Cereal Killer

by G. A. McKevett

  Beyond the table and chairs was a glass wall, and through it Savannah could see a pool and a Jacuzzi. At an umbrella-covered table on the patio sat a large darkhaired man wearing green surgical scrubs. His elbows were propped on the table, his hands covering his face. His shoulders were shaking, and he appeared to be sobbing.

  She was about to go out to him, perhaps to comfort him, when she heard a shuffling sound above her. She looked up to see a second-story mezzanine and Dirk standing on it, beckoning to her.

  “Up here,” he said. “She’s in the john. Come check it out.”

  Savannah glanced at the man on the patio, hesitated, then climbed a curved staircase that led from the main floor to the mezzanine.

  Half a dozen doors lined the balcony, and Dirk pointed to the one on the far left. “In there,” he said.

  She tried to read the expression on his face to see how much she needed to steel herself before viewing the body. But Dirk wore only two expressions when he was working a scene: grim and grimmer. Neither one told her much, and today he was somewhere between the two.

  “How does it look?” she said as she walked by him, heading toward the bathroom door.

  “Eh.” He shrugged. “You tell me.”

  She stepped into the room and was surprised at how lovely it was. Mostly because, unlike downstairs, it wasn’t overtly decorated. Tiles, the color of pale jade, reflected the sunlight that streamed through a large skylight, and the sink and other fixtures were the same soft color. White towels, spa-thick, hung pristinely on gleaming brass rods, and near the whirlpool tub sat a basket filled with exotic soaps and bottles of bath gels.

  But these amenities registered only on Savannah’s mental periphery. Her attention focused on the body in the middle of the floor.

  Caitlin Connor lay on her back, her head toward the door, her arms flung out on either side of her. She was without a doubt quite dead, her eyes staring, sightless and soulless, up into the skylight. Her beautiful long red hair—once her trademark—was spread across the tiles in lank, limp strands that looked as pathetic and lifeless as their owner.

  “What’s that getup she’s wearing there?” Dirk asked over Savannah’s shoulder. “She looks like an escapee from that old TV show, Lost in Space. ”

  Dropping to one knee beside the body, Savannah examined the metallic-looking fabric of the sweatsuit that the body was wearing. It looked like an exercise outfit made of aluminum foil. The one-piece suit had elastic around the neck, the wrists, and the ankles and a long zipper up the front. It was the sort of garment one might wear on a bitterly cold day and was totally inappropriate considering the warm temperature of the glass house.

  “It’s a vapor-impermeable suit,” she told him. “What’s that?”

  “They’re used for rapid weight loss. You put one on, exercise like a maniac, and sweat out your body fluids. Can be very dangerous, but hell, the numbers on the scale go down. That’s all that matters to some people. The all-powerful number.”

  “Wait a minute. I think I’ve heard of those suits.” He walked around Savannah and knelt beside her. “Didn’t some wrestler kids die from using those last year?” ‘Yeah. And from using diuretics and laxatives and exercising up a storm in the summer heat—all to get down to a certain weight before a competition.”

  Dirk pulled a pair of latex gloves from his jacket pocket and put them on. Then he fingered the material on the suit’s sleeve. “Do you suppose that’s what she was trying to do... get down to a certain weight for some reason?”

  The thought made Savannah sick as she stared down at the pretty face that looked considerably thinner than she remembered from the magazine covers she had seen. Suddenly the room didn’t appear so beautiful. The marble walls seemed to close in around her, and for the first time she noticed that the room was stifling hot, much warmer than the rest of the house. Looking down at the young woman on the floor, she felt a wave of nausea wash through her.

  “Lord, I hope she didn’t accidentally kill herself that way,” she said. “Wouldn’t that be a shame? I can’t imagine it. Caitlin was a plus-sized model and really proud of it. She was very outspoken about the dangers of starvation diets and eating disorders. Why would she put her health... her life... at risk like this?”

  “Slenda.”

  Savannah and Dirk turned to see Caitlin’s husband standing in the bathroom doorway. He was staring down at his wife, his eyes swollen and red from crying, his face the picture of familial tragedy.

  “I beg your pardon?” Savannah said, rising to her feet and taking a few steps toward him.

  “Slenda,” he repeated. “It was that damned cereal. She had to lose thirty pounds in two months, and she’d only dropped twenty so far. She was worried sick about it, that she’d lose the contract. We really need the money and—”

  His voice broke and his broad shoulders began to shake with sobs. He covered his face with his hands.

  Savannah grabbed a handful of tissues from a dispenser on the counter and offered them to him. But he continued to cry and shake his head.

  She looked back at Dirk; he had that helpless, close-to-panic look in his eyes that he got when confronted with grieving men. Women were a different matter; Dirk could handle a crying female. He performed the big brother/daddy routine just fine when called upon. Chivalry was definitely the better part of Coulter’s valor.

  But a weeping man made him miserably uncom-1 for table. The thought of actually hugging and soothing another male—it was enough to send old macho Dirko into a tizzy.

  “Come along, Mr. Connor,” Savannah said, taking his arm and leading him away from the door. “Let’s go downstairs and get you a glass of water. Sergeant Coulter can take care of... things up here.”

  She led him down the stairs and into the kitchen, where he leaned against the counter, as though too weak to stand. She was already planning strategies for catching him before he hit the floor as she looked through the cupboard for a glass. Finding one, she filled it with water from the tap on the front of the refrigerator and offered it to him.

  He shook his head. “No, thanks. That’s not what I need.”

  He pushed away from the counter and walked over to another cupboard. Opening it, he revealed an ample supply of alcoholic potables. As he pulled out a bottle of Scotch, he said, “Something a bit stronger than water... that’s what I need. It isn’t every day you come home from work and find your wife dead on the bathroom floor.”

  Savannah nodded and said softly, “I’m sure it must be just awful.”

  He bolted the drink in one shot, reached for the bottle, and sloshed another generous one into the glass.

  Savannah stepped forward and gently placed one hand on his arm before he drank it, too. “I wouldn’t,” she told him. “They’re going to be asking you a lot of questions in the next few hours, and you’ll want to have your wits about you.”

  She felt his arm tense, and for a moment she thought he was going to shove her hand away, but then he seemed to reconsider and set the glass on the counter.

  “Yes, you’re right,” he said. “Although I don’t have much to tell them. She finally killed herself. I knew she was going to do it. I’ve seen it coming for more than a year now, and I couldn’t stop it.”

  Outside, Savannah heard a vehicle pull into the driveway, then another. The Crime Scene Unit had arrived. Maybe Dr. Liu, the county coroner, too.

  She took the husband’s arm again and nudged him toward the dining room and the doors leading to the patio. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go outside and sit down. We can talk out there while... while they do what they have to in here.”

  More times than she cared to remember, Savannah had been with the next of kin when a loved one’s body was carried out of the house on a gurney, face covered. It was a horrible moment, every time, no matter what the circumstances.

  She didn’t know if she could spare Kevin Connor that heart-wounding memory. But it was worth a try.

  Chapter

  3r />
  This time Kevin Connor seemed more steady on his feet as he walked from the kitchen to the patio. Apparently the Scotch had hit his bloodstream and was doing its job. He wasn’t shaking as much either, she noticed, as they stepped outside and walked over to the umbrella-covered patio table where he had been sitting earlier.

  “Are you a police officer?” he asked, settling into one of the chairs at the glass and wrought iron table.

  Savannah sat across from him and subconsciously switched into “evaluation” mode as she studied him. “No,” she replied. “I was. Now I’m a private investigator.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  She searched his face to see if his question was a complaint, but she saw only a vague curiosity in his dark eyes that were red and swollen from crying.

  “When I was with the SCPD, I was Detective Coulter’s partner. Sometimes he still invites me along on his cases. And I’m”—she couldn’t bring herself to say “was”—“a fan of your wife’s.”

  “Cait had a lot of fans.” He stared down at his hands that were tightly clasped before him on the table, and he began to cry softly again. “They’re going to be heart- , broken when they hear this.”

  Savannah gave him a couple of moments to compose himself; then she spoke, choosing her words as carefully as she could. “I have to say, I’m surprised that Caitlin would put herself through something like this... a rigorous, dangerous weight-loss program. She was so vocal about self-acceptance and sensible weight management.”

  “Yes, but that was before she got herself roped into this cereal contract. We needed the money, and her agent pressured her, and then the ad agency was breathing down her neck. They’d based this big campaign on Cait and a couple of other models losing a ridiculous amount of weight in only a few weeks by eating their stupid cereal.”

  He shook his head and rubbed his hands wearily over his face. “If I’d only known ahead of time, if I’d seen the contract before she’d signed it, I never would’ve let her. It even said that if she didn’t drop the weight in time, they would sue her for part of the cost of the promotion. She would have been ruined, and she’s worked so hard for so long to get to where she is... or was.” Again he collapsed in sobs. “I just can’t believe she’s gone.”

  Savannah reached across the table and placed her hand on his forearm. “I know,” she said. “I’m really sorry.”

  “I don’t think she had eaten anything for days,” he said. “She told me she was eating, even showed me the empty food containers in the garbage. But last night I caught her putting her dinner down the garbage disposal when she thought I was in the Jacuzzi. And I know she was using laxatives and diuretics again.”

  “Again? Did she have an eating disorder?”

  “Sure she did. She battled it for ages. But she had it under control for the past three years. She didn’t fall off the wagon until this damned ad campaign.”

  “I noticed that she was wearing a vapor-impermeable suit. Was she exercising vigorously?”

  “Night and day, trying to get ready for tomorrow’s weigh-in at the doctor’s office.”

  “Doctor?” Savannah’s mind couldn’t quite grasp the thought. “A doctor condoned that sort of weight-loss regime?”

  “You’d be surprised what they’ll condone when the payoff is high enough. He’s on Wentworth Cereal’s payroll.”

  She glanced up and down his greens. “Are you a physician?”

  He gave a dry chuckle. “Nope. Just a lowly surgical nurse over at Community General.”

  “There’s nothing lowly about nursing,” she replied softly. “It’s one of the most noble occupations on the planet. Nurses are right up there with teachers.”

  “Along with police officers and private investigators?” He gave her a brief but nice smile, and it occurred to Savannah that Cait Connor had been married to a very handsome man. They must have made a stunning couple.

  She grinned and shrugged. “Well, up there with cops to be sure.”

  Over his shoulder, she could see the CSU technicians through the glass wall as they filed through the living and dining areas and up the staircase to the second story of the house. Dr. Jennifer Liu, the county medical examiner, led the procession.

  Kevin stopped crying long enough to follow her line of vision; he turned in his chair and watched as the team disappeared up the stairs. “Who are they?” he asked, sniffing and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

  “That’s the Crime Scene Unit,” she told him.

  His eyes widened. “Crime? You mean, like a homicide investigation?”

  “It’s perfectly routine,” she assured him. ‘Your wife was young and healthy, and she died unexpectedly. They always do an investigation under those circumstances, just to make sure.”

  “To make sure of what? That somebody didn’t kill her?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Cait didn’t have an enemy in the world. Everybody who knew her loved her. She was the best person I’ve ever known.”

  “Like I said, it’s just routine. They have to rule out foul play, and I’m sure they will. From what you said, it sounds like a clear case of hyperthermia and dehydration.”

  A worried frown creased his forehead. “I never even considered that it could have been anything but the dieting. I don’t think I could stand it if I thought somebody had actually hurt her. But who would...?”

  “Don’t even think about it right now,” Savannah told him. “There’s no point in putting yourself through that on top of everything else. Just wait until the medical examiner does her job and makes her ruling.” Savannah deliberately avoided using the word “autopsy” because of the painful mental pictures it would paint for him. Reality would seep into his consciousness all too quickly no matter what she withheld in conversation.

  “How long will the autopsy take?” he asked.

  So much for protecting the psyche of the next of kin, she thought. “A day or two.”

  Glancing over his shoulder again, Savannah saw a woman in a bright red pantsuit standing on the other side of the glass, watching them. Unless CSU techs had drastically changed their uniform, a civilian was on their crime scene.

  Momentarily forgetting that she, too, fell into that category, Savannah rose from her chair and crossed the patio to the sliding door. When she opened it, a furry bundle of energy bounded out at her. It was a golden cocker spaniel puppy with enormous eyes and a stub of a tail that wagged its entire body.

  “Susie, come back here!” the woman in red shouted, yanking on the red leather leash. “Ba-a-ad dog!”

  The pup slunk back to her owner and lay at the woman’s feet, a vanquished spirit... at least for a few seconds.

  “May I help you?” Savannah asked.

  The woman looked about the same age as Savannah with long straight black hair that fell to a blunt cut below her shoulders. She had a dark tan and, judging from the depth of the crow’s-feet around her eyes, she had gotten it the old-fashioned way—from hours on the beach.

  Her suit, though a bit on the bright side, was a smart cut and expensive fabric. Savannah made a quick mental note that her high-heeled Italian sandals probably cost more than her own entire summer wardrobe... not-so-carefully assembled over the past twenty years.

  “May I help you?” Savannah asked again, interjecting a note of “What are you doing here?” into her voice.

  ‘Yes, you can help me. Tell me what the hell’s going on,” the woman demanded, matching Savannah’s aggressive tone note for note.

  Before Savannah could open her mouth to reply, Kevin Connor shot up out of his chair and rushed over to the open door.

  “I’ll tell you what happened, Leah,” he said, glaring at the woman. “Let me be the one to tell you. Cait’s dead. She died. She’s lying upstairs on the bathroom floor.”

  The woman gasped and covered her mouth with her hand.

  “That’s right!” Kevin shouted at her. “She starved herself and abused herself, trying to lose your stinking thirty pounds, a
nd now she’s dead. Are you happy? Well, are you?”

  Savannah couldn’t help feeling sorry for the woman, who had suddenly gone pale beneath her carefully cultivated tan. Even the cocker puppy seemed to sense the distress of the humans around her and whined, gazing up at her mistress with worried eyes.

  Taking a step forward, Savannah gently placed herself between them. Whatever this “Leah” had done to incur Kevin Connor’s wrath, she didn’t need to hear such awful news delivered in such a callous manner.

  “My name is Savannah Reid,” she said softly. “May I ask who you are and how you know Ms. Connor?”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you want to know? Are you a cop?”

  “No, a private detective. I sometimes work with Sergeant Coulter, the police detective who’s in charge of this investigation.” Again she gently asked, “And you are...?”

  “She’s Leah Freed, Cait’s agent,” Kevin interjected. “She’s the money-grubbing bitch who got Caitlin the rotten gig in the first place and then called her every day, hassling her about how much weight she’d lost. That’s who she is.”

  Savannah glanced quickly from Kevin to Leah, expecting her to bristie at being called a bitch and accused of causing her client’s death. But her reaction was minimal. The horror she had initially registered seemed to slip off her face, which was now completely passive as she stared blankly at Kevin Connor.

  “We don’t really know anything yet, Kevin,” Savannah told him. “Until the coroner’s report we won’t even know what killed her, let alone who might have been responsible.”

  “She’s responsible.” He pointed his finger, shaking it only inches from the agent’s nose. “Her and that damned ad company and the Wentworths. They were willing to let Cait kill herself just to sell cereal!”

  “It’s premature to affix blame right now,” Savannah repeated. “Really, Kevin... you’re hurt and upset, and you’re saying things you may regret later.”

  “No way,” he said. “I’m just telling the truth, and you know it!” Once more he shoved his finger in Leah’s face; then he turned around and strode across the patio to a gate in the whitewashed, six-foot-high fence that surrounded the pool area.