Savannah watched from the corner of her eye as he moved among his guests. Giving air cheek kisses, occasionally even bowing and kissing hands, he cajoled and flattered his way across the room. But Savannah noted that in spite of his pseudo-charm, he didn’t seem to be making much of an impression on those in his wake. Once his back was turned, more than one of his visitors rolled their eyes, gave him a derisive smile, or simply glared at him with open hostility.
“Why do they come to his party if they don’t like him?” Savannah asked, knowing she sounded naive, but comfortable in the fact that Ryan wouldn’t mind. “Money,” he replied, “and the power it brings.”
“But you said he’s practically broke.”
“Yes, but they don’t know that yet. At least, most of them don’t. Once they figure it out, he won’t be able to get anybody to come to a weenie roast.”
She looked around the room and saw a number of faces that were familiar to her, mostly from the newspaper society column—members of the city council, a state senator and his wife, a popular female television news anchor from Los Angeles, and the mayor were present.
But being among the county’s minor-league celebrities wasn’t the attraction for Savannah. Her eyes scanned the crowd, and her spirits soared when she saw Jerrod Beekman standing in a corner, speaking to an attractive young man. And judging from their intimate body language, she assumed he was Jerrod’s date.
“That fellow over there with Beekman,” she said to Ryan, “is he your friend, Michael Romano?
“Oh, not at all. John and I spoke to Michael for you yesterday like we promised, and he refuses to have anything to do with Jerrod.”
“Any good dirt?”
Ryan shook his dark head. “No such luck. Just your everyday, mundane domestic quarrel that caused them to go their separate ways last summer. All he told me was that Jerrod is in financial straits... almost as bad as Charles Wentworth’s. He was hoping the Slenda campaign would bail him out, but it appears that his boat will sink along with Wentworth’s if this new product flops. ”
“Which it’s bound to do if word gets out that a couple of top models died eating it.”
“Exactly.”
Savannah paused and pretended to study a nearby painting as a couple strolled by them. Once they had passed out of earshot, she told Ryan, “Of course, that presents a problem. What motive would Beekman or Wentworth have to get rid of the models if it would only jeopardize the campaign? Having those two girls die and another one disappear would be the last thing they’d want.”
“Probably. But you never know.” He winked at her and caused her heart to flutter. He took her hand and said, “I’ve been to these shindigs before. I think the food’s out by the pool. Interested?”
“Food? Food? Look who you’re talking to here, sweetcakes. What do you think?”
They wove their way through the crowd and passed through a set of French doors that led them to an exquisite and meticulously maintained formal garden. A fantasy world of topiaries, marble statuary, trellis-climbing roses, and gazing pools, the grounds invited visitors to lose themselves in the enchantment. And— despite the solemn nature of her mission—Savannah allowed herself the luxury.
Squeezing Ryan’s arm, she whispered, “Thank you for bringing me here tonight. This is amazing.”
He patted her hand and smiled down at her. “You needn’t thank me. It’s my pleasure.” Then he studied her face and his smile faded. “What is it, Savannah? You looked sad for a moment there.”
“I was just thinking about my Granny Reid. She loves flowers. Gardening is her passion. She’s never seen anything like this, and I was just wishing that she could be here with me to enjoy this.”
“Maybe she can someday. And maybe not. But either way, I know she’d be happy to know that her granddaughter is here... and that she’s thinking of her so lovingly.”
Savannah blinked back a tear and nodded.
“I didn’t mean to make you cry,” Ryan said softly.
“Eh, don’t worry about it,” she replied with a sniff. “They’re good tears... the only kind you ever give me.” She quickly recovered when they rounded a curve in the path and saw the pool area spread before them.
Cabana suites bordered the far end of the oval pool—a vision of cool marine blue, accented with stained-glass tiles around its edge that formed a Greek key pattern of white and cobalt blue.
Small round tables, seating four, spotted the patio, and the guests were staking their claims on the most scenic locations.
An enormous buffet had been spread in the center of the patio, and Savannah and Ryan found Tammy and John there, scooping seafood delicacies onto their plates while chatting happily about their surroundings.
“Looks like they’re getting along fine,” Ryan remarked when Tammy reached over to plant a kiss on John’s cheek.
“That was pretty predictable,” Savannah replied. “Tammy’s a sweetie, and John is an amazing man.
“Yes, he is. I’m fortunate to have him in my life.”
“I’d say you’re both pretty darned lucky. Do either you or John have any straight brothers?”
‘Yes, we do. But they’re married and have kids, dogs, cats, the whole domestic scene.”
“Figures. Let’s go tackle that buffet before Tammy snarfs up all the shrimp.”
Five minutes later, the four of them were sitting at one of the poolside tables, their plates piled high with broiled lobster tails, butterfly shrimp, baked clams, and six varieties of caviar. They munched happily as they listened to a doo-wop quartet in mauve jackets with black shirts and white ties, who were strolling among the guests singing “Runaround Sue.”
“Ah... I could get used to this,” Tammy said with a sigh of satisfaction as she sipped her champagne cocktail.
“Don’t,” Savannah replied. “We’re all turning into pumpkins at midnight. At least we girls will. And tomorrow it’s back to bologna and cheese sandwiches. Or in your case, yogurt and vegetable sticks.”
“Try to burst my bubble, if you want to, but this party is just too awesome.” Holding up her champagne flute, Tammy watched the lines of effervescence trickle up the glass.
“It’s time to discuss our plan of action for the evening,” Savannah said, lowering her voice and leaning closer to the others.
“Did you bring those two recorders?” Ryan asked. “What plan of action? What recorders?” Suddenly, Tammy—the party animal—was all business.
“The mini-recorders I have in my purse,” Savannah told her, “courtesy of our escorts.”
“Hopefully, they’ll work better than those stupid things Dirk loans us. Half of the time they don’t even work, and when they do, you can’t make out what’s being said.”
“Not to worry, dear,” John said. “These little beauties are state of the art Voice activated with excellent pickup. If two mosquitoes have a conversation anywhere in their vicinity, we’ll be able to hear every word.”
“Where are you going to put them?” Tammy asked. Savannah reached over and snatched a shrimp off Tammy’s plate. “Ryan says that Charles Wentworth frequently holds little private meetings in the library during these parties.”
“Yes. He does.” Ryan took a sip of his martini. “Our host can’t decide which he wants to be when he grows up, Vito Corleone or Jay Gatsby.”
“How old is he?” Tammy asked.
“Late forties, early fifties,” Ryan replied.
“Then I’d say it’s about time to nail that down.” Tammy slapped Savannah’s hand away from her plate. “So we bug the library with one of the recorders. Where do we put the other one?”
“Ryan and I will take care of the library,” Savannah said. “Why don’t you and John carry the other one around until you find a good spot or until an opportunity presents itself?”
“John and I are going to be busy dancing,” Tammy said, gazing at her companion with starry-eyed infatuation.
John laughed, slipped his hand under the table, and nudged
Savannah’s knee. “Give your recorder to me, Savannah,” he said. “The Bureau trained me well. I can tango, plant listening devices, and juggle swords at the same time.”
Savannah slipped him the recorder, and he placed it in his tuxedo jacket pocket.
Then he turned to Tammy and extended his hand.
“I believe I hear the band tuning up in the great room. Shall we?”
Tammy lifted her nose a notch, flipped back her long blond hair, and delicately laid her hand atop his. “We shall.”
“Oh, Lord help us,” Savannah said as she and Ryan watched them walk away. “He’s creating a monster there, treating her like a princess.”
“It’s good for her,” Ryan said, smiling at the departing couple with obvious affection.
“Yeah, but it’s lousy for me. Next thing you know, she’ll be expecting to get paid. She’ll want medical and dental... weekends off... vacations and coffee breaks. Where will it all end?”
“Every house should have a library like this one,” Savannah said as she and Ryan slipped into the dark room and closed the door behind them. He found the light switch and flipped it, bathing the room in a cozy golden light.
Mahogany-paneled walls and shelves filled with leather-bound classics set the mood in the room, one of quiet repose and thoughtful serenity. Overstuffed chairs and a banquette sofa in burgundy velvet beckoned readers to lose themselves in other, more graceful, ages and places.
“I think I’ll redecorate the living room,” she said, ‘just like this. Persian rugs, oil paintings, and all.”
“We’d all like that,” Ryan replied as he walked over to an ebony-and-ivory inlaid desk in the far corner of the room.
“What are you talking about? Your living room is just like this.”
“Not exactly. My ‘Persian’ rugs aren’t actually from Persia, any ‘ivory’ inlay I have is mother-of-pearl, and not only do I have non-leather books in my shelves, I even have some paperbacks in my collection.”
“How revolting! I’m appalled.”
He dropped to one knee behind the desk and looked under it. “I was walking down the hall once, and the door to this room was open. Wentworth was sitting here at the desk with a batch of his cronies around him. They were doing some major kissing up. One of the other guests told me that was his favorite party pastime. If we put it right there, between the desk leg and the wall, we might get something.”
She handed him the recorder. He turned it on and tucked it into the dark space.
No sooner had he stood and brushed off his trouser knees than they heard someone turning the doorknob.
“Damnation,” Savannah said.
Before she even had time to think about how to handle the sticky situation of getting caught planting an illegal bug, Ryan had swept her into his arms and was bending her backward over the desk. As the door opened, he smothered her with the most passionate kiss she had ever had the pleasure of receiving.
And while she had fantasized about this moment at least a thousand times since meeting him, the kiss was immeasurably better than she could have imagined.
Ryan Stone wasn’t just gorgeous. He was the world’s best kisser, hands down. In the first three seconds, he had broken the record previously set by her high school boyfriend, Tommy Stafford, in the back seat of his Chevy Bel Air... a record that had stood until that moment in the Wentworth library.
As if through a haze, she felt his mouth, firm and insistent on hers, his hands, large and warm on her back, pressing her body to his, the taste and the smell of him as intoxicating as—
“Ah... excuse me.” A harsh, unpleasant voice pierced the pretty pink fog that had so quickly enveloped her. “I thought I might use my own library, but I see it’s occupied.”
Ryan released her, and she nearly fell backward onto the desk. “Sorry,” he said. “We were just...”
“Yeah, well, take it upstairs, would you? I’ve got some work to do in here.”
Savannah shook her head, recovered her senses, and decided that she would hate Charles Wentworth III for the rest of her life. Curse him for ending the kiss of the century! she thought. May his teeth rot, his hair fall out, and— unlike the mighty South—may his Wiener schnitzel never rise again!
With some more murmured apologies that were definitely lacking in sincerity, Ryan pulled her across the library and out into the hall. He closed the door behind them, blocking out the picture of a scowling Charles Wentworth, his white tuxedo, and his slick blond hair.
When they were several yards down the hall, Savannah started to giggle. “That was close,” she said. “Fast thinking.”
He laughed and put his arm around her waist. “It worked, and that’s what counts.” He gave her a squeeze and added, “I’ll have to tell John that we were right about you; you are a good kisser.”
Savannah stopped in the middle of the hall and stared up at him, her mouth hanging open. “Do you mean to tell me that you and John have speculated on what kind of a kisser I am?”
He grinned down at her. “Of course we have.”
“But... but you’re gay!"
He shrugged. “So? Gay people are curious, too. Are you going to tell me that you and Tammy haven’t speculated about us?”
An instant replay of several fairly bawdy conversations between herself and her assistant flickered across Savannah’s mental screen. Feeling a blush warming her cheeks, she chose not to answer him, but continued on down the hall.
“What are you doing?” he asked, as he watched her counting the fingers of her left hand, then some on her right.
“Figuring out how many months it is until Christmas,” she replied.
“Christmas? Why?”
“Because that’s the soonest that I can legitimately get another kiss from you, boy. You know... mistletoe and all that.”
They walked a few more yards.
“So... how many months is it?” he finally asked.
“Five... and a half.”
“That’s a long time.”
She sighed. “Tell me about it.”
Chapter
18
At one in the morning, when Ryan and John brought Savannah and Tammy back to Savannah’s house, they found Dirk sitting in his Buick out front. Savannah wasn’t surprised, since he had called her three times during the party on her cell phone, wanting to know what was going on.
She told him about the amazing house. She told him about the food. She told him they had planted the recorder.
She didn’t mention the fact that she had kissed Ryan.
What Dirk didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him—and he couldn’t bug the daylights out of her as long as she didn’t tell him.
Having listened to their tape on the way home in the car, they were brimming with excitement when they hurried into the house, a disgruntled Dirk in their wake.
Savannah was surprised, though not exactly shocked, to find Marietta planted on her sofa, the telephone in her hand. Marietta had always been a person who required more than a nudge. Strong-armed force had usually been needed to get her to do anything that she didn’t choose to do on her own.
“Could I speak to you, alone, for a moment?” Savannah said to her. Then she turned to her compatriots. “Go ahead and make yourselves at home there in the kitchen,” she told them, “and I’ll join you in a couple of minutes.” A petulant and reluctant Marietta followed Savannah upstairs. She led her into the guest bedroom and closed the door behind them.
“I thought we had an understanding,” Savannah told her. “I thought you might have respected my wishes and been gone by the time I got home.”
Marietta lifted her chin and placed both hands on her hips. “I thought you were surely joking about throwing me out. After all, I’m your kin.”
“Yes, you are. And has it occurred to you that, because you are, it wasn’t easy for me to ask you to leave?”
“Nobody made you. You’re just doing it out of meanness.”
Savannah suddenly felt tired. Her high
heels were pinching her toes, and her head ached from the unaccustomed quantity of champagne she had consumed. “Listen to me, Marietta. I promised a policeman today that I would make sure you wouldn’t harass that Donaldson guy anymore. The cop was going to come here and give you a talkin’ to, but I convinced him it wasn’t necessary. I swore to him that you’d behave. Now you’re making a liar out of me.”
“I am not!”
“So, you weren’t talking to your cyberguy when I walked in just now?”
“No.”
“Then who were you talking to?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“Who’s paying for the call, Marietta? Whose phone were you using? Whose door is going to get knocked on at four in the morning because you aren’t acting like a lady?”
“I wasn’t talking to Bill. If you must know, I was talking to his brother, James.”
“And how did you get hold of his brother’s number? The same way you got his work number and his father’s? Did you get that information out of his address book when you were at his house?”
Marietta’s eyes blazed. “You’re somebody to be criticizing somebody else for doing something underhanded. You, who sneaks around and spies on folks for a living!”
Savannah noticed that her sister was still holding the phone in her right hand. She reached for it. “Give me that telephone.”
“No, I will not!”
“It’s my telephone, dammit.”
“But I have one more call to make before I go to bed.”
“To your boys or to Gran?”
“Well...”
“That’s what I thought. Hand it over before you’re a minute older.”
“No. I told you, I have to settle this here problem with my boyfriend before I’ll be able to go to sleep tonight, and I just need somebody to talk a little bit of sense into Bill before he throws this all away and—” Savannah reached out and snatched the phone from her sister’s hand. “If you’re going to make any more phone calls tonight... or tomorrow... or the next day for that matter, you’re going to have to walk about half a mile to the nearest phone booth. But before you do, you’d better think twice, because the minute you go out that door, I’m going to deadbolt it, and you ain’t getting back in! I mean it, Marietta Reid!”
Cereal Killer Page 18
