No, she tried to live in peace with her man and did. Most of the time.
Nobody was perfect.
She tried to be tactful, but it went against her grain. Tactfulness felt sort of sneaky to her. Even though her Southern heritage and upbringing demanded that sensitivity and diplomacy be employed in almost all circumstances, such “nonsense” didn’t come naturally for her.
She wasn’t sure if that was a character flaw or a gift. She suspected it was a bit of both.
But in the quiet of the night, speech prepared, dressed for “combat” in a silky nighty that would make him wish he’d been a bit friskier lately, Savannah was ready for him.
Until the clock passed 2:00 A.M., and her eyes closed.
With her arm around Diamante and Cleo curled into a purring black ball on Dirk’s pillow, Savannah faded off to sleep.
Yeah, Savannah gal, she thought as she drifted off. You’re a real spitfire hellcat.
Until midnight.
Then you turn into a punkin.
* * *
At 4:14 A.M., she woke with a start, looked at the clock, then turned toward the other side of the bed. There he was, sound asleep.
In fact, he looked dead. He wasn’t even doing his usual, bring-down-the-rafters snoring.
That meant one thing to her: he was exhausted.
Telling all those lies and all that fooling around with other women stuff must’ve plum wore him to a frazzle, her inner witch told her.
Or something substantial happened on the stakeout, and he had to stay late doing paperwork or booking someone, whispered the calm, gentle voice of reason.
As Savannah watched her husband sleep, she could see his features clearly in the moonlight that was now streaming through the lace curtains. He appeared sweet, innocent, untroubled. Far different from the way he had looked in previous days.
Her earlier anger and sense of urgency subsided a bit, and all she really wanted to do was kiss him and snuggle against him. To feel his arm, hard and muscled, slip around her and pull her close to him, into the blissful warmth of his body.
Now that he was actually beside her, still and at rest, she studied him with eyes of love and couldn’t believe that these misgivings she had were real.
Their marriage had always been solid. The occasional thunderstorm had cropped up and, from time to time, some impressive squalls had rocked their marital boat.
They were both strong-minded people and were “set in their ways,” as Granny would say, both having lived alone for years. It wasn’t surprising they would have encountered a few storms along the way. But she had always thought, at least when the nor’easter had passed, that they had weathered the gales well enough.
Was this really the end? Were these “signs” she was noticing true indications that something was badly wrong, as her intuition was telling her? Or were they figments of a menopausal imagination?
More likely, they were echoes of the past when, night after night, a little girl had tossed and turned in a bed filled with siblings and wondered where her daddy was, why she hadn’t seen him for so long, and what the townspeople meant when they whispered, “He’s a long-distance trucker so’s he can stay outta town and chase skirt.”
Intuition or imagination? It was hard to know.
Having been a cop for years, Savannah had relied on her innate knowledge to keep her alive. Long ago, she had learned not to disregard what her precious instincts told her.
But this once she hoped, as fervently as she had ever hoped for anything in her life, that it was her intuition that was lying to her.
Not her husband.
* * *
When Savannah woke a few hours later, she turned to the other side of the bed and saw that she was, once again, alone.
At first, she thought he had already left for work, then she smelled the aroma of coffee brewing, and noticed that Cleo wasn’t in the bed with her and Diamante.
Cleopatra was always with Mom, unless Dad was available.
Savannah got out of bed, walked to the closet, and chose her new satin Victoria’s Secret robe.
It never hurt to look your best when suspecting that your husband was behaving like a two-bit, low-down alley cat. If for no other reason than to remind him of what he was going to miss, terribly, if and when he got nailed for his indiscretions.
On the other hand, if he was behaving in a manner that would qualify him for the Best and Most Faithful Husband of the Year Award, it never hurt to suggest he might have a little reward coming. Something that would prove a sight more satisfying than an engraved, gold-plated trophy for the mantel.
With that in mind and hoping for the best, she left the robe loose, revealing a generous amount of cleavage.
Diamante followed her down the stairs, and when they reached the bottom, she could hear him talking to Cleo in the kitchen. His tone was soft and soothing, as always when he was speaking to one of his “favorite girls.”
But before she reached the kitchen, Savannah realized that it wasn’t Cleo he was conversing with. It sounded like he was on the phone.
“No, I haven’t told her yet,” she heard him say. “I will. I’m gonna have to, sooner or later. But it’s not a conversation I’m looking forward to. That’s for sure.”
Savannah stopped so abruptly that the cat ran into the back of her heels. Her heart was pounding so hard that she could hardly hear the rest of what he was saying.
“I have to tell you,” he continued, his voice less soft than before, “I don’t appreciate you putting me in this position. You know I think the world of you. I always have. But she’s my wife and . . .”
He paused to listen for a moment, then said, “Yeah, yeah, okay. I understand. But you need to hear me, too. I didn’t sign up for this. You’re the one who’s putting me in the hot seat, and I don’t appreciate it. This is my marriage. I’m the one who’s going to decide when it’s the right time to tell her about you and what’s going on.”
Savannah didn’t even realize that she had gasped, until she heard him say, “She’s up. I gotta go.”
She heard his phone beep as he turned it off. She could hear her own pulse pounding in her ears.
Before walking into the kitchen, she tried her best to compose herself. It was either that or run in there, grab him, and start yanking out every one of those precious hairs on the top of his head. The ones he was so afraid of losing. The ones she was pretty sure he counted every day.
Savannah drew some calming breaths, and in one of the best performances of her entire life, she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and casually strolled into the kitchen.
She caught him shoving his cell phone into his jeans pocket.
Instantly, he donned his “I Wasn’t Doin’ Nothin’ Wrong” look—an expression she was all too familiar with, having seen it on every burglar she had ever caught, holding the loot he’d just stolen in his hands.
It was quickly followed by a “Gee, I’m So Surprised, But Not the Least Bit Upset to See You!” look.
“Good morning!” he said far too cheerfully. “I didn’t hear you come down.”
“Who were you talking to?” she asked in her most straightforward, headfirst, horns down, Aries tone.
“When?”
On January 32nd, at 12:72 P.M., she thought, when you were in the shower with that piglet, helping a monkey shampoo its hair. When the hell do you think?
Instead, she softly, slowly said with her thickest Southern drawl, “Just now.”
He fake-thought about it for a moment, then said, “Oh, that. Just work.” He glanced at his watch. “Speaking of work, I’ve gotta report in early this morning.”
“You practically live there these days.”
He shrugged. “Can’t be helped. The stakeout’s really paying off.”
“Oh?” She was less than impressed.
“Yeah. That dope house I’ve been sittin’ on, it was really hopping last night. I was watching with binoculars from a roof across the street. I took down
a bunch of plate numbers. Today we’re gonna pick up a dozen or so of that dealer’s best customers. Word will get around, and the dude’ll be outta business.”
When she didn’t respond, he continued with a pleading tone. “That’s a good thing, Van. He’s causing a lot of misery with his operation there. It’s gonna feel great to get him and his poisons off the street.”
There he was. Her husband.
Just for a moment, Savannah saw the man she loved, the handsome groom she had married as the sun was setting there on the beach, her former partner in law enforcement, the good guy whose favorite thing in the world—next to making love to her, petting Cleo, and telling Vanna Rose a bedtime story—was taking down the bad guys.
In that moment he was telling her the truth.
For all the good that did, after what she had heard before entering the room.
He grabbed his mug off the counter, drank the last bit of coffee from it, then reached for his holster and Smith & Wesson on the table.
“I’m sorry, babe,” he said. Again, she could tell he was speaking the truth. He really was sorry.
Unfortunately, it made things worse, not better.
As he passed her, he glanced down at the cleavage she had bared for him.
In a moment of generosity that now seemed so long ago.
He gave her a better-than-average good-bye kiss. A bit longer and sweeter than she’d gotten in a while. She assumed it was in homage to his bird’s-eye view of The Girls. Dirk had always been a dyed-in-the-wool boob man.
“Gotta git,” he said.
A moment later he was gone, taking her heart and any hopes she had harbored for their future along with him.
* * *
Surgeons don’t get to cancel people’s lifesaving surgeries and take the day off to worry themselves sick when they’re on the outs with their mates, Savannah told herself as she drove to a secluded beach not too far from the morgue.
Even if she’d just overheard her husband talking to his mistress, there was no excuse for her moping around the house in the middle of an investigation.
Besides, the quicker she solved this case, the sooner she could get on with her next mission—finding out who the two-bit hussy was and stomping a mudhole in her backside.
Or at the very least, make her fear for her life while administering a fierce tongue lashing that she’d never get over.
That was Savannah’s plan at least. Subject to possible adjustments before execution, given future developments.
Granny’s skillet might need to be employed.
Time would tell.
Savannah had called Dr. Liu and asked if they could have a clandestine meeting to compare notes and plan her next avenue of investigation. The M.E. had suggested a nearby beach, saying she could slip away, unnoticed, for a half hour or so.
Apparently, “business” was slow.
That was a good thing. A lull in the action at the county morgue was beneficial for the community at large.
Savannah only had to wait a minute or two, until Jennifer’s oversized, black BMW pulled into the lot and parked beside the Mustang.
Eager to enjoy the plush, leather seats of the luxury car, Savannah eagerly jumped out of her vehicle and climbed into the doctor’s passenger side.
Jennifer looked a bit forlorn until Savannah handed her a tin that contained some of the triple chocolate cookies that Granny had made the night before.
“You baked!” Jennifer said, reaching for the container. “Bless you!”
“Bless Gran,” Savannah replied. “They’re hers, not mine.”
Jennifer raised the lid, looked inside, and took a slow, long breath, smelling the delectable aroma of the tin’s contents. “Granny’s cookies!” she exclaimed. “Even better.”
“Thanks,” Savannah said dryly.
“Oh, come on. Don’t be jealous. Yours are exquisite. Hers are perfection.”
“That’s true.”
Jennifer held out the tin to her. “Have one?”
“No, thank you. They’re all for you. I already had two for breakfast.”
“You’re going to die.”
“With a smile on my face.”
“Along with a smear of chocolate, no doubt.”
“True enough.” Savannah watched as Jennifer made fast work of a couple herself. Glancing up and down the doctor’s slender figure, she wondered what it would be like to eat as much as you wanted of whatever you wanted and remain society’s rail-thin idea of “slender” and “healthy.”
Savannah would never know. She was a “Reid woman,” and that was fine by her. “Slender” might be a genetic impossibility. But she figured as long as she could chase down most men, tackle them, and wrestle them to the ground without a spike in her blood pressure or cholesterol levels, she had the “healthy” part covered.
As quickly as she could, to make the best use of the doctor’s stolen time, Savannah filled her in on what Tammy had found on the Internet about suicide pacts and what Savannah had discovered during the interviews at Brianne’s estate.
Jennifer’s mood turned very dark when she heard about the websites where physically healthy people were being encouraged to end their lives.
“If I find out that someone did that to Brianne, God help them,” Jennifer said with more anger than Savannah had ever heard her express on any topic. “It’s one thing to support someone who’s in the final stages of an agonizing disease, in unbearable pain, and has decided to end their lives. But to encourage a depressed person to do such a thing, that’s unconscionable.”
“Communicating with that sort of website . . . does that sound like something Brianne would do?” Savannah asked her.
“My first inclination would be to say, ‘No.’ She was an optimistic person, hopeful, resourceful, inclined to work problems out rather than attempt to escape them. But once the Halstead’s symptoms began to appear, once she was diagnosed, she became clinically depressed. I have no doubt about it.”
“Who wouldn’t? To hear that your worst nightmare, the one thing you dreaded, this threat that’s been hanging over you most of your life, is finally manifesting itself. That would make even an optimistic person depressed.”
“I know. And when people are genuinely, clinically depressed, it changes who they are and how they think. I’d have to say that honestly I don’t know what my friend was capable of doing, considering the state she was in.”
“Then you may not be able to answer this question either,” Savannah said, sorry that she had to ask it. “Do you think Brianne was faithful to Paul?”
Jennifer looked surprised at the question. “I believe so. In all the years I knew her, I don’t think she ever had more than one lover at a time and not that many overall. Why do you ask? Did Paul suggest that she had been seeing someone else?”
“No. To hear Paul tell it, they were the perfect couple—other than the Halstead’s, that is.”
“Then why are you asking about her faithfulness?”
“Because Dee told me she overheard some rather heated arguments between the two of them about that very topic. At least, she heard Paul yelling at Brianne, accusing her of sneaking around and seeing someone else.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Jennifer said. “Paul might be a bit dull for my taste, but I’ve never heard him raise his voice under any circumstance.”
“Are you saying that Dee was lying to me? That she had some ulterior motive for painting Paul with a black brush?”
“I really don’t know. I haven’t spent a lot of time with Dee. Mostly I saw her when I went up the hill to play with the goats.” She smiled. “Aren’t they cute?”
“Adorable. Even when they’re chewing the clothes off you.”
“Yes, that does happen. One of them swallowed nearly a foot of my sweater belt before I noticed. When I pulled it out of her, it was so gross. All soggy and green. Anyway . . . occasionally, Brianne and I would take a couple of her horses for a ride down the canyon and back. Dee would tack up
the horses before we rode and groom them when we finished our ride. She seemed very pleasant and bright.”
“Oh, she’s very bright. That’s for sure. She missed her calling. Should have been a detective of some sort.”
Savannah paused, considering the best way to ask her next question. Finally, she decided to just spit it out. “Do you think that Brianne might have been seeing Nels? If she was sneaking out to meet someone, could it have been him?”
With a shrug Jennifer said, “I’ve already done quite a bit of research myself, and I haven’t found anything to connect them to each other. Other than the Halstead’s, I couldn’t uncover any common element between them, no shared interests, no mutual friends or enemies, locations, events, nothing.”
Smiling, she added, “But then, I’m no Tammy Hart.”
“Tammy Reid. She’s one of us now.”
“Lucky her. . . .” Jennifer reached into the box again. “An endless supply of delicious baked goods.”
Chapter 14
Even though Jennifer Liu didn’t seem to think there was a connection between Brianne Marston and Nels Farrow, Savannah had to check it out herself. In any investigation, she left no rock unturned, and in this particular case, she only had two rocks: Nels Farrow and the bar called The Fisherman’s Lair. Since there was no rush to visit The Lair, as it would be open until 2:00 A.M., she decided to start with Nels Farrow’s widow, Candy.
Before leaving the beach parking lot, Savannah gave Tammy a call to see if she could find the Farrows’ address.
Tammy sounded worried when she answered with a rather abrupt, “Hi, Savannah. What’s up?”
“I was going to ask you if you could find an address for me, but I’m just being lazy. If you’re busy, I can do it myself.”
“No. I’m not . . . well . . . I’m sort of busy.”
“My little namesake keeping you on your toes?”
“No, your brother is.”
“What’s wrong with Waycross?”
“He’s got the flu. A pretty bad case of it, too, poor guy.”
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