Past Due Read online

  “Rafe grew up here,” I told her. “He went to Columbia High, too. But that was a few years before the rest of us did.”

  Rhonda nodded. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise.” He sent her a melting grin that probably had no effect whatsoever, but he has never stinted on spreading the sex appeal around.

  “So Mary Kelly danced with Ethan?” I said.

  Charlotte nodded. “That’s what she told the officer.”

  “Then I’m sure it’s true.” I glanced around the table. “Did anyone else have anything to do with him?”

  “If we did, we wouldn’t be sitting here,” Epiphany said in her precise voice. “They’re talking to anyone who had any dealings with him.”

  “I haven’t seen him since high school,” Darlene said, and Charlotte nodded.

  I hadn’t, either—except, of course, for those couple of minutes in the parking lot. The only person at this table who still lived in the neighborhood was Jan; all the rest of us had moved away.

  I turned to her, but before I could ask what, if anything, she knew about Ethan and who might have wanted him dead, another voice spoke. “Collier.”

  The inflection was somewhere between annoyance and satisfaction.

  Rafe tilted his head back. “Cletus.”

  He smirked. Cletus fisted his hands.

  They’ve hated each other since high school, when Cletus had the hots for Marquita and she only had eyes for Rafe. But then, of course, Rafe left—or went to prison—and Marquita married Cletus and had a couple of kids. At some point, they separated and were headed for divorce, and then, last summer, Rafe came back on the scene. He hired Marquita to be Mrs. Jenkins’s live-in nurse, and took her to Nashville, something which didn’t sit well with Cletus—and I don’t know that I could blame him for that.

  They came to blows a couple of times, and then Marquita was murdered. Cletus wanted to believe that Rafe was guilty, poor guy. I rather suspected Cletus himself, at least until I saw how sincerely he was grieving. Marquita had certainly not looked like any kind of prize in my eyes, but he seemed to have loved her, or at least wanted to keep her.

  But I digress. Now they were snarling at one another like two Rottweilers in an alley.

  “Oh, grow up,” I said rudely, and surprised myself.

  Rafe sent me a sideways look and grinned at the expression on my face. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Sorry,” I muttered, blushing.

  He just laughed and turned back to Cletus. “What do you want?”

  “It ain’t what I want,” Cletus said, leaving no doubt that he had wants of his own where Rafe was concerned. Drawn and quartered, most likely. “It’s what the sheriff wants. And he’ll wanna talk to you about Billy Scruggs.”

  “I ain’t seen Billy Scruggs in thirteen years.”

  “That may be,” Cletus said ominously, “but now you’re in town, Sheriff Satterfield’s still gonna wanna see you.”

  Rafe’s voice was even. Of course he’d realized, when he chose to drive to Columbia, that this was inevitable. “Fine. Tell him I’ll stop by the station in the morning.”

  Cletus smirked, satisfied, and withdrew.

  “That wasn’t so bad,” I said.

  Rafe chuckled. “Did you think he’d slap me in handcuffs and drag me outta here right now?”

  I had thought he might try.

  “This is the Columbia PD’s investigation, darlin’. Cletus ain’t got no rights here. He’s just helping out.” He shifted on the chair. “Bet he’ll be breathing down my neck tomorrow, though.”

  And rattling his handcuffs like a ghost rattles chains, probably.

  “Maybe you should just go back home,” I said. “Tonight.”

  Rafe shook his head. “Can’t. Now that I’ve said I’m gonna talk to the sheriff, I’m gonna have to talk to the sheriff.”

  I didn’t say anything, and he added, “Don’t worry, darlin’. They can’t prove I had anything to do with it.”

  “Because you didn’t, right?”

  “No,” Rafe said. “I mean, yeah. I mean— No, I didn’t have nothing to do with shooting Billy. But that don’t matter. They wouldna been able to prove anything even if I had.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “Right.”

  “So they can’t prove you did.”

  “Right.” He shook his head. Probably exasperated—or maybe amused—by my naiveté.

  It was another hour before the Columbia police finished their triage and notified us that we were free to go. Mary Kelly hadn’t come back to the table, so I guess maybe the detective didn’t want her telling any of the rest of us anything she knew.

  I was a little surprised that they hadn’t gotten back to me, to be honest. I mean, I’d found the body. Yet the powers that be seemed satisfied with the scanty information I’d given Officer Vasquez outside.

  Of course, it was all the information I had, and maybe they realized that.

  At any rate, I wasn’t about to question my good luck. I took Rafe’s hand and walked out of the ballroom with the others.

  The atmosphere was quite different from when I’d walked into the hotel a few hours ago. Everyone was quiet, subdued, and I saw a lot of pale, strained faces and even a few tears.

  There were probably people here who had known Ethan, people who mourned for him. Just because I hadn’t known him well, or given him a thought in the past ten years, didn’t mean other people hadn’t.

  There were no proper goodbyes. I guess we were all too shell shocked, and just too happy to get out of there to worry about the proprieties. Darlene whisked Rhonda off through a sidedoor before we even got to the lobby, without a word to anyone. Jan dropped down into a chair in the hallway and pulled out her phone; I assume to call home and let her husband know what was going on. Epiphany headed for the elevators, so maybe she was staying at the Wellington.

  Tina hesitated in the middle of the lobby. “I rode with Mary Kelly. I should wait.”

  “I can take you home,” Charlotte offered.

  Tina hesitated and then shook her head. “I should wait for Mary Kelly.”

  “She could be a while,” I said. “The first time I was interviewed in connection with a murder, it took at least an hour.”

  Chapter Nine

  We made it back to Sweetwater in record time. It was no more than ten minutes later that we roared to a stop in front of the Martin Mansion and Rafe cut the engine. I crawled off, shook my skirt down, and pulled the helmet from my head. As usual, I felt a little lightheaded from the wind and the weight of the helmet coming off my head. I also felt amorous, from the vibrations of the bike and from having been plastered against Rafe’s back with his butt flexing between my thighs for ten minutes.

  So sue me, I’m human.

  “Looks quiet,” Rafe remarked, glancing up at the facade of the house.

  I nodded, taking in the many dark windows and the single light above the double front doors. “My mother’s probably out with the sheriff. It’s Saturday night, after all.” And Bob Satterfield hadn’t been among the sheriff’s department employees at the Wellington.

  Rafe looked relieved.

  I took a step closer and laid my hands against his chest. His skin was warm and the muscles hard through the thin cotton of the shirt. “Does this mean you might make love to me after all?”

  His hands flattened against my back, pulling me closer, even as he told me, “It ain’t just your mama, darlin’.”

  “What else?”

  He glanced over my shoulder at the dark house. “This place. The whole thing.”

  What whole thing?

  The words quivered on my lips, but I bit them back. I had a pretty good idea, after all. This was the Martin Mansion, home to generations of Martins, all the way back to the early 1800s. Back when the South was resolutely black and white—or more resolutely than it’s black and white today, although between you and me, there’s still plenty of folks who are stuck in the old ways of thinking.
/>   I was a Martin, the perfect younger daughter of a family that could trace its antecedents back two hundred years. I had grown up in this house, with all that entailed of history and privilege.

  And Rafe had grown up in a single wide trailer in the Bog, the product of a white trash mother and the colored boy who knocked her up when she was no more than a child herself. There was no history there, and certainly no privilege.

  I thought about telling him that I loved him, but I’d already done that. And while I’m sure he believed me, it didn’t seem to make a difference.

  “We could go to the Bog,” I suggested instead.

  His arms tightened and his voice turned rough. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “Of course not. If you’re not comfortable here...”

  “If you think I’m gonna allow you to spend the night on the floor in a trailer in the Bog...” The idea must have offended him enough to take his breath away, because he didn’t finish the sentence, just shook his head. “Ain’t no way, darlin’. Besides, there’s prob’ly crime scene tape wrapped all around it.”

  Probably. I’d forgotten about that.

  “I guess you’re stuck with the feather bed upstairs, then.”

  Rafe glanced at the upstairs windows.

  “Unless you want to change your mind and drive back to Nashville tonight.” We could be home in less than an hour if we took the bike. Although we should probably go back to the Wellington and liberate my car first. I’d hate to drive all the way back to Columbia tomorrow just to pick it up.

  “Can’t. The sheriff wouldn’t like that.”

  Well, no. He wouldn’t.

  “I’ll make you forget where you are,” I promised, and had the pleasure of seeing the corners of his mouth curl. “Or at least I’ll do my best.”

  “If anyone can do it, darlin’, you can.”

  “Then let’s go, so I can get started.” I took his hand and tugged him toward the stairs.

  He followed. “I like your dress.”

  I smiled. “I thought you would.”

  “Looks comfortable.”

  In our own secret language, ‘comfortable’ equates to ‘easy to take off.’ I grinned at him over my shoulder. “It is. Just untie the ribbon.”

  His eyes darkened. “In a minute.”

  Yes, we’d probably better get up the stairs and into the bedroom first. Just because the house was empty, didn’t mean I wanted to risk having sex in the foyer. Mother might arrive before we were done, and then I’d never hear the end of it.

  I fumbled my key out of the bag and into the lock. The door swung open, and I pulled Rafe after me into the house.

  He stopped just inside the door and looked around. I did, too.

  The Martin Mansion is your basic antebellum plantation home. There’s a long hallway running through the middle of the first floor from the back door to the front, and just beyond the double front doors, a foyer with a huge crystal chandelier and curving staircases on either side of the room.

  “It looks just like it did last time you were here,” I told Rafe. “Minus the Christmas tree.”

  We had been to Sweetwater a couple of times since Christmas, but we hadn’t been to the mansion. My niece Abigail’s sixth birthday party had taken place at Dix’s house, and Catherine had hosted Easter dinner. So this was actually Rafe’s first time back in the mansion since Christmas Eve. Or since waking up on Christmas Day, anyway.

  He nodded, but didn’t speak.

  “C’mon. Let’s just get upstairs.” I headed for the bottom of the right staircase. Once I got him into bed, he’d forget where we were.

  We’d gotten about halfway across the floor when Mother’s voice sounded. “Is that you, darling? You’re home early.”

  Damn. I mean, darn.

  I froze, and probably looked as guilty as I felt. Like a teenager trying to sneak my boyfriend upstairs for some illicit fun; not that I’d ever done such a thing.

  Down the hallway, where the kitchen was, I could hear the clicking of Mother’s heels. Rafe made a convulsive movement, as if he were thinking of making a run for it. He’s usually pretty confident, so for once, it was actually sort of amusing to see him so discomfited.

  The clicking came closer, and then Mother came around the corner. In spite of it being nine o’clock on a Saturday, when she was surely in for the night, her hair and makeup was immaculate, and she was dressed in heels and a pencil skirt.

  “Oh.” She stopped, and her nostrils quivered as if she’d scented something rancid.

  It wasn’t Rafe. Much as my mother may imagine he smells, he doesn’t. Or at least he doesn’t smell bad. As a matter of fact, I’ve always rather liked his odor. Spicy and citrusy. Comforting.

  “Rafe drove down to spend the night,” I said, giving his hand a reassuring sort of squeeze. “I told him you wouldn’t mind.”

  Mother’s face twisted as if she’d bitten into a lemon, but of course she couldn’t contradict me. That would be rude.

  “I didn’t realize you’d be here,” I added. “I figured, on a Saturday night, you and the sheriff would be out painting the town.”

  “We were, darling,” Mother said, and managed to imbue the three words with enough guilt that I felt it, “until Bob received a call and had to go to Columbia.”

  “I didn’t see him,” I said.

  “He was consulting with the chief of police.” After a second, she added, “Why would you have seen him?”

  “I assume the phone call he got was about the murder at the reunion.” There probably wasn’t anything else going on in Columbia tonight that would have required the sheriff’s attention to enough of a degree that it interrupted his dinner with my mother.

  She paled. “A murder at the reunion? Savannah!”

  “Don’t worry,” I said, “it wasn’t anyone we knew well. Unless you’ve taken up with Ethan Underwood since I graduated from high school?”

  Mother shook her head, her lips tight.

  “Then it doesn’t concern us.”

  I should have known better, of course. Mother’s eyes lighted on my skirt, and then on my legs. “Is that blood?”

  Was it? I peered down.

  “Oops. I guess maybe it is.” Either that or vomit. Although mentioning vomit would be unladylike.

  Mother looked like she was about to get sick herself. “Darling...”

  “I found the body,” I said. “His car was parked next to mine. I guess maybe some of the blood got on me when I opened the door.”

  Mother opened her mouth and then closed it again.

  “I should go wash,” I added.

  “Yes,” Mother said faintly.

  “We’ll be upstairs if...” I trailed off before I could say anything that might give her the idea that she could come and interrupt us. I didn’t want any interruptions. “We’ll be upstairs in my room.”

  Mother nodded.

  “Good night,” I said and gave Rafe’s hand a tug.

  “Good night, Miz Martin,” he added.

  “Good night,” Mother said frostily.

  We didn’t speak again until we were upstairs in the hallway, hopefully out of range of my mother’s ears. “Why didn’t you tell me I had blood on my legs?” I asked, pushing the door to my girlhood room open.

  He shrugged and followed me inside. “Don’t think you do. I didn’t notice it earlier. Probl’ly just dirt from the ride.”

  Probably. Something the bike had kicked up. “At least it isn’t vomit,” I said. “Lock the door, would you?”

  His eyebrow rose, but he did it. “Did you throw up, darlin’?”

  “When I found the body. It was ugly.” I began untying the belt holding the dress together.

  “You feeling OK?”

  He slipped an arm around my waist from behind.

  I leaned against him, feeling the heat of his chest against my back, soaking through my skin and into my bones, warming me. “Fine. No problems other than that I found a dead body.” A second dead body.


  “Not sure we should do this,” Rafe said against my ear, even as he bunched handfuls of the material of my dress until he found skin. He splayed his hand across my naked stomach and rested it there.

  I tilted my head on his shoulder to look at him. “What do you mean?” Normally, that hand would be moving north. Or south. Not staying in place. “Why not?”

  It wasn’t like he could claim to be unmoved, after all. I may not be the most experienced girl in the world, but I do recognize my boyfriend’s response to me. It was nudging my derriere.

  “It isn’t my mother again,” I added, “is it? She’s downstairs. She won’t hear us.”

  “It ain’t your mama.” He didn’t move, just continued to hold me against him. “Remember what happened last time?”

  My lips curved. “Vividly.” Last time had been yesterday morning. “You made the earth move. As usual.”

  “Not that last time,” Rafe said, although I could hear the smile in his voice. “The last time you were pregnant.”

  “I was pregnant yesterday morning.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  I did. The last time I’d been pregnant, I’d had a miscarriage immediately following an enthusiastic romp between the sheets. I had assured Rafe, as the doctor had assured me, that the sex had had nothing to do with it, but I guess he wasn’t convinced.

  I turned in his arms and looked up at him. “We can’t not have sex for seven months, Rafe.”

  “You went without for two years after you left your husband.”

  But only because I hadn’t met Rafe yet. I didn’t know what I was missing. And anyway— “You didn’t.”

  He set his jaw. “I can do it.”

  Over my dead—pregnant—body. “I’m sure you can do anything you decide to. But in this case it isn’t necessary. The doctor said normal intimacy is fine.”

  There was no way Rafe would last for seven months without sex. And if he didn’t get it from me, then I’d worry that he’d go and find it elsewhere.

  “I don’t know...”

  “I do,” I said, arching into him. “The doctor said it’s OK. And I want you.”

  His arms tightened, but he didn’t do anything else. Just looked down at me, his expression conflicted. “You do, huh?”