Savannah thought of Brody and wished she could somehow infuse a bit of that sweetness and innocence into his life, poor kid.
“Tell us what you found,” Savannah told her brother and his wife, “and don’t hold back any of the salacious details out of modesty or courtesy or anything like that.”
“Yeah,” Dirk said. “None of that courtesy or modesty stuff allowed around here.” When Savannah gave him a funny look, he added quickly, “Not in the middle of a murder investigation anyway. Spill whatcha got.”
Tammy and Waycross stared at each other, as if waiting for the other one to begin. Finally, Tammy sighed, crossed her arms over her chest, and said, “We read all night and got through most of it. I can tell you now, Lucinda Faraday was a very unhappy lady.”
She glanced over at Ethan, saw a sadness on his face, and added, “I’m sorry, Ethan. I know she was your friend, and you had a lot of affection for her. I’m not saying she was a bad person. From a lot of the things she said in the diary, I can tell that she cared about other people and tried to help them as much as she could. There were certain things that really hurt her in her life. Some she never really got over.”
“Like what?” he asked.
Tammy gulped and looked down at the table. “The one thing that seemed to bother her the most was an abortion she had years ago, when she was only sixteen. She wrote about it, there in her diary, off and on for the rest of her life. She never got over the hurt of it, her pain of losing that child.”
“What made it way worse,” Waycross added, “was the abortion wuddin’ her choice.”
“What?” Savannah was horrified. “They did it against her will?”
“Absolutely,” Tammy assured her. “Her manager insisted, said an unwanted pregnancy would end her career. He wasn’t going to let one night of her being stupid ruin all he’d done for her.”
“What he’d done for himself is more like it,” Ryan said.
“He set it up and forced her to go and even helped to hold her down when they did it.”
Ethan put his hands over his eyes, as though trying to unsee what he had just heard.
Savannah reached over and placed her hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, sugar,” she said. “This must be hard for you. It’s hard for the rest of us, and we didn’t even know her.”
He rubbed his eyes with his fingers, then turned to her and said, “It’s just that I remembered something she said one time when she’d had a bit too much to drink.”
“About this?”
“Maybe. I asked her if she had children. She said two, a boy and a girl. When I asked her their names, she said the boy’s name was Martin, but she wouldn’t tell me the girl’s name. She just said, ‘She died.’ I felt so bad for her. I could tell she was in a lot of pain when she said it. I just figured it was an older child. Not something like this.”
“Forgive my ignorance,” John said, “but could she have even known the gender of the fetus?”
“It would depend on how far along she was,” Savannah told him.
“She was only a little over two months pregnant,” Tammy said. “Savannah’s right. She couldn’t have known at that point. Certainly, not back then. In those days, nobody knew the child’s gender until it was actually born.”
“Then how did she . . . ?” Dirk asked.
Tammy shrugged. “From what I could tell, reading what she wrote, she just had a sense it was a girl. A very strong sense. Years later, she even described the child in the diary as having long, curly blond hair, pale skin, and light blue eyes. She wrote that her little girl loved strawberry jam, white kittens, and ballet. She said her daughter was funny and sweet and could dance and sing beautifully.”
“How sad,” Savannah said. “It sounds like Lucinda’s lost pregnancy was a lost child to her in every sense of the word. She believed she knew her daughter intimately, as she would have known her had she been born.”
“She was so young,” Ryan said. “It would have been very difficult for her to raise her child on her own.”
“She knew that,” Tammy told him. “She says so in her diary. She was fully prepared to carry and deliver the baby, then give it up to a good family to raise. But she said her agent wouldn’t let her do that either. He said the baby’s father wouldn’t allow it. Apparently, he was a celebrity of some sort, too, and had a reputation to protect. She mentions the father was there the night the procedure was done but was no comfort at all to her. Quite the contrary, in fact.”
Savannah imagined Lucinda grieving for the child she had never known, then she thought of Geoffrey. “But she had a child at some point,” she said, “and a grandchild. Or she wouldn’t have a great-grandson.”
“She did,” Tammy said. “I checked some family tree records and found them. She had a son named Martin. Must have been the one she told you about, Ethan. Martin died in his forties of alcoholism. Martin’s only child was Jeffrey. He was killed in an automobile accident, driving drunk. Also in his forties. Geoffrey was a teenager at the time.”
“Those must be some of the losses that Mary referred to, that Lucinda had suffered,” Savannah observed. “Losing a son and a grandson, both in their primes, and to alcohol.”
“Apparently, it runs in the family,” Ethan said. “Though we never discussed it plainly, I have no doubt that Lucinda was an alcoholic. I believe a lot of her depression was rooted in that. Or vice versa. It’s always hard to know which comes first with that disease.”
They all sat in silence for a moment, letting the information sink in. Finally, Savannah said, “As tragic as all these things were, I’m not sure how losing her sons to alcoholism or an unwanted pregnancy and horrible termination about seventy-five years ago would have anything to do with her being murdered today. Her sons are gone. The participants in the abortion—her manager, the baby’s father, whoever performed the procedure—are probably long dead by now.”
“True,” Dirk said. “Let’s move along. What else was in the diary?”
Waycross looked down at his notes. “The other thing that seemed to upset Miss Lucinda somethin’ awful was what happened between her an’ her good friend, Miss Delores. She never did get over that neither. Was writin’ about it up to the very last.”
“What did she write?” Savannah asked.
“Mostly that she felt she’d done a terrible injustice to her friend.” Waycross shrugged. “I wuddin’ argue with the lady ’bout it. You could tell by what she wrote ’bout ol’ Dino, he wuddin’ worth warm spit.”
“Then they weren’t in love?”
“Not a bit. She just thought he had a wicked eye, and she was gettin’ old and didn’t get looked at that much anymore, so she crooked her finger, and he was on ’er like a duck on a June bug.”
Dirk mulled that over for a moment. “A duck enjoying a bit of hanky-panky with a June bug, whatever the hell that is.”
Savannah turned again to Ethan. “I hate to ask this, but was that sort of thing routine behavior for Lucinda?”
“What? Sleeping with men much younger than she was?”
“Something like that.”
He thought it over for a minute. “I guess so. She didn’t worry much about age. It wasn’t an issue for her either direction, older or younger. I never saw anybody turn her down because she was older than they were. Men were pretty happy to be invited into Lucinda’s boudoir.” He winced and added, “Back when she had a proper bedroom, that is.”
When a silence settled over the table, Ethan looked around, lifted his chin, and said, “Since nobody’s going to ask, but apparently everyone wants to know—the answer is no. I guess she drew the line at a guy young enough to be her great-grandson. Either that or she just didn’t take a shine to me.”
Savannah looked him over and grinned. “The former, darlin’. I assure you.”
“Yes!” Tammy said, far too enthusiastically.
“Absolutely. Without a doubt,” Ryan and John agreed in unison.
Dirk rolled his eyes, “Oh, go
od grief. You people are shameless.”
Savannah turned to Tammy and Waycross. “Was there anything else we need to know about in the diary? Like, did she mention if Delores Dinapoli threatened her?”
Tammy nodded. “If you call it a threat to tell somebody, if they don’t stop what they’re doing, you’re going to rip off their arm and beat them to death with it.”
Savannah thought it over for a moment. “Naw, parents down south use that threat on their kids all the time. It’s just an affectionate, colorful . . . promise, of sorts.”
“I read some of that stuff she wrote during that time, too,” Waycross said. “I figure Miss Lucinda was a mite scared of her friend. I don’t think Delores meant it the same way Granny did when she used to threaten us.”
“Okay. I think I should go pay a visit to Delores Dinapoli,” Savannah said. “I’ll shake her tree and see if any ripe fruit falls.”
“Sounds good,” Dirk said. “Thanks.”
Ryan raised a hand. “We just want you to know that we followed up this morning with our friend in the bureau. The trafficking guy. He said he was well aware of Geoffrey Faraday and the circles he used to travel in. He swears everybody but Geoffrey’s still behind bars. Neither he nor anybody he spoke with on our behalf has gotten so much as a whiff of Geoffrey since he’s been out.”
“Darn,” Savannah said.
“Yeah,” Dirk added. “I was really hopin’ to go after him.”
“You can,” Tammy told him. “In fact, you should.”
“Oh yeah? Why?”
“Because I checked him out this morning, too, after I uncrossed my eyes from reading that diary most of the night. I was able to go even deeper than before.”
“You hacked into his bank accounts,” Savannah said. She knew Tammy. Fortunately, she fought on the side of the angels. If she ever turned to the dark side, heaven help humanity.
Tammy giggled. “Let’s just say I know more about him than I’ll bet his fiancée does—or she’d probably leave him.”
“Did you find anything good?” Savannah asked.
“Something intriguing and inexplicable.”
“Let’s hear it.”
Tammy looked down at her electric tablet. “All of a sudden he’s turning up with all sorts of expensive stuff. That suit, the watch, the cuff links, and of course, the Porsche. Not bad for a guy who, a month ago, didn’t have two nickels to rub together. Meanwhile, his fiancée, who spent all her money on him, is now flat broke. I find that curious.”
“Me too,” Dirk said. “I’m going to put Jake on him, have him tail him for a few days, see who he’s meeting where and when. Maybe we can at least find out what sort of nastiness he’s up to this time.”
“With any luck, it’ll be something really bad,” Savannah said. “It’d be so much fun to watch you arrest him.”
“Ah-h-h . . . the stuff fantasies are made of.”
Chapter 22
As Savannah drove to Delores Dinapoli’s home in Malibu, she decided that being a private detective had to be the best job in the world. At that moment, the primary reason she thought so was the Southern California coastline.
Miles of beach that varied between smooth, golden, and sandy to rocky and strewn with tide pools, home to all sorts of exotic sea life. Then there were the palm trees that lined those beaches. The oleander bushes that lent a feminine softness to the borders of the otherwise soulless freeways. The crimson bougainvillea that draped itself over a multitude of manmade structures, lending those concrete and steel buildings their gentle beauty. Then there were Savannah’s favorites, the wildflowers that grew in profusion on the hillsides, due to the extra heavy spring rains.
She especially loved the poppies. She couldn’t think of another place in nature that particularly vivid shade of orange existed.
Yes, if being a PI meant she “had” to drive along the Pacific Coast Highway, smell the salt sea, admire the flowers and palms, all while passing the homes of the world’s most beloved movie stars . . . oh, well, she’d find a way to suffer through somehow.
With clear skies and the sun shining brightly, the ocean sparkled as though it had been sprinkled with a million tiny crystals. The “diamonds” seemed to dance on the water as the tide brought them to the shore, where they appeared to melt into the sand.
If I were back in Georgia, she thought, I’d be waiting tables at the Burger Igloo or doing the books at Butch’s garage. There’s nothing wrong with waitressing or working in a garage if that’s what you want to do. But for me, this is better. Way, way better.
She thought of how she’d told Brody that he would be rewarded for his courage with a better life.
Oh, how she hoped she could help him receive that reward. She wasn’t sure she had ever met anyone, man, woman, or child, who was braver than that little boy.
He was just a kid and yet, she admired and respected him more than most adults she knew.
She was looking forward to going back home to him, once her business was completed.
Delores Dinapoli’s home wasn’t hard to find, like some of the estates tucked away in the hills to the east of the highway. Nor was it difficult to access, like the mansions with high, impenetrable fences and 24/7 manned security gates.
Her house was a simple gray Cape Cod affair situated right on the edge of PCH. It looked like it would feel more comfortable on a beach in Maine than in an area where the majority of the homes were stucco with red tile roofs, like in San Carmelita and, farther up the coast, Santa Barbara.
As she pulled onto the gravel driveway, Savannah looked eagerly for any indication that someone was home. She hadn’t called first. Years ago, she’d discovered that it was easier to tell a person, “No, I don’t want to talk to you,” on the phone than in person.
With that in mind, she had come to visit Delores Dinapoli unannounced, hoping she would be home and willing to be coerced into a conversation that she probably wouldn’t want.
The first sign that she might be in luck was the late model SUV parked in front of the house. Its back door was open, and a woman was unloading tennis rackets and an oversized ball bag.
She recognized the woman as Delores Dinapoli from several pictures that Tammy had found on social media and sent to her.
She was tall, lean, and deeply tanned. Her blond hair was cropped short and she moved with a powerful, no-nonsense strength that might have made her appear less than feminine. But her grace more than made up for it.
She spotted Savannah right away, tossed the equipment back into the SUV, and waited for Savannah to park the Mustang.
Then she walked over to the car, peered at her with strange golden eyes, and said, “Hello. May I help you?”
“I certainly hope so, Mrs. Dinapoli. In fact, I’d say you might just be my last hope.”
That was enough. She was invited inside.
* * *
Although Delores wasn’t the warmest woman Savannah had ever met, she was friendly enough to invite her to sit down when she told her she was a private investigator.
Savannah suspected her hospitality was born of curiosity, if nothing else. Few people had a PI call on them, and they found it intriguing. Thankfully. Otherwise Savannah’s job would have been much harder.
Delores offered her a seat on the sofa and a cold drink. Even though Savannah was about to float away from all the coffee and tea she’d already had that day, she accepted a soda. Experience had also taught her that some people were too polite to throw someone out of their house who was holding a beverage they had just given them.
Accepting a drink usually bought her the amount of time that it took her to consume it.
Savannah could sip a standard twelve-ounce can of soda for a minimum of fifty-seven minutes. She could also find out most of what she wanted to know in that time.
But once she had the security of the frosty drink in her hand, she stopped beating around the oleander bush and admitted to Delores Dinapoli the true reason for her visit.
; She had a feeling the proverbial manure would hit the fan blades and become airborne.
She was right.
One mention of Lucinda’s name and, as her southern, non-cussin’ lady granny would say oh-so-delicately, “The pooh done flew.”
“You’ve got a lot of nerve coming to my home to discuss something like that with me!” Delores shouted at her as she jumped to her feet and charged toward her, stopping only a few feet away from the sofa. “You get your rotten, stinkin’ ass outta my house! Now!”
Apparently, Savannah thought, Delores Dinapoli ain’t a southern lady.
But she was clearly enraged, and Savannah was surprised to realize how unsettling it was to be the subject of that rage.
Savannah even took a second to remind herself that her Beretta was in its holster, should she need it.
If she had been honest, she would have admitted that, even though she was twenty years younger and quite a few pounds heavier than the other woman, and trained in karate and standard police defense and offense tactics, she was a wee bit scared of Delores Dinapoli.
Go figure.
“It’s truly not my intention to offend you, ma’am,” she said, holding the soda in front of her and hoping the outraged woman was persnickety enough about her housekeeping to not attack her and risk having soda splash all over her furniture, rugs, floor, and silk accent pillows. “I just thought you might prefer to speak to me before you have to talk to the police. Maybe I can get you up to speed, before they come knocking on your door.”
“I have no idea why you or they would knock on my door about anything having to do with Lucinda Faraday. She’s been out of my life for years now. Good riddance too. The last thing in the world I want to do is talk to you, the cops, or anybody about her.”
“Do you know that she’s dead?”
Delores stood still, completely void of expression, displaying one of the best poker faces Savannah had ever seen. Either she hadn’t heard and wanted to hide her surprise, or she did know and wanted to conceal her feelings on the topic.
And the Killer Is . . . Page 19
