on her dark, curly hair and shiny brass buttons.

  I glanced across the room at Rafe. He looked as thunderstruck as I felt.

  Dix, on the other hand, was smiling. I guessed he knew what was coming.

  Bob Satterfield cleared his throat. “I thought,” he said, when we were all looking at him, “that tonight might be a good time to tell you the news.”

  You’re eloping?

  But no. Grimaldi wouldn’t be wearing a uniform for that. And anyway, she was half Bob’s age. Not to mention that he’d been my mother’s gentleman friend for the past couple of years, and they both seemed happy with the situation.

  He glanced at Grimaldi. “The detective has accepted the position of police chief of Columbia. She’ll be starting on January second.”

  There was a beat of silence. A long beat. My jaw wasn’t the only one that dropped this time. Mother nodded and looked pleased, and Dix was grinning, but other than that, I don’t think any of us had been prepared for, or suspected, the news.

  Mother had heard it from Bob, I assumed. Grimaldi must have discussed it with Dix. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

  I mean, it was nice that she had, don’t get me wrong. Although I felt maybe just a tiny bit slighted that she hadn’t discussed it with me.

  Or with us. Rafe looked as shocked as I did. It took him a second to join the applause.

  Bob had offered him the position back when Chief Carter had first left the picture. Rafe had declined. With an emphatic, “Hell, no.” And I didn’t think he’d had a moment’s regret since. I didn’t think he wanted to be chief of police of Columbia. But this had still come as a shock.

  It was a good solution, though, once I started thinking about it. I’d been worried about Dix and Grimaldi and how they’d work out an eventual relationship, when she was on the police force in Nashville and he had a law practice—and two kids—in Sweetwater. This would solve that problem. Dix and the girls could stay where they were most comfortable, and Grimaldi could continue to do what she did well, and wouldn’t have to choose between her career and the guy.

  “This is great!” I told her when she came to sit next to me.

  She gave me a long look. Her eyes are almost as dark as Rafe’s. “You sure?”

  “I’m going to miss you.” And now was the first time that thought had crossed my mind. It took my breath away, just a little bit. I pushed through. “But this will give you and Dix a chance to take things slow, while you’re in the same county most of the time.”

  She nodded, with that slight awkward look she got on her face every time I said something about her relationship to my brother.

  “You’re extremely well qualified, I would think. And you’re somewhat familiar with Maury County. You’ve been down here plenty.”

  For my wedding, for Dix, and on numerous occasions when something either she or Rafe was working on in Nashville spilled over down here. Like Sheila’s murder.

  Or Rafe’s murder, during those interminable eight hours I’d once thought he was dead.

  “And you have a good relationship with Sheriff Satterfield,” I added, blocking that particular trauma out of my mind. I’d still get goose bumps if I thought too hard about it. “That’ll help you get situated, as well as help the people here trust you. They’ve elected him sheriff every four years for a couple of decades by now.”

  She nodded. “That’ll be helpful, for sure.”

  “Big change for you, I guess. You’ll be doing more desk work and supervising, and less detecting.”

  She made a face, but nodded.

  “Where are you going to live? Do you have a place?” Not with Dix, surely? Or had they gotten to a point, unbeknownst to me, where she was moving in?

  “I’ve rented a place near Darcy,” Grimaldi said. “Until I know whether this is permanent or not.”

  It probably wouldn’t be permanent. She was only around thirty, or maybe a year or two older. I couldn’t imagine that she’d be happy being chief of police for Columbia forever. It would probably be pretty boring after what she was used to. But I guess maybe she meant until she knew what would happen with Dix. If things didn’t work out between
them, she’d move somewhere else. And if things did work out between them, she’d move in with him and the girls, or they’d find a new house where they could start over, the four of them, without shades of Sheila.

  “Did the sheriff pitch this idea to you at Thanksgiving?” I’d noticed them sitting with their heads together a lot.

  He had.

  “You know,” I said, “he suggested that Rafe should do it first.”

  We both glanced at my husband, who was yakking it up with Dix and Jonathan across the room. Someone had given him Carrie to hold, and he was supporting her with one hand and holding a bottle of beer in the other, and was grinning at something Jonathan had said. And for a second, I lost my breath at the sheer beauty of it.

  Not just Rafe, although he’s gorgeous. And not just the baby, although she’s gorgeous, too. But the whole beautiful rightness of it. Him, and me, with her. Together. When a year ago, I’d sat right here—in this same chair—and wondered whether I’d ever see him again, or whether I’d lost him altogether.

  Grimaldi shook her head. “Hard to imagine a job that’d be less suited for your husband.”

  She had that right. I had a hard time imagining Grimaldi working behind a desk. I couldn’t imagine Rafe doing it at all. “The sheriff is talking about retiring. He was feeling Rafe out about being sheriff of Sweetwater, as well.”

  Grimaldi arched her brows. I nodded. “I know. Crazy, right? He’d have a better chance of becoming police chief of Columbia. At least that’s only a matter of convincing the city council, or whoever, to hire him. Can you imagine Rafe running for sheriff of Maury County and trying to get people to vote him in?”

  Between him and Cletus Johnson, Bob’s current deputy, who’d certainly want Bob’s position when Bob retired, there was absolutely no question who the citizens of Maury County would choose.

  “Anyway,” I said, “he turned it all down. In no uncertain terms. He has a job. He likes it. And I can’t imagine anything that would make him want to move back to Sweetwater.”