Bitter Sweets

by G. A. McKevett

  “Hey, Savannah. How are you doing?” she said with a bright, open smile that was her most attractive feature. Maybe it was Denise’s only attractive feature—she was a bit streetworn and rough around the edges—but Savannah had stopped noticing that a long time ago. Some people were just so nice and good-hearted that such things didn’t matter.

  “How am I doing?” Savannah responded, donning her thickest Southern accent. “Thanks for asking. As a matter of fact, I’m just sweeter than peee-can pie, darlin’.”

  “And nuttier, too,” said an underly enthusiastic male voice.

  Savannah turned to see Dirk standing in the squad room doorway, a goofy grin on his face. He spotted the brown bag in her hand and the smirk widened.

  “You brought it!” he exclaimed.

  “Of course.” She held out the bag to him. “I know better than to appear around here without a sacrificial offering of burnt flesh for the beast.”

  “Burnt flesh?” He crinkled his nose.

  “Honey baked ham and smoked turkey. I realize it’s a departure from your usual three-pounds-for-a-dollar bologna, but—”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “Somehow I thought you would.”

  He ushered her into the squad room with more aplomb and respect than usual. Much more.

  Long ago Savannah had discovered that food was the most tried-and-true way to any human being’s heart. There was hardly any soul so hardened that it couldn’t be softened with a Black Forest cake or a piece of apple pie.

  Besides, the more generous individuals sometimes shared the gift with the giver.

  That wasn’t going to happen, she realized as she watched Dirk walk over to his desk, unwrap the sandwich, and bury his face in it. When it came to food, Dirk never shared.

  “So, what do I have to do for this?” he asked around the mouthful of ham and turkey.

  “Run a name for me.”

  “Only one?”

  “To start with.”

  Having consumed half of the sandwich in three bites, he laid the rest aside and rolled his chair in front of the computer. She grabbed a nearby chair and sat beside him.

  “Who?” he asked, trying to sound gruff. Early in their relationship, Savannah had figured out the rather simple psychic puzzle that was “Dirk Coulter.” Dirk would do anything in the world for anyone, but he wanted them to feel at least a wee bit guilty for squandering his precious time and interfering with his life.

  As though he had a life.

  “Lisa Mallock,” she replied, then spelled the last name. “Date of birth: June 13, 1951.”

  He accessed the Department of Motor Vehicles records first. Peering anxiously at the screen, Savannah was disappointed to see the same address as she had just visited, 1513 N. Lotus. But at least she had a physical description and picture—her first look at the lady in question.

  Lisa Mallock was an attractive redhead, with hair that was the same rich auburn as her brother’s. Like Brian O’Donnell, she had dark brown eyes. That was where the family resemblance ended. Her features were far more delicate, though she had the appearance of a woman who was growing old faster than her forty-five years suggested.

  Height: Five feet, six inches

  Weight: 130 pounds

  “Any previous convictions or outstanding warrants?” she asked.

  He punched some keys, brought up a new screen. “Nope.”

  “None?”

  “Notta single one. A very good girl.”

  “Yeah.” Savannah scowled and tapped her “Flaming Desire” crimson fingertips on the desk top.

  “Something wrong with that? You want her to have a record?”

  “Not really. But she does move around a lot. According to my client, her brother, he’s traced her to five addresses in the last year, this one being the last. Either she’s extremely unstable, or she’s running from something. I was thinking maybe it was the law.”

  “Bill collectors?”

  She nodded. “That would be my second guess. I’ll have Tammy run a credit check on her.”

  “Anything else?” Dirk’s eyes glowed, and not just from the sickly green light of the computer screen. He really did enjoy being a cop; it was something Savannah had always loved about him. It was what she missed most about no longer being his partner. They had shared the same obsessions—food, and solving whatever crime they were working on at the moment.

  “Yeah . . . . one more thing.” She pulled a slip of paper from her purse. On it, she had scribbled the license plate number from the late model Lincoln Continental that had been parked in front of Beowulf’s master’s house.

  “Run this plate for me?”

  “You got another ham sandwich in your purse?”

  With a sigh, she reached into her bag again and, this time, pulled out one of her favorite things in the world, a dark Swiss chocolate bar with hazelnut and maraschino cherry cream filling. She bought them by the dozen at Trader Joe’s; one never knew when one might be seized with a chocolate fit, and they were the only known cure.

  This was her last bar, which made it precious, indeed.

  She thrust it toward him, and he happily snatched it from her hand. “Now, give,” she muttered.

  More punching on the keyboard, two-finger typing. The computer clicked, beeped, and displayed a new screen.

  “Forrest Neilson,” Dirk announced.

  “Yep, that’s Beowulf’s master, all right,” she said, gazing at the picture, the buzz of gray hair, the intense eyes. “And his license was renewed about the same time as Lisa Mallock’s, at the same address. Seems they were living together at one time, if not now.”

  “The woman you’re looking for lives with Forrest Neilson?” Dirk said, staring at the picture on the screen.

  “Maybe. Don’t know for sure. When I asked, he didn’t really say, one way or the other. He just made it clear that she wasn’t available. Why? Do you know him?”

  “Sure I do. He’s Colonel Forrest Neilson, a Congressional Medal of Honor recipient, retired, very active in local vet programs. I met him at the American Legion last year. A great guy.”

  “A colonel? Really? Hmmmm. . . .”

  “And you know what else?”

  “What’s that?”

  “He’s got a grown daughter . . . . his only kid . . . . adopted, I heard. Saw her from a distance one night . . . . across a parking lot.”

  “Redhead? About five-six,130 pounds?”

  He nodded and shoved the last bite of chocolate into his face. “Yep, just about that size,” he said around the mouthful. “And a real carrot top.”

  The next morning, as Savannah walked into the Moonlight Magnolia Detective Agency office—formerly known as her den—she saw Tammy snatch a pair of tortoiseshell framed glasses off her tiny face and stash them behind the computer monitor.

  “Aha! Caught ya!” she said, chuckling at the young woman’s vanity. She had been vain once, too. Long ago . . . . when she had been much younger and cuter.

  Tammy giggled self-consciously. “Well, you know what they say about men not making passes at women who wear glasses.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that. But they also say that guys don’t leer at gals with big rears.” She placed her hands on her ample hips and struck a seductive pose. “But I’m here to tell you, darlin’, it just ain’t so.”

  Savannah leaned across her assistant, retrieved the glasses, and held them out to her. “The opposite sex isn’t all that picky

  . . . . so, we have to be. Put those back on, sugar. You need to be able to tell the good ones from the bad ones at a distance . . . . while you’ve still got time to run.”

  With a sheepish smile, Tammy slipped the huge glasses onto her small face. Everything about Tammy Hart reminded Savannah of a valentine. Delicate, sentimental, ultrafeminine . . . . but passionate, Tammy had a soft pinkness about her personality that was endearing, but Savannah believed she had the capability to flash fiery red under the right/wrong circumstances.

  “By
the way,” Tammy said, running her fingers through her pale blond hair that fell, straight and glossy, to her shoulders. “I’m finished checking out Brian O’Donnell for you. He’s who he says he is. Sounds like a really good guy.”

  “I’m sure you were very thorough,” Savannah said. “Bring your notes into the living room and we’ll go over them. But first things first. I have a cup of mocha blend and a cream cheese Danish with my name on it waiting for me in the kitchen. Would you like a . . . . ?” She glanced up and down the young woman’s slender figure. “No, of course not. How silly of me. May I offer you a stalk of celery in a glass of Perrier?”

  Savannah sat in her favorite spot in the world, her overstuffed, wing chair with Diamante in her lap and Cleopatra curled on the footstool at her feet. Both cats were purring contentedly.

  As though she needed anything to make her more comfortable, she was surrounded with soft, floral print, satin-fringed pillows. Unable to discard the atrocious flowered housedresses that Granny Reid sent to her regularly from Georgia, Savannah had fashioned them into cushions. Sitting among them, she could almost feel as though she were receiving a hug from the octogenarian darling.

  Perched on the edge of the sofa, Tammy sat with her notebook in hand, an alert expression on her pretty face. Eager. Very eager.

  “I checked with the phone company in Orlando to verify the number and address that Brian O’Donnell gave you,” she was saying as she happily rattled away. “And then I called and talked to his family. His wife seemed sweet and happy to speak to me. We compared physical descriptions and they matched down to his handlebar mustache. She made it perfectly clear that she supports Brian completely in his search for his sister.”

  “Then she knows he’s here?”

  “Oh, yes. She said he left four days ago for California. I think she said something about him driving and—”

  “Driving? I thought he told me he flew.”

  Tammy pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Oh . . . . okay . . . . maybe I misunderstood. Anyway, she wished us luck in finding Lisa. Said it would mean a lot to them all. Isn’t that nice?”

  “Very.”

  “But there’s something else. . . .”

  “What’s that?”

  “He has a reason, other than sentimentality, for wanting to find his sister right now.”

  Savannah stopped stroking Diamante and gave Tammy her full attention. “You mean the inheritance money?”

  “Oh, you knew about that already?” Tammy looked a bit disappointed.

  “Brian mentioned it, said it wasn’t much.”

  “Not much? Well . . . . I guess it depends on how you look at it, but fifty thousand seems like a lot to me.”

  Savannah thought of the stack of unpaid bills on her kitchen counter. “Yeah, sounds like a lot to me, too. I wonder why Brother Brian felt the need to underplay that aspect of his story.”

  Tammy shrugged. “Maybe he thought you would look harder if you thought it was only a mission of love.”

  “Perhaps.”

  A prickling of premonition and apprehension ran along the back of Savannah’s neck, a feeling she was well acquainted with, but hated. Mostly, because it had proven to be painfully accurate at portending disasters.

  She tried to push the sensation to the back of her mind, to ignore it. This was her first job as a private detective. It felt wonderful to be working again.

  And she didn’t want anything to interfere with that sense of pride and fulfillment.

  Shut up! she told it. And go away! You don’t know everything. This could turn out just fine.

  “Is everything okay, Savannah?” Watching Savannah closely, Tammy looked nearly as worried as she felt.

  “Sure.” She gave a little shrug and chuckled, but the sound wasn’t very cheery. “Everything’s fine.”

  But no matter what she told Tammy or herself. . . . that feeling of unease just wouldn’t go away.

  About twenty-five miles out of town, in an isolated resort cabin on the shore of Lake Arroyo, another person was trying to believe that, in spite of misgivings, everything was fine.

  Reid is good at what she does. She’ll find her. It won’t take long.

  Nervously pacing the old cabin which smelled of mildew and fish, the individual marked time. Waiting, hoping, aching for the moment to come, when so many carefully laid plans and cherished fantasies would be fulfilled.

  But everything hinged on Savannah Reid’s ability to locate Lisa Mallock. And Lisa had no intention of being found.

  Carefully, the person examined the paraphernalia spread on the threadbare chenille bedspread: thin copper wire, wads of cotton batting and silver duct tape, the all-purpose hunting knife, and . . . . of course . . . . the pistol.

  The scene was set.

  All that was needed . . . . was the not-so-innocent victim. It wouldn’t be much longer now. The waiting was almost over.

  CHAPTER THREE

  When Savannah had begun to canvass Lisa Mallock’s neighborhood that afternoon, she could have sworn that her face had been three-dimensional. But with every door that had been slammed on it, she could feel her profile becoming more and more flat.

  There had to be an easier way to make a living.

  Once, she had thought that people opened up to her because of her charm, her good looks, her warm wit. Now she realized that they had only talked to her because they’d had to. She had been a cop. Without that badge hanging on its gold chain around her neck, the members of her adoring public weren’t nearly so accommodating.

  She stood on the sidewalk, roasting in the heat of a dry, Santa Ana afternoon. The weather man had predicted smog warnings, bad air quality that might be harmful to sensitive persons. No kidding, she thought, tasting the pollution on her tongue. Sensitive people or anyone with a set of lungs.

  Glancing around her, she made a quick mental tally of the houses visited. Eight in all. The ones on either side of the colonel’s home and several across the street.

  Lisa Mallock’s neighbors were extremely suspicious . . . . far more than normal, even in typically paranoid suburbia. . . . and very protective of her.

  “Why do you want to know?” and “What do you want with her?” were the questions Savannah had received instead of answers. So far, no one would even confirm or deny that Lisa still lived with her adoptive father, the colonel.

  Ever the hopeful heart, Savannah strolled up the walk of a house four doors north. The flowers in the yard, the children’s rope swing that dangled from a sturdy oak limb, the tole-painted birdhouses, all seemed to suggest warmth, hospitality, and welcome.

  Maybe.

  The woman who answered the door wore a bright smile and a white apron. Savannah didn’t think that anyone wore those anymore. She felt as though she had stepped back in time into a 1950s Frigidaire commercial.

  “Hello, may I help you?” the lady asked.

  Savannah could smell the wonderful fragrance of chocolate chip cookies baking.

  “I certainly hope so,” she said, trying not to sound too discouraged. “I’m trying to get in touch with Lisa Mallock. Can you tell me if she lives around here?”

  The beautiful smile froze on the woman’s face. “Not anymore,” was the reply. “She moved a couple of weeks ago.”

  Well, at least that answered one thing.

  “I really do need to speak to her. Do you know where she is now?”

  “I . . . . ah . . . . I really don’t think I should tell you. Lisa asked us not to say because . . . .”

  “Yes? Because?”

  “Nothing. I don’t think I should discuss her with you. She’s a really nice person, one of the best people I’ve ever met, and she’s had such problems lately with. . . .”

  “With?”

  The woman shook her perfectly styled head of hair. “No. That’s all I’m going to say. Good-bye.”

  At least she didn’t slam the door in her face. She simply closed it. Firmly, decisively, if apologetically, she closed it.

&nbs
p; Same difference, Savannah thought as she dragged her body—which suddenly seemed bone tired—down the sidewalk.

  “Hey, lady,” said a soft, barely there voice behind her.

  She turned and was surprised to see a small fairy princess, about ten years old, standing on the porch of the house she had just visited. Instantly, she knew it was a fairy, because of the pink tights and leotard, the lacy skirt, and, of course, the glitter-spangled wand in the child’s hand.

  “Yes?” she asked, smiling down at the dainty apparition as it tiptoed toward her on pink satin ballet slippers.

  “You were asking my mom about Christy’s mom, huh?” the girl said, a slight pout on her pixie face.

  “Christy’s mom?” Savannah’s mind raced.

  “Yeah, Christy Mallock, the girl who used to live down the street.”

  “Lisa’s daughter?”

  “That’s right. She’s the same age as me, and we used to go to ballet class together, but now she moved across town, and we have to go to rehearsal in different cars. I miss her.”

  “I’ll bet you do.” Savannah’s heart beat wildly. She was embarrassed by her eagerness to extract whatever information possible out of this innocent, unsuspecting child. “But you still see her in dance class?”

  “Oh, sure. Christy gets to be the queen of our pageant.”

  Savannah cast a furtive, guilty look at the house, but Mommy Perfect seemed to be nowhere in sight. She was sorely tempted simply to ask the girl outright where Lisa and Christy were living now. But, having just been refused the information by the mother, it seemed down and dirty to use the child that way. Even a P.I. had to draw a line somewhere.

  But there were other ways. . . .

  “Your pageant? That sounds very exciting,” Savannah said. “When are you having it?”

  “Day after tomorrow, in the gymnasium at our school.”

  “And where do you go to school?”

  “Channel Islands Elementary.”

  “What time is the recital?”

  “It’s at two o’clock in the afternoon.”

  “May I come?”