A few feet away, Gran was playing tag with the waves and some children who had recognized a kindred spirit and had lingered to wonder at the joy she radiated.
“How old are you?” asked the little boy. “Are you older than my mom?”
“I’ll betcha I’m older than your mom’s mom,” she replied.
“How come you have so many wrinkles on your face?” his sister inquired.
“Those are from laughing so much,” was the ready answer.
The girl considered her words, but still looked puzzled. “You laugh on your neck?”
Savannah winced, but she heard her grandmother roar, far too highly evolved a soul to be hampered by mere vanity. Humor was, and always had been, far more important to Granny Reid.
“Oh, my Lordy, Savannah, did you hear that?” She plopped down onto the beach towel beside her and wriggled her toes into the sand. “Have you ever heard anything so funny in all your days?”
“Children do have a way of putting things.”
“Yes, they’re wonderful. They’re just the way the good Lord made them: pure and sweet and honest as the day’s long . . . . the way we all were before the world messed us up.”
Savannah rolled over toward her and shaded her eyes with one hand so that she could clearly see her grandmother’s face.
“Gran,” she said thoughtfully, “can you always tell, ahead of time, if a person is bad or not?”
Granny stretched out on her side, facing Savannah, and contemplated her answer carefully before speaking. “No, I can’t say as I can. Because I don’t really believe there’s any such thing as a bad person.”
“But how can you say that? You’ve lived long enough to see people do horrible things to each other.”
“Sure I have. But I don’t think there’s anybody that hasn’t got a smidgen of good in ’em. Course, with some folks, the good is as hard to find as teeth in a hen’s beak. But that doesn’t mean it ain’t there. Just means you ain’t looked hard enough to find it.”
Savannah shook her head and began to draw nonsensical lines in the sand to express her anger and frustration. “I guess you haven’t seen the sort of things that I have, Gran. When you’re a cop, you—”
“Now, don’t go givin’ me that bunch of hooey. A body doesn’t have to be a police officer to see meanness. You think I haven’t seen wickedness in my day, girl? I lived through two world wars, not to mention those messes in Korea and Vietnam. I was in the thick of the Civil Rights Movement, marchin’ right there with the best of ’em. With my own eyes I saw horrors perpetrated on African-Americans and their little children by cowards wearing bed sheets. And I tell you now, I’ll never forget it.”
She took a deep breath and rolled over onto her back. “I’ve seen evil and I’ve seen the suffering it caused. But I still don’t think people are ‘good’ or ‘bad.’ We’re all a combination of both. It’s just that some are more one than the other.”
A couple of seagulls floated overhead, while sandpipers pranced on skinny legs along the lacy edges of the waves. Savannah watched, feeling mildly chastised as she considered her grandmother’s wisdom. It was always so easy to assume that you knew more than your elders, she thought. So easy, and so foolish.
“That’s why people are so surprised,” Gran continued, “when a ‘good’ person does a ‘bad’ thing. We go around thinking there are the heroes and there are the villains, and that everybody is either one or the other. But even the best of us and the worst of us play both roles from time to time. A person is capable of doing loving and noble deeds, and he’s capable of doing hateful, hurtful things. He makes the decision every minute of every day which he’s gonna do.”
Savannah thought of the trials she had attended, where the defense attorneys had presented evidence that their clients had given generous donations to orphanages, lovingly cared for aged parents, and supported the local Little League teams. But the prosecution had proved, beyond a reasonable doubt, that those same individuals had committed heinous crimes with cold calculation and a complete lack of remorse.
“I guess,” Savannah said, “that in the course of a lifetime, we all do plenty of both.”
“That’s right, sugar.”
“But that’s a lot more complicated, Gran. It’s so much easier to just think ‘we’ are the good guys, and ‘they’ are the bad ones.”
“Easy ain’t always right.”
“That’s true, Gran. And right ain’t always easy.”
When the petite, conservative brunette behind the bar at the Shoreline told Savannah, “No, Vanessa isn’t working today,” Savannah could almost swear she looked relieved.
Past experience had taught her that it could be very enlightening and worthwhile to talk to your suspect’s enemies. Their motives for spilling what they knew might be less than honorable, and you had to take what they said with a barrel of salt pork. But often they were more truthful than friends.
“I’m Zelda. What can I get you to drink?”
Savannah knew better than not to order anything. Bartenders didn’t trust anyone who wasn’t holding a glass in their hand.
“A Coke will be fine.”
Slender, physically fit Zelda looked Savannah up and down. “Diet?”
“No way.”
She drew her a cola and set it on the bar in front of her. “What do you want Vanessa for?” she asked, trying to sound casual, but not succeeding.
Aha, Savannah thought, Zelda is nosy, too. All the better.
“I wanted to ask her some questions about her boyfriend, Earl.”
“He’s dead. Murdered, they say.”
“Who says?”
“The police. Some half-bald guy in a trench coat and dirty sneakers came in this morning and told her.”
“That would have been Dirk Coulter. The sneakers aren’t really all that dirty, just ancient. He really does toss them into the washer once in a while.”
“You know him?”
Savannah nodded.
“Are you a cop, too?”
“No, a private detective.”
Zelda looked up and down the bar, but the place was empty and they were alone. She pulled up a stool and an ashtray and settled down to talk to her only customer.
“You’re a P.I., huh? Who are you working for?”
“At this point, I suppose I’m working for Christy, Lisa Mallock’s little girl.”
“Oh, yeah. Earl has brought her in here a few times; Vanessa has, too. Vanessa is crazy about that kid . . . . about all kids, for that matter.”
“Really? She didn’t seem like the maternal type.”
“Aw . . . . she just likes to show off with the purple hair and the chains and black leather and all. She’s a pain in the neck, it’s true, but she’s not as bad as she thinks she is. I’ve known a lot rougher.”
“How were she and Earl getting along lately?”
Zelda stubbed out her cigarette butt and promptly lit another. “Funny you should ask. They had a big, hairy fight in here about a week ago.”
“Do you know what it was about?”
“Sure. Everybody in the joint with two ears knew what it was about. Vanessa isn’t exactly subtle when she’s mad. She was accusing him of wanting Lisa back. She’s always been pretty insecure about that.”
“Do you think he gave her a reason to feel insecure?”
“Oh, yeah. Earl never got over losing Lisa and Christy. He was always scheming about how he could get Lisa to come back to him.”
“How bad was the fight?”
“Well, there weren’t any beer bottles thrown, or shots fired, nobody got stabbed. So, for this place, I guess it wasn’t too bad.”
“Did Earl threaten Vanessa, or—”
“Oh, no. Vanessa was the one doing all the yelling. Poor old Earl looked like he wanted to crawl under a booth somewhere. She told him that, if he dumped her to take off after Lisa again, she’d kill him. I guess that’s a threat, huh?”
“Do you think she meant it?”
“Yep, then I would definitely call that a threat.” Savannah nodded thoughtfully. “When the cop told her that Earl had been killed, how did she take it?”
“Really hard. She had a fit, crying, screaming, and all that.”
“What happened then?”
“After the cop left, she calmed right down and said she wanted to take the day off.”
“Do you have any idea where she may have gone? Home or—?”
“No, she said she was going downtown to the Fiesta Del Mar, the big beach party down by the fairgrounds.”
“Yes, I know the place.” Savannah studied Zelda’s plain, seemingly honest face to see if she was telling her the truth. She seemed guileless, but you couldn’t tell these days.
“Vanessa helps out at the booth there for the Boys’ and Girls’ Club every year, no matter what,” Zelda said. “It’s a big deal to her. She wouldn’t miss it . . . . not even for Earl.”
“But you say, as soon as the cop left, she cheered up?” Savannah asked again, just to make sure she had it straight.
“The minute he walked out the door. The difference was night and day. Judging from the way she was acting when she left, I’d say she’s down at the beach, partying hard.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Like the other ninety percent of San Carmelita’s population, Savannah had to park about a thousand blocks from the beach and walk to the city-sponsored fiesta. Los Angeles tourist bucks were a big boon in the summer, and the town council wasn’t above throwing these little shindigs to lure hot, stressed-out city dwellers to the cooler, less smog-choked coast.
And there were never enough parking spots. A few more mercenary downtown citizens were allowing cars to park on their lawns for five bucks. Savannah declined on principle alone. Where she came from, only white trash parked vehicles on grass.
Four blocks of city beach were cordoned off for the party. Families milled up and down the sidewalks, viewing local art displays, eating cotton candy and ice slushies, riding skateboards, tandem bikes, and, occasionally, dads’ backs.
The scent of barbecued chicken and ribs filled the air, along with the sounds of merrymaking.
A local radio station blared “Surfin’ U.S.A.” and other selections by the Beach Boys, while the disc jockey interviewed the “man on the street” or the “kid on the beach,” whoever walked by between songs.
Booths, distinguished by bright banners that flew and snapped in the sea breeze, advertised various businesses and charitable organizations.
It didn’t take long to find the Boys’ and Girls’ Club of San Carmelita setup. The display was quite impressive. They had erected a huge pavilion that was filled with tables full of children doing crafts: finger painting, clay modeling, and miscellaneous projects with popsicle sticks, cotton balls, and Elmer’s glue.
Vanessa was equally easy to locate. With her purple hair and exceptional height, she was distinctive. Although, this time it wasn’t the color of her hair that Savannah noticed first. It was the expression on her face.
She sat on a stool in the corner of the tent, a paintbrush and palette in hand. A line of children waited for her to decorate their faces with stars, moons, green cheeks, red noses, or a rainbow across their forehead.
Savannah couldn’t remember seeing anyone more happy, more completely content.
Vanessa was laughing and chatting with the kids, who complained of the brush “tickling.” Wearing a simple white tee shirt and jeans, she bore little resemblance to the black leather, chain-toting motorcycle mama at the Shoreline.
The boy she had been working on was finished, and the next in line was a young girl who looked very much like Christy in fair complexion, long red hair, and dainty demeanor. She wore a pink-and-lavender crown of sparkling glitter and ribbon streamers.
Savannah recalled what Zelda had said about Vanessa adoring Earl’s daughter. She waited, wondering if Vanessa would notice the similarity.
“And what do you want me to paint on your face, little princess?” Vanessa asked. “How about a nice fat toad with warts and everything?”
“No! I want something pretty!”
“You do? How boring. How about a unicorn?”
“That would be great! I want a white unicorn.”
Savannah watched, staying well out of sight, as Vanessa created something resembling a unicorn with only a few strokes of the paintbrush.
But as she worked, tears flooded Vanessa’s eyes. One spilled down her cheek.
“Are you crying?” the little girl asked, very concerned.
“No,” Vanessa replied, ruffling the girl’s hair. “What reason would I have to cry? I’m having fun. I just have some sand in my eye.”
Savannah turned and walked away without disturbing Vanessa or her afternoon, surrounded by the love and rejuvenating innocence of children. Of course she had noticed the similarity between the two girls, Savannah thought. And she had shed tears accordingly.
Did those tears mean that she had loved Earl, that she loved his daughter? Did her acts of kindness toward the children mean that she was incapable of doing anything so hideous as two murders?
Or, as Granny Reid had observed, was it simply a case of someone being a complex mixture of good and evil?
With a bit of computer digging, Tammy had uncovered Alan Logan’s home address: a slip number in the marina . . . . a fifty-foot-long sailing yacht with two masts, named The Big Bust. When the unfriendly female clerk at the antique store on Lester had told Savannah that Al had “split an hour ago,” she had hoped she would find him in the marina.
From what little she knew about boats, she knew that owning one meant you had no time for other hobbies. Anytime she had extended a weekend invitation to a friend/boat owner, she had been refused because they were sanding, polishing, mending sails, working on the engine, or plugging leaks—when they weren’t simply trying to find out what the hell was leaking.
Bingo, she thought as she approached the slip and saw a decidedly male figure kneeling on the deck, sanding.
She watched his face carefully as she approached, to see if he was happy to see her, or apprehensive.
Of course, she told herself that her interest was purely professional. It had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that he was a very attractive man with well-defined muscles, nicely curled chestnut hair, and hazel eyes. Nope, nothing at all.
But when he did spot her walking in his direction, she couldn’t read his expression behind his wire-rimmed glasses.
Enigmatic, was the best word she could think of to file away in her ever-increasing mental cabinet.
“Permission to come aboard, Captain?” she asked.
She had plenty of time to listen to the seagulls squawk and contemplate the meaning of life before he finally answered. “Permission granted, Ms. Private Investigator Reid.”
He rose from his knees, walked over to the side of the craft, and offered her a hand. “Watch your step, unless you’re a good swimmer.”
She tried not to cling desperately to his hand, but it wasn’t easy. Like shaky ladders and other things that bobbed beneath her feet, boats weren’t her favorite things. She was definitely a “landlubber.”
“Who told you I was here?” he asked, sounding just a tad put-out.
“Your saleslady said you were gone for a while. My personal assistant found the ‘address.’ ”
“A good agency,” he mumbled. “I’ll have to remember that if I ever need you.”
She pointed to the name painted on the hull. “The Big Bust? I don’t think I should ask.”
“Why not? Everyone else does. Number one: No, I’m more of a leg man, myself. Number two: I went broke after the divorce. She got the house, the cars, the bank accounts, and a face-lift. I got this. But enough about me. Why are you here?”
“The weather was great and I like the marina. I like boats and all that nautical stuff, so I thought I’d drop by.”
“You like
the marina? Maybe. But I don’t think you’re being completely honest with me.” He grinned at her, watching her wobble on unsteady legs. “You can’t fool an old sailor like me; I can tell. You don’t like boats.”
“Does it show that much?”
“Oh, yes. You look like you could get seasick right here in the slip.”
“That’s highly likely.”
“So, have a seat, but if you feel like you’re going to barf, do it over the edge.”
“Thanks.” This wasn’t turning out to be the semiromantic encounter she might have hoped for. She looked around, but there was nothing resembling a chair in sight. “Where?” she asked.
“There.” He pointed to an unsanded spot near where he had been working. Once she was seated, he tossed her a block of wood covered with sandpaper and pointed to the deck. “Don’t take it personally. I make everyone I know work if they drop by. It keeps me from having a lot of unwanted guests—a built-in hazard when you own a boat.”
“Yes, I suppose that would take care of the problem,” she admitted gruffly as she began to sand. Not a good day to be wearing a white denim skirt.
He continued to work at a feverish pace. It occurred to Savannah that this man probably couldn’t stop working and relax if his health and happiness depended on it.
“Well . . . .” he said, “. . . . did you find Earl?”
So, he didn’t know, or he didn’t want her to know he knew. As usual, she wasn’t sure which.
“Yeah, I found him.”
“Did you deliver my message?”
“The bit about you not being even with him yet, not by a long shot?”
“That was it. Don’t tell me, you forgot.”
“You’re right. I forgot.”
“We had a deal. See if I help you out again.”
“You honestly don’t know yet?” she asked, wondering that Dirk hadn’t made it out here already.
“Know what?”
His hazel eyes were guarded; a muscle bunched in his jaw.
Bitter Sweets Page 16
