Sour Grapes

by G. A. McKevett

  As the technicians were moving the corpse into the coroner’s station wagon, Savannah left the rest of the group and walked farther down the road away from the scene. In one area the dirt was softer, looser than the rest, and she could see tire marks in the soil that were more than a yard long.

  She knelt beside the most clearly defined section and studied it. The tread size was substantial, not as big as a truck’s, but wide for a car. She stood and motioned to Dirk. “Hey, buddy. Come check this out.”

  The technicians were pouring a plaster cast of the tire track, and Savannah and Dirk were observing the process, when Catherine Villa drove up in a green Jeep Cherokee. She stopped short at the yellow tape barrier, jumped out, and ran straight to Savannah.

  “Oh, my god! I can’t believe it. That poor girl!” She glanced around the scene, at the coroner’s wagon, at the Search and Rescue team members who were packing their equipment into their van. “Where is she? I mean, where is the body?”

  “They’ve already recovered her remains from the hillside,” Savannah told her. “Dr. Liu has her in the wagon now, and she’ll be taking her away in just a few minutes.”

  “But what do you think happened to her? Do you suppose she went for a walk out here in the dark and fell off the cliff?”

  Savannah considered telling her about the tape bindings, but under these circumstances she had often found that the less said the better.

  “We don’t know exactly what happened to her yet, Mrs. Villa. The doctor will perform an autopsy on the body and that should give us some answers.”

  “This is just so terrible. We’ve never had anything like this happen around here. I’m sure as soon as the press hears about this, they’ll be all over . . . and with Tony’s candidacy. Oh, dear, this is just such an awful time to have something like this happen.”

  Savannah took a deep breath and gathered what little of her patience remained. “Yes, Mrs. Villa, it’s perfectly dreadful. But then, there’s no convenient time for someone to be murdered.”

  Catherine hesitated a long time before answering. She, too, appeared to be marshaling every ounce of courtesy that she could muster. “I realize, Savannah, that my comments may sound somewhat insensitive to your ears. But Tony and I have worked hard and long for him to win this senate seat. We’ve invested everything we have, financially, emotionally, so you’ll just have to forgive me if I seem to be overreacting to this situation.”

  “Murder is always serious, tragic business,” Savannah said. “It would be difficult for anyone to overreact to a young woman losing her life this way.”

  “Murder? Is that what you said? You actually think someone killed that girl?”

  Catherine Whitestone-Villa was turning so pale that Savannah was seriously considering the best way to catch her when she fainted.

  “It may be a homicide,” Savannah said, “and maybe not. We’ll see, once Dr. Liu has completed the autopsy.”

  “This is so awful! I wish we had never sponsored this pageant. Then none of this would have happened.”

  “Well, as I said, we’ll know more later. So there’s no need to speculate at this point.”

  Catherine shook her head, disbelief and shock registering in every aristocratic line of her face. “And what are they doing over there . . . on the ground?” she asked.

  “They’re taking a plaster cast of a tire mark there in the dirt.”

  “It’s true then—the police are treating this as a homicide?”

  “Not necessarily. They’re just making sure to cover all the bases. By the way,” Savannah said, “can you tell me where this road leads?”

  “It winds, north to south, across the back of the vineyards along the eastern edge of our property, then turns west and intersects the main highway, several miles south of our front gates.”

  “Who uses this road?”

  “We all do: our friends and family, the workers, delivery people, everybody. Why?”

  “Just asking . . . trying to get a mental picture.” Catherine Villa’s eyes narrowed. “No, you’re not just asking. If you think someone at Villa Rosa hurt that girl, you’re wrong. I know every person who works for me, and they are wonderful people. We’ve had many of our cellar workers and even seasonal workers for years. Many of them worked for Tony’s father, and some even for his grandfather. None of them would ever do anything like this.”

  “I never said any of them did.”

  “If someone murdered one of the beauty contestants, it was somebody she brought with her, someone who came to Villa Rosa because she was here. I’m absolutely certain of that. Do you understand me, Savannah?”

  Savannah sighed and felt the fatigue of the past twenty-four hours sweep over her. “I understand that you are absolutely certain, Mrs. Villa. On the other hand, I can’t say that I’m sure about anything . . . except . . . that if I don’t get some sleep pretty soon, I’m going to fall down dead in my tracks, and they’re going to be carrying me out of here in a body bag.”

  An hour later, when Savannah returned to Villa Rosa’s visitors’ center, she passed through the courtyard and found Marion Lippincott standing beside the fountain, surrounded by a huddle of excited, frightened women. Savannah recognized the tiny lady with lavender-blue tinted hair and a stack of notebooks under her arm as Gertrude, Mrs. Lippincott’s assistant. Savannah had met her only briefly before all the trouble with Barbie Matthews had begun and had decided that Gertrude was motivated primarily by fear of her boss.

  Considering the fierce expression on Marion Lippincott’s face, Savannah could hardly blame Gertrude. On “The Lip’s” bad side was not a place anyone would want to be.

  Savannah hoped to sneak through the courtyard unnoticed. But no such luck.

  “Ms. Reid, we need a moment of your time. Now,” Mrs. Lippincott called out, projecting like a mezzo-soprano singing to the last row.

  Reluctantly, Savannah obeyed, steeling herself for a battle that she really did not want to fight in her depleted condition.

  “These ladies are our volunteer hostesses,” Mrs. Lippincott said with an expansive wave of her hand, introducing the lot. “We’re discussing the best way to break this unfortunate news to the girls. With your vast experience, I was hoping you might give us some suggestions.”

  Savannah could hear the snide undertone; it was hard to miss. Obviously, Marion considered her partly, if not completely, responsible for the tragedy.

  Savannah could feel the other women’s eyes on her. She could sense their fear and genuine concern. Some of these ladies were the contestants’ mothers. And with everyone on edge, this wasn’t the time to duke it out with Marion Lippincott, verbally or otherwise.

  “I’m sorry, but psychology is a bit outside my field of expertise,” she said as kindly as she could. “My only suggestion would be that you contact County Mental Health Services and ask their advice. Perhaps they could send professional grief counselors.”

  To her surprise, Savannah’s words seemed to satisfy Mrs. Lippincott, and some of the hostility was absent from her voice when she replied, “Thank you. That’s an excellent idea. Gertrude, get on that right now.”

  As Gertrude hurried away, Savannah thought it might be a good time to attempt an escape.

  “If you’ll excuse me now, we’re really busy.”

  “Yes, of course,” Mrs. Lippincott said. “But when you get some time I’d like to speak to you privately.”

  “Can you tell me where the girls are now?”

  “Anthony Villa has taken them on a tour of the vineyards, the fermentation room, and the aging room. They left over an hour ago, so they should be returning anytime.”

  “Was Francie Gorton with them and my sister Atlanta?”

  Mrs. Lippincott studied Savannah intently for a moment over her tortoiseshell frames before replying. “Yes, they were both with the tour group. They were instructed to go to their rooms the moment they returned. Lunch will be served beside the pool at noon sharp. I hope you can join us.”

/>   An invitation to lunch . . . now that was a pleasant stroke of luck. At the very thought of food, Savannah’s morale rose a few degrees.

  “Thank you. I’ll try to make it,” she said. Then turning to the other women, she added, “And I’m so sorry that all of this has happened. But believe me, we’re doing everything we can to make sure that the rest of the girls remain safe, and that everyone’s questions are answered as soon as possible concerning the details of the tragedy.”

  If Savannah had learned anything, it was when to make a speedy exit. It only took her a matter of seconds to leave the group behind, cross the courtyard, and bolt through the French doors leading into the gallery. Alone in the dark, cool interior, surrounded by the pictures and artifacts of the ages-old art of wine making, Savannah closed her eyes for a moment and willed her troubled spirit to be quiet.

  Her next step was to question Francie Gorton, but the interview would have to wait a few more minutes, until the girls returned from their tour of the winery.

  She thought of Dirk, who had the difficult task of informing the Matthews family of their loss. For once, she was actually relieved that he was the cop and she the private detective.

  Tammy and Ryan were still at the cliff, watching as Dr. Liu’s technicians processed the scene. And although she felt guilty even considering the option, Savannah knew that the most practical thing to do at the moment was go upstairs to her room and lie down, take advantage of this five- or ten-minute break to rest and collect her thoughts.

  It was as she was climbing the stairs, one weary step in time, that she remembered her famous last words, “How hard could it be? I mean . . . what could happen at a beauty pageant?”

  Someday she would learn to keep her big mouth shut . . . or so she kept saying.

  Chapter 14

  “Savannah, Savannah, hey . . . wake up!”

  “Wha . . . what?”

  Floating deep in the warm, black ocean of blissful sleep, Savannah felt a rough hand, reaching for her, pulling her, dragging her to surface.

  “Come on, Van. Wake up.”

  “No. Go away. Leave me alone.”

  The hand shook her again, even harder. “Savannah, you have to wake up.”

  Shoving the offending hand aside, she sat up in the bed and rubbed her hands over her eyes that still burned with fatigue. In the semidarkness of the room she could see the outline of the cursed creature who had disrupted her sleep . . . Atlanta.

  “Why?” she moaned. “Why did you wake me up?”

  “You were snoring.”

  “What?!”

  Atlanta walked over to her own bed, tossed her purse aside, and kicked off her shoes. “I said, you were snoring. Remember, you told me to wake you up if you were snoring, so that you could break the habit, in case you ever got married someday and actually slept with a man.”

  “I told you that years ago, when we were sleeping in the same bed with Vidalia and Marietta. What the hell does that have to do with right now?”

  Atlanta yawned, stretched, and sat down on her bed. “I thought I’d take a quick nap before lunch. Some of the judges will be there, and I wanna look good. That tour of the vineyards and winery about plumb wore me out. And how can you expect me to get a wink o’ sleep with you lyin’ there, sawin’ logs?”

  Cold fury flooded Savannah’s bloodstream with enough adrenaline to jolt her fully awake. Grabbing her pillow, she jumped out of bed, ran across the room, and began to beat Atlanta with it as hard she could . . . which wasn’t very hard, considering it was a fine, goose-down pillow and ridiculously soft.

  “Hey! What was that for?” Atlanta yelled when she finally stopped.

  “Think about it again in about ten years. By then, maybe you’ll be older and wiser and less self-centered, and you’ll realize how lucky you are that I didn’t use a hatchet instead.” She sighed, exhausted from her outburst. “Shit. What time is it, anyway?”

  Atlanta got up, walked over to the window, and opened the curtains, allowing a nauseating amount of golden California sunshine to stream into the room. She glanced at her watch. “It’s ten-thirty-eight. What time did you lie down?”

  “Ten thirty-four.”

  “Well, no wonder you’re cranky.”

  Savannah walked into the bathroom and glanced around for a clean cloth to wash her face and perhaps revive her sagging spirits, not to mention her sagging chinline. There had been four fresh cloths on the counter when she had left earlier. They all lay in a damp, rumpled pile on the floor. Er-r-r-r . . . teenage sisters, she thought. They should all be put on ice and not thawed out until they’re thirty.

  She opened the cupboard under the sink to check for any extra linens, but instead, found the space overflowing with “Atlanta Stuff.” Amid the jumble of hair rollers, makeup, and curling-wand cord, she saw two small boxes. Both alike. One of them was open, its contents half gone.

  “’Lanta,” she said, reaching for the boxes. “Come here, darlin’.”

  Atlanta stuck her head around the corner. “Yeah? What?”

  Savannah held out the boxes. “Are these yours?”

  Atlanta snatched the laxatives out of her hand and held them against her chest. “So, what? Don’t you ever get stopped up once in a while?”

  “Once in a blue moon. But a bowl of bran flakes usually does the trick, and it’s a lot healthier than that stuff.”

  “Well, bully for you. I need a little more help.”

  “So, increase the fiber in your diet.”

  “Yeah, right . . . this from the Donut Queen.”

  Savannah walked out of the bathroom and pulled her sister over into the light by the window so that she could get a good look at her. Her skin looked terrible, dry and lined like that of a person who was much older. Her face wasn’t just thin, it was gaunt. And in the bright light, Savannah could see that she had used a lot of concealer to cover the dark circles under her eyes.

  Savannah reached out, grabbed her sister by both shoulders and made her face her squarely. “Atlanta, are you using laxatives to purge? Do you take those things to keep your weight down? Tell me the truth, dammit. This is important.”

  She tried to pull away, but Savannah held her tightly. “No. It’s just that sometimes . . . I get bloated, you know. Like water weight. And if I take a water pill and some of those, I can drop a couple of pounds right away, and then I look better.”

  “Look better? You’re gorgeous! A little scrawny at the moment, but you’re a beautiful girl. Why would you mess with your health like that? Don’t you know, you’re not just washing away body fluids, you’re losing minerals and lots of good stuff that you need to function? You’ll wind up in the hospital if you don’t watch out.”

  Atlanta put on her most sullen face and pressed her lips together until they nearly disappeared. Savannah knew the look: The kid wasn’t talking.

  “Honey, tell me the truth . . . are you puking, too?”

  No reply.

  “Are you inducing vomiting? Is that part of your routine, too?”

  “No.”

  Savannah didn’t know whether to believe her or not. She felt as though her own stomach was doing a flip-flop. This was bad. This was potentially very, very bad.

  Finally, when she received no further response, she released the girl and walked back to the bed, where she sat down . . . hard . . . her legs weak beneath her.

  “All right. If you don’t want to discuss it now, we won’t. But this subject isn’t closed. This is a serious matter, whether you think so or not . . . far more important than whether or not you can fit into a size six swimsuit.”

  “Size six?!” Well, at least she was talking. “What makes you think I’m that big? I’m a four!”

  “And you’re a big girl—five feet eight and large-boned. It’s ridiculous for you to be that thin. You’re starving yourself to death.”

  “I’m not going to discuss this with you anymore.” She walked over to her own bed and threw herself across it. “Let’s talk about some
thing else.”

  A bell went off in the back of Savannah’s brain, an alarm that jerked her back to the reality that she had been struggling with before she had lain down for her all-too-short nap.

  Barbie Matthews.

  “Oh, man . . .” she said, “this is like waking up from a bad dream and finding out that everything’s okay . . . only in reverse.”

  “You didn’t ask me about my tour,” Atlanta said, happily rattling on, obviously relieved to have the subject of her habits put aside for the moment. “It was really cool. Mr. Villa took us through the vineyards and showed us the different kinds of grapes. I tasted one that was awful, really sour. But then, they aren’t ripe yet.

  “And then he took us into the place where they mash the grapes in these huge crusher things, and then the fermentation place where juice rots and turns into wine and then the barrel room where there’s a million barrels . . . and the place where they bottle it all and put labels on it and . . .

  “Gee, I had no idea there was so much to making wine. All these things can go wrong, and then the whole batch is ruined. Mr. Villa says it’s an art, making good wine. You could tell he’s really into it. Believe it or not, but some of us girls think he’s kinda sexy . . . you know . . . for an old fart.”

  “And old fart? He’s in his forties. Believe me, when you get there, you won’t think it’s all that old.”

  “But he’s got gray hair.”

  Savannah thought of the bottle of Midnight Brown—Color That Gray hair solution under her bathroom sink at home. “So, silver hair doesn’t make a person old or a fart, so watch your mouth.”

  “Touchy, touchy.”

  For a moment neither of them spoke as Savannah considered the best words she could use to gently break the news about Barbie’s demise. Atlanta was a very emotional, sensitive girl; Savannah didn’t want this experience to scar her soul.

  “Ah, ’Lanta, there’s something I need to tell you. About Barbie Matthews, she—”

  “Yeah, I heard. That really sucks . . . her going off a cliff like that. You guys were up all night looking for her, and there she was hanging from a bush, like, who knew? Too weird.”