Savannah stepped back into the center and grabbed the first waitress she could find.
“Hi, would you do me a big favor?”
The waitress smiled, eager to please. “Sure, if I can.”
“Please tell Mr. or Mrs. Villa that the left front tire of their car is flat. They might want to have it taken care of now, rather than later this evening when they’re ready to leave.”
“Of course. I’ll let them know right now.”
The waitress hurried away, and Savannah returned to the parking lot, where she found a nice dark place to hide in the shadow of some tall oleanders. She grinned, savoring the anticipation.
It didn’t take long. In less than three minutes, Catherine rushed out the front door and made a beeline for the back of the lot and a BMW that was approximately the same size as Savannah’s house.
In her ankle-length evening dress and her high, high heels, she tiptoed around the car . . . once . . . then again . . . and a third time. Finally, shaking her head, she walked back to the center and through the front door.
From her hiding place Savannah could see the confused look on her face. She felt only the slightest bit of guilt. Just as food—when eaten standing or off someone else’s plate—didn’t contain calories, lies told on the job didn’t exactly blacken your soul. Catching one really bad guy would provide absolution for at least one hundred fibs. She was sure it was a rule that was written somewhere in the cosmos.
Once she was fairly sure that the Villas weren’t coming back out, and that no one was around to observe her, she headed straight for the BMW.
It was black, she noted with a sad kind of satisfaction. And it was a pretty good bet that the carpeting inside would be black, too.
Standing beside the driver’s door, she looked inside for any tiny red light that might indicate an alarm was employed. But she didn’t see anything.
After glancing around once more and affirming that she was alone, she tried the door handle. But no such luck; it was locked. Even out here in the country, the Villas had secured their Beamer.
She flashed her penlight through the back window and verified that yes, indeed, the carpeting was black.
From her purse she took her handy-dandy, all-purpose lockpick and stuck it into the door. But once again, she was up the proverbial creek paddleless. The newer locks were more advanced than the old ones, and it was getting harder and harder to break into things these days. No amount of jiggling and twisting would do the trick.
She walked around to the back of the car and repeated the process with the trunk lock. Just when she was about to give up . . . bingo! It snapped open. So, the old girl hadn’t lost her touch after all, she noted with satisfaction.
One more look around, then she raised the lid and looked inside.
Other than the black carpeting . . . which as Dr. Liu had said, would be less than two years old in the trunk of a late-model car, she didn’t see anything particularly incriminating. It was just your standard, spotless, yuppie family trunk with tennis rackets, a kid’s skateboard, a roadside emergency kit, and an empty bag with a designer label on it.
And it smelled good. In fact, it smelled great . . . springtime fresh like clothesline-dried laundry. Several detergent commercials and their catchy jingles danced through Savannah’s mind.
It had just been cleaned. Scrubbed from stem to stern. There wasn’t one smidgen of sand, dirt, or lint in the entire trunk. She placed her palm flat on the floor and could feel a slight dampness.
And when she leaned back and played her light over the side of the car, the wheels, and bumpers, she realized that the entire vehicle was spotless. Nobody’s car, not even Catherine Villa’s, was this clean, unless it had just been professionally detailed.
Turning back to the trunk, she pushed the tennis racket and skateboard aside. Even the carpet beneath those items was damp and immaculate . . . or was it?
What were these? Six little black things that were almost invisible against the rug. Leaning inside and shining her light directly on them, Savannah could see what they were—six flies, quite dead, lying on their backs, their tiny feet sticking straight up in surrender.
Why would flies be in a perfectly clean trunk? And why would they be dead in that immaculate trunk? Savannah could hazard a guess. But a guess—a feeble one—was all it would be.
She could see herself going to Dirk and saying, “The flies were there because they were attracted to the smell of death that was present in the trunk even after Barbie’s body had been removed. And the flies died because some caustic chemical . . . like insecticide residue was there, even though it’s been cleaned.”
She could just see him presenting that to the DA, along with Anthony Villa’s suspicious reaction to the telephone. And if that weren’t enough concrete evidence, they had Savannah’s equally useless gut feeling that he was a guilt-ridden, fearful man.
Okay, so she needed more. But what?
Closing the trunk, she stepped back from the car and looked it over one more time. Shining her light on the rear left tire, she noted that it was well worn, not new. So, Anthony hadn’t had them replaced when he had the car detailed.
Maybe they could get a match from the plaster mold of the track up by the cliff.
She shone her light on the front left tire, and saw that it, too, was well worn. But something caught her eye. It was different. The two tires on this side of the car were different makes, even different sizes.
“Hmm,” she said, as she walked around to the other side. The rear tire matched the one on the left, but the front right was yet a third make, and it wasn’t even a whitewall.
Three brands, three sizes on one car.
Savannah mulled that one over. She was far less vain about such things than Catherine Villa, but she had insisted that Dirk replace her shredded wheels with matching tires. This mishmash seemed completely out of character for the persnickety lady.
As Savannah left the car and walked across the parking lot back to the center and the evening’s festivities, she could feel the adrenaline hit her tired bloodstream.
Contrary to popular opinion, a private detective’s life involves a lot of boring, solitary work and few moments of true drama. But now she was getting close. Like a bloodhound with her nose to the ground, she knew she was on a fresh track, and her prey wasn’t far away.
For just a moment she wished that it was almost anyone other than Anthony Villa. But she thought of Francie, lying crumpled like a broken doll at the bottom of the staircase, and she didn’t give a damn who the killer was. She just wanted to get her teeth into him.
Chapter 23
“I sang good tonight.”
“You sang great.”
“And I looked good, too.”
“You looked fantastic.”
“So . . . so . . . so, why didn’t I win . . . anything!”
Savannah sat on the edge of the bed, holding her hysterical sister in her arms, rocking her as she had years ago when she had fallen down and skinned her knees. But this was much worse than a boo-boo that would respond to a kiss and a Donald Duck bandage.
“I’m not kidding, ’Lanta,” she told her, wiping her cheeks with a wad of tissues that was getting more soggy by the moment. “I thought you were amazing! I had no idea that you could work an audience like that! They were behind you all the way.”
“But . . . but . . .” She hiccuped. “But the judges liked that stupid girl with the skull. What was that ‘To be or not to be’ crap? That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Well, actually, it’s Shakespeare, and it’s a really cool speech but—”
Okay, so that wasn’t the right thing to say, Savannah decided as Atlanta’s sobbing reached new levels of volume.
“It isn’t fair!” She hit the mattress with her fist and kicked her foot. “That girl wasn’t even cute, let alone pretty. Did you see how fat she is?”
Savannah figured it wouldn’t be wise to mention that she thought the winner had a beautiful figu
re, or that she was especially poised and seemed like a very nice person. No, she thought she’d just keep that two-bit opinion to herself.
“Life isn’t fair, ’Lanta,” she said, rubbing her back and continuing to rock. “I hate to say it, but it’s so true. Rotten things happen to great people and wonderful things happen to crummy people, and that’s just the way it is. The sooner you stop expecting things to be fair, the sooner you’ll be a happy camper. Or at least, not so miserable.”
“Oh, shut up!” She pushed her away. “I just lost the most important thing in my life. I’m devastated, and I don’t want to hear any of your Chinese proverbs.”
It had been a long, hard day. Savannah snapped.
“The most important thing in your life? Get real! And get over it already!”
Her face screwed up again. “You don’t understand!”
“No, Atlanta Reid. It’s you who’s clueless. In a world where little babies get burned with cigarettes, and nuns get raped, and good cops with families at home get shot dead in dark alleys . . . you losing a beauty pageant just ain’t high drama. Sorry if I’m not impressed.”
“This was more than a beauty pageant. It was my career. My dream!”
Savannah sighed. “Oh, yes . . . I forgot. You were going to be discovered.”
“I was. But there weren’t even any talent agents there, like they said on the website. I looked around and didn’t see a single one.”
“Really? What exactly does a talent agent look like?”
Atlanta thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, I don’t know, but if I’d seen one, I would have known it.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Twerp. There was an agent, of sorts, there.”
She perked up and blew her nose. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, someone who knew that you’re my sister approached me and told me they were very impressed with your performance.”
From tears to a radiant smile in less than two seconds—the transformation was astounding.
“Really? Really, really?”
“Really, really. In fact, he suggested a gig for you next Saturday, if you aren’t too busy.”
She jumped up off the bed. “No way! Where? When? How? What?”
“In Hollywood at a recording studio, singing backup for Dixie Lynn. She’s cutting a new record, or CD, or whatever they’re cutting these days, and she could use another singer.”
“Dixie Lynn? Dixie Lynn? Are you kidding me? Are you making this up? I mean, Dixie’s won Grammys, and she sang at the Oscars last year, and she’s been on the cover of Rolling Stone and—”
“I know. She’s very hot right now. Are you up to it?”
She bounced off the bed and around the room. She couldn’t have achieved more height with a pogo stick. “Am I up to it? Am I up to it? I’ve been practicing for this my who-o-ole life. This is too cool! I can’t believe it!”
Since the tide had turned, Savannah decided to crawl into bed and catch a few hours sleep if the human yo-yo would settle down. Morning was going to come early, and she already had a mental list a mile long of “to do’s”.
Besides, any minute now, Atlanta might think to ask the name of this high-powered, wheeler-dealer, Hollywood agent. All too soon she would find out that her agent was none other than John Gibson, who knew absolutely everyone who was anyone in most of the continental United States, and even more in Europe. He had set the whole thing up, bless his heart, and Savannah would love him forever for doing it.
But Atlanta didn’t need to know that just yet.
“Good night, sweetie,” she told her sister as she climbed beneath the covers. “This is our last night here, and I am going to sleep an entire night in this lovely, free bed. So lights out.”
Moments later, she could hear Atlanta wiggling around in her bed, giggling, still ecstatic. How nice, to be so young and full of hope for the future. Marion Lippincott was right: All that energy and beauty, it was wasted on the young.
Nearly every town had an industrial section, and San Carmelita—graceful seaside village that it was—was no exception. And while most people wouldn’t chose to live in that area of town, they were thankful for it when they needed some of the more basic things of life done, like their car lubed, their tires rotated, or a fresh coat of paint sprayed on the old jalopy.
Savannah had brought her Mustang down here so many times that almost every shop owner knew her by name and reputation. Californians loved their restored classics, and the Ford Mustang was one of the most popular. Savannah liked to think that her baby was the prettiest “pony” in town.
So, as she drove down one street after another, checking every detail shop she passed, she was heartily greeted and had to fend off a multitude of offers, most of which weren’t worth beans.
When it came to buying classics, a lot of car lovers made empty promises . . . sort of like drunks at a bar at closing time.
She had already tried at least six or seven places, showing a snapshot of the BMW, and a photo she had cut out of a Villa Rosa brochure she had snagged from the reception desk. It was of Anthony Villa pouring a glass of wine. But she had cut off his name and the part of the picture with the wine, just to make sure they didn’t make the connection.
With only two more places to check, she was beginning to wonder if maybe Dirk wasn’t right when he told her she was ditzy. This morning, when she and Atlanta and the rest of the girls had cleared out of Villa Rosa, he had reiterated his opinion to her. Once again, she had told him where to file his opinions, using his hemorrhoid medication applicator for convenience.
But long ago, she had observed that, if you actually found what you were looking for, it was always in the last place you looked. Another one of those cosmic rules. And she reminded herself of that profound truism anytime she was searching for anything, be it her keys, a pair of panty hose without a run, that package of Little Debbie cinnamon rolls she had hidden in the back of the pantry, or a detail shop that had recently processed a BMW owned by a guy who looked like Anthony Villa.
As she pulled into Rory’s Car Wash, she saw the Irishman standing next to a purple Corvette, his sleeves rolled up to show off the biceps that he had earned buffing cars from dawn to dusk. His hands were the same shade of purple as the car, which was covered with some sort of chalky compound. Purple dust had landed in the reddish blond curls that hung down to his collar. He was polishing, muscles rippling, and Savannah didn’t mind at all stopping for a chat and a look-see.
“Ah, Savannah, me darlin’!” he called out in his delightful Irish brogue as she approached. “’Tis a sight for these sore eyes, ye are, love.”
Ah . . . that accent of his. She swore the man could have simply “talked” her into an orgasm if she listened long enough. And he wouldn’t even have to say anything dirty. With a voice like that, he could read the weather report and she would swoon.
“You’re a cheerful sight yourself, lad,” she replied, giving him her best Southern sashay as she walked up to him.
“Don’t tell me you’ve brought that little red car of yours about for my attentions. She’s still looking fine from the last buffin’ I gave her.”
“She is, Rory. She is, indeed. So, that’s not why I’m here.”
His eyes, greener than ol’ Ireland, sparkled as he glanced appreciatively up and down her figure. He had informed her long ago that he considered her a “well-balanced lass.” No anorexic models for this red-blooded son of old Erin.
“Could it be that Lady Luck herself has smiled upon me,” he said, shoving a rag, stained as purple as his hands, into the back pocket of his jeans. “Is it me own handsome self ye’ve come to see?”
“It is . . . and I’d like to ask you if you’ve seen this car lately.” She shoved the snapshot under his nose. “Or this fellow.” She handed him the clipping.
His face fell, but only a little. Rory was an optimistic chap, if nothing else.
“Ah, ’tis information she’s after,” he said with a cluck o
f his tongue. “She wants me for me brain and not me body. What a bitter disappointment, but I’ll bear up.”
He took the pictures from her and looked from one to the other. “And why is it you’re askin’, lass? Did this fellow do a wrong deed by you? If he did, you give your friend Rory his address, and I’ll be settlin’ that score straightaway.”
“Thank you for your chivalry, but it’s nothing like that. I just need to know if you’ve cleaned his car recently.”
“I did. Let’s see . . . only a couple of days ago, I believe. He tipped me handsomely, told me to do an extra good job for him. I told him I always do a fine job . . . but I took the tip anyway. No point in insultin’ the lad.”
“Exactly.” She savored the thrill of victory for a second, then said, “Tell me, Rory. Did you notice anything . . . unusual about the car?”
“Anything out of the ordinary, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Like what?”
“I’d rather not say. Just think back if you would.”
He gazed into the distance and rubbed his nose, leaving a purple streak across his face. “Let me see now. I recall thinkin’ two things, I did. First, I thought the car wasn’t that dirty. Didn’t really need a deep cleaning. Asked me to shampoo the trunk twice, the fella did. And second, I thought the trunk smelled a bit strange. Like some sort of chemical . . . like ant poison or some class of medicine . . . had been spilled in there. But I saw no stain on the carpet. Maybe that smell was why he wanted it shampooed a second time.”
“Maybe.” Savannah had to control herself to keep from doing an Irish jig right then and there. “One more thing, Rory . . . you vacuum thoroughly before you shampoo a carpet, don’t you?”
“I do, indeed.”
“And that big commercial vacuum of yours . . . how often do you clean out the bag?”
“Bag? Oh, it has no bag. The refuse goes into a big metal drum, and I don’t have to empty it but once in a great while.”
“Have you cleaned it since you vacuumed that car?”
“No. I had cleaned it just the day before.”
Sour Grapes Page 20
