Just Desserts (10 page)

The woman drove away; he did the same, the camera recording both departures. Then the screen turned to snow.

Mechanically, Savannah clicked the remote to stop, then rewound the tape. She wouldn’t watch it again. Having seen it once, she felt as though she had invaded the privacy of two special people. Two special people with a very special relationship.

As Savannah carefully returned the valuable piece of evidence to its black case, she put her emotions and her respect for the individuals aside for the moment. So... Beverly Winston had found happiness and love in the arms of a man other than her husband. And after ten years of being a widower, grieving for the wife he had loved and lost, Police Chief Norman Hillquist had found a companion to fill that empty place in his heart. No wonder he had been so adamant that she not question Beverly until he had talked to her first. No wonder he had been so protective of her.

Savannah had no intention of judging their actions.

But she
did
have to consider what this tape meant in terms of her investigation. No matter how she looked at it, Savannah could come to only one conclusion: with every passing moment it appeared more and more likely that Beverly Winston might have murdered her own husband.

And things weren’t looking so good for Police Chief Norman Hillquist, either.

“Are you sure, Jennifer?” Savannah asked as she leaned over the coroner’s shoulder and stared at the black case and videotape as though seeing it for the first time.

“That’s right,” Dr. Liu said as she flipped off the lighted magnifying glass and sat back on her stool. “There’s only one set of prints on the whole thing. And we have a definite match with Beverly Winston’s DMV thumb print.”

“Only one set... on the case or the tape?” Savannah asked.

“The case. There, near the spine.” She pointed to the white powder dust in that vicinity.

“Isn’t that a little weird? I mean, what are the chances there would be no prints at all on the tape and only one person’s on the case?”

The doctor shrugged and tucked a strand of her black hair into the brightly colored scarf that held it away from her face. “Almost nil, I would think. Someone had to stick the tape into the case. Someone would have had to touch it.”

“Or wipe it clean and then use gloves or a cloth,” Savannah added.

“I have to tell you, there aren’t many times when I see an object with only one person’s prints on it either. Most things go through several people’s hands in the course of their existence. Or, if something is handled by one person, they usually touch it more than just once.”

Savannah sighed; she was tired already, and it was only nine o’clock in the morning. The cream-filled, chocolate-dipped Napoleon she had eaten for breakfast must have worn off. Time for another.

“Anything new on the body?” she asked, nodding toward the corpse, which was now in a drawer that was pulled halfway out of the cold storage.

“Blood tests are in,” Jennifer replied, consulting her clipboard. “High alcohol content, well above the legal limit for driving. No drugs.”

“So, Mr. Winston wasn’t high, but he was definitely soused when he got it?”

“To put it indelicately... yes. He was positively pickled.”

“Good,” Savannah said thoughtfully. “Maybe the booze took the edge off. Anything else?”

“Just the stuff I told you on the phone last night. Time of death, around four in the morning. Cause, the one shot to the head. He was dead before he hit the ground.”

“And the other two?”

“Just for effect, I guess.”

“Yeah, quite effective.” Savannah studied the sheath of stapled reports in her hand, a compilation of the lab tech’s findings.

Or lack of them.

Unfortunately, most of Mr. Downing’s cleaning had done away with everything outside of Jonathan’s office. Even the contents of the vacuum bag were of little use; they could have been a month old. Many people could have come and gone through the showroom in the course of a month; far too many to consider every one of them a serious suspect.

Inside Jonathan’s office they had found a number of fingerprints, and they were in the process of identifying as many as possible. So far they had collected prints that matched Jonathan’s, Beverly’s, Mr. Downing’s, a pizza delivery man who had brought Jonathan dinner at about nine the previous evening, and a few others they hadn’t yet paired with their owners.

Having read that there were no discernible prints on the doorknobs of the building, Savannah wasn’t hopeful that the fin. gerprint route would lead them anywhere. If the murderer was smart enough not to leave prints on the door, he probably wasn’t so stupid as to lay down a nice, clear set on a black lacquer desktop.

No signs of forced entry. Savannah supposed that Jonathan could have let in the killer but she didn’t think so. A shotgun wasn’t easy to just slip under your T-shirt and smuggle inside. Somehow she figured the murderer had sneaked in uninvited. Either Jonathan had forgotten and had left the door unlocked or he’d had a key.

As with all shotgun blasts, there was no single bullet to run through the ballistic tests.

“You know, Jennifer,” Savannah said, frowning down at the report, “I don’t think I’m going to have a lot of physical evidence to help me along here.”

“Oh, well ...” Jennifer shrugged and gave her a crooked smile.“... when did you ever see a case solved with a smoking gun or a perfect set of fingerprints?”

“Only in the movies, my dear Dr. Jennifer,” Savannah replied dryly. “Only in the movies.”

As Savannah guided the slightly past its prime, red Camaro along the curving foothill road, the altitude increased with every switchback, and so did the price of the real estate. She had moved from the young upwardly mobile types past the professional doctors, lawyers and Indian chiefs areas, into the I-don’t-know-what-these-people-do-but-they-must-make-a-helluva-lot-of-money-doing-it neighborhood.

Her poor car was beginning to cough and sputter, as it often did when asked to do more than coast blithely downhill. Besides, she could feel its embarrassment. The Volvo, BMW, and Mercedes areas had been tough enough, but in this neighborhood there wasn’t an automobile in sight. She supposed it was considered vulgar and common to leave one’s vehicle out of the garage.

Long before she reached the top of the hill Savannah could see the graceful slate roof of the old Harrington mansion, rising above the pines that surrounded the place. When she had first seen the Tudor mansion ten years earlier she had thought it the most elegant, gracious house she had ever seen.

Today, as she rounded the final curve and looked up at the mansion, towering over her with its sloping lawns, herringbone brick walls covered with ivy, and mullioned windows, she felt a pang of sadness.

The master of the house, the lord of the manor, was dead. Worse still, murdered. Did the house know? Did it care? She supposed in its more than one hundred and fifty years it had seen its share of births and deaths as the generations came and went. The natural scheme of things.

But there was nothing natural about murder.

Savannah was sure that the act of robbing another of life badly upset the cosmic balance. While she wasn’t sure about all the ins and outs of theology, divine retribution, or karma, she had seen firsthand how much sorrow that particular sin brought into the world. And she knew she would never want to be responsible for any act that caused that much pain.

Finding the ornate, wrought-iron entrance gates open, she guided the Camaro down the brick driveway to the circular area in front of the house.

“Now, please,” she whispered to the car as she cut the key, “be on your best behavior. Don’t drip oil ... please don’t drip any of your bodily fluids on this driveway. No transmission fluid, brake fluid, antifreeze, or rusty water.”

As though in defiance, the car backfired, snorted, and bellowed black smoke out its rear end before the engine finally died.

“Thanks for not embarrassing me,” she said sarcastically as she slammed the door.

After thumping on the heavy, carved teak doorway with the enormous brass lion knocker she was ushered inside by a pretty young woman wearing a traditional black-and-white maid’s uniform.

“I’ll tell Mrs. Beverly that you’re here, ma’am,” she said, leaving Savannah standing in the marble-tiled foyer.

As she waited, Savannah studied the grandfather clock, which must have been eight feet tall, the antique carousel horse mounted on a brass pole, and the waist-high Oriental vases that, even to her untrained eye, suggested an exorbitant price tag. Class. Good taste. Money, money, money.

Must be nice,
she thought, feeling a small jab of envy. Beverly Winston had been given all of this. She had been born and raised in this grand house and probably took it all for granted.

Then Savannah reminded herself why she was here, and she decided that, all things considered, she was happy to be living her own life, rather than Beverly Winston’s. Money didn’t cushion one from the harsher realities of life. In matters of death and dying, the privileged and underprivileged suffered alike.

“Mrs. Beverly will see you now,” the maid said as she scurried back into the foyer. “She’s in the library. This way, please.”

The library... Oh yes ... didn’t everyone have a library? Savannah had one and a half. Of course, they were also called bathrooms, Johns ... poop decks. The library bit was just a joke, fostered by an overabundance of reading materials piled on shelves and in baskets around the toilet.

But this was a
real
library with real shelves and real books, and a blazing fireplace and fresh day lilies in another expensive vase. And, of course, the lady of the house, looking every bit the part.

Beverly Winston reclined gracefully on a chaise lounge of maroon watered silk. In her hand she held a delicate porcelain cup, the matching saucer in the other hand. She wore a smoke-pink satin robe, which was the picture of elegance, but the color didn’t flatter her this morning.

Although it was nearly ten-thirty, she looked as though she had just risen from bed. Her face was puffy, her eyes red and swollen, her skin an unhealthy combination of sallow and gray.

“Good morning, Savannah,” she said, starting to rise.

Savannah held up one hand. “No, please. Don’t get up for me. I’ll just take a seat right... ?”

“Anywhere you like,” she replied, waving a graceful hand to indicate several possibilities.

Savannah chose the end of the Victorian diamond-tucked sofa that was nearest Beverly and sat down.

“Would you like some tea?” Beverly asked. “It’s jasmine. I bought it in San Francisco the last time I was there.”

Usually Savannah refused food or drink when visiting a home on business, but the delicate flower aroma of the tea beckoned to her.

“I’d love some, thank you.”

Beverly smiled, pleased at her acceptance. “Leah, would you please get a cup of tea for our guest?” she asked the maid, who promptly disappeared.

Savannah postponed speaking of anything significant until Leah had returned with the tea and left again, sliding the dark wooden doors closed behind her.

“How are you doing, Beverly?” she asked, genuine concern in her voice.

“Who wants to know?” the councilwoman replied with a half smile. “The police detective or—”

“Just another woman who figures you must be going through hell and back,” Savannah interjected.

For a long moment Beverly searched Savannah’s eyes. Apparently finding the sincerity she was seeking, she replied, “How am I doing? Terrible. I didn’t get any sleep at all last night just thinking about Jonathan... what he must have gone through ... what we’ll all have to go through because of him. It’s such a sad waste.”

“I’m so sorry,” Savannah said, setting her tea on the side table next to the sofa. “I’ve lost loved ones myself, and I know there’s nothing anyone can say or do to make it better.”

“Is that why you came to see me this morning, Savannah?” Beverly asked, a wry smile on her tired face. She picked up the fringed end of her sash and ran the silk threads through her fingers. “Are you here to offer your condolences, Detective Reid?”

Savannah sighed. “Well, since you put it that way, I’m afraid not. I have to ask you a few questions.”

“I’m sure you have quite a few,” she muttered, taking another sip of her tea. “What took you so long?”

“I...uh...”

“Oh, yes, Norman interfered, didn’t he? I told him not to, tried to convince him it was pointless, but he thought he was helping me. You know how men are.”

Savannah couldn’t help being taken aback by her candor in mentioning the chief. She had intended to work up to the subject gradually, after winning a bit of her confidence. But Beverly was acting as though their relationship was a given.

“My, my,” the councilwoman said with a self-satisfied smile. “I do believe I’ve shocked you, Detective Reid.” With a small, tired sigh, she leaned her head back on the chaise and closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them she looked directly at Savannah, and again Savannah was unnerved by her straightforward, open manner. Most people in Beverly Winston’s position were extremely guarded and defensive.