“I guess so. What’s the matter with my shoes?”
“Nothing’s the matter with anything. But it’s fun to dress up sometimes. Remember when we used to get into Gran’s old trunks and play with her.... never mind.” She had learned the hard way not to stroll down memory’s long and winding road with Miss Cordele.
“Slip off those loafers and try these on,” she said, holding out a pair of high-heeled sandals with a sexy ankle strap.
“Oh, I couldn’t.” But Cordele’s eyes were gleaming with anticipation.
“Sure you could. Slap some red polish on those toenails—there’s a bottle in the bathroom medicine chest— and put those heels on. You’ll be the original glamorpuss.”
She giggled. “Do you really think I have time? Ryan and John could be here any minute.”
“Eh, if they arrive, I’ll keep ‘em occupied downstairs. It’ll be worth the wait.”
Savannah could tell, just by looking at her sister across the table, that Cordele was having the time of her life. But she wasn’t surprised. Ryan and John had a way of creating magic for anyone they entertained.
And they were an entertaining pair.
They had driven the ladies to Chez Antoine in their classic Bentley; Cordele had been ecstatic. They had given Savannah a perfect lavender rose, Cordele a white one. Again, she had been agog. Ryan had noticed the sexy sandals and red toenails—after Savannah had given him a discreet wink and nod toward Cordele’s feet—and he had complimented her profusely. That was, undoubtedly, the point when Cordele had fallen hopelessly in love.
Upon arriving at the restaurant, Antoine himself, a slick little Frenchman in a tuxedo, had gushed over them, kissing their hands and commenting on the high-heeled sandals without any prompting from Savannah. His high level of enthusiasm about those shoes caused Savannah to conclude that he must have a foot fetish.
He ushered them to their favorite booth, which was wonderfully private, surrounded by palms and partitioned off with dividers made of sparkling beveled glass framed in brass.
Between their before-dinner cocktails and appetizers, John had regaled them with tales of his interactions with British nobility while still a “lad” in England. Ryan added his own bit of blarney, relating some of his adventures while guarding the bodies of the rich and famous in Hollywood.
But sooner or later, the conversation had to turn to “shop talk.” And it was halfway through their chateaubriand that Ryan asked, “How’s the case going?”
“Nowhere fast,” Savannah replied. “We thought it might be that Streck guy, the accountant. But the D.A. brought in some hotshot CPA who looked over those files we had, and they say it wasn’t to his advantage to murder her right now. That doesn’t mean he’s totally in the clear, but we’re looking elsewhere.”
From the corner of her eye, Savannah saw Cordele sigh and start picking at her food. Apparently, this line of conversation wasn’t as exciting as movie stars and the British royal family.
Too bad, she thought. She never missed an opportunity to bounce ideas off Ryan and John. Their combined experiences in the FBI had made them first-rate detectives in their own right. And there was no point in letting all that expertise go to waste.
“How about the former husband?” John suggested. “I do believe you mentioned that it was the lady herself who initiated the divorce proceedings. Perhaps he was bitter.”
“We did just find out that he’s carrying on with the woman who produced Eleanor’s TV show.”
“Hmmm.” Ryan took a sip of his merlot. “What would they have to gain from Eleanor’s death?”
“Nothing that’s obvious at this point. Dirk’s checking.”
“How about the servants on the estate?” John asked. “You know, we always say it was the butler who did it.” ‘There’s no butler. Just a maid and a chauffeur-sometimes-handyman. They seem like decent people. I doubt that Eleanor left them anything in her will or anything like that, so no motive there.”
“I suppose that leaves the daughter,” Ryan said. “Didn’t you mention that she’s an unpleasant person who had a rocky relationship with her mother?”
At Savannah’s left, Cordele perked up. “Eleanor Maxwell’s daughter didn’t like her mom?” she asked.
“No,” Savannah replied. “She was quite outspoken about what a crummy mother Eleanor had been and how messed up her life was because of her mom.”
“Figures,” Cordele said, stabbing at her meat with her knife. “A mom can really mess you up. A rotten one, that is.”
There was a brief, heavy silence around the table. Ryan broke it. “Do you think it might have been the daughter? Was she that upset with her mother?”
“Maybe. She’s hot-tempered and selfish. Doesn’t appear to be overcome with grief at Eleanor’s passing. She told her own daughter that now that Grandma’s gone, they’re rich.”
“I would take a very close look at that young lady,” John said. “She sounds like the most likely of your suspects at the moment.”
“It isn’t her,” Cordele said softly but with quiet authority. “She didn’t kill her mother.”
They all three turned and stared at her, a bit surprised, but Cordele was looking down at her plate.
“Really?” John said. “Would you care to elaborate? We’d like to hear your opinion on the subject.”
Cordele looked up. “You would?”
“Of course,” Savannah said. Though she was doubtful.
“Okay.” Cordele laid down her knife and fork and dabbed at her mouth with her napkin before answering. “If this woman goes around telling everybody how much she hates her mom.... if she blames her for everything that’s wrong in her life.... if she feels like her mother neglected or abused her... then she would have still been hoping.”
“Hoping for what?” Savannah said.
“That her mother would change. That she’d become a better person. That she’d realize how much she had hurt her kid and try to make it better somehow. And as long as her mom was alive... there was still a chance.” Savannah swallowed hard, nearly choking. She could hear the conviction in her sister’s voice, the hurt, the longing. Cordele still hadn’t given up on their mother.
Long ago, Savannah had resigned herself to the fact that Shirley Reid was very probably a lost cause. She was going to spend her days sleeping and her nights sitting on that bar stool under the autographed picture of Elvis, smoking and belting back the booze. She would sit there until she was carried out of the bar and taken to the local funeral home.
She was never going to walk up to one of her nine children and say, “I realize how selfishly I’ve spent my life and how much that has hurt you. Please forgive me.” It simply wasn’t going to happen.
Savannah had finally realized that she was never going to have a “good” mom. She had Shirley. And Shirley was Shirley. End of story.
Apparently, Cordele hadn’t realized that yet. She was still hoping. And as a result, she was still hurting.
Savannah glanced across the table at John, then to her right at Ryan. She saw the compassion in their eyes as they studied Cordele’s face and mulled over her words. They knew, too.
“You may very well be right, my dear,” John said as he reached over and covered Cordele’s hand with his own. “An excellent insight,” Ryan agreed.
Savannah smiled at her sister. “Yes, thanks, Cordele.... for your input. We’ll have to think about that one.”
Cordele looked up as a waiter passed by with the dessert tray, displaying a plethora of orgasmically rich treats. “Dessert?” she said, brightening. “Do you think they have some kind of cheesecake? I love cheesecake.”
“I’m absolutely certain I saw a praline-caramel cheesecake on that tray,” John said.
“Good. I’m going to have a piece.” Cordele smiled at Savannah, looked around the posh restaurant and at her handsome hosts. “After all,” she said, “this is definitely a special occasion!”
Savannah nodded. Looking at her sister, she unders
tood a little bit better, she loved a little bit more. ‘Yes, it certainly is,” she said.
Chapter
19
The next morning when Savannah visited Dirk at the station house, she wasn’t so lucky as before. Rather than having the place to themselves, it was teeming with charcoal gray suits and monochromatic shirts and ties.
Her least favorite member of the brass, Police Chief Norman Hillquist, walked by her chair, which was next to Dirk’s desk, and said, “Have you got business here, Reid? ‘Cause if you don’t, get moving.”
“Yes sir, Chief Hillquist,” she said, far too brightly. She gave him a dimpled grin, but her eyes were ice. “I’m reporting a crime to this here detective. He’s taking my statement.”
She turned to Dirk. “As I was saying, Detective Coulter, last night my home was invaded by some little green guys with antennae on their heads. I think they said they were from Neptune. They told me they were going to help me get revenge on anybody who’d ever screwed me over in the past. Then they beamed me up to their mother ship where their leader had his way with me. And what a way it was, I tell you! A whole new way, like I’ll bet you never even thought of! I know I sure hadn’t.” Hillquist glared at her another moment, then walked away, disappearing into his office with the other stuffed suits. Just before they closed the door behind them, she heard somebody mention something about it being the fourth “budget meeting” of the month.
“Eh, may he fall down a flight o’ stairs,” she muttered before turning to Dirk, who was sitting there, grinning at her. “Where were we?”
“You were drinking my coffee, eating my donuts, and telling me that you’re going to track down Kaitlin Dover today and have a girl-to-girl talk with her.”
She reached over, nabbed his cup, and drank the last sip. “And you’re running background checks on Louise, Marie, and Sydney.”
“Right. And Kaitlin and the ex-hubby, too.”
“What a busy boy you are. I’ll call you later.”
He didn’t answer; he already had his nose buried in the computer screen and was cursing it again.
On her way out, Savannah passed by the chief s office and looked in the large window. The blinds were open, and she could see the ring of execs sitting around, discussing the dismal subject of San Carmelita’s fiscal budget. She paused at the glass and waited for Hillquist to look up.
When she caught his eye, she stuck her forefingers up on either side of her head and wiggled them like antennae.
If looks could have killed, she’d have been gasping her last breath. Chief Hillquist was not amused.
“Ah, get over yourself,” she mumbled, then walked away. “Some guys just got no sense of humor. Too much starch in the shorts, I suspect, givin’ their wienies a rash.”
Dirk had gone into the DMV records and retrieved Kaitlin Dover’s address for Savannah. She decided to just drop by her house and take a chance that she might find her there. If not, she figured that a little look around the place wouldn’t hurt. At least, not if she didn’t get caught.
Kaitlin lived in the pleasant town of Arroyo Verde, which was about halfway between San Carmelita and Hollywood. Twenty minutes on the freeway, and she was there.
Although Arroyo Verde was inland and had no ocean front like San Carmelita, the area had an appeal all its own, surrounded by hills that looked as though they had been covered with a tawny suede. Somebody had gone crazy in the Parks Department and planted a zillion palm trees within the city limits. There seemed to be a playground or picnic area on every other block.
Kaitlin Dover’s subdivision was a maze of streets lined by large Spanish-style homes with plenty of red-tiled roofs, gleaming white stucco, wrought iron, and bougainvillea climbing everywhere. Any one of the massive houses set alone on a hill would have been impressive. But crammed so closely together, each one looking almost identical to the rest, they seemed to lack character.
Savannah found the street named La Rosa and Kaitlin’s house number. Like the others, it looked new and even though the lawn was fairly brown from the restrictions on watering, the yard was well-tended.
Apparently, producing gourmet TV shows paid some bucks—more than private detecting, for sure.
One door of the two-car garage was open, and inside Savannah could see a red Lexus SC430. She recognized it as the one that had been parked at the Maxwells’ during the tapings.
Maybe she had lucked out and found the lady of the house at home.
She walked up the perfectly edged sidewalk to the front door and rang the bell. Moments later, Kaitlin Dover opened the door, and Savannah thought maybe she should buy some Lotto tickets on her way home. This seemed to be her day.
The producer was wearing jeans and a faded Hard Rock Café T-shirt. She wasn’t wearing makeup, and her red hair was practically standing on end. Savannah guessed by her drowsy eyes that she had been napping. “Hi,” Savannah said, “remember me?”
Kaitlin’s face fell the moment she recognized Savannah. “How could I forget?” she said. ‘You were part of the worst day of my life.”
Savannah knew what she was referring to, but she couldn’t resist needling her just a little. “And that would have been....?”
Kaitlin’s eyes widened. “When Eleanor died, of course.”
“Oh, that day.”
“Well... it... it was awful.... seeing my friend die in front of me like that,” she stammered. “I’m surprised you don’t understand.”
“Oh, I understand. It was pretty damned awful for me, having a client die in my arms.”
Suddenly, Kaitlin seemed less traumatized and more suspicious. She glanced out at Savannah’s car parked in front of her house and then looked Savannah up and down. “What do you want?” she said.
“To talk to you, if you don’t mind. I’m investigating Eleanor’s murder. You do know by now that it’s been determined to be a homicide?”
“Ah, yes.... I heard. It’s just terrible. But what do you want with me?”
“Just to talk.”
“About what?”
“Burton Maxwell.”
Savannah had learned long ago that a sharp verbal jab to the diaphragm could have highly entertaining and informative results.
And Kaitlin Dover looked as if she had just taken a roundhouse kick to the solar plexus. “What? Why Burt? What are you insinuating?”
“Me? Insinuating? Nothing at all.” Savannah gave her a smile— a grin, actually, similar to what a cat might wear just before attacking a chipmunk. “I was just wondering if maybe you could think of any reason why he might want his ex-wife dead?”
Kaitlin’s mouth opened and closed several times, but nothing came out.
“Maybe if he had a girlfriend, or—”
The door slammed shut in her face.
Oh well, she thought. It certainly isn’t the first time. Finding oneself suddenly staring at a closed door and having one’s ears ringing from the concussion of the slam was a necessary evil in her business.
As she walked back to her car, Savannah wondered if, indeed, she should pick up those Lotto tickets. The visit, although short, had been quite effective. She enjoyed shaking suspects up a bit in a murder investigation. It made them nervous, and nervous people made mistakes.
Sometimes it worked.
She wondered if Kaitlin was dialing Burt Maxwell at that very moment. Gleefully, she imagined what the producer would tell her lover, and his reaction.
Yes, Savannah thought as she drove away. She had accomplished exactly what she’d wanted. She would buy those tickets after all.
For lunch, Savannah drove up to a Burger Haven window and ordered a chicken sandwich, fries, and an iced tea. Since she had a couple of phone calls to make, she stayed in her car in the parking lot to eat. If there was one thing she just couldn’t abide, it was loudmouthed people who sat in restaurants and chattered on about nothing and everything on their cell phones. Her prejudice even extended to less peaceful, fast-food eateries, like Burger Haven. She fi
gured that if she didn’t want to be bored spitless by other people’s inane conversations, the least she could do was not inflict her own on others.
“How’s it going?” she asked with her first call, which was to Tammy. Predictably, she was at Savannah’s house, manning the Moonlight Magnolia desk.
“Just one call from a guy who wants his wife tailed, thinks she’s doing the deed with their kid’s football coach.”
“Did you tell him we don’t do foolie-aroundie tailies?”
“Yep. He wanted to know what kind of private investigators we are, then.”
“Ones with better things to do than hang around outside quickie motels and take nasty pictures. Anything else?”
“A few more calls from reporters wanting to know about Eleanor Maxwell. Rosemary Hulse from the local paper dropped by in person. I stopped Cordele from talking to her.”
“Thank you. What’s she doing?”
“Sitting on a chaise in the backyard, writing in her journal. She does that a lot. I think she keeps track of everything that happens—or doesn’t happen—to her.”
“I’m sure she does,” Savannah mumbled. “It’s part of keeping a running tab on who messed her up and who owes her what in life.”
She rolled down the car window and tossed her leftover fries onto the asphalt, where they were quickly snatched up by a waiting flock of seagulls—or “shit hawks,” as Dirk indelicately called them.
“What?” Tammy said. “I didn’t hear you.”
“It’s just as well. Did you get anything more on Eleanor’s sister, Elizabeth?”
“Still working on it. She’s mostly been in the restaurant business and living in the same studio apartment for years. Not much of a personal life that I can uncover. Orders a lot of her clothes from catalogs.”
“You can tell that just from the Internet?”
“Wanna know her size and color choices?”
Savannah shook her head. “Scary stuff.”
“Oops, got another call. Probably a reporter. Hold on.”
Savannah munched the remainder of her sandwich while Tammy talked on the other line and watched a haggard young mother herd five children of stairstep sizes across the parking lot to the door of the restaurant. Recalling the Reid horde, Savannah wondered, as she often had, how Granny Reid had survived—let alone thrived—while raising nine “younguns,” as she fondly referred to them. The woman should have been nominated for sainthood. Cordele could complain all she wanted about her upbringing, but Savannah felt enormously blessed when she thought of hers.
Death by Chocolate Page 19
