Survival Clause, стр. 51

Aunt Regina had done a spread of our wedding in the Sweetwater Reporter last year, so the whole town—or at least everyone who subscribes to the Reporter—knew that Margaret Anne Martin’s younger daughter had married Sweetwater’s black sheep.

“—but I don’t like all this personal information getting out. Even if this fruitcake isn’t a threat to Carrie, and just thinks she’s a pretty baby who looks like her father, there are other people out there who might not mind an opportunity to hit Rafe where it hurts.” And I wasn’t talking about Sergeant Tucker.

“Your husband did a lot of damage to some very bad people,” Grimaldi nodded, “as you well know. We’re not taking this lightly at all, I promise. Officer Rehman is trying to track down the car. And the TBI is involved now. Your husband called Mr. Craig this morning.”

Good to know. That hadn’t occurred to me—Wendell and Jamal were in Nashville, and probably wouldn’t be able to come down here for this; not when there wasn’t a specific threat of any kind—but I was glad they knew. Wendell was the closest thing to a father Rafe had, and he had spent a lot of years making sure Rafe survived whatever sticky situation he was in.

“Your husband’s going around with Agent Yung,” Grimaldi added, “and she’s been apprised of the situation. She’s trained at Quantico and she’ll give him any kind of backup he needs.”

Hard to imagine, considering how she’d probably still like to slap him behind bars. “You don’t suppose Agent Yung…”

I didn’t have to finish the sentence.

“No,” Grimaldi said, so the idea must have crossed her mind, too. “At least one of the videos was taken when she was inside the police station with me. And besides, you would have noticed her at Beulah’s yesterday. You might not have paid attention to some random woman, but if Agent Yung had been there, you would have seen her.”

True. “I guess the FBI trains their agents well.”

“They can usually hit what they’re aiming for,” Grimaldi said and turned off the main road onto a much narrower one that meandered into the sticks on the north side of Columbia. I looked around.

“Is there where Mullinax lives?”

She had both hands on the wheel as we bumped over ruts and rocks. The road wasn’t even paved. “According to his driver’s license and my GPS.”

No sooner had the words crossed her lips than the road opened up and we saw a big, turn-of-the-last-century Victorian sitting on a carpet of green velvet up against a backdrop of spring-fresh trees. Daffodils and tulips bloomed in riotous color along the porch, and two flowering trees—ornamental Bartlett pears or dogwoods, probably—flanked the path to the front door.

“Wow,” I said.

Grimaldi gave me a sardonic glance. “Not what you expected?”

“I expected a doublewide trailer and a toothless old redneck at the end of a road like that one,” I said, honestly, “although given that the man plays golf with my uncle, I probably shouldn’t have…”

There were three vehicles parked outside the garage, and there might have been three more behind the doors. One car was a prosaic gray sedan, a few years out of date. One was a silver SUV, ladylike and dainty, not dissimilar to the one we were pulling up in. The last was a golf cart. I guessed Mr. Mullinax might use it to travel around the property and maybe down to the main road to pick up his mail. It was a long trek on foot.

Grimaldi pulled our SUV to a stop and cut the engine. Silence descended. “Hard to believe we’re inside the Columbia city limits,” she said.

It was. The place looked like it belonged way out in the country, and it had probably been well outside town when it was built. But that was a century and a quarter ago, maybe even more, and the town had steadily encroached.

“I’ve heard of Daffodil Hill Farm,” I said, looking around. “I knew it was up here somewhere, but I’ve never seen it before.”

“No reason why you would, I imagine.” Grimaldi pushed her door open. “Mr. Mullinax seems to like his privacy. Let’s go see if he’s in residence.”

Sure thing. I climbed out and reached into the backseat for Carrie.

Like at the Drimmels’ much humbler home, it was Mrs. Mullinax who answered the door. Or so I assumed, until she introduced herself as the housekeeper. Mr. Mullinax was in the study. Would we like to see him?

Grimaldi indicated that we would, and we were shown into a spotless parlor with a stunning Victorian fireplace—all dark wood and glazed green tile—and offered refreshments. Grimaldi said no for both of us. I smiled apologetically. “That’s a lovely fireplace. Would you mind if I took a closer look?”

The housekeeper waved her hand at it. “Help yourself. I just dusted it this morning.”

It looked freshly dusted. And unlike the Drimmels’ fireplace, it sported no family photos. Instead, the mirror behind the mantel reflected stubby candles in silver holders, and a matching vase holding a spray of glossy magnolia leaves and waxy flowers.

Mother would have approved. I guess I did too, or at least the professional part of me did. Although I have to admit Mrs. Drimmel’s family photos had set a much friendlier tone.

The housekeeper wandered out, presumably to let Mr. Mullinax know we were there, and Grimaldi arched her brows at me as I ran my fingertips over the carved wood of the mantel.

“Nice workmanship,” I said apologetically. “And I love the original wood. This is old mercury glass. See how wavy it is? And look at the tile. Isn’t it gorgeous? And it’s in pristine shape. Not a chip or crack in any of them.”

I looked around the rest of the room, with the dark hardwood floors and eleven foot ceilings and narrow windows tall enough that either one of us could have stood upright on the sill and not come anywhere close to cracking our heads on the round top. “This is a