Death by Chocolate (5 page)

Standing, Savannah took
Gilly’s hand and pulled her to her feet. The child looked up at her, impressed
by her height. “Looks like you got lots of sleep. You’re taller than my mommy
and Grandma. You’re as big as Sydney!”

“That’s right. And when I
was your age, I was always in bed and snoring by eight-thirty.”

Gilly surveyed Savannah’s
figure. “Is that when you grew big the other way, too?”

Savannah laughed and shook
her head. “No, darlin’. I grew tall by sleeping, but I got wide by eating your
grandmother’s raspberry truffles.... and a lot of other yummy things.”

She took the child’s small,
warm hand in her own and walked her across the lawn to the road. Pointing her
toward the gatekeeper’s cottage, she said, “You scoot along home now and get to
sleep as soon as you can. You’ve still got a lot of growing to do.”

“Will you be around
tomorrow?” Gilly asked as she skipped backward down the road, swinging her arms
like a clumsy albatross chick trying to fly.

“I hope so.”

“Me too. See you then.”

Savannah waved. “Later,
gator.”

Once the child was safe
inside the cottage, door closed behind her, Savannah continued down the road to
the mansion and Grandma.... Grandma who smelled bad like booze, talked weird,
and had told her sweet grandchild to “get lost.”

“Oh, goodie, all this and
Hitler, Satan, and Killer, too,” Savannah muttered to the oleander shrubs on
either side of the road. “And how much do you wanna bet that Grandma will throw
me out of her kitchen.... chocolateless.”

Savannah didn’t have to be
told that this time she should go to the back door of the mansion rather than
the front. Knocking on the front door was an honor that only free agents were
afforded. Since this afternoon, she had joined the unhappy rank of servants at
Chateau Eleanor. So much for things like respect or courtesy.

And she wasn’t surprised
when no one answered her knock, other than the dreaded threesome, whom she
could hear growling and yipping on the other side of the door. Their tiny
toenails scraped as they clawed at the woodwork while snuffling along the edges
of the door, trying to get her scent.

“Watch it, hairballs,” she
muttered. “You don’t know who you’re messing with.”

Determined to get inside
despite the ravaging canines, she tried the knob and was both relieved and
concerned when the door opened.

Why hire a bodyguard if you
don’t bother to lock-your doors at night? she thought as she stepped into a
small room that served as a utility room and pantry. In an instant, the dogs
were upon her, the bolder of them-burying his fangs in the toe of her loafer,
which he had perforated earlier in the afternoon.

She reached down and
snatched him off the floor, holding him by the scruff of the neck. The bit of
fluff snarled and snapped as he dangled from her hand. Holding him only inches
from her face, she looked straight into his beady little bugged eyes and said,
‘The next time you bite me, you foul creature, I’m going to smack you with the
Sunday edition of the
L.A. Times,
and you’ll be flatter than a fritter.”

To emphasize her point she
tightened her grip and gave him a slight shake, like a mother dog would give a
naughty pup. Instantly, the terrier realized he had been demoted from alpha
dog, and he seemed to deflate in her hand. At her feet, the other two appeared
to sense the shift of power, and their growls changed to whimpers.

Gently, she placed him on
the floor at her feet and gave him a soothing scratch behind his ear. “There,
there... now you’re not such a bad boy after all,” she told him as she knelt
and stroked first one, then the other of his companions. “And neither are you.
You fellas just need to be reminded that you aren’t rottweilers or Dobies,
that’s all.”

When she stood, she glanced
up and saw Eleanor Maxwell standing in the door that led to the kitchen,
watching her with a slightly amused look on her face and a large glass of red
wine in her hand. For once, the hard nastiness was gone from her face, and
Savannah caught a glimpse of a woman she could actually like. Then she decided
the warmth on Eleanor’s face was nothing more than a drunk, sappy grin.
Savannah had seen the expression many times on her own mother’s face, a mother
who had spent most of her days—and nights— perched on a bar stool.

“You like dogs?” Eleanor
asked. ‘You look like an animal lover.”

“Some of my best friends
have been cats and dogs,” she replied. ‘They’re kinder than most people. They
listen better, and are a helluva lot more loyal and faithful.”

“More faithful.... that’s
for sure.”

Savannah heard it: that
distinct note of pain in Eleanor’s voice. She had been recently betrayed, and
judging from the tears that sprang to her eyes, deeply hurt.

Savannah reminded herself
to check out the circumstances of Eleanor’s divorce. Another woman, maybe? A
woman who, even though she had won the first round of the matrimonial battle,
might have chosen to send a few death threats to the ex-wife?

“Come have a glass of wine
with me,” Eleanor said, turning around and walking back into the kitchen
without waiting for an answer.

Savannah glanced down at
the dogs and thought, You guys aren’t the only ones around here who are
accustomed to having the upper hand.

She followed Eleanor
through the kitchen and out to the patio on the sea side of the house. Two
chaise lounges had been pulled out to the edge of the patio, overlooking the
moonlit ocean. The area was dimly lit by the glow of several ship’s lanterns
that hung from the branches of a nearby olive tree.

On a small wrought-iron
table sat a bottle of wine that was more than half empty. Beside the bottle was
a second glass. Apparently, Lady Eleanor had been expecting company. Savannah
wondered if the anticipated arrival was her.

Eleanor sat on one of the
chaises, uncorked the bottle, and began to fill the other glass.

“I don’t drink when I’m
working,” Savannah said. “But I’ll be happy to sit with you for a spell.”

As she lowered herself on the
other lounge chair, she saw that Eleanor was still pouring.

“I don’t want somebody to
sit with,” she said, holding the glass out to Savannah. “I want somebody to
drink with.”

Savannah gave her a cool
half-smile. ‘Then you’d better offer me an iced tea or a Pepsi,” she said
softly but firmly.

Eleanor Maxwell returned
the chilly smile without blinking. “I’m not as easily intimidated as Killer
is,” she said. ‘You’ll have to do a lot more than pick me up and shake me to
get the best of this old girl.”

“I wouldn’t dream of trying
to best you, Lady Eleanor. That’s not my job. I’m here to protect you,
remember?”

“Yeah, right. Protect me.
It’s a sorry day when somebody’s got to seek protection from their so-called
loved ones.” She drained the last swig from her own wineglass, set it on the
table, and settled back with the one she had poured for Savannah.

“So, you think it’s one of
your friends or family who sent you the letters?”

“Probably. Who else would
want to upset me? They love to torment me, the whole bunch of them. They’re
jealous, you know, because I’m trailer trash who’s made good.”

Savannah blinked, taken
aback by her candor. Few people she knew—or had ever known—would have given
themselves such a distasteful label.

“People don’t mind so much
if you’re born with money,” Eleanor continued, “but it really irks them when
you rise above your circumstances.”

Stretching her legs out in
front of her, Savannah felt a wave of fatigue roll through her from head to
toe. It had been a long, stressful day... though, come to think of it, not that
long, and she had certainly experienced worse days. Again, she wondered if she
was somehow past her prime. Or maybe she was coming down with something.

“On your list of jealous
loved ones,” she said, pulling herself back to the duties at hand, “who would
you put at the top of the page under ‘Irked’?”

Eleanor took another long
drink from her glass and gazed out at the dark sea a few moments before
answering. “There are at least three people who all have to share the number
one spot on the list,” she finally said. “My daughter... who blames me for
every damned thing that’s ever gone wrong in her empty, ridiculous life; my
ex-husband... who’s bitter that I dumped him after he ‘made me the success I am
today’; and Kaitlin.... for the same reason. To hear them tell it, she and
Maxwell are responsible for all of this.” She waved her hand, indicating the
house and gardens.

Savannah wondered if their
claims might have a basis in fact, but decided that Eleanor wasn’t the one to
objectively answer that question. So she swallowed her curiosity and allowed
her to continue.

“When I met Burt, he was a
traveling insurance salesman and I was a short-order cook at a truckstop. He
stopped in one day when I was making my Christmas fudge for my favorite
customers and—well, as they say, the rest is history. Burt could sell anything
to anybody. He sold the idea of ‘Lady Eleanor, Queen of Chocolate’ to Kaitlin,
an agent/promoter kid he’d met in L.A. She added the whole Victorian image bit,
and I’ve been wearing those damned wigs and corsets ever since.”

“And the candy stores? Were
those her idea, too?”

“No. Burt pushed for that.
Personally, I don’t give a hoot about having stores in every mall on the West Coast,
but... nobody thought to ask me whether I wanted them.”

Savannah watched as yet
another wall of her fantasy casde in the clouds crumbled before her eyes. Lady
Eleanor didn’t care about her own shops? The ladies in their long dresses,
serving bits of heaven in tiny pink bags or shiny silver and gold boxes?

“What about the Raspberry
Delights or the Lemon Crème Parfaits?” Savannah said, trying to keep her voice
from trembling. “Aren’t those, you know, your own creations?”

“Oh, please. Burt hired
some pipsqueak kid from a New York City gourmet cooking school to come up with
that crap. But, of course, if you repeat any of what I’m saying, I’ll deny it
and sue you.”

“Of course. Don’t worry;
I’m discreet.” Devastated, she thought, but discreet. “How about the recipes on
your cooking show?” She was almost afraid to ask.

“Naw, those are mine. The
only thing that’s mine anymore. That and my granddaughter, Gilly. But it’s just
a matter of time until that rotten mother of hers turns her against me, too.”

Eleanor sighed and closed
her eyes for a moment. In the dim light of the lanterns, Savannah wasn’t sure,
but she thought she saw a tear sparkling on the woman’s cheek.

“Those times in my
kitchen,” she continued, “when I can just cook, and Gilly’s sitting there on her
stool, tasting the things I make, telling me all about her school friends and
chattering on about silliness.... those are the only good times I have anymore.
They’re all that makes it worth... going on.”

Yes, there were definitely
tears on Lady Eleanor’s cheeks. Savannah wasn’t sure how seriously to take this
mood downturn. Was it deep, heartfelt sorrow, or was the woman simply entering
the crying-jag period of her drinking routine?

Either way, Savannah didn’t
like what she was hearing. It had been her personal experience that when people
grew genuinely, truly tired of living, they were in danger of checking out—one
way or the other.

“Maybe you should talk to
somebody, Eleanor,” she suggested as gently as possible. Such suggestions were
seldom met with enthusiastic agreement.

“To hell with you. I don’t
need a shrink.”

“O-kay. How about a
spiritual counselor, a minister or rabbi or—”

“I don’t need God, either.
He turned his back on me a long, long time ago.”

At least half a dozen of Savannah’s
grandmother’s admonitions about the Almighty’s abiding love came to her mind,
but she decided not to share those words of wisdom. Lady Eleanor didn’t appear
to be in a receptive mood.

Another one of Granny
Reid’s observations rang a mental bell as well: “If somebody’s done made up
„their mind to be ornery, ain’t much you can say to talk ‘em outta it. lust
save your breath and steer clear of ’em.”

Savannah decided maybe it
was time to steer clear of Eleanor Maxwell. At least until she was a bit more
sober.

“I’m concerned about your
lack of security measures ‘around here,” Savannah said. “Your back door was
unlocked. If I could just walk in, so could anybody else. You need to—”

“Nobody’s coming into this
house without me knowing it. That’s what the dogs are for.”

“Those dogs, noisy as they
are, won’t stop an intruder who’s intent on doing you harm.”

“That’s what the shotgun’s
for.”

“What shotgun?”

“The one in the broom
closet right beside the pantry door, loaded and ready to rock and roll.”

Savannah shuddered. “We
should talk about that,
too. Tomorrow afternoon, I need some time to
discuss all these matters with you and—”