Death by Chocolate

by G. A. McKevett

  Savannah wondered if their claims might have a basis in fact, but decided that Eleanor wasn’t the one to objectively answer that question. So she swallowed her curiosity and allowed her to continue.

  “When I met Burt, he was a traveling insurance salesman and I was a short-order cook at a truckstop. He stopped in one day when I was making my Christmas fudge for my favorite customers and—well, as they say, the rest is history. Burt could sell anything to anybody. He sold the idea of ‘Lady Eleanor, Queen of Chocolate’ to Kaitlin, an agent/promoter kid he’d met in L.A. She added the whole Victorian image bit, and I’ve been wearing those damned wigs and corsets ever since.”

  “And the candy stores? Were those her idea, too?”

  “No. Burt pushed for that. Personally, I don’t give a hoot about having stores in every mall on the West Coast, but... nobody thought to ask me whether I wanted them.”

  Savannah watched as yet another wall of her fantasy casde in the clouds crumbled before her eyes. Lady Eleanor didn’t care about her own shops? The ladies in their long dresses, serving bits of heaven in tiny pink bags or shiny silver and gold boxes?

  “What about the Raspberry Delights or the Lemon Crème Parfaits?” Savannah said, trying to keep her voice from trembling. “Aren’t those, you know, your own creations?”

  “Oh, please. Burt hired some pipsqueak kid from a New York City gourmet cooking school to come up with that crap. But, of course, if you repeat any of what I’m saying, I’ll deny it and sue you.”

  “Of course. Don’t worry; I’m discreet.” Devastated, she thought, but discreet. “How about the recipes on your cooking show?” She was almost afraid to ask.

  “Naw, those are mine. The only thing that’s mine anymore. That and my granddaughter, Gilly. But it’s just a matter of time until that rotten mother of hers turns her against me, too.”

  Eleanor sighed and closed her eyes for a moment. In the dim light of the lanterns, Savannah wasn’t sure, but she thought she saw a tear sparkling on the woman’s cheek.

  “Those times in my kitchen,” she continued, “when I can just cook, and Gilly’s sitting there on her stool, tasting the things I make, telling me all about her school friends and chattering on about silliness.... those are the only good times I have anymore. They’re all that makes it worth... going on.”

  Yes, there were definitely tears on Lady Eleanor’s cheeks. Savannah wasn’t sure how seriously to take this mood downturn. Was it deep, heartfelt sorrow, or was the woman simply entering the crying-jag period of her drinking routine?

  Either way, Savannah didn’t like what she was hearing. It had been her personal experience that when people grew genuinely, truly tired of living, they were in danger of checking out—one way or the other.

  “Maybe you should talk to somebody, Eleanor,” she suggested as gently as possible. Such suggestions were seldom met with enthusiastic agreement.

  “To hell with you. I don’t need a shrink.”

  “O-kay. How about a spiritual counselor, a minister or rabbi or—”

  “I don’t need God, either. He turned his back on me a long, long time ago.”

  At least half a dozen of Savannah’s grandmother’s admonitions about the Almighty’s abiding love came to her mind, but she decided not to share those words of wisdom. Lady Eleanor didn’t appear to be in a receptive mood.

  Another one of Granny Reid’s observations rang a mental bell as well: “If somebody’s done made up „their mind to be ornery, ain’t much you can say to talk ‘em outta it. lust save your breath and steer clear of ’em.”

  Savannah decided maybe it was time to steer clear of Eleanor Maxwell. At least until she was a bit more sober.

  “I’m concerned about your lack of security measures ‘around here,” Savannah said. “Your back door was unlocked. If I could just walk in, so could anybody else. You need to—”

  “Nobody’s coming into this house without me knowing it. That’s what the dogs are for.”

  “Those dogs, noisy as they are, won’t stop an intruder who’s intent on doing you harm.”

  “That’s what the shotgun’s for.”

  “What shotgun?”

  “The one in the broom closet right beside the pantry door, loaded and ready to rock and roll.”

  Savannah shuddered. “We should talk about that, too. Tomorrow afternoon, I need some time to discuss all these matters with you and—”

  “I’m busy tomorrow. We’re going to be shooting a commercial for the shops in the afternoon.”

  “Eleanor, I know you’re a busy lady, but if I’m going to provide you with any kind of effective protection, I have to be here. I’m going to pack a bag and stay here with you, at least for a few days until I can assess your—”

  “What you have to do is find out who’s writing me those stinking letters. That’s all you’ve got to do. That, and stay out of my hair. You’re not here to tell me what to do. I tell you what’s what, not the other way around. Now get out of here and leave me alone. It’s time for me to start cooking.”

  Slowly, Savannah stood, feeling the chill of the ocean’s night breeze as it swept over her skin. She paused beside Eleanor’s chair, studying the woman who was burying her nose inside her wineglass, a bitter and sad soul who needed far more from her fellow humans than she, would ever admit. And if she continued to act as she was, she would most surely never receive what she needed.

  “Good night, Mrs. Maxwell,” she said. “I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon.... with my suitcase. In a house this size, I’m sure you can find room for me. And we will talk about the measures we need to take to keep you safe. Be well till then. Lock your doors and turn on your alarm system before you go to bed.”

  Eleanor shot her a poisoned look but, for once, didn’t talk back. Savannah considered that a point for her side. She also decided to leave while she was ahead.

  She walked away, around the side of the house to’ where her Mustang was parked. She was eager to leave, more than happy to put this sad world behind her for the day.

  But she paused, her key in her car door as an uneasiness crept over her and a trickle of apprehension skittered down the back of her neck. Was someone watching her from the shadows, just there, near the garage where the limousine was parked? Had she actually seen something from the corner of her eye? Heard someone moving in the bushes? Or was she just feeling the heebie-jeebies from her unpleasant contact with Eleanor?

  Maybe it was one of the coyotes Gilly had mentioned, hunting rabbits or chasing birds in the underbrush.

  But Savannah didn’t think so. The hair on the nape of her neck didn’t prickle at coyotes or birds. The only kind of varmints who raised her hackles were humans. The two-legged kind were the ones you had to watch out for.

  She opened her car door, twisted her key in the ignition, then flipped on her headlights.

  The beams lit the area but revealed nothing unusual... if you didn’t consider a black Jaguar roughly the size of a house unusual.

  But still, those cold fingers of caution were tickling the back of her neck.

  “I know you’re there,” she said to the darkness.... just in case. “Not only that: I know who you are and what you’re up to.”

  Okay, so I don’t know diddly-squat, she thought, but they don’t have to know that.

  “All I’ve got to say is, what you’re figuring on doing... you’d just better not, ‘cause you won’t get away with it.”

  She could have sworn the silence grew heavier, the dark shadows darker. But, as she had expected, nobody replied and nothing moved.

  Finally, she got into her car, started the engine, and drove away. Ah, well, she thought as she passed through the gates and headed toward the warmth of hearth and home. I don’t know if that was enough to stop whomever from doing whatever, but it’ll give ‘em something to think about. Oh, man, I need a hot bath and a couple of friendly, furry faces that don’t bite.

  Chapter

  4

  After a restless eigh
t hours of nightmares, populated by monstrous chocolate-coated queens chasing her with an ax and screaming, “Off with her head! Off with her head! ” Savannah woke to a pounding on her front door. The cats leapt off the foot of her bed and headed for cover under the dresser, their usual hiding place when someone visited.

  “Some watchcats you two are,” she muttered as she hauled her tired body out of bed and slipped on her favorite blue terrycloth robe. “It’s probably Tammy.... lost her key again.”

  The moment she stood, it hit her: the dizziness and a throbbing pain across her forehead. She swallowed and felt as though she had just taken a gulp of prickly pear cactus juice—with the prickles.

  The loud pounding on the door seemed to shoot into her ears and through her body, causing her aches to ache and her hurts to hurt. She was sore in places she hadn’t known she had.

  “Oh, great, a cold,” she grumbled in a voice that was half an octave lower than usual. “Just what I need.”

  On the way to the door, she grabbed a handful of tissues from a box on the coffee table and blew into them. She was still blowing when she opened the door and found Dirk on her front porch.

  “Oh, now that’s appealing,” he said as he brushed by her and walked into the living room. “What’s the matter, you sick or something?”

  “Yeah, I think I’ve got a cold, and I should give it to you, waking me up like that. Why are you here so early?” She reconsidered. “Why are you here at all?”

  She followed him as he continued on into the kitchen. “I came over for breakfast,” he said. “Remember, the other morning? We were gonna have breakfast together and then you made me go to the bank and—”

  “Boy, you’ve got some nerve,” she said, sinking onto a chair at the kitchen table. She propped her elbows on the table and her face in her hands. “I feel like death warmed over, and you come here expecting me to cook for you. Why I oughta—ach-oo!”

  “Bless you.”

  “Eh, bite me. What have you got there?”

  She noticed for the first time that he was carrying something with him—something pink—and now he was setting it on the kitchen counter.

  A rustling of paper... and the smell of cinnamon and coffee filled the room, penetrating even her stuffed-up nasal passages.

  “You brought me Pastry Palace cinnamon rolls?” Suddenly the world seemed bright; perhaps life was worth living, after all. “And coffee? Oh, Dirk, you’re the best.” From the depths of the hot pink paper bag he pulled two giant Styrofoam cups. With great aplomb he set one of them in front of her and pulled off the plastic lid. “With extra cream, not milk, and two sugars, just the way you like it.”

  She took a sip, and the hot sweetness soothed her angry throat. “Dirk, darlin’, I adore you.”

  He grinned. “And here we have.... an extra goopy, super cinnamon roll with cream cheese frosting.” He opened a small cardboard box and waved the pastry under her nose. “For this, you should volunteer to be my sex slave. After you get over that cold, that is. I don’t want you givin’ me cooties.”

  “I ain’t giving you nothing, boy, with or without cooties. But, oh, this is so-o-o-o good! It warms the cockles of my little heart.”

  He grunted as he plopped down onto the seat next to hers and unwrapped his own breakfast. “I hate to think how long it’s been since I had my... ah... cockles... warmed.”

  “Do you mind? Person eating here.”

  They munched and sipped in blissful silence for several minutes. Savannah could feel the infusion of sugar and caffeine jump-starting her groggy system. And along with enhanced consciousness came suspicion.

  “Why did you really come over here,” she said, “bearing coffee and goodies? I mean, not that you aren’t the soul of generosity, but—”

  He gave her a wounded look, then bit off a mouthful of roll. “You’re sure a cynical old broad, you know that?”

  “Cynical middle-aged broad. Let’s just say that I know you. And if you’d just intended to be sweet, you would have dropped by Joe’s Donuts, gotten a free dozen, and come over with that. But this—” She waved a hand at the bounty. “You actually opened your wallet and shelled out cold, hard cash for this spread. You want something. No doubt about it.”

  His lower lip protruded like that of a petulant kinder-gartner. The pout looked ridiculous on a fight-scarred, streetworn, forty-something face. ‘You really know how to hurt a guy. I was just—”

  “You wanna come over to watch football tonight on my big screen?”

  “No, geez, you’re—”

  “Is there a fight on HBO? You’ve really got to get your own cable, you know. Your antenna with the sheets of tinfoil hanging from it is a disgrace. What do you get, two channels?”

  “Three, and—”

  “Or do you want me to go on that worthless ATM stroll again with you, wear that stupid old-lady garb and...”

  He coughed and took a quick sip of coffee. But she had seen it—the gleam of hope in his eyes.

  She nodded knowingly. ‘Yep, that’s it. You want me to do the decoy bit with you again. No way, José. It ain’t happening. This girl’s got a paying gig.”

  “The thing that John set you up with? That chocolate gal?”

  “The very one. I spent the day at her mansion yesterday, and I’m going back this afternoon. In fact, I’ll be living there in the lap of luxury, in the land of milk and chocolate, earning megabucks, while you—”

  “The gig sucks, huh?”

  “Big time.” She reached into her robe pocket, pulled out a fresh tissue and dabbed at her nose. “The so-called ‘Lady’ Eleanor isn’t. She wants to know who’s been sending her hate mail so that she can blow them away with the shotgun she keeps in her broom closet.”

  “Do you have anybody you like for it?”

  “Oh, I like them all for it. Everybody around her hates her, and if you spent two minutes with her, you’d see why. She’s a miserable person, and she’s determined that everyone around share her misery.”

  “Have you seen the letters?”

  She nodded, and sneezed.

  “Do you think they’re serious?”

  She shrugged. “Who knows? But either way, you have to operate on the assumption that they are. Better safe than sorry and all that.”

  “So, you’re gonna stay over there for a while?”

  He actually looked disappointed. If she hadn’t felt so rotten, she might have been flattered that he would miss her. But in her present state of mind, she decided it was the free food and big-screen TV that he was grieving.

  “I’m taking a suitcase,” she said. “She’s already told me she doesn’t want me to stay, but....”

  “But you’ve never been one to worry about whether you’re wanted or not.”

  She gave him a searching look over her tissue. “Gee, thanks... I guess.”

  “No problem. Hey, are you gonna eat the rest of your roll? You didn’t get any sneeze cooties on that half, right?”

  This time when Savannah stepped out of her car in the Maxwell driveway, she was well prepared. “Hey, you sweet things,” she mumbled as she pulled a plastic sandwich bag from her purse and unzipped it. At her feet, the silkies snarled, but with only a fraction of the ferocity they had displayed the day before. And no one sank his fangs into her living tissues. Definitely an improvement.

  “Look at what Auntie Savannah brought you.”

  She tried to ignore the added pain in her sinuses when she bent over to feed them the tidbits of fried chicken livers seasoned with garlic powder. “Don’t think this is because I particularly like you,” she said as they gobbled down the offering. “But I figure things will go much more smoothly around here if you and I are friends.”

  They ate every smidgen and even licked her fingers clean. Tails wagging gaily, they sat up and begged for more. She had to admit that with doggy smiles on their furry faces, they were pretty darned cute. “All right,” she said, “I like you a little bit.”

  “My mother will s
cream at you if she catches you feeding her dogs,” a female voice said from the region of the garage. Savannah turned to see an attractive blonde in a skimpy bikini watching her, a beach towel dangling from one hand, a pair of sunglasses in the other. Her suit was wet, as well as the towel. Savannah assumed she had just been to the beach.

  “So, what is it?” the woman asked, pointing to the bag in Savannah’s hand. “Arsenic?”

  “Chicken livers and garlic. Dogs love it. At least, my granny’s bloodhound in Georgia does. Figured it was worth a try.”

  “Lace it with rat poison next time. Do us all a favor.” Savannah folded the plastic bag and placed it back into her purse. ‘Your mother? You must be Louise, Gilly’s mom.”

  “You know my kid?”

  “I met her last night just before midnight. She was sitting in the gazebo alone.... crying. I spent a few minutes with her, seeing if she was all right.”

  Savannah hoped Louise Maxwell could hear the heavy subtext in her words, but although she was extremely attractive in her Hawaiian print bikini with her golden, shoulder-length hair and perfect tan, she didn’t appear particularly intelligent or perceptive and only mildly concerned.

  “Well, was she.... all right?”

  “She was pretty upset, but we talked, and I think she felt better afterward.”

  “Good,” she said flatly, not looking particularly grateful or even interested. Then a sudden look of anger crossed her face, giving her a flush of passion that took Savannah by surprise. “Crying, huh? Just before midnight? That’s about the time she goes down to hang out with my mother. I’ll bet the bitch said something rotten to her again.”

  Savannah’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah, it’s sad when a child hears harsh, ugly things. It wounds their spirits.” Again, her pointed barb seemed to sail over Louise’s head. Most unfulfilling, she thought, and decided not, to waste her breath. One of Granny Reid’s favorite sayings came to mind: “Don’t try to teach a pig to sing. It’s a waste of your time, and it irritates the pig.”