Sour Grapes (A Savannah Reid Mystery #6) (18 page)

"We'll set up some sort of scholarship, whatever you like, but we have to end this pageant and get the girls out of here before something else awful happens."

Catherine glanced over and saw Savannah and Dirk. "You! Come here!"

"Us?" Dirk said.

"Yes, you. Please tell Mrs. Lippincott how important it is that we send the young ladies home right away. You of all people should know that You saw that poor girl

and . .

Catherine's facade of composure cracked, and she began to cry. Savannah walked over to her and put her

arm around her shoulders. 'There, there. Do you have an office, Catherine?"

"Yes."

"Does it have a lock on the door?"

She sniffed and nodded.

"Then I would suggest that we go there right away, because Rosemary Hulse is right on our heels, and I don't want a picture of you in tears to appear in the

paper. . . and I'm sure you don't either."

Catherine wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, lifted her chin, and patted her French twist. "Follow me."

As Savannah, Dirk, and Marion Lippincott left Catherine WhitestoneVilla's office, 'The Lip" was having a difficult time hiding her glee. "I can't believe you talked her into allowing us to continue!" she told them. "You were wonderful in there. . . both of you. Though I'm a little confused. To be honest, I'm surprised that you were on my side."

They paused at the end of the hallway, at the door leading to the gallery. "It isn't a matter of taking sides," Savannah told her. "It's an issue of keeping the status quo."

"What do you mean?"

"Easy," Dirk replied. "If we have everybody here in one place, it's easier to keep an eye on them. And chances are, we'll keep the murderer here, too."

The unflappable Mrs. Lippincott gave him a startled look. "Are you telling me that you think the killer is here at the pageant?"

"Better than even odds."

Mrs. Lippincott turned to Savannah. "Do you think so, too?"

"Whatever he says. He's the dude with the badge." Marion thought that one over for a moment, then nodded. "I guess that makes sense. You will let me know as soon as you have a suspect, won't you?" "Absolutely," Dirk assured her.

As she walked away, Savannah said, "You're not going to tell her squat."

"I know."

"So, you shouldn't lie to people. Your nose will grow longer."

"My nose? That's not what I heard. I thought it was--" "Oh, shut up. What'd you do, rent one of those stupid, X-rated cartoons again?"

"Lie to me, Blue Fairy. . . lie to me."

rrhe girls were gorgeous; Savannah had to admit it as

she watched them glide, as graceful as princesses at a coronation, past the judges' table in their evening gowns.

The lawns behind the Villa Rosa guest center had

been converted into a fantasyland with a million white

sparkling lights winking in the olive trees and rose topiaries

lining the path where the contestants passed, while their admirers watched in rows of chairs that had

been assembled for the event.

A Maypole had been raised in the center of a

makeshift stage, its ribbons stretching to the ground, the pole itself wreathed in garlands of roses and twining

vines heavy with grapes.

The girls were dressed in every hue, from the most delicate pastel to deep, intense jewel tones. And they all

VV.

sparkled. . . with either rhinestones or sequins, as their budgets had allowed.

Savannah was pleased to see that Atlanta had made a

lovely selection, a simple but classy dress of dark blue satin, accented with rhinestones across the bodice. She had admitted to Savannah that she had stuck them on

with a hot-glue gun herself the night before coming to

California, but the effect was no less stunning in the subdued, romantic lighting.

No one would have guessed that Atlanta Reid wasn't

a pampered Southern socialite, but the daughter of a sometimes--truck stop waitress who was also known as the town's "loose woman."

But Atlanta was also Granny Reid's granddaughter. She had been taught to sit, walk, and talk like a lady since she was old enough to do all three. And as Savannah watched her cross the stage with the bearing

of a queen, she wished that Gran were there to see her. She would have been busting with pride.

"Your sister looks lovely tonight," Ryan said. He stood at her shoulder, watching, as she was, from the sidelines. "I've seen you wear that color. . . sapphire blue, isn't it? It complements your eyes and hers, too."

Savannah batted her lashes at him. "Why, sir. . . I didn't think you'd noticed."

"Of course I've noticed. John and I were just saying the other day how beautiful you looked the last time we

took you to dinner at Chez Antoine."

"You're only saying that because you're 'safe,' immune to my feminine wiles. Straight guys never say cool things like that."

"Some do. Just not that barbarian you spend most of your time with."

"No, but I like him anyway."

Ryan laughed. "I understand."

"You do?"

"No, but I'll take your word for it."

They watched a while longer as the remainder of the

contestants made their appearances. The number of participants had dwindled since the noon swimsuit

showing. Some of the parents had gotten wind of Barbie Matthews's demise and had come to collect their

daughters. A few of the girls had been frightened and eager to leave, but most chose to remain and finish the competition.

Savannah's threats to send Atlanta packing had

fallen by the wayside. Everyone seemed convinced that Barbie's bad luck had been of her own making and was

unlikely to be repeated with anyone else.

Except Francie.

Savannah had been keeping a close eye on her, and the girl seemed just as troubled and nervous as she had

that morning, maybe more. She tripped on the hem of her gown while walking up onto the stage, and when it was her turn to speak a few words at the microphone, she stammered and choked on her own words.

"I wish I'd been able to get her to open up to me," she told Ryan. "I'm sure she knows exactly what happened to Barbie and why. But she's too scared to talk."

"I know. I tried, too, but she was terrified to even have anyone see her speaking to me."

"Did you hear from John? Did he check her out?"

"Yes, he says she's had it rough, been in and out of foster homes her entire life, through no fault of her own. She's a good kid, no drugs, no record, very good grades. She's living at home now. Apparently, mom's got it together for the moment. Her last foster parents want to adopt her."

"Why don't they?"

"There's some problem with the mom giving up

complete custody. Dad isn't on the scene."

"Any brothers or sisters?"

Ryan gave her a quizzical look. "Yes, I thought you knew."

"Knew what?"

"She's Trent's sister."

'Trent Gorton? The east end boy that Barbie dated?" "The very one. That's how Trent and Barbie met. He was dropping his sister off at a pageant."

Savannah thought that one over as Mrs. Lippincott went to the microphone, thanked everyone for coming, and wished them a safe trip home.

Trent's sister, huh?

Now, that was a horse of a different feather.

Back in her room for the night, Savannah took a two-minute shower--a cleaning that Gran would have :alled, "a lick and a promise."

She didn't want to waste a moment on bathing that

:ould be spent sleeping. Having agreed to meet Ryan or breakfast at 7:00 A.M., she was already dreading the 3rospect of hauling her weary bones out of bed. It would come all too soon.

Besides, Atlanta was pacing in the bedroom, impaient to begin her "beauty bath," which she said would nclude special moisturizers and exfoliates, the mixture wing her own carefully guarded secret

She had halfheartedly apologized to Savannah for

.efiising to share her "fountain of youth," until Sayaniah told her bluntly, "'Lanta, don't take this wrong, but don't give a tinker's damn about beauty treatments

right now. I don't have to look good to catch bad guys. Just don't stand between me and the shower or the

bed."

In less than five minutes she had completed all the

minimalist toiletries and

was blissfully horizontal. And ninety seconds later, she was drifting in a pea green, dreamland boat with Winken, Blinken, and Nod.

But then, a bony hand reached out and rocked the boat. It was the Wicked Witch of the East. . . or was she from the South? She had a really heavy Southern accent and--

"Savannah, wake up."

"No, go away."

"Really, Van, wake up," Witchy Poo said. "It's important."

"I swear, if you touch me again, I'll hurt you."

More shaking, the bony fingers biting into her shoulder. "You've gotta hear this. Wake up."

Savannah came fully conscious and realized that

Atlanta was serious . . . not like this morning. Whatever the reason for her waking her, it wasn't something as frivolous as snoring.

"The girls in the room next to us," Atlanta whispered. "You should come in here and listen. I was taking my bath when I heard them, and I thought I should wake you up."

Savannah squinted up at her sister and realized she

was wet and shivering, a towel twisted around her torso, her sudsy hair dripping on the floor.

"Okay, okay." Savannah swung her legs out of bed and sat up. Her head spun, as though both tablespoons of her blood had raced to her feet, giving her a blood pressure of minus zero.

She followed Atlanta into the bathroom where she,

too, could hear a conversation going on in the next room. Apparently the plumbing provided an excellent conduit for eavesdropping.

Atlanta stood to one side of the toilet and pressed

her ear to the tiled wall. Savannah took a position on the other side.

"You never liked Barbie anyway," one of their neighbors said. "I wouldn't be surprised if you were the one who pushed her off that cliff"

"Yeah, well, I don't like you either, Eileen, but I haven't done anything to you. . . yet."

"Don't threaten me. I'll go straight to Mrs. Lippincott and tell her how you ripped Barbie's evening

gown and put drain cleaner in her shampoo."

Savannah looked at Atlanta and waggled her right

eyebrow. Atlanta stifled a giggle.

"I don't know what you're talking about," came the reply.

"Okay, then you won't mind if they check her gown and her shampoo bottle, right?"

"I don't care what you say or what they da. I'm glad that Barbie Matthews is dead. She was a bitch, and I hated her guts. I hope somebody did murder her. It would serve her right."

"I think you killed her, because you were tired of her beating you in contests. Everybody knows you threatened to hurt her after she took the Miss California

Sunshine crown and you were first runner-up."

"She fixed that pageant! She slept with two of the judges. That's the only reason she won."

"And you only slept with one of them, right, Desiree?"

Both Savannah and Atlanta cringed, expecting to

hear some indication of physical violence. Instead, they heard the voice, identified as "Desiree," reply with deadly calm, "I'll bet I won the evening gown tonight, and if I did, it's because I'm the only pro here. The rest of you are stupid little girls who couldn't win a pageant

if you slept with every judge on the panel. And as far as whether I hurt Barbie or not . . ."

Savannah shoved her ear as tight against the wall as

she could and held her breath.

". . . that's for me to know and you to think about. Think about it anytime you're going to say something

stupid to me. . . or about me. You'd better think hard, Eileen. Your life might depend on it."

The sisters stood, plastered to the bathroom tiles, straining to hear more, but that was all. Apparently, Eileen had wisely decided to keep any further opinions

to herself.

Finally, Savannah moved away from the wall and motioned for Atlanta to follow her back into the bedroom. They closed the bathroom door behind them.

"So. . . was that worth getting out of bed for?" Atlanta asked, a satisfied smirk on her face.

"Well worth it. And if you promise not to wake me up again--benevolent, forgiving woman that I am--I just might let you live to see the morning light."

But Savannah couldn't go back to sleep. Long after Atlanta was making z-z-z's in the bed next to hers, Savannah was cursing herself for wasting these precious

hours tossing and turning. But images kept running through her head, disturbing pictures of a young woman falling off a cliff, of someone pushing an enor

mous rock down on her, trying to crush her, of someone leaning through a window and pouring blood and

gore onto a beautiful, rose damask bedspread.

And those scenes were anything but soothing.

Finally, she rolled out of bed and walked over to the window. Pulling back the curtain, she looked out and savored the view. Directly below were the lawns where the evening-gown competition had been held earlier. And beyond the dark grass was a silver sea--the moonlit vineyards.

Only a few hours ago, the estate had been bustling with activity. Now it seemed almost ghostly in its tranquillity. Apparently, everyone was asleep, except her.

The realization made Savannah bitter. Damned job, anyway. She should have pursued her childhood dream-- becoming a caged go-go dancer in white boots and a

leopard minidress.

But another look out the window told Savannah that

she was not the only one awake after all. Right ahead, at the edge of the vineyard, she saw someone walking among the rows, a person whose white hair glimmered in the moonshine.

Why was Anthony Villa wandering in his own vineyard