“Free? I guess I am. But if they find out about you around here, that’ll raise suspicion, and we don’t need that right now on top of everything else,” Alex said.
“You told me that if Tess wasn’t in the picture anymore we’d be free to do whatever we want. You said we’d get married. You promised me when we were in Key West last summer.”
“I know what I said. I also know that the husband is always the one they suspect first when a woman is murdered, and if anybody finds out I’ve been having an affair with you, I’ll wind up with my butt in jail for the rest of my life. And then neither one of us will be free to do what we want.”
“So what are you saying? Are you telling me that we have to keep going on the way we’ve been for the last two years, pretending we don’t even know each other?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. And if you’re as smart as I think you are, you’ll listen to me, too.”
Savannah could hear some sniffling. It sounded like the woman was crying; it also sounded a bit phony, not unlike Carisa’s caterwauling the night before.
“Sh-h-h, stop that,” she heard him say. “We’ll be together soon. Just not now. We lay low for a few months—”
“A few months!”
“Okay, okay, at least a few weeks. Until the coroner’s report is done, and I’m in the clear.”
Savannah was absolutely dying to stick her head around the corner and see who he was talking to. She had heard the voice recently, but she couldn’t place it.
“And then we can get married?” the woman asked between sniffs.
“And then I’ll buy you a ring.”
“A big one! I want a really, really big one! At least two carats, a princess cut.”
“Whatever. Just don’t ask me to meet you like this again. I mean it.”
The sniffling stopped. “Okay. As long as you promise about the ring. Two carats. No less. And as long as you say you love me.”
“I love you. Okay?”
Savannah had to stifle a snicker. She had heard more enthusiastic expressions of affection from ten-year-old boys greeting their maiden aunties.
“Okay.”
The woman actually sounded convinced.
Moron, Savannah thought as the sounds of lovemaking replaced the conversation. You’ll never get a ring out of that guy, unless it’s blackmail jewelry, given to keep you quiet.
But in spite of her disgust at yet another example of female naïveté, Savannah couldn’t help feeling a rush of adrenaline. What she had just overheard would have been nearly enough to convict Alex Jarvis of murder, had it been on tape.
Not enough for a conviction, but certainly enough to steer their investigation in his direction.
Still, she had to know the woman behind the voice. She had to take a look and hope to God she didn’t get caught doing it. There was nothing worse than having your number-one suspect know that he was your number one suspect.
She waited as the panting and groaning on the other side of the building escalated. It didn’t sound like old Alex was exactly going to score a home run, but from the level of female noises she would bet that he had made it at least to second base. If she was going to sneak a peek, this was the perfect time.
She squatted, and with her head low, took a quick half-look around the corner.
Alex had his lady friend pinned to the wall and was devouring her face while his hands mauled her chest area.
Safely back behind her corner, Savannah paused a second to marvel at some women’s taste—or lack there-of—in men. Who would have thought anybody would get the hots for Alex Jarvis? It would take far more than a tropical shirt to turn this guy into Tom Selleck. And that nasal, whiney voice—who could stand it?
And the answer—Savannah decided as she hurried away—was a woman who was pretty darn sure of getting a two-carat, princess-cut engagement ring.
A woman who was actually glad another woman had been murdered that day.
A brazen, blond hussy named Roxy Strauss.
As Savannah headed back to the keep, she passed the stables and glanced inside. Dirk was sitting in his old Buick, as she had thought he might be. Frequently, when working a case, he would retreat to his battered jalopy to think and make notes in the crime scene log. Something about the interior of the car—she suspected it was the assortment of fast-food wrappers that littered the floor—helped him to think.
As usual, he had the radio on and was listening to classic rock…the only form of classical music he enjoyed, other than some occasional classic Johnny Cash.
She dreaded an encounter with him, but the longer she put it off, the worse it would be. And she wasn’t prepared to get ulcers over some innocent, or even not-so-innocent, kisses.
As she approached the passenger door, she noted that he had the radio turned up to deafening decibels. Dirk only blasted his music when he was extremely jovial—an event that occurred less frequently than the planets aligned—or when he was in a bad mood. And judging from how loudly Elvis was belting out “Hound Dog,” she decided that old Dirk obviously had his tail in a serious twist.
He was concentrating on scribbling on a pad, which he was holding in his lap, and didn’t notice her until she opened the passenger door and slid inside. After giving her only the briefest nod, a scowl, and a muttered, “Hmphf,” he went back to writing.
“How’s it shakin’, sugar?” she said.
He mumbled something that she couldn’t distinguish above Elvis’s loud complaints about never catching rabbits.
“I can’t hear you,” she yelled. She reached for the volume knob on the radio. “Do you mind if I—”
“Yes, I mind!” he shouted. “I’m listening to that!”
“Well, excu-u-use me!”
She sat, staring straight ahead while he scribbled furiously on the log and Elvis finished his lament.
As soon as the last note had faded, she reached over and flipped the radio off.
“What have you got there?” she asked, nodding toward the pad on his lap. “Anybody look good for it yet?”
He kept writing, as waves of heavy silence rolled from one side of the car to the other. Savannah decided she could have surfed those waves.
“You’re not going to believe what I just overheard,” she said.
“I’m still having a problem believing what I overheard this morning,” he said, “or what I saw.”
Savannah could feel the muscles in her shoulders tying themselves into two half-hitch knots. The whining tone in his voice made her want to bludgeon him to death with his writing pad. The hurt in his eyes made her want to hug him and call him a big, sweet fool.
In the end, she decided to do neither, but to use her tried-and-true method of handling Dirk’s moods: Ignore them. Ignore him.
“Roxy and Alex, behind the birdhouse over there,” she said, pointing to the hawk house, “playing suck face and—”
“Gee, there’s a lot of that going around today.”
Savannah took a deep breath and tried not to wonder just how far she could cram that pen up his…. “And saying that they’ve got to lie low and not be seen together until the M.E.’s done with the autopsy and he’s in the clear.”
His eyes widened and his jaw dropped. All traces of Mr. Surly gone. “Really? Really? Wow!”
“Yep. It’s been going on for a couple of years. He promised to marry her once Tess was out of the picture.”
“Out of the picture, like dead?”
“He didn’t say ‘dead.’ So he could have meant divorce, but the conversation was very interesting, nonetheless.”
“It sure is.” His eyes glimmered with the delight of a bloodhound who—unlike Elvis’s—had caught a fresh scent. “Anything else?”
“He’s promised to buy her a two-carat ring. Princess cut.”
“What’s that?”
“Something every girl wants and most never get.”
“To keep her quiet?”
Savannah shrugged. “Don’t know, but I
’d keep my mouth shut for one carat.”
“You’d keep mum for a box of Godiva.”
“We all have our price.”
Savannah sat quietly for a moment, enjoying the companionable vibes that had replaced the tension. Ah, this was her friend, her buddy, her….
“And apparently, your price is a friggin’ diamond tiara,” he said, totally ruining the moment.
“Damn it, Dirk!” she shouted, turning in her seat to face him. “Just stop! Don’t even go there! You have no right to say squat about nothin’! So, just shut your yap before I—”
“Double negative,” he said softly, staring at the steering wheel in front of him.
“What?”
“You said, ‘no right to say nothing.’ That’s a double negative. You’re always yelling at me for that.”
She shook her head, incredulous. “Are you kidding me? You’re going to fight with me about grammar at a time like this?”
He looked up at her, his eyes full of something that looked a lot like love mixed with pain. “If we’re going to fight about anything right now,” he said, keeping his voice low, his tone gentle, “it probably oughta be about grammar.”
Something caught in her throat…something that felt like a big, suffocating rock. “That’s true,” she whispered. Then, after a long moment, she added, “I hate to see you upset…about double negatives…or whatever. You mean a lot to me.”
To her surprise, he reached for her hand and squeezed it. “You mean a lot to me, too, Van. Just…you know…be careful.”
She returned the squeeze and smiled at him. “I will, buddy. Don’t you fret. This ol’ girl ain’t never not careful.”
Chapter
7
Back in her room, Savannah stood beside the unmade bed and thought how lovely it would be to just slip back into it, pull the covers up over her head and sleep for a day or two. It seemed like some former life when she had rolled out of bed in search of something to satisfy her hunger pangs. Pangs that were now returning with a vengeance, since her adrenaline high had subsided.
Thank goodness it’ll be breakfast time soon, she thought as she reached into an antique armoire and pulled out the day’s costume—yet another medieval ensemble with the inevitable corset. She figured it was too much to hope for biscuits and gravy at Chez Blackmoor, but surely something like bacon and eggs would be on the menu.
She glanced at her watch. Eight-thirty. Tammy should be up by now, she thought, reaching for her cell phone. And, as she had expected, the voice that answered on the other end was bright and perky.
“Hey, sugar,” Savannah said. “Been up long?”
“Of course! I’ve already done my three-mile run. I’m in the middle of a protein smoothie.”
Savannah could picture the thick, goopy drink that Tammy called breakfast—some sort of concoction that she whipped up in a blender that was the lovely, appetizing hue of gray-green and smelled like seaweed. Even as hungry as she was, that didn’t sound appealing.
“Yum,” she said without enthusiasm.
“How’s it going? Are you having fun? How’s Lance? Is he as gorgeous in real life as he is on the book covers?”
“We had a murder last night.”
There was a long silence on the other end. Then, “Murder? You mean like a murder mystery game or—”
“Nope. The real thing. Tess Jarvis was killed last night. Found her in the cellar’s walk-in freezer this morning, colder than a frog on a mountain and about as responsive.”
“Get out! That’s awful! Have the cops come yet? Dr. Liu?”
“Yeah, come and gone. Dr. Liu, that is. Dirk and the techs are still here. Alex Jarvis hired me to investigate. He wants to continue the shoot in spite of his wife dying. Do you want to come out here and help me?”
“Do I?! Of course I do!”
“Then pack a bag and hightail it over here.”
“What about the kitties?”
“Ask Mrs. Fischer next door to look in on them a couple of times a day. She’s got a spare key to the place.”
“Wow! Cool! I can’t believe I get to hang out there, see the filming and—”
“And investigate. As in, work.”
“Sleuthing! I love it! I mean, I’m sorry Tess Jarvis got killed, but I’m so glad I get to join you there and help out!”
Savannah smiled and mentally hugged and kissed her friend long distance. The kid was sweet. “There’s just one more thing I want you to do before you come out here.”
“Sure! Anything! What is it?”
“Drop by the morgue and talk to Dr. Liu. See if she’s started the autopsy and if she knows anything yet.”
The long pause on the other end indicated a drop in the level of enthusiasm. “But, but…Dirk’s always bugging her, calling her before she’s done. She gets really mad.”
“So?”
“So, I’m sorta afraid of Dr. Liu.”
“Not to worry. She just gets mad at Dirk because…well, because he’s Dirk. If you tell her I sent you and bring her a box of Godiva chocolate, she’ll welcome you with open arms.”
“I don’t want her to welcome me with open arms if she’s in the middle of an autopsy. You know I can’t stand that sort of thing. I don’t have the stomach for it like you do.”
“Oh, don’t be such a tender buttercup. What’s a little blood and guts? The body’s fresh. None of that awful decomposition smell.”
“Ugh.”
Savannah laughed. “See you later. Okay, Honey Bunny?”
“Yeah, okay.”
“And while you’re at it…could you stop by the Patty Cake Bakery and get me half a dozen maple bars?”
“Bread and water? Bread and water? Are you kidding me?” Savannah stood beside the long dining hall table, her hands on her hips, a scowl on her face, as she stared down at the large, round loaves of bread and the pewter pitchers full of water.
To her right and left, the other contestants voiced their own indignation with cries of “No way!” and “Enough with this crap. Where’s the real food?”
Mutiny was thick in the air, and even Alex Jarvis seemed to sense his precarious situation. He stepped from behind the cameraman and approached the table. “We’re trying to tape here!” he shouted. “Do you mind?”
“We’re starving plumb to death here,” Savannah replied. “Do you mind?”
“For your information,” he said, “this is what people in medieval times had for breakfast. We’re trying for authenticity here!”
Savannah took a few steps closer to him, her eyes blazing. “And…in medieval times every now and then the starving masses would rise up against their callous lord and perforate his hide with a pitchfork!”
“At least put a platter of fruit out,” Roxy suggested. “Some apples and oranges, maybe or—”
“Screw the fruit,” Savannah said. “Either put something on this table that we can seriously sink our teeth into, or set up another table over there out of camera range and get a caterer to put on a decent showing. I’ve heard all about how it’s done in Hollywood. Real productions have craft tables that are virtual feasts.”
“But we’re on a limited budget here,” Alex whined. “And we need to stick to the schedule. I don’t have time to arrange for anything else right now.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Mary said. From her position behind Pete the soundman, she gave Alex a gentle but authoritative nod. “I’ll call a caterer and set up a nice lunch.”
He opened his mouth to protest, but she ignored him and continued. “Let’s get this scene under way, ladies, and I promise you’ll have something substantial to eat later, off camera.”
The women looked at each other and mumbled their acquiescence.
Mary smiled. “That’s it. Now, why don’t you all take your seats and let’s get started. While you’re eating, I’m going to explain the morning’s activities, and I think you’re going to just love it!”
Savannah didn’t love it. She loathed it.
> “I hate pigeons,” she whispered to Ryan as they and the entire cast stood in the middle of the courtyard, awaiting the promised arrival.
“This isn’t a pigeon,” he replied. “It’s a falcon.”
“A pigeon with talons. Goody.”
“What have you got against pigeons?”
Savannah shuddered. “My Grandpa Reid used to have some of them living in his barn. One of them would fly down out of the rafters every time you went in there, and try to land on your head.”
“Doesn’t sound too threatening…just landing on your head.”
“Yeah, well, you had to be there. It wasn’t fun.”
Ryan gave her that kindly, big-brother smile. “Poor little Savannah, terrorized by a mean old pigeon. How old were you when this happened?”
“Nineteen…twenty.”
“Oh.”
“I still have nightmares about it.”
“Okay.”
She looked up and saw the twinkle in his eyes. She knew he was stifling a giggle. “Laugh it up, Chuckles,” she said. “You have a monstrosity like that flapping on your head, slapping you silly with its wings, and then you tell me it’s no big deal.”
“I’m sure it was perfectly dreadful. I don’t know how you ever survived!”
“Oh, shut up.”
“But this bird won’t be landing on your head. He’s a beautiful, well-trained raptor. That’s why we gave you ladies the gauntlets, to protect you from his talons.”
Savannah looked down at the heavy leather gloves on her hands. They were extra thick and went all the way up to her elbows. The other contestants were wearing them as well and looked only slightly happier than she about the coming attraction.
“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I figured that a farm girl like yourself would be more comfortable with animals than you are. I mean, the horse yesterday, and now—”
“It doesn’t always work that way,” she said. “Sometimes having contact with certain critters can make you leery of them. It’s easy for citified people to be all sentimental about preserving a wild bobcat…until they’ve tangled with one.”
Murder à la Mode Page 10
