Poisoned Tarts (22 page)

“Yeah? So?”

“I was just checking to see if the murderer dragged it. I was looking at the paint on the coffin there in the lab, and it looked fresh. I was looking to see if maybe the thing had been dragged here on the tile.”

“O-o-okay. And this matters because?”

“Because we were talking about whether he was shot here or…I don't know, Dirk. Maybe I'm tired, too. We're kinda going in circles here. Nothing to really hang our hat on.”

Dirk chuckled. “If what Dr. Liu told me is true, somebody could have hung their hat on Andrew's—hey, look who's here!”

Robyn Dante had just exited the house and was walking over toward them. She had a triumphant smile on her face.

“Good news,” she said.

“Oh? Do share,” Savannah told her. “We could use some good news.”

“Just that I have an attorney who thinks I can get at least half of Andrew's estate.”

“Tiffy's gonna be thrilled,” Dirk said dryly.

“And of course, that's one of the sweetest parts.” She sat down on the end of a chaise in front of them. “I know that isn't a very nice thing to say, but I'd enjoy getting some sort of satisfaction where that kid's concerned.”

“I understand,” Savannah said.

“Did Libby offer you something to drink?” Robyn wanted to know.

“Yes. But we really don't have time,” Dirk told her. “We've got a lot on our plates here, between your husband's case and Daisy's.”

Robyn's expression turned concerned and sad. “Oh yes, poor girl. Is there anything new about her?”

“Not yet,” Dirk said.

“So, how can I help you?”

Dirk cleared his throat. “Actually, I need to ask you a couple of rather personal questions.”

“Okay. Ask away.”

“Did you, um, did you and your husband happen to have any sort of sexual contact the day he was murdered?”

“Did we what? Did we make love?” Robyn seemed shocked by the question. But as soon as she recovered, she said, “No. We didn't.”

“No sexual contact of
any
kind?”

“No, none at all. Why?”

“We're just checking all sorts of things at this point, Mrs. Dante. We're just leaving no stone un-turned. That sort of thing.”

“Obviously.” Robyn looked moderately perturbed.

Savannah decided to dive into the cold water with Dirk. “And something else. Would you mind terribly if I just quickly glanced through your…your makeup?”

“My
makeup?”

“Uh, yes. Your makeup kit or drawer or…whatever.”

Now Robyn definitely looked irritated.

“I don't see why you would want to do that,” she said. “You've had free run of my home. I've allowed you to look absolutely everywhere and search everything you wanted. And now you want to—”

“Yes, you have,” Savannah interjected. “You've been just wonderful, fully cooperative in every way. And if you could just allow us this one last liberty, I'd be so grateful. Then we can be out of your hair for good.”

Robyn sat there for what seemed like a year, staring at her with those big blue eyes that suddenly, didn't look all that friendly. But finally, she said, “Okay. I keep my makeup in the master bedroom's bath—in the cabinet by the mirror, top drawer on the left. Help yourself.”

Savannah jumped up, eager to get going before Robyn changed her mind. “Thank you, Robyn,” she said, “so much.”

 

Ten minutes later, Savannah was back.

Dirk was where she had left him, sitting in the chair. But Robyn was pacing back and forth on the other side of the pool, talking on her cell phone.

“Another call from her attorney,” he told Savannah as she sat down next to him. “Find anything?”

“Nope. She's totally a pastel and natural tones sorta gal. Not a red, let alone dark red, in sight.” She glanced around to see if anyone was within earshot, then added, “I also took a look in Tiffany's stuff.”

Dirk gave her a disgusted look and shuddered.

“I know,” she said. “Major ick factor. But when you've been in this business as long as we have…you learn to expect the worst from people.”

“And you're seldom disappointed.”

His cell phone rang. He answered it and said to Savannah, “It's Ryan.” He continued his short conversation and when he hung up, told her, “They interviewed that gal at the travel agency, Marilee. She said Andrew didn't buy any ticket to London. And that trip to Amsterdam four months ago, he had a companion.”

“Oh yeah? Who?”

He nodded toward Robyn. “Her.”

“No way. But she said he went alone.”

“Apparently, he didn't. Two tickets. One for Andrew Dante and the other for Robyn Dante.”

“Well, that's a jackass of a different color.”

Robyn had finished her phone call and was walking back to their side of the pool.

“I guess we'll just have to ask her about that one,” Dirk said.

“Yes, you do that. She's probably still mad at me for going through her makeup. You have no idea what an invasion of privacy that is to a woman. Look through my knickers drawer, but keep your hands off my mascara.”

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Robyn asked Savannah with a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

“No, I didn't,” Savannah told her. “And that's a good thing.”

“But I have a question for you,” Dirk said. “About that trip to Amsterdam in June that Andrew took.”

“Yes?”

“With you.”

“No, I didn't go that time. I stayed home.”

“Not according to your travel agent.”

“What?”

Dirk gave her a long, hard look. “You're Robyn Dante, aren't you? There were two tickets bought for that trip. One for Andrew and one for Robyn.”

Robyn sat down abruptly on the chaise, as though her legs had suddenly given out beneath her. She looked over at Savannah, tears welling in her eyes. “I told you,” she said, her voice shaking. “I told you that's when it started.”

“The affair?”

“Yes. He did what we used to do. He booked her ticket under his wife's name. Hell, he probably got her a fake passport, too.”

“Fake passport?” Dirk perked up.

“Too?” Savannah asked.

“Yeah. Andrew knew this guy in Hollywood who makes fake passports and sells them out of the back room of his tattoo parlor.”

“What's the guy's name?” Dirk asked, already digging out his notebook and pen.

“Tank.”

“Tank?”

“Yes, that's what Andrew called him. I'm not likely to forget a name like that.”

“What's the name of the tattoo parlor?”

“Can't forget that one, either. Inky Dinky Do Tattoo. It's on Sunset Boulevard a few blocks north of Whisky a Go Go.”

This time, it was Savannah's phone that rang. She was annoyed by the interruption until she saw on the caller ID that it was Pam O'Neil.

“It's Daisy's mom,” she told them.

The moment she said, “Hello,” she could hear the woman crying hysterically on the other end. She braced herself for the worst news possible.

“Savannah!”

“Yes?”

“She's alive!”

“Daisy's alive?” Savannah jumped up from her chair. “Oh, Pam! That's wonderful! Did she call you? Is she home?”

“No, Daisy didn't call, but someone did. Someone called me just a couple of minutes ago and told me that they've talked to her.”

“Someone you know? A family member? A friend?”

“No, a stranger. She wouldn't leave her name, but she told me that she saw me on TV. She said she felt so sorry for me that she had to call me and tell me that my little girl is okay. Isn't that fantastic?”

Savannah felt her mood plummet as fast as it had soared. But she tried not to sound too disappointed when she said, “Tell me what she said, Pam, every word. Try to remember it exactly, okay?”

Pam calmed down a bit as she recited the conversation. “This woman called, and the caller ID said ‘unavailable,' but it showed the number. Anyway, she asked if I was Pam O'Neil. And when I said I was, she said, ‘You don't know me. But I saw you on TV earlier today, and I just felt so sorry for you. I know that your daughter is okay.' When I asked her how she knew that, she told me she wasn't at liberty to say but that she has heard from Daisy and will be seeing her sometime soon. She said she's a mother herself and knows how I must be hurting. She promised to talk to Daisy when she sees her and convince her to give me a call.”

“Wow,” Savannah said, her head reeling.

Dirk was on his feet, too, his face against the other side of her phone, listening.

“Get the number,” he told Savannah. “Tell her to give you the phone number that was on the caller ID.”

Savannah did as he said and wrote it down when Pam read it off to her.

“This is good news, isn't it?” Pam said. “This is what I've been praying for, right?”

“It sounds promising, Pam. It does,” Savannah told her, walking that fine line between breaking her heart and offering too much false hope. Lunatics called victims' families all the time, some with horrible intentions and some well-intentioned but hurtful, all the same.

“Do you think Daisy will call me? Do you think this woman is really in touch with her?”

“We're not going to wait for her to call, Pam,” Savannah said. “We're going to go ahead and follow up on it, starting with this phone number. We'll find out who made the call and talk to them if we can. I'll keep you posted.”

They said their good-byes as Savannah reminded her, once again, to call anytime with anything.

Dirk was already on the phone, calling the station, to give them the number. He waited on hold, tapping his foot impatiently, as they processed the number.

“What do you think?” Savannah whispered to him.

“I think I've been on hold here for way too long.”

“I mean, about this call.”

“Could be legit. Could be a crackpot. Should know pretty soon.” He held up one hand. “Wait. They're back. Yeah. You got it? Great. Oh, a phone booth. Where? Okay, thanks.”

He hung up and said to Savannah, “It's a phone booth at Main and Blanche Streets.”

“I know that corner. The phone is in front of a convenience store, and the owner's a buddy of mine.”

Dirk nodded to Robyn. “Gotta go. Thanks a lot.”

“Good luck,” Robyn said. “I do hope you find her.”

But Savannah and Dirk were already on their way.

“H
ey, Red! What's shakin', sugar?” Savannah asked the convenience store owner as she and Dirk walked up to the counter.

He set aside the box of frankfurters he was putting on the rotisserie and hurried around the counter to give her a big hug. “Savannah! Hey, girl! What have you been up to?” Seeing that she was with Dirk, he added less enthusiastically, “Ah…hanging out with What's His Face here.”

Red McMurtry wasn't a redhead anymore. Far from it, in fact. His thick fox mane was now a lot thinner and all white. But Savannah remembered when he had been young and feisty enough to chase her around the store.

Games of Keep Away were as long gone as his red hair, but the sparkle in his eyes told her he remembered as well as she did.

Savannah didn't like it when her favorite people got older. It reminded her that none of them were going to last forever.

Today, in honor of the holiday, Red was dressed like a clown with striped, baggy pants, a lime green shirt, and a round red nose.

“I need your help,” she told him.

“An ice cream bar? Help yourself. It's on the house.”

“No, thanks. Another time maybe. I have to ask you an important question,” she said. Trying to be serious while questioning a clown wasn't the easiest thing to do.

“Okay. What is it?” he asked, pulling a white paper rose from one of his pants pockets and presenting it to her.

“Do you remember seeing somebody use that phone there in front of your store today? Maybe about a half hour or forty-five minutes ago?”

He glanced through the window at the pay phone that was less than ten feet from his store's front door.

“Well, yeah,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I did notice somebody using it. Somebody who comes in here all the time, but she's never used it before. I thought it was a little weird since I know she carries a cell phone with her. She's a regular customer, and it's always ringing when she's in here.”

“Great! Do you know her name?”

He shook his head. “No. I never heard her name. But she comes in here every afternoon to get a yogurt and a piece of fruit. Says it's her afternoon snack.”

“Do you know if she lives around here?”

“I don't think she does. But she works right across the street.”

Savannah's pulse rate jumped. “Really? Are you sure?” She hurried to the front of the store and looked out the window at the large brick building across the street.

“Sure, I'm sure,” he said. “I've watched her walk out of there many times on her way here. And I see her go back. She works there at the clinic.”

Savannah knew the clinic all too well. More than once as a cop, she and others had been called to the property because of protestors picketing outside.

The clinic specialized in women's health issues: birth control, gynecological conditions, and obstetrics. But they also performed abortions at the clinic, and that drew the occasional crowd of demonstrators.

She turned and looked at Dirk. The expression on his face told her that he was thinking the same thing she was. If Daisy had contacted a woman working in that clinic—maybe even scheduled an abortion—the woman would not have been able, legally, to tell Daisy's mother that.

There appeared to be hope, after all, that the caller was something other than a crackpot.

“What does this lady look like?” Savannah asked Red.

“Kind of average. On the short side, voluptuous.”

“Like me?” she asked with a grin.

“No, more voluptuous than you, mostly around her hips. Maybe fifty-five or sixty. Short gray hair. She's wearing a bright orange dress today. You know, in honor of the day. Sorta looks like a pumpkin, but I wouldn't want her to know I said that.”

“Thank you, Red,” she said as she walked back to him and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “You're the best, and I love you!”

“I love you, too, pretty lady,” Red returned, beaming. He bent over and planted a kiss on her cheek, leaving some of his grease paint behind.

“I don't love you,” Dirk told him, “but thanks.”

“Yeah, you're welcome. I guess.”

When Savannah and Dirk were back in the Buick, she said, “It makes sense, considering the pregnancy test box I found. Daisy certainly wouldn't be the first girl to run away from home after finding out she was pregnant.”

Dirk grunted. “I don't even know how I feel about this. I mean, I'm happy if that's all it is, if she's okay. But if I get the chance, I'm going to give her a piece of my mind about putting us all out like this. Especially her mom.”

She turned his rearview mirror around and checked her reflection. “Of course, we don't know for sure that's what's going on. It could be something else,” she said, dabbing at a bit of red and white makeup that her clown friend had deposited on her cheek.

“Want to go across the street and talk to the ‘voluptuous' lady?” Dirk asked.

“I reckon we have to. Don't know how much good it'll do. She's not going to be able to tell us anything about what's up with Daisy medically.”

“She may not be able to say it in words. But she wanted to reach out, to communicate something to somebody, or she wouldn't have made that phone call.”

“True. Let's go.”

 

The moment they walked through the clinic door, they saw the bright orange dress and the lady in it. She was the receptionist seated at a desk behind a large partition that looked like bulletproof plastic. She did indeed appear to be in her late fifties, early sixties, and she had short salt and pepper hair—more salt than pepper.

She had to be their caller.

Fortunately, there was no one else in the waiting room, so Savannah walked up to the window, introduced herself and Dirk, and immediately told the woman the reason for their visit.

“I believe you are the person who called Pam O'Neil today,” she told her. When the woman looked shocked and alarmed, Savannah quickly added, “Don't worry. It's okay. In fact, I think that was a very compassionate thing to do. And I realize it wasn't easy for you, under the circumstances.”

The woman glanced around frantically and whispered, “Please! You're going to make me lose my job. My daughter's in the hospital, and I'm taking care of my grandchildren. I can't get fired! I just can't!”

“I understand,” Savannah said. “And if anybody comes in, we're just here to pick up some birth control, okay?”

Dirk chuckled behind her, but the woman nodded and seemed to relax a little.

“I know there are certain things that you can't tell me,” Savannah said, “but can you at least verify that you've been in contact with Daisy O'Neil, our missing girl?”

The woman bit her lower lip, then said, “I really can't discuss any particular patient. That would be unethical.”

Savannah nodded. “I see. So, if…say…somebody, anybody at all, were to want an abortion, they could just call in and schedule one?”

The receptionist looked behind her and down a hallway, checking to make sure it was empty.

“If,” she said, “somebody, anybody wanted an abortion, they would have to come in for a consultation first, be evaluated by one of our staff psychologists. Then, if that went okay, they'd be scheduled for the procedure.”

“I see. And when they came in for their consultation, that would probably be the first time you actually saw them in person. Before that, it might just be phone contact.”

The woman leaned forward in her chair, locked eyes with Savannah, and said, “Yes. If someone wanted an abortion, they might have called, say, several weeks ago and set up the consultation appointment for maybe this afternoon or this evening.”

“I understand. And is there any particular time you would recommend…this afternoon or this evening?”

A door in the hallway opened, and a man in a white smock walked into the office area near the receptionist's desk. He glanced Savannah's way and said, “Hello. May we help you?”

Savannah stuck her hand into a fish bowl on the counter and scooped up a handful of individually packaged condoms. “Just came in for our weekly supply,” she said brightly. “Thanks a lot.”

Taking a grinning Dirk by the arm, she marched him toward the door. “Thanks again,” she said over her shoulder as they exited the building.

“How many of those do you have there?” Dirk asked as they returned to the car.

She glanced down at her hand, which was brimming with prophylactics. “Oh, I'd say a dozen at least.”

“A week's supply, huh?” he said, laughing.

“Hey, boy, I thought I'd make you look good. That guy in there may be a successful physician, but right now, he's wishing he was you!”

“Hell,” Dirk said, opening the car door for her, “right now,
I
wish I was me!”

 

Having called Ryan and John and asked them to surveil the clinic for the afternoon, Savannah and Dirk took off for Hollywood and the famous—or perhaps, infamous—Sunset Boulevard.

Once a Native American trail, the 26-mile-long boulevard stretched from the Pacific Ocean to downtown Los Angeles. And if visitors to sunny Southern California traveled the entire distance, they would pass through such illustrious areas as the Pacific Palisades, Brentwood, Westwood, Bel Air, Beverly Hills, Echo Park, and Chinatown.

But Savannah and Dirk weren't interested in doing the tourist thing. They took the Pacific Coast Highway south from San Carmelita and turned inland on Sunset. And they only went as far as West Hollywood and Tank's Inky Dinky Do Tattoo Parlor.

For some reason, Savannah had pictured Tank as a white guy, seriously tattooed himself, wearing a tank top with some sort of rock band's logo on it, maybe an under shave haircut, and lots of studs bristling from his body.

He didn't disappoint.

What she hadn't anticipated, because she kept forgetting it was Halloween, were the enormous and amazingly real-looking fangs that showed quite clearly when he spoke.

It all seemed a bit adolescent for a guy who had to be forty-five, if he was a day.

“Whaddyawant?” he mumbled when they walked in.

“Tank, right?” Dirk asked.

He hesitated before 'fessing up to his own identity. Finally, he said, “Uh, yeah. I guess. Why?”

“We gotta talk.” Dirk flipped his badge out and motioned with a nod of his head toward the back room. “Now.”

With even greater reluctance, Tank led them into the back room where the tattooing was done.

Savannah had been in quite a few tattoo parlors during the course of her career, and many of them were as spotless and professional as a doctor's office.

Tank's wasn't one of those.

Of course, the walls were littered with the obligatory tattoo art designs, but Tank seemed to specialize in the grotesque and sexual. She saw a lot more reptilian monsters entwining themselves around buxom maidens in skimpy chain mail bikinis than butterflies, hearts, or unicorns.

The chairs where patrons would sit to receive their particular staining looked like they would benefit from a good cleaning. And the myriad bottles lining shelf after shelf were dusty and disorganized.

Something told her that Tank didn't do a lot of tattooing in his parlor.

Dirk got right down to his interview without preamble or foreplay. “I hear you sell bogus passports in here, dude.”

“I do not! Who told you that—”

“Oh, shut up. I don't have the time to mess with you, so don't even start that shit. You've made up a couple of passports for a guy named Andrew Dante and—”

“Hey, man, I saw on TV that the dude was murdered. I didn't have nothin' to do with that! I'm a good guy. Just white-collar type crime. I don't kill nobody.”

Dirk leaned far into Tank's personal space and said, “I never said you did. Although, that's certainly something I'll have to check into if you don't tell me what I need to know right now.”

Tank mulled that over for a minute. “Um, well…what do you wanna know?”

“The passport you did for him, around last June sometime…”

“Yeah? I mean, I'm not saying I did, but if I did…?

“You put the name Robyn Dante on it.”

Tank gave a half nod.

“And somebody's picture. Somebody's besides Robyn Dante's, that is.”

“Hey, I don't know who it was. Dude brought the gal in, we took the shot, and I did…well…what he paid me to do. That was it.”

“You know it wasn't Robyn Dante he brought in here. Who was it?”

“I'm telling you, I don't know! She was just this chick. She was all over him, so I guess it was his girlfriend.”

“Describe her.”