Just Desserts (14 page)

Paul shrugged and looked a bit embarrassed. “No big deal,” he said. “I’m not that altruistic. I do it because I enjoy it. When I don’t enjoy it anymore I’ll let someone else take over. But enough about me.” He turned his full attention to Savannah. “Beverly says you’re investigating Jonathan’s death.”

“That’s right,” she said.

He shook his head and placed a comforting hand on Beverly’s shoulder. “I hope you catch whoever did it soon,” he said. “Do you have any suspects yet?”

Savannah opened her mouth to reply but hesitated. Beverly filled in the gap for her. “Paul, this is a bit awkward,” she said. “I’m afraid that at the moment Detective Reid’s primary suspect is me.”

His smile vanished as he turned on Savannah. “What? That isn’t true, is it?”

“We haven’t drawn any conclusions yet, Mr. Connors,” Savannah replied as diplomatically as possible. “At this point we’re considering all possibilities.”

“Well, Beverly is not a possibility. I’ve known this lady for years and she would never hurt another person, let alone murder someone in cold blood.”

“Thank you, Mr. Connors,” Savannah said, trying to calm him. Several persons nearby had paused to eavesdrop at the sound of his raised voice. “I’ll take your opinion of Mrs. Winston into account.”

That didn’t seem to satisfy him. What did he expect, for heaven’s sake? For her to give him her word that she would no longer suspect Beverly Winston, based upon his personal recommendation of her character?

“Seriously,” he continued. “That’s ridiculous. If you want to find Jonathan’s killer, start investigating some of his enemies. God knows, he had enough of them.”

“Like who?” Savannah asked. She could feel Beverly tense, but Savannah refused to even look in her direction.

“Like his ex-wife, Fiona O’Neal, the redhead in blue there by the stage. For years she had been threatening to blow his brains out—sorry, Bev—if he didn’t come back to her.”

Savannah’s antennae began to beep furiously. Fiona O’Neal? The love-besot ex-wife with the frilly stationery?

“Or Danielle Lamont over there,” he continued, pointing to a garishly attired woman who looked as though she had just stepped out of a sultan’s harem. “She was in the process of suing him over some patterns she says he stole, and—”

“Paul, please stop.” Beverly laid a restraining hand on his arm. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but you know as well as I do that neither Fiona nor Danielle killed Jonathan. They simply aren’t capable of doing something like that.”

“Well, neither are you.”

Beverly turned to Savannah. “Then I have complete faith that Detective Reid will figure everything out on her own. She strikes me as a person who’s fair and thorough. I’m sure it’s just a matter of time until she reaches her own conclusions.”

“Well, I certainly hope so. Just keep in mind, Detective Reid, that a few false words can destroy even an innocent person in the political arena. Beverly is doing some very important work, and she has a lot more to do before she’s finished.”

“You don’t need to worry about what I say to anyone,” Savannah replied. “I take pride in the fact that I run a discreet investigation.”

He studied her for a moment, as though he didn’t quite believe her. Then his expression relaxed a bit. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to imply that you don’t know your business, Detective. I’m just worried about Beverly. She’s been through so much already.”

“Paul...” Beverly squeezed his arm and smiled up at him. “ ... why don’t you leave us alone for a minute or two of girl talk? I could really use a gin and tonic.”

Reluctantly, he left and headed across the ballroom toward the bar.

“I apologize for Paul’s behavior,” Beverly said as they watched him go. “He and Jonathan were close. He isn’t taking what happened very well.”

“You seem to be doing all right,” Savannah said, trying to sound casual and concerned rather than judgmental.

“Of course I seem to be all right.” Beverly gave her a bright smile, but Savannah could have sworn she saw unshed tears shining in her eyes. “Seeming like I’m doing all right is my job. And, like you, Detective, I do it damned well.”

“I understand you got to rub elbows with the beautiful people last night.” Captain Bloss sat, feet propped on his desk, fingers laced behind his head. Savannah supposed he was attempting to look superior. But he didn’t impress her. As far as she was concerned, all he was showing was that his particular brand of antiperspirant wasn’t up to the task.

“Not enough to get rug burn,” she replied dryly.

“Why were you there?”

“I received an anonymous phone tip in the middle of the night that my murderer would be attending the charity ball. I thought it might be a good idea to go and check out the guest list.”

“And did you... check out all the guests, that is?”

She had a feeling where this was going. “As many as I could.”

“Did you talk to everyone?”

“There were over two hundred people there. I didn’t have time to chat with them all.”

Bloss paused to study a smear of chewing gum on the sole of his loafer. “Exactly how many potential suspects did you question there last night?”

She was starting to get that claustrophobic feeling, like he was backing her into a corner. “I don’t recall... exactly.”

“Let me put it this way ...” He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his front shirt pocket and lit up. “Did you question anyone there other than Beverly Winston?”

“I didn’t
question
Mrs. Winston. She and her friend came over to talk to me.
They
initiated the conversation.” Savannah felt her face growing hotter by the minute. Who did he think he was, anyway, giving her the third degree when she hadn’t done anything out of line? “I don’t understand your concern, Captain. Don’t you know that I have enough sense not to interrogate a suspect at a high-society ball?”

“To be honest, Reid,” he said, sucking a long draw from the cigarette, “I’m not sure exactly how much sense you do or don’t have. I thought the chief made it pretty clear yesterday that you were to leave Mrs. Winston alone.”

“Was that before or after he confiscated my only consequential piece of evidence?”

His smug grin slid off his face, and he jabbed the half-smoked cigarette into an overloaded ashtray. “You’re skating on thin ice here, Reid. You’d better think twice before you go insinuating that the chief of police did something improper by taking that tape. He told you; he’s running tests on it.”

“What tests? I already had it checked for prints. The contents are clearly visible if you stick it into any VCR. This whole thing is bullshit; there aren’t any tests. That tape belongs with me or in an evidence locker. A first-year rookie knows that.”

His face flushed an unattractive shade of greenish purple, and it occurred to Savannah that Captain Bloss was an ugly man, especially when he was livid.

“I don’t like your tone, Detective Reid,” he said. “You’re running very close to insubordination.”

Savannah’s thin thread of patience snapped. “Well,
I
don’t appreciate being entrusted with a case and then being told when, where, and how I can blow my nose while I’m on it. If you didn’t think I would conduct this investigation properly, why the hell did you give it to me?”

“I’m beginning to ask myself the same question,” Bloss replied, lighting up another cigarette and blowing the smoke out his nose. “I was under the false impression that, of all my choices, you were the most... cooperative.”

“ ‘Cooperative’? I’m working alone on this case; you saw to that. Who am I supposed to be cooperating with?”

“I thought you were more flexible, more respectful of authority. I’m sorry to see that I was wrong in giving you this opportunity.”

Respectful of authority?

Oh, okay, she thought, as the pieces began to fall into place with a loud ka-thunk. Now
I
get it.

“You gave me this case because you thought I was a pushover, a wimp who would kiss ass and do anything you and the chief told me to do. Right?”

He gave her an ugly grin that made her want to grab him by his stupid tie with its insipid pink palm trees and hang him from the nearest light fixture.

“Let’s just say, I thought you were more flexible.”

“Malleable is more like it.”

The somewhat blank look on his face told her that he wasn’t familiar with the word. She didn’t find it particularly fulfilling, arguing with someone with a limited vocabulary.

Standing, she reached for her purse, jacket, and tote. “Captain, I don’t mind telling you, I think this whole thing sucks. The chief is in love with a woman, has an affair with her, and her husband is murdered only days after he finds out about them. This does
not
look good for the chief... or the lady involved. If he were John Q. Public instead of chief of police, he and his lady friend would have already been dragged in here and put through the wringer.”

“The chief of police is
not
John Q. Public.” Bloss punctuated his statement by bringing his fist down hard on his desk, sending the clutter sliding and bouncing across its dusty surface. “He deserves special treatment, dammit, and—”

“Yes, of course he does. But not if he killed someone, or is protecting somebody who did. We aren’t talking about a parking violation here. This is first-degree homicide. And even a chief of police doesn’t get away with murder.”

Neither of them said anything—or even breathed—as her words hung in the air between them. Savannah couldn’t believe that she had spoken them. She hadn’t intended to be that blunt, but her temper had gotten the best of her ... again.

Did she really believe that Police Chief Norman Hillquist killed Jonathan Winston?

No, she didn’t.

Did she think he had something to do with it or knew who had done it?

Quite possibly. Why else would he be willing to break the law by interfering with her investigation?

Why else would Bloss be supporting him?

The answer to that one was simple: Bloss would support the devil in a party dress if he thought it would help his career. She wasn’t naive enough to believe for one minute that he was doing this out of loyalty to a fellow cop.

“Detective, I think this conversation is over,” Bloss said.

Savannah didn’t like the cool monotone of his voice or the blank look in his eyes. At least when he was purple or green she knew where she stood.

She had seen friendlier expressions on the faces of defendants in the courtroom, glaring up at her as she had sworn their freedom away.

Instinctively she felt as though something had just changed between them... and not for the better.

“Like I said, this conversation is over,” Bloss repeated. “Please leave.”

Relieved at the thought of escape, she headed for the door. But just as she was almost free and clear she heard him call her name.

“Yes?” she said, standing just outside the door, looking at him over her shoulder.

“Come back in ... say about three this afternoon.”

“Okay,” she said carefully. “Do you want to tell me why?”

He smiled, and she was reminded of the moment when Jaws had chomped off the back half of the fishing boat.

“Nope,” he said. “It’ll keep.”

Savannah closed the door and headed down the hall, but her getaway lacked that certain sweetness.

She couldn’t believe she had said those things.

Oh, well, the damage had been done. She had stuck her foot in the cow pie now. Actually, she had jumped in with
both
feet and done a little jig. Now she’d just have to wait to find out how heavy the penalty would be.

W
hen Savannah stepped into Danielle Lamont’s boutique she felt as though she had just been transported to some faraway exotic land. Not the Orient. Not some tropical paradise. But the quintessential Southern California, New Age, New Wave, Mystical, Magical Experience. She wasn’t sure who was going to pop out first, a belly dancer or a fortune-teller.

A strange nonmelodic music was playing, something that had a weird undercurrent of sounds that reminded Savannah of a whale in heat. She glanced over at the CD player on the counter and saw the disk’s cover:
Whale’s Mating Song.
Yep, just as she’d thought.

Candles and incense burned everywhere, enough to make any fire marshal quake in his boots. Not one inch of the walls or floors were exposed; all were covered with brightly colored throws, rugs, tapestries, ropes strung with glittering bangle bracelets, handwoven blankets and plants, plants, and more plants. The place felt like a miniature jungle ... inhabited by a sultan ... and whales. Definitely weird.

What the hell did Danielle Lamont sell in here?

A beaded curtain was swept aside and the garish brunette from the charity ball appeared. Tall and slender to the point of thinness, she entered the room with a dramatic flourish, bringing with her a cloud of fragrance that smelled suspiciously like “a California brushfire,” as some locals affectionately called marijuana smoke.

It took her a moment to focus on Savannah; then she gave her a peaceful though a bit empty-headed smile.

“Welcome to Danielle’s,” she said with a grandiose gesture that encompassed her domain. She glanced up and down Savannah’s sensible though unremarkable angora sweater and light wool slacks. “May I help you find something ... special? Something to express the
wild
woman in you?”

“I beg your pardon?” Savannah had to admit that the wildest she got when it came to apparel was that tiger-striped teddy from Victoria’s Secret.

“The
wild
woman,” Danielle said. “We all have one, just waiting inside, waiting to be released, to express herself with total joy and abandon!”

Lifting her multibangled arms over her head, she spun around several times. The brightly painted sheer fabric that she wore draped casually around her body floated with her, emphasizing the graceful movement. The tiny bells sewn to the end of her skirt jingled as she moved, and Savannah couldn’t help grinning. A wild woman, indeed.