By the time I made it downstairs two minutes later, my scattered
clothes were gone from the stairs and the hall floor. I had no idea
what Rafe had done with them. Shoved them in the coat closet,
maybe?
At the moment, I didn’t care. They were out of sight, and that was all that mattered. There were voices coming from the kitchen, so I headed in that direction. And almost walked into the door jamb when I saw Detective Jaime Mendoza sitting across from Rafe at the kitchen table.
Talk about sensory overload.
My mother had been extremely taken with Detective Mendoza the one and only time she saw him. Taken enough to blurt out the suggestion that maybe, since Rafe was gone, Mendoza would like to marry me in his place.
Not only is he exceptionally handsome, but he’s well-groomed and well-dressed, too. All characteristics my mother appreciates. A man in an expensive business suit will always appear more suitable to my mother than a man in faded jeans and no shirt. No matter how good the man in the jeans and nothing else looks.
And unlike Rafe, Mendoza doesn’t have that between-the-eyes sex-appeal that can knock a girl flat. To my mother, that’s not an admirable quality either, although I’ve always appreciated it. Or at least I’ve appreciated it since I got over my upbringing and my need to shut him down.
But I digress. There they were, two of the best-looking men I have ever seen, sitting across from one another at my kitchen table. The testosterone was steaming up the windows.
Rafe turned a jaundiced eye in my direction, and I shook it off. “Here. I brought you a shirt.” I had thought he might want something to cover up the cross-stitch of fresh scars across his chest and stomach. The cuts had all healed by now, a month after the abduction, but they were still pink and sort of obvious.
He took the shirt I handed him and prepared to pull it over his head.
“I heard about that,” Mendoza said, with a nod toward the damage. “Very impressive, what you did.”
Rafe arched a brow, but didn’t respond. It had been impressive, though. Most people with the damage he’d taken, who were pinned to a table with a knife through the forearm, would have been content to stay there. Or wouldn’t have had the fortitude to even try to escape. The fact that he had, that he’d gone through all that to get back to me, had played a big part in winning my mother over.
Not that she was won, entirely, but at least she had stopped opposing our marriage long enough for us to tie the knot. Although any day now, she’d probably be back to disapproving again.
Mendoza didn’t seem bothered that Rafe didn’t answer. He just turned to me. “Mrs. Collier.”
Grimaldi must have updated him on the fact that the marriage had taken place after all. When he met me, I’d still been Ms. Martin.
“Detective Mendoza,” I responded. “Good to see you again. How’s the divorce coming?”
He grinned, and showed dimples. “Very well, thank you.” He was ridiculously good-looking, and Rafe’s eyes narrowed.
“What can we do for you?” I asked, to forestall any comments.
Not that I couldn’t guess. Grimaldi must have told him about Aislynn and Kylie’s connection to Virgil Wright, and now Mendoza wanted to talk to me.
I walked around to Rafe’s side of the table while Mendoza explained that he’d heard about the anonymous letters, and he wanted some more information. Rafe made to get up so I could sit, but I put my hand on his shoulder and kept him there. “I don’t know that there’s a lot I can tell you, Detective, other than what Grimaldi already did. Aislynn and Kylie bought the house in January. I was their real estate agent. They called me yesterday and asked me to come over so we could talk about putting the house back on the market. They told me they’d been getting anonymous letters, and they thought, if they sold the house and moved out, the letters would stop.”
Mendoza nodded. He had removed a small notepad and pen from the pocket of his very elegant jacket, and was taking notes. “Did they know the previous owners before buying the house?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I was the one who brought the house to their attention. The listing agent was someone in my brokerage. Tim Briggs.”
Mendoza wrote it down. Rafe made a little noise. It might have a been a strangled laugh, perhaps at the idea of Tim and Mendoza coming face to face. I had to admit it had appeal. Tim would take one look at Mendoza and fall into instant lust. As unrequited as what he’d always felt for Rafe. I wondered how Mendoza would handle it. Rafe had been amused, but Mendoza’s Latin heritage might make him too macho to laugh at something like that.
“Did you talk about the possibility that Mr. Wright might be responsible for the letters?”
We hadn’t. “Do you think he was?”
“I’m just exploring the possible connections,” Mendoza said mildly.
“He wouldn’t have had any reason to. Would he? He and his partner made lots of money when they sold the place. Virgil moved into another house in the same neighborhood. He wasn’t suffering. And if he’d accidentally left something in the house, he could have just knocked on the door and explained, and asked for it back. Aislynn and Kylie aren’t unreasonable.”
Mendoza didn’t reply. “I’ll be speaking to them next,” he said instead. “To see what, if anything, they know.”
I nodded. If it had been Grimaldi, I would have asked to come along. But I didn’t think Mendoza would agree to let me, nor did I imagine he needed my help. Grimaldi didn’t need my help, either, but she was a bit more... let’s say abrasive, than Mendoza. And also a bit more inclined to like me. Mendoza was slick and friendly, but thoroughly professional.
“You also spoke to Mr. Kelleher today.”
It wasn’t a question. I nodded anyway.
“Tell me about that.”
I did. There wasn’t much to tell, really. I covered it all in less than a minute, and then Rafe muttered something.
Mendoza glanced at him. “Excuse me?”
“He opened the door wearing a towel and nothing else,” I said. “Rafe objected.”
“So he was there, too?” He eyed my husband.
“Just for a minute,” I said. “To make sure I was OK. He was in the neighborhood.” Or approximately three neighborhoods away, but who’s counting? Same side of town, anyway.
“Impressions?” Mendoza asked him.
Rafe shrugged. “Didn’t see him long enough to know if he’s the type to send prank letters.”
“How about whether he’s the type to hire someone to bash his ex over the head with a rock?”
Rafe’s brows lifted. Both of them. “Scuse me?”
“I didn’t have a chance to tell you,” I said apologetically. “I came home and we got... busy.”
Mendoza’s lips quirked, but he didn’t say anything. Rafe just looked at me. “Darlin’...”
“I’m sorry! I tracked down Stacy, and then I tracked down Virgil, and Kenny told me that Virgil was dead, so Tim called him and got the details, and then I called Grimaldi, and she said that Virgil had been killed in Shelby Park two days ago.”
I turned back to Mendoza. “He didn’t strike me as a murderer. Then again, I’ve met a few others who didn’t, either.”
I’ve met more than my fair share, as a matter of fact, and with very few exceptions, none of them have struck me as being murderers. It almost always comes as a shock to realize who the guilty party is.
Mendoza looked at Rafe. Rafe shrugged. “No way to tell one way or the other. The place wasn’t much. If he thought he got the short end of the deal, he mighta wanted to do something about it.”
Mendoza nodded. “Anything else you can tell me?”
Rafe and I glanced at each other. “I think that’s everything,” I said. Rafe nodded.
Mendoza pushed back from the table. “Then I’ll leave you alone. To get back to what you were doing.”
I blushed, of course. Rafe just looked at me and sighed. “I’ll walk you out,” he told Mendoza, and the two of them headed out of the kitchen and down the hallway. “So how long have you been working with Tammy?” I heard him ask, but by the time Mendoza answered, they were too far away for me to hear the answer. Then there was the sound of the door, and Rafe’s footsteps coming back, his bare feet almost silent against the wood floors.
“You’re terrible,” I told him when he came through the door.
“Why’s that?”
“You know Grimaldi doesn’t like it when you call her Tammy. Now you’ve probably got him doing it, too.”
Rafe shrugged. “How come you never mentioned the guy before?”
“Why would I?”
“It sounded like you’d met him.” He imitated my voice, high-pitched and squeaky, with an exaggeratedly refined accent, “‘Nice to see you again, Detective.’”
“Good grief,” I said, “if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were jealous.”
Rafe didn’t say anything to that, just arched a brow at me.
“Oh, for goodness sake! The day you and I were supposed to get married, my mother and Dix and Catherine,” my sister, “drove up from Sweetwater for the ceremony. When you didn’t show up, we couldn’t just send them on their way again. So we went to the Germantown Café for lunch.”
“We?” Rafe said.
“Mother, Dix, Catherine, Grimaldi, and I. We invited Wendell, too, but he wanted to start looking for you.”
Rafe nodded.
“And Detective Mendoza was there having lunch with his divorce attorney. Who happened to be Diana Morton, of Ferncliff and Morton, where Bradley used to work.”
Rafe’s lip curled when I mentioned Bradley.
“He stopped by the table to say hello to Grimaldi on his way out. And was introduced to the rest of us.”
“I bet your mother liked him,” Rafe said.
I smiled. “You’d win that bet.” And if I kept it at that, maybe I wouldn’t have to tell him that Mother had suggested Mendoza marry me in Rafe’s absence.
“Prob’ly wished you were marrying him and not me.”
He’d win that bet, too, but I didn’t say so. “She was upset,” I said instead, tolerantly. “She thought you’d run off rather than marry me. I knew you hadn’t,” except in a few very low moments I should just not mention, “but there was no telling her that.”
“She didn’t have to offer you to him like a piece of pie on a plate,” Rafe grumbled.
I sighed. “Who told you about it? My brother?”
“Tammy,” Rafe said, and made an effort to mimic her voice, too. It was less high-pitched and breathy than mine. “‘It’s a good thing you got back when you did. Her mother was trying to marry her off to someone else before lunch was over.’”
Great. “He wasn’t interested,” I said. “I wasn’t, either.”
“I know.” He grinned. “It’s the only reason I let him walk outta here.”
“That’s ridiculous. Why would I want him when I have you?”
“‘Cause your mama liked him,” Rafe said.
“My mother doesn’t decide who I marry. And anyway, Mother has come to appreciate you.”
He arched a brow. It’s a very expressive brow, just so you know. He can say a lot with that little gesture.
“All right,” I admitted, “so maybe ‘appreciate’ is too strong a word. But she let us get married. At the mansion. In front of all of Sweetwater. She even paid for it all.”
Rafe grunted.
“This is silly,” I said. “I love you. You’re my husband. I’m having your baby. And I don’t know the man. I met him once, for less than five minutes. You have no reason to worry. Besides, he isn’t really my type.”
“Yeah?” He leaned his posterior against the kitchen counter and folded his arms across his chest. I was reminded of a late night close to a year ago, when we’d stood opposite one another in this same kitchen, having a similar conversation. He was even wearing the same T-shirt: pale blue with a Corona logo. I had picked it out of the drawer earlier because it’s one of my favorites. Lots of good memories attached to that shirt. “How’s that?”
“He’s too clean-cut. A little boring.”
He arched a brow.
“That’s probably what my mother liked about him,” I added. “He’d be a compromise of sorts. Handsome and a bit exotic—kind of like you—but tame. Wearing a suit and tie. What she’d consider safe.”
“I ain’t safe?”
“Not to my mother. I don’t think she trusts you.”
“What about you?”
“I trust you implicitly,” I said. “I knew you were coming back. And since you don’t have any reason not to trust me, can we dispense with the conversation and go back to doing what we were doing when Detective Mendoza showed up?”
His lips quirked. “Want me to go outside and push the lawnmower around to get you in the mood again?”
I shook my head. “Not necessary.” I was already in the mood. Still in the mood. Always in the mood. “Pregnancy hormones,” I added.
The grin widened. “Whatever you gotta tell yourself.”
“It is pregnancy hormones.” And maybe just a little bit the fact that after seven months together, the last few weeks as husband and wife, I still couldn’t get enough of him. Not to mention the blue T-shirt and the memories it evoked. But some of it was pregnancy hormones, too.
“Sure it is.” But he didn’t seem to care. And why should he? “C’mon.” He reached for me. “Let’s go back upstairs.”
“Or we could just stay here.”
“Works for me,” Rafe said, and boosted me up on the edge of the table.
“Now that we got that outta the way,” he said an hour later, after
we had migrated upstairs and were on the bed, recuperating, “tell
me about the dead guy.”
I turned on my side to face him. “Not much to tell. Not beyond what you already heard downstairs. He was out jogging a couple of nights ago, when someone hit him over the head and killed him. On a path in Shelby Park.”
“And he’s the guy who used to own the house your friends are living in now?”
I nodded. “Virgil Wright. He and Stacy owned it. When they put it on the market, Aislynn and Kylie bought it. Stacy told me they sold it because Virgil had found someone else and wanted to move in with him, and Stacy couldn’t afford to keep the house on his own. He tends bar for a living. I guess he doesn’t make enough to support a house in that part of town.”
“Not if the place he’s living now is any indication,” Rafe said.
“Not very nice, was it?”
“I’ve lived in worse. But it ain’t a renovated Victorian in East End.”
No, it wasn’t. Not even close.
“You think he did it?” my husband added.
“Sent the letters? Why would he? Even if Aislynn and Kylie moved, it isn’t like he’d get the house back. He still wouldn’t be able to afford it.”
“Killed his ex,” Rafe said.
“Oh.” I thought about it. “He might have, I suppose. Although that’s a long time to wait. They broke up six months ago. Maybe longer. Why would he wait until now to kill him?”
“So’s nobody would think he did it?” Rafe suggested.
“Maybe. Although I don’t think Mendoza is stupid. Grimaldi said he wasn’t. He’ll probably investigate Stacy.”
Rafe nodded. “And the new boyfriend. And your friends.”
Most likely. Not that Aislynn and Kylie had any reason to want Virgil dead. Unless they thought he was the one sending the letters. Or they blamed him for selling them a house that came with a stalker.
“I don’t think they would have involved me if they’d just committed murder the night before, do you? That would just draw attention to them.”
Rafe shrugged. Not easy to do while lying down, but he managed. Muscles moved. Lots of them.
I smiled appreciatively.
He smiled back. “Ready for another round?”
Tempting though it was, I shook my head. “I think I need something to eat first. It’s been a long time since lunch. And all I had were field greens.”
“That ain’t no way to feed my baby,” Rafe said and put his hand on my stomach. “He wants a burger. Don’t you, big guy?”
“Big guy?” I said.
We’d had an ultrasound a few days before the wedding, so less than a month ago, but it had been too early to determine the gender of the baby.
“Might be a she,” Rafe said. “Though the way she’s eating, looks more like a boy.”
I didn’t know whether it worked that way with unborn babies. I thought it probably didn’t. They’re all in there developing themselves, so they probably need the same amount of nutrients. When they come out, it’s different, but as long as they’re inside, I figure it’s probably the same.
“Do you care?” I asked.
Rafe shook his head. “Long as it’s healthy, it don’t matter to me.”
Me, either. Although raising a girl sounded like it might be easier than raising a boy. I’ve been a girl. Girls like dolls and dresses and hair bows and things like that. Things I understand. Boys like frogs and cars and dirt. All things I’ve taken care to avoid.
“I like frogs and cars and dirt,” Rafe told me when I said so. “I don’t mind another boy. I missed everything the first time.”
Rafe has a twelve-year-old son named David. We only found out about him last November, when his biological mother was killed and my brother Dix, her executor, read her will. Rafe and David have developed a relationship since, even if it’s just as much brotherly as parental. David already has a father who loves him, who has considered him his own since he adopted him at birth, and a mother to go with the father. Virginia and Sam Flannery are great, and we couldn’t have asked for better parents for David. But yes, there was no denying that Rafe had missed out on pretty much every aspect of his son’s childhood.
“I guess another boy would be all right.”
He moved his hand in soothing circles on my stomach. “Do you want to find out? Or wait?”
“Knowing makes the decorating easier,” I said, and watched his lips quirk.
“True.”
“People will know what color blankets to buy.”
“God forbid our baby boy has to deal with a pink blanket,” Rafe nodded, his voice solemn, but his eyes alight.
I rolled mine. “There’s no need for him to have a pink blanket if we know. Don’t you want to know?”
“I don’t care,” Rafe said, and stopped breathing.
“What?” I asked after a few seconds, when he hadn’t said anything more.
“He moved.”
He—or she—did move occasionally. I felt it as little butterfly flutters in my stomach, like the baby was doing cartwheels inside. I hadn’t realized it was possible to feel them on the outside, though. But if he thought he’d felt something, I wasn’t going to dissuade him. Especially as he seemed so thrilled about it.
He looked at me with shining eyes. “He’s really in there.”
“Was there any doubt?” I’d been throwing up for months, so there had been no question in my mind.
“I guess it didn’t feel all the way real,” Rafe confessed, with a glance down at my stomach. “I could see you were getting bigger—”
I grimaced.
“—but until right now, I guess part of me didn’t process there was a baby in there.”
“There’s definitely a baby in there,” I said.
“Our baby.”
I nodded. He scooted down and put his mouth against my belly, just east of the navel. “Hi, baby,” he cooed. “I’m your daddy. How ya doing in there?”
Any woman would have melted. I ran my hand over the top and back of his head, feeling the short bristles of hair scratching against my fingers, and sniffed back tears.
He looked up at me and grinned.
“Just feeling lucky,” I said.
“You could get lucky again.” He lowered his mouth, and this time kissed my stomach. With intent.
There was no question in my mind that I could get lucky again. However— “Food. Remember?”
“Five minutes,” Rafe said, moving south. “I’ll do all the work.”
“Just make it quick, please. I’m starving.”
“Gimme a minute,” Rafe said, “and I’ll make your forget that you’re starving.” He proceeded to do just that.
An hour later we were sitting at a table at the FinBar, a block
down the street from the real estate office, finishing up our
burgers and fries. I was indulging in a milkshake—dairy is good for
the baby—while Rafe was having a beer. And then the door opened,
and who should walk in but Kenny Grimes and a friend.
I shrank in my seat. The last thing I needed was for him to yell at me again. Or worse, accuse me of stalking him.
Of course, if he yelled at me in front of Rafe, it was likely to be the last thing he ever did, but that didn’t mean I wanted it to happen.
Luckily, he either didn’t notice me sitting there, or he just didn’t recognize me. Maybe he was too preoccupied with... let me be generous and call him a friend. A very solicitous friend, making sure Kenny was comfortable in the booth across the aisle from us.
Rafe—more observant than Kenny Grimes—noticed my wide-eyed look of panic, and arched a brow.
“Kenny Grimes,” I mouthed.
“Who?”
“Kenny Grimes! Virgil’s new boyfriend.”
Across the aisle, the friend finished fussing over Kenny and slid into the booth opposite. Rafe glanced in their direction and turned back to me. “The black guy? Or the other one?”
“The redhead is Kenny,” I said. “I don’t know who his friend is.”
Rafe nodded. “Looks rough.”
Kenny? Or the other guy? I glanced over, and decided it could apply to both of them. Kenny looked rough in the worn-out sense, as he had earlier in the day. Bloodshot eyes, pale skin, drawn features. And his friend looked rough in the way Rafe does, like you wouldn’t want to tangle with him in a dark alley. Big, black, with a shaved head and lots of muscles. And a surprisingly light and fluty voice. I couldn’t hear the words, but I heard the tone, and it was soothing.
Probably trying to make Kenny feel better about the death of his lover. As if it’s really possible to make someone feel better about something like that.
“So you’re getting together with your friends tomorrow morning,” Rafe said.
I nodded. Across the aisle, the black guy reached across the table to pat Kenny’s hand. “To talk about what I’ve discovered so far.”
Kenny allowed it for a second, but then he put both hands in his lap. His companion looked unhappy.
“Whaddaya think’s gonna happen?” Rafe asked.
“I’m not sure,” I confessed, turning my attention back to my own man instead of the ones across the aisle. “I haven’t discovered much. I mean, I’ve learned a lot, but not much to do with the letters they’re getting. I’m no closer to figuring out who’s been sending them.”
Rafe nodded.
“Kylie pointed the finger at Aislynn’s parents, because they weren’t happy when Aislynn ‘turned gay.’ But they live in Kentucky, and the letters were mailed here in Nashville, so unless they come to town regularly, it probably isn’t them.”
Rafe nodded.
“They’re just in Bowling Green, though, so it’s only an hour’s drive. It could be them.”
Rafe nodded.
“And Aislynn pointed the finger at Kylie’s old girlfriend. She and Kylie were having lunch together today. Kylie and Lauren, I mean. At least I assume it was Lauren. Kylie was very careful not to introduce me.”
Rafe nodded.
“I have no idea where Lauren lives. But she works in downtown, so it would be easy for her to drive across the river to East Nashville to post a letter every week or two. And for all I know, she lives in this neighborhood, too.”
Rafe nodded.
“It might be her. If she’s upset about losing Kylie and thinks if she scares Aislynn away, Kylie might come back to her. Or it could be Kylie herself, if she’s tired of Aislynn but doesn’t want to come right out and dump her. She doesn’t seem all that disturbed by the letters. Aislynn is the one who’s scared.”
Rafe nodded.
“It could just be a malicious prank. Some people are weird that way. Kids playing around, or something. Or it could be something more serious. Some people are just plain weird.”
“Tell me about it,” Rafe said.
I might as well. “Take Elspeth, for example. You slept with her once, thirteen years ago, in high school. And she was completely obsessed with you until the moment she died. While you probably hadn’t given her a thought since you zipped up your pants and staggered away.”
His lips quirked. “Dunno if I’d put it like that, darlin’.”
“Did you?”
He shrugged. “I told you she kept sending me letters in prison. Wasn’t like I could really forget about her while she was doing that.”
I guess not. “Just out of curiosity, did you ever think about me?”
His lips curved. “You didn’t send me letters, darlin’.”
No, I didn’t. I hadn’t slept with him in high school, either. Nor for that matter thought about him during the twelve years between his graduation and the morning he showed up in my life again, last August. But he had mentioned once that he’d liked me back then—from afar, since he knew that Dix and his friends would gang up on him if he looked at me wrong—so it was possible he might have spared me a thought now and then. Not that I could really blame him if he hadn’t. But I was still curious.
He shrugged. “I mighta thought about you once in a while. Not much else to think about in prison.”
Given some of the things that I hear go on in prison, the less said about that, the better.
“At any rate,” I said, “people get weird and obsessive sometimes. If someone has developed an obsession with Aislynn—or for that matter with Kylie—”
“Or with the house,” Rafe said.
I nodded. “There’s no way we’d know about it if someone did. The letters come through the mail. There’s no way to know who’s sending them. So everyone’s a suspect.”
Rafe nodded. “What are you gonna tell’em tomorrow?”
“I guess the truth. That I have no idea what’s going on, and I don’t think there’s any way I can figure out who’s behind it. If it was easy, they’d already know. You know?”
He nodded.
“Although...” I lowered my voice, with a glance across the aisle, “the fact that Virgil’s dead is suspicious. Don’t you think? Detective Mendoza must think so, or he wouldn’t want to talk to Aislynn and Kylie.”
“I imagine so,” Rafe said.
“Although that’s just more reason for Aislynn and Kylie to sell and get the hell—excuse me, heck—out of the house. If someone’s running around murdering people.”
Rafe nodded. “Might be the safest for them. Or at least to take a trip somewhere for a week or two. Give the cops time to figure out whodunit and get the guy off the street.”
“I’ll be sure to mention that,” I said. “A trip somewhere would probably be good for them, anyway. To reconnect.”
“Just as long as they don’t run into the kind of trouble we had on our honeymoon,” Rafe said and slid out of the booth.