He glanced up at the camera and wished for a moment that he’d worn something nicer than his tie-dyed T-shirt with a hole in the front where his chest hairs stuck out.
The gal in the flowered dress with the walker came right up next to him and looked him up and down, like his grandma had before he’d left for school each morning when he’d been a kid. And like Grandma Flynn, she had a disapproving scowl on her face.
“What do you think you’re doing there, son?” she said. ‘You shouldn’t go waving a gun around like that. It might be loaded. You could put somebody’s eye out with that thing.”
Ferris gouged the guy in the ribs with his gun. Hard. The old man stood up a little straighten ‘You and your wife better get over there with everybody else before we kill you both,” Ferris told him.
Yeah,” Rodney said, feeling a surge of power that he’d never felt before in all of his twenty-two years. ‘Yeah, you’d better do what you’re told or I’ll shoot you... just like I’m gonna shoot this stupid bitch over here who doesn’t wanna give me her ring.”
He turned away from the grandma and returned his attention to the young woman with the big, sparkly ring on her finger. “I’m tired of waiting around for you,” he said. “I think I’ll just go ahead and blow you away. That way everybody here will know that we—er.... that is—I mean business.”
He glanced over at Ferris. Ferris had a stupid little grin on his face, a grin that meant he didn’t think Rodney had the balls to do it. Yeah, well, he’d soon see....
“You don’t want to do that, son,” said the old woman behind him. “And I’ll give you three good reasons...” Rodney turned and was somewhat surprised to see that she wasn’t looking at him; she was talking to him, but she was looking at the guy she’d come in with. The guy was looking back at her kind of funny. Like they had some sort of secret between them.
But Rodney couldn’t immediately figure out what it might be, so—like most things Rodney couldn’t understand—he ignored it.
“One,” the woman was saying, “when they catch you, you’ll be charged with murder instead of just plain ol’ bank robbing.”
“They ain’t gonna catch us.” But Rodney wasn’t as sure as he had been when they’d walked in. There was that camera in the corner, and there they were with their faces hanging out—no masks or pantyhose—plain as day.
“And two....” She fixed him with eyes that were star-tlingly blue. They cut through him like icy knives and made him feel sick and small, just like he had a second before Grandma had whacked him with Grandpa’s big leather belt. “It’s just wrong,” she said, “and if you do something as wrong as killing somebody, you’ll pay a really big price for it.”
“Shut her up!” Ferris yelled at the guy. “Shut your old lady up before I blow her head off.”
The man’s face changed; it actually twisted into some sort of an angry grin. And all of a sudden, it occurred to Rodney that—except for the gray hair and the baggy clothes—he didn’t look all that old, or weak.
“What was that you were saying, honey?” the guy asked the woman with the walker.
“I was saying.... I have three good reasons why you shouldn’t be doing this...”
Time seemed to slow down for Rodney. It was a moment he would play over and over again in his mind for years to come and remember every detail: the young woman who wouldn’t give up her engagement ring, softly sobbing behind him, the bank employees and other customers shaking and pale in a tight circle behind the counter, the gal with the walker, moving still closer to him, talking....
“Three reasons, and all of them good ones. Like I said: One, they’ll give you the needle when they catch up with you. Two, it’s just wrong, and three—”
Rodney didn’t know what hit him. At least, not at first. Later, much later, they would realize it was the old lady’s walker.
But at the time it was just a blur of silver, the gun flying out of his hand, an awful pain across his face, and the taste and feel of warm blood gushing out of his nose and down the back of his throat as he fell backward to the cold marble floor.
He was only dimly aware of a scuffle on the other side of the room. Ferris’s cry of pain. The dull thud as Big Cool Swaggering Cousin Ferris hit the floor, too.
Rodney felt the weight of somebody on him, mashing the air out of him. Somebody heavy. Strong hands grabbed his shoulders and flipped him over onto his belly. His bloody nose smacked against the floor, and for a moment he saw red and white stars of pain flashing through his head. The same somebody twisted his hands behind him, yanking his shoulders and elbows half out of their joints.
In the corner of his eye he could see just enough bright yellow and pink flowers to realize.... it was Grandma!
He could hear Ferris yelling, “What? What the hell? What do you think you’re doing, Pops?”
“Arresting you, numskull. And don’t call me Pops or I’ll put these cuffs around your neck instead of your wrists and cinch ‘em down good and tight.”
“Got another pair of cuffs?” he heard the woman on top of him say.
“Nope.”
“Here’s some duct tape,” said a male voice from the crowd behind the counter. “Will that do?”
“Sure. Just wind it around here if you don’t mind.”
Rodney heard the rip of the tape, saw some brightly polished black shoes appear an inch or so from his forehead. And some gray pinstriped trouser legs.
The bank manager had been wearing a pinstriped suit, he recalled, as the gravity of his situation began to press down upon him.... along with the grandma’s knees in the small of his back. The old gal had thrown him around like she was some sort of sumo wrestler or something.
Shit, Rodney thought. It’s all on camera.
By tomorrow the whole country, everybody he knew or would ever know, would have seen his disgrace: Old lady and old man take out desperate bank robbers with nothin’ but a fuckin’ walker. Film at eleven.
Savannah sat on her sofa, pen and tablet in hand, jotting down notes furiously as she stared at the television screen, determined to miss nothing.
“Gourmet Network again?” Tammy Hart asked as she bounced across Savannah’s living room to the desk in the corner that served as “Control Central” for the Moonlight Magnolia Detective Agency. Not that there was any business to speak of that needed controlling at the moment.
“Yeah. Shhhh....” Savannah said, scribbling ingredients and instructions for the Queen of Chocolate’s latest creation: Deep Dark Chocolate Passion Layer Cake. “I gotta get this down. I’m going to make it for you guys tonight when the boys come over for the weekly briefing.”
“They’re not coming for the briefing,” Tammy said as she pulled her long, straight blond hair back with a scrunchy and sat down at the desk. “It would only take a second to ‘brief’ them on the phone. ‘Nothing’s happening. No clients. Not a one.’ End of briefing. They’re coming over for the chocolate.”
“Of course they are. That’s why I’m having the briefing.... an excuse to bake something chocolate. At this point in my life, it’s my foremost fleshly delight.”
Tammy threw the switch on the computer and, once it had booted up, began to enter the accounts, brief as they were. That was one thing Savannah loved about her: Tammy assisted, even when there was nothing to assist with. And that quality nearly made up for the fact that Tammy was young, energetic, bouncy, and thin as a runway model.
“This time, I swear, I’m going to get it right,” Savannah said. “No more disasters like that Triple Chocolate Soufflé that turned out more like pudding. I’m going to do it exactly the way the Queen of Chocolate does, and it’ll be a culinary triumph.”
“Famous last words,” Tammy muttered.
“This sucks.” Savannah looked down at the slice of cake on her plate and around the table at her faithful friends, who had gathered to discuss the non-details of the detective agency—which Savannah owned, but they all participated in from time to time—and to sample her latest experiment.
“It isn’t that bad, Savannah,” Ryan Stone said—always kind, always breathtakingly gorgeous as he graced the end of her table radiating “tall, dark, and handsome.”
“It’s tasty.... if a tad.... chewy,” added John Gibson, Ryan’s life partner who always sat to his right and sipped Earl Grey tea in that quiet, dignified manner that only British aristocracy could achieve. About fifteen years older than Ryan, John sported a full head of snowy white hair and a luxurious silver mustache. He was the only man Savannah had ever known who actually wore tweed hunting jackets in California. And his genteel English accent gave her shivers. John, too, was kind.
Dirk wasn’t.
“No,” he said as he shoved yet another forkful into his mouth, “overcooked steak is chewy. This is just plain tough.”
“Well, I don’t see you turning it down,” Savannah said, grabbing the plate out from under his nose. “If you don’t like it, don’t feel obliged to—”
He snatched it back. “Hey, gimme that. Food’s food.”
“Especially if it’s free,” Tammy grumbled, making an adolescent “little sister” face at Dirk. “That’s your number one criteria, isn’t it, when critiquing a dish?”
“It helps,” Dirk said, munching heartily.
Savannah dropped her fork onto her plate. ‘That does it. My jaws are tired. It’s going into the garbage.”
“Maybe you oughta stick with pecan pie or peach cobbler,” Dirk volunteered. “Something more in keeping with your Georgia heritage. Hey, don’t throw that out. I’ll take it home with me.”
Savannah stepped into the kitchen, got the coffeepot, and set about refilling everyone’s cups.... except John’s. He had his own Dresden teapot and cozy at hand.
“Speaking of the Lady Eleanor, the Queen of Chocolate,” John said, “occasionally our paths cross, as they did last evening at a benefit held at the Stardust Ballroom. She mentioned that she’s in need of a personal security expert, and I recommended you, Savannah. I hope you don’t mind.”
The playful twinkle in his eyes told her that he knew she wouldn’t mind. Mind? Mind?
“Really? I mean.... Lady... Eleanor... bodyguard... me?”
“Yes. I told her you were a highly qualified professional, charming, and, above all, delightfully articulate.”
“Not in front of celebrities, she’s not,” Tammy said as she left the table, wandered into the kitchen, and began searching in the refrigerator crisper. “She loses her cool and starts babbling like an idiot. Say, don’t you have anything alive in here, like an apple or a carrot?”
“There’re some golden delicious in the basket on the counter, nature girl. I was saving them for dipping in a chocolate fondue, but you go ahead and help yourself.” She turned to John. “Do you think she’ll call? Did she act like she was interested or...”
Ryan chuckled, reached over and squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry, Savannah. I was there, and after the sales pitch John gave her, I’d bet that you’re in.”
“I’m in. I’m in.” Savannah closed her eyes, savoring the possibilities. “To meet the great lady herself, to walk, even for a moment, in her sweet, chocolate-dipped world. To taste heaven on earth and not even have to go to the mall to buy Lady Eleanor’s Confections. To see the place where the Raspberry Delight Truffle and the Lemon Chiffon Kiss began...”
“To pig out on everything chocolate you can get your mitts on,” Dirk added, “and then walk around here griping because you gained ten pounds.”
Savannah sighed. “Oh, shut up, Dirk,” she said with a kind of quiet resignation born of self-knowledge, “before I smack you upside the head with my walker.”
Savannah’s candlelit bubble bath in her Victorian claw-foot bathtub did the trick that night. Ah, she thought, as she soaked in the iridescent, lavender-scented splendor of mountainous bubbles, nothing like feeling a scumbag’s tendons snap as you twist his arm out of socket to put everything right in your world.
To be the instrument of justice, even for a moment, was a fine, fine thing. Almost as fine as the Hazelnut Cocoa Cream in her right hand. Almost, but not quite.
Savannah, along with the rest of the nation, had acquired yet another vice about two years ago, when the self-tided Queen of Chocolate on the Gourmet Network had opened a chain of mall stores known as Lady Eleanor’s Confection Shoppes. Like the lady herself— who wore Victorian garb: long skirts and leg-o’-mutton-sleeved high-necked blouses, button-up boots, and a Gibson girl updo with dainty curled tendrils about the face—the clerks in the turn-of-the-century-decorated shops served up candy morsels that sent the happy taster into fits of gastronomic ecstasy.
Since the opening of those stores, Savannah could swear she had gained fifteen pounds. But what the heck, it was all on her butt, which simply made her life that much more cushy. Besides, she prided herself on wearing only the best on her heinie. And Lady Eleanor’s confections produced, undoubtedly, the very best fat that money could buy.
One candy at bathtime.... and another at bedtime, just to ward off any nasty midnight sugar lows.... and life was good.
A little later, as she snuggled between rose-spangled flannel sheets, a Double-Dipped Praline poised in front of her mouth, the thought crossed her mind that her dentist certainly wouldn’t approve of this nightly ritual. But he was all about teeth and gums and warding off cavities; what did he know about feeding a famished soul? One had to be well-rounded in this world.
At least, that was her story and she was sticking with it.
“Thank you, Lord, for chocolate,” she prayed as she slipped into a blissful sleep. “Thank you for good friends like John, who recommend me to wonderful people like Lady Eleanor. And most of all, thank you for helping Dirk and me end that robbery today without getting our hides—or anybody else’s—perforated.”
Yes, Savannah had a lot to be grateful for. Hers was a peaceful, sated soul.
Ring. Ring.
The shrill pealing of a bell pierced her ears and ripped her out of that dark, safe cocoon of sleep.
Ring. Ring.
“What? What the hell?” She sat up in bed and grabbed for the phone, missed it, and knocked her three-pound box of “assorted nuts and creams” onto the floor.
The square red numbers on her digital alarm clock told her it was 2:12 A.M.
“Damn it, this had better be an emergency, ‘cause if you’re a wrong number, you’re dead,” she mumbled as she flipped on the nightstand lamp and picked up the receiver. “Who is this and what do you want?” she demanded, every trace of her sugar high and good mood gone.
“This is Eleanor Maxwell,” said a nasal, grating voice. “Is this Savannah Reid?”
Eleanor Maxwell? Eleanor Maxwell?
She didn’t know any Eleanor Maxwell. And the only Eleanor she knew... or knew of... had a delicately modulated British accent that fell lightly on the ears of her television viewers like a soft spring rain. This woman’s voice was more like the screeching of a Styrofoam egg carton when you closed it.
And she was calling at 2:12 in the friggin’ morning!
“This is Savannah Reid. I was sound asleep. Who are you and why are you calling me at this hour?”
“I need a bodyguard. Right away. I spoke to a friend of yours, John Gibson, and—”
“Oh, yes! Of course!” Instantly Savannah was wide awake, her emotions sunny-side up. “Lady Eleanor! I’m such a fan of yours! You have no idea how many times I’ve watched your show, how much of your candy I’ve bought, how...” She realized she was babbling like a Rolling Stones groupie and reined in her enthusiasm. “I’d be glad to help you anyway I can,” she added in her most professional tone. “If you need me to come over right now, I—”
“Now? Hell no. I’m cooking. Nobody is allowed in here when I’m cooking.”
“Oh, I just meant that maybe... since you were calling in the middle of the night, there was some sort of urgency or—”
“No. I’m calling now because that’s when I’m awake.” And to heck w
ith the rest of the sleeping world? Savannah thought. But she quickly pushed the unworthy idea from her mind. Lady Eleanor rude? Why, she was the epitome of—
“Come over tomorrow and I’ll tell you what you’re going to do for me.”
“O... kay.” A few more unworthy, downright nasty thoughts floated through Savannah’s head. John had forgotten to mention that, just maybe, Lady Eleanor might be a bit of a bitch. “Let’s see... it’s now two-fifteen on Tuesday morning, so you’d like me to come over sometime on Wednesday?”
“No, I told you, tomorrow—after I’ve slept.”
“Oh, I see.” The lady was one of those people who divided their “days” into the periods after and before sleep, having nothing to do with the clock or the rest of the world’s schedule. “And when I shall I arrive? Say, around nine?”
“Nine? Are you nuts? I won’t be awake, let alone ready to talk to anybody, before one.”
Savannah reinforced her professional persona before opening her mouth again. “Would that be one in the afternoon, then?”
“Yes. That’s what I said.” A long, impatient sigh. “And John Gibson said you were the best he knew. Says a lot about the circles he travels in.”
Savannah bit her tongue and slowly counted to five before replying, “One o’clock sharp, at your home?”
“Of course at my home. I do everything from here. You do know where I live, don’t you?”
“Certainly, Lady Eleanor. Everyone knows your estate there on the beach. I’ve passed that gorgeous Victorian home a hundred times and thought—”
Dial tone.
The gracious and genteel Queen of Chocolate had hung up on her. What a miserable, rotten, lousy...
Savannah glanced down at the box of chocolates on the floor and for one weird, perverted moment, she was actually glad they had spilled. Who wanted candy that was probably now covered with carpet fuzz? Especially if it came from a silver box with a cameo picture of Eleanor on the cover.
But the moment passed. She reached down and gathered the chocolates back into their box. No sign of carpet residue.
Death by Chocolate Page 2
