Sour Grapes (A Savannah Reid Mystery #6) (16 page)

156 G.A. McKevett

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An hour later, when Savannah returned to Villa Rosa's visitors' center, she passed through the courtyard and found Marion Lippincott standing beside the fountain, surrounded by a huddle of excited, frightened women. Savannah recognized the tiny lady with lavender-blue

tinted hair and a stack of notebooks under her arm as

Gertrude, Mrs. Lippincott's assistant. Savannah had met her only briefly before all the trouble with Barbie

Matthews had begun and had decided that Gertrude

was motivated primarily by fear of her boss.

Considering the fierce expression on Marion Lippincott's

face, Savannah could hardly blame Gertrude. On 'The Lip's" bad side was not a place anyone would want to be.

Savannah hoped to sneak through the courtyard unnoticed.

But no such luck.

"Ms. Reid, we need a moment of your time. Now," Mrs. Lippincott called out, projecting like a mezzo-soprano singing to the last row.

Reluctantly, Savannah obeyed, steeling herself for a battle that she really did not want to fight in her depleted

condition.

'These ladies are our volunteer hostesses," Mrs. Lippincott said with an expansive wave of her hand, introducing the lot. "We're discussing the best way to break this unfortunate news to the girls. With your vast experience, I was hoping you might give us some suggestions."

Savannah could hear the snide undertone; it was hard to miss. Obviously, Marion considered her partly, if not completely, responsible for the tragedy. Savannah could feel the other women's eyes on her.

She could sense their fear and genuine concern. Some of these ladies were the contestants' mothers. And with everyone on edge, this wasn't the time to duke it out with Marion Lippincott, verbally or otherwise.

"I'm sorry, but psychology is a bit outside my field of expertise," she said as kindly as she could. "My only suggestion would be that you contact County Mental Health

Services and ask their advice. Perhaps they could send professional grief counselors."

To her surprise, Savannah's words seemed to satisfy Mrs. Lippincott, and some of the hostility was absent from her voice when she replied, 'Thank you. That's an excellent idea. Gertrude, get on that right now."

As Gertrude hurried away, Savannah thought it might be a good time to attempt an escape.

"If you'll excuse me now, we're really busy."

"Yes, of course," Mrs. Lippincott said. "But when you get some time I'd like to speak to you privately." "Can you tell me where the girls are now?"

"Anthony Villa has taken them on a tour of the vineyards,

the fermentation room, and the aging room. They left over an hour ago, so they should be returning anytime."

"Was Francie Gorton with them and my sister

Atlanta?"

Mrs. Lippincott studied Savannah intently for a moment over her tortoiseshell frames before replying. "Yes, they were both with the tour group. They were instructed to go to their rooms the moment they returned.

Lunch will be served beside the pool at noon sharp. I hope you can join us."

An invitation to lunch. . . now that was a pleasant

LiJO J.41 4.71.4/1.01.Melv

aroke of luck. At the very thought of food, Savannah's norale rose a few degrees.

'Thank you. I'll try to make it," she said. Then turnng to the other women, she added, "And I'm so sorry hat all of this has happened. But believe me, we're loing everything we can to make sure that the rest of

he girls remain safe, and that everyone's questions are mswered as soon as possible concerning the details of

he tragedy."

If Savannah had learned anything, it was when to nake a speedy exit. It only took her a matter of seconds leave the group behind, cross the courtyard, and bolt hrough the French doors leading into the gallery. klone in the dark, cool interior, surrounded by the picures and artifacts of the ages-old art of wine making, iavannah closed her eyes for a moment and willed her

roubled spirit to be quiet.

Her next step was to question Francie Gorton, but he interview would have to wait a few more minutes, mtil the girls returned from their tour of the winery.

She thought of Dirk, who had the difficult task of inbrming the Matthews family of their loss. For once, she vas actually relieved that he was the cop and she the

)rivate detective.

Tammy and Ryan were still at the cliff, watching as )r. Liu's technicians processed the scene. And al-hough she felt guilty even considering the option, >avannah knew that the most practical thing to do at

he moment was go upstairs to her room and lie down, ake advantage of this five-or ten-minute break to rest

md collect her thoughts.

It was as she was climbing the stairs, one weary step time. that she remembered her famous last words,

"How hard could it be? I mean. . . what could happen at a beauty pageant?"

Someday she would learn to keep her big mouth

shut. . . or so she kept saying.

66 C avannah, Savannah, hey. . . wake up!"

"Wha . what?"

floating deep in the warm, black ocean of blissful sleep, Savannah felt a rough hand, reaching for her, pulling her, dragging her to surface.

"Come on, Van. Wake up."

"No. Go away. Leave me alone."

The hand shook her again, even harder. "Savannah, you have to wake up."

Shoving the offending hand aside, she sat up in the bed and rubbed her hands over her eyes that still

burned with fatigue. In the semidarkness of the room she could see the outline of the cursed creature who

had disrupted her sleep. . . Atlanta.

"Why?" she moaned. "Why did you wake me up?" "You were snoring."

"What?!"

Atlanta walked over to her own bed, tossed her purse

162 GA. Mclievett

Iside, and kicked off her shoes. "I said, you were snorng. Remember, you told me to wake you up if you were tnoring, so that you could break the habit, in case you Ner got married someday and actually slept with a

nan."

"I told you that years ago, when we were sleeping in he same bed with Vidalia and Marietta. What the hell foes that have to do with right now?"

Atlanta yawned, stretched, and sat down on her bed. 'I thought I'd take a quick nap before lunch. Some of he judges will be there, and I wanna look good. That our of the vineyards and winery about plumb wore me

mt. And how can you expect me to get a wink ' sleep with you lyin' there, sawin' logs?"

Cold fury flooded Savannah's bloodstream with

!nough adrenaline to jolt her fully awake. Grabbing ier pillow, she jumped out of bed, ran across the room, uid began to beat Atlanta with it as hard she could . . .

vhich wasn't very hard, considering it was a fine, goose-. town pillow and ridiculously soft.

"Hey! What was that for?" Atlanta yelled when she fiially stopped.

"Think about it again in about ten years. By then, naybe you'll be older and wiser and less self-centered, aid you'll realize how lucky you are that I didn't use a

iatchet instead." She sighed, exhausted from her outmrst "Shit. What time is it, anyway?"

Atlanta got up, walked over to the window, and pened the curtains, allowing a nauseating amount of ;olden California sunshine to stream into the room. the glanced at her watch. "It's ten-thirty-eight. What ime did you lie down?"

"Ten thirty-four."

U kb 163

"Well, no wonder you're cranky."

Savannah walked into the bathroom and glanced

around for a clean cloth to wash her face and perhaps

revive her sagging spirits, not to mention her sagging chinline. There had been four fresh cloths on the counter when she had left earlier. They all lay in a damp, rumpled pile on the floor. Er-r-r-r . . . teenage sisters, she

thought. They should all be put on ice and not thawed out until they're thirty.

She opened the cupboard under the sink to check

for any extra linens, but instead, found the space overflowing with "Atlanta Stuff." Amid the jumble of hair rollers, makeup, and curling-wand cord, she saw two small boxes. Both alike. One of them was open, its contents half gone.

"'Lanta," she said, reaching for the boxes. "Come here, darlin'."

Atlanta stuck her head around the corner. "Yeah? What?"

Savannah held out the boxes. "Are these yours?"

Atlanta snatched the laxatives out of her hand and

held them against her chest. "So, what? Don't you ever get stopped up once in a while?"

"Once in a blue moon. But a bowl of bran flakes usually does the trick, and it's a lot healthier than that stuff."

"Well, bully for you. I need a little more help." "So, increase the fiber in your diet."

"Yeah, right . . . this from the Donut Queen."

Savannah walked out of the bathroom and pulled

her sister over into the light by the window so that she

could get a good look at her. Her skin looked terrible, dry and lined like that of a person who was much older.

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A. McKevett

Her face wasn't just thin, it was gaunt. And in the bright light. Savannah could see that she had used a lot of concealer to cover the dark circles under her eyes.

Savannah reached out, grabbed her sister by both shoulders and made her face her squarely. "Atlanta, are you using laxatives to purge? Do you take those things to keep your weight down? Tell me the truth, dammit This is important."

She tried to pull away, but Savannah held her tight/y. "No. It's just that sometimes . . . I get bloated, you know. Like water weight And if I take a water pill and some of

those, I can drop a couple of pounds right away, and then I look better."

"Look better? You're gorgeous! A little scrawny at the moment, but you're a beautiful girl. Why would you mess with your health like that? Don't you know, you're not just washing away body fluids, you're losing minerals and lots of good stuff that you need to function? You'll wind up in the hospital if you don't watch out."

Atlanta put on her most sullen face and pressed her

lips together until they nearly disappeared. Savannah knew the look: The kid wasn't talking.

"Honey, tell me the truth. . . are you puking, too?" No reply.

"Are you inducing vomiting? Is that part of your routine, too?"

"No."

Savannah didn't know whether to believe her or not. She felt as though her own stomach was doing a flip

flop. This was bad. This was potentially very, very bad.

Finally, when she received no further response, she released the girl and walked back to the bed, where she sat down. . . hard. . . her legs weak beneath her.

"All right. If you don't want to discuss it now, we

won't. But this subject isn't closed. This is a serious matter, whether you think so or not . . . far more important than whether or not you can fit into a size six swimsuit."

"Size six?!" Well, at least she was talking. "What makes you think I'm that big? I'm a four!"

"And you're a big girl--five feet eight and large-boned. It's ridiculous for you to be that thin. You're starving yourself to death."

"I'm not going to discuss this with you anymore." She walked over to her own bed and threw herself across it. "Let's talk about something else."

A bell went off in the back of Savannah's brain, an alarm that jerked her back to the reality that she had

been struggling with before she had lain down for her

all-too-short nap.

Barbie Matthews.

"Oh, man. ." she said, "this is like waking up from a bad dream and finding out that everything's okay . . .

only in reverse."

"You didn't ask me about my tour," Atlanta said, happily rattling on, obviously relieved to have the subject of her habits put aside for the moment. "It was really cool. Mr. Villa took us through the vineyards and showed us the different kinds of grapes. I tasted one that was awful, really sour. But then, they aren't ripe yet.

"And then he took us into the place where they mash the grapes in these huge crusher things, and then the fermentation place where juice rots and turns into wine

and then the barrel room where there's a million barrels.

. . and the place where they bottle it all and put labels on it and . . .

"Gee, I had no idea there was so much to making wine. All these things can go wrong, and then the whole batch is ruined. Mr. Villa says it's an art, making good

wine. You could tell he's really into it. Believe it or not, but some of us girls think he's kinda sexy . . . you know

. . . for an old fart."

"And old fart? He's in his forties. Believe me, when you get there, you won't think it's all that old." "But he's got gray hair."

Savannah thought of the bottle of Midnight Brown-- Color That Gray hair solution under her bathroom sink

at home. "So, silver hair doesn't make a person old or a fart, so watch your mouth."

"Touchy, touchy."

For a moment neither of them spoke as Savannah

considered the best words she could use to gently break

the news about Barbie's demise. Atlanta was a very emotional, sensitive girl; Savannah didn't want this experience to scar her soul.

"Ah, 'Lanta, there's something I need to tell you. About Barbie Matthews, she--"

"Yeah, I heard. That really sucks. . . her going off a cliff like that. You guys were up all night looking for her, and there she was hanging from a bush, like, who knew? Too weird."

Savannah blinked and shook her head. Okay, so much for her little sister's delicate psyche. Maybe there was something to this "desensitized new generation" thing after all. Too much television and not enough trips behind the woodshed. . . that was Granny Reid's opinion on the matter.

"Were the other girls as. . . traumatized. . as you were over the news?" Savannah asked.