Killer Physique (A Savannah Reid Mystery) (25 page)

Ah yes, she thought, much better.

It was a nice little fantasy. Far, far nicer than the other one that kept running through her mind, no matter how many times she wil ed it away. The other dark, evil fantasy, where she stuffed her mother-in-law’s mouth ful of crab meat—fake of course, so as not to burn up al that good money—

then covered her mouth with a big ol’ piece of duct tape, and then tossed her out the back door.

Lord knows, Dirk’s put up with your crazy relatives all these years, Savannah, she told herself. Between her sister Marietta acting like a brazen hussy around him to her youngest sister, Atlanta, throwing juvenile hissy fits to sister Vidalia and her two sets of completely undisciplined twins—

Savannah had an enormous debt to pay. And the currency was tolerance.

Suddenly, from the living room erupted a cacophony of indignant cat snarls, fol owed by the rapid-fire staccato of canine toenails racing across her hardwood floor. Wild hissing. Schnauzer barking. Two black streaks fol owed by a gray one—into the kitchen, around the table twice, then back into the living room.

“If you don’t mind,” Dora prattled on, “when we’re done with our lunch, I’d like to bring our dishes in from the truck and wash them up there in your sink.”

“Oh?” Savannah couldn’t help being impressed by this unexpected show of gentility. “You brought along your china on your road trip?”

“Of course we brought dishes. We weren’t gonna stop at restaurants along the way. They charge you an arm and a leg for a hamburger and fries these days. On the other hand, a can of pork and beans and a package of saltines—half the price, at least.”

“Of course you can wash your dishes,” Savannah assured her. “I just hope none of them got broken there in the car, on that rough, winding road.”

“They didn’t get broken,” Dora said around her mouthful of mac and cheese. “They’re plastic. You know, the kind that you throw away after you use them.”

Savannah knew she shouldn’t do it. Stating the obvious was a habit that frequently landed her in a heap of trouble.

But that had never stopped her before.

“Then why don’t you just throw them away instead of washing them?”

There, she’d said it. There was no going back now.

She glanced at Dirk, who rol ed his eyes and shook his head. She looked at Richard, who was busy buttering a corn muffin and paying no attention at al to the melodrama playing out around him.

Dora, for once, seemed to have nothing to say. She just sat there, staring at Savannah, her mouth open.

But it was a short reprieve. She quickly regained her composure and her gift of speech.

“Wel , we certainly haven’t used those plates and utensils enough times to warrant just throwing them away,” she said with great indignation.

She turned to Dirk and shook her head sadly. “Son, you’ve got yourself a very pretty girl here, and obviously she’s an excel ent cook. But you’re going to have to keep a tight rein on those purse strings of hers, or she’l run you right into the poor house.” Dirk gasped and shot Savannah a terrified look.

Savannah felt every drop of blood she possessed rush to her face.

Even Richard glanced up from his muffin and temporarily suspended his buttering.

A hundred hot, sarcastic words fought each other to be the first to spil out of Savannah’s mouth as she struggled to keep them al inside.

But it was final y Dirk who came to the rescue. He chuckled, gave his mother a playful wink, and said, “Naw, I don’t control Savannah’s purse strings. In fact, I don’t dare touch her purse. That’s where she keeps her Beretta.” From the living room came another series of cat hisses and dog barks, fol owed by the sound of something crashing and breaking.

Yep, she thought. Marietta, Vidalia, Atlanta, and all the rest of the crazy Reids notwithstanding—payback’s a bitch.

Then there was another sound, even more disturbing.

It was Savannah’s cel phone, and the cheerless little tune it was playing was “Funeral March of a Marionette,” the theme song of the old Alfred Hitchcock television show.

Dr. Liu was cal ing.

Instinctively, Savannah knew that she had way bigger problems to deal with than a cheap, chatty mother-in-law.

Chapter 21

Savannah felt terribly guilty for leaving Dirk alone with his parents while she worked a case. It was a bit like throwing Daniel into the lions’ den with a string of pork chops tied around his neck.

Okay, it’s only one lioness, she told herself as she drove the Mustang down the Ventura Freeway, heading south toward Malibu. And Dirk seemed to be holding his own with her—far better, in fact, than Savannah had been.

The telephone cal she had received at the table had, indeed, been Dr. Liu.

“Savannah,” she’d said, “you were absolutely right. The tissue sample taken from the skin above his breastbone showed extremely high concentrations of Lido-Morphone. Undoubtedly a lethal dose. I’m changing my ruling to homicide.” When Savannah had informed Dirk, she’d seen the struggle of conscience on his face. He had spent less than an hour with his parents, yet duty was cal ing.

Now that Dr. Liu had changed her ruling to homicide, the SCPD would no doubt initiate a formal investigation. And as their senior detective, Dirk would probably catch the case. Then he wouldn’t have time to breathe, let alone visit at length with his guests.

Surprisingly, both Dora and Richard had tried to assure Dirk that they wouldn’t be offended if he had to leave them alone to do his job. But during a quick, private conference with Savannah on the back porch, Dirk had agreed to accept her offer to drive to Malibu and interview Alanna Cleary alone.

Of course, not being a complete fool, she’d al owed him to believe that her offer was based entirely on selfless generosity. Had she been completely honest, she would have admitted to him and herself that self-preservation had a lot more to do with it.

Because if she didn’t get a break from Dora, Dora might get a break from her—an arm break, a leg break. Or at the very least, a broken nose.

She stil couldn’t help seething when she thought about that snarky purse strings comment.

Keep a tight rein on her purse strings, my ass, she thought. She had been earning and managing her own money since she was fourteen years old, and she’d be damned if some gal she’d just met was gonna start tel ing her how to spend it. While she was chowing down on her 100 percent genuine crab macaroni and cheese!

As Savannah left the Ventura Freeway and jogged her way over to the Pacific Coast Highway, she passed some of the most fertile farmland in the country. At the moment it was covered with acres and acres of strawberries, glistening in the sunshine, as far as the eye could see.

She drove by numerous fruit stands, advertising flats of the colorful berries for deliciously low prices.

Dora would, no doubt, approve.

Unless frozen ones were cheaper. Maybe somewhere there were artificial strawberries for free. Perhaps someone would even pay you to take them!

We could have them for dinner tonight, she thought, with pork and beans and crackers and eat them off recycled disposable plates with broken forks that only have one or two tines left.

Stop it, girl! You’ve plum lost your marbles! she told herself with a mental slap to bring her back to sanity.

Well, you haven’t lost them all entirely, but there’s definitely a hole in the bottom of your bag. It’s a good thing you’re getting away for a while, even if it’s to investigate a murder.

“Cal me just as soon as you’re finished talking to Alanna,” Dirk had told her as he’d kissed her good-bye at the door. “Right now, she’s the only fresh lead we’ve got.”

And he’s right, of course, she thought as she drove the beautiful stretch of the PCH just north of Malibu. To her left stood the gently rol ing mountains, and to her right was the sparkling ocean.

Surfers in their black wetsuits took advantage of the early-afternoon high tides, riding the glistening waves while trying to avoid the barnacle-encrusted shoals.

In designated areas, giant RVs had parked in their reserved spots, while families enjoyed the beach, the ocean, and each other on their quintessential Southern California vacations.

Savannah made a mental note to be sure her in-laws got a chance to visit the beach several times during their stay. She would dig the kites out of the garage, pack up a nice picnic lunch, complete with one-time-use paper plates, and a Frisbee for the mini-schnauzer named Mickey.

Dora should approve. California beaches were free.

Savannah had no trouble finding Arroyo Verde Canyon, where Alanna Cleary lived. Unfortunately, that region of Malibu had received quite a lot of attention only a few months before when brush fires had ravaged the area.

Thanks to the valiant efforts of courageous firefighters, the blazes had been extinguished before any structures were lost.

But Savannah recognized the canyon immediately when she saw the charred hil s.

She had lived in this area long enough to know that wildfires were simply nature’s way of cleaning house. The overgrown brush would burn, the ashes would fertilize the ground, and new growth would spring up in its place.

But nature could be cruel, clearing the land of both vegetation, man, and beast with no conscience and no regret.

Savannah turned left onto the secondary road, with its cracks and potholes, that led away from the major highway and deep into the hil s.

She passed numerous fine homes and even a few mansions—al of which the flames had narrowly missed—as she noted the address numbers on mailboxes and gates. Final y, she saw the number 660.

As she had been instructed to do when she had cal ed to make the appointment, Savannah stopped at the security gate and pushed the red button on the entry panel.

A moment later, a soft, feminine voice, which Savannah recognized as Alanna’s, spoke through the speaker mounted above the panel. “Hel o?”

“It’s me, Ms. Cleary, Savannah Reid,” she said.

“Yes, Savannah, come on in,” was the reply.

A buzzer sounded, and the tal , broad iron gates swung open.

Savannah wasted no time going through. She never entered a set of security gates without entertaining at least a fleeting fantasy of them snapping closed too quickly and scrunching the Red Pony flat with her trapped inside it.

And she never entertained that fantasy without cursing herself for having an overly vivid, more-than-a-little-bit paranoid imagination.

She drove down a somewhat long driveway until she saw, nestled among some orange and lemon trees, a surprisingly modest home.

It was a simple, Cape Cod–style place. Its one beauty was the large porch that appeared to wrap al the way around the house. And on the porch, sitting in an oversized wicker rocking chair was the beautiful red-haired actress herself.

As Savannah parked the Mustang and got out of the car, Alanna left the porch and walked down the cobblestone sidewalk to greet her.

She was wearing a simple white camisole and a long, gauzy, aqua skirt that swept her bare feet when she moved. Her famous auburn locks hung loosely around her shoulders, and her only adornment was the pair of oversized gold hoops in her ears.

Although her clothing could be considered beach attire, she looked so elegant that Savannah felt dowdy and underdressed in her simple linen blazer, slacks, and cotton shirt.

But Alanna’s warm smile quickly put her at ease, as she extended her hand and said, “Savannah, how nice to see you again.” Her handshake was pleasantly firm—the sign of an open and confident woman. And Savannah decided she liked her already.

“I’m surprised you remember me,” Savannah said. “You had so much going on, so many people around you, at the premiere the other night.” She didn’t mention the funeral. She’d have to bring up painful topics too soon anyway.

Alanna turned toward the porch and waved a hand in the direction of the rocking chair she had just been sitting in and a matching one beside it.

“Come have a seat. I’l get you something to drink, and you can tel me why you came to visit me today. I have a feeling it’s important, or you wouldn’t have driven al the way down here.”

“Yes, I’m afraid it is. And don’t worry about the beverage. I’ve got out-of-state company at home, so I don’t real y have time to visit very long. I just have a couple of quick questions.”

Savannah sat in one of the rockers, and just for a moment, she al owed herself to enjoy the setting. The landscaping around Alanna’s home was lush and tropical, with many different types of palm trees, hibiscus, and even a few purple and blue hydrangeas, which made Savannah feel quite at home.

“My granny would go crazy over your yard,” Savannah told Alanna, who settled into the other chair and tucked her bare feet under her. “She just loves her hydrangeas. She cal s her white ones ‘snowbal s.’ ”

“Where are you from, Savannah? Alabama? Mississippi?”

“A little town cal ed McGil in Georgia.”

Alanna chuckled. “Savannah. Georgia. Of course. I didn’t think that one through. But I knew it was somewhere in the South. I love your accent. I had to do a Southern Gothic movie one time, and no matter how much coaching I had, I couldn’t quite nail it.”

“Reckon you have to be born to it. Are you a California girl, as the Beach Boys say?”

“Born and bred in Oxnard.”

Savannah ran her fingertips over the woven wicker on the chair’s armrest, took a deep breath, and said, “Alanna, we have a serious situation on our hands.”

“Yes, I gathered as much. How can I help?”

“I have to ask you a couple of real y personal questions. You can help by being completely honest with me. Believe me, I’m not trying to pry into your life. I’m sure you get enough of that already, being a celebrity and al .”

“Yes, I do. But I understand that you’re just doing your job. And I trust you. Ask whatever you need to.”

“Okay, thank you.” Savannah turned in her chair so that she could look directly into those world-famous green eyes. “I’ve heard rumors that you and Jason were romantical y involved. In fact, if you believe the tabloids—and I don’t—you were the reason he and Thomas ended their relationship. Is there any truth to those stories?”