As she crossed the city limits and entered the canyon, Savannah rolled down the driver’s window and slowly, deeply, breathed in the fragrance of the countryside. The beloved, familiar scents of the desert—the dry smell of the dust, the pungency of wild sage, and the rich perfume of eucalyptus—filled her lungs and calmed her soul.
The trauma of the arrest and her concern about leaving a troubled child in the care of her elderly grandmother began to fade away with each exhalation.
Savannah reminded herself that Brody Greyson’s mother wasn’t a problem that she could fix. The woman herself was the only person with the power to do that, and something told Savannah that even she might not be able to save herself at this point.
Although Granny Reid had taught her grandchildren to never give up on anyone, that no one was beyond redemption, Savannah had seen far too many people who had traveled their dark, rocky roads so far and so long that only a miracle would bring them into the light.
Miracles happened, of course. Every day. But, having seen the worst of humanity, Savannah didn’t hold her breath waiting for them.
She just whispered a prayer for the person in need of divine intervention and kept moving.
Peace.
It had a lot to do with figuring out what you could fix and what you couldn’t.
As she wound deeper into the canyon, leaving most of civilization behind, she allowed the serenity of the place, unspoiled by humanity, to seep into her soul. She also released the fear and guilt of leaving Brody with Granny. Her grandmother had laughed at her when she’d asked if she thought she could handle the boy.
“If there’s one thing I’m durn good at—other than bakin’ goodies, that is—it’s handlin’ young’uns,” she’d told her.
“But Brody’s not your average kid,” Savannah had started to explain, “and—”
“No child is average. Plus, remember, I managed to raise your sister, Marietta, and both of us lived to tell the tale.”
“True,” Savannah had admitted. Surely, anyone who had managed to rear a child like Marietta Reid and keep her out of jail and the graveyard could handle the likes of Brody Greyson. Especially with some help from an overly energetic bloodhound.
Savannah took another relaxing, deep breath and released her concern about Brody and Granny. That was just needless worrying, and surely, she could find something more pressing to worry about.
Like a murdered movie star.
As she approached the outskirts of the tiny town of Twin Oaks, Dirk’s car phone rang. As she answered it, she silently thanked her brother, Waycross, for at least the hundredth time for this additional, loving gift. Last Christmas he had installed hands-free phones in both of their vintage vehicles, making their lives easier and considerably safer.
Her little brother was one of Savannah’s dearest blessings. Every time she thought of him, which was many times a day, she was grateful for his love and that he, himself, had found his way back to a life of sobriety. She would be forever thankful that her little brother was one of those rare miracles.
She glanced at the caller ID and smiled. “Hey, you,” she said. “Did you get her booked in and locked down?”
“Finally,” Dirk said, sounding tired and grouchy. Even a bit more than his usual degrees of haggard and disgruntled. “I’ve arrested rabid grizzly bears that were more cooperative.”
“Did you have to go to the ER and get patched up? Gashes stitched, bones set, brain scan done?”
“Ha, ha. Aren’t you funny. No, but I’ve got a serious shiner from that ankle-biter kid of hers. Did you get him settled in with CPS?”
“Um. Not exactly.”
“What happened?”
“Let’s just say, we have company tonight. Maybe for a few nights, until they find a foster home to take him in.”
“Ah. That’s why your grandma said she was busy and couldn’t talk when I called the house.”
Savannah gulped. “Uh-oh. Did she sound okay?”
“She sounded fine, laughing her head off. But I could hear the Colonel howling like a hyena in the background.”
See there, Savannah told herself. You were fretting over nothing. No wonder you’re sprouting new gray hairs every day.
“She did have time to tell me that you’re on your way to Twin Oaks,” he said. “A homicide?”
“Yes. Ethan called me and asked if I’d come up here. The victim’s a friend of his. I just got into town, passed that big fruit stand that sells apple cider. Where are you?”
“Right behind you.”
She glanced at the rearview mirror and saw a police cruiser rapidly approaching, its blue lights flashing.
She laughed and said, “Let me guess. You caught the case.”
“Yep. So much for our quiet, romantic evening together at home. Huh, darlin’?”
Savannah momentarily considered what a “romantic evening” with Dirk entailed. Plenty of salty snacks and cold beverages to wash them down, served by the lady of the house. Then some form of baked goods, also conjured into being by the on-premises chef, and all the while, a boxing match on cable TV.
“Romantic,” indeed, she thought.
But she decided to be kind. Pointing out the obvious wasn’t always the best way to assure domestic tranquility.
“I figured they’d give it to you,” she told him. “That’s why I drove the Buick out here instead of the pony. Reckoned you’d show up and prefer to have your own car to drive home.”
“How considerate of you. Wouldn’t be that you actually enjoy driving her, now that she’s all cherried out.”
“Oh, right. I’d choose a boring Buick Skylark over my smokin’ hot Mustang. Get real. This was an act of true love. Pure self-sacrifice. Nothing else.”
The heavy silence on the other end of the phone told her she’d gone too far. The day might come when Dirk could take a bit of teasing over his beloved, returned from the grave ride.
Apparently, it had not yet arrived.
She decided to return to the former topic. “Yeah, no romantic, stay-at-home evening for us,” she said. “Considering all the rumpus and commotion you heard that’s going on back there, a simple murder scene might be more peaceful.”
More silence on the other end.
She hated it when he threw her olive branches into the wood chipper, as he was inclined to do.
But she soon realized he had more on his mind than just pouting, as he quickly pulled alongside her, then shot past her, leaving her figuratively “in his dust.”
She heard him chuckling as he said, “See ya later. When you finally get there. What’s your ETA? An hour? Two?”
“Yeah, yeah. You’ve got lights, a siren, and a police cruiser. While I’m pedaling this crummy, boring old Buick.”
“Hey, you’d better watch what’s comin’ outta your mouth there! That’s my girl you’re talking smack about!”
“I thought I was your girl!” she shot back.
But he didn’t hear her.
Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter had already ended the call. He and his cruiser with its powerful engine and flashing blue lights were far down the road, then around a sharp curve and well out of sight.
He’ll beat me to the crime scene with a minute and a half to spare. Woo hoo, she thought, grinning and shaking her head. The dude’s easily impressed. With himself.
Chapter 5
Even with his lights and siren, Dirk hadn’t beaten her to the mansion by much, Savannah realized when she reached the end of the long driveway and saw him climbing out of the cruiser.
Of course, he would still count it as a win. Like horseshoes and dynamite, “close” was enough.
But all thoughts of their little competition left her mind the instant she turned her attention to the home itself. Certainly, she had heard of Qamar Damun, the art deco mansion whose Arabic name meant “Blood Moon.” It had been built in the 1920s and, over the course of the past century, had been inhabited by some of Hollywood’s brightest luminaries.
Usually, when the estate was discussed, it was with hushed tones, and the stories were of decadent, violent parties, attended by movie stars, mobsters, highly influential politicians, and wealthy adventure seekers.
The mansion’s darkest crimes had occurred during its first thirteen years, in the era of Prohibition. But over the past hundred years, it was widely believed that every one of the basic Ten Commandments had been broken, some more than once, within its marble walls with embossed bronze friezes.
The phone call Savannah had received earlier caused her to consider the idea that Qamar Damun might have returned to its evil ways. Or at least, someone within its walls had.
Savannah parked behind Dirk’s cruiser and saw that he was walking toward her, a jaunty swagger to his steps, a grin on his face.
For a guy who had gotten his butt whipped only a short time ago by a kid who was knee-high to a duck, he was acting far too frisky in her opinion.
But he didn’t have time to do much bragging, because before he could reach her, Ethan Malloy had climbed out of a GMC Sierra Denali parked nearby and was hurrying over to greet them.
Normally, on any given occasion, when Savannah first laid eyes on the world-renowned movie star, she was taken aback by his good looks and innate charisma.
But the stricken look on his handsome face and the sadness in his famously blue eyes caused Savannah to remember the first time she had met Ethan Malloy.
Once again, Ethan’s fame, fortune, and the adoration of millions had not protected him or those he loved from life’s harshest realities.
She hurried to meet him halfway and folded him into a hearty embrace, which he returned. For a moment, she could feel him melting into the strength and compassion she was offering. Not for the first time, it occurred to her that for all the fan adoration, Ethan Malloy was a terribly lonely man.
“I’m so sorry,” she told him. “You were the one who actually found her?”
He nodded. “Yes. Mary called me and told me she was missing. I came right over, and we looked for a long time. You’ll see why, once you’re inside the house, and I was the one who first saw her.”
He shuddered, and for a moment his face turned so pale that she thought he might faint.
She couldn’t blame him. There were scenes in her memory that still haunted her, causing her to feel the same way when she made the mistake of recalling them.
Dirk approached them and shook Ethan’s hand. “I just heard you say, ‘We’ were looking for her. Who’s ‘we’?” Dirk asked, wearing his most officious detective expression.
“Mary Mahoney and myself.”
“Who’s that?”
“Lucinda’s housekeeper, though she’s more like a companion—as you’ll also see when you go inside.”
“Where’s she now, this Mary gal?” Dirk wanted to know.
Ethan passed a shaking hand over his face. “In her quarters. She’s a mess. I told her what you said, Savannah, about staying out of the house, but she was crying so hard that she could barely walk. She just wanted to lie down on her own bed, and I didn’t have the heart to force her to—”
“No, of course not. I understand. As long as she isn’t anywhere near the body.”
“Not even close. Lucinda’s in the ballroom,” Ethan told her. “The servants’ quarters are on the opposite side of the house, in the rear.”
“When exactly did Mary call you?” Savannah asked.
“A couple of hours ago. She said she hadn’t been able to find her all day. I came right over. We’ve been looking the whole time. It wasn’t easy. You’ll understand why when you go inside.”
“When did Mary last see her?” Dirk asked.
“I think last night, when they both went to bed. She said when she took her breakfast to her, she couldn’t find her.”
Savannah noticed he was shivering, even though he was wearing long sleeves and the night was fairly warm.
“We were afraid something like this might happen,” he said, “what with her being so old and in poor health, and the house being so . . .”
Dirk craned his head, looking up at the massive, four-story high brick and marble facade with its ornate geometric bands of patterns. “This is a big place,” he said. “I can see how somebody’d get lost in a joint like that. You’d have to carry a sandwich in your pocket if you decided to go from one side of it to the other. By the time you got there, it’d be time to eat again.”
Savannah could see that Ethan was spending far more time and effort trying to figure out what Dirk had just said than the comment deserved—especially under the circumstances.
“Why don’t you show us where the . . . she . . . is, if you’re up to it,” she said, slipping her arm through his. “Or, if you don’t want to have to see her again, you can just point us in the right direction, and we’ll find her.”
“No, you won’t. Not without help.” He looked up at the massive arched entrance and the sick expression came over his face once again. “You’ll never find her on your own. I’m surprised that I was able to.”
* * *
As they approached the doorway, Savannah quickly became aware of what they were going to find on the other side of the eight-feet-tall carved and inlaid doors, even before Ethan opened the one on the right and waved them inside.
There was no mistaking that smell. To her knowledge, there was only one thing that stank like this combination of terrible odors: garbage, decaying food, dust, mothballs, rotting wood, mildewed cloth, moldy plaster, as well as copious other unidentifiable, toxic substances.
A hoard.
Thankfully, this particular blend lacked the added horrors of urine and feces. But it was especially strong, dense, and overpowering, as though the door and windows hadn’t been opened and no amount of fresh air or sunlight had entered in many years.
Once they passed through the door, the enormity of the mess inside was all too apparent.
They were unable to take three steps inside without having to walk upon a layer, at least six inches deep, of accumulated garbage.
Although the giant foyer was as large as that of a glorious old theater, they had to make their way along a narrow path, barely wide enough to accommodate them, walking single-file, between towering piles of assorted boxes, furniture, clothing, rotting household items, and miscellaneous trash.
Savannah’s claustrophobia rose with each halting step she took, as she tried to follow Ethan and not fall behind.
A dozen comments sprang to her mind, but she kept them to herself, recalling that this was the home of someone who had been Ethan’s dear friend.
As Granny would say, “If you can’t say something nice . . .”
Ethan was grieving. He didn’t need anyone to state the obvious, horrible as it might be.
“Ho-leeeshee-it!” Dirk exclaimed, following close behind her. “What sorta nut job lives in a trash heap like this?”
Okay. So much for discretion and sensitivity, she thought, shooting him a warning look over her shoulder.
Ethan stopped, turned around, and gave Dirk a look that was neither threatening nor angry, but his voice was decidedly firm when he said, “In this case, it was a beautiful, loving lady, who battled depression for many years and lost the war. Lucinda suffered many devastating losses in her life. Eventually, they took their toll.”
“Not every ship can weather every storm,” Savannah added.
“Sorry,” Dirk mumbled with more humility than Savannah would have expected. “She’s your friend. I shouldn’t’ve said anything.”
Ethan gave him a half smile. “I understand. For the record, I didn’t know until today that she was living like this. I’d never been inside this house. No surprise that I was never invited. I was as shocked and horrified as you must be. Probably
more.”
He turned and continued to lead them along the narrow path through the clutter and grime of Lucinda Faraday’s life.
It reminded Savannah of the tunnels that ants created to navigate through their hills. In places, the piles of junk were well over their heads, seven or eight feet high. She couldn’t help but wonder how on earth anyone could even reach up that far to stack it.
“This isn’t just gross. It’s downright dangerous,” Dirk said, obviously still unable to grasp the importance of delicacy and diplomacy. “This mess could’ve caved in on her and mashed or suffocated her. Are you sure that’s not what happened? Maybe it wasn’t a homicide after all, but more like an avalanche of—”
“Murder,” Ethan snapped back angrily. “She was murdered! Okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah. Okay. Sorry.”
Dirk gave Savannah a sheepish look. It told her that Mr. Sensitivity finally realized he needed to shut up. At least until they saw their victim.
Ethan led them from the foyer into an enormous room that Savannah decided must be the ballroom. Like the entry, clutter obscured most of the floor. Although there appeared to be more pathways through the mess, and the piles on either side were mostly only waist high.
Here and there, Savannah could actually see a patch of worn, filthy parquet.
The only evidence that it had once been a glorious room was the coffered ceiling with intricate panels decorated with plaster vines, leaves, and roses. The graceful design spiraled toward the center of the ceiling, to a magnificent crystal chandelier, almost completely covered with dust and cobwebs.
“She’s over here,” Ethan said as he headed toward a far corner. “I searched this room, and all rooms on the first two floors, three times before I finally found her.”
“Any particular reason you only looked on the lower floors?” Savannah asked.
“Mary told me that Lucinda hadn’t been on the third and fourth floors for years.” He paused, looked uncomfortable, then added, “Apparently, the two uppermost floors are even worse than these.”
And the Killer Is . . . Page 5
