“How nice of her.”
“You have no idea. We became friends that night, and I can’t tell you how much she helped me, as an actor and a person.”
“You must have become close, for her to share something with you as personal as a sexual assault.”
“Like I said, she wasn’t victimized only once. She was passed around like a piece of candy, from one high-powered jerk to another, while she was still just a kid. Studio heads, politicians, mobsters, you name it.”
“She had no guardians to watch over her?”
“She had a mother who sold her to the highest bidder.”
Savannah winced, thinking how many times she had seen that scenario play out on ordinary, mean streets. “Unfortunately,” she said, “Hollywood doesn’t have a corner on that market. Some folks who should be protecting their young sell their innocence all day long.”
“True.” He drew a deep breath. “I just wanted to say that I’m relieved her death didn’t include that particular horror. It’s bad enough that someone murdered her.”
“It certainly is.”
“Do you have any suspects?”
Savannah shook her head. “We’ve interviewed her great-grandson, Geoffrey, and his fiancée. He’s Lucinda’s sole heir, and I wouldn’t give you two cents for him. But neither of those things mean he’s a killer.”
“Yeah, I heard about Geoffrey. Lucinda couldn’t stand him, great-grandson or not,” Ethan said. “We had a few long talks about him over some fine Irish whiskey.” He smiled wistfully. “Lucinda did enjoy her Irish whiskey.”
“Any particular reason that she didn’t like him?”
“She said he was lazy, worthless. Then there was the illegal stuff.”
“What kind of illegal stuff?”
“I don’t know exactly, but she mentioned that he spent some time in prison. More than once, I believe. She bailed him out and paid for his lawyers a time or two. Then she gave up on him and disowned him.”
“Disowned? How about disinherited?”
“Probably that, too. I don’t know for sure. Lucinda was a generous person, but she was smart enough to watch who she gave to and who she didn’t.”
“Wasn’t one to throw her pearls before swine, huh?”
“Not at all, and I’m pretty sure she considered her great-grandson an oinker.”
Savannah thought she might be seeing a glimmer of light in a dark crawl space.
“I’ll sic Tammy on him right away,” she said. “Between her and Dirk, they’ll find out why he served time and maybe some other times when he should have but didn’t get convicted. Tamitha’s great at uncovering skullduggery of the, shall we say, well-hidden variety.”
“I have total faith in you and your team, Savannah.” He looked down at her with a depth of affection that touched her heart. “I’ll never forget what you and your people did for me.”
She reached over and patted his hand, which was resting on the top rail. “I was so sorry to hear about you and Beth divorcing. Unlike that silly kid, I really mean it.”
“Thank you.” He turned to stare out at the ocean again. “We’ll never get back together again. I’m sure of it. But we aren’t bitter enemies. We’ve decided to stay friends, for Freddy’s sake.”
“I’m not surprised. You’re both good people with kind hearts. You’ll do the right thing.”
“We try. I guess we succeed. Sometimes.”
“I don’t know if it helps to know this, but most marriages wouldn’t survive what happened to your family.”
He took off his sunglasses, passed his hand over his eyes, and turned to face her. “To be honest, Savannah, the marriage wasn’t going to last anyway. It hadn’t been working for a long time before . . . that . . . happened.”
“I understand.”
More tears took the place of the ones he’d wiped away, as he said, “Everybody and their cousin’s dog thinks they want to be a celebrity, Savannah, a big star. They think fame and fortune is what it takes to be happy.”
“Yes, that’s the rumor going around, I hear.”
“It’s a lie. Along with the prestige and the expensive toys, fame and fortune bring a lot of misery. Rich, successful folks have every problem that everybody else has.”
Savannah thought about the tough times she’d endured because of a lack of funds. She saw his point but couldn’t fully agree.
Experience had taught her: money might not buy happiness, but poverty could sure cause a heap of suffering.
“But rich folks don’t have money problems,” she gently argued.
“You might be surprised,” he told her. “They have bigger incomes, but most of the ones I know also have bigger bills and wonder sometimes how they’re going to pay them. Besides, life’s worst problems, the ones we all have, can’t be fixed with money.”
She ran down a quick list in her mind of what she considered life’s worst problems to be. Sickness, betrayal, shattered marriages, aging parents, wayward children, natural disasters, guilt, regret, and fear of the unknown.
“I reckon that’s true,” she said. “Money helps some situations, but it can’t make anybody immune.”
“It sure doesn’t. Or Lucinda Faraday would have lived a bit longer and died peacefully in her bed, surrounded by people who loved her, instead of . . .”
“I know.” Savannah nodded and patted his hand again.
There was no need to state the obvious.
Chapter 12
Savannah intended to phone Tammy the moment she got home and ask her to drop by for what Tammy liked to call a “sleuth briefing.” Never in her life had Savannah known anyone who used the word “sleuth” as frequently as her best friend and assistant, Tammy Hart-Reid. Nor had Savannah had the pleasure of anyone’s company who was actually more obsessed with private investigating than she was.
Therefore, Savannah wasn’t exactly shocked when she pulled up to her house and saw Tammy’s hot pink Volkswagen bug parked in the driveway. No doubt, Tammy already knew more about the case than she did. Granny’s panel truck, parked next to the bug, told Savannah that there had probably been a “sleuth briefing” already.
In the Reid family’s hometown of McGill, Georgia, there was a saying regarding Granny: “If you want to pass a bit of juicy gossip around town, quick-like, there are three sure ways—telephone, telegram, or tell-a-Stella.”
Granny was the soul of discretion, if you actually asked her to keep something to herself. Ancient Babylonian torture techniques couldn’t have wrenched your secret from her. But if you failed to mention that it was a private matter and not for general consumption, you could expect to be questioned about it by everyone in town, from the mailman to the grocery store clerk, the very next day. They probably already knew more details about your personal business than you yourself.
As Savannah walked into her house, it occurred to her, not for the first time, that maybe giving a key to everyone she knew and inviting them to “Just drop by and make yourself at home anytime you’ve a mind to” wasn’t the best life strategy.
On the other hand, Savannah was seldom lonely. At any given time, there were usually at least five human beings and three furry critters inside her walls.
Plus, they were always hungry, and Savannah was never happier than when she was creating good food and shoving it into the mouths of her grateful loved ones.
“Yoo-hoo,” she called out as she tossed her purse onto the piecrust table and stowed her Beretta in the safe. “Who’s here?”
“Me!” yelled a cheerful voice that could only be Tammy. Savannah would’ve never allowed anyone else to be that obnoxiously vivacious on her turf. At least, not in the morning.
“Me too,” called Granny from the kitchen. “Y’all wash your hands and come sit down to the table. I’ve got dinner ready—or ‘lunch’ as you Yankees like to call it.”
Savannah grinned. In Granny’s estimation, unless you were born and raised south of the Mason-Dixon line, you were a “Yankee.” To her, A
laskans and Hawaiians were Yankees, and therefore needed to be cut a lot of slack when it came to their questionable manners. Not having been “raised up proper,” they couldn’t help it. Bless their hearts.
Savannah walked into the living room and saw Tammy seated at the rolltop desk in the corner. The office computer was on, and she was flipping from one Web page to another with dizzying speed.
On her lap was one of Savannah’s favorite creatures on earth, a tiny, copper-curled fairy-child named Vanna Rose. Savannah’s namesake, niece, and very heart.
The baby had already heard her aunt and was struggling to get down from her mother’s lap, giggling and waving her chubby arms wildly.
“Okay, okay,” Tammy said, laughing as she slid her down to the floor. “Go on. Show Auntie what you’ve learned since you saw her last Thursday.”
Savannah watched, spellbound, as the child stood, wobbling on her miniature feet. She had a look of intense concentration on her face, as she held her arms out to each side as though she was getting ready to take flight.
“No way!” Savannah said. “Don’t tell me she’s learned how to—”
“Okay. I won’t tell you. You can see for yourself in a few seconds. You might want to stand a bit closer though and get ready to catch her.”
Savannah did as Tammy suggested and watched, her heart filling to overflowing, as the baby lifted one chubby little foot and, as carefully and dramatically as a tightrope walker balancing a hundred feet above the circus arena, daintily placed it in front of the other. She wobbled for what seemed like forever, then seemed to realize she had “landed” it and let out a squeal of triumph.
Her own joyous cries were joined by Savannah’s and those of Granny Reid, who had come to watch at the kitchen door.
Savannah hurried to her and scooped her into her arms. Planting kisses on the child’s dimpled cheeks, she exclaimed, “Lord’ve mercy! Did you see that? She’s on her feet! Look out, world! There’s no stopping her now!”
Savannah danced around the room with her niece and, for a moment, grim topics like murdered movie stars left her mind, releasing her, allowing her to enjoy a bit of light to balance the darkness.
Finally, Granny called a halt to the celebrating. “Okay, the beans are gettin’ cold and the corn bread’s gonna set up, hard as a brickbat. Skedaddle in here and stuff your faces.”
As Tammy stood and turned off the computer, Savannah noticed that she had a twinkle in her eye that could only mean one thing.
“Gran filled you in on the case, and you’ve already found something, right?” Savannah asked her.
“I sure did. Wait till you hear it!”
“I ‘sleuth briefed’ her on all the important details,” Gran said as she started to lift a large bowl of white beans, cooked in a savory broth with onions, carrots, celery, and tomatoes.
“I’m sure you did,” Savannah replied, relieving her grandmother of the heavy bowl and placing it in the center of the table.
Granny set a small cast iron skillet containing the corn bread on a trivet beside the beans, next to the butter dish. “Don’t wait for me,” she said. “I’ll just get the sweet tea from the icebox.”
Granny turned to Tammy, who was buckling her daughter into her high chair. “Don’t worry,” she told her, “I’ve got some lemons cut up in mineral water for you and the punkin’, and I didn’t stick no ham in the beans neither.”
Savannah couldn’t help smiling at the concession her grandmother had made for their health-conscious vegetarian guest. Like Granny, Savannah held the opinion that any pot of beans without a few ham hocks thrown in for “seasonin’” was hardly worth cooking, let alone eating.
For the first few years of Granny’s and Tammy’s friendship, Gran had lived in dread that Tammy might fall over in a dead faint at any minute, considering how little “fat she had on her bones.” It had taken a long time for Tammy to convince Gran that drinking unadulterated water instead of Georgia style sweet tea was a good idea.
But after watching their svelte, athletic friend run for miles every day—even after bringing a baby into the world—and perform every task known to modern womanhood with boundless energy, even Gran had to admit that “clean eating,” as Tammy called it, might not prove fatal after all.
Once Vanna was settled in her chair, Tammy crumbled a bit of corn bread around the tray for her.
Granny laughed when she saw the child begin to cram the tiny pieces into her mouth as quickly as possible. “Boy, look at that! Don’t ever get between a Reid woman and her corn bread. You might lose a finger or two!”
When they were all settled around the table and had begun their midday meal, Savannah decided she couldn’t wait any longer. She turned to Tammy and said, “Well, what did you find out? Spill it.”
Tammy grinned, obviously proud of herself, which gave Savannah hope. Without a doubt, Tammy was the most skilled and enthusiastic techno-researcher Savannah had ever seen, and every day, Savannah was grateful to have her as a member of her Moonlight Magnolia Detective Agency.
Especially since the height of Savannah’s computer skills was her ability to cut and paste a block of text or copy an image.
If Tammy was wearing her self-satisfied smirk, Savannah knew she had something juicy.
“Okay.” Tammy pulled her electronic tablet from the baby’s diaper bag on the floor next to the high chair. “As soon as I heard who the victim was, a wealthy woman with a ton of assets, I checked out her heirs, you know, to find out who had the most to gain by her passing.”
“She only has one,” Savannah said.
“I know. Sometimes you get lucky.”
“Dirk’s running a background check on him right now.”
“Then Dirk-o’s probably getting pretty excited. Geoffrey Faraday’s a bad boy. A serious record. Prison time and everything.”
“Mercy!” Granny said, slathering butter on her corn bread square. “Whatever for?”
Tammy’s pretty face grew serious. “He served five years for human trafficking.”
“Wow!” Savannah recalled the annoying but impeccably dressed young man they had interviewed earlier. Somehow, it defied logic that a man wearing such a pretty suit would have committed such an ugly crime. She also took into account that her “logic” might be a bit fashion-biased. “I didn’t see that coming. I was thinking bad checks or tax evasion maybe.”
Granny shook her head solemnly. “That human trafficking, it’s an awful business, to be sure. Evil like that is bound to darken a body’s soul. Though some might say it’s hard to imagine somebody having a soul and doing such a thing to another human being.”
“That’s for sure.” Savannah turned back to Tammy. “Got any particulars on that?”
“I do. Apparently, he was in cahoots with some really bad guys who were bringing women in from Thailand to, supposedly, work in nail salons. But as it turned out, those parlors were fronts for prostitution. They were offering massages in cubicles in the back of the salons, areas they claimed were for waxing, etc.”
Tammy shot a quick look at her daughter, who apparently couldn’t care less about bad guys and their misdeeds, as long as she had plenty of corn bread crumbled in front of her.
“Let’s just say,” Tammy continued, “folks were getting more than their feet rubbed and their brows waxed in those private cubicles.”
“I hate human traffickers,” Savannah said, feeling a wave of fury, hot and turbulent, rising in her soul. “Back in their victims’ native countries, they promise them palm trees and golden beaches and money flowing through their hands. Except, of course, they don’t get to keep the money, let alone send it back home to their homeless, starving families.”
“That’s the main reason most of them leave home in the first place,” Tammy interjected.
“True,” Savannah agreed. “The minute they arrive, these jerks take their passports and shove them into a filthy apartment, ten to a room. The only time they get out of those horrible places is when they’re h
erded into a windowless van and hauled somewhere to work a sixteen-hour day.”
“I was reading about that,” Tammy said, blinking away some tears. “The traffickers take their passports and any money they might have. Then they guard them every minute to make sure they don’t run away.”
“Wouldn’t do ’em any good even if they did get away,” Granny said. “Most of ’em probably don’t speak English. They wouldn’t even be able to tell somebody what they’re going through or that they need help.”
“They don’t run to the police for assistance either,” Savannah said. “In many of their countries the police are corrupt and cruel. They have no reason to think it’s any different here. It would never occur to them to risk their lives breaking free of their captors, then run to the authorities for help. For all they know, the cops would take them right back to their tormentors, who would beat them . . . or worse.”
“Do you think that sort of wickedness goes on much?” Granny asked Savannah.
“More than you might think. It’s a terrible thing that’s hiding in plain sight all around us and getting worse all the time. Like I said, some of the nail salons, massage parlors, and even the restaurants we eat in. You’d be surprised how many of the people who serve your food or bus your table or wash your dishes or harvest the food you’re eating are slaves in every sense of the word.”
“What I don’t understand,” Tammy said, “is why there isn’t more being done about it.”
“Don’t look at me,” Savannah told her. “I don’t understand it either. It’s an outrage for a so-called civilized society to just overlook such a thing, we who claim to be so concerned about human rights and dignity. It defies explanation.”
The women continued to eat their lunch in silence, but the celebratory mood that Granny’s meal had provided was gone.
Savannah felt bad, mostly for Granny. But considering the topic they had just discussed, the people who were suffering in silence and fear, she decided that maybe having a bit of a damper thrown on their family gathering might be a small price to pay in exchange for a bit of heightened awareness.
And the Killer Is . . . Page 11
