“I‘ve probably been more bummed than I am right now at some time in my life,” Savannah observed as she watched the county coroner’s van pull away with her latest client. “But I don’t rightly recall when.” Tammy put her arm around Savannah’s shoulder and gave her a sideways hug. “It wasn’t your fault. Dr. Liu said it was probably a heart attack. We did the CPR. It was just her time.”
Savannah walked across the lawn to the gazebo where she had talked to Gilly only the night before. Now it seemed like ten years ago.
Savannah pulled her sweater more tightly around her and shivered, although the night air was decidedly warm. Her head ached, and every muscle in her body cried out for a hot bath and a bed. She wasn’t sure how much of her misery was due to her cold and how much to having a client die in her arms.
“That poor little Gilly,” she said. “Her grandmother may have been a drunk, but she cared about the kid. I had a tea party with them just this after—”
Savannah’s throat started to close up as a sob rose to the surface. She quickly swallowed it. If she started to cry now, she’d fall to pieces. And that was another one of her professional standards: never come unglued on the job. Wait until you’re home, and make sure you have several pints of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey in the freezer. Then slip into your comfy robe, grab a box of tissues and a large spoon.... and let ‘er rip.
But at the moment she was a long ways from the freezer or her blue terry-cloth robe. So she sucked it inside and pushed it down—to explode another time.
Dirk exited the studio, a roll of yellow perimeter tape in one hand. He looked around and, spotting them in the gazebo, walked their way.
“I’m glad you caught the case,” Savannah said as he approached.
“Well, I’m not,” he grumbled. “Did you get a load of those camera crews lined up outside the gate? This is gonna be a media circus. Hell, you’d think Martha Stewart or Emeril kicked the bucket, not some two-bit hustler like that old broad was.”
Savannah bristled. “Excuse me. The poor woman’s dead.”
“Then she won’t mind what I say about her, will she.” He sighed and sank down onto the cushioned bench beside Savannah. “Anyway, how come she’s a ‘poor woman’ now? You called her a bitch this morning, right there at the breakfast table. I heard you.”
“Oh, shut up, Dirko,” Tammy snapped. “Sometimes you’ve got the sensitivity of an armadillo.”
“A what?”
“Never mind, just watch what you say. Savannah’s feeling bad about this.”
Dirk actually seemed surprised. “Really? Why? She was fat, she was old, and she croaked. It happens all the time.”
Savannah sprang to her feet and stepped back a few feet to put a safe distance between herself and Dirk before she did him serious physical harm.
“One of these days, Dirk, I’m going to slap you stupid and it won’t take long. In the first place, Eleanor was only a few years older than we are, buddy, and secondly, she wasn’t fat, she was.... a lady of abundant proportions.”
“Well, excuse me,” he said with a sniff. “I don’t always keep up on the most current p.c. terms.”
“Oh, screw p.c. and screw you, Coulter. It’s a matter of having the sense to understand that everybody doesn’t come in one size or shape. Women’s bodies are beautiful, and that goes for the big ones as well as the smaller ones. It’s believing that any human body that’s walking around—seeing, hearing, speaking, feeling, functioning—is a miracle of nature and worthy of respect. And so is the person who inhabits that body.”
The emotions that she had shoved down came boiling to the surface and choked off the rest of her speech. She dissolved in wracking sobs.
So much for not coming unglued while on duty.
“Savannah!” Dirk was standing... walking toward her, his arms outstretched. “What’s the matter with you, Van?”
A moment later he was holding her and she was crying all over the front of his shirt. Tammy was patting her back and murmuring, “There, there.”
“What is it, hon? Why are you crying like that?” he said, stroking her hair.
Tammy supplied the answer. “She thinks she killed Eleanor, you idiot.”
“What? Why?”
Dirk wasn’t always the most perceptive, but Savannah decided to forgive him, because it felt so good to have his big, strong arms wrapped around her. And his shirt smelled good... like him. Insensitive but dependable ol’ Dirk.
“Eleanor hired her to protect her,” Tammy explained, as if he were a mentally retarded cocker spaniel. “Eleanor died. Savannah feels responsible.”
“Ah, hell... you didn’t kill her,” he said. “And if you could’ve stopped it, you would’ve. That’s all there is to it.” Savannah pushed herself away, out of his arms. “It’s not that simple.”
“I hate to admit it,” Tammy intetjected, “but it really is that simple. Dirk’s right this time.”
“What do you mean this time?” he wanted to know. “Oh, get over yourself, Dirk.” Tammy squeezed Savannah around the waist. “Come on. Let’s take you home. I’ll draw you a bubble bath, and Dirk can pour you a stiff drink.”
Savannah pulled some tissues out of her pants pocket and blew into them. “As tempting as that offer is, I’ll have to take a rain check.” She looked up at the gatekeeper’s cottage, where she had seen Louise go, moments after Kaitlin Dover had told her the news about her mother. “There’s something I have to do first.”
“Are you sure?” Dirk said. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m all right. And yes, I’m very sure.”
“So, is that supposed to make me feel better?” Louise Maxwell lit up a cigarette and tossed her pack and lighter onto the glass-topped coffee table. She was sitting on a leather sofa that had seen better days in a room that was cluttered with magazines, empty pizza boxes, and plastic soda bottles.
Gilly sat, crying softly, on the sofa beside her mother.
Savannah was standing. She hadn’t been invited to take a seat.
“I was hoping it might make you feel a little better,” Savannah said, “both of you.”
Louise tapped her cigarette tip on an overflowing tray and ran her fingers through her blond hair. “Sorry, but it’s much too little too late. My mother waits until she’s friggin’ dying to tell me that she loves me? How messed up is that?”
For just a moment, Savannah allowed herself to reflect on the fact that she had never heard her own mother speak any words of affection or praise. Did it hurt? Sure. Did she let herself dwell on it? Not anymore. She didn’t have time to hate. Or the energy either, for that matter. Life was too short.
“I believe she really meant it” Savannah turned to Gilly, who seemed to be absorbing her words more than her mother. ‘They say that the words of a person who’s.... dying.... Eire always true. She asked me twice to tell you both that she really loved you. I’m sure she did, in her own way.”
“That’s why she had tea parties with me,” Gilly offered.
“That’s exactly right. And that’s why she made sure that Marie put roses on your petit fours.”
Louise stood, walked over to the cottage door, and opened it wide. “I think I’ve heard about all the comforting words I want to hear from you tonight. If you’ll just leave me and my daughter to grieve in peace.” Savannah looked over at Gilly. “Are you going to be all right, sweetpea?”
The girl nodded. Savannah could see in her eyes, sad though they were, that the child was strong. She’d make it, in spite of her circumstances.
Some kids grew and thrived in the rockiest of gardens. Savannah had grown into a pretty sturdy weed herself in some less than perfect soil.
“Good night,” she told them both as she left. “And I’m very sorry for your loss.”
She walked out of the cottage and found Dirk and Tammy waiting for her, ready to take her home. God bless good friends, she thought. God, bless ‘em good.
An hour later, Savannah emerged from her steam
y, rose-scented bathroom wearing her blue robe and a more relaxed look on her face.
“Well, you look better.... red nose and all,” Tammy told her when she came down the stairs and entered the living room.
Tammy was sitting on the sofa, a serving tray on the coffee table in front of her. Savannah eyed the steaming mug on the tray with a mixture of anticipation and suspicion.
“You didn’t make me an herbal something or the other, did you?” she asked. “Not that I don’t love your cooking but...”
“Oh, please. You hate my cooking.”
“That’s not true. Except for when you try to sneak that carob-wannabe-chocolate crap into my chocolate chip cookies. And I’m not big on your miso soup or your celery soy shakes.” She sighed and collapsed onto the sofa next to Tammy. “Come to think of it, golden girl... I guess I’m not a big fan of your cooking. But as talented and beautiful as you are, who needs to cook, too.”
“Good save.” She picked up the mug from the tray and held it out to Savannah. “Here, this will fix whatever ails you.”
Savannah lifted one eyebrow. “What is it? Not essence of octopus, or ginseng wheat-grass juice, right?”
“Oh, stop. It’s a hot toddy. Dirk made it for you. And since he was raiding your liquor cabinet to make it, I’m sure he was generous with the booze.”
Savannah took the mug and peeked inside. A slice of fresh orange and another one of lemon floated on the top, studded with whole cloves. The citrus-scented steam filled her stuffy nasal passages with the promise of good Irish whiskey.
She took a drink, held it in her mouth for a moment to savor the spices, and then swallowed. It flowed through her like warm, liquid flame, soothing as it went.
“Ah, that’s too good. And you’re right; he didn’t spare the booze.”
“I’ve heard that a good Irish toddy will cure a cold in twelve hours.”
“I don’t know if it will cure it, but a few sips and you won’t mind being sick half so much.”
Diamante jumped into Savannah’s lap and began rubbing her face against the front of her robe. Cleopatra joined her, vying for attention.
Savannah looked around. “Where is Dirk, anyway? I thought he’d still be here when I got out of the tub.”
“No, he left as soon as you went into the bathroom.” All of a sudden, Tammy wasn’t looking her in the eye. That wasn’t a good sign.
Savannah took another swig of the toddy. She had a feeling she was going to need it. “Where did he go?” Tammy reached over and petted Cleopatra, buying time before she finally said, “Ah, you know... back.”
“Back? You mean to Eleanor’s place?”
“Mmmm... yeah.”
Savannah glanced at her mantel clock. “It’s almost two A.M. Why is he going back there now?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he left something. You know how Dirk is. He’d forget his head if it weren’t attached.” Savannah stared at her, then nudged her with her elbow. “Spill it, kid. What exactly did he say he was going back there for?”
Tammy shrugged and cleared her throat. “He might have said something about finishing up.... processing the scene.”
“Processing? Is he going back with the Crime Scene Unit?”
“I think they might already be there. I think they might have got there right after we left.”
“Oh, you think so, huh?”
Savannah set her mug back on the tray and brushed the cats off her lap. “He does think it’s a murder scene. He thinks somebody killed her somehow or he wouldn’t be treating the place like a crime scene.”
“He’s just being thorough. You know, erring on the side of caution and all that.”
“Bullshit. Dirk doesn’t err at two in the morning. He’s a hardworking cop, but he’s not that conscientious unless he’s got strong suspicions. I’ve gotta go back there. And you have to drive me.”
Savannah stood and headed for the stairs. But the effects of the long, traumatic day, the hot bath, and Dirk’s toddy hit her legs, and she had to grab the banister to keep her balance.
Tammy hurried to her and offered a shoulder to lean on. “You aren’t going anywhere, young lady,” she said, “except straight to bed. Dirk told me not to tell you he was going back, because he knew what you’d do. And he told me that if you showed up there, he was going to hold me personally responsible.”
“I should help him process that scene. It was my responsibility and.... ah-h-h-chew!”
“Go.” Tammy pushed her from behind. “Up the stairs and into bed right now.”
Savannah wanted to resist, but it was a clear case of the spirit being willing and the flesh being weak. “All right,” she said, “but only because you called me a young lady. And only if you’ll bring me the rest of that toddy.” ‘You got it. I’ll tell Dirk that you took three sips and were dead to the world. He’ll be so proud.”
Obediently, Savannah trudged up the stairs, her friend right behind her. ‘Yes, Dirk is easily impressed.” Tammy nodded. “Especially with himself.”
Chapter
7
As Savannah drove to the San Carmelita police station the next morning, she experienced one of those brief but precious moments when she was truly grateful to be alive. The foothill road that she took from her house to die station passed a number of orange and lemon groves. The smell of the sun-warmed fruit reminded her of the previous evening’s treat, and she marveled once again at its healing properties.
When she had awakened in the morning, her head had been completely clear, and other than a nagging sadness and an ache of guilt, she was happy to be in the land of the living.
In the distance, the sun sparkled on the blue of the Pacific, and she could see the palm-lined streets leading to some of the most beautiful beaches on the West Coast.
The station was centrally located in town, on the older, more picturesque Main Street. Like most of the mission-founded towns along the coastline, San Carmelita had begun at an old adobe church a hundred or so years before. The town had grown gracefully, filling the space from the ocean to the foothills with first citrus groves, then stores and houses. From the tiny white bungalows with red-tiled roofs crowded side by side on the beach to multimillion-dollar mansions perched on the hillsides, the town had a lazy, gentle feel about it. And in the years that it had been her home, Savannah had done all she could as a cop and an investigator to keep it that way.
The older she got, the more she realized the intrinsic value of “lazy” and “gentle.”
The thought that someone might have been “less than gentle” with her most recent client was so disturbing that she put the idea aside with an effort and promised herself not to worry about it until she knew more.
She needed information. And the police station— specifically, Dirk’s desk—was the place to start.
Every time she pulled into the station-house parking lot, she felt a tug of nostalgia, a twinge of resentment. She had worked hard at being a cop. She had been a damned good one. But years ago she had investigated some people in high places and toppled a couple of political icons and had been kicked off the force for her efforts.
The whole fiasco had been horribly unfair. But she wasn’t bitter, and the resentment was only a twinge. She loved her present life as a private detective, and if she hadn’t gotten the boot, she’d still be on the force, answering to the schmucks who’d unjustly fired her.
Through the glass front of the building, she could see that the front desk was occupied by one of her least favorite cops, Kenny Bates, a stud-muffin, at least in his own opinion. Kenny didn’t seem to notice that for a womanizer, he led a fairly female-free existence. Gals weren’t exactly lining up to take a bite out of his cupcake. Savannah strongly suspected that Kenny Boy hadn’t had a nibble or even a sniff in years.
The last time she had seen him, he had been working the front desk at the coroner’s office. He must have been promoted—or, considering it was Kenny, demoted.
“Hey, hey, hey, Savannah baby!” he
proclaimed as she walked through the door. ‘Just couldn’t stay away, huh?”
She glanced at the too-thick, slightly askew toupee, the uniform that was two sizes too small, causing his buttons to strain across his ample belly. She caught the fairly pungent odor of nacho cheese chips on his breath as he slid the clipboard across the counter for her to sign.
“Oh, yeah.... Bates. I live for these moments together.” She scrawled “Daisy Duck” on the ledger and passed it back to him. She had been signing in with assorted cartoon character names since she had been canned... and the vigilant Kenneth Bates had never even noticed.
Ken lit up at her words. She shook her head. Dissing him was just too easy, hardly any challenge at all.
“Really? Me too,” he gushed. “Hey, why don’t you come over to my place tonight, and we can watch TV together. I’ve got that new ‘adult’ channel—it’s channel sixty-nine! Get it? Sixty-nine!” He guffawed at his own joke, reminding her of a buck-toothed donkey she once knew in Georgia. “Maybe we can get us some ideas from watching it, huh?”
She shoved the clipboard back at him and took off down the hall, eager to breathe fresh, non-nacho-scented air. “Eat dirt and die, Bates, you friggin’ maggot,” she said over her shoulder.
“Yeah, well, if you change your mind, give me a ring,” he called after her.
She found Dirk at his desk in the squad room. As usual, he was fighting with his computer. Dirk had never recovered from the shock of having to upgrade from his Underwood typewriter to a computer keyboard and mouse.
“Damned thing,” he swore as she walked up behind him and leaned over his shoulder. “It ate my document again. I hit one button—I don’t even know which one— and poof! It’s gone. I hate it when that happens. Stupid piece of crap.”
She reached over him, scrolled to the bottom of the page, and hit the “restore” icon. His form instantly materialized.
“It’s not the machine’s fault. It’s operator error,” she said, pulling a chair from a nearby empty desk and setting it next to his.
Death by Chocolate Page 8
