“Usually it takes a few beers and listening to Elvis or Johnny Cash to bring him, out, but ... yeah. I got one.”
She moved toward the bench. “Well, then by all means, let’s sit down. I gotta meet this peaceful Dirk dude.”
Once they were settled, she realized how chilly the wind was out here at the end of the pier at sunset. She chided herself for forgetting her jacket.
A moment later, Dirk had taken off his old, leather bomber jacket and was wrapping it around her shoulders.
“How very gallant of you,” she said, savoring the warmth of the jacket that still held the heat of his body and the scent that was his alone ... leather, Old Spice, cinnamon ... and him.
“Hey, I gotta take care of my girl, especially now that she’s my fiancée.”
Savannah’s mind reluctantly returned to another time, three months ago, when she had been lying on the floor, her life’s blood flowing out of her body, her strength fading fast. And he had taken off this very jacket and wrapped it around her, just like today.
He had literally saved her life. And since that day, she had realized how precious life was.
“You’ve always taken care of me, fiancée or not,” she said, her voice breaking a bit.
“Yeah, well, let’s just say, we take care of each other.”
Savannah’s cell phone jingled, playing the happy little tune, “You Are My Sunshine.”
“Hi, Tams,” she said, answering it. “You’re here?”
They both turned around and looked back the length of the pier. Even from there they could see the golden-haired beauty standing in the parking lot, near the restaurant on the opposite end. She was hopping up and down, waving her arms.
Savannah smiled. “We see you. We’ll be right there.” She started to stand, but her left leg buckled under her.
Dirk caught her, lowered her back down onto the bench, then took the cell phone from her hand. “We’re gonna sit here and enjoy the view just a few more minutes,” he told Tammy. “Why don’t you go on inside and get us a table? Order Savannah her iced tea and me a fake beer, and whatever you want.”
“You got it,” Tammy replied.
They watched as she bounced into the restaurant.
Savannah wondered if she would ever bounce anywhere again.
Dirk handed her the phone. “Nice view, huh?” he said, waving an arm to indicate the distant horizon, where purple islands peeked above a fluffy layer of white fog. A lighthouse blinked its beam at them across the way. A flock of brown pelicans flew by, looking like prehistoric pterodactyls. And below a bevy of surfers in black bodysuits rode waves that glistened coral and turquoise in the light of the setting sun..
“Yeah, yeah,” she said. “Whatever.”
As Savannah and Dirk devoured their fish and chips dinner and Tammy nibbled at her salad, they compared notes on the case.
Of the three, it seemed that Tammy was the most informed. And that didn’t surprise Savannah at all.
Some little girls wanted to grow up and be princesses and fairies. A few who were more practical wanted to be doctors or movie stars. But Tammy had decided early in childhood that she was going to be Nancy Drew.
And, for all practical purposes, she was.
Often, Savannah had thought that if she were a fugitive on the run, the last person she’d want after her would be Tammy Hart. The girl had endless energy, dogged determination, and resolute resourcefulness.
Tammy had trained all of her considerable powers on Ethan Aberson for the past twenty-four hours. Unaware that he was in her crosshairs, good ol’ Ethan had no idea how effectively his privacy had been breached.
“His mother says he’s a highly successful businessman,” Savannah said, dragging a crispy French fry through a puddle of ketchup. “But then, all mothers think that.”
“She’s right,” Tammy told her. “He’s an established, well-respected funeral director. Owns a mortuary in Twin Oaks.”
“Which one?” Dirk asked.
“Perpetual Peace.”
He nodded. “Yeah. I’ve been there. So have you,” he told Savannah. “Kevin Flynn was laid out there after that undercover bust went wrong.”
“Oh, right. Sad case. Nice place though,” Savannah observed.
“He does a lot of business,” Tammy said. “If he’s a good financial manager, he should be well set.”
Dirk scowled. “Wait a minute. His parents said he’s at a convention in Vegas. Undertakers don’t go to conventions.”
“The heck they don’t.” Tammy grinned, looking obnoxiously pleased with herself. “I’m telling you, that’s where he’s been. Yesterday, he attended a lecture on the risks of formaldehyde exposure. The day before, it was a class on how to reduce your paperwork and still stay within federal guidelines, and another on protecting yourself from blood-borne pathogens.”
“Woo-hoo. I wanna be an undertaker and go to cool classes like those,” Savannah said, stirring an envelope of sugar into her drink.
“Hey, don’t poke fun,” Dirk told her. “They do a really important job ... a job most other people wouldn’t want. I still remember how good they made Kevin Flynn look after he was shot to hell. That meant a lot to his widow and his kids.”
Savannah nodded thoughtfully. “You’re absolutely right. I’m sorry. But you’ve got to admit, that sounds like a boring convention.”
“Don’t feel too sorry for him,” Tammy said. “He’s been ducking out of the seminars.”
“Oh?” Savannah was all ears. “And how do we know that?”
“Because ... we ... have become best friends forever with the concierge there at the Victoriana, and he told me a lot of interesting stuff.”
“Spill it.”
Tammy reached into her purse, took out her electronic tablet, and turned it on. “Well, he’s the one who told me about the convention and the various classes. He even checked the lists to see who attended what.”
“He did all that for you over the phone?” Dirk asked, astonished and maybe a tad jealous.
“He certainly did.”
“How?” Dirk wanted to know.
Tammy batted her eyelashes. “If you’re a girl and use a southern accent, you can get a guy to do anything for you. Huh, Savannah?”
Savannah glanced at Dirk, shrugged, and cleared her throat. “What else did this concierge tell you?”
“He told me that when a hotel guest enters their room, using their key card, the time registers on the hotel’s security computer. And he told me exactly when Ethan Aberson entered and exited his room every day since he’s been there.”
“Okay,” Dirk said. “Anything interesting?”
Tammy glanced down at her tablet’s screen. “The day that Madeline was killed, he left his hotel room at nine fourteen in the morning. And he didn’t return until a little after three in the afternoon.”
“Maybe he was at a seminar on hair-dressing trends or a symposium on complementary shades of pancake makeup,” Savannah said. She glanced at the scowling Dirk and added, “Or not.... Sorry.”
“There were classes, but he didn’t attend any of them,” Tammy told her.
“He was gone from the hotel the whole time?” Dirk said, perking up considerably.
Tammy nodded.
“But he was in Las Vegas at nine fourteen and back at three,” Dirk said, coming down a bit. “That’s six hours. And it would take him at least five or six hours to make the drive to San Carmelita, one way. Even if he flew from Vegas to LA and then drove to San Carm ... it’d still take too long.”
“Not if he flew from Vegas to Santa Barbara and drove down here from there,” Savannah said. “It would be snug, but he could have done it.”
“If he didn’t dally when he was doing the murder.”
“Doesn’t take that long to plunge a long, sharp object into your soon-to-be-ex-wife’s back.”
Tammy held up one hand. “Before you two get all excited, I’ll tell you, I already thought of all that and checked it out. He
wasn’t here.” She lifted her chin and grinned, looking quite pleased with herself. “I know where he was.”
“The concierge spilled that, too?”
“As a matter of fact, he did. The day before the murder, the concierge arranged a car rental for Ethan and printed out directions for him to a brothel called Monique’s Ranch. It’s about an hour drive from Vegas. The next day—the day Madeline was killed—when the concierge asked Ethan how he liked the brothel, he said he’d had such a good time, he was on his way back, right then, for a second date.”
“Wonder if he mentioned that to Mom and Pop when he called home to check on his daughter?” Savannah said.
Dirk chuckled. “Guys don’t tell Momma everything.”
“Gals either,” Tammy returned.
“An hour to drive to the brothel. Two hours round trip,” Savannah mused. “Say he stayed there an hour. That’s three hours. Leaves him with several hours to spare.”
“He could’ve gambled,” Dirk suggested.
“He was at a matinee of a magic show,” Tammy told them. “He had the concierge get a ticket for him.”
Dirk raised one eyebrow. “I’m surprised that concierge has time to get tickets for anybody, if he spends all his time talking to women with fake, flirty southern accents.”
“I was most assuredly his first,” she said, pouring on the Georgia drawl. “And I dare say that young man was plum enamored by my down-in-Dixie charm.”
“Hush up, girl,” Savannah told her. “It’s just too weird, hearing you talk like me.”
“Okay, I’ll drop the accent. But you don’t want me to hush. Believe me ... you’re going to want to hear what else I came up with.”
Casually, a smug little grin on her face, Tammy picked up her fork and began to play with her salad.
Savannah and Dirk watched, simmering with impatience, as she carefully cut a cucumber into four even, neat pieces.
Finally, Savannah snapped. “Girl, you better spit it out, or I’m gonna slap you upside the head with a French fry. With a big ol’ glob of ketchup on it, too.”
Tammy laughed and put down her fork. “Okay.” She turned to Dirk. “You’ve probably already found out about the restraining order.”
Dirk looked at Savannah. She shrugged.
“What restraining order?” they both said in unison.
Tammy picked a cherry tomato out of her salad and popped it into her mouth. After chewing for about a year, she said, “The one that Madeline Aberson took out a couple of weeks before she was killed.”
“Madeline had an RO against someone?” Dirk said.
Savannah nearly choked on her iced tea. “Who? Who?”
Tammy laughed. “You sound like a hoot owl.”
Shaking a long, floppy fry drenched in ketchup in her face, Savannah said, “Cough it up, babycakes, or you’ll be wearing this.”
“Threaten to do me bodily harm with trans fats! I’m sure that’s a felony in forty-five states!”
“How would you feel about having some cod shoved in your right ear?” Dirk added, brandishing a piece of his deep-fried fish.
Tammy rolled her eyes. “Okay, okay. Madeline took out a civil harassment restraining order against Celia Barnhart.”
Savannah and Dirk looked at each other questioningly. Then both shrugged their shoulders.
“Who the hell,” Dirk asked, “is Celia Barnhart?”
“Funny you should ask that.” Tammy fiddled with her tablet, then turned it so that they could each see the screen.
On it was a picture of a normal-enough-looking young woman. Conservative even. It was a simple, nondescript head shot, like the thousands used every day on Internet social sites.
“Okay.” Savannah deflated a bit, like the old Disneyland balloons in her living room. “What’s that supposed to tell us?”
Tammy messed with the screen a bit more and came up with another picture of Celia Barnhart. This time she looked quite lovely in her wedding gown, standing next to her groom, who was decked out in a stylish tuxedo.
Though as attractively dressed as the couple was, neither wore the happy, beaming smiles that were expected of a twosome on their wedding day. In fact, they both looked quite disgruntled.
“Looks like they had the same sort of day we had,” Dirk grumbled. “What? Did their wedding hall burn down, too?”
“No,” Tammy said. “But you two and this two, you did have something in common.”
“What’s that?” Savannah asked.
“The same wedding planner.”
Savannah quickly added two and two and came up with a couple of couples who hadn’t had the stellar weddings of their dreams. “Don’t tell me she died during their wedding, too.”
“No, of course not. But according to Celia Barnhart, Madeline ruined the most important day of her life.”
“A bridezilla, huh?” Dirk said. “I guess women are a bit temperamental at a time like that ... stress and all.” He shot a look at Savannah.
She said, “Watch it, boy.”
“Present company excepted, that is.” He turned back to Tammy. “But this gal took it so far that Madeline got an RO against her?”
“Yes. According to the court documents, which I found online, she threatened Madeline with bodily harm ... during the wedding itself, in front of all of her guests, and then daily for two weeks afterward.”
“I think we need to talk to this gal,” Dirk said, waving to the waitress to bring their check.
“Ah, yes,” Savannah said. “If nothing else, we can compare wedding-day horror stories. If hers is bad enough, maybe it’ll make us feel better about ours.”
“Oh, please. Like anybody in the world has a worse wedding story than you two do.” Tammy laughed and put her tablet back into her purse. “When it comes to getting hitched, you guys have the worst luck of all time.”
When she had her chore done, she glanced up and saw they both had fixed her with stony glares.
She shrugged. “Well? You do.”
“And you, young Miss Prissy Pants,” Savannah said, “if you mention it again, I’m going to change your ring tone on my phone from ‘You Are My Sunshine’ to ‘Rainy Night in Georgia.’”
Chapter 16
The next morning, Savannah and Dirk took a trip to Celia Barnhart’s house. She wasn’t home, but one of her chatty neighbors told them that she was a teacher’s aide at a private day school in the neighboring town of Arroyo Verde.
As they pulled into the school parking lot, Savannah sized up the school. With its pristine green lawns, generously equipped playground, and scores of students running around in neat white shirts, blue and green plaid skirts on the girls and navy slacks on the boys ... it was obviously a place that cost the parents a few bucks.
A place that was a far cry from the small country school that she had attended in McGill, Georgia, with its dirt play yard, one broken teeter-totter, and a single swing with frazzled ropes.
She smiled as she watched the kids slipping down their safe, bright red slide—splinter free, no doubt.
These kids were blessed. They wouldn’t have to work as hard as she had to climb upward in life. They had a head start. She hoped that at least some of them would grow to realize that and make full use of it.
“See her anywhere?” Dirk asked as they got out of the car and walked past a neat queue of children all lined up and waiting to march back into the building to their classrooms.
Savannah thought of her last visit to a local public school, where the teachers did well to keep the kids from harassing, pummeling, and mugging each other. And she mentally applauded the difference.
“No,” she said, as she scanned the crowd, looking for adults. “I don’t. Are we sure she’s working today?”
“Her sister said she is.”
One elderly lady with a whistle around her neck and a firm, no-nonsense look on her face was straightening the line, cautioning those who were overly energetic to calm down.
At the end of the line was
a pretty redhead who looked to be in her late teens.
But they were looking for a thirty-four-year-old brunette ... possibly with a sunburn. According to Tammy, Celia Barnhart and her groom had recently returned from their honeymoon in Cabo San Lucas.
“Maybe she’s inside,” Dirk said.
Then Savannah spotted her leaving the main building by way of a side door and walking toward a large structure that might be a gymnasium or auditorium.
“There she is,” she said, recognizing the woman instantly from the pictures Tammy had shown them. She was dressed in a baggy, dark dress instead of a well-designed, formal wedding gown, but she was wearing the same grumpy look on her face.
Savannah had a feeling this wasn’t going to be particularly pleasant. “I’m not in the mood for drama,” she told Dirk. “I’m to the point where, if anybody spouts off to me about how bad life’s been treating them lately, I’m gonna give ’em an earful about my own problems.”
“Nobody knows ... de trouble I see... .” Dirk sang, his voice deep and deliciously bass, though a bit flat here and there.
She laughed and felt a little better, though still resolved to keep the amount of bellyaching she would hear to a minimum.
Life was just too short to listen to everybody else’s whining, cursing, and raging. If for no other reason than because it seriously cut into one’s own time for whining, cursing, and raging.
They caught up with Celia Barnhart just as she opened one of the large double doors. Savannah caught a glimpse of the gloriously shined wooden floors of a gym.
That was something else the little school in Georgia hadn’t had either. They had played basketball on the asphalt parking lot ... which had been a bit rough on the knees when a player took the inevitable spill.
“Celia Barnhart?” Dirk asked, showing her his badge.
“Used to be. I’m Celia Wynn now.”
“Yes. Congratulations,” Dirk said. “This is Savannah Reid. We’d like to talk to you.”
Celia placed her hands on her hips and the anger in her eyes flared to a new, hotter level.
Oh, goody, Savannah thought. And here goes my ocean pier Zen, swirling right down the john.
Buried In Buttercream Page 16
