Collateral Damage: A Savannah Martin Novel (Savannah Martin Mysteries Book 19) Read online

  “Look at these cabinets, Eddie. They’re not even new. These are the old cabinets with new doors. If they’re going to ask this much money for an old house, they could at least put in all new cabinets!”

  Eddie muttered something I couldn’t hear.

  “And these appliances are hardly top of the line. This fridge doesn’t even have an ice-maker!”

  Eddie muttered again.

  “And look at this tile. The grout lines look like calligraphy. Whoever tiled this backsplash must have been drunk or blind or both!”

  I felt my cheeks flush. I had tiled that backsplash, and I hadn’t been either. What I had been, up until right now, was proud of myself. It had been my first backsplash, and I thought I’d done a pretty good job.

  They moved into the hall bath, after disparaging the stain color we’d chosen for the hardwood floors, and I heard the lady raise her voice in blatant disbelief than anyone could have such bad taste as to paint the ceiling blue.

  Charlotte came scurrying into the living room. “What a witch,” she whispered.

  I would have used a different word, one that rhymed but started with a B, but I nodded.

  “You know who it is, don’t you?”

  I had no idea who it was, and shook my head.

  Charlotte lowered her voice another degree. “That’s one of the guys from the auction. Not the one who kept bidding against us just to increase the price we had to pay, but one of the others. I think he dropped out at around fifty thousand.”

  “I don’t remember him,” I admitted, “but I’ll take your word for it.”

  That explained the attitude of the lady, anyway. The guy’s wife, probably. Someone who had hoped to benefit from this flip, until we’d intervened and bought the place.

  “People are such bastards,” Charlotte said, scowling at the doorway.

  “Go ahead and go home,” I told her. “Relieve your mother of babysitting duties. I’ll stay and lock up.”

  Rafe wasn’t back from Nashville yet anyway. Or at least I assumed not. I hadn’t heard from him.

  “Are you sure?” She looked from me to the door and back.

  “There’s no reason we both have to be here. And I have to put the key back into the lockbox in case another agent wants to show the property this week. You can’t do that. But I also don’t need you for me to do it.”

  She hesitated. “Are you going to be safe?”

  Of course I was going to be safe. It was broad daylight on a friendly street in a good neighborhood, and whatever else I might think about the guy from the auction—whom I now vaguely remembered—I was positive he and his wife weren’t going to kill me.

  “This isn’t my first rodeo,” I told Charlotte. “I used to sit open houses all the time in Nashville. In neighborhoods that were a lot worse than this one.” And once or twice I had gotten in trouble. But I really didn’t think that was likely to happen today. “Just take the Open house sign and put it in the trunk of my car so anyone else doesn’t think we’re still open, and go home to your kids.”

  She hesitated.

  “I’ll be fine.,” I said. “They’re not going to be here much longer.” It was a small house; they’d run out of things to criticize soon. “And if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll text you when they’re gone, so you know I’m still alive.”

  She hesitated.

  “I have pepper spray and a knife in my purse,” I said. Charlotte’s eyes widened. “They’re disguised as lipstick tubes, but I’ve had to use them before. They work.”

  She blinked.

  “I’ll take you up to Nashville and show you where I got them, if you want to get your own set.” And she might want to. She’d been kidnapped at gunpoint a month ago, by the person who had promised to love and cherish her, and while that wasn’t likely to happen again, I wouldn’t blame her for feeling a little jumpy.

  “Sure,” Charlotte said, her eyes still wide.

  “But for right now you can go home. I’ve got this.”

  She nodded. And grabbed her coat and headed for the door, her eyes still a little wider than usual.

  “Don’t forget the sign,” I called after her. She nodded, and shut the door behind her.

  The guy from the auction and his wife stayed another ten minutes after Charlotte drove away. I’m sure they would have stayed longer if Charlotte had been in the back where she could hear them, but since they’d lost the audience for their grousing, I guess they decided there was no point in hanging around. I gave them a polite smile (but with sharp teeth) when they walked through the living room, and wished them a lovely evening as I held the door open for them.

  “Good to see you both,” I lied as I edged the door closed before they could say anything. “Thanks for stopping by.”

  I shut the door with a soft but decisive click, and turned the bolt. Mother would have been appalled at my lack of manners, but as I listened to the couple on the stoop take stock for a second—probably staring at the door before staring at each other—and then stepping down to the walkway, I couldn’t find it in myself to feel too bad. Considering the way that woman had talked about my taste and my handiwork, I could have been a lot more rude than I’d been.

  I waited for them to get in their car—a small and ladylike SUV—with the wife driving, before I walked through the house to make sure that all the windows and doors were secure. Finally, I got my coat, my purse, and my baby, and headed out. Charlotte had put the Open house sign in the back of my car, as requested, and before I reversed down the driveway, I sent her a text. They’re gone. I’m headed home.

  Ten seconds later, my phone rang. I rolled my eyes as I answered it. “Hi.”

  “It’s you,” Charlotte said.

  “Of course it’s me.” But I guess it was nice of her to check that I hadn’t been left for dead on the living room floor and someone else wasn’t using my phone. “I’m fine. Going home with Carrie. I’ll let you know if I hear from anyone tonight.”

  Or tomorrow morning. Or any time. Any time was a good time for someone to call and say they wanted to buy our house.

  Charlotte said thank you, and hung up. I dialed Darcy and left a brief message about the open house on her voicemail—she was probably out with Patrick Nolan, or maybe in Sweetwater with her mother and great-aunt—and then I put the phone down and kept both hands on the wheel until we made it back to Sweetwater and the mansion.

  Three

  I heard the Harley come up the driveway just before six. By then I was back in the kitchen, making dinner—fish tacos with cabbage slaw and a side of beans and rice—and keeping an eye peeled for Rafe’s return.

  He’d been gone a long time, much longer than I’d expected him to be gone. It shouldn’t take nine hours to drive to Nashville, meet with the contractor, meet with Wendell, and drive back. Not when Nashville is only an hour away, at least the way Rafe drives. It takes a little longer for me, admittedly, but at nine on a Sunday morning, with the roads mostly empty, he’d have made good time between here and there.

  When I’d gotten home and he hadn’t been there, I’d sent him a text on the pretext of letting him know that I was home and safe. Not that I thought he was worried. But it was a gentle nudge, and a (silent) request for reassurance back.

  Which I got. Home by 6, the text said. I went upstairs, changed my clothes, gave Carrie thirty minutes of tummy time on the blanket in the parlor, and then I went to the kitchen and started dinner. And that’s what I was doing when the Harley drove into the garage and when Rafe crossed the grass to the back door and let himself in.

  He scented the air. “Smells good.”

  “Hopefully it’ll taste good, too.” I stirred the beans. “You have ten minutes, if you want to take a shower before we eat.”

  He shook his head. “All I’ve been doing today is talk. Nothing I need to shower off.”

  “You must have been doing a lot of talking. You’ve been gone almost nine hours.”

  He shrugged.

  “Everyth
ing all right?”

  “Fine.” He took a seat at the island and folded his arms on the granite top. “How’d your open house go?”

  “Rodney Clark showed up,” I said, and abandoned the beans in favor of leaning on the island across from him. “With the Allens. Nancy and Gary.”

  “He say or do anything?”

  I shook my head. “Just walked through the house. They were only there for ten minutes or so, before they left again. We had a few more neighbors show up, a couple and a single guy who were both actually in the market to buy a house, although they already had real estate agents—and just before we closed, one of the guys who also tried to buy the house at auction showed up with his wife.”

  Rafe arched a brow.

  “She spent fifteen minutes pointing out—to her husband, but loud enough that both Charlotte and I could hear her—everything that was wrong with the place. The floor stain. The tile. The way the tile was laid. The kitchen cabinets. I tuned her out when they disappeared down the hallway to the master suite.”

  “Sounds like she’s jealous,” Rafe said.

  “The guy dropped out of the bidding at fifty thousand, I think. He wasn’t the one who kept driving the price up. That was someone else. So I don’t think he would have gotten the house even if we hadn’t been there. But I’m sure he wanted it.”

  He didn’t say anything else, and I added, “You don’t think my tiling is ugly, do you? Or the wood floors too light? Or that my bathroom light fixture looks cheap?”

  His lips quirked. “No, darlin’. The floors are great. So is the tiling. And the light cost more than a hundred bucks, didn’t it?”

  It had. Not that that’s a big sum in the scheme of things, but I’d passed up cheaper lights because they did look cheap. So it wasn’t like I would put just anything into the house. I’d done my best to balance cost and impact, since I was spending my sister’s money and since I didn’t want to waste any of it. Up until today, I’d thought I’d done a good job.

  “Don’t let one jealous cow ruin all your hard work, darlin’,” Rafe told me. “Wasn’t there somebody else who told you how much they liked the place?”

  There had been, actually. “Nancy Allen admired the kitchen backsplash. And someone else commented on the original wood floors. There were people there who liked the house.”

  “Then ignore the old witch,” Rafe said, using the B-word Charlotte and I couldn’t bring ourselves to utter. “You did a good job. The house looks great. And now that it’s on the market, you’ll get an offer soon, and the three of you can cash out.”

  “From your lips to God’s ears,” I said, and turned back to the stove to finalize the preparations for dinner.

  We were sitting in the parlor, talking about Rafe’s day, when my phone rang. I excused myself to pick it up. The number was unfamiliar, and I put it to my ear with a pleasant, “This is Savannah. How can I help you?”

  “Miz Martin?” a voice said. It wasn’t familiar, either, or at least I didn’t think so. “This is Arlene Woods with Exit Realty. I’m calling about your house on Fulton Street.”

  “Yes!” It wasn’t quite a triumphant shout, but it came close. Rafe grinned and Ms. Woods hesitated a moment.

  “My clients walked through the place during the open house this afternoon. I was wondering whether I could take them through for a second look tomorrow morning?”

  “Of course,” I said brightly. “The house is unoccupied. The furniture is all staging. Go any time you want. Lock box on the front porch.” I gave her the code.

  “Can you tell me anything about the home? Or the renovation?”

  “Everything,” I said expansively, and then reeled myself in a little. “The house belongs to my sister. We bought it at auction a couple of months ago. I did some of the cosmetic repairs, but we had licensed plumbers and electricians in for the renovations that required it. What would you like to know?”

  We talked renovations for a few minutes while Rafe watched me with a pleased curve to his lips and while I threw everything I had into making the house sound as great as I possibly could, and Darcy sound as easygoing as anyone could wish for. Not a tall order, since she isn’t difficult to deal with at all.

  Arlene hesitated. “I understand there was a murder in the house last month?”

  And there it was. The stigma.

  “Yes,” I admitted, “but it had nothing to do with the house.” A small, white lie, that. The dead guy had been the previous owner. But he didn’t own the house when he died in it. “Someone broke in through the back door. Everything’s been replaced, though. The floors. The drywall. The door.” Or at least the window pane that had been broken. “As far as I know, he doesn’t walk.”

  Rafe smothered a snort.

  Arlene, on the other hand, didn’t sound like she thought it was funny. “We’ll take a look,” she told me. “But don’t be surprised if you don’t hear back. That kind of thing isn’t going to do you any favors.”

  Believe me, I knew that. “By the time it happened,” I told her, “we’d already bought the place and started working on it. It’s not like we can forget we own it just because something bad happened there.”

  Although we had discussed the fact that if we couldn’t sell again within a reasonable amount of time, we might have to rent it out for a while, to let the crime recede in people’s minds. Darcy would get her money back more slowly, and Charlotte and I would have done all that work for nothing, but it wasn’t like we wouldn’t all be OK.

  Arlene made a non-committal sort of noise.

  “Just let your clients make up their own minds,” I told her. “And if it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t work out. Their loss. We’ll sell it to someone eventually.”

  I kept my fingers crossed and hoped I wouldn’t have to eat those words.

  “We’ll see,” Arlene said darkly, and hung up.

  I turned to Rafe with a shrug. “Not like I didn’t expect it.”

  He shook his head. “Might not be a problem. Not everybody minds a house where somebody died.”

  No. And speaking of… “How did it go in Nashville? Does the place look OK?”

  “The place looks great,” Rafe said. “It’s slow going, though. They’re not just replacing the stairs, you know. They’re replicating them. And that kind of handiwork takes time.”

  Of course it did. Everything is mass-produced today. But the stairs in Mrs. Jenkins’s house dated from the eighteen-eighties, and had been hand-carved. Not only did someone have to replace them, they had to re-create them from old pictures and from what was left.

  “But it’s looking all right?”

  He nodded. “Most of the woodwork is done. They’re still working on trying to match the stain to what was there originally. Same with the floors.”

  “So it’s going to take a while longer.”

  “Another month. But it’s gonna look good as new when they’re finished.”

  Part of me wanted to ask whether he’d want to move back to Nashville when the house was ready, or whether he’d want to stay here. I didn’t, partly because I wasn’t sure I was going to like the answer.

  “It’s good that it’s going to look nice,” I said instead. “You were gone a long time.”

  “I told you I was meeting Wendell. We had some stuff to work out.”

  Rafe was still officially working for the Tennessee Bureau of Investigations. On loan to the Columbia PD at the moment. Wendell Craig, who had been Rafe’s handler during his undercover years, and his boss during the eleven months he’d been a trainer for other undercover agents, was currently doing both his own new job, and his old job, which was now supposed to be Rafe’s job. It’s a long story. The bottom line, I guess, is that Rafe is still sort of working undercover, as a detective for Tamara Grimaldi’s police department, but under his own name and in his own home town, where everyone knows who he is and remembers his past.

  “Everything all right?”

  “Fine,” Rafe said. “Just some person
nel matters.”

  Personnel? “Is everything all right with the boys?”

  The boys are the three young men Rafe spent the best part of a year training. There were four of them originally, but Manny Ortega was killed early last year. The three that were left were José Garcia, currently working undercover in Memphis, Jamal Atkins, working with Wendell in Nashville, and Clayton Norris, who’d been shipped off to Chattanooga.

  Rafe nodded. “Memphis says that José’s working his way into the distribution chain of a Mexican drug cartel. He’s doing fine. And Jamal’s working with Wendell, and I guess getting ready to be a daddy.”

  I grimaced. I was still feeling a bit guilty about that one.

  Jamal—and José and Clayton and of course Wendell—had been invited to Rafe’s and my wedding, right here in the garden of the mansion, last June. So had my young friend Alexandra Puckett, whose mother Brenda had been murdered in Mrs. Jenkins’s house in Nashville on the day I first met Rafe—or met him again, twelve years after he left Columbia High.

  Unbeknownst to us, Jamal and Alexandra had hooked up, and now Alexandra was expecting Jamal’s baby. She was seventeen, he was twenty or twenty-one, or maybe twenty-two by now. Better than seventeen, but not really in a position to be a good daddy. Especially not with the work he was getting into.

  “I haven’t spoken to her for a while,” I admitted. “She calls or texts now and then. But I haven’t seen her since we left Nashville.”

  “Maybe you should take a drive up there one day and take her to lunch.”

  Maybe I should. Now that the house on Fulton was finished, I didn’t have to stick around Maury County every day anymore. A trip to Nashville might be nice. I could bring Charlotte, and take her to Sally’s Security for pepper spray.

  I texted Alexandra Puckett the next morning, and suggested that we meet for lunch the following Saturday. She was in her last year of high school, and as far as I knew, she still planned to try to graduate with the rest of her class in May. As long as she was healthy and able, I imagined she was in school.

  She set me straight within the next thirty minutes. How about tomorrow?