Death by Chocolate

by G. A. McKevett

  “The one I’m investigating, and that’s all you need to know.” Dirk handed the bag of medications to Savannah, walked over and snatched the box out of Streck’s hands. “And you need to leave before you interfere with my investigation.”

  Streck sputtered a few seconds, then said, “I’m going to have a talk with your superior, Detective. This is most improper. I—”

  “You are irritating me,” Dirk told him, shoving his face close to the other man’s, “and that’s damned close to interfering with me and my investigation.”

  “Yeah, you’d better make some tracks,” Savannah added. “Coulter here is very irritable. Almost as irritable as he is irritating, and that’s saying something.” ‘You haven’t heard the last of this.” Streck huffed and snorted as he stomped across the foyer to the door and jerked it open. ‘You have no right to keep me from fulfilling my duties to my client. I’ve never seen such a...” He left, slamming the door behind him.

  Savannah and Dirk both looked down at the box in his arms. “He didn’t waste any time getting over here and removing those files,” she said.

  “He sure didn’t. All the more reason for me to take a look at them.”

  Savannah walked over to the window and watched as Streck peeled out of the driveway, screeching his Lexus’s tires as he left.

  “He’s plenty hot and bothered,” she said.

  “Yeah.” Dirk grinned. “And that’s why we’re going to give these files a long, thorough look.”

  Chapter

  9

  Savannah sat in her favorite chair, an overstuffed, wingbacked monstrosity covered in a cabbage-rose chintz. A matching ottoman supported her feet and a sleeping Diamante. Cleopatra stood on the arm of the chair, batting at the fringe on the shade of the floorlamp that supplied reading light for the person relaxing there.

  Dirk, Tammy, Ryan, and John sat around her diningroom table in the next room, the files that Dirk had confiscated that day spread out before them. Chatting among themselves, sipping tea and coffee, and nibbling the chocolate chip cookies she had baked for them, they made a cozy picture.

  It was a sight that would have normally warmed Savannah’s heart. Usually, she would have been there with them, sipping, nibbling, and chatting.... her favorite pastimes. But her job for the evening was to read the journal she had found in Eleanor’s nightstand. And the more she read, the sadder she felt.

  Eleanor’s writings had been anything but eloquent. In the simplest and sometimes terse language she had described her daily torments.

  Written in that large, flowing hand with purple ink, her words touched Savannah, giving her a greater appreciation for the woman than she had held before. No wonder Eleanor Maxwell had been difficult: she was terribly unhappy and almost completely alone.

  A couple of passages impressed Savannah as being particularly honest and poignant.

  My kid hates me. My only child wishes I were dead. What does that say about me? She says I messed her up, that it’s my fault she’s miserable. I guess it is. But I didn’t know I was being such a rotten mother. I thought I was doing okay at the time, or I would have done something different. The last thing any mother would want to do is mess up her kid. Make her child hate her. She acts like I did it on purpose. Out of spite. Who would ever deliberately do something like that?

  And other passages relating to the breakup with her husband described the pain of betrayal.

  I know he’s in love with someone else. I remember when he loved me, so I recognize the signs. I keep thinking about them together. Picturing him making love to her, saying sweet things to her like he used to say to me. But I can’t see her face. I wonder, is she a stranger, someone I’ve never met, someone who‘s a member of his world and not mine? Or is she a friend, somebody I see every day, someone who looks me right in the eye and knows? And knows that I don’t know. And secretly laughs at me.

  He lies to me. He says, “I’m going here, I’m doing that.” And I know he isn‘t. I call him a liar and he says I’m crazy, I’m imagining things. I don’t know which is the worst, the cruelest. Being unfaithful to me or trying to make me think I’m crazy. I hate him. I may kill him. And when I find out who she is, I might kill her, too. Especially if she’s a so-called friend.

  “Are you okay, Savannah?”

  Savannah jumped, startled out of her reverie, and looked up to see John Gibson standing in front of her chair, watching her with soft, compassionate eyes.

  “What? Oh....” She looked down at the open diary on her lap. ‘Yes, I’m all right. Just depressing reading, this journal. Eleanor’s life wasn’t pretty.”

  With the consummate grace that was John Gibson, he sat on the end of the sofa close to her, reached for her hand and folded it between his own. “I have to tell you, love,” he said, “I wish I had never given you this referral. It has obviously cost you much more in sorrow than it would ever have paid.”

  “That isn’t your fault, and you have nothing to feel bad about. Anytime I take a job, I know that it could end up badly. It’s the nature of the work.”

  He patted her hand. “But not this badly.”

  “True. My clients usually survive my services.”

  “And Mrs. Maxwell would have, too, but for her health problems. I’m sure you’ll feel much better when you get those laboratory results and know, once and for all, that she died of natural causes.”

  Savannah glanced at her mantel clock. “It’s after seven. Dr. Liu would have gone home by now. We won’t hear from her until tomorrow morning at the earliest.” As though taking some perverse cue, the phone on the end table next to Savannah’s chair rang.

  She gave John a quick, nervous look. “Or maybe not,” she said, picking it up. “Hello?”

  A voice with a thicker Southern accent than her own answered, “Hey, Savannah, it’s Cordele.”

  Cordele, one of her many sisters in Georgia, was the one least likely of her eight siblings to ever call. Savannah’s mouth went dry as she considered all the tragic possibilities, starting with her octogenarian grandmother. “Cordele, what is it? Is Gran—”

  “Everybody’s fine. Gran sends her love.”

  “Oh, good.” She placed her hand over her chest and could feel her heart pounding. John was looking at her with concern. “Everybody’s fine,” she repeated, nodding to John. “So, what’s up?”

  “Me.... in a few hours. I’m flying out there to see you.”

  Mixed emotions flooded Savannah’s system. She loved all of her siblings dearly, but they weren’t the easiest people on earth to entertain. And without much notice, and in the middle of a case...

  “I don’t know if this is the best time, darlin’,” she said as gently as she could. “We’re pretty crazy around here right now and—” My nerves are shot to hell and back, she added silently. “I don’t know if it’s a good time for a visit.”

  “I knew you’d say that,” Cordele replied, “that’s why I went ahead and paid for the flight. Nonrefundable, non transferable.... all that.”

  Savannah felt her nostrils flaring slightly. They always did that when she felt she was being grossly manipulated by a member of her own family.

  “You really should have called first,” she said as evenly as she could manage. “I would have—”

  “You would have told me not to come,” Cordele supplied. “And that’s why I didn’t call you first. It’s very important that you and I talk. We have some issues we need to work through.”

  Those last few words caused a trickle of ice to shiver down Savannah’s back. A psychology major in college, Cordele could be a pain in the ass with her “issue solving.” She seemed to have a never-ending supply of issues.

  “Really, Cordele,” Savannah said, trying not to let her voice shake, trying not to start screaming, “this isn’t a good time for—”

  “There’s never a good dme to work through family problems, Savannah, but it absolutely must be done.” Savannah’s hackles rose. Her sister’s authoritative, self-right
eous tone made Savannah want to box her ears soundly with a frying pan.

  “Cordele, if you want to come out here and go to Disneyland or hang out on the beaches, fine, but I’m not in the mood for—”

  Beep.

  Her “call waiting” had cut in. She glanced at the caller I.D. and saw it was from the coroner’s office.

  “Cordele, I’m getting another call, and I have to take it. It’s very important and—”

  “So are the things I have to discuss with you.”

  “I know, but—”

  Beep.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow morning at LAX, nine forty-five,” Cordele continued. “I’m coming in on Sunrise International, flight three ninety-six from Atlanta. Pick me up. Bye.”

  “Cordele, I don’t know what I’ll be doing tomorrow, I—”

  Beep.

  “Damnation!” Savannah punched the flash button. “Hello, Dr. Liu.”

  “Hi, Savannah,” came a calm, quiet voice of reason. “Did I call at a bad time?”

  “Oh, only a little worse than usual. What’s up?”

  “Is Dirk there?”

  Not only was Dirk there, he was breathing down her neck and had been since she had uttered the words “Dr. Liu.”

  She handed him the phone.

  Everyone had vacated the dining room and was standing around her chair, collectively holding their breath.

  “Coulter here,” he said. He listened, nodded, then frowned. “Are you sure?”

  “What? What is it?” Savannah whispered.

  “And would that cause a heart attack?” he continued, i waving her off. “How much?”

  “How much what?” Tammy wanted to know.

  “Where would somebody get that?” he said.

  “Get what?” Still sitting in her chair—but on the edge—Savannah reached out and tugged on the leg of Dirk’s jeans.

  Ryan and John said nothing, but watched anxiously. “So what’s your final word? What are you ruling it?” Dirk grimaced and gave Savannah a thumbs-down. “Okay, thanks.... I guess.”

  He clicked the phone off and laid it on the end table before answering the flurry of “Who? What? When? How? Where?” he was getting from the circle of eager eavesdroppers around him.

  “Poisoned,” he said.

  “What do you mean, poisoned?” Savannah asked, jumping to her feet. ‘You mean, like rat poison, cyanide, arsenic and lace?”

  “Like phenylprophedrine, or something like that,” he said. “Dr. Liu got the lab results back, and her bloodstream was full of it.”

  “Wait a minute,” Tammy said. “I saw something about that drug a few weeks ago on the Internet. They were discontinuing it because several people had died.”

  “Yes.” Ryan nodded. “I saw a news byte about that. I believe phenylprophedrine was being used to treat cold symptoms, but it interacted badly with some heart medications. Didn’t a lady die in Florida and a man in Oregon?”

  “Yes, I think that’s what the article on the Internet said,” Tammy agreed. ‘They were heart patients, and the drug interaction caused their blood pressure to soar and—”

  Savannah held up both hands. “Wait! Everybody quiet! ” She turned to Dirk. “So Eleanor died of a drug interaction?”

  “Yep.”

  She sagged into her chair, her knees weak with relief. “Then it was an accidental death. Thank God.”

  “Not so fast,” Dirk replied. “Dr. Liu says she had a lot in her system, way more than she would have taken if she’d just been treating a cold.”

  Everyone was silent, digesting this. Finally Tammy said, “So.... maybe suicide?”

  John pointed to the journal that Savannah had placed on the table next to the telephone. ‘You said the poor girl was dreadfully depressed. Do you suppose it’s possible she took her own life?”

  Savannah turned to Dirk. “Is that what Dr. Liu is ruling it? A suicide?”

  Dirk stared at her for a long moment, as though trying to make up his mind about something.

  “Come on,” she said. ‘Just spit it out, for pete’s sake.”

  “Naw, she thinks it’s more likely a homicide. And I agree with her. I mean.... that would be a stupid way for somebody to kill themselves.... overdosing on cold medicine.”

  Savannah sat back in her chair and rubbed her throbbing temples with her fingertips. “Boy,” she said. You know it’s bad when you’re actually hoping for a suicide. How warped is that?”

  “Well, I guess you know what this means, boys and girls,” Ryan said.

  “It means,” Savannah replied, “that I let my client get murdered right under my nose.”

  “No, that’s not what it means at all.” Ryan sat down on the ottoman and placed a comforting hand on her knee. “It means we have a killer to catch. It’s the least we can do for Lady Eleanor, Queen of Chocolate.”

  “Here, here,” John said, patting Savannah’s shoulder.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever.” Dirk turned and walked back into the kitchen. “But if I’m going to have to keep lookin’ at these boring papers, I’m going to have to have some more of those cookies. Van, you wanna throw some in the oven.”

  Savannah thought of Cordele boarding a plane in a few hours and coming to California to work out some familial “issues.” She thought of Lady Eleanor, dying in her arms of a fatal drug interaction.... just as some coldblooded killer had intended she would. She thought of her dear friend, Dirk, and his need for physical sustenance during these trying, difficult times.

  “Eh,” she said, “bite me.”

  At nine forty-five the next morning Savannah was standing outside the baggage-claim area in the Sunrise International terminal cursing herself for not having the chutzpah to just not show up as demanded. Let Miss Smarty-Pants Cordele find her own way from LAX to San Carmelita—or better yet, back to Georgia.

  She had a lot of nerve, arriving out of the blue and expecting chauffeur service on top of room and board. Who did Cordele think she was, anyway, the Queen of Sheba, the Czarina of Timbuktu?

  Savannah had sincerely entertained the thought of just letting her sister cool her heels awhile at the airport before coming to get her. After all, she had work to do. Dirk was at the mansion, investigating, as he should be, and she should be there, too. But no, she had gotten roped into baby-sitting her almost-thirty-year-old sister.

  Having worked herself into a pretty good lather by the time the plane landed, Savannah had a speech all rehearsed. It had to do with feeling that her boundaries hadn’t been respected, nor her preferences taken into account, that her territory had been invaded without her permission, etc., etc.

  But the moment the passengers of Flight 396 from Atlanta began to disembark, she felt a sense of excitement. A member of her immediate family, her own flesh and blood, had traveled across the country to see her. She really should feel honored and pleased.

  She did feel honored and pleased. Having decided that she should, she did. Maybe it would be a great visit, a bonding experience between siblings.

  But the instant she set eyes on her sister, the recently generated warm and fuzzy feelings disappeared.

  It wasn’t the fact that Cordele had the straightest posture of absolutely everybody getting off the plane— including a couple of Marines. It wasn’t that her white blouse was buttoned up tightly under her chin or that she was probably the only person in America under the age of thirty who actually wore a brooch pinned at her throat. It wasn’t the baggy navy blue skirt or the conservative black loafers that were modest to the point of dowdy. It wasn’t the lift to her chin that conveyed what a truly superior human being she felt herself to be. It wasn’t the way she walked—as if she had sat on a steel rod that now extended from her rear end to her tonsils.

  No. It was the combination of all of the above. And the fact that Sissy Cordele hadn’t changed one iota. She was still an uptight snob.

  And... she had cut her hair. Really, really short.

  Savannah decided that was the safest con
versation-opening topic.

  She hurried to her and gave her sister a hearty hug. Cordele returned it with a weak, one-handed pat on Savannah’s back.

  “Hi, darlin’,” Savannah said, trying to summon some degree of enthusiasm. ‘You look great. You ah.... you cut your hair.”

  Cordele reached up and smoothed the slickly gelled hair back, though it had so much goop on it that it probably wouldn’t have moved in an eighty-mile-an-hour hurricane. ‘Yes,” she said, “I decided it was time to liberate myself, to come out from behind the veil of my hair and reveal the true me to the world.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  Cordele tossed her head in what might have been a devil-may-care gesture if it hadn’t been for that perfectly stiff posture. For a moment, Savannah thought she might have dislocated her neck.

  “You really should cut yours.” Cordele fell into step beside Savannah as they approached the luggage carousel. “If you can find the courage to do it, you’ll discover that it’s very freeing. But of course, you have to give up your security blanket that you hide behind. You have to be willing to come out and reveal the real you.”

  “Uh-huh.” Savannah scanned the thin trickle of suitcases that was beginning to spill down the chute and onto the carousel.

  “Really. You should cut off all those split ends,” Cordele continued. “I can do it for you when we get back to your place and—”

  “Thanks but no thanks,” Savannah interjected. “My hair and I are pretty good as is. Really.”

  Cordele shrugged and gave her sister a slightly wounded but terribly patient smile. “I understand. Not everybody can do it. I had to grow to the point where I could truly let go.”

  Savannah felt her guts growling deep inside. This was going to be a long, long... how long did she say she was staying?

  “How long did you say you’re staying?” she asked. Again, Cordele gave her the “patient smile.” The smile of a highly evolved soul tolerating the less enlightened. “As long as it takes, Savannah. As long as it takes.” She turned back toward the carousel and watched the parade of luggage passing by.