“Yes,” Dirk told him. “I’m sorry.”
Geraldine clapped her hands over her face and she started to shake. She stared up at her husband, as though looking to him for direction on how to act.
But he was relatively impassive, considering the news he had just received.
“How did she die?” he asked, as though he were inquiring about the temperature outside.
“We won’t know for sure until after the autopsy has been performed,” Dirk told him, “but we’re pretty sure she was murdered.”
Geraldine started to cry softly into her hands. “This is terrible,” she said. “Poor little Lizzie.”
“Lizzie will be okay.” Reuben Aberson tucked his shirt into his pants and adjusted his belt. “She still has her father ... and us. She’ll be fine without that stupid, heartless—”
“Reub! You mustn’t speak ill of the dead,” his wife said, grabbing his hand and pulling on it hard. “She’s ... well ... she was ... our granddaughter’s mother.”
“No matter what’s happened to her, I’m not going to start pretending like she was a good person.” Reuben pulled his hand away from his wife’s and walked over to the door. “And if that’s all you two have to tell us, I’ll thank you for the news and tell you good-bye now.”
“Mr. Aberson,” Savannah said, “even if you weren’t on good terms with your son’s wife, you would still want her killer brought to justice, wouldn’t you?”
He didn’t reply, but he didn’t open the door.
“Do you know anyone who would want to do her harm?” Dirk asked.
“Everyone who ever knew her,” Reuben replied, stone-faced.
“That bad, huh?” Savannah said.
Geraldine rose and walked over to stand beside her husband. “You’ll have to forgive us,” she said, “even if you think we’re hard-hearted. But Madeline and our son were in the middle of an awful divorce. And she’s said some terrible things about our boy, horrible lies ... to try to gain complete custody of our little granddaughter.” She drew a deep, shaky breath. “We aren’t bad people, but we can’t help feeling the way we do about her.”
Savannah studied the couple, appraising every word and gesture. They seemed surprised enough at the news, but the coldness in Reuben’s eyes was disquieting, to say the least.
And as she tried to decide whether or not she considered him capable of murder, Dirk stepped closer to him, wearing a grim look on his face. It was the look that Dirk often wore when he thought someone might have done something horribly wrong.
“Do you mind telling me where you’ve been today?” Dirk asked him.
“Right here, building birdhouses,” was the even, emotionless reply.
Dirk turned to Geraldine. “And can you vouch for him?”
She nodded vigorously. “He’s been right here with me all day. Both of us have. Except for when I went to pick up Lizzie for Madeline. She’d had a sleepover at her little girlfriend’s house.”
“And what time was that?” Dirk wanted to know.
“About two thirty this afternoon.”
“How long were you gone?”
“Well, I stopped and got gas, first, so ... I guess I was out of the house forty-five minutes, give or take.”
“And, Mr. Aberson, you were making birdhouses all day long?” Dirk asked.
“Except for when my wife was gone.”
Dirk raised one eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Yes. That’s when I called our son. We talked on the phone most of the time.”
That would be easy enough to verify, Savannah thought, if they needed to. “Where is your son?” she asked.
“He’s in Las Vegas on business,” Geraldine replied. “A convention. He’s an extremely successful businessman. We’re very proud of him.”
“I’m sure you are.” Savannah gave Geraldine what she hoped was a kind, comforting smile.
It wasn’t easy to appear kind and comforting when you were trying to weasel information out of somebody.
“And how long has Ethan been in Las Vegas on business?” Savannah asked.
“He’s been there for the past three days,” Reuben said, with a tone that suggested he was daring her to contradict him.
“Where is he staying?” Dirk interjected with an equally confrontational tone.
“He always stays at the Victoriana when he’s in Las Vegas,” Geraldine said. “It’s a nice, quiet hotel.”
Savannah glanced over at Dirk, who was reaching for his card. It was the end of the interview.
He handed it to Geraldine. “If you think of anything that might help us, would you please give me a ring there at that number?”
She took the card, looked at it, then tucked it into her apron pocket. Reaching down, she scooped up the dog again and held it close to her chest. “We will,” she told him. “Good luck with solving your case.”
“Thank you,” Savannah said.
Silently, she added to herself: We’ll need it. It’s hard to figure out who killed someone like Madeline.
Because, if her father-in-law was right, she was somebody that nearly everybody wanted dead.
Chapter 8
Savannah had always considered herself a “house” kinda gal, rather than an apartment dweller. She couldn’t vacuum or dust without loud rock and roll, couldn’t cook without blasting her country tunes, and couldn’t fully celebrate Christmas without at least once shaking the house on its foundations with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir’s rendition of the “Hallelujah Chorus” at top volume.
She wouldn’t have been popular in an apartment building.
But if she were ever forced to opt for communal living, her first choice would definitely be Ryan and John’s complex.
Perched high, high, high on a hill overlooking San Carmelita and the ocean, the condos were the envy of everyone beneath them ... which was everyone in town.
Whenever she strolled through the place, which was lushly landscaped with mature tropical plantings, she always felt like she had stepped into a South Pacific paradise. The giant pool with its rock waterfall and swim-up bar was deliciously inviting. And overhead, what seemed like a hundred giant palms danced, their graceful fronds swaying in the sea breeze.
“I always forget how nice this place is,” Dirk said to her as they walked the stone pathway leading to the most exclusive of the buildings ... the one in the far corner with the most privacy and the best ocean view. “Maybe you and me should’ve gone into the body-guarding business.”
“I tell myself the same thing every time we come over here,” she replied. “I wouldn’t mind keeping a few spoiled starlets safe if it meant I could pay the mortgage and maintenance fees on a joint like this.”
“Probably doesn’t hurt that they’ve got ‘former FBI agents’ on their resumes.”
“Or that they look like movie stars themselves.”
Dirk didn’t reply to that. Dudes like himself couldn’t afford to notice that another guy was attractive.
It was a manly man sorta thing.
When they reached the front door, with its sparkling beveled glass, Dirk rang the bell. It only took a few moments before John answered, wearing a dove gray, brocade smoking jacket and holding a briarwood pipe.
Dirk looked down at his own faded Harley tee-shirt and his frayed jeans. “I see I’m underdressed, as usual.”
John laughed and beckoned them inside. “Ryan’s pouring us a cognac. Would you like to join us?”
“Naw,” Dirk said. “I never sip cognac without my fancy smoking jacket.”
Inside the living room—which looked more like the library of a Tudor mansion, with its stone fireplace, heavy leather furniture, and bookshelves filled with antique leather-bound books—Ryan was pouring Remy Martin into a pair of snifters. He was still wearing the tux shirt and slacks he’d worn to their almost-wedding.
Savannah tried not to sigh.
It just wasn’t appropriate with your fiancé in tow.
“I’ll have one,” she said. �
�I’m not driving, and I’ve had a rough day.”
“No kidding.” Ryan placed the Waterford crystal snifter in her hand. “In fact, I think after a day like the one you just had, you deserve a little something to go with that... .”
He walked to an intricately carved, drop-front desk, opened it, and took out a box of candy. “Here,” he said. “You have to try one of these with it. Dark chocolate pralines from Lyon.”
“Lord bless your pea-pickin’ heart,” she said, taking one of the glistening delicacies from the box. “I’ve moved up in the world. When I was a kid in McGill, I bought Hershey bars from a guy named Leon. He worked the counter at the little grocery shop by the railroad tracks.”
She decided not to mention that, as delicious as Ryan’s imported chocolates were, nothing surpassed the flavor or the joy of that rare candy treat she’d had as a girl.
Early in life, Savannah had realized there was one major advantage to being poor: Everything was a treat ... be it a candy bar, a few hours with no backbreaking chores to do, a precious moment of solitude in a family of nine children, or a loving hug or a kind word from a grandmother, when none had been forthcoming from one’s parents.
That hard-earned sense of gratitude had greatly enriched her years. And she would never take anything for granted.
“Have a seat over here, love,” John said, ushering her to a soft, leather chair with a great view by the window. “Make yourself comfortable and relax.” He turned to Dirk and pointed to the sofa. “You, too, old man.”
“Can I get you a beer?” Ryan asked Dirk.
“No, thanks. I’m kinda working.” He walked over to the sofa and sat down. For just a second he looked at the marble-topped coffee table, and Savannah knew what he was thinking.
Quickly, she shot him a don’t-even-think-about-it scowl.
Since the day she’d met him, Savannah had been trying to teach him the difference between a coffee table and a footstool. Someday he’d learn. Probably about the same time as he got the hang of putting down the toilet seat and chewing potato chips more quietly.
She wasn’t exactly holding her breath.
Ryan took a seat on the other end of the sofa from Dirk, while John stepped through the sliding doors, out onto the balcony. He placed his pipe in an antique, brass filigree ashtray.
John had always been conscientious about his tobacco smoke, but especially so since Dirk had given up cigarettes.
Everyone had been forced to endure Dirk’s crankiness during his withdrawal stage—which had lasted about two years—and no one wanted to go through it again.
When John returned, he sat in a matching chair next to Savannah’s.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, “that our ‘gift’ to you has caused you far more stress than it relieved. Good intentions paving the road to hell and all that dreadful business.”
“I’m sorry your friend is dead,” Savannah told them. “We informed the in-laws.”
“And how did that go?” Ryan wanted to know.
“They seemed surprised, but not particularly grief-stricken,” Dirk said. “Pending divorce or not, you’d think they’d hate to hear that their granddaughter’s mother had been killed.”
“Especially the father-in-law, Reuben,” Savannah said. “Have you two ever met him?”
“No.” Ryan removed his cuff links and rolled up his sleeves. “We really didn’t know Madeline all that well.”
“Where did you meet her?” Savannah asked.
“We first made her acquaintance,” John said, “at an enormously extravagant party at a Malibu yacht club. It was for Juliana Carvalho ... to celebrate her Oscar win.”
“We were security for the party,” Ryan added. “And Madeline was the event coordinator. She did a wonderful job, and we felt free to recommend her after that. Soon afterward, she began to specialize in weddings.”
“Did you know her husband?” Dirk asked.
John shook his head. “No. We never met him. But we did see her daughter, Elizabeth, at the singer Paula Berntzen’s wedding. Paula didn’t have a flower girl of her own, so the little lass stepped in. Did a lovely job, too. You could tell that Madeline positively doted on the child.”
“Yeah, we saw the little girl, too, at her grandparents’ house,” Dirk said. “Cute kid. I feel bad for her.”
“I’ll feel even worse if we find out her daddy had anything to do with it.” Savannah turned to look out at the ocean. She needed to borrow a bit of its tranquility. “His folks said he’s at a convention in Vegas on business. Hopefully, for the child’s sake, that’s true.”
Dirk turned to Ryan. “Do you two know anybody else who might have wanted her dead?”
“You might want to talk to her former business partner, Odelle Peters,” Ryan told him. “I’m pretty sure that the two of them had a falling out recently. I overheard some gossip about it at the library system’s spring fund-raiser.”
Dirk took a pen and a pad from his pocket and scribbled down the name. “Do you happen to know where she is?”
“Last I heard, she was working out of her home in Spirit Hills,” John said. “A lovely place. She designed and built it herself, I believe. She’s quite proud of it.”
Savannah took another sip of the exquisite amber liquid and felt its welcome warmth sliding down her throat and nestling deliciously in her belly. From there, the fire spread throughout her body.
And while it was a wonderful sensation, it reminded her of how very tired she was.
She glanced across the room and saw that Dirk was watching her, the omnipresent look of concern on his face.
She hated that look. Although she appreciated the love behind it, she didn’t want him or anyone else to worry about her. Mostly, because it caused her to worry about herself. And she could do quite enough of that without anybody’s help.
She hadn’t been the same since the shooting. She wasn’t as strong. She wasn’t as stable. She always had the feeling that, at any moment, she could lose her balance and go tumbling ... she wasn’t sure where.
“Are you okay, love?” John asked, leaning toward her, the same anxious expression on his face.
“Eh, of course I am,” she said, waving a dismissive hand. “Why does everybody keep asking me that? When haven’t I been all right? You’re talking to a mighty tough gal here.”
“A tough gal who’s been through a helluva lot,” Ryan said softly.
Abruptly, Savannah stood and placed her half-finished cognac on the marble coffee table. “I’m fine. And we should get going,” she told Dirk. “We’ve got a murderer to catch, and we aren’t going to nab him by sitting here, swigging brandy from Cognac and munching chocolates from Lyon ... pleasant as that might be.”
The three men jumped to their feet in unison.
She gave Ryan and John each a quick kiss on the cheek, then grabbed her purse. “You two take care, hear?” she said as she sailed for the front door, leaving a surprised Dirk in her wake.
As Dirk followed her to the door, Ryan caught him by the arm and whispered, “Take care of her for us, buddy. She’s a lot more fragile than she thinks.”
“I know,” Dirk replied. “I’m trying. Believe me ... with a gal like that one, it ain’t easy.”
Once Savannah and Dirk were back in his car, she felt that surge of energy she had experienced in Ryan and John’s apartment—born of a high degree of annoyance—quickly waning.
A shot of adrenaline only took you so far.
She had to admit, even if it was only to herself, that she was exhausted.
“What’s next?” she asked, glancing at her watch. It was six o’clock, and she’d been going since six in the morning. It had been a long twelve hours. “Are we going to talk to Odelle, the business partner, or check on the hubby to see if he was in Vegas, like he told his parents he was?”
Dirk hesitated before answering, his eyes on the road ahead as they wound their way down the hill toward Main Street. “Odelle can wait until tomorrow,” he said. “Once Dr.
Liu’s done with the autopsy, we’ll know just what we’ve got.”
“True. But you don’t really expect that with three stab wounds in her back, the doctor’s going to rule it an accident, a suicide, or natural causes.”
“Of course not, but I like knowing as much as I can about the crime before I go accusing people of committing it.”
Savannah nodded and said nothing as she watched the scenery from her passenger’s window. The sun was low on the ocean, spreading red and coral splendor on the waves. The peace of it soothed her spirit and gave her a moment to assess her own internal state.
She was angry. And, although sometimes a bit of fury served an investigator well, adding fuel to their determination, this time it was interfering with her thought processes.
Like Dirk, she knew that you needed to find out as much as you could about the crime before interviewing suspects. You never got a second chance to collect those precious first impressions, and you needed to know exactly the right questions to ask.
She was embarrassed that it was so obvious, to them both, that he was behaving more professionally than she was.
“So,” she said in her most officious tone, “we can call the Victoriana in Vegas and see if he’s checked in there. Find out what convention he’s attending, with what company. See if he’s made all the meetings, etcetera.”
“Yes,” Dirk said softly. “That’s what I’m going to do. I’ll go to the station, make the calls. See if his alibi holds.”
“You’ll go to the station? Just you?”
“I think that’s best.” He reached over and placed his hand on her knee. “I’ll take you home, and you can get something to eat and rest. We’ll start fresh tomorrow.”
“Since when don’t we work a case together?”
“It’s just some phone calls, babe.”
“Don’t ‘babe’ me when we’re having a fight.”
“Are we having a fight?”
“Yeah ... kinda.”
“Well, you might be having a fight, but I’m not having a fight. In fact, I’m working hard at not having a fight.”
Savannah bit her lower lip as tears rushed to her eyes. She could hear the kindness in his voice, but instead of making her feel better, it only made things worse. Now she could add “being mean to your fiancé” to her list of failings, along with “overly jumpy,” “unprofessional,” and “crying at the tip of a hat.”
Buried In Buttercream Page 9
