Just Desserts (6 page)

She stepped closer to the table, where she stood for a long time, staring down at the gray-white arm with its exotic ornamentation.

Carefully, Savannah studied her face, watching for any telltale signs of guilt, remorse, anger ... anything that might give a clue to the woman’s feelings. All she saw was shock and sorrow. Either Beverly Winston was deeply hurt by what she saw or she was a damned good actress. Savannah hoped it was the former, but she reserved the possibility that it could be the latter. Earlier in her career Savannah had been deceived. Giving people the benefit of the doubt night work well in intimate relationships, but in the world of crime it could be deadly.

“Am I to assume ...” Savannah said quietly, “... that this is Jonathan Winston?”

Beverly said nothing but gave a curt nod, still staring down at the tattoo. She took one step closer to the table and touched the arm lightly with one fingertip. Then she lifted the hand, bent over, and placed a kiss on the knuckles.

“Oh, Jonny,” she whispered, “you’ve done it now, haven’t you?”

She made a small sound that was very like a stifled sob, replaced the hand, and patted it once. Turning to Savannah, she said curtly, “Yes, Detective Reid, this is ...
was
my husband, Jonathan Winston. You have your positive identification. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Savannah didn’t reply for a moment, nonplussed by the woman’s contradictory behavior. She didn’t know what to make of her.

“I’d like to ask you some questions, but I can take you home first if you—”

“Home? Oh, no, I can’t go home at this hour of the day,” she said adamantly, shaking her head. “I have so much to do at the office. Could you drop me by City Hall? We could talk there.”

“Are you sure?” Savannah searched the woman’s eyes, but her soul was shuttered. “I’m certain that the good citizens of San Carmelita could do without you for a day or so, considering ...”

“Yes, I suppose they could,” Beverly said as she headed toward the double doors, high heels clicking as briskly as before. “But today, of all days, I need them.”

Looking back at Dr. Liu, who was still standing by quietly, wearing a look that was as confused as Savannah felt, she said, “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll be in touch.”

As the coroner watched Beverly’s hasty exit, she shook her head and mouthed the words, “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Savannah said, then added silently,
I have a feeling I’m going to need it.

Although Savannah had expected a flock of reporters to have descended on City Hall, she was surprised at the size of the crowd. She counted seven news vans—four from Los Angeles—and more than a dozen teams with videocams, microphones, and other complicated-looking equipment she didn’t recognize.

Reconsidering, Savannah decided that it wasn’t strange at all for the press to be here in such impressive numbers. Beverly’s family, the Harringtons, had been pillars of the San Carmelita community for four generations. One of the major boulevards through town had been named after the original Harrington, one of the city’s settlers.

The peaks of the family Tudor mansion could be seen rising above all others at the top of the hill. For nearly a century the sight had served to remind San Carmelita’s citizens that the Harringtons were, indeed, an extraordinary clan.

The last surviving branch of the familial tree walked beside Savannah, chin high, back straight, a somber but dignified, politically correct expression painted across her pallid face.

As the reporters descended on them, Savannah saw Beverly falter for only a moment, then recover and meet them head on at the bottom of the marble stairs.

“There have been reports that your husband, Jonathan Winston, has been murdered. Is that true?” asked a broad-shouldered male reporter whom Savannah recognized by his profusion of perfect silver hair. He was one of the primary field reporters for a major network station in Los Angeles.

Despite his size and intimidating manner, Savannah wedged herself between him and Mrs. Winston. Holding up her hand in traffic-cop fashion, she brought him to an abrupt halt. His cameraman nearly ran into him from behind.

“We have no comment at this time,” she told him sternly. “The police department will be releasing a statement later today. But
this
is
not
the time.”

Several others tried to elicit a response as well, only to be met with the same firm resistance. Savannah had no problem being tough with the press. While many of them conducted their business with dignity and compassion, she found others to be insensitive, obnoxious, and overbearing. More than once she had wanted to feed a reporter his camera, or maybe use it on him as a suppository.

Beverly seemed to appreciate having someone run interference for her. Savannah figured that she was the kind of woman who took care of others more often than others cared for her. With her hand on the councilwoman’s elbow, Savannah deftly guided her through the crowd, up the marble stairs, and through the heavy wooden doors of the old Spanish-style building.

In the entry a sentinel motioned them through a metal detector and nodded a greeting to both. “I’ll keep them outside as long as I can,” he said with a crooked but sympathetic smile.

“Thank you, Jerry,” Beverly said as they hurried past. Savannah could see the guard’s affection for the councilwoman all over his face. A lot of people loved this lady—a fact that made Savannah all the more uncomfortable with the questions she would soon be asking her.

Before they reached her office they were intercepted by an apparently harried and concerned chief of police, Norman Hillquist. One of the qualities Savannah had always admired about the chief was his ability to remain unruffled no matter what the circumstances. She had seen him face mobs of disgruntled constituents, the occasional desperate criminal, and ruthless political opponents without breaking a sweat on his wide brow.

But this morning ... he definitely looked ruffled. He was even sweating, in spite of the lightweight white golf shirt he wore. Apparently he had received the call while on the green. She couldn’t remember a time when the chief had forsaken his game for anything as mundane as a homicide. His career was his life, but golf was his obsession.

“Detective Reid,” he said, hurrying to her side, “I’d like to have a word with you.”

He nodded briefly to Beverly Winston before ushering Savannah through the nearest door and into a supply closet. He shut the door behind them, and Savannah was momentarily confused by the darkness. Then he threw the light switch, and she experienced a pang of claustrophobia as the towers of photocopy paper, stick-on notepads, and adhesive tape seemed to close around her.

Or, perhaps, it wasn’t the office materials intimidating her after all. Maybe the source of her discomfort was the almost palpable agitation radiating from the chief as he leaned closer to her, his breath warm on her cheek. She could smell the faint odor of beer and spices and guessed that he had enjoyed his usual Bloody Mary on the course.

“Was it him?” he asked. “Did she identify Winston?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Savannah replied.

“Damn.” The look of concern deepened on Hillquist’s tanned face and he shook his head. “Okay, so what have you got?”

She stared at him for a moment, puzzled, then glanced down at her watch. “I’ve been on the investigation for an hour and a half, give or take ten minutes. I don’t have a hell of a lot yet.” He didn’t appear amused, so she continued. “Shotgun, three wounds—face, arm, leg. The janitor found him in his studio office on Main Street. No signs of forced entry or a struggle. Nothing obvious lying around at the scene.”

“Have you questioned Mrs. Winston yet?”

“Only briefly. That was my next step.”

“Are you intending to do that now?”

Somehow she got the feeling he wasn’t going to like her answer. “Well, yes ... I mean, she is the next of kin, and—”

“Have you interrogated the janitor?”

“Ah, no, but I got the idea from the patrolmen on the scene that his statement would be rather predictable.”

He raised one carefully trimmed eyebrow. “Oh, really? Are you forgetting, Detective, that the person who calls in the homicide is often the perpetrator?”

“No, Chief,” she replied, trying not to sound or look miffed. “I haven’t forgotten. I was simply proceeding with my investigation in the manner which I felt was most appropriate under the circumstances.”

“The circumstances, Detective Reid, are these: Jonathan Winston has been murdered and his wife is the most influential force on this city’s council—and, may I add, she has been a steadfast supporter of the police department in all of her decisions. This is a small town, Savannah, full of individuals with big mouths. Councilwoman Winston could be destroyed within twenty-four hours, and a lot of people’s dreams with her.”

“I realize the gravity of the situation, Chief,” she said, trying to appear more patient than she felt. Although she seldom experienced symptoms of claustrophobia, the closet walls appeared to be closing in around her, and the atmosphere suddenly seemed stale and suffocating. “I’ll proceed carefully; don’t worry.”

She reached for the doorknob, but he blocked her, his hand closing around her wrist with a grip that was slightly too tight.

“I think you should interview that janitor first,” he said. “I definitely believe that would be the smart thing to do, under the circumstances.”

Savannah’s temper flared. He had no right to interfere with her investigation like this. Questioning the next of kin at her own discretion was her call. Or at least it should have been. Since when did the chief of police take over one of his detective’s cases?

On the other hand, she wasn’t in any position to argue the fine points of departmental protocol, having become accustomed to some of the simpler pleasures of life, such as receiving a bimonthly paycheck, eating, and having a roof over her head and clothing to wear.

“Yes, sir, I’ll do that right away,” she said, too sweetly. “Thank you for your input, sir.”

Dirk didn’t always catch the subtle nuances of her insults, but Norman Hillquist wasn’t police chief for no reason. His eyes narrowed and he moved a step closer to her. “You’re welcome, Detective,” he said with equal sarcasm. “I’m sure I’ll have more suggestions as the case progresses.”

“I’ll be looking forward to that, sir,” she replied as she yanked open the door and strode into the hallway.

Yeah, sure, she was looking forward to their next rendezvous and the words of wisdom he would so generously bestow upon her ... just like she was looking forward to senility, arthritis, denture breath, and wearing bladder control lingerie.

Yep ... boy howdy! She could hardly wait.

“
I
told you... you can’t talk to Hank right now! He’s got a bad I heart and he ain’t feelin’ good.”

Savannah stood on the back porch of the ramshackle old house—no one had answered the front door—and studied the janitor’s wife through the rusted screen. Today was definitely going to be one of those days when everyone and their uncle’s dog’s cousin was out to give her a hard time. The woman was huge, nearly filling the doorway with her bulk, which appeared to be as much muscle as fat. Deciding that she really wasn’t up for another tussle within twenty-four hours of the last one, Savannah donned an extremely patient look.

“I understand, Mrs. Downing. I’m sure he is very upset after what he saw this morning. But this is a homicide investigation and I
must
talk to him ... now, not later. I’ll take it slow and easy with him, I promise. My dad has a heart condition, and I know how to treat Mr. Downing. You don’t have to worry.”

Savannah could feel her tongue turning black, even as she uttered the blatant lie. Never having known her father, she had no idea whether he had a heart condition or not. But it sounded good, and she justified the falsehood the same way she had all the others she had uttered in the line of duty.

Granny Reid was right, though: It would all catch up with her someday. When she least expected it her tongue would turn black, shrivel up, and fall out of her head, just as predicted. God always got you in the end.

“Well ... all right,” Mrs. Downing said, relenting a bit. She pushed open the screen door a crack and crooked one finger. “Come in here and sit yourself down at the kitchen table.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Downing,” she said gratefully, deciding that perhaps sin was such a popular pastime because it often worked so well. “Thank you very much.”

While the old woman shuffled away to summon her husband, Savannah pulled out one of the aluminum-framed chairs and sat on the cracked leatherette with its red pearlescent design. She smiled, remembering Gran’s dinette set, which had been so similar. Gran had bought it when Savannah had been ten, and she had thought it the most beautiful dining-room furniture in the world.

Her memory was also twanged by the pungent, familiar odor that emanated from the bowl in the center of the table. In typical Old South tradition, the colorful bowl contained slices of cucumber and onion, pinches of fresh dill and parsley, swimming in a solution of vinegar, water, and a tiny dab of sugar. Her mouth watered, and it was all she could do not to reach over and nab a slice. But if she did, they would surely smell the vinegar on her breath. A peace officer had to watch that sort of thing.

Caught in her nostalgic reverie, Savannah looked around the room, half expecting to see her grandmother’s cat clock on the wall, with its pendulum tail and rhinestone-studded eyes that shifted from left to right and back with each tick. But the dining set and the marinade had been where the similarities stopped. Gran’s kitchen was always spotless, dishes done and put away, appliances sparkling, and an immaculate white towel spread on top of the dryer below a basket of fresh fruit and miscellaneous sweet treats.

The only food in evidence in Mrs. Downing’s kitchen was the dried red pasty material on the dirty dishes that were stacked on the counters and in the sink. But Savannah didn’t pause mentally to make a judgment; she had seen worse than this. Much worse.