[Cutthroat Business 01.0 - 03.0] Boxed Set Read online

  “What happened?” Rafe didn’t sound like he cared one way or the other. I folded my arms and watched him navigate the obstacle course to the file box in the corner.

  “Other than that we had different tastes in home decor? He cheated.”

  I know I mentioned that that fact was something I didn’t want to get around, but I figured it would be safe to tell Rafe. Who could he tell, after all? It wasn’t like we moved in the same circles. And ― somehow ― he was easy to talk to about things like this. I guess maybe because he wasn’t in a position to judge me for being less than perfect.

  “Figures.” He shifted another, smaller box out of his way. It clinked, like it was full of porcelain or glass.

  I sniffed. “What’s that supposed to mean? I’m the kind of woman who gets cheated on? Thanks a lot!”

  “I just meant that you pick the wrong guys to get involved with.”

  “There was nothing wrong with Bradley,” I said, stung. I was no fan of Bradley’s either, anymore, but I was damned if I would let Rafe Collier lecture me about my love life. Bradley had turned out to be a jerk, yes, but while he courted me, he had seemed like my perfect match. “He was young, wealthy, reasonably good looking, came from a good family, was offered a very good job after graduation...”

  Rafe murmured something. I couldn’t hear what it was, but I heard the tone, and decided not to ask him to repeat it.

  “If something wasn’t wrong with him,” he said instead, “why’d he cheat?”

  “Maybe he thought there was something wrong with me.”

  He straightened up and looked at me. Up and down, for a little longer than strictly necessary. “Ain’t nothing wrong with you, darlin’. Any man who has you in his bed and goes somewhere else for his jollies, needs his head examined.” He turned back to the box.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I think.”

  “No sweat. So when you and I get it on...”

  “I should have known this was just another way for you to try to talk me into bed.”

  “Can’t fault a man for trying.” He grinned at me over his shoulder.

  “I can. Plus, I’m frigid.”

  I couldn’t imagine why I’d blurted that piece of information out ― surely I wasn’t that comfortable talking to him! ― but on the upside, maybe it would make him stop asking.

  “Just cause Bradley couldn’t get the job done, don’t mean I can’t.”

  Or maybe not. I shrugged. “Are you finding anything?”

  “Papers. Old bills. College transcripts. Looks like she studied accounting half a century ago. Title to her house. She lived in Sylvan Park. Any reason we have to go there?”

  “None I can think of.” Breaking into Clarice’s storage unit was one thing; breaking into her house was something totally different.

  “Glad to hear it,” Rafe said. “Houses are close together out there. Someone’d probably see us. Here’s a will: everything she owns to someone named Laura Curtis of Des Moines.”

  “I doubt she had much to leave,” I said. “The house is probably worth something, if it isn’t mortgaged to the rafters, but her husband went bankrupt and left her destitute, and for the past fifteen years, she’s been a glorified file clerk for Brenda Puckett. Who wasn’t the world’s most generous employer, by all accounts. Alexandra told me she was always complaining about the money she had to pay Clarice. Which is so unfair, because if I know — knew — Brenda, she probably had Clarice earning $8.50 an hour!”

  Rafe didn’t answer, and I turned to look at him. He was staring at something he had just pulled from the box.

  “What’s that?” I picked my way closer to him.

  He held it out. “IRA statement. Says she had just under four million dollars in her account.”

  “What?!” I grabbed the statement. “But if she had that kind of money, why did she work for Brenda?”

  “Maybe she liked her,” Rafe said. I snorted, handing the statement back to him.

  “I don’t think there was a single person in the whole world who liked Brenda Puckett. Except maybe her family, and I’m not sure about them. Plus, Alexandra told me Clarice and Brenda weren’t friends.”

  “So maybe Brenda had some kind of hold on her.”

  “Blackmail, you mean? I suppose it’s possible. I wouldn’t put it past her. If Clarice was involved in her husband’s embezzling scheme, for instance, and Brenda knew about it... Clarice was an accountant; maybe she helped Graham cook the books. And maybe Brenda hired Clarice in order to squeeze as much work out of her as she could, knowing that Clarice couldn’t quit. Although that doesn’t explain how Clarice ended up with four million dollars...”

  “This does.”

  He handed me another piece of paper. I looked at it and gulped. “What on earth...? But this isn’t... Oh, my God!”

  Rafe arched a brow. I took a breath. “Heidi told me that she’d seen Clarice’s contract with Brenda, and that it was the same as her own. Heidi pays Brenda 40% of her income, and keeps 60% after Walker takes out the company’s share.”

  Rafe nodded encouragingly.

  “But this doesn’t say that, does it? This says that Brenda has to pay Clarice 40% of everything she makes. Everything Brenda makes. Right?”

  Rafe nodded.

  “But that’s... that’s criminal! No wonder Brenda complained!”

  “Explains a lot, don’t it?”

  “It sure does! Brenda sells a couple of million dollars worth of real estate every month, and sometimes a lot more. Three percent of two million is... um...”

  “Sixty grand,” Rafe said. “Sounds like I’m in the wrong business.”

  “We’re not all that successful. Walker gets 15% off the top; that’s... um...”

  “9 grand.”

  “Which leaves... um... $51,000?”

  He nodded.

  “Brenda keeps 60%, and Clarice gets 40%. That’s... um...”

  “$20,400 for Clarice, $30,600 for Brenda.”

  “Thank you. Over a year, that would be...”

  It didn’t take him more than five seconds. “Just less than 245 grand for Clarice, just over 367 for Brenda.”

  “You’re good at this. Are you in banking? A CPA? How about a bookmaker?”

  “Shame on you,” Rafe said lightly, “don’t you know that gambling is illegal in Tennessee?”

  “Like that would stop you? $245,000; that’s not bad for typing and filing and keeping track of Brenda’s appointments.”

  Rafe agreed. “For that kind of money, I’d go to work for her myself.”

  “I wouldn’t. There’s not enough money in the world to pay me to work for Brenda Puckett. Plus, she didn’t like me.”

  I hesitated for a second before I added, “She wouldn’t have liked you either.”

  “Most women like me just fine.” He grinned.

  “Brenda wasn’t most women,” I said. “All she cared about was money, and you don’t have any. All the sex appeal in the world wouldn’t make up for that. Plus, she liked people she could bully, and you’re just not pliable enough.”

  “Depends on who’s doing the plying, darlin’.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Give it a rest, would you? It’s getting almost as old as my family throwing every eligible bachelor they can find at me.”

  He smiled, but didn’t answer. Instead he looked around. “We done here?”

  I did the same. “I guess we are. Unless you think there’s something else we might find if we keep looking?”

  “I think we’ve found enough, don’t you?”

  I nodded. I guess we had.

  So we locked up again, and hoofed it back to the office, where Rafe went back inside and put the master key wherever he found it and just generally made sure no one could tell we’d been there. If they came through with a fingerprinting kit, they’d find his prints, of course, but as long as everything looked normal, there was no reason why anyone would suspect we’d ever been here.

  “All right,” I said when we were dri
ving down Dickerson Pike again. “Let’s see if we can figure this out.”

  Rafe nodded encouragingly.

  “Fifteen years ago, Clarice’s husband got involved in a business deal with Brenda. When it fell apart, he killed himself.”

  Rafe nodded.

  “Clarice filed a suit with the real estate commission. But nothing ever came of it, because Brenda paid Clarice to withdraw the charges.”

  Rafe nodded.

  “So Clarissa Webster became Clarice Webb, and went to work for Brenda. As the years went by, Brenda — thanks in no small part to Clarice — became more and more successful, and Clarice became richer and richer. She had every reason in the world to help Brenda make money, because the more money Brenda made, the more Clarice made.”

  Rafe nodded.

  “And she had absolutely no reason to want Brenda dead. Brenda was much more valuable to her alive. So Clarice didn’t kill her.”

  “Unless there’s something you don’t know,” Rafe said.

  “Like?”

  “I dunno. Maybe Brenda got tired of sharing and fired her.”

  I nodded, grudgingly. “That’s true. What did you think of Maurice Washington, by the way?”

  “Nasty tick,” Rafe said, but without excitement. “I don’t think he killed Miz Puckett, if that’s what you’re asking. Not man enough. That prob’ly happened as soon as she got to the house. Whoever did it’d wanna get it over with, just in case Maurice was early. It don’t take long to cut someone’s throat.”

  I swallowed. “Not to be rude or anything, but... how do you know that?”

  “Not cause I ever had occasion to do it to anyone. Old Jim used’ta take me out hunting. Ain’t much difference when it comes to it.”

  “Ugh!” I said. He shrugged. “All right. So the murderer cut Brenda’s throat and then got in the Lincoln Navigator and drove it down to the Milton House, where he or she exchanged Brenda’s car for his or her own car. Then he or she drove home, and waited. Meanwhile, Maurice showed up and found Brenda dead. He rifled her handbag, just to be sure she hadn’t written his name anywhere, and made off with the check she was presumably planning to use to make him stay away from Alexandra. You realize that he had every reason in the world to do away with her? She wouldn’t have stood for Alexandra continuing to see him. The poor girl would have been on her way to finishing school in Charleston before you could have said boo.”

  Rafe looked at me askance, but didn’t ask. “He don’t have the guts,” he said instead, dismissively.

  “I’ll take your word for it. By the way, do you think whoever killed Brenda missed the check, or did they leave it on purpose, to implicate Maurice?”

  “Depends on whether they knew about Maurice or not. If they didn’t, maybe they were hoping to pin it on me.” He didn’t sound too bothered by the possibility.

  “Clarice knew,” I said. “She was the one who saw Maurice and Alexandra together, and told Brenda. Although she might not have known that Brenda had set up an appointment with him that morning.”

  Rafe shrugged.

  “Anyway, Maurice doesn’t call the cops, but he hangs around to make sure someone else does. You know, I agree with you. He lacks spine. Anyway, then you show up. But you don’t go in, and when you get tired of waiting, you call me, and between us, we find Brenda. And Maurice goes home to hide the check in his underwear drawer.”

  Rafe nodded.

  “The next thing that happened was that Clarice died. No, wait; that’s not true. The next thing that happened was that the Nashville Voice ran a derogatory article about Brenda, and dredged up the whole Kress-building fiasco. It could be unrelated, but then again, maybe not. Maybe someone tipped them off. Maybe the murderer did it.”

  “Why?”

  “Who knows? Out of plain maliciousness, or to throw suspicion on Clarice. Or to give her another reason for supposedly committing suicide, if the murderer had already decided to do away with her.”

  Rafe nodded. I added, “But Clarice wouldn’t have done that, would she? She wouldn’t want to implicate herself, or dredge up the old business.”

  “Don’t seem that way.” Rafe turned the car onto East Main Street. I was almost home. I began to talk faster. I wanted it all said by the time we got to my apartment, because there was no way I was inviting him in to continue the exposition. This time, come hell or high water, I would say goodnight in the car, outside the gate.

  “So someone else did it. And then that same someone made an appointment with Clarice on Thursday night, and killed her too. With the same knife he or she used on Brenda. To make it look like Clarice had killed Brenda and then herself.”

  “Works for me.” Was it my imagination, or was he driving more slowly? The roof of my apartment building was visible just over the next crest, so he might also want me to finish what I had to say before we got there. Maybe he thought the evening had been long enough. Maybe he couldn’t wait to get rid of me...

  “The only thing left to do, is figure out who it was. Someone with a reason for wanting Brenda dead... that’s practically all of Nashville. Her husband, his mistress, her daughter, her daughter’s boyfriend, every real estate agent who’s ever worked with her, and at least half her clients, current and former, including you and your grandmother. Not to mention the wacko who peppered her billboard with buckshot last month. Who’d want to kill Clarice, though? And why?”

  “At a guess,” Rafe said, slowing down a little more; I was sure by now I wasn’t imagining it, “she prob’ly knew who Brenda took with her on Saturday morning, and decided to try another spot of blackmail. It worked out real good last time.”

  I nodded. That made sense. “Someone they both knew, then. Tim, maybe. He has plenty of income, and I don’t see him letting himself be blackmailed. The receptionist at the Stor-All did say she saw him on Monday morning, when he had no business being there. He said she’d made a mistake, but that’s what he’d say anyway, isn’t it? On the other hand, I can’t really see him cut someone’s throat. Too squeamish, don’t you think? Maybelle Driscoll would take it in stride, but I’m not too sure about Steven. Surely he’d find it hard to cold-bloodedly cut the throat of the woman he had lived with and slept with for twenty years, and who had given him two children? Austin is too young, and I just can’t believe it of Alexandra, but then there’s... um... your grandmother.”

  He sent me a black look. “Keep my grandmother out of this.”

  “I wish I could,” I said sincerely, “but she had every reason in the world for wanting to kill Brenda, either because she thought Brenda had broken into her house or because she understood that Brenda had cheated her out of it. And it’s not like she would go to jail even if she did do it; she’s clearly non compus mentis...”

  I trailed off as I watched Rafe’s hands tighten on the steering wheel until the knuckles showed white. It looked like he was imagining squeezing something soft, like my throat.

  “On the other hand,” I said, “let’s keep your grandmother out of it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No problem. By the way, while I’m still thinking about it, Walker asked me if I thought you’d be interested in getting the house back, without having to pay the hundred grand, if he could arrange it. The only stipulation is that you keep it quiet.”

  He sent me a suspicious glance. “Why?”

  “He’s hoping to be elected for a spot on the real estate commission next spring. He’s been working toward it for a long time, and all of these tragedies haven’t improved his chances, poor man. I promised I’d ask you.”

  “Sure.” He shrugged. “I ain’t proud.”

  “I’ll let him know.” I leaned back in my seat and watched my apartment building come closer. This time I wasn’t going to be caught off-guard.

  When he slid up to the curb, I had the door open before we’d even come to a complete stop. “Thanks again. For everything.”

  “You sure you don’t want me to walk you up?”

  I shook my
head, a little too emphatically. His eyes crinkled. “You afraid of a repeat of last time, darlin’?”

  I shrugged. No sense in denying the obvious.

  He smiled. “I ain’t gonna hurt you, you know.”

  “I know. It’s just... my mother would kill me.”

  He cocked his head. “You planning on telling her?”

  I shook my head. “Oh, no.” I would never breathe a word of this evening to my mother. Not for all the money in Clarice’s IRA account. But I wasn’t about to compound the offenses I had already committed by allowing myself to be kissed by him, either. There are limits.

  I had been prepared for a prolonged argument, but to my surprise and — dare I say it? — merest hint of disappointment, he didn’t quibble. “Guess that’s it, then. Good night, darlin’. And thanks for a good time.”

  He extended a hand through the car window. It seemed churlish and ungrateful not to take it, considering everything I’d put him through, so I placed my hand in his and prepared to shake. I daresay I should have known better. He lifted it to his mouth and brushed his lips over my knuckles before turning my hand over and kissing my palm. Scrubbing it against my thigh to get rid of the feeling of his lips on my skin would only make me look like I cared, so the kiss stayed there the whole way across the courtyard and up the stairs to my door, like the niggling of a mosquito bite.

  Chapter Nineteen

  So that was that, I reflected the next morning. I had made it through the previous night without being arrested for burglary and more importantly, without being kissed by Rafe. And considering the terms on which we had parted, it seemed as if he had realized — finally! — that any hopes he harbored in my direction — if he harbored any, and he didn’t just attempt to talk me into bed on principle — were bound to be unfulfilled. What a relief. That he realized it, I mean.

  Of course, the rest of it was a relief, too; I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. But in this case, I mostly meant that it was a relief that he realized it and so, presumably, would stop bugging me. Not that I actually minded the bugging all that much, so long as he was just joking. It was the idea that he might not be, that was scary. And that was why it was a relief that he seemed to have accepted that I wouldn’t ever have anything of a sexual or romantic nature to do with him. It removed quite a load from my mind.