But the moment they were inside, she realized this was a place where she wouldn’t mind spending her golden years. Perhaps she needed to reexamine her prejudices.
The receptionist sat at a delicate French desk, upon which was a small computer, a telephone, and a crystal bowl with one giant, floating peony. Beyond her lay a room that looked like a cozy reading area, with wingback chairs, plush ottomans, and elegant side tables, each chair lit with a Tiffany-style floor lamp.
A blaze glowed in the brick fireplace, which on closer inspection, she realized was fake. But considering it was the middle of a hot summer, she decided it was more practical than a burning log.
Bookshelves on either side of the mantel were well stocked, and Savannah recognized both classic titles, as well as current bestsellers. A large aquarium bubbled cheerfully against the opposite wall, its colorful residents swimming among the miniature coral reefs, seashells, and plants that had been artistically arranged.
“Hey,” Dirk whispered in her ear, “this ain’t half bad. Let’s you and me move in here when we get old and gray.”
She didn’t bother to mention to him that without her six-week refresher of “midnight brunette” hair color, she was already halfway there.
Savannah walked up to the desk and addressed the pretty little blonde in a pale blue sheath dress, with a floral silk neck scarf tied jauntily to the side. Her name tag identified her as Margie.
“Good morning, Margie. My name is Savannah Reid.” Savannah offered her hand. “And this is Dirk Coulter. We’d like to see Miss Imogene Barnsworth.”
“Is Miss Barnsworth expecting you?”
“I don’t believe so. But if you’d be so kind as to tell her that we’re here, I’d be most obliged.”
Margie reached for the desk phone, punched in a few numbers, and said, “Miss Imogene, this is Margie at the front desk. There are some folks here to see you. A Miss Reid and a Mr. Coulter.”
Margie listened a moment, then said to them, “I’m sorry. But Miss Barnsworth is on her way to her morning dance class and can’t see you right now.”
Savannah smiled. At least the ends of her mouth curved upward, but there wasn’t a lot of sparkle in her eyes when she said, “Tell her it’s mighty important. We need to speak to her about her inheritance.”
Margie conveyed her message, then hung up the phone. “Miss Barnsworth will receive you in the courtyard. It’s right through those double doors over yonder.”
Savannah laced her arm through Dirk’s and headed in that direction. “I thought that might do it,” she told him.
“I must admit, there are advantages to having a smart wife.”
They found Imogene Barnsworth on her hands and knees in a bed of pansies and marigolds. Thinking the frail elderly lady had fallen, Savannah rushed to help her, only to find that Imogene was neither frail nor all that elderly. And apparently, she hadn’t fallen, either. She was picking some weeds from among the flowers and placing them in a small, neat pile on the herringbone brick patio.
While Savannah was sure that Tammy had been correct in reporting Imogene’s age, she hadn’t met many women in their seventies who looked as youthful as this lady. Her shoulder-length hair was mostly silver but still held some strands of its original auburn hue. Her eyes were a strange shade of gold, like dried oak leaves in autumn.
When she saw Savannah and Dirk, she rose and brushed the dirt from the knees of her yellow yoga pants.
“Those gardeners,” she said, “just never do a good job, no matter how many times you go after them. I guess I should be grateful. At least this time they didn’t trample the flowers.”
Imogene led them to a wrought-iron bench and invited them to have a seat. She started to drag a matching chair closer to the bench, but Dirk quickly took it from her.
“Here, ma’am, let me get that for you,” he said.
She gave him a pretty, almost flirtatious smile. “You must’ve been brought up right. They say a man who treats a woman like a princess must’ve been raised by a queen.”
Savannah winced. Dirk had not been raised by his biological mother. He had grown up in an orphanage. But how could this nice lady have known that?
To his credit, Dirk showed no sign of having been affected by her comment. He simply said, “Thank you, ma’am. That’s kind of you to say so.”
They all three sat down, and Savannah wondered how to broach the topic of Jacob Barnsworth’s death. But before she could even begin, Imogene jumped right into the deep end.
“I understand that with my worthless brother’s death and with his snooty nuisance of a wife gone, too, I’m set to inherit a dump truck full of money.”
Then and there, Savannah decided that she liked Imogene Barnsworth quite a lot. If for no other reason than that the lady had the courage to say whatever was on her mind. There was far too much dillydallying in the world these days to suit Savannah, but precious little of it was happening in the courtyard at that moment.
“Yes, ma’am, that’s about the size of it,” she told her. “It’s come to our attention that you’re the next one in line to inherit your brother’s fortune.”
“Or what’s left of it, after that hussy spent far more than her share. I’d try to get all the stuff she bought as part of the deal, but who wants that much purple junk? Not me. I’ve always been more of a yellow kinda gal. Or green. Us redheads look good in green.”
Savannah smiled. “I’m sure you do.”
Imogene glanced from Savannah to Dirk, her sharp eyes missing nothing of their attire and demeanor. “I figured you two work for that attorney who called me yesterday. But you’re not dressed like lawyers. And you don’t act like them, either.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Savannah said. “At least the ‘acting’ part.”
“Good. I meant it as one. But if you don’t work for him, who are you?”
Usually, in a circumstance like this, Savannah thought up a lie. Experience had taught her that as a private investigator, it was seldom wise to lay all one’s cards on the table at the outset.
But something about Imogene Barnsworth inspired her to be candid with the woman. Perhaps not completely candid, but more honest than usual. Something told her that this lady had an excellent internal lie detector. Savannah also had a feeling that once Imogene decided you were a liar, she’d have nothing more to do with you. You’d be out on your ear, figuratively, if not literally.
“We don’t work for the lawyer. I’m a private investigator, and my husband here is a police detective. We’re investigating the murder,” Savannah said bluntly. “Trying to find out who did it.”
She felt Dirk cringe slightly beside her. He was very much a cards-flat-against-the-vest sort of guy. She didn’t expect him to approve.
“Investigating the murder?” Imogene asked. “Which murder?”
Savannah was surprised, but she quickly recovered and answered evenly, “Both.”
Imogene sniffed and brushed one silver and copper strand of hair behind her ear. “I can’t imagine why anybody would waste their time trying to figure out the first one. It’s so obvious that purple piece of trash killed my brother. Everybody in the county knew that from the minute they heard he was dead. Some were even whispering at the wedding that it was bound to happen. Why else would a gal in her forties marry an old fart like Jacob? It sure wasn’t for his sunny disposition or his good looks.”
As Savannah listened to Imogene speak such critical words about her brother, it occurred to her that maybe there were siblings in this world who got along even less well than she and Marietta.
“Actually,” Savannah said, “we’re concentrating more on the second murder, Jeanette’s murder.”
“I can’t see why anybody would spend more than five minutes or so on that one, either,” Imogene said. “She was a one-woman walking pestilence, that witch. I’ll bet you there’s not a soul on this earth who misses her. Whoever pushed her into that lake did the world a favor. And they sure as hell di
d me a favor.” Imogene threw back her head and laughed uproariously. The eerie sound filled the courtyard and bounced off the surrounding walls of the building.
Savannah shivered inside. She had heard friendlier laughter coming from the monsters in horror films.
“Would you please tell us, Miss Barnsworth,” Dirk said, “if you know anyone who might’ve had a motive to kill Jeanette Barnsworth?”
“She was a nasty, ornery woman who tormented every female who crossed her path, and tried to seduce every male within reach. She was a thief of the worst kind. She stole everything she could from everyone around her—their mates, their money, their time, their energy, their self-esteem. She would have taken their souls if she could have, just to satisfy one of her passing whims. Who wouldn’t have a motive to kill a woman like that? That’s the question you need to be asking yourselves. And good luck finding an answer.”
With that, Imogene Barnsworth rose and said, “You two are going to have to excuse me now. I have a dance contest to attend. And if I don’t go, that Sherry Hayes is bound to win it, and that won’t do. After her nabbing first place in the beauty contest last week, her head will swell so big, there’ll be no living with her.”
She scurried away into the building, leaving Savannah and Dirk to sit on the bench in the courtyard and wonder.
“Well?” Dirk asked. “What do you think?”
“I like her.”
“Me too. But do you think she might’ve done it?”
“I think she just might have done the world a favor, and herself one to boot. What do you think?”
“I think so, too.”
“Shoot. I hate it when I like a suspect.”
“Yeah. Takes all the fun out of it.”
As they were leaving the nursing home, Savannah and Dirk stopped once again at the little French desk with the pretty blond receptionist.
“We have a couple of quick questions for you,” Savannah said.
Margie’s eyes widened with interest. Whether it was genuine or feigned, Savannah wasn’t sure.
“I’d be happy to answer any questions you might have, if I can,” she replied.
“When your residents come and go from your facility,” Savannah said, “are their departures and arrivals noted anywhere?”
“Yes, we have an entry and exit log. It’s necessary, you see, because”—Margie glanced around and lowered her voice—“some have degrees of dementia, and we have to keep a close eye on them. They need to be accounted for every moment of every day while they’re in our care.”
Savannah glanced at Dirk, and he took his cue. Stepping up to the desk, he took his badge from his pocket and flashed it ever so quickly under Margie’s nose. “I’m Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter,” he said. “And I’m going to need to see the log from this past Saturday night.”
“Certainly, Detective.” Margie quickly typed something into her computer. A moment later they heard a printer on a bookshelf behind them spring to action.
The receptionist jumped up from her seat, ran over to the bookshelf, and returned with a piece of paper, which she handed to Dirk. “We don’t keep paper copies of the entry logs,” she told him. “We scan them and save the files on the computer. I hope that’ll be enough for you.”
Savannah leaned over and peered at the paper as Dirk studied it. He ran his finger down the page and stopped over an entry that read:
Imogene Barnsworth – Departure – 8:00 p.m.
Imogene Barnsworth – Return – 11:55 p.m.
He tapped the entry with his finger, and Savannah nodded.
“Thank you,” he told the receptionist. “Yes, this will be quite enough.”
Savannah and Dirk turned to leave, but Savannah hesitated, then walked back to the desk for one more question.
“Do you have any idea where she might have gone Saturday night?”
“No. I wasn’t here. I believe Gilda worked that shift. But I probably wouldn’t know even if I’d been here. Miss Imogene’s a very private lady. She doesn’t have much to say about her comings and goings. A secretive person, if you know what I mean.”
Savannah nodded solemnly. “I certainly hope I do.”
Savannah and Dirk exited the nursing home, and as they strolled down the sidewalk toward the parking lot, they stopped in front of a large plate-glass window and observed the activity inside. A big, spacious room was filled with women and a few men, all dressed in comfortable workout attire.
Everyone was dancing. Moving with joyous and wild abandon, they were performing dances popular in every decade for the past fifty-plus years. And they were doing it with more enthusiasm, grace, and skill than could be found at any modern club populated by their children or grandchildren.
In the center of all the activity was a woman in a bright yellow yoga suit, doing a frenetic and highly energetic rendition of the Charleston.
Arms flying, knees knocking, Imogene Barnsworth was winning the contest hands down.
“Feeble?” Savannah said, more to herself than to Dirk.
But he replied, anyway. “Not so’s you’d notice.”
“And secretive.”
“Yeah. Sweet.”
Chapter 21
“Wouldn’t you think that a place called Burger Igloo would at least have air-conditioning?” Dirk complained as he and Savannah slid into the red leatherette booth across from Tammy and Waycross.
Savannah promptly poked a few quarters into the table-side jukebox and selected some Elvis tunes. In spite of their interesting visit to the nursing home, the sleep-deprived Dirk had been somewhat cranky all morning. She figured a few tunes from “the King” might cheer him up.
He needed to perk up as soon as possible, because her own mood was pretty foul, and the last thing she needed right now was another assault and battery on her ever-growing criminal record.
Between the Jeanette smack down and then being accused of her murder, if Savannah accomplished one more violent felony, she’d probably earn her “career criminal” badge.
It was an honor she could do without.
Her wifely duty done, Savannah took a moment to look around the old café and reminisce.
As a teenager, she had spent every Saturday night within these walls, where the price of one milk shake could buy a poor kid an evening of entertainment.
No matter how hard the week had been, with schoolwork, the copious chores at home, and whatever part-time job she performed to bring home a bit of extra money to Gran, her grandmother had always made sure that Savannah’s Saturday nights were free. And that she had the price of a chocolate malted in her purse.
Back then the bright red leatherette seats had been new and supple, not stiff and cracked, the way they were now. In those days, the chrome table edges and the jukeboxes had glistened like the freshly polished grille of a brand-new Ford Mustang. The framed vintage movie posters on the walls had been old even then, but Savannah didn’t remember them being so yellow or dingy.
She was careful not to look at the booth in the back, where she and Tommy Stafford had sat for hours, exchanging kisses and contemplating the wisdom or foolishness of running away and getting married as soon as they turned eighteen.
Such memories, sweet as they might be, were best left in the past. Especially considering the present circumstances.
“I remember this place,” Tammy said as she perused the plastic-encased menu. “The closest thing to a salad in here is some extra pickles on your burger.”
Savannah looked indignant. “That simply isn’t true. You can also order extra lettuce and tomatoes.”
With a sigh, Tammy closed her menu and leaned her head on Waycross’s shoulder. “Your fiancée and your child are starving for something alive to eat,” she told him. “Something with a real nutrient in it. This constant diet of processed, high-sodium, fatty food just isn’t cutting it.”
He smoothed the top of her silky golden hair with gentle strokes and said, “Don’t fret none, sugar. I’m on it. You’ll have something
nutritious to eat before the day’s over. I promise. If nothing else, I’ll raid Gran’s garden.”
Tammy looked down at her belly, patted it, and said, “Did you hear that, baby? Daddy’s going to get us something yummy. Maybe some fresh carrots! Wouldn’t that be good?”
Savannah turned to Dirk, a smirk on her face. “Are they just too sweet or what?”
“Way too sweet for my taste. Like Granny’s iced tea. Can you imagine how sweet that kid’s gonna be?”
Tammy laughed. “So sweet that Auntie Savannah and Uncle Dirk are gonna gobble it up. You wait and see.”
“I have no doubt,” Savannah said. “We can’t wait to get our hands on that rug rat and spoil it rotten.”
Once Savannah, Dirk, and Waycross had placed their orders—chocolate malteds and double chili cheeseburgers, with extra lettuce, tomatoes, and pickles for Tammy—the conversation turned far more serious.
Waycross’s usually peaceful, cheerful expression was solemn as he asked, “How long’s it gonna be before they do that arraignment thing, or whatever it’s called when they make you go before the judge and say whether you’re guilty or not?”
Savannah shrugged. “Haven’t heard anything yet.”
“The longer it takes, the better,” Dirk added.
Tammy took a drink from her frosty water glass and popped some vitamins. “It gives us longer to solve the case and find the real murderer.”
“I think,” Savannah said, “Tommy might be dragging his feet a bit with the paperwork. That’s good of him to help me out like that.”
Dirk snorted. “He’s a real pal, that guy, keeping you out of jail long enough for you to solve his case for him. Woo-hoo.”
Note to self, Savannah thought. Don’t say anything positive about an ex-boyfriend in front of a cranky husband.
She stuck another quarter in the jukebox and selected “Blue Suede Shoes.”
“Either way,” she said, “he’s going to have to move forward sooner or later. I’m sure with the notoriety of this case, he’s under pressure to wrap up his investigation.”
Killer Reunion Page 19
