)rivate detective.
Tammy and Ryan were still at the cliff, watching as )r. Liu's technicians processed the scene. And al-hough she felt guilty even considering the option, >avannah knew that the most practical thing to do at
he moment was go upstairs to her room and lie down, ake advantage of this five-or ten-minute break to rest
md collect her thoughts.
It was as she was climbing the stairs, one weary step time. that she remembered her famous last words,
"How hard could it be? I mean. . . what could happen at a beauty pageant?"
Someday she would learn to keep her big mouth
shut. . . or so she kept saying.
Chapter
14
66 C avannah, Savannah, hey. . . wake up!"
"Wha . what?"
floating deep in the warm, black ocean of blissful sleep, Savannah felt a rough hand, reaching for her, pulling her, dragging her to surface.
"Come on, Van. Wake up."
"No. Go away. Leave me alone."
The hand shook her again, even harder. "Savannah, you have to wake up."
Shoving the offending hand aside, she sat up in the bed and rubbed her hands over her eyes that still
burned with fatigue. In the semidarkness of the room she could see the outline of the cursed creature who
had disrupted her sleep. . . Atlanta.
"Why?" she moaned. "Why did you wake me up?" "You were snoring."
"What?!"
Atlanta walked over to her own bed, tossed her purse
162 GA. Mclievett
Iside, and kicked off her shoes. "I said, you were snorng. Remember, you told me to wake you up if you were tnoring, so that you could break the habit, in case you Ner got married someday and actually slept with a
nan."
"I told you that years ago, when we were sleeping in he same bed with Vidalia and Marietta. What the hell foes that have to do with right now?"
Atlanta yawned, stretched, and sat down on her bed. 'I thought I'd take a quick nap before lunch. Some of he judges will be there, and I wanna look good. That our of the vineyards and winery about plumb wore me
mt. And how can you expect me to get a wink ' sleep with you lyin' there, sawin' logs?"
Cold fury flooded Savannah's bloodstream with
!nough adrenaline to jolt her fully awake. Grabbing ier pillow, she jumped out of bed, ran across the room, uid began to beat Atlanta with it as hard she could . . .
vhich wasn't very hard, considering it was a fine, goose-. town pillow and ridiculously soft.
"Hey! What was that for?" Atlanta yelled when she fiially stopped.
"Think about it again in about ten years. By then, naybe you'll be older and wiser and less self-centered, aid you'll realize how lucky you are that I didn't use a
iatchet instead." She sighed, exhausted from her outmrst "Shit. What time is it, anyway?"
Atlanta got up, walked over to the window, and pened the curtains, allowing a nauseating amount of ;olden California sunshine to stream into the room. the glanced at her watch. "It's ten-thirty-eight. What ime did you lie down?"
"Ten thirty-four."
U kb 163
"Well, no wonder you're cranky."
Savannah walked into the bathroom and glanced
around for a clean cloth to wash her face and perhaps
revive her sagging spirits, not to mention her sagging chinline. There had been four fresh cloths on the counter when she had left earlier. They all lay in a damp, rumpled pile on the floor. Er-r-r-r . . . teenage sisters, she
thought. They should all be put on ice and not thawed out until they're thirty.
She opened the cupboard under the sink to check
for any extra linens, but instead, found the space overflowing with "Atlanta Stuff." Amid the jumble of hair rollers, makeup, and curling-wand cord, she saw two small boxes. Both alike. One of them was open, its contents half gone.
"'Lanta," she said, reaching for the boxes. "Come here, darlin'."
Atlanta stuck her head around the corner. "Yeah? What?"
Savannah held out the boxes. "Are these yours?"
Atlanta snatched the laxatives out of her hand and
held them against her chest. "So, what? Don't you ever get stopped up once in a while?"
"Once in a blue moon. But a bowl of bran flakes usually does the trick, and it's a lot healthier than that stuff."
"Well, bully for you. I need a little more help." "So, increase the fiber in your diet."
"Yeah, right . . . this from the Donut Queen."
Savannah walked out of the bathroom and pulled
her sister over into the light by the window so that she
could get a good look at her. Her skin looked terrible, dry and lined like that of a person who was much older.
164
A. McKevett
Her face wasn't just thin, it was gaunt. And in the bright light. Savannah could see that she had used a lot of concealer to cover the dark circles under her eyes.
Savannah reached out, grabbed her sister by both shoulders and made her face her squarely. "Atlanta, are you using laxatives to purge? Do you take those things to keep your weight down? Tell me the truth, dammit This is important."
She tried to pull away, but Savannah held her tight/y. "No. It's just that sometimes . . . I get bloated, you know. Like water weight And if I take a water pill and some of
those, I can drop a couple of pounds right away, and then I look better."
"Look better? You're gorgeous! A little scrawny at the moment, but you're a beautiful girl. Why would you mess with your health like that? Don't you know, you're not just washing away body fluids, you're losing minerals and lots of good stuff that you need to function? You'll wind up in the hospital if you don't watch out."
Atlanta put on her most sullen face and pressed her
lips together until they nearly disappeared. Savannah knew the look: The kid wasn't talking.
"Honey, tell me the truth. . . are you puking, too?" No reply.
"Are you inducing vomiting? Is that part of your routine, too?"
"No."
Savannah didn't know whether to believe her or not. She felt as though her own stomach was doing a flip
flop. This was bad. This was potentially very, very bad.
Finally, when she received no further response, she released the girl and walked back to the bed, where she sat down. . . hard. . . her legs weak beneath her.
"All right. If you don't want to discuss it now, we
won't. But this subject isn't closed. This is a serious matter, whether you think so or not . . . far more important than whether or not you can fit into a size six swimsuit."
"Size six?!" Well, at least she was talking. "What makes you think I'm that big? I'm a four!"
"And you're a big girl--five feet eight and large-boned. It's ridiculous for you to be that thin. You're starving yourself to death."
"I'm not going to discuss this with you anymore." She walked over to her own bed and threw herself across it. "Let's talk about something else."
A bell went off in the back of Savannah's brain, an alarm that jerked her back to the reality that she had
been struggling with before she had lain down for her
all-too-short nap.
Barbie Matthews.
"Oh, man. ." she said, "this is like waking up from a bad dream and finding out that everything's okay . . .
only in reverse."
"You didn't ask me about my tour," Atlanta said, happily rattling on, obviously relieved to have the subject of her habits put aside for the moment. "It was really cool. Mr. Villa took us through the vineyards and showed us the different kinds of grapes. I tasted one that was awful, really sour. But then, they aren't ripe yet.
"And then he took us into the place where they mash the grapes in these huge crusher things, and then the fermentation place where juice rots and turns into wine
and then the barre
l room where there's a million barrels.
. . and the place where they bottle it all and put labels on it and . . .
"Gee, I had no idea there was so much to making wine. All these things can go wrong, and then the whole batch is ruined. Mr. Villa says it's an art, making good
wine. You could tell he's really into it. Believe it or not, but some of us girls think he's kinda sexy . . . you know
. . . for an old fart."
"And old fart? He's in his forties. Believe me, when you get there, you won't think it's all that old." "But he's got gray hair."
Savannah thought of the bottle of Midnight Brown-- Color That Gray hair solution under her bathroom sink
at home. "So, silver hair doesn't make a person old or a fart, so watch your mouth."
"Touchy, touchy."
For a moment neither of them spoke as Savannah
considered the best words she could use to gently break
the news about Barbie's demise. Atlanta was a very emotional, sensitive girl; Savannah didn't want this experience to scar her soul.
"Ah, 'Lanta, there's something I need to tell you. About Barbie Matthews, she--"
"Yeah, I heard. That really sucks. . . her going off a cliff like that. You guys were up all night looking for her, and there she was hanging from a bush, like, who knew? Too weird."
Savannah blinked and shook her head. Okay, so much for her little sister's delicate psyche. Maybe there was something to this "desensitized new generation" thing after all. Too much television and not enough trips behind the woodshed. . . that was Granny Reid's opinion on the matter.
"Were the other girls as. . . traumatized. . as you were over the news?" Savannah asked.
"No, I was more upset than most of them, you know, since she was my roommate and all. One of the girls, Desiree Porter, was even jmed about it. She said one of
us had a chance now that the Barbie doll was out of the
picture."
Savannah stood, ran her fingers through her hair, and slipped her aching feet back into her loafers. Well," she said, "if the rest of the girls are taking this as hard as you are, it's a darn good thing we've got those counselors coming from Mental Health. We'd wanna head off any mass suicides."
"Huh?"
"Never mind." She strapped on her holster and gun, then went to her suitcase and got a fresh jacket. For some reason, the other one seemed to smell of death.
"You're right," Savannah said. "It. . . sucks. And I've got to get back to work. Throw the dead bolt after me."
"Yeah, yeah, you don't have to keep telling me. I--"
"Dammit, 'Lanta, for once will you just do something I ask you to do and not give me any lip?"
Savannah stomped out of the room and slammed
the door behind her. Pausing, listening for the bolt to shoot home, she heard her sister say, "Boy, oh, boy . . . she's such a grouch when she wakes up!"
But there was someone who was upset about Barbie
Matthews's death. Terribly upset. And Savannah heard her crying, even before she saw her. On a patch of lawn behind the guest lodge, Francie Gorton was sitting beneath a trio of palm trees on a white, wrought-iron park bench that overlooked the sweeping vista of Villa Rosa's
oceans of vines. Her face was buried in a handful of tissues, and her shoulders were shaking with racking sobs.
Savannah walked over to her and sat down on the
bench beside her.
1
The warm, late-summer sun was almost directly overhead, and the girl's long, glossy black hair shone irideszent, like a raven's wing.
Savannah wasn't sure Francie was even aware of her
presence, until she heard her say, "It's my fault Barbie's lead. And I could have stopped it."
Trying to keep the eagerness out of her voice, Sarannah said, "What do you mean, Francie? How could ,7ou have kept her from dying?"
The girl wiped her eyes with the tissues and blew her
aose. Then she turned to Savannah, her young face full A grief. "Last night, when you asked me what was going )n, I should have told you about it. Or maybe I should -rave called her parents and talked to them. I don't now if it would have done any good; and now I'll never
Savannah reached over and pushed the girl's tear
vet hair back from her face. "Francie, did you hurt 3arbie?"
"No, she was my friend. I know a lot of people didn't ike her, but she was pretty nice to me most of the time, Ind Hiked her."
"Do you know who hurt her?"
A look of raw fear flickered in the girl's eyes, and she ;lanced away. "No."
"Are you sure?"
Francie nodded, but continued to stare at the far lorizon.
"You have any idea who might have done it?" Francie twisted the tissues between her fingers. "No." Having no luck opening the front door of the con rersation,
Savannah decided to try the back door. "Last light," she said, "outside your room, I heard you warnng Barbie to be careful. You told her that you were
afraid she was going to get hurt. What was that about, Francie?"
The girl began to cry again, and Savannah could almost feel her fear--suffocating, paralyzing, until she could hardly breathe.
"I can't tell you. Please don't ask me."
"You can't tell me because you don't know, or because you're afraid? Which is it, Francie?",
"I'm. . I'm afraid. If I tell you, if I tell anybody, I'll be next."
Savannah's heart ached for the girl; she was so like some of her sisters back in Georgia--old enough to get into trouble but too young to find her way out.
She stroked the girl's sun-warm hair, trying to comfort her. "Francie, sweetie, if you think your life is in danger, that makes it even more important that you talk to me about it. You can trust me. I'll help you, if you'll just let me."
Francie blew her nose again, then glanced at her watch. "I have to go and get ready for lunch. I have to act like everything is okay, you know what I mean?"
"No, I don't know what you mean. I wish I did. Is there anythingl can do to help you, Francie?"
The girl shook her head and stood. "I really need to go. But thank you, Ms. Reid. It was very nice of you to stop and talk with me. I'm sorry I . . ."
When the rest of her words didn't come, Savannah patted her.shoulder. "That's okay, dear. If you change your mind and want to talk, I'm in room 2G or you can call me. Here's my cell-phone number and my beeper, too. Anytime, night or day. Okay?"
She scribbled the numbers on a slip of paper and
pressed it into the girl's palm.
"Okay. Thanks."
"I'll walk you back to your room, if you like."
Francie glanced around--the furtive, suspicious look of the hunted. "No, that's all right. I think it would be better if nobody . . . you know, if I wasn't seen talking to you."
"I understand."
But as she watched the girl walk away with the grace
and bearing of a queen, Savannah cursed herself for not understanding. And for not knocking on that bedroom door last night and demanding answers. If she had, Barbie Matthews might be alive. . . and Francie Gorton might be thinking about winning beauty pageants
instead of fearing for her life.
Chapter
15
W of
crap? Dirk to
food od that had been set before him--half a
at this " pointed the dish
pineapple, scooped out and filled with chicken salad, decorated with a sprig of mint and a paper umbrella.
"It's called lunch," Savannah told him. "Stick a forkful into your mouth. It'll keep you quiet. . . at least in theory."
"But it's sissy food. I don't eat girlie junk like this."
Savannah picked a walnut and a piece of fresh
pineapple out of the salad, tasted it, and closed her eyes in ecstasy. "I realize," she said, "that if your grub hasn't moo-o-oed in the past twenty-four hours you don't consider
it fo
od. But this really is good. Besides, it's free."
Dirk reconsidered. 'That's true."
He picked up his fork and began to shovel it in. She didn't understand why he made such an issue of what
he was eating; he never took the time to taste it anyway.
A soft breeze rippled the edges of the umbrella over
their table, a blue-and-white-striped affair, like a dozen others that had been set around the Villa Rosa swimming 0pool. Luncheon was being served to the pageant judges, hostesses, sponsors, members of the local press, and a number of society mucky-mucks, who seldom missed the opportunity to make appearances at this sort of thing.
The contestants were walking among the tables, modeling the latest swimwear fashions, furnished by a beachfront boutique. Savannah was relieved to see that her own sister was wearing a modest one-piece maillot
instead of one of the skimpy bikinis that some of the
other girls were wearing.
She spotted Frank Addison sitting at the end of the
judges' table. His chicken salad was being badly neglected, as he ogled each young body that passed his way.
However, when Atlanta walked by him, Savannah was gratified to see him avert his eyes, suddenly interested in the conversation at his table. Her talk with him had made an impression on him after all.
`That Addison creep," she said. "I'd like to nail him for Barbie's murder. Just thinking about hearing you read him his rights does me a world of good."
Dirk shoved his mouthful of food to the side of his
jaw, and said, "Yeah, I've been thinkin' about him. I told Jake McMurtry to check 'im out. Wouldn't it be fun if he had a rap sheet with some sexual assaults on it?"
"Don't toy with me. Only in my dreams." She took a sip of the wine that had been served to the adults at the
luncheon. One of Villa Rosa's blush wines, it had a beautiful coral color and a surprisingly delicate, dry taste for a blush.
Savannah Reid 06 - Sour Grapes Page 13
