Page 53 of Tell Me (Savannah 3)

Maybe she was right, Nikki thought now, as she scribbled down Mary-Beth’s name next to Elton’s on her legal pad. Jennings trotted into the living area from the bedroom and hopped onto the window seat next to her. Staring out the window, he let out a pitiful cry as he saw birds fluttering through the yard.

“You’re okay,” she said, stroking his downy head just as a downstairs door slammed, thudding loudly.

The cat scrambled off the seat.

Half a second later, Nikki saw Charles Arbuckle appear again on the staircase. He ran down quickly, then jogged to his idling car; he threw his briefcase onto the passenger seat as he climbed in, then yanked the door shut. Backing out quickly, he barely missed the garbage cans lining the side of the alley before ramming his car into gear and taking off.

“Always in a hurry,” she muttered, recalling Arbuckle’s intense demeanor as he’d flown out of the house, then thought the same phrase applied to her. She wondered if marriage would exacerbate her compelling need to get things done yesterday or if she would slow down a bit, “enjoy life” and “smell the roses,” as her mother always advised. “All those deadlines, Nicole, they’re making you a crazy person.”

Until now, she’d thought it was just a matter of age, that, in her early thirties, she was merely running at full steam, while her mother embraced the fact that she and all her friends were in the retirement set.

“Nah,” she decided now. She’d been born revved up, always in third gear, and that was probably the way she’d die.

As she started to turn from the window, something glinted in the weak sun, something near the bins. She squinted. Probably nothing, she told herself. Maybe an errant piece of trash.

She glanced back at her notes, to Elton’s name. His father had become Blondell’s attorney. It was all so deeply entwined, she thought, scribbling Uncle Alex’s name with an arrow pointing to Blondell and Elton. How well did Alex McBaine know Blondell O’Henry when he took her case? Had they met before? Possibly because of Elton? Was that the connection to the cabin? At the time of Amity’s murder, the rumor mill had been churning out theories and speculation about Blondell. Some people had thought that the baby Blondell had lost had been fathered by Roland Camp, the man who supposedly wanted nothing to do with her existing children. Others believed Calvin O’Henry, Blondell’s mercurial ex, still the most likely candidate for the child’s baby-daddy. Still others, the crueler bottom-feeders of the gossip chain, had sniggered that Blondell’s attorney might be the man.

Nikki’s own family, from Charlene to Aunty-Pen, had pooh-poohed that catty theory as the rubbish it was, but now Nikki couldn’t help but wonder. She couldn’t ask her aunt, because Penelope would either be furious with her for bringing up old, painful nonsense or go glacially silent on the subject.

Either way, Nikki wouldn’t get an answer from Penelope McBaine. Nor would Nikki have any more luck with her uncle. With his advancing dementia, there was little chance of getting through to him.

And if she mentioned the rumor to her mother, Charlene might have a stroke, so for now she had to find a back-door way to get the information, something DNA could certainly confirm or deny.

There was a chance the paternity of Blondell’s unborn child wouldn’t matter in the least, just as naming the father of Amity’s unborn child might not make a difference. However, those little facts made for interesting speculation and certainly good reading. She could almost see the ending of a chapter midway through the book where she named one or the other of the heretofore unknown fathers.

She had her work cut out for her, but there was something else, another way to discover further information, if she dared consider it. As Alexander McBaine’s favorite niece, she knew where there was a key to his house—and the den that had become his home office before his mental health had started to decline. She might not be able to get info from Reed, but should the right opportunity arise, she could search through the defense team’s notes.

Maybe.

If they still existed, and if Jada Hill hadn’t gotten her hands on them yet.

Nikki would have to work fast.

CHAPTER 16

What the hell was Alfred up to this time?

Nola-Mae drove her old Ford Taurus up a final turn on the rocky, once-gravel road that led to their granddaddy’s shack, a place her brother had called home ever since returning from that god-awful war where he’d gotten himself all torn up. He’d never been right since, she thought; then again, maybe he never had been. The war might just be an excuse.

As she rounded the corner and the trees surrounding the lane opened up, she spied Alfred’s old pickup where he always parked it. General was lying on his rug on the porch, and a light glowed from within. Or maybe it was just the television.

If that was the case, if Alfred was sitting in his chair watching the latest sporting event, she might just have to kill him. She’d driven twenty-five miles because she couldn’t get him to answer his damned phone. To Alfred, the phone was a one-way device. He called when he wanted you, and if not, he didn’t bother to answer. However, ever since caller ID had come to this backwoods area and he’d upgraded to be able to see who was phoning, he’d started picking up for her.

But not for the last three days—or was it four? Enough time for her to worry. Her cousin Vera had said she hadn’t seen him in town at all. That might not mean much, loner that he was, but still Nola-Mae had decided to make the drive. Even brought him a batch of his favorite bar cookies: blondies that Great-grandma Simms always made for Christmas.

But if he was just holing up, pulling his head into his shell like a damned box turtle, she might just throw the blondies into his stupid flat-screen, the only modern convenience he’d allowed himself.

Climbing out of the car, she slammed the door shut and stalked toward the house as General, baying, bounded over to her and scattered the chickens that were searching for bugs or seeds near their coop. The fence that was supposed to keep them contained was down again, and three hens and a rooster had escaped into the yard.

“Hey, there, buddy,” she said and gave the dog a scratch behind his long ears. General was having none of it, running and howling, as if he’d gotten himself into a tussle with a porcupine and come out on the losing end. “I’m comin’, I’m comin’,” she said and felt the first little premonition of dread. Usually by the time she pulled up, Alfred had climbed out of his chair and was standing at the screen door.

Sure enough, the heavy oak door was wide open, only the screen separating the house from the porch. “Alfred!” she called, carrying the paper plate covered with the cut brownies and wrapped in plastic. “Hey, I’ve been trying to get hold of you. Did you know the chickens are out again?” She pushed through the door, and General, still putting up a fuss, shot inside. “Alfred?”

The door slapped shut behind her, and she stood in the living area. Yes, the television was on, a game show playing. That was odd in and of itself, but the fact that there was a drink sitting untouched by the chair, watered-down, from the looks of it, as if ice cubes had melted, was damn unnerving. She’d never known her brother to take a nip before six or so, but she supposed that could have changed.

“Alfred, are you here?” She walked past the tiny kitchen and down a short hallway that led to the bath and a single bedroom. Opening both doors, she found no one.

“What the devil?” she said, then saw General at the door, whining, half-jumping to get outside again. “Where is he?” she said, as much to herself as the dog.

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