A Cutthroat Business (35 page)

And then it dawned on me that Tim wasn’t the only good looking gay guy that Brenda worked with. I had just suspected Tim because it hadn’t crossed my mind to suspect
Walker
.

“He wasn’t there,”
Walker
said, confirming my conclusion. “I was.”

“To do what?”

“Change the date on the
Potsdam Street
listing agreement, of course. If the police saw that I’d signed the paperwork on the 2
nd
instead of the 12
th
, they’d know I knew about the net listing before the murder. But if I didn’t sign it until the 12
th
,
after
the murder, I would have had no reason to kill Brenda.” He smiled tightly.

“And I guess you let Clarice believe that she was going to get what she wanted, and then you killed her?”

Walker
nodded. “I wined and dined her at her favorite restaurant, and put a little harmless powder in her drink, and then I drove her home and helped her upstairs. She was already passed out when I made the first cut.”

My stomach turned at the picture he painted, and the offhanded way he talked about slicing into flesh, but I forced myself to stay focused. “Brenda wasn’t, though. Although I’ve been told that for someone who knows what they’re doing, it’s both quick and easy to cut a throat. Funny, I wouldn’t have pegged you for the hunting type.”

Walker
showed his perfect teeth in another smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I guess I never told you my life story,
Savannah
. You will appreciate this, I’m sure. I grew up in a small town in
Kentucky
. My daddy was a redneck; he drove a pick-up truck with a gun rack and a mongrel dog in the back, and went hunting on the weekends. I used to have to come along, because he hoped it’d make a man out of me. So I cut my first throat before I was ten. It’s like riding a bicycle: once you know how, you never forget.”

“I see,” I said, weakly. “Your dad…?”

“Sadly, he’s passed on. A hunting accident. Very unfortunate.”

Walker
’s voice was cold, and I felt his words settle in the pit of my stomach like a block of ice. But before I had time to blurt out an unguarded question as to whether he’d shot his father — ill-advised under the circumstances — there came the sound of car tires from outside.

Time went into slow motion. I could see the thoughts chasing each other across
Walker
’s face — shock, fear, uncertainty, anger — and the gun wavered for a crucial tenth of a second. I grabbed the opportunity and gave Mrs. Jenkins a shove in one direction while I hurled myself in the other. The bullet sliced through the air where we had stood just a second ago. Mrs. Jenkins landed hard, face first on the cracked vinyl, and stayed there. I ran, stumbling and skittering on high heels, out the kitchen door into the hallway. Behind me, I could hear
Walker
following. Simultaneously, someone began hammering on the front door.

“Heeelp!” I shrieked. “Somebody help me!”

The hammering intensified, and I heard masculine bellows outside the door, much too far away for me to recognize. My plan, if I had one and wasn’t just mindlessly trying to get away, was to run to the front hall and open the door, but
Walker
cut me off before I got there. I changed course and backed into the library instead.
Walker
followed. He had the gun in a steady grip again, and a light of homicidal mania in his eyes.

I was just about to start praying when we heard a scrabbling noise in the hallway.
Walker
whirled around and went for the door. I followed, since there was nowhere else for me to go, and because I had an idea of what was going on. It didn’t come as a surprise to see old Mrs. Jenkins determinedly crawling down the hallway toward the door. She had just a few yards to go, and
Walker
did the only thing he could think of. He aimed the gun at her. I threw myself forward, pushing him with everything I had. The bullet went wild, and the gun went flying. So did
Walker
. The gun crashed through the hall window and landed in the rose bushes outside amidst the tinkling of glass.
Walker
landed on top of Mrs. Jenkins, and I could hear all the air being squeezed out of her body on a
whooosh
. The front door was vibrating under the onslaught of blows.

I recognize a heaven-sent opportunity when it hits me over the head, and I didn’t waste any time in taking advantage of this one. For me to land on top of Walker would only mash poor Mrs. J’s face and body deeper into the floor, so I stayed where I was, digging in my handbag. No, I’m not one of those Realtors who carries a gun (although after this experience, I thought I might start), but after a moment, I found a lipstick. One of my customers at the make-up counter had told me about this trick. I had giggled at the time, but under the circumstances, it was worth — pardon the pun — a shot. Possibly it would distract
Walker
for long enough to allow the police to get through the door and take over, with
real
guns. I shoved the cylinder against
Walker
’s back. “Stay where you are. I have a gun.”

Walker
froze, like a dead weight on top of poor, frail Mrs. Jenkins. She groaned.

A voice outside the door muttered something, and the hammering stopped. There was a breathless moment of silence, as if the house was bracing itself, and then the heavy oak door exploded inward with an almighty bang and a splintering noise. Officer Truman stumbled through the doorway, blinking.

“You took your time about it,” I commented.

Officer Spicer followed more slowly, and I could see his lips quirk when he saw me with my Mauve Heather #56 pressed against
Walker
’s back.

“You can lower your weapon now, Miz Martin,” he said blandly. “Truman’s got him covered.”

I dropped the lipstick back in my purse while Truman prudently handcuffed
Walker
before lifting him off Mrs. Jenkins.

“Um, boss...?” he ventured. “What’re we charging him with?”

“Yes,”
Walker
drawled, in his well-bred, snooty voice, “I’d like to know that, myself.” Had his hands not been cuffed behind him, he’d probably be brushing invisible lint off his sleeve as he spoke.

Spicer looked from me — I grimaced — to Mrs. Jenkins, still prone on the dusty floor. “Assault with the intent to harm will do, for the moment. Put him in the back of the car.”

Truman moved to obey.
Walker
allowed himself to be walked outside and loaded into the police car, without protest and without so much as a glance at me. Truman closed the door behind them while I turned my attention to Mrs. Jenkins, who was just starting to stir and moan. Spicer joined me in helping her to sit up. “What
are
we charging him with?” he asked,
sotto voce
.

“You mean you don’t know? He killed Brenda Puckett. Then he killed Clarice Webb. Then he threatened to kill Mrs. Jenkins and myself. Then he attacked Mrs. Jenkins.”

“What was she tryin’ to do?” Spicer said, curiosity mixed with awe in his voice, as he assiduously brushed the new dust off Mrs. Jenkins’s already filthy housecoat. She was sitting upright, but still had a vacant look on her face, like she wasn’t quite sure what was happening.

“He had me cornered in the library,” I explained. “I guess he thought she was passed out in the kitchen, but then we heard her crawling down the corridor.
Walker
left me and threw himself on her.”

“So he killed Miz Puckett, did he? And the other one, too? Miz Webster?”

I nodded.

“And said he’d kill you? You’re gonna have to come downtown with us and make a statement. Detective Grimaldi’s gonna wanna talk to you.”

“My pleasure,” I said. “Just let me lock up here first. Um... how about if I follow you in my car? I don’t really want to share the squad car with
Walker
. And that way I can drive Mrs. Jenkins home first. Unless you’re going to need to talk to her, too?”

Officer Spicer glanced at her, sitting there on the floor muttering to herself, with tiny trickles of blood running down her legs and face from the slide along the hardwoods. “I don’t think we need bother with that. Ain’t nothing she can tell us that we can’t get from you. And she oughta have some medical attention, anyway. Them scratches ain’t too bad, but the old bird got the wind knocked out of her pretty bad. You want I should radio for an ambulance?”

I shook my head. “I think it’ll be faster just to drive her down to the nursing home. It’s just down the street — you know that — and I’m sure they’re equipped to take care of minor cuts and bruises. Would you mind getting her situated in my car — it’s the blue Volvo — while I lock the door? I’ll come back for my things later.”

“Sure thing.” Spicer grabbed old Mrs. Jenkins under her arms and heaved her to her feet. She was too shook up even to attempt to bite him. While he loaded her into the passenger seat, I blew out the candles before I locked the door and hurried around the car and into the driver’s seat. With Mrs. J dozing beside me, I steered with one hand and dialed the cell phone with the other. (Bad, I know, but I figured Spicer and Truman had better things to do just now than bust me for illegal cell phone use.)

“Pawn shop,” a gruff voice muttered. I hesitated.

“Didn’t you say
‘car lot’
last time?”

“Beg pardon?”

“Never mind. I’m looking for Rafe Collier.”

“Nobody here by that name,” the voice said.

“Don’t give me that,” I retorted. Mother would have quailed. “It’s Wendell, isn’t it? We met yesterday, when you drove me to Fidelio’s Restaurant. I have a message for Rafe. Get hold of him, please, and tell him that his grandmother has had an accident and needs his help. I’m on my way to the police station, or I’d stay with her myself. And while he’s at it, tell him to get her out of that god-awful place and into someplace nicer, or I’ll do it myself. Can you do that for me?”

Wendell agreed, somewhat reluctantly, that he could, and I reverted to good manners before I hung up, just long enough to thank him.

Rafe wasn’t there yet when Mrs. Jenkins and I got to the Milton House, but I didn’t really have time to wait around for him — there was no telling where he was or how long it would take Wendell to track him down; he could be in Sweetwater for all I knew! — so I washed Mrs. Jenkins’s scratches and put her to bed. I extracted a promise from her that she wouldn’t leave before he came, although I wasn’t positive she knew who I was talking about. The ordeal with
Walker
and the gun seemed to have scattered what little wits she had.

That done, I headed into downtown, back to police headquarters. And things were very different this time around. I found a parking space on the street nearby and went in through the visitors’ entrance. And I didn’t wait for more than two minutes before Detective Grimaldi herself appeared to escort me upstairs. She ushered me into another interview room; friendlier than the one I’d seen last week, and with no two-way mirror. I guess I had graduated from suspect to witness.

“Would you like something to drink? Diet Coke, right?”

I accepted the offer of a drink, and she went and got it herself, along with a can of Dr. Pepper. Another sign of approbation, I thought, if she’d unbent far enough to have a soda with me.

She sat down on the other side of the table and popped the top on the Dr. Pepper. “Officer Spicer tells me I have you to thank for the apprehension of Mr. Lamont.”

I shrugged modestly.

“So tell me about it. From the beginning.”

I took a sip of Diet Coke and began. “Walker Lamont is my boss. He owns Walker Lamont Realty, and has for about 20 years.”

Detective Grimaldi opened her mouth to say something — probably that she didn’t expect me to begin quite that far back — and I continued, before she could protest, “He grew up in some hick town somewhere in Kentucky, with a redneck daddy who used to take him hunting. He told me about it earlier. And you may want to look into what happened to his father, because I wouldn’t be surprised if
Walker
shot him. He said it was a hunting accident. Very tragic.”

Grimaldi shut her mouth and started taking notes. I continued. “At some point he came to
Nashville
, probably because as a gay man, he wasn’t happy or accepted where he was. Then he discovered that there was money and a reputation to be made in real estate. He started his own company after a while, and became both very successful, and very well respected. He was being considered for a spot on the real estate commission next year, did you know that?”

“He didn’t mention it,” Detective Grimaldi said, jotting it down on her legal pad.

“No reason why he would. Especially since it was the reason he killed Brenda.”

“Is it financially beneficial?”

I shook my head. “Oh, no.
Walker
isn’t concerned with money. Not that he doesn’t have plenty, but I think he cares more about his reputation and his standing in the real estate community. Being invited to join the real estate commission is an honor. The rest of the world couldn’t care less, but to those of us in the business, it’s a very big deal.”