Death by Chocolate

by G. A. McKevett

  Although, if she didn’t go inside... she wouldn’t be able to get one of those amazing caramel brownies.

  Oh well, she thought, as she turned and walked back to her car. Sometimes in the line of duty you had to make sacrifices in order to call yourself a professional.

  On her way home, she would pass by a dozen or so Starbucks. She’d stop at one of those and pick up some caramel brownies... and some chocolate-dipped biscotti, too.

  Chapter

  17

  “You just got home! Are you going out again?”

  Cordele stood in front of the door, blocking the hallway and Savannah’s way out of the house.

  Savannah stood there, purse in one hand, car keys in the other. ‘Yes. I was going to run one more errand before we go out for dinner tonight. Is that all right with you?”

  Cordele’s face screwed into a petulant pout. “Not really. I was hoping you and I could talk awhile this afternoon.”

  Savannah wondered whether to ask or not, and decided there was no way around it. “Is something wrong?”

  “Wrong? Wrong? Of course something’s wrong. It’s been wrong for years. We share a lot of past family history together that we need to deconstruct in order to work our way out of it. That’s what I came to California for.”

  Savannah closed her eyes for a moment, then said, “I meant to say, is anything new wrong?”

  “Well.... not anything really new, but...”

  “If it’s waited this long, could it wait a little longer? I have something I really need to do.”

  “Business or personal?”

  Either way, it’s none of your personal business, she thought, but she didn’t say it. There was no point in making a bad situation miserable.

  “Would you like to come with me?” she asked. “Where are you going?”

  “To juvenile hall.”

  “What for?”

  “To talk to a social worker there. A friend of mine.”

  “About what?”

  Savannah steeled herself and counted to five. “Cordele, darlin’, would you like to come with me? Or do you want to stay here and read or whatever?”

  Or would you prefer to swim to Hawaii? she added mentally. I’d be happy to give you a ride to the pier and throw you off the end of it.

  “I finished the book this morning,” she added in an accusing tone. “I didn’t come all the way here just to sit around the house and be bored. I guess I’ll come.” Savannah turned and walked to the door. ‘That’s fine,” she said with the enthusiasm of a bored convenience-store clerk. “Let’s get going.”

  The offices of San Carmelita Youth Corrections were on the outskirts of town, where the warehouses and car repair shops gave way to orange groves and strawberry fields. Off the main highway, down a road lined with eucalyptus trees, sat a low, flat, and rambling building that looked like any other office complex until you noticed the heavy-gauge steel netting over the windows.

  “Not a very cheerful place,” Cordele remarked as they pulled into the parking lot and stopped in a space marked visitors.

  “It’s not supposed to be cheerful,” Savannah told her. ‘The idea of winding up here really shouldn’t be attractive. An overnight stay will hopefully dissuade any budding delinquent from burglarizing his neighbors’ houses or selling drugs to her schoolmates.”

  “Troubled kids need help,” Cordele said.

  “That’s very true,” she agreed as they got out of the car and walked to the entrance. “But unfortunately, a certain percentage of them have to be locked up until some of that help ‘takes,’ to keep the rest of society safe. We don’t lock up children for turning over outhouses around here. Some of these kids are hard-core gangbangers who’ve committed murder as an initiation ritual.”

  “They still need help.”

  “That’s why there are people in the world like you... and the lady we’re going to see now.”

  Once inside the building, Savannah and Cordele had to pass through a security checkpoint that hadn’t been in place before 9-11. Even in the small, sleepy town of San Carmelita, the world had changed.

  Down a hall and to the right, they found a door that bore the name angela herriot. Savannah knocked, and within seconds the door was opened by an elegant black woman of generous size.

  Angela would have stood out in any crowd, not only because of her exceptional height and weight, but because of her brilliant personal adornment. An orange and yellow caftan swirled around her, reaching to the floor, and her jewelry was equally oversized: enormous copper earrings that dangled nearly to her shoulder, several strands of colorful beads around her neck, and rings on every finger, including her thumbs. It was safe to say that Angela Herriot was no shrinking violet. She was more like a glorious giant parrot tulip.

  “Come in, Savannah, come in,” she said, waving them inside the small office that was cluttered with books and stacks of papers everywhere. Having visited her office before, Savannah suspected that Angela’s people skills were more acute than her organizational ones.

  “This is my sister, Cordele,” Savannah said. “She’s visiting me from Georgia. She’s studying to be a psychologist.”

  Angela laughed, and the deep sound of it filled the tiny room. “I don’t know whether to congratulate you or give you my condolences. It’s the hardest work in the world, I believe, but I wouldn’t do anything else.”

  Cordele blushed and nodded; she seemed a bit overwhelmed by this larger-than-life persona.

  “Sit down, sit down,” Angela said, pointing them toward a couple of metal folding chairs. “Sorry I don’t have proper furniture, but, you know, budget cuts.” ‘Yes, Dirk has told me all about the belt-tightening.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” Angela said, pointing to her nonexistent waistline. “I gave up wearing belts in nineteen-eighty.”

  She pulled her own chair away from the desk and turned it to face theirs. “Sit, sit.”

  Savannah had noticed long ago that Angela tended to say things twice, as though to make sure no one would misunderstand what she was trying to communicate. She found the characteristic endearing, along with Angela’s no-nonsense approach to almost everything.

  “How can I help you, Savannah? You said you need a favor?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. I’m worried about a little friend of mine, a six-year-old girl I recently met.”

  “Worried in what way?”

  “I think she’s—no, I know she’s being neglected. I just don’t know if it’s a case for Child Protective Services.”

  Angela leaned back in her chair and toyed with one of her earrings. “What sort of neglect are we speaking of? Does she get enough to eat?”

  “Probably more pizza than the FDA would recommend, but I don’t think she goes hungry.”

  “Is she clean? Appropriately attired?”

  “She could stand to have her face washed a bit more often and her hair combed. She has good clothes.”

  “Is she healthy?”

  “Appears to be.”

  Angela shrugged. “Doesn’t sound like a legal matter, Savannah. What are your concerns?”

  “Her mother may have a substance-abuse problem, at least from time to time. I understand there’s been several hospitalizations or stays at clinics.”

  “Does the child have proper care during those times?”

  “I believe she stayed with one of her grandparents, although that may not be an option in the future.”

  “Then we’ll have to wait until next time to deal with that.”

  Savannah had a sinking feeling. She had certainly experienced it before—this desire to help a child in what might be considered a borderline case. Abuse had to be fairly overt for a parent’s custody to be challenged.

  “She stays outside at all hours, even until midnight,” Savannah offered.

  “Doing what?”

  “Roaming around the estate.”

  Angela’s right eyebrow notched up a bit. “Estate? Is this a privileged family?�
��

  “Yes, in terms of money. But her mother allows her to stay home from school anytime she likes. I suspect she’s just too lazy to get her up and out the door. There’s no father on the scene, and I don’t think the poor kid has any quality time with her mom. The grandmother provided the closest thing the girl received to parental attention, but she recently died.”

  Awareness lit Angela’s eyes. “Is this a case you’re working on now, Savannah?”

  Cordele had been sitting quietly, listening, but she chose that moment to enter the conversation. “Yes, the grandmother is Eleanor Maxwell, the woman on TV who—

  “Cordele,” Savannah said softly, trying not to sound as irritated as she was, “I wasn’t going to mention names just yet.”

  “That’s okay.” Angela chuckled. “I won’t say anything to anyone. I loved that woman’s television show! Although every time I tried her recipes they never turned out.”

  “I’ve heard that before,” Savannah replied. “So, you don’t think Child Services could do anything for this girl?” Angela gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘You know this isn’t a situation for CPS, Savannah. I’m sorry.”

  Savannah stood and reached to shake Angela’s hand. ‘Thank you. I guess I wasted your time. I was just hoping.” Angela’s hand closed around hers warmly. “It’s never a waste of time to see you, Savannah. I’m glad you came by. And it was nice meeting you, too, Cordele. If you don’t mind me asking, what sort of name is Cordele?”

  “Stupid,” Cordele replied. “Our dad’s name was Macon—you know, like the city in Georgia. So our mom decided to name all of us after Georgia towns, all nine of us—even our little brother, who’s Macon, Jr.”

  “Oh,” Angela said. “How creative of her.”

  “Yeah, Mom was really creative, when it came to popping out babies,” Cordele said. “She wasn’t much on taking care of them once they arrived. She left that up to our grandmother. We had a very troubled childhood.” Angela’s sharp eyes searched Cordele’s face. Then she said softly, “Isn’t it wonderful that your grandmother could do that for you. Raise nine children, I mean. She must be a remarkable woman.”

  Cordele shrugged. ‘Yeah, I guess so.”

  “She is,” Savannah said. “Gran’s amazing. A real blessing. Thanks again, Angela. If I can ever return the favor....”

  “I’ll give you a call. Nobody’s bashful around here.”

  * * *

  When Savannah and Cordele got back into Savannah’s Mustang, Savannah turned to Cordele. “What did you think of Angela?”

  “She’s cool,” she said with limited enthusiasm. “But I don’t want to work in a lousy little office like that. I’m going to have a private practice in a nice modern building where there are doctors and lawyers and other successful professionals.”

  Savannah could have pointed out that the little rural town of McGill, Georgia, didn’t have any modern buildings, nice or otherwise, and that if the entire town came to Cordele for therapy once a week, she’d barely squeak out a living. She’d have to take half of her pay in the form of farm-fresh eggs and bushels of peaches and pecans. But she decided not to say anything. No point in ruffling feathers.

  So she backed the car out of the spot and headed out of the parking lot. It was when they were pulling into traffic that Cordele said, “At least Mom gave you and Atlanta nice names. How’d you like to have to go through life with a dumb name like Cordele?”

  Savannah sighed. “She could have named you Jesup, instead of your sister.”

  “Yes, but at least you can change Jesup into a nickname—Jessie. What can you do with Cordele? Cordie sounds stupid and so does Delie. Sounds like a place to buy lunchmeat. You know, I’ll bet Mom did that on purpose, just to embarrass us, like in that song ‘A Boy Named Sue.’ Remember that?”

  But Savannah didn’t answer. She had stopped listening.

  It was a matter of self-preservation.

  Chapter

  18

  When Savannah answered the door, she expected to see Ryan or John standing there. But it was Dirk. She was only mildly disappointed.

  “Boy, don’t you look fancy-schmancy,” he said as he brushed by her and walked into the house. “Going on a

  date?”

  She could hear the jealousy under the surface—barely under—but she chose to ignore it. “Ryan and John are taking us to Chez Antoine for dinner.”

  “Us? I guess that means me, too.” He brightened.

  She tried to think of a way to break it to him that his name hadn’t been on the engraved invitation. Not even close.

  But before she opened her mouth, he frowned. “Wait a minute. Isn’t that the French place where Ryan ordered those friggin’ frog legs and tried to pass them off on me as buffalo wings?”

  “Might be,” she said demurely.

  “Oh, well, forget about it. You couldn’t get me anywhere near that place. Hell, I gag just thinkin’ about it!”

  He walked into the living room and plopped down on the sofa. He gave her another once-over as she sat on the other end. ‘You do look good, though. Is that a new dress?”

  She had worn the sapphire blue silk wraparound several times in his presence, but Dirk wasn’t exactly a fashion hound. He could remember every detail of clothing on a suspect, but not a silk dress.

  “I’ve had it awhile,” she said, adjusting the pearl necklace that dipped enticingly into her cleavage.

  He noticed that. Dirk might not give a dang about fashion, but he was all male.

  “I just dropped by to see what you got outta Burt today.” He glanced again at her neckline. “If you wore that dress, you could’ve probably got him to confess to anything.”

  She batted her eyelashes. “Why, thank you, kind sir. But I was wearing slacks and a sweater. And I didn’t even talk to him.”

  “Oh, man... then the whole day’s down the drain.” He flung himself backward on the sofa, arms outspread, as though he’d been shot. Dirk could be a bit overly dramatic sometimes. “I hate this damned job. I’m gonna become a professional wrestler or somethin’.”

  “Well, before you go climbing into a pair of rhinestone-studded bloomers, let me tell you what I saw—or rather, who I saw with him. Right there in Starbucks, in front of God and everybody. Givin’ him a little kiss. Lettin’ him slide his hand down on her heinie.”

  He perked right up. “Really? Who?”

  “Kaitlin Dover.”

  His enthusiasm quickly waned. Savannah understood; an avowed pessimist could celebrate only in spurts. ‘That doesn’t mean they knocked off ol’ Eleanor, or even that she’s the one Eleanor was referring to in her diary. It just means they’re foolin’ around.”

  “It doesn’t really even mean that. They could just be thinking about it.”

  “Naw, if he got a butt squeeze in a public place, they’ve done it.”

  “You know that for a fact?”

  “Oh, sure. Every teenage boy knows you don’t grope a girl’s rear for the first time in a public place. If she’s gonna slap you, it should be in private—less embarrassing that way. I’m surprised you don’t know that, Van.”

  “I was never a teenage boy. Thank God.” She glanced up the staircase. “Listen, I don’t want to cut you short, but I was helping Cordele get dressed up. She’s a little nervous about going out to a fancy restaurant. There hasn’t been a lot of five-star dining in her experience.” ‘Yeah, yeah.... I know. Get lost.” He hauled himself off the sofa. “I know when I’m not wanted.”

  “Oh, please.” She groaned. “I get enough of that whiny crap without you chiming in.”

  After shoving him out the door, she hurried back up to her guest room, where she found Cordele standing in front of a full-length mirror, eyeing herself with skepticism.

  “I look like a country hick,” she said, frowning at her image.

  She was wearing her usual uniform of a white cotton shirt, black skirt, and black penny loafers. In honor of the occasion, she had pinned a black onyx brooc
h under her chin. Her hair was slicked straight back.

  She didn’t look like a hick, but she certainly could have passed herself off as an undertaker.

  “Come in my room, sweetie, and let’s see what I can dig up for you.”

  “Are you kidding?” she said, following her down the hall. “I could never wear your clothes. They’d hang on me. I’m much smaller through the hips than—”

  “Can it, Cordele, before I smack you upside the head.” Savannah walked into her bedroom and opened the closet door. She dug around in the back and came out with one of her “hooker stroll” outfits that she had used for vice undercover work.

  Cordele’s eyes bugged at the black leather miniskirt and the red sequined sweater with its ostrich-feather trim. “I’m not wearing that getup! What have you even got clothes like that for? Never mind, I don’t even want to know, but I ain’t wearing it.”

  “I wouldn’t let you wear it, turkey butt. But it does have some accessories that we could use.”

  She peeled off a few items and laid them on the dresser. Then she turned to Cordele. “Come here, punkin’, and let’s spruce you up a bit.”

  “Oh, first I’m a turkey butt and now I’m punkin’,” she grumbled as she walked over to Savannah and submitted herself.

  “They’re all terms of endearment. Be still.”

  Savannah removed the brooch, set it aside, and unfastened Cordele’s top three buttons. She spread the collar apart and clasped an antique necklace of tarnished silver and pale blue stones around her neck. “I have earrings to match this over there in the jewelry box,” she said. ‘They’ll show up pretty with your short hair.”

  She took a belt made of black satin with plaited cording and tied it around Cordele’s waist, which she had to admit was considerably smaller than hers.

  “We still wear the same size shoe, don’t we?” Savannah asked, turning to her closet.