“Who’s Waldo?”
“Helene’s rare-do-well great-nephew, who lives here on the property.”
“And sponges off the old biddy?”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“That he’s a sponge?”
“That she’s old or a biddy. First time I saw her, she was toting a rifle, and I’ll betcha dollars to donuts she knows exactly how to use it.”
“She’d shoot me for calling her a ‘biddy’?”
“She’s a mite sensitive right now, and I don’t blame her one bit. Thinking that somebody’s been trying to kill you will do that to a gal.”
They passed the house, with its unattractive laundry hanging out to dry, and walked on down the path toward another, slightly smaller, but equally charming cottage.
This one, a miniature version of the mansion, had flower boxes brimming with healthy plants, immaculately trimmed shrubs, and a thriving herbal garden besides.
The windows were open, and white, ruffled curtains danced lightly in the breeze.
A pretty young Latino woman, wearing a simple white shirt and jeans, her flowing black hair tied back in a ponytail, had some garden shears in one hand and a cell phone in the other.
She was speaking Spanish, and although Savannah’s Español was limited at best, she thought she heard her say something like, “Tener cuidado con lo que dices.” And she was pretty sure that meant, “Be careful what you say.”
That alone would have been enough to pique Savannah’s extremely piqueable curiosity. But when the woman saw them, she jumped, snapped the phone closed, and shoved it into her jeans pocket.
With a tense and guilty look on her face, she began to frantically harvest cilantro from among the herbs.
“Hola,” Savannah said. “Buenas dias.”
Yes, no doubt about it, Savannah thought. The young lady appeared nervous, upset that she had been overheard. And by a Spanish-speaking person at that.
“Buenos dias,” Dirk whispered. “Buenos, not buenas.”
Okay, Savannah admitted to herself, a semi-Spanish-speaking person.
“Hello,” the woman responded, not quite meeting Savannah’s eyes.
Savannah walked closer to her and stood, deliberately, a bit inside her personal space. From her worried expression and the way she kept shifting from one foot to the other, Savannah knew she had succeeded in making her even more uncomfortable.
Savannah liked it when people were uncomfortable … at least when she was on the job. Whether they intended to or not, nervous people revealed more of themselves than relaxed folks ever would.
“I’m Savannah Reid,” she said, putting out her hand to the woman. “And you are …?”
She fumbled with her herbs and her shears for a moment, before freeing her right hand. Shaking Savannah’s, she mumbled, “I’m Blanca.”
“I’m happy to meet you, Blanca. And this is my friend, Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter.”
Dirk gave the young woman his most intimidating “cowboy gunfighter” scowl … the one that made Savannah feel the need to bop him and tell him to be nice.
The look worked well on tough gangbangers, but when used on less hardcore citizens, it scared the daylights out of them and frequently caused them to withdraw.
Blanca looked like a turtle pulling into her shell as she took a step backward, ducked her head, and crossed her arms over her chest.
“Detective?” she whispered. “You are police?”
“I’m not the police,” Savannah told her. “And he’s just my friend. We’re here to make sure that everything’s okay for Mrs. Strauss.”
“Miss Helene,” Blanca corrected her. “You call her Mrs. Strauss, she gets very mad. She did not like her mother-in-law.”
“Oh, right.” Savannah smiled. “I forgot. Miss Helene. We’re just checking a few things to make sure that she’s okay. You heard what happened to her … the accidents?”
“Yes!” She nodded vigorously, her beautiful, dark brown eyes wide. “I heard! She fell off the mountain! My husband saved her.”
“Then your husband is the gardener?” Savannah asked.
“Yes. She was going to fall. He pulled her back.”
“Were you there when it happened? Did you see it?”
Blanca glanced right and left, then down at her sneakers. “No. I was not there.”
“Where were you?” the still-scowling Dirk wanted to know.
“In el castillo. I was cleaning. I clean for Miss Helene.”
“El castillo? Oh, the castle … the big house?”
“Yes. I clean the house and my husband is the gardener. And he takes care of the cars.”
Savannah looked deep into the mahogany-colored eyes that seemed so reluctant to meet hers. “Blanca, do you know anyone who would want to hurt Miss Helene?”
The young woman dropped her shears. She bent over and took her time picking them up. When she did, Savannah noticed that the handful of cilantro she was holding was shaking like a willow tree in a Georgia wind storm.
“No,” Blanca said. “Miss Helene is like an angel. She gets mad sometimes, and she screams at people sometimes. But she isn’t bad. She’s good.”
“Who does she scream at?” Dirk asked.
Blanca shrugged. “Everyone, when they don’t do things right. She wants everyone to do their work right. But she’s good.”
“And you can’t think of anyone who would want to hurt her?” Savannah asked again.
Blanca hesitated just a bit too long, then shook her head. “No. I can think of no one.”
Savannah lowered her voice to a soft whisper. “If you think of someone, would you tell me? You know … to help Miss He-lene?”
Blanca looked up at Savannah with eyes filled with painful secrets. After several long, tense seconds, she finally nodded.
“Thank you,” Savannah told her, reaching into her purse and pulling out a business card. She held it out to the woman. “My phone number is on there. You can call me any time at all, day or night. Okay?”
Blanca mumbled a halfhearted, “Okay,” and shoved the card into her jeans pocket.
Savannah glanced around. “Where is your husband, Blanca? We need to speak to him, too.”
A look of fresh fear crossed the housekeeper’s face.
“Just for a moment,” Savannah added. “There’s no problem. We just need to ask him about how he saved her. He’s a real hero, your husband.”
Blanca gave her a weak smile and a slight nod. “Yes. A hero.” She pointed toward the back of the cottage. “He’s working on the chicken house.”
Savannah heard Dirk groan, and she couldn’t help smiling just a little.
Dirk liked cats and dogs, but he was no fan of livestock … beyond eating them.
“Thank you, señora,” Savannah told Blanca. “Please call if me you think of anything.”
“I will.”
No, you won’t, Savannah thought.
Her internal lie detector was pretty reliable, and even though she had sensed that Blanca harbored a certain degree of affection for her employer, she wasn’t expecting the phone to jingle any time soon with a call from the housekeeper.
Savannah reached for Dirk’s arm and gave him a little tug. “Let’s get going, big boy,” she whispered to him.
“Chickens,” he said, resisting.
She pulled harder. “I don’t see you turning your nose up at the fried chicken I serve on my granny’s blue china platter every Sunday afternoon.”
He acquiesced and fell into step beside her. “Southern fried drumsticks don’t bite.”
“Neither do nice little hens. They just lay eggs and—”
“Roosters bite … and claw … and scratch … and jump up on your shoulder and flap their wings all over your head and scare the crap outta you!”
She gave him a quick, sideways glance and saw the unadulterated terror in his eyes. “Wow,” she said. “That sort of heartfelt conviction comes from personal experience, I’d say.”
&nbs
p; “Damn right, it does, and I don’t want to talk about it.”
“When did it happen? Were you a little kid? Wow … that must have been traumatic for a youngster to—”
“I said, I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“That kind of thing can be so awful for a youngun. Did you have nightmares about it for years?”
“Still do.”
“That’s plum awful. I’m so sorry. I feel so bad when things like that happen to helpless, little, impressionable children.”
“Yeah, well … whatever.” He shuddered. “How was I supposed to know that perp would have a rooster the size of a school bus for a guard dog when I chased him into the backyard?”
“Perp?”
He shot her a wary look. “I told you, I don’t wanna talk about it. Just drop it, okay?”
“You were on the job? You were a grown up?”
“It was a really, really big frickin’ chicken! Just shut up about it.”
She swallowed a snicker. “Okay.”
They walked along in silence a little way.
Finally, he said, “That’s part of why I really like to eat your Southern fried chicken legs on Sunday afternoons.”
“Every bite is a kind of revenge?”
“Exactly.”
“And here I thought it was my granny’s blue-ribbon recipe.”
“That, too.”
They had entered a garden filled with wild flowers, artistically placed rockery, and a pond brimming with water lilies.
The smell of lavender and star jasmine scented the air, and Savannah had to pause and savor the experience.
“Ah,” she said, breathing deeply, taking it all in, “it just makes life worth living, a moment like this.”
“Yeah, I guess,” he replied. “I’d probably get more out of it if I wasn’t going to a henhouse.”
“And speaking of … there it is.”
She pointed ahead, through some trees, to a tiny structure that looked like a playhouse for children. Like the main house and the cottages, it was festooned with decorative gingerbread and even had shutters and window boxes.
But having been raised in a rural area, Savannah recognized the telltale signs that identified it as a bonafide chicken coop: the miniature gangplank leading up to a small door, the yard surrounded by wire fencing and covered with protective netting.
Not to mention the four red hens and three white ones pecking and scratching contentedly among the scattered straw in the yard.
“I don’t see a rooster,” Dirk said with so much relief in his voice that Savannah couldn’t help giggling.
They did, however, see a young Latino, walking toward the henhouse, carrying a fresh bale of hay.
He was an attractive man with a strong jaw, pronounced cheekbones, thick hair, and a physique that appeared to be naturally muscular, the result of hard work rather than hours spent at a gym.
When he saw them, it occurred to Savannah that he didn’t appear particularly pleased or at all surprised.
Since the advent of cell phones, she had found it harder and harder to sneak up on people.
“Hola,” Dirk greeted him.
He tossed the bale onto the ground next to the coop’s wire fence and dusted his palms on his jeans. “Hola,” he replied warily.
“I’m Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter.” Dirk took his badge from inside his jacket pocket, flipped it open, and showed him. “This is my friend, Savannah Reid. Are you the gardener here?”
He hesitated, as though having to decide whether or not to admit it. “Yes,” he said finally. “I am.”
“And your name is Tiago?” Savannah asked.
“Tiago Medina.” Again, he couldn’t appear less enthused about their presence.
“I hear you are el héroe, Tiago,” she told him with a dimpled smile and a slight fluttering of eyelashes.
He looked confused for a moment, then shook his head and glanced down at his worn work boots. “No. I’m not a hero.”
Savannah was slightly surprised that the dimple/eyelash business hadn’t worked. Even if the guy was at least ten years her junior, males from eight to eighty usually succumbed to the Southern Belle Double Whammy.
Maybe the old girl’s losing her touch? she thought. Naw, it couldn’t be that.
“But you saved Mrs. Strauss’s life when she fell down the cliff,” Dirk said, picking up where she had left off. “That makes a guy a hero in my book.”
Tiago shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. “Miss Helene has been good to me. She gave me a job, a house, for years. And my wife, too.” A momentary look of sadness crossed his face. “Miss Helene was in trouble. I helped.”
“I’ve seen that cliff,” Savannah said. “It’s very high, very steep. You risked your life saving her.”
He shrugged and smiled. “She would have done the same for me, if it had been me hanging there.”
Savannah thought it over for a moment and laughed. “Yes, I’ve only known Helene Strauss for a few minutes, and I agree. She’d probably climbed right down that cliff to get you.”
Tiago’s eyes twinkled. “She is like my grandmother in Ecuador. She is … what you say … a pistola.”
“Yes,” Savannah agreed. “A pistol. Your grandma, mine, and Helene, too.”
“And the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” Dirk mumbled, giving Savannah a nudge.
“Speaking of apples,” Savannah said. “Miss Helene baked some strudel for me earlier today, and I’d like to go back into her kitchen and look for something. She’s gone to her office, but she said you could let me back into the house. Would you mind, Tiago?”
“Miss Helene told you to ask me to let you into the house?”
“Yes. She said the gardener would open the door for me.”
“What did she say, exactly?”
“She told me, ‘You are family now.’”
He nodded, obviously satisfied. “Come with me. I’ll let you inside.” He headed down the path, back toward the main house.
Savannah and Dirk fell into step beside him.
“I suppose that’s some sort of code,” Savannah prompted him. “The business about me being ‘family’?”
“Yes,” Tiago said. “Miss Helene has lots of codes. Codes for everything. She trusts no one.”
“Why do you think that is?” Savannah asked, recalling the vision of Helene Strauss charging out of her mansion, gun in hand.
“She was a little girl in Bavaria during the war,” Tiago said. “The big war.”
“World War II?” Dirk asked.
“Yes.”
As they walked along, a sadness seemed to sweep over Tiago. His shoulders slumped, and he stared blankly ahead, down the path, as though seeing nothing.
Savannah suspected his change in mood had to do with his previous comment, so she decided to pursue it. “That must have been very hard for Helene,” she said, “a child, living through the horrors of that war.”
“It was very hard for her,” Tiago said. “She told me some things. Very bad things that happened to her family.”
“Was her family Jewish?”
“Some of them were.”
Savannah thought of the pain she had seen in Helene’s green eyes, the guarded wariness, even when the woman had been acting the perfect hostess, serving apple strudel at the kitchen table.
She thought of how those eyes had looked, sighting down the barrel of a gun.
She thought of that little girl growing up in such turbulent, horrible times with family members who were Jewish.
Shaking her head, Savannah said, “Who knows what that woman has experienced in her day? No wonder she has trust issues.”
Chapter 5
Sitting in the passenger’s seat of Dirk’s decrepit, old Buick Skylark, Savannah had to suppress a chuckle. It never failed to amaze her how much trouble he would go to just to avoid having to face Eileen Bradley alone.
A tough cookie—and an all-around great gal, in Savannah’s estimation—Eileen ru
led the county forensics lab with a fist of steel, usually covered by a surgical glove. Few people, other than Savannah, genuinely liked her. But most folks respected her and everybody was afraid of her.
A Decadent Way to Die Page 5
