The very thought broke her heart.
“As much as both you and that cat are enjoying that petting,” Savannah told him, “I promised you an introduction to a real-live bloodhound.”
Instantly, he brightened, and she was grateful for the change.
He abandoned Diamante and rushed around the room, looking up the staircase, behind the living room furniture, and then into the kitchen. “I forgot about the hound dog! Where is he?”
“He’s out in the backyard,” Granny said. “With Diamante feelin’ poorly, her ear hurtin’ and all, I didn’t have the heart to lock the kitty cats upstairs all by their lonesome so’s he could run around loose downstairs here.”
“They don’t play good together?” Brody asked.
“No,” Savannah assured him. “Years ago, when the Colonel was just a pup back in Georgia, our neighbor’s mean old cat darned near beat the tar out of him, and he never got over it.”
“Hates cats?”
“Despises them.”
“Can’t be around ’em?”
“Not for a second.”
Brody shook his head solemnly. “Then we wouldn’t want them to run into each other. If he killed one of them . . .”
Savannah chuckled. “Oh, they’ve fought a few battles over the years, and the cats’ lives were never in any danger. The Colonel’s, maybe. It’s his safety we’re worried about.”
“His snout and eyes?”
“Exactly.” She reached over, placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, and guided him toward the kitchen and the back door. “You skedaddle on out there and introduce yourself to him.”
“He won’t bite me, what with me bein’ a stranger in his yard?”
“Naw,” Granny replied. “He ain’t gonna chow down on you. You’re a young’un, and the Colonel loves little’uns. He thinks they’re all puppies for him to play with. He’ll be tickled to have yer company. You’ll see.”
“I’ll go out and introduce you, if you like,” Savannah offered.
He considered it, then straightened his shoulders and, looking both doubtful and eager, said, “That’s okay. I got this. I can handle a hound dog any day and twice on Christmas.”
With that, he hurried toward the back of the house and out the rear door, slamming it closed behind him.
Savannah and Granny rushed to the kitchen window to watch the meeting.
It went as Granny had predicted. The Colonel met Brody halfway across the yard, jumped up, put his massive feet on the child’s shoulders, and gave him an enthusiastic, wet slurp across his cheek.
Laughing, Brody wiped off the canine slobber with the back of his hand, and the women heard him say, “You cut that out, Colonel What’s-Your-Name, or I’ll lick you right back.”
“That dog’s ’bout as tall as that child is,” Granny said, laughing. “But lookie there. The boy stands right up to him and tells him what’s what.”
“Oh, Mr. Brody got grit in his craw to spare. I had to pull him off Dirk earlier. That boy was, as we say, ‘stompin’ a mud-hole’ in my husband and ‘walkin’ it dry’!”
The normally calm and cool octogenarian gasped and turned to her granddaughter with a genuinely shocked expression on her face. “You had to rescue your big, burly policeman husband from a scrawny, underfed young’un like that?” she said.
“I’m dead serious. I swear. He was on Dirk’s back, riding him like he was a rodeo cowboy and Dirk was a Brahma bull, and the boy was socking him in the face the whole time he was on him. I had to peel him off him like he was an overly sticky bandage on a hairy leg.”
Granny looked out the window again at the child, who was now rolling around on the grass with the bloodhound. He was laughing, the Colonel was howling, and all appeared right with the world—or, at least, in Savannah’s backyard.
“Hard to imagine such a thing,” Gran said. “What brought that on?”
“Dirk arresting his momma, who’d just walked out of a drug house with more pills in a backpack than your average pharmacy’s got on their shelves.”
Granny nodded somberly. “That’ll do ’er. Dirk don’t look kindly on such goings-on.”
“None of us do. Especially now,” Savannah added, her voice heavy with sadness.
She stole a quick sideways glance at her grandmother and saw the same sorrow reflected on the older woman’s face. Savannah wished she hadn’t said it. The last thing either of them needed was to be reminded of her brother’s struggle with drug addiction. At the moment, Waycross was doing well, attending meetings and staying clean. But they all lived in fear that he might relapse.
They knew, all too well, that addiction was a monster who could never be buried in a grave and forgotten. It had a terrible habit of resurrecting itself when its victims least expected it. One could never consider the battle won and relax. The disease was incurable. Though, thankfully, in some cases, manageable.
With the help and support of his loved ones, Waycross seemed to be managing.
That was enough. For today.
One day at a time.
“Is that why you brung the child home with ya?” Granny asked, nodding toward Brody, who was running around the yard, trying to hide from the dog with no success whatsoever. The Colonel was, after all, a bloodhound. “Was it because his momma’s in jail?”
“I brought him home because when I took him to CPS, the intake gal there told me she didn’t have a foster home for him to go to. She was fixing to stick him in juvie hall, so I asked her if Dirk and I could just take him for the night. Maybe something would open up for him tomorrow. It took some convincing, but I finally talked her into it.”
“Good for you . . . and for him.”
They watched and laughed as the hound grabbed a mouthful of the back of the boy’s baggy shorts and took him to the ground, where he playfully mauled him like a stuffed toy, Brody squealing with delight the whole time.
“I’m going to have to get him some clothes right away,” Savannah said. “He can’t run around all over Kingdom Come in those filthy shorts.”
“Looks like he has been. For a long time, too.”
“I know, and we’re putting a stop to that. Like you always told us, ‘No matter how poor a body is, there’s no excuse for dirtiness.’”
“That’s for sure,” Granny replied. “He desperately needs an introduction to Mr. Soap and Miss Bath Water before he’s much older.”
“I hate to interrupt his good time though,” Savannah said, watching the boy try to teach the dog to retrieve the stick he had thrown. The Colonel was great at chasing any thrown object and picking it up with his massive mouth, but he was loath to return his prize to the pitcher. Instead, he pranced around the yard, stick in mouth, head high, showing off his treasure.
“Yeah, if the child had a tussle with the law earlier today, he’s probably in need of some rest and relaxation.”
“Not to mention a good meal. I’ve got some leftover fried chicken and potato salad in the fridge. I’ll ply him with that.”
Granny glanced away, looking a bit guilty. “I must admit, you ain’t got quite as much as you had when you left the house earlier today.”
Savannah laughed. “That’s okay. I knew I was taking a risk when I left you alone with it. Us Reid women can’t resist leftover chicken.”
“I’ll make it up to you though. I baked two of them coconut cakes. Had you in mind for the second one.”
Savannah thought it over a few moments, weighing the pros and cons. “Let’s see now . . . A drumstick in exchange for one of Granny Reid’s prizewinning coconut cakes. I’d say I came out ahead in that deal.”
“A drumstick and a thigh. I was plumb starved to death.”
“Still a bargain.” Savannah headed for the refrigerator. “Let me get that food on the table, and then I’ll call him in to wash up and—”
Her cell phone rang, just as she entered the kitchen, and she didn’t recognize the chime as any of her “regulars.”
For a moment, the thought oc
curred to her that the intake official might have found a foster home for Brody, and she had to admit that she was a bit disappointed to think that was the case.
To her surprise, she was actually looking forward to having the boy around for the evening, feeding him a good meal, getting him cleaned up, finding some decent clothes for him, “treating” him to some of the simple pleasures of life that, sadly, might be luxuries for him.
That would be a more fun and worthwhile way to spend an evening than reading a few more chapters of her romance novel. Surely, Lady Wellington and her new coachman hottie could wait yet another day to consummate their torrid love affair in the hayloft.
She pulled the phone out of her pants pocket and instantly felt better when she saw the name. In fact, she felt a bit of a thrill that, she had to admit, was a tad more exciting than a married woman should get when answering a call from a man who hadn’t given her the diamond ring on her finger.
But she quickly consoled herself with the thought that literally millions of women would have been thrilled to death to receive a call from this particular man.
Ethan Malloy—Academy Award–winning movie star, heartthrob, leading man in the fantasies of lust-besotted fans worldwide—had once been Savannah’s client and was now her treasured friend.
Just before clicking the on button to receive the call, Savannah turned to Granny and mouthed the single word, “Ethan.”
The gleam that lit Granny’s eyes in an instant was testimony to the appeal the actor held for all ages. No one, young or old, could resist the charms of Ethan Malloy.
“Hello, Ethan. So nice to hear from you,” Savannah said, suddenly conscious of the fact that she had just put on her sexiest phone voice . . . and sounded pretty darned silly in the process. She wondered if he heard that sort of thing a lot and considered her and her “type” ridiculous.
No, Ethan was much too kind for that.
Long ago, Savannah had decided that his gifts, which included standing at least six inches taller than the average male, a voice a full octave deeper than most, and pale blue eyes that reached into the soul of every person they studied, hadn’t ruined him. This Texas boy, son of a moderately successful rancher, seemed to have no clue about his effect on women. His modesty, along with his calm, soothing, deep voice, might have been his greatest charm.
But he didn’t sound calm or soothing when he said, “I’m sorry, Savannah. This isn’t a social call. Something bad—” She heard his voice break and he struggled to speak. “Very bad, has happened. I need help.”
Again? she thought. No, please, not again!
The last time he had spoken words like that was upon the occasion of their first meeting. Ethan’s wife and young son had gone missing, and he feared they were victims of foul play.
“Not Beth and Freddy,” she said, almost afraid to even think it, let alone say it. For days she had searched for the two, afraid that, when and if she found them, she might be too late.
Fortunately, that hadn’t been the case. She had located and rescued them, but not before blood had been shed. It was a case that would haunt her forever.
“No,” he said. “Freddy’s okay, and Beth. Well, you know we aren’t together anymore.”
“Yes. I know. I’m so sorry.”
How could she not know? Everyone in the world knew, thanks to the tabloid magazines that had splashed the gory destruction of their personal lives across the covers of newspapers and gossip rags from one side of the globe to the other.
It wasn’t surprising to her. The marriage had been in trouble even before the tragic kidnapping. Few couples would have survived their ordeal and managed to stay together.
“What’s wrong, Ethan,” she said, “and how can I help?”
“I thought maybe you’d heard already. What with your husband being a detective. We called the police, of course. I was the one who found her.”
“Found who, Ethan?” she asked, her heart pounding. “What’s happened?”
“It’s Lucinda Faraday.”
Savannah searched her memory banks and recalled a woman with platinum blond hair, bobbed short and wavy. Big, doe-like eyes and thin, arched eyebrows. A silver-screen star from the late forties and early fifties. In particular, Savannah recalled a famous picture of her, lolling on a satin chaise lounge in a provocative pose, dressed in a peekaboo chiffon negligee with marabou feather trim, smoking with an opera-length cigarette holder.
There had been a scandal of some sort attached to her name, but at the moment, Savannah couldn’t recall it.
“Yes,” she said. “I remember her. The old movie star?”
“Yes. She was an accomplished actress. She was also a wonderful person. My friend.”
“She was?”
“Yes. She’s . . . she’s dead.”
“How?”
“Murdered, I think. It was me who, who . . . I found her. About a half an hour ago.”
Savannah could tell he was crying. Her heart ached to think of this kind, gentle man in the midst of yet another tragedy of some sort.
Some people just never seemed to get a break. Not even those who appeared to be good, law-abiding folks.
“Where’s the body?” she asked.
“In her home.”
“Her home. Oh, yes. I remember. It’s that old mansion out in Twin Oaks, right? With a funny name I can’t pronounce.”
“Yes. Qamar Damun. It’s a beautiful old place. Used to be anyway. She’s lived here for years.”
“Here? You’re there now?”
“Yes. Like I said, I found her. We called the police already, but I’d appreciate it so much if you’d come out here. You know a lot more about . . . this kind of thing than I do. I’d feel a lot better if you were here.”
Savannah looked out the window at Brody, who was still wrestling his new canine friend. How could she leave this child, so in need of simple, basic care? And yet, this friend of hers was hurting and frightened....
“Ethan, I’d like to help you,” she said, “but . . . can you please hold on for just a moment?”
“Yes, of course,” he replied.
“Go,” Granny said quietly. “If that young man needs help, you go help him.”
“But—”
“No ‘buts’ ’bout it. If there’s anything I’m still perfectly capable of doin’, it’s takin’ care of a young’un. Go do whatcha gotta do.”
“Are you sure?”
Granny propped her hands on her hips, squared her shoulders, and lifted her chin. “Do I look sure?”
Savannah couldn’t help grinning, despite the circumstances. “Okay. Thank you, Granny.”
“It sounds like you’re busy, Savannah,” she heard Ethan saying. “I’m sorry. If it isn’t a convenient time, I can—”
“That’s the thing about murder, Ethan,” Savannah said, her tone nearly as sad as his. “There’s never a convenient time for evil like that.”
She drew a deep breath and shifted mental gears from a stand-in mom for a night to a private detective and former policewoman. “I have to explain the situation to a young fella, and then I’ll head right out there. I’ll arrive inside half an hour.”
“Thank you, Savannah!” He sounded so relieved. “You have no idea how much I appreciate this.”
She knew exactly how much. She could hear the heart-deep gratitude in his voice, see the confidence in her grandmother’s kindly smile, and she knew she’d made the right decision.
“I know you do, Ethan. Now listen to me carefully. Do you have any reason to believe that the killer might still be there on the property?”
“No. I don’t think so. She looks like—” She heard him make a gagging sound. “—like she’s been . . . gone . . . awhile.”
“Okay. You said ‘we’ called the police. Who’s there with you?”
“Mary Mahoney. She’s Lucinda’s housekeeper. More like a companion, really.”
“That’s it? Just the two of you?”
“Yes. Just us.”
“Then don’t touch anything. Neither one of you. In fact, you two just go outside. Is your car there?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then sit in your car and wait for either me or the cops, whoever arrives first. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“I’ll get there as quick as I can.”
“I know you will. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, sugar. Try not to worry. Everything’s going to be okay.”
There was a long, awkward silence on the other end. Finally, she heard him say, “Except that my friend is dead.”
Savannah felt like a jerk. Platitudes, so ineptly uttered, were worse than worthless under such dire circumstances. When would she learn not to let them just fly out of her mouth like bats out of a cave at sundown?
“Yes, I’m sorry, darlin’,” she said, as softly as she could. “You’re right. Nothing can ever make that okay. Or even close to all right.”
Chapter 4
As Savannah drove Dirk’s precious Buick through the quiet little beach town, then into the canyon leading eastward and away from the ocean, she could feel the tension in her body. It was a nasty and unwelcome presence that tightened her muscles, strained her nerves, and caused her heart to beat faster than it needed to.
In her twenties, Savannah hadn’t noticed such things. Or if she had, she had chalked such symptoms up to “excitement.”
In her thirties, she had noticed, but not minded so much. Again, a heightened pulse was a small price to pay for a life fueled by adrenaline. Challenge, conflict, and even the occasional life-threatening drama seemed acceptable, if that’s what was required to follow one’s passion.
But now, well into her forties, Savannah found that she didn’t recuperate as quickly as she had before from these tussles with her fellow human beings. The sore muscles, frayed nerves, and resulting exhaustion tended to linger for days afterward, causing her to wonder if, perhaps, she might have accomplished the same ends with more peaceful methods.
Peace.
With each passing year, she realized the value of that rare commodity and found new ways to pursue it, embrace it, and enjoy its rewards.
And the Killer Is . . . Page 4
