Bitter Brew

by G. A. McKevett

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. It’s all the same house. Just moving from one room into another.”

  “That’s one way to look at it.”

  “It’s the right way. The only way.”

  “Okay.”

  Long ago, Savannah had discovered that it was a waste of breath to argue with someone so opinionated. They saw the world through the narrow toilet roll tube of their own limited perceptions. Facts, figures, or other people’s opinions be damned.

  “Then I suppose,” she said, “the people there in the group, they’re just all sitting around, waiting to stroll into another room.”

  “Yes, and they’re scared to death of it. That makes them stupid and cowards.”

  “I don’t think they’re either. They struck me as extremely brave and wise enough to have found some peace in their lives, in spite of their circumstances. That’s more than most so-called ‘healthy’ folks can say. I think they’re awesome.”

  “Maybe. But not very many of them had the chestnuts to walk through that door one minute early, before all the suffering and indignities set in. You know, the way Brianne and Nels did.”

  She tried to sound casual when she asked, “You think Brianne and Nels did the right thing?”

  “Sure they did. They’re an inspiration to us all.”

  “Did you know them well?”

  “Of course. This is a close-knit group. Everyone knows everyone. Although I was particularly close to Brianne. If you know what I mean.”

  He waggled one eyebrow in a suggestive way that made Savannah want to stick her chopsticks up his nostrils and stomp out the door.

  Like poor Brianne would have done the caribou crawl with a sicko like you, she thought. But she kept her opinions and, more importantly, her chopsticks to herself.

  “The only thing I’m disappointed about,” he was saying, swigging more saké, “is that she didn’t wait for me. We were supposed to be partners.”

  Instantly, Savannah’s interest piqued. “Partners . . . in . . . ?”

  “Walking into the next room. Together.”

  “I see.”

  He studied her in a way that made her feel like one of the mice waiting to be devoured by his snake. “You do?” he asked.

  “I think so.” She swallowed and forced a smile that wouldn’t bare her teeth. “I mean, I can imagine that something like that would be a lot easier, if you had someone to do it with.”

  “Really?” He seemed both surprised and pleased, as though he couldn’t quite believe his good luck. “You get it?”

  She nodded and tried to look convincing. “Sure. I mean, who wouldn’t prefer not to do something like that alone? It’s so scary.”

  “It doesn’t have to be,” he assured her, reaching across the table for her hand and squeezing it. “If you know how, it can be easy, just like going to sleep.”

  “Really?” She widened her eyes, hoping to portray the epitome of innocence and naivete. “I wish that was true, because sometimes it just gets to be too, too much. You know what I mean?”

  “I sure do.”

  “I don’t want to wind up like my dad was there at the end. But I don’t want to, you know, do it. I’m not brave when it comes to pain.”

  “It doesn’t have to be painful. I can show you how.”

  “Really? And we’d do it together?”

  He glanced away, cleared his throat, and said, “Not like, in the same room. That’s hard to arrange, logistically. But we can both film ourselves and watch and hear each other. We could time it so that we’d be, you know, arriving at the same time.”

  She batted her lashes at him. “Would you be willing to do something like that for me, with me? Really?”

  He did a poor job of hiding his gleeful smile, when he shrugged his shoulders and said, “If that’s what you want, yeah, okay. I guess I would.”

  “Wow,” she said, “you must really like me a lot.”

  “Oh, I do. I really, really do!” His eyes glowed with a light that she had seen before—in the eyes of a man who had just fallen deeply, hopelessly in love.

  She had also seen narrowed, intense, golden eyes like that on a nature channel documentary about a pack of wolves in Yellowstone. . . who had just caught a whiff of prey.

  Chapter 25

  Sometimes when Savannah worked on a case with her team late into the evening, it occurred to her that she should have named her company the Midnight Magnolia Detective Agency.

  Long ago, they had decided it was more productive and emotionally satisfying to discuss the case together, while gathered around her kitchen table or sprawled on her sofa and comfy chairs, than tossing and turning in bed, watching the hours on the clock click by.

  That evening was no exception as they sat around her living room, discussing the meeting that Savannah had attended, as well as the information the others had uncovered since their morning gathering.

  Savannah sat nearby in her customary chair with a sleeping Vanna Rose in her arms. She and Dirk had flipped a coin for who got to hold the baby, and for once, she had won.

  Since he had graciously offered his recliner to Granny, he lay on his side on the floor in front of the television, a less-than-cheerful look on his face.

  Knowing her husband all too well, Savannah had no doubt that his bad mood had to do with not getting to hold the baby, rather than the loss of his favorite seat.

  She decided to hand Vanna over to him the next time she got up to replenish the cookie platter. No doubt, it wouldn’t be long, considering how quickly the gang could mow through a plate of freshly-baked Black-Eyed Susans.

  But until then, she hugged the baby a bit closer, relishing every sweet moment.

  Glancing over at her grandmother, Savannah studied the large black foam core board Granny was balancing on her lap. Granny had written the names of the victims, along with everyone else connected to the case, on colored sticky notes and applied them to the board in an arrangement that, apparently, meant something to her.

  At the bottom, she had even added notes indicating who on their team was working on what.

  Studying the notes, Granny asked in a most officious tone, “Ryan, did you or John find out anything new about Dr. Kendall?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid,” Ryan said from his seat on the sofa, between Tammy and John. “We were busy surveilling Savannah this evening in Santa Barbara, but we did come up with a few things in the afternoon.”

  “Indeed, we did,” John added. “Dr. Kendall is quite a lady, born into old money that was made in the citrus industry here in Southern California back in the late eighteen hundreds. Her parents left her extremely well off, but other than a lovely home in Montecito, you wouldn’t know it. She drives an old Volvo. Lives simply, for an heiress.”

  “She dressed expensively,” Savannah said. “Those were high-grade Austrian crystals I saw on the silk kimono she was wearing this morning, and even more on the fancy duster she had on at the meeting. Many hours of labor must’ve gone into making them. They wouldn’t have come cheap.”

  Ryan chuckled. “You may be surprised to find out she actually makes those garments herself. On her social media pages, she posts about sewing them and gluing on the rhinestones.”

  “Oh. Okay. I stand corrected. But don’t tell me she makes the turquoise jewelry she wears, too. She’s got a ring on every finger, except one, and even her thumbs. The stones are small but high quality. I’d say they’re from the Sleeping Beauty mine.”

  “I didn’t realize that you’re a fan of turquoise,” Ryan said.

  “I’m not,” Savannah said, feeling a pang of sadness mixed with anger. “My mother is.”

  She glanced over at Granny and saw the same feelings on her grandmother’s face.

  Both could recall plenty of times when Savannah and her siblings were young, and there had been no food in the refrigerator. But Shirley had always found the money somewhere to buy yet another piece of turquoise jewelry.

  With an effort, Savannah
allowed the past to slip back into the past, where it belonged.

  Someone had talked about that in the support group. An older woman had said, “Unless you’re examining your past to learn from it or savoring a lovely memory, let it go.”

  Tammy handed her tablet to Savannah. She had located one of the doctor’s social media pages.

  Savannah studied the posted photos of Earlene Kendall applying a blowtorch to a piece of silver jewelry. She saw yet another picture of her heat-gluing rhinestones to a piece of silk.

  “Wow! She’s a woman of many talents,” Savannah conceded.

  “She’s also generous,” Ryan said. “She donates much of her time and money to benefit those with serious genetic disorders, especially children. Other than her artwork, it seems that’s all she lives for.”

  “I heard some of what she was saying tonight through your mic,” Dirk said. “Stuff about how those sick people found out something that the rest of us oughta learn.... To live every day like it’s our last, ’cause, for all we know, it might be.”

  Tammy nodded, and Savannah saw a sadness in her eyes when she said, “That’s for sure. You never know what a day will bring.”

  Savannah couldn’t help wondering if Tammy had any updates on Waycross. But she decided to ask later, privately.

  “Miss Tammy,” Gran said, tapping her finger on one of the notes at the bottom of her board. “I know you’ve been awful busy today. But did you dig up anything else for us on Brianne’s brother or sister-in-law?”

  Tammy took her tablet back from Savannah, scrolled over the screen, and said, “As a matter of fact, I did. From what I gather, Henry and his sister had grown closer in the months before her death. Or at least, he and his wife, Darlene, wanted it to appear that way. They chatted on various forums quite a bit about how his sister had Halstead’s and how they were trying to find ways to support her.”

  “How?” Savannah asked.

  “Like researching the best foods for her to eat and beverages for her to drink. What sorts of nutrients she needed most and whether it was good for her to drink strong coffee and teas. They said they were making food for her and taking it to her house.”

  “That was nice of them,” Savannah said. “Paul didn’t mention that they’d helped him. To hear him tell it, he was her sole caregiver.”

  “Apparently, that’s the way he wanted it,” Tammy said. “On one of the forums, Henry mentioned that Paul was trying to keep them away from Brianne. So, Henry was consulting with an attorney on how to assume power of attorney over his sister’s affairs.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” Dirk said. “Figure the brother and his wife might have been spicing up that nutritious food with a little poison?”

  Savannah rose and placed the baby into his arms, causing him to brighten instantly. “Poisons similar to a suicide compound?” she said.

  “That sounds more like the lad you shared sushi with this evening,” John said. “Yin Yang Fish, indeed. I saw that served in a restaurant in Taiwan. Truly one of the most revolting things I’ve ever witnessed.”

  “He’s certainly obsessed with death and suicide,” Ryan observed. “That’s all he wanted to talk about with you there at the end of the meal. I thought he was going to pull out a suicide pact contract and have you sign it in blood before you’d finished eating.”

  “That guy’s a major sicko,” Dirk said. “I wanted to walk in there and punch him out when I heard him pressuring you like that.”

  Savannah picked up the empty cookie plate from the coffee table. “You should’ve seen the gleam in his eyes when he told me exactly how to do it. In his not-so-humble opinion, anyway.”

  “What bothered me most,” Ryan said, “was how insistent he was on you broadcasting the whole thing when you did it. Supposedly, so he could follow along, doing the same thing with you.”

  “That should bother you. A lot.” Once again, Tammy worked her magic on her tablet. “I couldn’t help checking old Andrew out, too. Wait until you hear this. . . .”

  Halfway to the kitchen with the empty cookie plate, Savannah paused and said, “Go on. Let’s have it, darlin’.”

  “His name isn’t Andrew Ullman. It’s Alfred Underhill. He’s wanted in two other states for manslaughter. Twice, he not only encouraged depressed, vulnerable individuals to commit suicide, but he coached them on how to do it, and got them to broadcast it to him when they did, just like he was encouraging you to do.”

  “Like those perverts you were telling me about when we were researching the pro-suicide websites before?” Savannah asked. “Andrew Ullman is one of those guys?”

  “Exactly like that.” Tammy glanced over at her innocent daughter, who was awake and trying to pull the wedding band off Dirk’s finger. She lowered her voice. “Without going into details, the law-enforcement officials who investigated him in both of those states said he played the videos of their, uh, passings, over and over again.”

  “These crimes are sex-based for him,” Ryan said.

  Tammy nodded. “They most certainly are.”

  Granny tsk-tsked her disgust. “Manslaughter? As far as I’m concerned, he ain’t but one notch above an ol’-fashioned serial killer.”

  “If that,” Savannah said as she put the empty plate back on the coffee table. Something told her that after hearing this new bit of news, not to mention the talk about Yin Yang Fish, the crowd wouldn’t have much of an appetite. Not even for her cookies.

  “At least I can arrest his”—Dirk looked at the baby in his lap, who had given up on the wedding ring and was trying to pick the faded Harley-Davidson logo off the front of his T-shirt—“his mange-infested hindquarters for those outstanding warrants. That’ll be fun. I’m sure those other jurisdictions will be interested in the tapes we recorded tonight. Especially the conversation at the sushi joint.”

  “I’ll make you some copies.” Ryan gave Dirk a smirk. “Under one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That you wear a body cam so we can all see you arrest his . . . ‘mange-infested hindquarters.’ ”

  “You got it.”

  Chapter 26

  The next morning, as Savannah parked the Mustang in the Marstons’ driveway, Dirk surveyed the home that, according to Tammy, they had bought for seven million dollars. “You couldn’t give me this stupid place,” he stated. “It looks like a giant, white, plastic, butt-wipe box.”

  “What an articulate, well-considered review,” she replied with a sniff. “If you ever get tired of being a cop, you could write for Architectural Digest.”

  “Don’t tell me you like this place.”

  She gave the home little more than a passing glance. It was too early in the morning, and she hadn’t consumed nearly enough coffee to argue the fine points of contemporary architecture.

  Besides, he was right. It looked exactly like an oversized “butt-wipe box.” However, she had enough caffeine coursing through her bloodstream to warn her of the folly of telling Dirk he was right about something.

  Experience had taught her that he would latch on to such an admission, like a determined miniature schnauzer with a dog chew, and never let it go. At the first sign of any future disagreement, he would dredge up the three measly incidents where she had been foolish enough to admit he was right and wave them in her face like red capes in front of a snorting, pawing bull.

  With the same results.

  No. She wasn’t in the mood to hear, once again, how desperately wrong she had been, all those years ago, about Steppenwolf recording “In a Gadda Da Vida.”

  “You wanted to go see Paul and Dee first today,” she stated, as they walked up the cement sidewalk with “flower beds” on either side filled with white stone and the occasional, lonely succulent.

  She figured she might as well remind him of their most recent squabble . . . which she had won.

  “Yeah, and it would’ve been okay,” he replied with a slightly pouty tone.

  “Except that, if we’re l
ooking for information about Andrew Ullman, neither Paul nor Dee would have anything to offer. They didn’t even know about the meetings.”

  “Okay, okay. But you’re not right all the time. You didn’t even know that Iron Butterfly recorded ‘In a Gadda Da Vida,’ so—”

  “Ugggh!”

  He grinned and knocked on the door. A few moments later, it was answered by a tiny, slightly disheveled woman wearing a stained T-shirt and jeans with wet knees.

  Savannah surmised on the spot that she was the overworked and probably underpaid housekeeper.

  Dirk shoved his badge under her nose and said, “I’m Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter with the San Carmelita Police Department. This is Savannah Reid. We gotta talk to Darlene and Henry Marston.”

  “Oh. Okay. Come in.”

  The woman looked ill at ease as she ushered them inside the house, causing Savannah to wonder if she had something to hide. But then Savannah reminded herself that most people looked that way around her husband.

  He had many good points to recommend him, as a husband, friend, champion protector of infants, kitties, puppies, and grannies, and certainly as a police officer.

  But when it came to your average, run-of-the-mill social graces . . . not so much.

  However, Savannah was proud of her husband a few minutes later as she watched and listened to him explain to a distraught Henry and Darlene Marston that Brianne’s death was not being considered a suicide.

  Henry, in particular, appeared to be taking it very hard.

  They sat on a comfortable, horseshoe-shaped sofa in the outdoor living room that overlooked a peaceful valley planted with avocado trees. Although the setting was serene enough, the mood was anything but tranquil.

  “What do you mean ‘murdered’?” Darlene demanded, her small, heart-shaped face nearly as red as her fuchsia hair.

  Her husband was slumped against her, sobbing on her shoulder. The little man with spiky blond hair and a ready smile who had greeted them most amiably when first introduced was now a picture of uncontrollable grief.

  Savannah watched and evaluated his every movement, feeling his sorrow in her own heart, while maintaining the necessary degree of skepticism that the job required.