Buried In Buttercream

by G. A. McKevett

  “Who’d a’thunk that planning shindigs for rich folks would make enough money to buy a place in here?” Dirk said as they drove through the gates and into the community of enormous estates, sprawling grounds, gatehouses, and guest cottages.

  “I guess it pays well if you’re good enough at it,” she replied. “And to hear Ryan and John tell it, Madeline and Odelle were the best at one time.”

  They turned onto a street called Whispering Wind Song, and Savannah thought how lovely that would look on one’s stationery. She noticed that the numbers on the houses were single digits, too. Nice.

  Ah, yes, Lady Savannah Reid at number seven Whispering Wind Song in Spirit Hills, she thought. Has a nice ring to it.

  “I guess the people in here wouldn’t be caught dead in my trailer court,” Dirk said.

  “You never know. There’re plenty of rich folks who’re down to earth and don’t mind mingling with the riffraff.”

  Dirk chuckled. “That’s me all right.” Then he gave her an affectionate smile that went right to her heart. “I’m glad you don’t mind mingling with the down-and-dirty ... classy gal that you are.”

  “Yeah, I don’t mind fraternizing with the rabble when it suits me. Adds color to life.”

  “Some say you’re marrying beneath you. Quite a few say that, in fact.”

  She shrugged. “All women do.”

  They laughed together.

  She reached over and placed her hand on his thigh. She could feel the well-rounded muscle, firm and warm, just beneath the denim, and she had to admit, it made her look forward to their eventual wedding night.

  Or, at least, it would ... if it hadn’t been for her misgivings about her own perceived flaws.

  She thought of the deep, red scar on her own thigh and moved her hand.

  Fortunately, they had arrived at their destination, and she found it a welcome distraction.

  Odelle Peters’ house was one of the most beautiful examples of an Arts and Crafts home that Savannah had ever seen, either in person or on the pages of any of her architectural design magazines.

  It looked like a quaint cottage that had drunk some of Alice’s grow-larger potion and become a mansion.

  With its brick walls, steep roof, deep porches, pointed window arches, and stained glass windows, it personified “cozy,” while its massive proportions said, “grandeur.”

  “Wow!” Savannah said, taking in the elegant yet casual country garden-style grounds. “I wish Granny could see this! She’d love it! Lilacs and climbing roses and even hollyhocks ... all her favorites.”

  “Didn’t John say she designed this place herself?”

  “Yes, and you can tell it’s had a lot of love poured into it.”

  “Uh-oh,” Dirk said.

  “What is it?”

  “Get a load of that. A ‘For Sale’ sign there by the mailbox.”

  She looked where he was pointing and, sure enough, there it was—a sign announcing that the property was listed with Golden Touch Realty.

  “Ouch,” she said. “That’s gotta hurt, no matter what the circumstances.”

  Dirk pulled into the driveway and cut the key on the Buick. “Well, let’s go find out what it’s all about.”

  They walked through the fantasyland yard and up to the arched, Craftsman-style doorway with its colorful stained glass insert and hand-wrought hardware.

  Savannah knocked and, only a moment later, they heard rapid, heavy footsteps coming their way.

  The door swung open and a woman appeared, looking out of breath and highly annoyed. Her short, straight, salt-and-pepper hair was uncombed, sticking out like the back bristles on an angry dog.

  At one time she had applied makeup, but now her mascara was smeared below her eyes and most of her purple eye shadow was gone from above her right eye but not her left.

  Her simple cotton shirt and slacks looked like she had slept in them ... for several nights in a row.

  “What the hell!” she yelled at them. “Can’t you people read? The sign says, ‘Do Not Disturb Occupants!’ Call the damned Realtor! Their number’s right there, plain as day. Sheezzz!”

  Before she could slam the door in their faces, Dirk stuck his foot across the threshold and simultaneously flashed his badge.

  Savannah had always been impressed with that move. Dirk was a simple, straightforward sorta guy. It was his only multitasking skill.

  “Not so fast!” he told her. “I’m Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter of the San Carmelita Police Department, and if you’re Odelle Peters, you and me’s gotta talk.”

  Odelle froze for a moment and stared at him with blank eyes that were a strange shade of russet brown. It was almost red. And combined with her unusually pale skin, it gave her an unearthly appearance. On Halloween night, with very little costuming, she could pass for some sort of vampire or sorceress.

  Jesup would love that look, Savannah thought. A little fake blood running down her chin, a spiderweb painted on her forehead and she’d be ready for ... oh ... grocery shopping or a trip to the dentist to have her fake fangs readjusted.

  Savannah had always thought that some bat—not a stork—had left her sister under a cabbage plant.

  “I don’t want to talk to you!” Odelle said, kicking at Dirk’s foot with the toe of her ballet slipper. “Get your foot out of my door before I slam it on you.”

  Dirk put his hand up to hold the door open and looked down on her with what Savannah called his “Clint Eastwood stare.”

  “I wouldn’t recommend you do that, ma’am,” he told her. “Because that would be assaulting an officer of the law, and getting hit with a charge like that is sure to ruin your day.”

  “My day is already ruined,” Odelle exclaimed, looking like she was about to burst into tears at any moment. “In fact, my whole life is ruined, so you need to go threaten somebody who gives a damn what happens to them.”

  Savannah stepped forward and held one hand out to the woman. “I’m Savannah Reid,” she said, “and it’s obvious that you’re very upset. I’m sorry about that. But it’s important that we talk to you. And you need to understand that my friend here isn’t going to leave until we do.”

  When Odelle didn’t shake her offered hand, Savannah dropped it, but she took one step closer into the doorway. “Whatever’s going wrong in your life right now ... we can talk about that. Maybe we can even help. But if you shut the door on us, your problems are only gonna get worse, fast.”

  Odelle hesitated, obviously thinking things over. Then she raked her fingers through her mussed hair and glanced down at her wrinkled attire.

  “I’m not exactly prepared to receive guests,” she said, her voice shaky.

  “That’s okay, ’cause we’re not anybody special,” Savannah told her. “You don’t have to get gussied up or dig out your crystal and china for us. Invite us in and give us some water in a Dixie cup, and we’ll be happy.”

  “Yes, I’ve already heard about Madeline,” Odelle said, as they sat with her in her gracious living room and watched the flames flicker in the massive stone fireplace.

  “How did you find out?” Dirk wanted to know.

  “Geraldine Aberson called me.” Odelle fiddled with a crystal tumbler that contained the second shot of scotch that she’d consumed in less than five minutes.

  The first she had bolted.

  “You and Geraldine are friends?” Savannah asked, taking a sip of water from her own cut glass highball.

  “I’ve known her and Reuben for years, through Madeline. I wouldn’t say we’re exactly friends.”

  “How long were you and Madeline business partners?” Dirk asked.

  “Over twenty years. We started fresh out of college. We both knew exactly what we wanted to do, and we were good at it. You wouldn’t believe some of the events we coordinated together in our heyday.” Odelle looked sad as she stared down into her drink. “But that was before ...”

  “Before ... ?” Savannah prompted.

  The sad expression
evaporated, replaced with one of pure, raw anger. “Before Madeline went nuts and threw everything away for a guy who wasn’t worth the bullet it would take to shoot him.”

  Savannah glanced at Dirk and saw his eyebrows go up a fraction of a notch. “And who was that ... ? Ethan?”

  “No. Ethan’s a decent guy. And he deserved a lot better treatment than he got from his so-called loving and devoted wife.”

  “So, who’s the dude?” Dirk asked.

  “Arlo Di Napoli. He was Ethan’s best friend—or so Ethan thought until he found Arlo and Madeline in his bed together. End of friendship, end of marriage.”

  “Yes, I can imagine so.” Savannah jotted that one down in her mental notebook for much future consideration. “When did this happen?”

  “About two years back.”

  “That long ago?” Dirk said.

  “Oh, Ethan kicked her out that day and filed for a legal separation. But they were still haggling over the terms of the divorce. Mostly over Elizabeth. They both wanted primary custody of her.”

  “Sounds like a barrel of laughs,” Savannah said dryly.

  “Oh, you’ve no idea. And it’s lovely for me.” Odelle tossed back the rest of her scotch. “Madeline just stopped even trying where our business was concerned. She didn’t give a hoot about anything but Arlo anymore. Showed up late or not at all for our bookings. Wasn’t worth anything when she did appear. I’ve lost a fortune because of her. And now I’m financially destitute.”

  She glanced around the beautiful room with its handcrafted furniture that was an opulent mix of Mission and Art Deco with the occasional Asian accent. Even Savannah’s untrained eye knew the value of the intricate red oak woodwork and thick, silk, embroidered coverings.

  “And now I’m going to lose all of this,” she said, waving a hand. “My home. Everything I own. Because Madeline was too stupid to know that she had a good life—a loving husband, a thriving business, a beautiful little girl. And she threw it all away for a piece of trash like Arlo Di Napoli, because he was a bit more exciting in bed. Big deal.”

  She shook her head in disgust. Savannah could tell by the glassy look in her eyes that the booze was hitting her. She wondered how much Odelle was drinking these days.

  “And the funny part is,” Odelle continued, slurring a word here and there, “Arlo broke up with her! She gave him an ultimatum. . . ‘Leave your wife or I’ll tell her about us.’ He told Madeline to go to hell, that she’d been nothing but an easy piece for him. So, what did stupid Maddy do? She made a beeline for his wife and told her all the sordid details. She thought that once Francie dumped Arlo, he’d come running back to her.”

  “Let me guess,” Savannah said, “that didn’t happen.”

  “Of course not. Madeline cost Arlo his marriage, his life. No way was he going to take her back. She’s lucky he didn’t kill her.”

  No sooner had the words left her mouth than she gave a little gasp and looked at Savannah, then Dirk ... who looked at each other.

  After a long, heavy silence, she said, “Or maybe he did.”

  “Maybe,” Savannah replied. “I reckon we’re just gonna have to make it our business to find out.”

  By the time Savannah and Dirk had finished with Odelle Peters, it was dinnertime, and Savannah had to admit, she was feeling pretty tired.

  “A mite tuckered out,” was the way she’d described it to Dirk when agreeing to let him drop her at her home for the evening.

  But if she’d been honest, she’d have said, “So pooped I have to take a deep breath to get the energy to breathe.”

  She hated being so fatigued all the time. And couldn’t help but think that her assailant had a lot to do with that.

  Before the attack, she’d been tired after a long day’s work. But now she even woke up tired in the morning after eight or nine hours of sleep. And that was something new and most unwelcome in her life.

  Worst of all, she was deeply afraid that she’d never get past it, never be her “old self” again. And that bothered her as much as the scars on her body ... wondering what damage had been done inside and whether it would ever heal.

  “You want to come in and have some supper?” she asked him when he pulled into her driveway. “The gang’s at Disneyland. We’ll have a quiet house all to ourselves.”

  He hesitated, and she could tell he was really torn. There were few things he loved more than free food, and especially if it was her cooking.

  “No, thanks,” he said at last. “I need to get back to the station. I’ve gotta get that nitwit new gal at the desk to run checks on Arlo Di Napoli and his old lady. I’m gonna run one on our girlfriend, Odelle, too. Looks like to me she’s got some major motive there, losing her house and all because of Madeline.”

  Savannah nodded. “It was hard to miss the hatred in her eyes when she talked about her.”

  He leaned over and gave her a kiss. “You go get some rest and enjoy your solitude. You can use a bit of peace and quiet.”

  “That’s for danged sure.”

  She got out of the car, waved good-bye to him, and went into her house, expecting to find only Diamante and Cleopatra.

  But instead, she saw her grandmother sitting in her big, comfy chair, reading her favorite tabloid newspaper.

  “Gran!” Savannah said as she tossed her purse and keys onto the entry hall table. “What are you doing here? I thought you were going to Disneyland with the rest of the hoodlums.”

  Granny folded her paper and got up from the chair. She walked over and sat on the sofa. “I wasn’t up to all that running all over God’s creation with that bunch,” she said.

  “But you love Disneyland! You’re a Mickey Mouse Club fan from way back!”

  “I do love the Mouse, it’s true. But I like going there with you. I know them brothers and sisters of yours and their younguns. There’s gonna be a whole lot of bellyachin’ about standing in lines and fightin’ up a storm over what ride they’re gonna go on next, and gripin’ if they don’t get exactly the food they want when they want it. Lord have mercy, it wears me out just thinking about it.”

  Savannah walked over to her grandmother and gave her a kiss on the forehead. “Go park yourself back in that comfortable chair,” she told her with pseudo sternness.

  “But that’s your chair.”

  “Not when you’re here, it ain’t.”

  “I’m done settled here.”

  “Resettle over there. I need to lay down on the couch.”

  Reluctantly, Granny did as she was told. Once she was nestled back in the winged-back chair with its rose spangled chintz covering and Savannah was stretched out on the sofa, she said, “You know, you’d have to get up mighty early of a morning to fool me, girlie. I know that you’d be sitting here if you was home alone. Lay on the couch, my foot.”

  Savannah grinned at her as she tucked a cushion under her head. “Maybe. And you’d have to stay up all night long if you wanted to get one over on me. You didn’t stay home from Disneyland today because of no long lines or kids bellyachin’. You’d live every day of your life in Disneyland and be buried there if you could think of a way to pull it off.”

  Granny smiled back, but said nothing.

  “You stayed behind because you were afraid I’d get all down in the dumps over all that’s happened if you left me alone. Let’s face it, you’re here to babysit me.”

  “Am not.”

  “Are, too. And don’t lie. What’s that you used to always tell me? ‘The good Lord’s watchin’, and if He hears you tell a lie, your tongue’ll turn black and fall right outta your head.’”

  Granny sighed. “Yeah, I shouldn’t have told you kids that. It ain’t true. I know a whole bunch of sorry jackasses who’ve lied like rugs their whole lives, and they’ve still got their tongues ... unfortunately.”

  “I didn’t believe it past the age of five. That’s when I stopped checking it in the bathroom mirror after I told a whopper. So, I don’t reckon it scarred me for life.”
<
br />   She felt her breath catch in her throat as soon as she said the words, “scarred for life.” Funny, how a simple phrase that you’d used since you were a child could suddenly take on new meaning.

  Glancing over at Granny, she could see that Gran had caught it, too. Those eyes, as startlingly blue as her own, were searching her face with an intensity that made Savannah most uncomfortable.

  It was hard to hide things from Dirk.

  It was impossible to hide them from Granny Reid.

  There was a long silence, then Gran said softly, “Life’s hard. Everybody picks up scars along the way, Savannah girl. Some on the inside. Some on the outside.”

  Savannah put her head back and stared up at the ceiling. “These aren’t like the one on my finger that I got opening that can of beans, Gran.”

  “I know.”

  “Or the one on my foot where Cleo scratched me when Di bit her on the butt.”

  “I know. And it ain’t like the scar I got when they took out my gall bladder. Those were all got innocent-like. Not the way you got yours ... through evil means.”

  “Exactly. That makes it harder.”

  “I’m sure it does, sweetie pie. I’m sure it does.”

  Savannah felt another, even deeper wash of fatigue sweep through her, robbing her of even the small amount of energy she’d had. The very thought of that guy seemed to drain the very life out of her.

  “Are you gonna be all right, Granddaughter?” Gran asked with a tremble in her voice that Savannah hadn’t heard in years.

  A false, cheery, reassuring lie sprang to Savannah’s lips, but she swallowed it and spoke the awful truth instead.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well ... that’s gotta be a powerful burden to carry.”

  “It is.”

  Granny thought awhile, then asked, “What do you reckon it’d take for you to get better?”

  “I don’t know. Time, I guess.”

  “I don’t put a lot of stock in time’s healing properties. I’ve seen too many people spend too many years trying to get over bad injuries. Seems like a lot of those wounds fester instead of heal.”