“The victim had a wound on the back of her head, a nasty, bloody one. That could have gotten the blood on the weapon. But the killer had to strike again or there wouldn’t have been castoff.” She demonstrated, lifting her arm up and coming down with an imaginary weapon, then coming up again, as though splattering the ceiling with the action.
“Unless they missed the second time,” Eileen suggested.
“Not likely. She would have been a stationary target after that first crushing blow to the head. Dr. Liu will probably find another wound under the clothing that wasn’t obvious before.”
“So, why does that matter?” Eileen asked as she climbed onto her portable stool to take a ceiling shot.
“The first blow, the one to the head, would have been plenty to kill her. Hitting her again shows anger. It was personal. Especially since they intended to try to make it look like an accident with the ice cream container. The second blow was out of control. Not smart.”
Eileen nodded. “I see what you mean.”
“Yep. You can’t blame it on the ice cream. Tubs of ice cream—even those named Killer Fudge—don’t hit twice.”
By the time Savannah was finished in the cellar and had come upstairs, it was five-thirty, and the adrenaline rush that had fueled her nightly activities was long gone. But Dirk was still at it, interviewing those members of the cast and crew who were still awake and milling about the castle. And, weary as they had to be, Ryan and John were doing their part—mingling and gleaning bits of gossip.
So, in spite of her burning eyes, aching body and woozy head, she decided to resist the urge to sneak upstairs and crawl back into bed. It certainly wouldn’t be the first night’s sleep she had lost on a job. But when she had been twentysomething, she had found it much easier to make up for lost pillow time. Now, solidly into her forties, she had to admit: The old bod just didn’t spring back with as much vim and vigor as before.
Oh well, she thought as she went to the kitchen and made a strong pot of coffee, I wouldn’t go back. Not if it means trading some hard-earned life lessons for a bit more vim. Vigor is overrated when it includes “stupid.”
A few minutes later, mug of coffee in hand, she decided to step outside for some fresh air to clear her head.
Exiting the keep through a back door leading off the dining hall, she found herself in a charming, informal garden. Lit with the pale golden-pink light of the rising sun, the setting was so romantic that for a moment, she could lose herself in the fantasy of Blackmoor Castle.
A cobblestone path wound among beds of lavender, wild poppies, nasturtium, star jasmine, geraniums, and hollyhock. Passing beneath wisteria-draped arbors and several arched trellises covered with climbing roses, she breathed in the early dawn scents of dew-damp earth and growing things, and she felt her spirit renewed.
Even in the midst of death and cruelty, there were always new beginnings and examples of nature’s beauty. And speaking of nature’s beautiful creations….
Lance Roman himself.
He was standing next to a pond in the center of the garden, staring into the water with a look of sadness so profound that Savannah said nothing, but just watched him for several moments.
She wasn’t surprised. The sight of a corpse had a sobering effect on almost everyone, reminding them of their own mortality. And if the dead person was murdered, it stirred even deeper feelings of sorrow, fear, and anger.
At first, she considered turning away and quietly leaving him to his solitude. It would be the most respectful thing to do.
But as an investigator she wasn’t being paid to be respectful. And, she had to admit, it wasn’t really her nature either. She had been a cop and an investigator too long.
Besides, this was the “Man of Her Dreams” and she was still in a contest for his affections…not to mention a diamond tiara. Chances to be alone with him might prove few and far between.
“Lance,” she said softly. “Mind some company?”
He turned and gave her a blank look, as though his thoughts were still elsewhere. Then he forced a smile and nodded. “Sure. I’d like that.”
She walked over to a wrought-iron park bench and sat down. Patting the seat beside her, she said, “Rest your bones a spell. It was a rough night for us all.”
When he sat next to her, she tried not to notice what a large man he was, at least six-three and extraordinarily broad through the shoulders. Even through the thick material of the sweatshirt she could see the results of what had to be a strenuous workout routine. She had assumed that the artists who painted him for the book covers exaggerated his physique. But they hadn’t at all. Lance Roman was just as big a hunk in person as he was on the front of romance novels.
And it was difficult for her not to think about that with him so near on the cozy bench, his hard, warm arm pressing against hers. It wasn’t easy to slip into investigator mode. Her mindset was more inclined toward “Captured Victorian Virgin Heiress” or “Savannah, Virgin Piratess of the Seven Seas.”
She was trying to push those tantalizing little fantasies aside and think of a graceful way to begin her interrogation, when he opened the conversational door himself. “I guess you’re used to it,” he said, “seeing dead people and all that.”
“Not really,” she said. “It’s always a bit of a shock.”
“The difference…in dead and alive?”
“Yes.” She sighed. “How dead ‘dead’ is.”
He ran his fingers through his thick dark hair, pushing it back from his forehead. “I was raised on a farm,” he said. “I saw a lot of animals die.”
“Me, too.” Savannah smiled, recalling the bittersweet memories. “My Granny Reid used to kill a hen about once a month on a Saturday night so that we could have fried chicken for Sunday dinner.”
“Your grandmother raised you?”
“She raised all nine of us kids. We’ve nominated her for sainthood.”
“I’ll bet you have! Where were you in the lineup?”
“Oldest.”
He turned and gave her a long, searching look. “Granny killed one chicken for Sunday dinner? One bird for nine kids?”
Savannah shrugged. “You can cut a chicken into eleven pieces, if you count the back and the neck. And with a batch of mashed potatoes, a mess of gravy, and some greens that you picked along the railroad track…you’ve got dinner.”
“Hm-m-m….”
Savannah saw the pity in his eyes and rushed to set the record straight. “We weren’t starved at all for love or attention. That matters a lot more than getting a drumstick and a wing.”
“And where were Mom and Dad Reid?”
“Mom held down the bar stool under the signed picture of Elvis at the local tavern. Dad was a truck driver who forgot to come home except maybe once a year, long enough to get Mom pregnant…again. But enough about all that.” She nudged his arm with hers. “Tell me about your family.”
“I had a good childhood,” he said. “Dad was a dairy farmer in Ohio, retired now. Mom died when I was eighteen. Dad raised my kid brother and me the best he could, considering how hard he worked. He did a good job.”
“Is he proud of your success?”
He chuckled dryly. “Not that you’d notice. He tells people I’m an actor—can’t bring himself to say ‘model.’ Not macho enough, I guess. He’s pretty happy with the checks I send him.”
“I’m sure he is. He’s probably proud, too. Some parents are just a bit sparing with their praise. They’re afraid their kid will get too big for their britches.”
She didn’t mention the fact that he was, frequently, a bit too big for his pants on the book covers. It was a large part of his appeal.
But as appealing as the fit of his trousers might be, she had to get back to business. “Lance,” she said, “would you mind if I ask you a couple of questions about what happened tonight?”
He gave her a sideways grin that nearly took her breath away. “I wondered when you’d get around to that—you being a pri
vate investigator, a former cop and all.”
Damn, he’s better-looking than a man ought to be allowed to be, she thought as he flashed his perfect teeth, his blue eyes warm and friendly.
“Sure,” he said. “I don’t know what I can tell you that you don’t already know, but ask away.”
“When we were talking there in the kitchen, you and Mary said that you overheard Tess and Alex arguing earlier. Can you tell me any more about that?”
He shook his head and looked away. “No,” he responded quickly. “I think I heard them, but I’m not sure.”
“Mm-m-m. I thought you were pretty sure earlier.”
“Not really. I think it was Alex and Tess, but I couldn’t swear to it.”
“Was it a man and a woman you heard?”
“I think so.”
“What were they saying?”
“I didn’t hear actual words. I couldn’t tell you anything for sure that was said.”
“Nothing?”
“Nope.”
“Okay.”
Over the years, Savannah had questioned hundreds of people who genuinely didn’t know anything and hundreds of others who knew something but weren’t willing to talk about it. Sitting there next to her dream hunk, she was pretty certain that he fell into the second category.
Not a pleasant thought.
“About what time was it that you overheard this argument?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“No idea at all?”
“No. I was asleep. They woke me up, but when they stopped, I went back to sleep. I didn’t look at the clock. Later, I woke up again and was thirsty, so I went down to the kitchen to get something to drink.”
“When you went downstairs, did you see anyone other than Mary?”
“Yeah, Roxy. She was in the kitchen already when we got there.”
“What was she doing?”
“Washing an apple at the sink.”
“Did she hang out very long?”
“Yeah, with that low-cut gown, I’d say she was practically hanging out the whole time.”
Savannah laughed. “And about how long was she downstairs—after you showed up, that is?”
“Five minutes maybe. Just long enough to make a nuisance of herself.”
One contestant down, Savannah thought, reminding herself that she could investigate and play the game, too.
“Roxy not your type?” she asked.
“Naw. Girls like Roxy are a dime a dozen in my business. Pose with one of them bent backwards in your arms for ten hours and they tend to lose their appeal.”
She gave him her best, deep-dimpled grin. “Yeah, some of those positions look pretty uncomfortable.”
“You have no idea.”
“I hear you do a lot of guest appearances at book fairs and signings, and the ladies line up to have their pictures taken with you.”
He sighed. “Yes. And they all want the traditional pose.”
Savannah could mentally picture the row, stretching around the bookstore, of women—all ages, all sizes—waiting for their chance to be bent backward by this mountain of sex appeal. A glorious chunk of manhood whom Savannah was quickly realizing was just a guy…a person like anyone else, playing a part.
“Is that difficult?” she asked softly. “Treating the older ones or the less attractive ones like princesses no matter how they look?”
Instantly, his eyes softened and he shook his head. “No, not at all. I love that part. Holding that stupid pose two hundred times a day is exhausting. But the ladies…I love them all. They aren’t airhead models like that Roxy gal. They’re real women who, for whatever reason, like me so much that they’d stand in a line for hours just to talk to me, to have their pictures taken with me. If I can make them feel special, give them a nice memory, that’s a gift—a gift to me, that is.”
“Oh, I think it’s a gift all the way around.”
He glanced her way and their eyes met for a long moment…long enough for her to sense a real connection and to know that he felt it, too.
She liked Lance Roman. Not just his biceps. Him.
And she had a feeling he liked her, too.
“Did I mention that I’m really glad you came out to the garden this morning?” he said, his face only inches from hers.
She looked down at his lips, so full and so near, then back up at his eyes. Her heart gave an extra beat when she saw that he was looking at her mouth, too.
“Ah…no, you didn’t mention that,” she whispered. “Did I mention that I’m particularly glad we had this conversation?”
“And is this Detective Savannah Reid I’m talking to right now, or Savannah the contestant?”
She grinned. “I’m a complex woman, Mr. Roman. I’m a whole bundle of women rolled into one, and let’s just say they’re all pretty darned happy to be sitting on this bench right now.”
He returned her smile, reached up and traced her jaw line slowly with his fingertip from just below her earlobe to her chin.
The simple gesture went through her like a warm liquid that washed her from head to toe, but settled in the more intimate parts of her body. She could feel herself melting into a big puddle there on the bench.
Then he cupped her chin in his palm and brushed his thumb over her lower lip.
She tried to remember to keep breathing.
“And do you suppose,” he asked, “that any of the women in this intriguing bundle would object if I stole just one kiss here in the early morning light?”
That was it. She was over the edge, sure that she had no measurable pulse, respiration, or brainwave activity.
But Granny Reid’s teachings were deeply ingrained. “Don’t give it away too quick, Savannah girl,” she had told her a thousand times as young Savannah had headed out the door to a date. “Keep your treasures close to your heart like the precious jewels they are. Dole ’em out slowly and wisely. The boys who’re worth a hoot will keep comin’ back for more. And the ones who don’t…they can go sit on a fence post and spin.”
He ran his thumb along her upper lip and Gran’s warnings seemed to fade to whispers.
But not completely.
“That depends on who I’m talking to,” she said, giving him a teasing grin.
He looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“Is this the guy who’s an expert at making every woman feel special, or is it the teenage boy who got up at dawn and helped his dad milk a zillion cows?”
He thought for a moment, then said, “Depends.”
“On?”
“On who’s the most likely to get a kiss.”
She laughed at his honesty, then raised one eyebrow. “Well, I’ve always had a liking for those farmer boys. You know, salt of the earth, strong and steady…hay lofts….”
Chuckling, he turned toward her on the bench and said, “That works out great, because I’ve always had a thing for dairymaids.”
He reached up and touched her hair, then gently brushed it back from her face. “You’re a very pretty woman, Savannah,” he said. “And you’re…different. I like you a lot.”
She glanced over his picture-perfect features, taking in the deep blue eyes with their dark lashes, the rugged cut of his chin, the breathtaking smile that had charmed so many. She reached up and ran her fingers through those famous raven locks and wondered how it must feel to be so incredibly beautiful. So beautiful that your appearance was all anyone could see.
“Well,” she said with her slow drawl, “you’re a bit on the homely side for me, but you’re kinda sexy…in a rough and tumble sort of way.”
He gave a low growl deep in his throat, then took her face in both of his hands. “I’ll show you homely. I’ll show you rough.”
But he didn’t kiss her roughly. He gave her the longest, sweetest kiss she could remember, nicer than Dirk’s on the beach, better than those teenage make-out sessions in the Georgia peach orchards, and certainly better than any she’d had in the years between.
&n
bsp; Then, when she thought she might absolutely die from the sheer delight of “sweet,” the kiss turned deep and passionate and lasted—she was sure—for a year and a half.
When they finally pulled away, both were breathless, and Savannah was sure she was experiencing her first bona fide hot flash. What a time for menopause to arrive!
“Mmmm, that was great,” he said, more to himself than to her. He even sounded a bit surprised.
Savannah wasn’t sure if she was surprised or not. She was too stunned for any meaningful self-examination.
Gran’s advice about dispensing the goodies in a judicious manner went out the window. At that moment she could have gladly thrown the treasures right at him. The whole chestful.
Apparently he was thinking along the same lines, because he looked around at the dew-damp cobblestone path, the crowded, wet flower beds, and the tiny bench where they were sitting and said, “Damn. Speaking of rough…speaking of tumbles…where’s a good hay loft when you need one?”
Several ridiculous thoughts flew through Savannah’s mind that included: Would it really be all that uncomfortable to do it on cold, wet cobblestones? But the sound of someone clearing his throat behind them jerked her back to reality.
She turned around and saw Dirk standing there, a strange look on his face, as though he had just been forced to drink a glass of pure lemon juice.
“Oh, uh…hi,” she stammered as she jumped to her feet and smoothed her hair with both hands. “What’s up?”
“I’ve finished talking to that Carisa gal,” Dirk said, his voice low and strained. “Didn’t get much out of her. Was wondering if you’d have a go at her.” He gave Lance a quick look that Savannah could only classify as dark and threatening. “If you’re finished here, that is,” he added.
Savannah hated the fact that her face was getting hotter and no doubt redder by the moment. Why should she care that Dirk was standing there with the most pained and angry look she’d ever seen on his face?
And why should she feel like she’d just been caught in the act? For heaven’s sake, it wasn’t as if she and Dirk were married or even a couple.
It wasn’t as if Dirk had ever expressed any desire for a romantic relationship. And if he had, she wasn’t at all sure she would have returned his interest.
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