A Body To Die For

by G. A. McKevett

  “Eh, so what. The chain-link fence around my trailer park’s been there since Eisenhower.”

  “Gee, I didn’t know that,” Savannah replied dryly, her bubble popped. “I’ll have to look at it with renewed respect the next time you invite me over for a hot dog and a beer.”

  Several vehicles were parked near the gate, so Dirk pulled the Buick beside them and killed the engine.

  “Are you ready to meet the Queen of Physical Fitness?” he asked as they got out of the car.

  “More like the Mistress of Meanness. I’m not going to pretend that I like her, you know. Southern belle or not, I’m getting too old for that crap.”

  “The crap of acting civil to jerks?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Hell, I stopped doing that years ago. In fact, I don’t think I ever did it.”

  “Yeah, well, men are smarter than women in that way.”

  He stopped in mid-stride and stared at her. “I never thought I’d hear you admit that men are superior to women.”

  She sniffed. “Get real, buddy, and clean out your ears. That ain’t even close to what I said. Men…they’re deafer than fence posts.”

  Dirk tested the bell gate and found it open. He pushed it and stood aside for Savannah to enter first.

  As she brushed by him, felt his body warmth, and smelled his predictable Old Spice shave lotion, she couldn’t help feeling a surge of affection for him. You had to love a guy who always opened every door and let you go through first—unless there was a possible perp with a gun on the other side. And, in that case, he insisted on being first.

  You just had to love him…faded Harley-Davidson T-shirt, battered bomber jacket, and all.

  But she forgot about Dirk’s attire and gallant ways the moment she stepped through the gate and into the courtyard.

  She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting here on Clarissa Jardin’s property. Maybe exercise equipment? Implements of torture? At least, beds of prickly cacti and roses with all thorns and no blossoms?

  But the moonlight and a few carefully placed blue accent lights illuminated a virtual fairyland. It was a lush garden, planted with every romantic flower, shrub, and herb imaginable. Hollyhocks, delphinium, foxglove, and rosebushes lined the whitewashed walls of the enclosure. Carnations, asters, peonies, nasturtiums, and geraniums grew in profusion along a rock walkway that wove through the courtyard, toward the house at the far end.

  The place looked more like an English garden than a California yard. Lemon blossoms and star jasmine scented the moist night air.

  Savannah could easily picture Don Rodriguez with his wife, children, and servants, living a gracious life in a simpler time here in this place. And with the help of the silvery moonlight, she could easily imagine that their ghosts remained, reluctant to leave this tranquil setting.

  In the center of it all stood a giant pavilion with elegant, comfortable wicker furniture that provided a seating area fit for any rancho lord and lady and their fortunate guests.

  Savannah couldn’t help envying anyone who could bring a morning cup of coffee or an evening glass of wine out to this paradise and spend an hour soaking in the solace of it all, relaxing with their thoughts or a good book.

  “Nice,” she said. “Very nice.”

  “Eh, your backyard is just as good,” he replied.

  “Yeah, sure. How can you even say that? My folding lawn chairs compared to that gorgeous wicker?”

  “Your yard has your lemonade. Your yard has you in it.”

  She gave Dirk a sideways glance, a bit surprised. Dirk was getting mushy in his old age.

  “And your beer is the coldest in town…and free.”

  Okay, some things never change, she thought.

  Ahead of them, at the end of the rock walkway, on the side of the courtyard opposite the bell gate, was the house. Savannah had been expecting something larger, having heard all about the land baron who had built it.

  It was a long building, two stories high, built in the Monterey style with a Spanish tiled roof, white adobe walls, and a railed balcony that stretched across the upper level, from one end to the other.

  The windows glowed with golden light that spilled out in patches onto the garden flowers. And through one of the windows, they saw a couple of figures moving, walking back and forth, in what looked like a dining room.

  Both the upper and lower stories of the house had several doors each, as though the rooms were situated end to end and each had its own outside door.

  “Looks sorta like the Blue Moon,” Dirk said, referring to San Carmelita’s most notorious no-tell motel.

  “I guess architecture is a little different now than it was back when guys rode horses and ladies wore corsets and petticoats.”

  He shot her a mischievous look. “What? You don’t wear corsets?”

  “Only in your dreams.”

  They walked up to the door in the center of the house, the one that seemed most likely to be the main door. Dirk knocked on it, using his officious SCPD knock that was just short of pounding.

  In less than a minute, a short, robust, Latina lady answered. She was wearing a bright red shirt and simple navy slacks. She had an ageless quality about her—flawless, golden skin with glossy black hair—and could have been anywhere from forty to sixty years old.

  She gave them a gracious, though somewhat guarded, “Hello? May I help you?”

  Dirk presented his badge. “I’m Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter with the San Carmelita Police Department.” He nodded toward Savannah. “And this is Savannah Reid. We need to talk to Clarissa Jardin.”

  Before the woman could reply or invite them inside, a woman appeared behind her. And even though Savannah had seen Clarissa Jardin’s face in the media often enough to recognize her instantly, she was shocked at the difference between the public and private Clarissa.

  Gone was the hardcore, militaristic, overbearing despot of the gym scene.

  Dressed in a white Victorian style nightgown and a flowing robe of peacock-blue satin paisley, she was the quintessential demure lady. Even her signature blond mane was tied back with a blue ribbon.

  “Detective,” she said, as she hurried forward to greet them, “please come in. Thank you for responding so quickly. I’m so relieved you’re here.”

  She reached around the other woman and pulled the door open wider. “Maria, please get our guests something to drink. What will you have, Detective Coulter, and…is it…Detective Reid?”

  “No, just ‘Savannah’ will do,” Savannah replied warily. “And I don’t need any refreshments, thank you.”

  “Me either,” Dirk added. “We should probably get down to business, you know…the business that you called the station house about.”

  Clarissa turned to Maria. “If our guests don’t need anything to eat or drink, you may be excused. Good night.”

  “Good night, Señora.”

  With a slight nod of her head, the maid left. And Savannah couldn’t help but feel that, in spite of Clarissa Jardin’s gentle demeanor, Maria seemed all too happy to leave her mistress’s presence.

  Savannah and Dirk stepped through the small doorway and into the living room.

  Again, Savannah was struck by the fact that this house, although it had been owned by a wealthy, powerful landowner, was quite modest, by today’s standards.

  The room wasn’t much larger than Savannah’s, but much more expensively furnished, she had to admit.

  The items that Clarissa or her decorator had chosen were a strange combination. From the enormous tapestry that nearly covered the far wall, to the dark, hand-carved, Victorian furniture and the stained glass and wrought-iron sconces, to the leather mission-style sofa, it was a strange mishmash of styles and periods.

  Even with her own limited knowledge of décor, Savannah was pretty sure that Don Rodriguez had never planted his tushy on anything as fancy as that dainty, diamond-tufted, velvet chair in the corner.

  “This is a neat place you got here,”
Dirk said. “Cool what you did with it.”

  Savannah nearly gagged. She knew he didn’t give a hoot about decorating, and that he was only kissing up to get the interview off to a good start. Either that, or he was remembering how good Clarissa looked on that gym poster…her and her perky hind end.

  Savannah put that notion out of her mind immediately. It wasn’t professional to smack your partner in front of others, and thought control was the first step to avoiding violence.

  “Come, have a seat,” Clarissa said, indicated the sofa with a queenly wave. “Make yourselves comfortable.”

  Dirk sat down first. He moved his hand over the leather, and said, “Ah-h-h, very, very nice. Soft as a baby’s bottom,” in a voice that Savannah could only describe as “gooshey.”

  She plopped down next to him and shot him a withering look. Like he would know, Mr. Never-Changed-A-Diaper-In-His-Life. She knew the ins and outs of his love life, or lack thereof, as well as her own. And she was pretty darned sure that the only butt he’d had his hand on in a long time was his own…which was probably part of the problem.

  “Yeah, well, all that crap aside,” Savannah said, turning to Clarissa, “tell me something, Ms. Jardin. Your husband has been missing for five days. Why are you just now calling the cops?”

  She certainly had their attention now. Both of them stared at her with open mouths.

  Clarissa’s astonishment quickly turned to indignation. “I’m sure,” she said, “that Detective Coulter here was just making a bit of small talk before approaching more…difficult…topics.”

  “That’s right,” Dirk added. “I was gonna lead up to it, a little more subtle-like.”

  Subtle? Savannah thought. Since when? Dirk was as skilled at “subtle” as he was at diaper changing.

  “I don’t mean to be blunt, Ms. Jardin,” Savannah said, “but I’d think if you’re so all-fired worried about your husband, we probably don’t need to be wasting time, chatting about refreshments, or decorating, or which is softer…your couch or a baby’s butt.”

  Dirk reached over, placed his hand on Savannah’s thigh, and gave it a little squeeze. “What Savannah is trying to say is that we need to get going on this investigation as soon as possible. Five days is a long time for a person to be unaccounted for.”

  Savannah put her own hand around Dirk’s wrist and squeezed so hard that she felt him flinch. He quickly removed it.

  “That’s okay,” Clarissa said as she and her nightgown and her satin robe floated over to a Victorian fainting couch, where she sat down. She folded her hands in her lap. “I’m accustomed to being treated rudely,” she said. “It’s just part of being a celebrity.”

  “Really? Hm-m-m,” Savannah replied. “I’ve never been rude to Julia Roberts or Halle Berry.”

  Dirk gave her another warning look.

  Clarissa glanced quickly over Savannah’s figure and smiled ever so slightly. Her eyes were cold when she said, “But then, Julia Roberts or Halle Berry don’t take a public stand against obesity the way I do. That makes me unpopular with…” She gave Savannah another quick visual sweep. “…with some people.”

  A fantasy flashed across the screen of Savannah’s imagination. A delicious fantasy that involved an enormous sword and Clarissa Jardin’s suddenly disembodied head flying through the air, landing on a Georgia dirt road, and getting kicked into a ditch. The whole daydream took less than two seconds and ended with Savannah standing by that roadside, bloodied sword in hand, grinning down at the ditch.

  It was a well-worn fantasy that had worked for her since seventh grade, when she had first thought of it—when Kathy Murdock had called her and her family “white trash” because she wore hand-me-downs.

  The classics held up.

  “Oh, a lot of people, celebrities and regular folks, take a public stand against obesity, for health purposes and all,” Savannah replied evenly. “But they don’t make a living from wounding people’s spirits and encouraging them to despise themselves and their own bodies.”

  Dirk cleared his throat loudly, reached into his jacket pocket and produced a pad and pen. “Let me see now, Ms. Jardin—”

  She batted her eyelashes at him. “Please, call me Clarissa. Everyone does.”

  That’s not what I call you, Savannah thought, but she decided to be professional and keep it to herself. It’s a bit late now for “professional,” Savannah, the inner critic suggested. It also whispered that perhaps she hadn’t accompanied Dirk on this little jaunt for the altruistic reason of helping her old friend solve his case. She might have tagged along because she was hoping for a chance to take a swipe at Clarissa Jardin—a woman who was in trouble, whose husband was missing.

  She decided to shut up.

  “Ah, yes, Clarissa,” Dirk said. “Tell me a bit about your husband. His name, age, general description.”

  “Bill is forty-one, six feet tall. He used to be good-looking, but now he’s gained about eleven or twelve pounds.”

  Savannah said nothing but mentally gripped her sword a bit tighter. Heads could be reattached and removed over and over again if necessary.

  “His hair and eye color?” Dirk asked.

  “Blond and brown.”

  “Any identifying scars, tattoos?”

  “No tattoos. Bill was too conservative for anything like that.”

  Savannah couldn’t help noting that Bill Jardin’s wife had just referred to him in the past tense. That didn’t bode well for Bill.

  Dirk asked Bill’s birthday, and Savannah knew one of the first things he would do was run a background check on Bill to see if he had a criminal record. Experience had shown them both that a sizable bank account was no guarantee that someone was a law-abiding citizen.

  “What sort of vehicle does he drive?”

  “A new, red Jaguar XK. A convertible.”

  She even supplied the license plate number, which Savannah found mildly interesting. Most people didn’t know their license plate number unless it was a vanity plate.

  “And what was he wearing the last time you saw him?” Dirk asked.

  “Jeans and a turquoise polo.”

  She wondered how much Clarissa might have prepared for this moment. Her answers seemed rehearsed, her manner quite subdued for a woman with a long-absent spouse.

  “What does he do?” Dirk asked.

  “Do?” Clarissa thought about it a moment before answering with a totally straight face, “He drinks, gambles, and chases other women.”

  Dirk stopped scribbling for a moment, but continued to stare down at his pad. “Actually,” he said, “What I meant was, ‘How does he make a living?’”

  “Bill doesn’t make a living. I do.”

  For just a moment, Savannah saw it—the fleeting look of hurt in the other woman’s eyes. Not anger. Raw pain. And she couldn’t help but feel a twang of pity for her.

  Pain was pain. Even for rude people.

  In a gentle tone, with her heaviest Georgian accent, Savannah said, “Your Billy Boy sounds like a real peach.”

  Clarissa’s eyes searched Savannah’s, and Savannah could feel the moment when the other woman realized that she was offering genuine empathy.

  Clarissa’s expression softened, and it occurred to Savannah that maybe Clarissa Jardin wasn’t accustomed to kindness or sympathy.

  “Yes,” Clarissa said, sounding suddenly tired. “Bill’s a real catch. Lucky me.”

  “How long have you two been married?” Dirk asked.

  “Eighteen years. I married him right out of high school.”

  “That’s a long time to spend with a heavy-drinking, womanizing gambler,” Savannah said softly.

  “I love him.” Clarissa shrugged. “There are all kinds of love in this world. Not all of them are noble.”

  A heavy silence hung in the air until Dirk said, “When did you last see your husband, Clarissa?”

  “Five nights ago. He left the house about nine to run an errand, and he didn’t come back.”

  “
Where did he go?”

  “He said he was driving to Twin Oaks, to the convenience store there, to get cigarettes.”

  She was lying; Savannah saw it in her eyes.

  Glancing sideways at Dirk, Savannah saw him squint ever so slightly and she knew that he had registered it, too.

  Being cops for years, having people lie to you at least twice every fifteen minutes—it tended to fine-tune one’s internal lie detector.

  “He said he was getting cigarettes,” Dirk repeated, “and he didn’t come back or contact you in any way since that night.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So, the question that I have to ask you, Clarissa,” he said, “is why didn’t you call us before now?”

  Again, she seemed to have her answer ready. “Because he’s done this before. He always came back after a couple of days, apologizing, promising to be a good husband from then on. And he’d be my good Bill, the one I fell in love with in high school. I just thought it was one of those times. But—”

  She choked, and her eyes filled with tears.

  “But?” Dirk prompted.

  “But he’s never been away this long. Three days was always his limit before.”

  “So, you two had some sort of argument or disagreement before he left to go get the cigarettes,” Savannah said.

  “Sure. We fought almost every night about something.”

  “And what was the argument about that night?” Dirk asked.

  “Another woman. Most of the fights were about other women.”

  “What is this other woman’s name?”

  “I don’t know her name.”

  Another lie, Savannah noted. She was starting to have doubts about the health and well-being of Mr. Clarissa. A guy who’d been missing for five days, whose wife was lying to the cops—things were looking a bit grim for poor ol’ Bill.

  “What do you know about her?” Savannah asked.

  “That she wears cheap, disgusting perfume. Too much of it. And she’s forgetful.”

  Dirk looked up from his scribbling. “Forgetful?”

  “Yeah. She forgets to put her panties back on…leaves them in married men’s cars.”