A Decadent Way to Die: A Savannah Reid Mystery

by G. A. McKevett

  “Know them? I have one of them! My granny gave her to me when I was twelve years old. She’s always been my most prized possession!”

  Helene smiled. She seemed genuinely touched. “That’s lovely, dear. Which one do you have?”

  “The Helene, of course, modeled after you, I believe.”

  Walking over to one of the cabinets, Helene said, “Yes, she was one of our prettiest, if I do say so myself, designed after a painting that was done of me as a child.”

  She opened the glass door, reached in, and took out one of the dolls. Offering it to Savannah, she said, “Is your doll like this one?”

  Reverently, Savannah took the beautiful toy into her hands and, for a moment, just looked and enjoyed the plaything that was a work of art. The cherublike face, the golden waves of hair, the bright green eyes that matched its jade satin dress. “Yes, this is just like mine, except my doll has black hair and blue eyes and a blue dress. Granny Reid said she chose her because her coloring was the same as mine.”

  “And you still have her?

  “She’s in my cedar chest, along with my other most precious treasures. If the house ever catches on fire, that chest is the first thing going out … after the cats, that is.”

  “You should take her out of the chest,” Helene said. “I can’t imagine she’s happy in there.”

  Savannah chuckled and looked into the older woman’s eyes, expecting to see a teasing smile on her face. But Helene was completely serious.

  “Yes,” Savannah said, “I suppose you’re right. I should take her out and display her.”

  “What did you name your doll?” Emma asked.

  “Valdosta.”

  Emma made a face. “Valdosta?”

  “I call her Val for short. I wanted to name her after a town in Georgia. My momma named all her younguns after Georgia cities, and she had a passel of ’em … didn’t leave me a lot of choices.”

  “How many of you were there?” Helene asked.

  “Nine, including me.”

  Helene nodded somberly. “I’m not sure what a passel is, but that sounds like a passel, all right.”

  She looked deeply into Savannah’s eyes, then added, “I guess a special doll would be precious to a little girl with eight siblings. I don’t suppose toys were very plentiful.”

  “Nothing was plentiful, but love. Granny Reid raised us. She made sure we didn’t want for affection and attention. Even with nine of us.”

  “Bless her.”

  “I do every day.”

  “I feel the same way about my grandmother,” Emma said, resting her hand lightly on Helene’s shoulder. “She raised me, too.”

  Helene cleared her throat and abruptly took the doll from Savannah. Gently, she smoothed its hair. “You girls don’t have to be all that grateful,” she said with a touch of gruffness. “I’m sure your Granny Reid feels the same way I do; it isn’t work if you enjoy it.”

  She set the doll back in the cupboard, fluffing its skirt and posing its arms just so. Closing the cabinet door, she said, “Let’s go have some of that strudel before it gets cold.”

  Helene led them through the great room, down a hallway, and into a large, but cozy and quaint kitchen. As Savannah looked around at the cobalt blue and white tiles and the cabinets with their fanciful scrollwork and folk painting accents, she asked Emma, “Did you grow up in this house?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  With a wave of her hand, Helene invited them to sit in a breakfast nook in the corner.

  Savannah slid into the booth and looked around the crisp, white curtains with their navy blue polka dots. Outside the window was an herb and vegetable garden brimming with savory goodies.

  For a moment, Savannah imagined Gran in her own garden back home in Georgia, a hoe in her hand, a sunbonnet shading her skin from the hot summer sun.

  “What a joy that must have been, being a child in a place like this,” Savannah said, as Emma sat in the booth across from her. “You must have felt like a fairy princess every day.”

  Emma glanced over at Helene, who was busy pouring coffee and arranging the pastry on a plate. She leaned across the table and lowered her voice so only Savannah could hear. “Actually, it was rather sad at first. My mother died in a car accident when I was five. That’s when I came here to live with Oma.”

  “I’m sorry,” Savannah said softly. “That must have been very difficult … for everyone.”

  “How about you? Why did your grandmother raise you? Did your mother die, too?”

  “No, she’s still living.” Savannah mentally shoved aside the image of her mother sitting on a bar stool, under an eight-by-ten glossy, black-and-white picture of Elvis … a cigarette in one hand, a beer in the other. “She was just better at making babies than taking care of them.”

  “I’m sorry,” Emma said. “That must have been difficult, too.”

  “It had its moments.” Savannah shrugged. “But that was then, and this is now. And no matter how rough you had it, somebody in the world had it worse, so …”

  Helene walked over to the table and set some exquisite china plates in front of them, rimmed with gold and hand painted with beautiful, pink cabbage roses.

  “Those dishes are too pretty to eat off of,” Savannah said.

  Helene sniffed. “When you get to be my age, you start using all your good stuff for every day. What’s the point in waiting for special occasions? Every day is special.”

  She set matching saucers and delicate cups brimming with fragrant coffee next to the plates. “You girls should learn that now. Don’t waste a single day of your lives complaining about anything that happened yesterday or worrying about what’ll happen tomorrow. Life’s meant to be lived one day, one moment, at a time.”

  “And when did you figure that out?” Savannah asked.

  “Last week,” Helene replied with a half grin. “So, if you get it straight now, you’ll have a big jump on me.”

  She placed the platter with the strudel in the center of the table and paused, obviously awaiting a positive critique from her guests.

  “Gorgeous!” Savannah said, admiring the flaky crust, lightly sprinkled with a bit of powdered sugar. Through the slits in the pastry, she could see the golden apples and raisins shining through. The smell of cinnamon filled the air, mingling with the aroma of the coffee.

  Helene slid into the booth next to her granddaughter. “My mother and grandmother used to serve their strudels cooled, with vanilla sauce,” she said, her voice tinged with nostalgia and a touch of sadness. “But I’ve always liked them right from the oven.”

  “Everything’s best straight from the stove,” Savannah said as her hostess cut the pastry and laid a generous piece on the plate in front of her.

  “So, you’re a good cook yourself, Savannah?” Helene gave Emma a slice, as well.

  “Yes, ma’am, I am. I have to admit it,” Savannah replied. “I’m humble about some things, but my cookin’ ain’t one of ’em.”

  “A woman should have an honest evaluation of herself, her gifts, her abilities.” Helene nodded toward Emma. “Now my granddaughter here, she’s a fine artist. She paints the most beautiful watercolors you ever saw, and she sculpts, too. She’s even designed some dolls for us, some exceptionally pretty ones.”

  A look of sorrow passed over the older woman’s face. “Unfortunately, they’re the only pretty ones we’ve done for a long time, thanks to that stupid niece of mine.” She shook her head. “Oh well, as I was saying … Emma is a great artist. Not a great judge of men, but …”

  “Don’t start, Oma.” Emma reached for the sugar bowl and added a liberal helping to her coffee. To Savannah, she said, “In case you haven’t surmised, she isn’t fond of my boyfriend.”

  Savannah chuckled. “Yes, I picked up on that earlier, when I was staring down the barrel of her rifle. I’m not a private detective for nothing, you know.”

  “He’s a punk, who’s only after my money … and whatever else he can get out of her
along the way,” Helene added with an eye roll.

  “I didn’t bring Savannah here to listen to your list of complaints about Kyd,” Emma said.

  “Then why did you bring her?” Helene asked. “Not that I’m not happy to meet her, but …”

  When Emma didn’t answer right away, Helene gave her a suspicious look.

  “This isn’t about that hot chocolate mess, is it? Or the scooter incident?” Helene nudged her granddaughter. “Is it? You hired a private detective for me without even asking me whether I wanted one or not? Is that what this is all about?”

  Savannah leaned forward, started to put her hand on the older woman’s arm, then thought better of it. A dangerous glint in those bright green eyes told her that Helene Strauss wasn’t someone she wanted as an enemy.

  “Mrs. Strauss,” she said gently. “Emma loves you dearly, and she can’t help but be a little concerned about your welfare, considering …”

  “I do not need a professional babysitter!”

  “No, ma’am. I’m sure you don’t.

  I’d never presume—”

  “I’ve taken care of myself for over eighty years, and I’ve got the process down pat by now.”

  “I’m sure you have. But please … Mrs. Strauss …”

  “My name is Helene. My mother-in-law was Mrs. Strauss, and I didn’t like her one bit.”

  “I’m sure you had your reasons, Helene, and—”

  “You’re damned right I did. And … well … we don’t want to ruin today by thinking about yesterday. Otherwise I’d give you an earful about that one.”

  “I’m sure you could at that,” Savannah said. She drew a deep breath. “But we really should talk about the business with the scooter accident and the hot chocolate.”

  Helene jumped up from her seat, bumping the table and nearly spilling their coffee. “I will not talk about that! Hanging from a bush on the side of a cliff, screaming my lungs out for help … that was the most humiliating half hour of my life. Can you even imagine?”

  Savannah stood, too. “Yes, ma’am, I can. When I was a kid, I got my backside stuck in an outhouse seat hole most of an afternoon, and nobody even came looking for me. If my sister, Vidalia, hadn’t eaten too many prunes the day before, heaven knows when they would have found me! I’d probably be sitting there still, crying and looking through the Sears and Roebuck catalogue.”

  Helene stared at her, stunned. “Oh, dear. That is worse.”

  “You’re darned tootin’ it’s worse. So, if you’d be so kind, please sit back down, and let’s talk about the scooter and the hot chocolate business, too. I don’t want to embarrass you, Mrs….Helene. I just want to make mighty sure that nobody around here is trying to do you harm.”

  When Helene didn’t reply, but just continued to stare at her, Savannah added, “You can’t imagine how bad I’d feel if I heard that something terrible happened to you. I simply couldn’t bear it. So, please, for my sake and your granddaughter’s …”

  Reluctantly, Helene sat back down, so Savannah did, too.

  The older woman sighed, and for a moment, she looked her age. “Someone is trying to do me harm,” she said. “I have no doubt about that. But I’ll catch them myself, and when I do, I’ll deal with them … in my own way.”

  The evil gleam that lit her green eyes sent a chill through Savannah. She’d seen that look many times before … being from the South, where sweet revenge was more popular and more frequently served than sweet tea.

  “Let me catch them for you,” Savannah said with an equally wicked tone in her voice. “It’s what I do for a living, and—as a woman who knows her own talents—I can say, I’m very good at it. Once I’ve got them, I’ll hand them over to you. What you do with them … that’s up to you.”

  Helene thought about it, then a smile crossed her face. It wasn’t a pleasant smile, sweet and warm, like her apple strudel. It was a cold, nasty smile, and for a heartbeat, Savannah felt half sorry for whoever was behind this skullduggery.

  But only half sorry.

  And only for one heartbeat.

  Chapter 3

  “Thank you for being willing to bring me here,” Savannah said as she, Emma, and Helene stood at the edge of the cliff, staring down at the scene of Helene’s humiliation. “I know it isn’t easy for you.”

  “You have no idea,” Helene replied as she gingerly peeped over the precipice. “Just seeing this place again brings it all back. Me hanging there, my jacket caught on that branch.”

  She pointed to a half-broken tree limb jutting out of the rocky cliff covered with sage scrub brush.

  “I dangled there like an idiot, screaming bloody murder, waiting for that branch to crack any minute and send me straight into the hereafter.”

  Emma shuddered. “Just thinking about it scares me to death.”

  As Savannah studied the cliff, she saw numerous areas below the protruding limb where the sage bushes had been broken and the rocks dislodged.

  “Your motor scooter went down the cliff with you?” she asked.

  “Sure,” Helene replied. “I was still sitting on it when I headed over the edge. The limb caught me, and the bike kept going … landed there on the beach by those big rocks.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “The junkyard,” Emma said. “Waldo and Tiago drove down the beach and got it, brought it back for Oma.”

  “Brought it back in pieces, you mean,” Helene said, shaking her head sadly. “I really liked that bike, too. It wasn’t nearly as much fun as the Harley, but …”

  “Who are Waldo and Tiago?” Savannah asked.

  “Waldo is my great-nephew,” Helene told her. “My good-for-nothing niece’s boy. He lives here on the estate and helps me out. He’s a nice young man.”

  Savannah couldn’t help but notice Emma’s eye roll. Apparently, Emma’s estimation of Waldo’s worth wasn’t quite so lofty as Helene’s.

  “And Tiago Medina is my gardener,” Helene continued. “Thank goodness for Tiago. He’s the one who heard me hollering. He risked his life climbing down the cliff to pull me off that branch.”

  This time Emma agreed, nodding vigorously. “Tiago’s a gem. He’s the one who’s priceless around here, not that nitwit Waldo.”

  “Did I hear my name mentioned …” said a male voice behind them, “… and not in a very nice way?”

  They turned around to see a man in his early thirties, wearing stylishly tattered shorts and a faded surfer tee-shirt. His long blond hair hung in his eyes, sun-fried and frizzled. His darkly tanned face was already creased with deep wrinkles. He had the same startlingly green eyes as Helene. But they lacked her sparkle of wit and intelligence.

  Briefly, Savannah felt a pang of sympathy for him. It wouldn’t be easy being born into a highly successful family of attractive, brilliant people, having less than your share of looks, brain, and charm. Not to mention being stuck with the name Waldo.

  Maybe he was kind. And as Granny Reid always said, “Kind’s more important than pretty’ll ever be.”

  “I heard you call me a nitwit,” he told Emma. “That’s pretty funny, coming from a girl so ugly that she has to pay guys to go out with her.”

  Okay, Savannah thought, so much for the “kind” theory.

  “Stop it!” Helene snapped. “We’re family, for heaven’s sake! You two be nice to each other, or I’ll slap you down … both of you!”

  Savannah stifled a giggle, thinking that was exactly the sort of threat and logic that Granny Reid was famous for.

  “My name is Savannah,” she said, extending her hand to Waldo. She started to add that she was a friend of Emma’s but thought better of it. “I’m visiting your aunt today. She was just telling me what a fright she had, going off this cliff.”

  “Yeah, that was a bummer,” Waldo said, shaking his mop head. “I hate to say it, Oma, but Mom told you to stop riding bikes. You aren’t as young as you used to be and—”

  “And you won’t go adding insult to injury if you know
what’s good for you,” Helene said, cutting him off sharply. “My age had nothing whatsoever to do with the accident. Anybody could have gone off that cliff … even you.”

  “Especially you,” Emma mumbled, “drunk or stoned all the time like you are….”

  Waldo shot her a dark look.

  “Where were you when your aunt had her accident?” Savannah asked.

  “What do you mean? Like do I have an alibi or something?” Waldo’s green eyes squinted. “Do I need an alibi?”

  “Who said anything about an alibi?” Savannah shrugged. “I was just making small talk. Like, ‘Where were you when you heard Elvis died …?’”

  “I think I was a baby.”

  “Oh, yeah.” She sighed. “They keep making the younger generation younger and younger.” She drew a deep breath and turned to Helene. “What time of day was your accident?”

  “About ten fifteen in the morning. I always ride my bike to the main road to get the mail from the mailbox.”

  Savannah turned to Emma. “Where were you at ten fifteen the morning of your grandmother’s mishap?”

  “I was at home with my boyfriend, Kyd. He lives with me now. We were probably still in bed. He had a gig the night before, so we were sleeping in. He’s a musician.”

  “Oh, please!” Helene put her hands over her ears. “You’re going to give me a headache, just thinking about it!”

  Savannah turned back to Waldo. Try, try, try again. “And where were you at ten fifteen that morning?” she asked slowly, deliberately, as though talking to a three-year-old.

  “Sleeping,” Emma piped up. “That’s all he ever does—sleep and smoke pot and drink beer and look at porn on his computer and play video games. And that’s what he’s going to be doing until he’s sixty-five. The big question is: What’s he going to do when he retires? What’ll he do with all his spare time, when he’s stopped doing absolutely nothing?”

  Suddenly, Savannah felt exhausted, empty. As though somebody had pulled a plug from the bottom of her right foot and all her energy had flowed out and swirled down some cosmic drain hole.

  Donning her most patient look—the one she usually wore while trying to resist the urge to do someone bodily harm—she laced her arm through Waldo’s and led him a few steps away from the two women.