Just Desserts (18 page)

“First of all,” Beverly began without preamble, “I want you to know I think it is deplorable that you were terminated, and I’ve told Norman so in no uncertain terms.”

“Thank you,” Savannah said, studying the woman’s face. She looked sincere enough, for all the good it did Savannah.

“And, if you’ll help me, I promise to do everything in my power to see that you’re reinstated.” She paused and stared down at her hands, which were folded demurely in her lap. “To be honest, I’ll do everything I can, whether you help me or not. I feel really horrible about what’s happened to you.”

Savannah was touched by her obvious concern, but even if the councilwoman could pull strings and get her her job back, she wasn’t sure she wanted it.

“I appreciate your offer,” she said. “But I make it a practice not to foist myself off on anyone who isn’t pleased to have my company. I don’t think I want to work for the SCPD anymore, even if you could arrange it. I’m sorry; I don’t want to appear ungrateful.”

Beverly looked disappointed but nodded her understanding. “Neither would I. They’ve treated you very badly. You deserve much better.”

“Well, it appears I’m going to have lots of free time to find better,” Savannah said, only half panicked. “Meanwhile, how can I help you?”

“I want you to continue to investigate the case.”

Savannah hesitated, confused. “I’d like to, but ...”

“Then do it, unofficially, on my behalf. I’ll pay you whatever you feel your services are worth and, of course, all your expenses.”

“Do you mean you want to hire me as a private investigator?”

“That’s exactly right.” Leaning toward her, Beverly Winston looked Savannah squarely in the eye, and Savannah could see the depth of her pain and frustration. “Savannah, I didn’t kill Jonathan. I don’t know who did. And I need to know.”

She sighed and leaned back against the sofa, her personality suddenly deflated. “I don’t know if you believe me or not, but it’s true. In my own way I really did love Jonathan. I had fallen out of love with him long ago, but I will always have a deep affection for him. The person who did this horrible thing to him has to be caught and punished. Will you help me?”

Savannah began to weigh mentally the pros against the cons. A private investigator. In all the years she had been in law enforcement the thought had never once crossed her mind.

“How about the police?” Savannah asked. “They’ll be continuing their investigation and—”

“They think I did it, or had it done. Even Norman thinks so. That’s why you were fired, Savannah; because they were afraid you were going to nail me. They’re going to conduct this investigation in the most politically correct manner possible. And that may or may not lead them to the truth. I can’t take that chance. That’s why I need you.”

When Savannah didn’t respond Beverly leaned over and placed her hand on Savannah’s forearm. Savannah was surprised at the degree of energy that radiated from the woman, warming her with just a touch.

“Please, Savannah. Please do this for me.”

Savannah smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “Oh well, sure. What the hell? It’s not like I had anything planned for the next twenty years.”

Fiona O’Neal had once been a beauty, but it hadn’t been last week ... last year ... or any time in recent history. Savannah watched the woman from the other side of the smoke-choked bar as she finished performing her second set of the evening. Her choice of material had been predictably cliché, the usual Top Forty. But she had delivered each song in her own throaty, bluesy style that made the most simplistic lyrics sound deliciously sensual and provocative. Her hand and body movements were infinitely graceful and seductive.

Glancing around the bar, Savannah could see that the singer’s melodic aphrodisiac was working its magic on male and female alike. Some of the guys in this place were definitely going to get lucky tonight.

With her shimmering, waist-length red hair and slight figure, Fiona looked much younger from a distance than up close, Savannah realized when the singer walked past her table on the way to the rest room. Her pale complexion, with its sprinkling of freckles, was as Irish as her brilliant, cobalt blue eyes. But her skin also showed the wear-and-tear of a life lived hard. A life that would probably end early unless its habits were amended pretty soon.

As Savannah waited for Fiona to leave the rest room, she took a sip of her virgin margarita and tried not to grimace; it just wasn’t the same without the tequila. But, although she was no longer a cop and didn’t have to abide by the department’s policies, she couldn’t throw aside years of discipline and allow herself to drink while “on duty.”

Wearing a fresh coat of makeup, lips newly glossed, Fiona emerged and walked over to a table in the corner of the room near Savannah. She dropped onto the chair, her stage grace gone, the fatigue showing through as she bent over the generous drink the waitress had delivered: at least three fingers of scotch or whiskey.

Savannah left her own table and approached Fiona’s, mentally rehearsing her new introductory speech. The old standard: “Hello, I’m Detective Savannah Reid with the San Carmelita Police Department, and I’m investigating so and so ...” wouldn’t wash. What the hell was she now, anyway? A private investigator, God forbid? Didn’t she need a license or something for that?

“Fiona?” she asked as she slid onto the chair across from the singer. Fiona nodded tiredly. “May I talk to you for a moment?”

The woman hesitated, then said, “I really don’t like to talk much between sets. I need to rest my voice and—”

“I understand. I used to sing a bit myself.”

She brightened slightly. “You did?”

“Not professionally. Let’s just say that being a world-famous singing star was one of the careers I was intending to have ... after becoming a go-go dancer and a stewardess, but before being an Academy-Award winning actress.”

Fiona took a deep slug of the liquor and closed her eyes for a second as it burned its way down. “How old were you when you were making all these plans?”

“About fourteen.”

She nodded. “That explains a lot. But a go-go dancer?”

“Hey, it was the sixties. Didn’t you want to put on a pair of white boots, a miniskirt, and a crocheted top and dance in a cage?”

Fiona smiled, but even then her face was tinged with sadness. “I must have been a bit older than you. I wanted to wear a poodle skirt and be Connie Francis.”

A momentary lull in the conversation gave Savannah a second to reconsider her alternative introductions, but she didn’t need any.

“You’re the lady cop who’s investigating Jonathan’s murder, aren’t you?” Fiona said, dropping any pretense of a smile.

“Uh ... I was,” Savannah replied.

“You
were
investigating it, but now you’re not?”

“No, I mean I
was
a cop. I’m still investigating the homicide.”

Fiona scowled. “That’s a little confusing.”

“For me, too.” Savannah leaned forward on her elbows and looked into Fiona’s dark blue eyes. She saw no deceit or evasiveness, only the profound emptiness that accompanies a deep depression. “Can you help me, Fiona? You loved the man once; you were married to him. Who do you think might have killed him?”

“Oh, I
know
who killed Jonathan. And if you’d been investigating this case for more than ten minutes, you’d know, too. It’s pretty obvious, don’t you think?”

“Sorry, but I don’t assume that anything is obvious in a situation like this. Who do you know did it?”

“Beverly, of course.” Fiona pulled a pack of extra-length cigarettes from her purse and stuck one between her glossed lips. With her lighter poised an inch from the cigarette’s tip, she said, “Do you mind?”

“Well, yes, actually I—”

Too late; she had already lit up. She took a deep draw, released the smoke over her shoulder, and leaned back in her chair. Savannah could tell that the single thread of rapport that had been between them at first was broken. Fiona’s blue eyes reflected her sudden suspicion and defensiveness.

“Why do you think it was Beverly?” Savannah asked, pushing in spite of the guarded posture.

“Because he told her he was coming back to me. We fell in love, again, and he asked her for a divorce so that we could get married. He told her he had made a mistake by leaving me in the first place, that he had never stopped loving me and he couldn’t live without me anymore. She kicked him out of the mansion and told him she would kill him before she would give him a divorce. I guess she meant it.”

“How do you know all of this?”

“Jonathan told me.”

Savannah sat quietly for a moment, toying with the salt on the top of her margarita glass. “You said you were in love with Jonathan and intended to remarry him. I know you must have trusted him, but how could you be sure he was telling you the truth?”

“Because he couldn’t have faked it. The fear I saw in his eyes the few weeks before he was murdered ... it was real. And then, there was the bodyguard. Why would anyone hire a big, high-priced bodyguard unless they really needed one?”

“A bodyguard?” Savannah pulled her notebook from her purse and flipped it open. “Tell me about him.”

“You haven’t heard about Ryan?” Fiona said with a slight crooked smile. “Well, you don’t know what you’ve missed.” She assumed a brief, dreamy look, staring away into the smoke-filled haze. “I was madly in love with Jonathan, always will be, but I have to admit ... that Ryan What’s-His-Name was the most gorgeous man I ever laid eyes on. Just before the murder he was everywhere, watching over Jonathan, just like he was hired to do. But after the murder, poof, haven’t seen him since.”

“Do you think he had anything to do with the killing?”

Fiona glanced at her watch and rose from the table. “All I know is, he was supposed to have prevented it,” she said, somewhat bitterly. “Looks like he didn’t do a very good job.”

Name: Ryan Something
Occupation: Bodyguard (but not too good at it)
Physical Description: Knock ’Em Dead Gorgeous

Not a lot to go on,
Savannah told herself as she dragged her tired body across her threshold. Ah, home at last. In ten minutes she would be soaking in lavender-scented suds, holding a steaming cup of coffee, fortified with a wickedly generous splash of Barley’s and heavy cream.

Yes, indeed, she thought, there was nothing on earth quite like the bliss of walking through the door of your own little cottage, to be greeted by—

An empty pizza box on the floor, smeared with tomato-sauce stains, mozzarella strings hanging over the edge and onto her favorite Oriental rug. One more step and she would have been standing in it.

The radio playing a station she had never heard, featuring a style of music that she fondly referred to as “that rap crap.” The volume high enough to severely rattle her new speakers, not to mention her nerves.

Diamante and Cleopatra seemed to share her distaste; they sat in her floral wingbacked chair with their ears laid back, tails twitching bad-temperedly. Cleo’s whiskers were tinged red—pizza sauce, no doubt.

That did it! Nobody fed her animals junk food ... nobody but her, that is. The stuff could kill them!

“Atlanta!” she called, trying to be heard above the irritating voice on the radio, who was encouraging his listeners to “Whip that bitch in line....”

“Up he-e-ere,” a sweet voice replied.

Savannah punched the power button on the stereo and momentarily reveled in the silence. Then she heard a splash ... and some humming ... another splash.

“Why, that little ...”

She hurried up the steps, two at a time. The kid was in
her
bathtub! Soaking in
her—

“Wait a minute,” she told herself, pausing at the top step. “Of course she’s taking a bath in your tub. It’s the only tub in the house. Where else would she bathe?”

She gritted her teeth as another pseudo-operatic arpeggio drifted out to her.

“Share, Savannah,” she told herself. “Be a nice girl and share your things with your little sister.”

“Wow, this lavender gel stuff is really cool. I wish you had more,” trilled the angelic voice, followed by the rather rude, farting sound of an empty plastic tube being squeezed for its last drop. ,

Damn. So much for the lavender bath.

“I’m so glad you liked it,” she replied with equal sweetness. But the words had a bitter, saccharine aftertaste in her mouth. Exactly
why
was it her mother had said she couldn’t hit her little sister?

“I was looking forward to taking a bath myself,” Savannah ventured, leaning wearily against the bathroom door. “Are you going to be done any time soon?”

“Sorry, but I just got in. Beat you to it, huh?”

“Yeah, seems so,” she muttered as she turned and trudged down the stairs.

In the kitchen she made several other discoveries that sent her blood pressure soaring a few more notches. The array of empty food containers and dirty dishes strewn across the counters gave silent testimony of how Miss Atlanta Prissy-Pot had spent her day. Eating. Not
cooking,
mind you: There wasn’t a pan or a mixing bowl among the mess. Why go to the trouble of making a meal when there were so many yummy snacks to choose from?

With a lump in her throat Savannah surveyed the ruins of her treasured stashes. The carnage lay everywhere: deflated chip bags, crumpled candy wrappers, empty guacamole and French onion dip containers and—!

Dear God! Was nothing sacred?

There ... in the sink ... lying on its side ... was the soggy, dripping carton that had once held her beloved Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey Ice Cream!

Savannah opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out. She’d definitely have to get physical with the kid.

As visions of woodsheds danced through her head, she whirled around, ready to stomp back up the stairs and offer her sister a slight attitude adjustment. But the phone rang.

She wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone about anything. But, on second thought, she
was
unemployed, without an income, with a new—and obviously voracious—little mouth to feed. This wasn’t the time to play the hermit.