[Cutthroat Business 01.0 - 03.0] Boxed Set Read online

  That settled, I moved on to more important things. After a leisurely breakfast of black coffee and the cheesecake from yesterday – yes, I’ll eat dessert as long as nobody masculine is around to see me do it – I spent a couple of hours freshening my manicure and pedicure, and doing my hair and make-up. That done, and once noon rolled around and it was acceptable to call people — it was a Sunday, after all, and we Southerners take our religion seriously — I got on the horn.

  My first call was to Dix, who was having brunch at The Wayside Inn and Restaurant in Sweetwater, as he explained when I asked about the noise I could hear in the background.

  “Who’s with you?” I inquired, since his voice had that unnaturally cheerful quality that voices tend to have when someone is listening. I could hear his children — three year old Hannah and five year old Abby — squabbling just far enough away that I couldn’t make out what the argument was about.

  “Sheila and the kids, of course. And Todd Satterfield and his dad, and um... Mother.”

  In that case, I had probably better not tell him — and by extension the rest of them — who I’d had dinner with last night. Or, as had been my intention, ask advice about Rafe’s dilemma with regards to Mrs. Jenkins.

  “Say hello to them all for me, would you?” I said instead, brightly. “I had something of a professional nature I wanted to ask you, but it sounds like you’re busy just now. Why don’t you give me a call later, when you have a few minutes to talk?”

  “Sure. Bye, Sis.” He hung up without waiting for my answer. I leaned back, gnawing the newly-applied lipstick from my lower lip. Had he been so abrupt because he — bless him — didn’t want the rest of the family (and Todd and Sheriff Satterfield) to insist on interrogating me, or was there something going on that he didn’t want me to know about? Were they, perhaps, having a council of war, discussing my supposed involvement with Rafe, and what they could do about it?

  But no, I told myself, that was surely paranoia rearing its ugly head. They were probably just having brunch together, like family and friends were wont to do after church on a Sunday, and it had nothing whatsoever to do with me.

  My next call was to Walker, whom I caught at home. “Yes, Savannah,” he said promptly when I introduced myself, “what can I do for you this morning?”

  I explained that I had spoken to Rafe the night before, “About what we discussed in the ladies’ room last night. Remember?”

  “Of course,” Walker said smoothly. “How did Mr. Collier feel about the idea?”

  “He seemed to feel just fine about it. I’m sure he’d appreciate anything you could do.”

  “And you made sure he understands that this depends on us being able to keep the transaction quiet?”

  I assured him I had done everything I could to impart that understanding. “I don’t think he’ll say anything to anyone. Although I suppose you could always get it in writing.”

  “I’d prefer to keep that part of the agreement verbal,” Walker said blandly. “Does he strike you as someone who’d come back later with demands?”

  “For money, you mean? Like Cla... I mean, like he’d try to blackmail you?”

  Walker might not — probably didn’t — know that Clarice had been blackmailing Brenda all these years, and it wasn’t my place to tell him. That agreement had been between Clarice and Brenda, and hadn’t affected Walker in any way, and what he didn’t know, really couldn’t hurt him, so I didn’t even feel a twinge of guilty conscience over keeping mum. When he didn’t say anything, I added, “No, I don’t think so. He might steal your money, but he’ll steal it honestly. He’s not someone who’ll sneak around behind your back.”

  “In that case,” Walker said, “I’ll see if I can’t take care of this right away. Thank you for letting me know so promptly, Savannah.”

  “My pleasure,” I said. “Is there anything I can do to help out?”

  It sounded like he hesitated for a moment. “Actually, there is. I had scheduled an open house over at Potsdam Street today, from 2 to 4. It is still our listing, and until we hear otherwise, it is our responsibility to do our best for our client.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “But now, with this problem to work out, it would be more convenient if I didn’t have to be there. I don’t suppose you’re available to do it instead?”

  “I’d love to,” I said (although, between you and me, I didn’t love the idea as much as I said I did).

  “There’s nothing to it,” Walker said bracingly. “Just talk to people and be your usual charming self, and all will be well.”

  “Charming I can do. I spent a year in Charleston learning how to be charming.”

  “There you go, then. I know you’ll do wonderfully. And if I can work this little problem out in time, I might see you there myself.”

  “That would be great,” I said. Walker excused himself to get to work, and I did the same.

  * * *

  In my naiveté, I thought that not many people would come to an open house at 101 Potsdam Street. It wasn’t a property that would appeal to the masses, after all. Too expensive, needing too much work, and in the wrong part of town. Just to have something to do in case nobody showed up, I stuffed my most recent romance novel purchase in my handbag before I headed out. It was the latest release by Barbara Botticelli, my favorite writer. All Barbara’s heroines were blonde, beautiful, and well-bred – I could relate, at least to the blonde and well-bred part – and all her heroes, from highwaymen and pirates to Indian braves and Bedouins, were dark and dangerous and not at all well-bred. The cover showed an impressively muscled native dressed in nothing but war paint and a skimpy loincloth crushing the swooning heroine to his manly chest. Her double-D-cup breasts were threatening to explode out of her half-undone bodice, and she was clearly both weak-kneed and dizzy. At the last minute, I added a sedate real estate magazine to the bag, to have something to hide the book behind in case someone should sneak up on me while I was reading. I wouldn’t look very professional sitting there devouring Apache Amour.

  After a stop at the store and another few stops to put arrow signs with balloons pointing the way on the corners near the house, I arrived at 101 Potsdam Street at ten minutes to two, to find a half dozen people already waiting in the driveway, panting to get inside, and not only because of the heat. And I wish I could say I thought they were potential buyers, but as far as I could tell, they were all more interested in the murder than in the house itself. Several had cameras they kept using, and one woman even went so far as to ask me in which room the ‘tragedy’ had taken place. Would I mind pointing to the exact spot on the floor where Brenda had breathed her last? When I did, she sat down cross-legged on the hardwood, rolled her eyes back into her head, and emitted mooing sounds while she attempted to contact Brenda’s lingering spirit. It was enough to put me off my feed for another week. The rest of the looky-loos gave her a wide berth while they stared avidly at the remains of bloodstains on the floor and munched on cookies, scattering crumbs everywhere.

  One young couple had some potential, though. As clients, I mean. They came through the door about thirty minutes into the ordeal, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as squirrels, looking around curiously. I greeted them with a smile. “Good afternoon. I’m Savannah Martin with Walker Lamont Realty.”

  “Gary Lee Hodges.” The young man grinned at the girl next to him. “This is my wife, Charlene.” Charlene giggled and clung to his arm. They acted like newlyweds, and looked to be in their early twenties. I hoped for their sake that they’d fare better than Bradley and I had. Then again, I’d never giggled and clung to Bradley the way Charlene did to Gary Lee, so maybe they’d do all right.

  “Nice to meet you both,” I said. “And welcome to 101 Potsdam Street. The kitchen is through there, down the hallway. There are some cookies and lemonade out there if you want a snack, and also a sign-in sheet, if you wouldn’t mind. We like to keep track of how many visitors we have. Would you like a brochure?” I offered t
hem one, and Charlene took it. They bent their heads over it; one dark and disheveled — Gary Lee looked like he might be a musician, or belong to some other profession where they keep their hair long — and one fair and sleek. Charlene’s hoop earrings were big enough to fit around my upper arm.

  “Where are the bedrooms?” Gary Lee asked.

  “All the bedrooms are on the second floor. There’s a third floor, too, but that’s just one big ballroom. And down here there is a dining room, a parlor, a library, and a kitchen, plus a laundry room and a pantry.”

  “Thanks. Come on, Charlene.” He tugged on her hand. She followed, giggling.

  “Let me know if you have any questions,” I called after them as they ascended the stairs.

  I got busy after that, and didn’t see them for twenty or thirty minutes. Other people arrived, some people left, and most everyone wanted to know about the murder. I said as little as I could, and did my best not to give anyone the impression that I knew more about it than the average person. Above all, I wanted to avoid letting anyone know that I’d actually found Brenda and had seen the whole messy, awful scene. If I did, I’d have to talk about it, and I still felt a little queasy whenever I thought too hard about what it had been like. (The memory of fainting dead away in Rafe’s arms wasn’t one I particularly wanted to relive, either. Not that I’d have to talk about that, but I didn’t even want to have to think about it.) The lady — and I use the word loosely — who was trying to contact Brenda’s wandering soul went into a trance right there on the library floor, and started moaning and groaning in a way that bore very little resemblance to the shrill tones of the late Brenda Puckett. The rest of the group looked on with a blend of amusement, pity, and exasperation. A few rolled their eyes. I wondered if I ought to interfere, but I was afraid of what might happen to me if I did.

  And then Charlene and Gary Lee came back downstairs, still giggling and holding hands, and saved me from having to get involved in the séance. I ignored the rest of the assembly to escort them into the kitchen, just to be sure I could get their contact information on the sign-in sheet. I suspected they were first-time buyers, newlyweds looking for their first home, and semi-serious about buying something. If I could get my hooks into them and hold on, I might get a commission at some point. Maybe not in what was left of this year, but eventually.

  “So how long have you been married?” I asked while Gary Lee was writing their information on the sheet. His handwriting looked like the rest of him, spiky, uneven, and dramatic. Charlene giggled and looked adoringly at him. “Two months.”

  “Congratulations. And now you’re looking for your first house?”

  She nodded.

  “What do you think of this one?”

  “Too big,” Gary Lee said without looking up. “Too expensive. Needs too much work.”

  “But it was a good house, didn’t you think, honey?” Charlene squeezed his arm. He nodded.

  “Yeah. It was good. But too big.”

  “What sort of size were you looking for?” I asked. They agreed that something with at least two, maybe three bedrooms would be good. I crossed my fingers. “I’d be happy to help you find something. Unless you’re already working with another Realtor...?”

  They looked at each other. “No...”

  “If you’ll give me your e-mail address, I can send you a list of all the houses for sale in your price range. Then we can narrow it down to the ones you’re interested in and go look at them.”

  They exchanged another look. “Yeah. That’d be good.”

  “Great.” Yes! “Here’s my card. I’ll send you a list of properties this evening, and then you can let me know which ones you’d like to see.”

  “Sure.” They nodded eagerly. I watched them walk out the door, still hand in hand and giggling, and although I managed to restrain myself from jumping up and down in undignified excitement, it was difficult.

  * * *

  Dix called at 3:30, just as things were starting to slow down. The lady in the library had come out of her trance and departed. I was glad to see her go; if there was one thing I didn’t need, it was for Brenda’s spirit to be summoned back to haunt the house. Not that I’d be likely to see her if she came back, but if Mrs. Jenkins returned, or Rafe moved in, or someone else bought the place and renovated it, I doubted they’d be any happier about her presence than I.

  When the medium left, most of the others did too, as it seemed the entertainment was over. A single guy was roaming around on the second floor, so I took the phone out on the porch to talk to Dix.

  “Sorry,” Dix said. “I’ve been busy.”

  “No problem,” I answered. “I’ve been busy, too. So what was going on earlier?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It sounded like you were having a family conference. Is something wrong?”

  “Why would you think that?” Dix said.

  “No reason. Well... call it paranoia, but both you and Todd have been lecturing me about getting involved with Rafe Collier, and I thought maybe...”

  “We’d all get together for Sunday brunch and talk about you and the guy you claim you’re not involved with? Sorry, Sis. I believed you when you said there wasn’t anything going on between you. Now I’m starting to wonder, though. It sounds like a guilty conscience to me.”

  “You’re wasted in family law,” I muttered. Dix snorted. I added, reluctantly, “All right, so I’ve got a guilty conscience. I had dinner with him yesterday. But only so I could make sure he understands that I’m not going to get involved with him. It wasn’t a date or anything. Please don’t tell Mother!”

  “Is he giving you a hard time?” Dix wanted to know, without promising that he wouldn’t tell our mother.

  “No, he’s not. Not at all. I promise. He’s actually quite nice.” He’d certainly given me plenty of help the night before. Fetching Alexandra, interrogating Maurice, picking the lock on Clarice’s storage unit...

  Prudently, I added, “Not my type, of course.”

  “Yes, you’ve said that before.”

  “Well, he isn’t. Could you imagine Mother’s face if I brought Rafe Collier home to meet her?”

  “She’d be polite,” Dix said, fairly. “Mother’s always polite.”

  “Of course she is. She taught us, didn’t she? But she’d never let me hear the end of it if I started dating a man with a criminal record. So I would consider it a personal favor if you wouldn’t mention anything about it.”

  Dix hesitated for a second. “I suppose what Mother doesn’t know can’t hurt her,” he agreed, finally. “As long as you’re telling the truth. He’s not bothering you, right?”

  “He’s not. I swear.” It wasn’t even really a lie. In fact, it was amazing how un-bothered I was. “Thanks, Dix. You always were my favorite brother.”

  “I’m your only brother,” Dix pointed out.

  “That, too. And that’s why I’m sure you won’t mind giving me some free advice.”

  “Does this have to do with Collier?” He sounded suspicious.

  “Only indirectly.” I explained the situation with Mrs. Jenkins — in hypothetical terms, without mentioning any names — and asked Dix’s advice for what to do. He waxed poetic for minute after minute while I made mental notes. The lone browser came out of the house while Dix was talking, and I lowered the phone to tell him goodbye and thanks for coming. Dix didn’t even notice; when I put the phone back to my ear, he was still going strong.

  “Thanks,” I interrupted eventually. “That’s great. Lots of information. Once I figure out what it means, I’m sure I’ll know exactly what to do.”

  “Give me a break, Sis. You took pre-law; you understood every word.”

  True, I had. “I appreciate it. You’re a brick, Dix. If you weren’t my brother, I’d kiss you.”

  “That’s all right,” Dix said. “Just don’t go kissing anyone else. And tell Collier that next time he wants information, he can call me himself, instead of making my sister d
o his dirty-work for him.”

  “It was my idea. I wasn’t sure you’d be willing to help if he called.”

  “I’m always willing to help,” Dix said. “For a fee.”

  He hung up. I stuck my tongue out at the phone, for all the good it did me.

  It was almost a quarter to four by now, and it appeared as if the rush of visitors was over. I stayed on the porch, rocking gently in the creaky, peeling swing, admiring my newly manicured toes, and enjoying the fact that the temperature had finally dropped below 90°. That, and avoiding being alone inside the house.

  After a couple of minutes, I was rewarded by the sight of a small figure trotting up the driveway. (If rewarded is the right word.) It was old Mrs. Jenkins, still wearing the same dirty housecoat and the same slippers, with her hair sticking out in every direction. If Rafe didn’t do something about her living situation soon, I’d damned well do it myself. I wasn’t family, so my options were much more limited than his, if he could ever prove he was her grandson, but surely I could do something. It wasn’t right that the poor old dear should have to live in that sorry excuse for a home, where no one even bothered to comb her hair or make sure she changed her clothes once a week. For a hundred grand, Brenda ought to have been able to do better, and if she hadn’t been such a greedy witch, and had paid Mrs. Jenkins even half of what the property was worth, Mrs. J could have been sitting pretty for the rest of her life.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Jenkins,” I said politely when she came within range. I wondered what sort of state she was in today and what kind of behavior I could expect to see. Would she remember me? And if she did, would she know who I was, or think I was LaDonna Collier?