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 One car was a prosaic gray sedan, a few years out of date.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 gorgeous room. If the rest of the house looks like it, it must be worth a fortune.”
“You’d know,” Grimaldi said.
I shrugged. “It’s my job. And I grew up in the Martin mansion. I know the value of old houses. This is a beautiful one.”
“Thank you, young lady.”
The booming voice came from outside the door. A moment later, a man—Mr. Mullinax—sailed through.
He must have been about a decade older than Uncle Sid. And he was as jolly as Santa Claus. The only thing missing was the white beard. The hair was white and fluffy, like down, the cheeks were rosy red, and the twinkling eyes were blue, but he was clean-shaven.
“Mr. Mullinax.” I flushed. Mother would not be happy to hear that I’d been calculating the man’s value in his hearing, and given the probable antecedents and bank balance here, Mrs. Mullinax and Mother were most likely friends. It would undoubtedly get back to her. Since I had to tell him who I was and why we were here, there was no way to pretend I was some uncouth bystander, either. “I’m Savannah Martin. Collier. My Uncle Sid told me about you.”
“Regina’s niece.” He grabbed my hand and patted it. “You married the cop.”
I had. And Art Mullinax was nicer about the description of Rafe than some I’ve heard.
“This is Police Chief Grimaldi,” I said, gesturing with my free hand. Mr. Mullinax dropped me like my hand was hot and turned to her, looking her over.
“Charming,” he said.
It was the first time I’d heard that word applied to Grimaldi, and from her