Poisoned Tarts (12 page)

Savannah was sure that this was meant to be funny. But having seen firsthand what misery and suffering they caused, she didn't find this display the least bit humorous.

“Am I just getting old and boring, or is all of this in really bad taste?” she asked Dirk.

“Oh, it's just gross to be gross,” he replied. “Whatever happened to plain old Frankenstein, ghosts, and werewolves like we used to have?”

“I guess with all the gruesome movies around now, it takes a lot more to scare people than it used to.”

They entered the great room, which was now a combination wedding chapel and funeral home. Near the fireplace stood a skeleton bride and groom and an equally emaciated priest waiting to officiate. The happy couple and their wedding guests sported three-inch-long bloodied fangs and Gothic vampire attire. Most of the guests were lying in coffins, lined up from one side of the immense room to the other, like parishioners in church pews.

Four perfectly alive and unbloodied workers were going up and down the rows, adjusting this, rearranging that.

Dirk walked up to one of the least harried of the women and asked her, “Do you know where Tiffany Dante is? Or her father?”

The woman rolled her eyes and nodded toward the door. “Last time I saw them, they were in the library.” She lowered her voice and added, “And that's why I'm staying out of there, if you know what I mean.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Dirk told her. “Thanks.”

She turned to Savannah. “Well, what do you think?” she asked, indicating the room with a vague wave of her hand.

“Honestly?” Savannah asked.

“Sure.”

“I'd say it's grotesquely overdone, grisly, and…well…frankly…deeply disturbing.”

The woman smiled and said, “Good. Then Miss Tiff should love it. That's exactly what she says she wants.”

Dirk and Savannah left the decorators to their artistic endeavors, and Dirk led the way to the library, which was at the end of a long hallway toward the rear of the house.

But even before they reached the room, they could hear raised voices, the sounds of an argument.

“I think it's Tiffy and her dad,” Savannah whispered to Dirk as they stopped outside the door and listened.

Dirk glanced up and down the hall, but no one was watching. They could eavesdrop unobserved.

“You do love her more than me! You do! And it's just so sick!” the young woman shouted, crying.

“Tiffy, stop this right now. I do not! You're my daughter. My own flesh and blood. What makes you think I would ever put anyone above you?”

“Because you do! It's so obvious! She gets a fantastic vacation to Amsterdam, and then you tell me that I have to watch my budget here with my party, a party I've been planning and looking forward to for months!”

“Oh, give me a break. You're already way over budget here, and you know it.”

“Well, I want the best, and I deserve it. You always wanted me to have the best until
she
came along and spread her legs for you, and now, to hell with me and what
I
want!”

Savannah cringed. For half a second, she tried to imagine what would happen if she or one of her siblings were to utter such a thing in front of Gran. But the mental image wouldn't even form in her head. Some things were just unthinkable.

“Shut up! I mean it, Tiffy! Shut your mouth! I'm not going to discuss her with you.”

“I don't blame you for not wanting to talk about her. You couldn't keep your zipper closed, and you ruined our family. Mom is never going to be the same after what you've—”

“This conversation is over. Get out of here right now!”

“No! Not until you tell me that I can have the sword and fire dancers, too. I'm not going to cut back on my party just so that you can send her on a long trip to—”

“All right! Hire your damned dancers. But get the hell out of here so that I can work.”

Savannah shot Dirk an uh-oh look. They retreated as quickly as they could from the door and ducked into an alcove halfway down the hall.

They weren't a moment too soon because Tiffy came sauntering out, to their surprise, with a big, happy self-satisfied smirk on her face.

Walking right by them, she didn't even notice them standing there. And she was equally clueless when they fell into step behind her and quietly followed her toward the front of the house.

She tossed out orders right and left to the workers as she made her way through the Dante's Nightmare, criticizing this, demanding that, much to the irritation of those she commanded.

Savannah knew exactly why Dirk hadn't called out to her or caught up with her yet. And she grinned, confident of what was coming next.

And she was right.

When Tiffany reached the front of the house and was standing in the foyer, demanding that more blood be added to the Grim Reaper's scythe blade, Dirk walked up to her, his open badge in his hand.

He stuck it under her nose and said quietly but firmly, “Ms. Dante, I'm Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter, and I need you to come with me right now.”

“What? You're kidding, right?”

“Not one bit, Ms. Dante. I am very, very serious. Come along now.”

“What? Wh-where?” she sputtered, indignant, incredulous.

“The police station. You and I have to talk right now.”

He gave a quick glance down the hallway, and Savannah knew he was keeping a lookout for Andrew Dante.

Tiffany was no longer a minor, so Dirk could take her in and question her without her parent being present. But Andrew was, undoubtedly, more legally savvy than his daughter, and Dirk didn't need anybody reminding Tiffy about the folly of speaking to law enforcement without legal counsel present.

“What the hell is this?” Tiffany shouted. “Are you telling me that you're arresting me? You're arresting
me!”

A hush fell over the busy household as those whose job it was to spread artificial murder and mayhem stopped to watch the exchange.

“No, you aren't under arrest,” Dirk told her, keeping his voice low as he reached over and grabbed her upper arm. “But you are going to have to come with me to the station. I have to ask you some questions.”

“To hell with your questions.” She jerked her arm away from him. “Just in case you're blind or stupid, I'm getting ready for a party here, and I do not have time to mess with you or any idiot questions about—”

Dirk grabbed her again, apparently much more firmly than before, because she winced and cried out. “You don't understand,” he told her, his voice still low but deadly serious. “You have no choice, Ms. Dante. You can come down to the station right now voluntarily, or you can come involuntarily. But either way, you're coming. This isn't open for discussion.”

Five seconds later, he had her across the foyer and out the front door. Half his size, she dangled from his hand like a limp chicken. Savannah followed close behind, trying to hide her amusement while keeping watch for any angry fathers who might come charging to the rescue.

The workers they passed on the way to Dirk's Buick didn't bother to hide their delight. Most snickered, and a few guffawed outright to see the princess of the castle removed so ignominiously.

However, one more chivalrous fellow stepped forward and blocked the walkway. “Hey, what's going on here?” he asked. “Miss Dante, are you all right?”

Before she could answer him, Dirk flashed his badge. “She's fine. Step aside,” he told the guy, who promptly did as he was told.

When they arrived at Dirk's old Buick, a new look of horror crossed Tiffany's face. “Are you
nuts?”
she shouted. “There is
no way
that I'm going to get into that rust heap. I wouldn't be caught
dead
in a car like that!”

Savannah decided to help a bit. She stepped forward and leaned her head close to Tiffy's. “Sh-h-h,” she said. “He's very sensitive about his ride.”

Tiffy gave him a quick sideways look. He nodded and said, “Very. Very sensitive. Watch it.”

Savannah added, “He could call for a radio car, and it would be here in maybe two minutes.”

“What's a radio car?” Tiffy wanted to know.

“A real, honest-to-goodness cop car,” Savannah said, “with a cage in the back and everything. Just think about how that would look on the front of the
True Informer
if we run into any paparazzi.”

Without another word, Tiffy allowed Dirk to deposit her in the back of the car. And no sooner were Savannah and Dirk in the front seat than Savannah's warning seemed to materialize out of thin air.

A car pulled up near the Buick, and a woman with a large camera in her hand jumped out and ran toward them.

“Oh my God!” Tiffany yelled, ducking her head and trying to cover her face with her long hair. “It's Anna Petroski! She's always stalking me! And if she gets a shot of me in this junk heap, I'll never live it down!”

“So duck, dummy!” Savannah reached back, grabbed her by the shoulder, and shoved her down onto the seat. “Dirk, let's make some tracks outta here. Get a move on.”

Dirk sped away, leaving the frustrated photographer standing in the middle of the street, a tired, grumpy look on her face.

“Oh my God!” was the plea again from the backseat. “Oh, like, just gag me! What
is
all this? Oh, this is just so…so…gro-o-o-os!”

Savannah laughed—she couldn't help herself—and turned to Dirk. “See, it's not just me. I keep telling you, once in a while you've just gotta clean out the garbage back there. All those disgusting taco and hamburger wrappers, the empty chicken buckets, the greasy pizza boxes—it's a friggen health hazard.”

“There is some really nasty junk back here. It's like, blue and green! I think I'm gonna puke!” came another plaintive cry from the rear. “Can I get up yet? Is she gone yet?”

Savannah glanced around. The reporter was far out of sight; they had the road all to themselves.

She looked over at Dirk and gave him a wink. “Naw,” she said. “She's right behind us. You'd best stay down there a while.”

A
s Dirk drove Tiffany Dante to the station house, it occurred to Savannah that this was a golden moment, possibly the only opportunity they would have to question her without benefit of an attorney. Fortunately, Tiffy didn't have a cell phone on her, and therefore, she couldn't be reached by her father. No doubt, by now, someone had told him that his daughter had been nabbed by the cops. And just as predictably, there would be an attorney en route to the station.

“It's going to take us a while to get to the police station,” Savannah said over her shoulder to Tiffany. “Are you okay back there now?”

“Of course, I'm not okay!” was the angry reply. “I'm going to sue you both for…for kidnapping and police brutality and…and…. my dad is not going to stand for you doing this to me. He knows the mayor! He knows people on the City Council! You are in so much trouble, you…”

And on and on it went.

Below the dash, Savannah made a squiggly round and round motion with her forefinger so that Dirk could see it and Tiffy, who was now sitting upright, could not.

He looked confused for a moment, then grinned and nodded ever so slightly. At the next intersection, he turned from the direct route they were on and took a detour along the foothills.

Yes, it would take a long time to get to the police station.

Savannah turned in her seat and looked at their furious passenger. She was sitting sideways, her legs and feet on Dirk's backseat, as far as possible from the landfill that was his floorboard.

She really couldn't blame the girl. But safety first.

“Turn around and put your seat belt on,” she told her.

“No.”

“Yes. Or I'll have him stop the car, and I'll come back there and put it on for you. Tight.”

Tiffy didn't budge.

“I mean it.
Really, really
tight.”

Shooting death rays from her eyes, Tiffy complied.

“Thank you,” Savannah said. Then she decided to dive right in. “The reason why you were picked up…it's quite simple. We just need to know a couple of things.”

“Then why didn't you ask me back there at my house?” Tiffy said, tossing her hair back over her shoulder and rolling her eyes. “I told you, I have a party to put together. The biggest Halloween party ever in this stupid little town. Even
Entertainment Tonight
and
Inside Edition
are going to be there.”

“Yes,” Savannah replied evenly, “but your friend is missing, and for all we know, she may be dead. So unless you want to look like a coldhearted, totally selfish brat, you'll give us a few minutes of your precious time. Right?”

Tiffy replied with more deadly glowering.

Savannah returned the stare and said, “After all, what those tabloids say about you being shallow and stupid and spoiled, it isn't true. They just tell those lies to sell papers. You have feelings like anybody else, right?”

To Savannah's surprise, Tiffany Dante's eyes instantly filled with tears. Ah, so she
did
care what people thought of her. That was a plus.

“And you won't mind just answering a couple of quick questions if it might help bring your friend home, maybe even save her life, huh?” Savannah continued when there was no reply.

Finally, Tiffany said, “What do you want to know?”

Savannah leaned a little further over the seat and said, “We need to know why you drove Daisy's Honda to Canyon Park the other day and left it there.”

Bingo
.

Tiffy was a pretty good poker player, but Savannah caught the slight widening of the eyes, the small in-take of breath.

“I didn't drive Daisy's rust heap anywhere,” she said, messing with her hair again. “I wouldn't touch that horrible car, let alone drive it.”

“You didn't? You weren't in it?”

“No! I was
not!
That's what I said. I said I wouldn't touch it. You'd have to
touch
it to get
in
it, now wouldn't you? Duh.”

“Yes, you would,” Savannah said. “You definitely would. And you're saying that you've never, even once, long ago, been inside Daisy's Honda.”

Tiffy gave her a condescending look. “Boy, for some sort of investigator, you aren't very sharp, are you? I said, ‘No.' No. No. No.”

Savannah smiled. “Well, it just so happens that you aren't as smart as you think you are either. Because in spite of the fact that you gave it a good wipe down, you missed a print. You left your fingerprint, Tiff. Clear as day.”

“I did not! I mean…I couldn't have. I wasn't in it.”

Raising one eyebrow, Savannah turned to Dirk and said, “So, now we know two very valuable bits of information. Tiff here drove the car and—”

“Do not call me ‘Tiff.' Nobody calls me that! Nobody!”

“And we know that she wiped the car down thoroughly or had somebody do it,” Savannah continued, “…and now she's lying about it. So that means she was up to something unsavory.”

Dirk nodded solemnly and studied his backseat passenger in his rearview mirror. “Yep. Unsavory. No doubt about it.”

“And that means she's involved in this disappearance. Probably even totally responsible for it,” Savannah continued.

“Do
not
talk about me like I'm not even fricken here!” Tiffany interjected. “I will
not
be ignored!”

Savannah turned back to her. “For someone who's the number one suspect in a kidnapping, maybe even a murder, you've got a lot of petty rules, young lady. If I were you, I'd ditch the attitude and get real here. Otherwise, this guy sitting beside me is going to be the one questioning you in a six by eight–foot interrogation room with no windows and no air conditioning. And we'll see how you like that!”

“Yeah,” Dirk said, “and I'm not even half as nice as she is.”

“Now,” Savannah continued, “if you don't want to miss that party of yours altogether, not to mention having the press feast on this juicy story about your missing Skeleton Key girlfriend, you had better start telling the truth. You were in the car. You drove it there, and you got into another car and drove away. Was Daisy with you at that point, or had you already gotten rid of her?”

“Gotten
rid
of her? You mean, like
killed
her? You think I
murdered
my friend? You're crazy. I'm not talking to you anymore.”

Savannah reached across the back of the seat, grabbed a handful of her silk mesh top, and pulled her forward. “If you think that you can hurt Daisy and get away with it,
you
are the one who's crazy, little girl. She's got a mother who's going out of her mind, worrying about her daughter. If you know where Daisy is and what's happened to her or if you've hurt her in any way, God help you. Because I will personally take you apart piece by piece. I don't care if your father is the King of Siam. You got me?”

She knew she had struck home when Tiffany turned a sickly shade of pale and began to shiver just a little. “I don't know where she is,” she said. “Or what's happened to her. Honest. I saw her the other day when she dropped by to go over her lines with us. But we were busy planning this party, and I told her to get lost. She seemed a little bummed about it, like her feelings were hurt or whatever. And she left. That's all.”

“How did your fingerprint get in her car, and how did the car wind up in Canyon Park?”

“I don't know how it got there. Honest, I don't. And my fingerprint…I don't know. Maybe I did drive it once, a long time ago, and I just forgot. Yeah. I think I
did
drive it one night about a month ago when we went out partying and Daisy drank too much. I drove her home. Yeah. I remember now. That's what happened.”

“Bull,” Savannah told her. “You're lying. You know it, and so do we. You've got a lot of explaining to do.”

“I'm not saying any more. Aren't you supposed to let me call a lawyer or something?”

“That's if you're under arrest. You aren't.”

“So I could leave if I wanted to, right? I could get out of this car right now, and you couldn't stop me.”

“I'm going forty-five miles an hour,” Dirk told her. “I certainly wouldn't advise it.”

“But what about a lawyer? I want my dad to call me a lawyer. I don't want to talk to you two anymore. You think I did something awful. You think I'm a terrible person. I don't like you.”

Tears began to flow, and she looked like a petulant kindergartner.

Savannah didn't buy it. “Sure, you can have a lawyer present when you're questioned,” she said. “And you're sure going to need a good one because we're going to nail you with murder. If you think the tabloids gave you a hard time when the cops busted that sex–drug party of yours last year, wait until they get a load of
this!”

“I didn't kill anybody!”

“Then tell me why you dumped that car there at the park.”

Tiffany crossed her arms over her chest and sat there, “snorting like a bullfrog on a hot sidewalk,” as Gran would say. Finally, she said, “Look. Daisy's fine. Nothing bad has happened to Daisy, okay?”

“No. Not okay. Not without more details, that is not okay. Where is she?”

“I don't know. But I'm sure she's all right.”

“Did she tell you she was going somewhere?”

“No. But she needed to.”

“What is that supposed to mean? Why did she need to go somewhere?”

“Because she was irritating everybody around her. She was so full of herself, getting that stupid little part for TV. And it was just so wrong that she got it. She's nothing. She's stupid and ugly and fat! Maybe she went away to a fat farm to get rid of some of that ugly blubber she was carrying around. She was a disgusting pig, and if she's gone for a while, good. I didn't want her at my party anyway. She would have ruined it, somebody like her showing up and saying she was a friend of mine.”

Suddenly, Tiffany seemed to realize she had said more than she intended. She leaned far back in her seat and lowered her head until her hair fell over her eyes. “That's it,” she said. “I'm not saying another word until I get a lawyer.”

Okay
, Savannah thought.
Go ahead and clam up if you want. I got what I wanted out of you anyway.

Besides, they were pulling up to the front of the San Carmelita Police Station, and she recognized the bald guy sitting in front of the station in a Mercedes that Tammy would have described as “honkin' big.” It was Phillip Neilson, one of the area's most prominent defense attorneys. He had spotted them, too, and he was getting out of his car and coming toward them with a no-nonsense look on his face and an unmistakable determination to his stride.

A Knight of Swords in a pin-striped suit, coming to rescue the nobleman's daughter.

And neither Savannah nor Dirk needed him to stick his head into the Buick and say it. They knew—the Tiffany Dante interview was over.

 

When Savannah returned home, she found Tammy at the rolltop desk in the corner of the living room, working at the computer, as usual. And Granny Reid was sitting in Savannah's big rose chintz chair, talking on the house phone.

Gran looked annoyed, and Savannah knew the look all too well. Gran was talking to one of the more bothersome of the nine siblings.

Savannah's guess was Vidalia, the one with not one but two sets of twins. She and her long-suffering husband, Butch, were frequently on the outs.

Though it could be Marietta, who was now between husbands and never at her best when single. Looking for Hubby Number Four in all the wrong places could be a nerve-wracking task.

She shot Tammy a questioning look. Tammy replied with an eyeball roll and a head shake.

“'Lanta,” Gran said, “this little conversation of ours is over, darlin'. The day's just never gonna dawn that I shell out a thousand dollars for a pair of cowboy boots. Land's sakes, girl! That's more than I used to spend all year on clothes for all nine of you young'uns when y'all were growin' up. I've got groceries to buy and property taxes to pay.”

Ah, Atlanta
, Savannah said to herself. The youngest one, the perpetual teenager who was now well into her twenties. The last chickie who kept returning to the nest.

Every one of them but Savannah kept trying to sneak back in from time to time, demanding room and board from their softhearted, octogenarian grandmother.

But Gran had gotten better and better at booting them back out.

At the moment, Atlanta was in Nashville, chasing the dream of being a country singing star. And having convinced Gran a few months ago that a rhinestone-studded denim jacket with jeans to match was a wise business investment, she was apparently after another installment.