“Did she tell you what it was?”
“Something stupid that didn’t make sense. She said to tell you not to bring her any more cowardly poultry. What the hell does that mean?”
Savannah chuckled and shook her head. “Our Dr. Liu has a weird sense of humor. I suspect that’s her way of telling me that she did the examination and it was, indeed, a gutless chicken. I had a feeling it would be.”
Dirk scowled. “Do you wanna fill me in here, or do I have to just wonder what you whacko broads are talking about?”
Briefly, she told him about her new canine friend, his strange burden, and how she had relieved him of it.
With every word, Dirk brightened. “All right!” he said. “And we’ve got the kid’s fingerprints on the windowsill and the flower dish.”
“Where did you get his prints?”
“He was in Juvie once for malicious mischief and another time for smacking a kid in the head with a skateboard.”
Savannah studied the face in the picture, the eyes, looking for something that would tell her whether or not this young person was capable of murder. But she seldom saw anything like that in any suspect’s eyes. It was amazing what people could hide.
“I suppose Dr. Liu told you that Barbie was pregnant.”
“Yeah, she mentioned it. Do you suppose this guy’s the dad?”
“When you find him, you can ask him.”
Dirk growled. “When I find him . . . I’m gonna have a who-o-ole bunch of questions for him.”
“Hey, look,” Savannah said, pointing to the opposite side of the pool. “It’s Ryan and John.”
The two walked over to their table, pulled up chairs, and sat down. Ryan took a stack of folded papers from his pocket and handed it to Dirk. “Here are the cell phone records you wanted,” he told him.
“That was fast.” Dirk unfolded the wad and glanced over the pages.
John smiled, causing the ends of his silver mustache to curl upward. “Life is much simpler, old chap, when you no longer have to concern yourselves with such frivolities as court orders. Friends in high places work much more quickly than the justice system.”
“Is that Barbie Matthews’s record?” Savannah asked, trying to see over Dirk’s shoulder.
“It sure is,” Ryan replied. “She must have had her phone surgically attached to her ear. I’ve never seen such a phone bill.”
“Including the day she died,” Dirk said, studying the columns of numbers before him. “Calls coming in, calls going out. It’s gonna take me a month just to run down these numbers.”
“Is the call there from her mom?” Savannah asked. “Mrs. Matthews said she called Barbie to ask why she hadn’t shown up for dinner.”
“It doesn’t give you the numbers of the incoming calls, just the times,” Dirk said. “This one at 7:21 P.M. is the last one that came in. I’ll bet you she was on her way out to the parking lot then. She probably got nabbed right where we found her phone.”
“Yeah,” Savannah added. “They grabbed her, she dropped her phone, and when they pulled out, they ran over it and crunched it.”
Ryan leaned over and pointed to the bottom of the last page. “I think that’s the one you’d be most interested in. The last one she called . . . at 7:05 P.M.”
Dirk nodded thoughtfully. “True. She could’ve been setting up a meeting, agreeing to meet somebody there in the lot. We’ll have to check with the phone company and find out whose number that is.”
“Or . . . you could just ask us,” John said.
Dirk half grinned, half grimaced. Savannah chuckled to herself. She knew he was torn between being pleased to have information so close at hand and irked that the other two guys had something that he needed.
“Well?”
That was as gracious as Dirk ever got under such circumstances.
“It’s a pay phone.”
“Great. That’s just friggin’ peachy.” Dirk shook his head, disgusted, sliding into the old “My Job Sucks” mode. “Where?”
Ryan smiled. “In that little alcove right between the men’s and women’s rest rooms behind the potted palms.”
“Here?”
“That’s right, my friend. Barbara Matthews was calling the public phone right here in Villa Rosa, minutes before somebody killed her. And, now that we’ve done the hard part . . . all you have to do is figure out who was on the other end and . . . crime solved.”
Dirk looked at Savannah. She grinned, and said, “Easy got as a wet foot on a rainy April morn.”
He just grunted.
Leaving the men to look over telephone bills and formulate the psychological profile on the sort of person who would give a girl a bouquet of flowers and chicken entrails on the same night, Savannah made her way over to the stage where the interviews were taking place.
She looked around for Atlanta, hoping to catch hers, then realized that the entire process had ended.
But the trip over wasn’t a total waste of time. Hearing one girl address another as Desiree, Savannah decided to get acquainted.
Up close and in person the girl was very simply stunning. Savannah wasn’t surprised that she had won numerous beauty contents. With her golden blond hair, perfect skin, and classic features, she reminded Savannah of a young Grace Kelly.
Savannah tried to reconcile that pretty face with the cruel, sarcastic voice she had heard on the other side of the bathroom wall. It was a difficult fit.
“Hello,” Savannah said. “I’m looking for Atlanta Reid. Would you have any idea where she is?”
The blue eyes that met hers were a rare and lovely shade of teal, the color of the Pacific on a crisp October morning. But somehow, they seemed devoid of life, eerily empty.
“Who? The hick with the drawl?” came the reply.
Savannah gave her a tight smile. “No . . . ,” she said carefully, “the pretty one with the Southern accent . . . the one who looks a bit like me—seeing as how we’re sisters and all.”
Desiree didn’t even bother to pretend that she was embarrassed for her faux pas. “Nope, haven’t seen her.”
The teenager gave Savannah one of those quick, evaluating, glance-overs that some females give to other women, females who consider all others to be competition in some sort of ridiculous game that exists only in their own limited minds.
When the girl lifted her nose two notches, turned her back on Savannah, and prissed away, Savannah watched her go, wondering if she had any idea what a sad cliché she was.
Any woman who only saw other females as competitors would never know the joys of sisterhood, of having another woman standing by her when she really needed her, offering that unique maternal love and support that only a woman could give.
And that deprivation alone was just punishment for her egotism.
Another girl, whom Savannah didn’t recognize, stepped up to her. “Hi, I’m Lynette. I overheard you asking about your sister, Atlanta. She said she was going to her room to practice her guitar for a while.”
“Thank you very much,” Savannah told her.
“No problem. I like Atlanta; she’s cool. She did really good on her interview.”
“When I see her, I’ll tell that you said so. Thanks again.”
As Savannah walked away, heading back to their room, she thought of what Marion Lippincott had said about most of the girls being gems. She could see that was true.
Too bad the rotten ones seemed to be getting the most attention.
As soon as Savannah started down the hallway, before she even reached their door, she could hear a clear, sweet voice singing an old gospel tune that she hadn’t heard for at least fifteen years.
The last time she had heard that song, Granny Reid had been singing it, and she had been rocking Atlanta to sleep in the old bench swing that hung from chains on the front porch. Gran’s only accompaniment had been the creaking of those rusty chains as she swung back and forth and fanned herself and the baby on that sultry summer night.
But Atlanta w
as playing along on her guitar, simple but lovely chords that provided a harmony for her solo.
Savannah stood outside the door, enjoying the song until it ended. Reluctant to break the spell, she unlocked the door and slowly, quietly, pushed it open.
“Where were you?” Little Sister demanded, pissed again. “You missed my interview, and I did good, too. I looked all over for you, and you weren’t there!”
Well, so much for sultry summer nights and all that sentimental crapola. The kid’s lip was stuck out again.
“I’m sorry. The guys and I were comparing notes on this case, and by the time I got over there the interviews were finished. But I heard you did very well.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“No, it’s true. This nice girl named Lynette said so. And she said you were cool, too. So, there.”
Savannah stuck out her tongue at her, and they both giggled.
“I heard you singing. It sounded great. I didn’t realize you’ve gotten so good.”
“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me. You aren’t the only one in the family who can do stuff, you know.”
“Of course, I know that. You’re a unique person, Atlanta, with talents all your own. I’ve always known that, and I’m very proud of you.”
Atlanta glanced away and laid the guitar on the bed beside her. “So, how is the case going? Have you guys figured out who killed Barbie yet?”
“No, not yet. We just found out for sure this afternoon that she was murdered. But we’re working on it.”
Savannah sat down on the other bed, took her loafers off, and wriggled her toes. “I think that Barbie was killed by someone who specifically wanted her dead. But I don’t want you and the rest of the girls to let your guard down. Remember what I said about always being in groups and keeping the door locked at all times.”
Atlanta gave her an exasperated look. “Can’t you stop being a big sister even for minute?”
“A whole minute? That’s a lot to ask. I’ve been a big sister since I can remember.”
Atlanta reached down and trailed her fingers over the guitar’s strings and mumbled something under her breath.
“I didn’t quite catch that,” Savannah said.
“That’s probably a good thing,” Atlanta replied. “What did you come up here for anyway? To check and see if the door was locked?”
Savannah drew a deep breath, knowing she was swimming into shark-infested waters. “Mrs. Lippincott and Catherine Villa have asked some counselors from Mental Health Services to drop by this afternoon and talk to anyone who might be upset about this thing with Barbie and—”
“I’m not that upset.”
“I know. You’re handling it very well. But I was thinking that maybe you and I could speak to one of the counselors about, you know, what I found under the bathroom sink.”
The look on Atlanta’s face was even worse than Savannah had expected. Savannah had seen the same expression on the mugs of guys who had just been zapped with a stun-gun.
“Are you kidding?! You’ve got to be kidding! Like I’m going to discuss something like that with a complete stranger! Forget about it. It ain’t happening.”
“’Lanta, I’m worried about you. Very worried. So, I’m going to speak to a counselor about you.”
“Not without me there, you aren’t. You’re not going to talk about me behind my back.”
Savannah slipped her shoes back on, stood, and walked to the door. “I’m so glad you changed your mind. I’ll make the appointment for later this afternoon.”
She quickly stepped out of the room and closed the door behind her. It was only a couple of seconds until she heard something hit the other side. Mmm, she thought, too small to be a guitar . . . must have been a hairbrush or sneaker.
It was definitely time to make tracks in the opposite direction.
A few minutes later, she was standing at the pay phone near the rest rooms downstairs, her calling card in her hand. After punching in the required 7,053 numbers she heard a soft voice on the other end.
“Hi, Gran,” she said. “Have you got a minute for me?”
“For you, my darlin’, I have two. And from the tone of your voice, I’d say you might need three or four.”
Savannah glanced around, making sure she was alone, and then she leaned back against the wall, sighed, and began, “It’s ’Lanta, Gran. I’m worried about her. I noticed that she’s lost a lot of weight since I saw her last, and then I found these . . .”
Chapter 20
Savannah had been told that Angela Herriot, one of the counselors from Mental Health Services, was in the courtyard. So she was there, looking for her, when her purse buzzed. It was Dr. Liu, calling with her latest lab results.
“The fibers are from an automobile carpet,” Jennifer said, “just as I thought. Sorry, I can’t tell you the year and model of the car, but the carpet is black . . . and new. This type of nylon blend has only been in commercial use for the past two years.”
“Okay, black and new. That should help.”
“And the shampoo did have drain cleaner in it. A standard brand available in any grocery store. There were several prints on the bottle that were the victim’s and two that matched the sample Dirk sent over.”
“Dirk sent you a print?”
“Yes, a thumbprint from a driver’s license . . . just a minute and I’ll tell you the name. . . .”
Savannah heard her shuffling papers. She adored Dr. Jen, such a fount of knowledge. What would they do without her?
“Desiree Porter.”
Savannah grinned. “That’s what I was hoping to hear.”
“Then you’ll probably be delighted to hear that the evening gown was cut.”
“Cut? Not just torn?”
“Nope. Scissors were definitely used. It had to be deliberate.”
“Ah, ha! You’re right; I’m delighted. Thank you, Sweet Stuff. I’m so-o-o grateful.”
“Hey, that’s Doctor Sweet Stuff to you!”
“Forgive me, oh Lettered One.”
“You don’t have to kiss up. Just bring chocolate. I’m having a vicious attack of PMS.”
“Then I’ll bring potato chips, too.”
As Savannah replaced the phone in her purse, she saw a vision of color walking across the courtyard, a handsome black woman of generous proportions, dressed in a colorful caftan and head wrap. The garment billowed around her as she moved among the potted palms and patio furniture.
Savannah had dealt with Angela Herriot several times before and was impressed with her: a no-nonsense, down-to-earth shrink who told it like it was. And Savannah knew she was particularly adept at dealing with young people, having served a three-year sentence as a middle-school counselor.
She took off after her, feeling better already. With Dr. Liu’s latest report and professional help within reach for Atlanta, things were definitely looking up.
Things were in the crapper.
Although Atlanta was sitting across the room, officially attending the meeting that Savannah had arranged between them and Angela Herriot, she hadn’t spoken a single word. So, it had been a fairly tense and unproductive thirty-one minutes thus far.
Thirty-two.
Savannah watched the digital clock on Catherine Villa’s desk change. She was sure that if it had been a windup timepiece, she would have been able to hear it ticking.
Catherine had volunteered her office as a private place for Angela to council the traumatized girls. With its picture window that looked directly into the winery’s massive fermentation room and its old gentleman’s club décor, the room was cozy enough.
But, so far, Savannah was the only one who had set an appointment. The girls had other, more important, things on their minds; the talent show and final judging were that evening.
So, they had Angela all to themselves.
The psychologist had pulled Catherine’s chair out from behind her desk and dragged it around so that she could sit facing both sisters. She sat w
ith one ankle propped on the opposite knee, the full skirt of her caftan flowing about her. Around her neck and dripping from her earlobes were ornate, handmade beads of the same brilliant reds, greens, and oranges as her dress and turban. Eight of her ten fingers were adorned with at least one ring; some had two or three. If nothing else, Angela was fun to look at.
“So, if you don’t want to talk, Atlanta, why are we here?” she asked. There was nothing subtle—in dress or demeanor—about Angela Herriot.
Finally, the statue spoke. “I don’t know why she’s here.” She jabbed a thumb in Savannah’s direction. “I’m here so that she doesn’t talk trash about me behind my back.”
“And what sort of trash do you think she’s going to say about you?” Angela asked.
Atlanta hummed and hawed for a moment, then shrugged. “I don’t know. She’s just making a big deal outta some stuff that’s not a big deal. She’s always done that, and I hate it.”
“Making a big deal out of something . . . ,” Angela thought for a moment. “Do you mean the laxatives that you’ve been taking to lose weight?”
Atlanta shot Savannah a hateful look. “Yes. She was poking around in my stuff and then she started asking questions that were very personal.”
“And why do you suppose she did that?”
“Because she’s a nosy, controlling busybody who doesn’t trust me to run my own life.”
Savannah bit her tongue and listened while Angela continued. “Do you suppose your sister might have had any other reason for confronting you the way she did, for insisting that you talk to a professional?”
Atlanta shuffled her feet and stared down at the ornate pattern of the Oriental rug on the floor. “I guess she’s worried. But she doesn’t need to be.”
“Are you using laxatives to lose weight, Atlanta?”
Atlanta gazed out the window for a long time before giving a slight nod.
“Do you induce vomiting?”
“No. I hate to puke.”
Sour Grapes Page 17
