Adverse Possession Page 5

  She looked mutinous.

  “I’ll have sweet tea,” I added, so she wouldn’t think I wanted Aislynn to be my waitress instead of her.

  “She’s in the back.” The waitress nodded to a curtain behind the counter as she walked away.

  “Can I talk to her a minute?” I asked when she came back with the tea, just as if she’d never left. “I’d like the pear and berry salad, please.” Mixed greens, chopped pears and dried cranberries, walnuts, feta and balsamic vinaigrette. Lots of nutrition for the baby.

  “I’ll go get her.” She took the menu back and headed for the kitchen to put in my order. Now that she was assured of a tip, I guess she was more willing to let me speak to Aislynn.

  It was a couple of minutes before Aislynn came out. I busied myself sipping tea and looking around at the young hipsters and middle-aged business people shoveling in field greens and quinoa.

  I’ve spent a lot of my life eating lettuce and watching my weight. A Southern Belle is supposed to eat like a bird and have a wasp waist. We wouldn’t want a potential suitor to think I’d be expensive to keep, or for that matter that I don’t care about looking my best for him. But between Rafe and the baby I’m slowly getting over that. Rafe has always taken great pleasure in enticing me to do things I know I shouldn’t do. Eating hamburgers and French fries was on that list, and so was getting involved with him in the first place. And lately it’s been nice to eat what I want—even if that’s been Mocha Double Chunk ice cream at eleven o’clock at night—and not have to worry about gaining pounds. I’m supposed to gain pounds at this point.

  “Savannah?”

  Aislynn had a tiny wrinkle between her brows, and like Kylie, didn’t seem that happy to see me.

  “Hi.” I put on a bright smile. “How are you?”

  “Fine?” Aislynn said, and made it sound questionable.

  I lowered my voice. “I just wanted to update you on what’s happened since last night.”

  She paled. “What’s happened? Another letter?”

  “No, no. Nothing like that. Nothing’s happened at all. Just that I’ve spoken to Rafe and to Detective Grimaldi. I wanted to tell you what they said.”

  Aislynn looked relieved. And a little skeptical when I told her that Grimaldi had said that anonymous letter writers don’t usually resort to violence. “But that’s usually,” she told me. “That doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen.”

  “No,” I admitted. “Just that it isn’t likely.”

  “But likely doesn’t mean that it couldn’t.”

  No, it didn’t. “Detective Grimaldi said you probably don’t have to move, though.”

  “Probably,” Aislynn said.

  “Right.” I gave up. “I’m still working on it. I wanted to ask you a question.”

  She immediately sank her teeth into her bottom lip. Somehow, in spite of the piercings decorating her ears, her nose, and her mouth, and the Cleopatra-kohl outlining her eyes, she looked like a nervous little girl afraid to get caught in a lie.

  “Yesterday, when I asked whether you had any idea who might be behind this, I got the impression you were thinking of someone.”

  She didn’t answer, and after a second I prompted, “Maybe someone you didn’t want to mention in front of Kylie?”

  “Oh,” Aislynn said.

  “I thought maybe, if I came and asked you on your own, you’d share what you were thinking.”

  “It’s probably nothing,” Aislynn said.

  The whole thing might be nothing. But since she hadn’t seemed open to that idea, I didn’t bring it up again. Just nodded encouragement.

  “It could just be that I’m jealous.”

  I arched my brows.

  Aislynn sighed. “There’s this woman? Kylie was involved with her. You know, before me?”

  She had this habit of ending every other sentence on a high note, as if she was always unsure and asking for reassurance. I nodded before I could help myself.

  “They work together?” Aislynn said, and of course my mind went immediately to the woman Kylie had seemed so eager to have lunch with today. The woman she hadn’t seemed at all eager to introduce me to.

  “Her name is Lauren.”

  That didn’t help me at all, but I nodded.

  “She’s older than me. And really smart. And she really liked Kylie. And Kylie liked her. Until she met me?”

  I nodded.

  “So I’m wondering if maybe...?” She trailed off.

  “Lauren is trying to get rid of you so she can have Kylie back?” Would a thirty-something, smart woman with a good job in a bank stoop to something like that?

  “No,” Aislynn said, looking shocked.

  “No?”

  “I was thinking more like... you know...”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t know.” I had given it my best shot, and if that wasn’t what she was thinking, I didn’t know what she was getting at.

  Aislynn squirmed. “I was thinking maybe Kylie was trying to get rid of me? So she could go back to Lauren?”

  It took me a second to find my voice. And rather than telling her that Kylie wouldn’t do that—my first instinct, as it had been when Tamara Grimaldi suggested the same thing—I said carefully, “Would she do that?”

  Because if Aislynn thought so, and Aislynn knew her a lot better than I did, maybe I was wrong.

  “I don’t know?” Aislynn said. “I don’t want to think so. But it makes sense, you know?”

  It did, in a twisted way. It was the obvious conclusion, the one Grimaldi had jumped to, as well. Someone was trying to scare Aislynn into leaving, and who better than Kylie?

  Always assuming Kylie wanted to get rid of Aislynn, of course. That hadn’t been the impression I’d gotten, but the Kylie from last night had been different from the Kylie I’d met this morning. I probably couldn’t rule it out.

  “Are you and Kylie having problems?” I probed gently.

  Aislynn wiggled. “Not to say problems...”

  “Friction? Disagreements?”

  She sighed. “She gets upset because this scares me. She thinks I should just snap out of it, that it isn’t anything to worry about.”

  “It probably isn’t.” Hopefully wasn’t. “She seemed nice about it last night.”

  “That’s because you were there,” Aislynn said. “When it’s just the two of us, she’s a lot less patient.”

  “Are you sure she isn’t just upset about the situation? And upset that it’s upsetting you?”

  Aislynn shrugged. “It started before that. She wants to have a baby. I don’t think I’m ready. You know?”

  She was only around twenty-five, so I could understand that. Kylie, on the other hand, was around thirty, and was probably hearing her biological clock ticking louder and louder.

  “We haven’t even been together a year. We aren’t married. She wants to do that, too.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “It’s complicated,” Aislynn said.

  “Relationships usually are,” I agreed.

  “I just don’t know if I’m ready to get married. I mean, I love Kylie. But I’m afraid she’s going to get tired of me. That she’s already tired of me. I’m younger than she is. And I do stupid things, like get afraid of being home alone.” She sniffed. I couldn’t tell whether it was an annoyed sniff, or a wet and soggy one. “I bet Lauren wouldn’t be worried about the letters.”

  Maybe not. Then again, if it were me receiving them, I’d probably be a little worried, too.

  “Never mind about Lauren,” I said firmly. “If Kylie wants to marry you, and have children with you, she can’t still be hung up on Lauren.”

  Aislynn sniffed. It was definitely a wet, soggy sniff. “Unless it’s all just a ruse. She wants to get rid of me, but she won’t come out and say so. So she’s trying to scare me away instead.”

  Twisted. But possible. “I’ll find out,” I said. “I’m going to talk to the previous owners, just to make sure they haven’t changed their mi
nds about selling and want their house back. And I’ll look into Lauren. What can you tell me about her?”

  Not much, as it turned out. Aislynn didn’t know her last name, just that her first name was Lauren and she worked with Kylie. They’d been involved, but not really seriously, before Aislynn entered the picture.

  “They came here for lunch,” Aislynn said. “Kylie used to live down the street, remember?”

  I nodded. When I met them, they had lived in Kylie’s townhouse in a development in Brentioch—the Brentwood/Antioch area, down Old Hickory Boulevard from Sara Beth’s.

  “I waited on them. Kylie came back the next day, alone, and asked me out.”

  “That’s nice,” I said. It was certainly a very much more ordinary courtship than Rafe and I had had.

  Aislynn shrugged skinny shoulders inside the cropped T-shirt. “She said it hadn’t been serious with Lauren, although it looked serious to me.”

  All the more reason to make sure Lauren wasn’t targeting Aislynn to get Kylie back. “But that’s all you know about her?”

  “I only met her once after that,” Aislynn said. “At the company Christmas party six months ago. She told me Kylie deserved better than a half-baked girl who didn’t even know how to dress properly.” She flushed.

  “Sour grapes,” I told her.

  Aislynn shrugged. “That’s all I know about her. And you can’t ask Kylie. I don’t want her to know I’m jealous.”

  I promised I wouldn’t. I had no idea how to find out anything about Lauren without asking Kylie, but I’d do my best.

  “You haven’t heard anything from the previous owners since you moved in, have you? No offers to buy back the house or anything?”

  Aislynn shook her head. “Nothing like that.”

  “Get any mail for them?”

  “They must have mail forwarding,” Aislynn said. “No.”

  “Anything else you can think of?”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “No.” She took a step to the side as the waitress from earlier deposited the salad in front of me. “I’ll let you eat in peace.”

  “Just one thing.”

  She stopped, arrested halfway between stationary and moving.

  “You’re from Kentucky, right?”

  She nodded. “Bowling Green.”

  “How long have you been in Nashville?”

  “Just since last summer,” Aislynn said. “I graduated in May and moved in June.”

  “Can you think of anyone from there who could be doing this?” Like your parents...? “Someone you knew when you were growing up, or someone you went to college with? Have you seen anyone from up there recently?”

  Aislynn shook her head. “Nobody.” She took a step back. “Enjoy your food.”

  She vanished. One second she was there, the next she was halfway across the floor. I watched, my mouth open, as she disappeared back through the curtain behind the counter.

  That was the last I saw of her. She was either avoiding me, or there was something interesting going on behind the curtain. I ate my salad, settled my check with the other waitress, and got up. And then I moseyed over to the counter. And since nobody was watching, I ducked behind it and lifted the curtain.

  Aislynn peered up at me, eyes huge. She was sitting on an overturned bucket, with a cardboard container of French fries in her hand. Her cheeks were puffed out like a chipmunk’s, and her eyes were wide with guilt.

  I smiled sweetly. “I just wanted to say goodbye. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Aislynn chewed. And chewed again. “OK,” she mumbled, around the fries. I withdrew, and went back outside to the Volvo.

  I figured Rafe was in the middle of a class, so I didn’t call him. I did text him an update, though. In Brentwood. Been to see Kylie and Aislynn. Going to see former owner of their house.

  I added the address I’d found for Stacy Kelleher. Just in case I never came back, I wanted someone to know where I’d gone.

  I’ll text you when I’m done, I added. That way, if he didn’t hear from me within an hour or so, he’d know to come rushing to the rescue.

  That done, I put the address into the GPS and the car in gear and followed the instructions to Stacy Kelleher’s apartment.

  It wasn’t a long drive. Down the road past the fancy McMansion developments, then a left on Edmondson Pike, and into an apartment complex there, not too far past where Aislynn and Kylie had crashed Kylie’s Volvo into a brick wall last year. The wall had been built up again now, but I gave a little shudder as I drove past.

  The apartment complex wasn’t gated. I’d been worried that I’d have to try to talk Stacy into letting me in via intercom, but as it turned out, I could just drive into the complex and make my way to the B-building with nobody accosting me.

  Each building was two stories, with a central hallway in the hollowed-out middle, and apartments on both floors. I parked the Volvo one space over from a black Jeep Wrangler, and got out.

  Everything was quiet. Maybe too quiet, as they say in the movies. The parking lot was mostly empty, and I didn’t see anyone. My impression was that this was a working class development, a little tired and probably full of young professionals, and they were all at work on a Friday just after lunch.

  The Kelleher apartment was on the second floor. I trudged up the stairs, dragging my feet. I tire more easily these days, and not only was I carrying a few pounds of baby (and a few extra pounds on top of that), my stomach was full of food, too.

  There were four apartments on each floor. Two on each side of the stairs, one on the front of the building, and one on the back. Stacy Kelleher’s place faced the front. I staggered over to the door and looked for a bell. When I didn’t see one, I lifted my hand and applied my knuckles instead.

  I’ll readily admit I didn’t expect anything to happen. It was likely that nobody was home. Stacy probably had a job, and Virgil—if he was here—probably did, too.

  I must admit the juxtaposition between this quite humble apartment complex and the Victorian cottage in East Nashville struck me. I had refreshed my memory vis-à-vis the closing statement earlier this morning. Virgil and Stacy had walked from the closing table with almost a hundred thousand dollars in profit. They’d bought their house during the market downturn in 2008 and -09, and had gotten a good deal back then, and they had sold it again at the height of the new market. They should have been able to afford something better than a rental apartment on the outskirts of town.

  The door opening took me by surprise, since I hadn’t expected it to happen. “Oh.”

  A guy stood in the open doorway. My age, give or take a year, with glossy, brown hair—wet from a shower—and with a towel slung around his hips. The swath of white terrycloth was the only thing he was wearing.

  Virgil Wright, I presumed.

  I took a step back. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s no problem, doll.” He glanced over my shoulder, maybe to see if I was alone.

  I did the same. There was no one else around.

  I cleared my throat. This was a little weird, to be honest. I mean, it was hot. July in Nashville always is. And he would have looked much the same if he’d been wearing a pair of shorts. But who opens the door to a stranger of the opposite sex, dressed in just a towel?

  It was either someone who was supremely confident in his own skin, or someone who wanted to shock or intimidate, I guess.

  Between you and me, I’ll say I wasn’t impressed, though. And I certainly wasn’t intimidated.

  Not that he was bad-looking. Just shy of six feet and leanly muscled, with defined abs and pecs. It’s just that I share my bed with Rafe, who looks way better naked than merely ‘not bad.’ My husband has the kind of physique that can turn a woman dry-mouthed and make her forget her name. There was none of that here.

  “I’m looking for Stacy Kelleher,” I said.

  The guy nodded.

  “Is she here?”

  He grimaced. “I’m Stacy.”

  “You�
�re Stacy?”

  He looked offended.

  “I’m sorry,” I added. “I expected a girl.”

  He muttered something. I didn’t ask him to repeat it.

  “I’m Savannah Martin,” I told him. “From LB&A? The real estate company you and Virgil used to sell your house in January?”

  He looked wary. “Yeah?”

  “We spoke on the phone earlier this morning?” And dammit—darn it—now I was starting to sound like Aislynn.

  “Oh,” Stacy said. “That was you.”

  “I just had a couple questions. If you don’t mind.”

  Stacy looked like he minded, but like he didn’t want to say so. And I’ll admit the fact that he was male had thrown me a little. Yes, Stacy can be a male name. Look at Stacy Keach. When I had read the names of the sellers of Aislynn and Kylie’s house this morning, I had expected a traditional male/female couple, though.

  Although maybe I shouldn’t have. A lot of Tim’s clients are gay. He spends four figures a month advertising in Out & About, Nashville’s gay lifestyle magazine.

  I pulled myself together. “So your realtor was Timothy Briggs.”

  Stacy nodded.

  “Were you happy with the job Tim did?”

  Stacy shrugged. “He did fine, I guess.”

  “No problems with the transaction? Or with the closing? Or the process?”

  Stacy shook his head.

  “Can I ask why you decided to move?”

  Stacy’s face closed. “Personal reasons,” he said.

  “It’s such a pretty house. I’m surprised you chose to leave it.” Especially to live here.

  I didn’t say that, but he must have read my mind, because he looked around with a sneer. “It wasn’t my choice.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, trying to remember whether I’d seen anything in the file that pointed to a looming foreclosure. Had Stacy and Virgil been behind on the payments? Had the bank been trying to take their house back?

  Stacy put his hands on his hips. “Not that it’s any of your business, but my boyfriend left me, OK?”

  Oops.