A Body To Die For (12 page)

Clarissa nodded. “If Wilcox gets enough evidence against him. That was why he wanted to meet with Bill. Pinky claims he never met this guy named Freddie Romano, who turned up dead in Las Vegas, and Bill knew better. Bill said he’s played poker with Freddie sitting on one side of him and Pinky on the other.”

Savannah glanced over at Dirk and saw that he was practically dancing. “And,” Dirk said, “Bill owed Pinky money?”

“Yeah, a lot of it. Bill said he was afraid that Pinky was going to kill him. Said he’d threatened to.”

Savannah asked, “How much is a lot?”

Shrugging, Clarissa said, “I don’t know for sure. But Bill had owed him as much as $50,000 before and didn’t consider that ‘a lot.’ I’d guess it was probably in the six figures.”

“And you know all this how?” Dirk asked.

“Bill told me. He didn’t keep much from me. Our marriage was pretty much over anyway. I think he actually wanted me to dump him. God knows, he gave me reason enough.”

“Which brings me to my next question.” Dirk took a deep breath. “What do you know about a gal named Sharona Dubarry?”

“Nothing,” Clarissa replied. “I don’t know anybody by that name.”

Savannah thought she was lying, that she could see it in her eyes. This was the second time Bill Jardin’s widow had denied knowing the identity of his mistress. Savannah decided to tuck that little mental tidbit away and mull it over later, deciding what it might mean.

Clarissa didn’t appear to be the type of woman who would willingly remain in the dark about something as important as her husband’s fidelity.

Apparently, Dirk didn’t believe her either, because he gave her a penetrating look—the one he usually reserved for interrogating hardcore criminals—and said to her, “Don’t waste my time or yank my chain, Ms. Jardin. I’ve been up all night long and so has my partner here. I’ve been very patient with you so far, but you’re starting to piss me off.”

Clarissa bristled. “Well, you’ve got a lot of nerve—”

“Oh, you have no idea how much nerve he has,” Savannah said. “You don’t want to be on his bad side, believe me. He’s got a nasty streak, especially when he’s tired.”

“Sooner or later,” Dirk told Clarissa, “we’re going to figure out what happened to your husband. And if I find out that you’ve been lying to me, giving me bullshit information or not telling me all you know, I’m coming after you.”

Dirk stood and walked closer to her. She started to stand, then seem to think better of it and remained on the fainting couch.

In fact, Savannah noticed that she looked a little pale under her tan, a little shaky, too. Maybe she would put that couch to good use.

“You haven’t been straight with us,” Dirk said, sticking his finger in her face. “You wait for days before you even report your husband missing, and then you just neglect to tell me that he had a bookie after him, trying to collect gambling debts—a bookie who’s being looked at for murder. Why the hell didn’t you mention that last night?”

Clarissa started to cry again, covering her eyes with Savannah’s tissues.

“Oh, knock it off. I don’t buy it.” Dirk turned to Savannah. “Have you got a glove?” he asked her.

She reached into her purse, produced an examination glove, and handed it to him.

He shoved the derringer into the glove, then placed it into his jacket pocket.

“Hey,” Clarissa said, “don’t you need a warrant or something to take my property?”

Dirk leaned down until he was nearly nose to nose with her. “Do I need one? Are you going to give me a hard time about that, too?”

Clarissa glared up at him, but her voice was even and only mildly hostile when she said, “No, go ahead and take it.”

“If any fat-assed rapist comes after you in the next few days,” he said, “you’ve got my card. Just give me a call and I’ll send Savannah to come over here to shoot him for you, okay?”

“I’m not going to be here,” Clarissa replied. “I’m leaving town tomorrow. I have an interview to do in New York. They’re doing a television special on me, and now that Bill’s been murdered—”

“You aren’t going anywhere,” Dirk told her. “Until I get a substantial lead on this case…one that doesn’t point to you…you’re not leaving town.”

Clarissa jumped to her feet and shouted in his face, “No way! You can’t enforce that! I’m not under arrest!”

“You’re going to be in about two seconds.”

“For what?”

“Obstructing justice…until I can get you for first-degree, premeditated murder.”

Savannah watched the two of them glare, stare, huff and puff at each other for what seemed like ten years, until finally, she couldn’t stand it anymore. This time it was her turn to play the peacemaker.

“Uh, Clarissa,” she said, “do you happen to have the phone number of that district attorney, the one Bill was supposed to be meeting with to discuss Pinky’s trial?”

At first, Clarissa didn’t appear to hear her as she continued her stare down with Dirk. Then she shook her head slightly and turned to Savannah. “What? Oh, yeah. There’s a business card. I think it’s on the refrigerator. Maria! Maria! Maa-a-a-ri-ia!”

Dirk held up one hand. “I’ll get it myself. Just stop that damned shrieking.” As he passed by Savannah, she heard him mutter under his breath, “Sheez, living with that…the guy probably shot himself.”

Five minutes later, they had returned to Dirk’s car, one derringer and one D.A.’s business card richer, when Savannah had a thought.

“Wait a minute,” she said, grabbing him by the arm before he could open her door.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Chickens.”

“Chickens?”

“There were feathers and crap on the Jaguar’s tires.”

“Yeah, maybe we should have asked her if he ever went to any farms anywhere.”

“Dogfights,” she said. “Clarissa said he liked to gamble on the pit bull fights.”

Dirk looked confused. “But what’s that got to do with chickens? I don’t know what…oh, you mean—”

“Yeah, cockfighting.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Dogfighting, cockfighting, same sort of miserable crap. And from what we’ve heard about Jardin, I’d say it’s more his speed than poultry farming.”

“Maybe the other night he met Pinky or somebody else at one of the sites where they hold the fights.”

“Maybe to pay them, or tell them that he couldn’t pay them, which might have gotten him popped.”

“Do you think she might know where?” Savannah nodded toward the house.

“Let’s go back and ask her.”

As they passed through the gate and the courtyard with its lovely garden, Savannah began to think that she could get sick of beautiful flowers in Spanish style courtyards.

At the very least, Clarissa Jardin had ruined asters for her forever.

She could feel what little energy she had left draining out of her as they approached the door. Just the thought of another encounter with the Mistress of Painful Gain was enough to make her need a nap. About a ten-hour nap.

But just as Dirk lifted his fist to knock on the door, they heard something—voices inside the house, arguing. Two women.

And Savannah was certain that neither of them was Maria.

Dirk froze in place, his hand in the air, then he lowered it.

They stood still and listened.

“I told you to stay in the bedroom when they first buzzed in at the gate,” said the first voice, which had Clarissa’s distinctive shrillness.

“They’re gone. I could see them walking out from the bedroom window.”

“I told you to stay out of sight. If somebody sees you, we’ll both be in—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Stay out of sight. Stay out of sight. Just disappear off the face of the earth. That’s what it’s always been with you. You live like a queen, while I’m supposed to be invisible.”

“You’ve been paid well for your so-called invisibility. For years! So stop your bitching and go home. He’s gone, and you’re not going to find him by hanging around here.”

“Fine! I’ll go get my purse and coat and…”

The voices faded away as the women retreated to the other end of the house.

Savannah and Dirk stood there in front of the door, staring at each other, speechless as they considered what they’d just heard.

“Who the hell is that?” he whispered.

She nodded toward the rooms to the right. “One way to find out.”

“You mean peek in the windows?”

“Sure. Why not?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I’m used to getting a search warrant before I do stuff like that.”

“Well, I’m a private investigator, and I don’t have time for foolishness like that. Let’s go.”

Bending over at the waist to avoid being seen from the windows, they moved along the adobe’s wall, past the living room windows and the kitchen’s, to the ones they assumed were the bedrooms.

When they were at the far end of the house, they could hear the murmur of the women’s voices again, but they were no longer shouting at each other, so they couldn’t make out their words.

Savannah was the first to take a peek into the window. It was fairly dark in the room and at first, she wasn’t sure what she was seeing. Both women were standing in a bedroom. One was picking up a purse and jacket off the bed.

Clarissa seemed to be doing most of the talking, while the other one put on the coat and slung the bag over her shoulder.

It was when the second woman turned toward her that Savannah nearly gasped. She had only gotten a glimpse of her face, but that was enough. More than enough.

“Holy cow,” she whispered.

“No kidding,” Dirk mumbled as he took his own look, then pulled her away from the window. “Let’s go. I don’t want them to know we saw her.”

“Gotcha.”

They made it through the garden and back to the car as quickly as they could.

It wasn’t until they had written down the old maroon Volvo’s license plate number and were driving off, kicking up gravel on the driveway that they discussed what they’d seen.

“I’ve heard a lot…way too much, in fact…about Clarissa Jardin this past year,” Savannah said, “what with all the talk shows and interviews and newspaper articles. I never once heard that she had a sister.”

“And that gal has to be her sister.”

“Sister? Hell, she has to be her twin!” Savannah said.

“Gotta be. They look exactly alike.”

“You know who she
really
looks like,
exactly
like?” she said, recalling the sight of the considerably overweight woman who had been snatching up her purse and coat from the bed. “She looks exactly, precisely, totally like the ‘before’ picture of Clarissa Jardin. You know, the one on all the advertisements…the proof that her diet and exercise program worked for her.”

Savannah started to smile. A wide, toothy smile—like the smile of a barnyard tomcat who had just finished off a big, juicy rat for lunch.

“What are you thinking?” Dirk asked as he pulled onto the main road. “Whatever it is, you’re up to no good.”

“I’m feeling an overwhelming urge to call a tabloid. A couple of tabloids. Maybe even Eyewitness News. This is big!”

“Resist it.”

“What?”

“Resist that urge. We have a murder case to close here.”

Savannah chuckled to herself, just imagining the headlines on the grocery store checkout stands. “All the more reason to wrap this up,” she said. “I can nail Clarissa Jardin with murder and tell my story to the
True Informer
and make a fortune.”

“And ruin your reputation as a serious professional private investigator?”

“You can’t buy Victoria’s Secret undies or get a facial with your reputation.”

Dirk sighed and shook his head. “Well, as long as you have your priorities in order.”

S
avannah had always suffered a bit of a mid-afternoon slump—usually requiring some sort of empty calorie infusion of sugar and/or caffeine to get her over the hump. But it was amazing how such a simple thing as missing one night’s sleep could intensify that sluggish feeling. A simple brownie and a strong cup of coffee weren’t going to do the trick this time.

Of course, it was worth a try.

“I’m not worth draggin’ behind the barn and shootin’ right now,” she said as she and Dirk trudged up the sidewalk to her house.

“Me either,” he replied. “I’ll make a deal with you…once you’ve talked to that Sharona chick, and I’ve had a chat with the D.A., let’s both take a nap.”

“It’s a deal. I’ll stretch out on my bed, and you can hold down my couch for an hour or two.”

“And then maybe you could fix us a little dinner…?”

“In your dreams. You order pizza, or I’ll have Tammy make us something.”

“To hell with that. I need more than lettuce and carrot sticks to keep me going. I’m thinking one of your big, thick steaks, a baked potato, or some homemade fries.”

“Think all you want. It ain’t happening.”

When they went inside the house, they found the faithful, if much maligned, Tammy sitting at the computer.

“Were your ears burning?” Savannah asked her. “We were just talking about you.”

“With great affection and respect, I hope,” she replied.

“Always.” Savannah walked over to the desk, kissed the top of Tammy’s glossy blond head, and said, “We just don’t like your cooking, but we adore you.”

“
She
adores you,” Dirk said as he sank onto the sofa and slipped off his sneakers. “
I
tolerate you.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Tammy tossed back. “And as far as my cooking…I don’t cook. Cooking destroys the nutrients in foods. They should be served as close as possible to their original form. Raw and whole, as nature intended.”

Savannah sighed. “Our point exactly.” To Dirk she said, “Want that brownie now? Some coffee?”

“Black and strong enough to bite me.”

“You got it.”

“Let me,” Tammy said, jumping up from her chair. “You guys are tired. I can cut some brownies and brew a pot of coffee.”

“Won’t that compromise your standards,” Dirk said, “serving all those artificial stimulants?”

“Yes, but what can you do? I live among savages.”

“I’d like to aspire to ‘savage.’ I wish I had the energy to be ‘savage,’” Dirk said. “Bring on the brownies.”

Savannah reached down to scoop up the cats that were making figure eights between her ankles. With one under each arm, she headed for her favorite, comfy chair. “Do you miss mommy?” she asked them as she sat down and propped her feet on the ottoman. “It’s that bad man’s fault. He kept me out all night.”

He took out his phone and flipped it open. “I’m going to call in that Volvo’s plate,” he told Savannah, “and see if we can get a line on Clarissa’s twin sister. It’s just got to be her car. There’s no way Clarissa would drive that hunk of junk.”

“It might have been the gardener’s.”

“He was driving the pickup with all the tools in it. Think positive for once, would you?”

Tammy stuck her head out of the kitchen. “Did I hear you say ‘Clarissa’s twin?’ Clarissa Jardin has a twin?”

“A redheaded, not-at-all-svelte twin,” Savannah told her.

“No way! And you’ve got her plate number?”

“We do,” Dirk said. “Why? You want to run it for me, see if you can process it faster than my girlfriend Kimeeka?”

Tammy gave Savannah a look and snickered. “Oh, I’m pretty sure I’ll get it for you faster than Kim-eeka…even though she has that enormous crush on you.”

“You’ve got it.” He tossed a piece of paper onto the coffee table. “After you’ve put coffee mugs into our hands, of course.”

“Of course.”

Once Tammy had returned to the kitchen, Savannah said softly to Dirk, “We really should give her something fun to do. She’s so sweet, willing to do the boring stuff all the time.”

But Dirk was already on the phone, calling the lab—or as Savannah preferred to call it, “hassling them for results and making a general nuisance of himself.”

“How did that luminol go?” he was asking. “No? Why not? Are you sure? Damn.” He looked over at Savannah, then toward the kitchen. “Send what you’ve got to me, to my cell,” he said. “Yeah, now.”

He was hanging up as Tammy walked into the living room, a brownie on a dessert plate in each hand.

“The French roast is brewing,” she said. She served Savannah, then handed Dirk his treat.

As he took it from her, he said, “I’ve got something for you, kiddo.”

She picked up the bit of paper from the coffee table. “I know. I’ll get on it right away.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said, punching numbers on his phone. “I mean, run that, too, but I’m sending you something right now that’s just as important. I’d appreciate it if you’d look at it for me.”

“What’s that?” she asked.

“The lab’s shots of the Jardin’s glove box. You know how we told you it had blood spatter inside?”

She brightened more than was proper, considering the conversation topic. “Yes…?”

“They sprayed it with luminol and took pictures. There’s a blank spot in the middle of the compartment where there was no spatter. We were hoping it might be in the shape of a gun or something. Maybe we’d be able to tell what he was reaching for when he got shot.”

“Yes. Yes. And…?” She was about to burst with excitement.

“Nothing.”

“Oh.”

Savannah giggled. Tammy could go flat faster than a popped, head-sized, Bazooka gum bubble.

“But,” Dirk continued, “they’re not all that good there at the lab when it comes to pictures. You’re better on the computer, sharpening them, refocusing, all that crap you do. I’d appreciate it if you’d look at this one and see what you can do with it.”

For a moment, Tammy looked like she might faint, as though her knees were buckling beneath her. “Me? Really? I…”

“There,” he said, pressing the send button. “You should have it there on your computer, you know, whenever you get a chance to look at it.”

The piece of paper with the Volvo’s plate number fluttered to the floor like a wounded gull as Tammy sprinted to the computer.

Savannah stood set the cats on the ottoman, and headed for the kitchen, scooping up the paper as she went.

Dirk followed her.

As she was getting the mugs from the cupboard, she breathed in the delicious, comforting scent of the coffee that was filling the room. Handing Dirk his favorite Mickey Mouse mug—he had never actually admitted it was his favorite, but she knew it was—she gave him a sweet smile.

“Thank you,” she said.

He took the mug from her and for a moment, his hand closed around hers. “I did all right, then?” he asked, his heart in his eyes.

“Perfect.” She smiled up at him, thinking about his admission earlier about what men like, what they need. “You’re a decent, well-meaning guy,” she said. “One of the truly good ones.”

“Yeah, well, don’t let it get around. I’ve got a reputation to uphold,” he said, taking the mug from her and turning toward the pot that was only half brewed. “When is this damned thing gonna be finished? Is it gonna be much longer, ’cause I don’t have all friggen day, you know…”

It took Savannah two hours, looking in five different locations, to find Sharona Dubarry.

She wasn’t in her modest beach house in Tammy’s neighborhood. Nor was she at the so-called lingerie factory in the industrial section of town. The place was nothing more than a small, gloomy, noisy workshop—little better than a sweatshop—where rows of tired, depressed-looking women sat at long tables, running yards of cheap lace and flimsy satins through large sewing machines.

Dirk would not have been impressed.

The manager of the shop told Savannah that Sharona had called in sick the day before. Today, she hadn’t been heard from at all.

But the manager had been helpful, suggesting three different local bars where Sharona supposedly spent most of her spare time.

Savannah found her in the third one, the worst one, the one on the bad side of town, where it was wedged between a tattoo parlor and a pawnshop.

The Keg wasn’t known for its décor, ambiance, or friendly staff. The dank hole was home away from home to some of the least upstanding citizens of San Carmelita. And the moment Savannah walked through the door, she wondered why a woman who was as beautiful as Sharona Dubarry would end up in a dive like this.

As Gran sometimes said, “Beauty’s no substitute for good sense and good character.”

Savannah tried to breathe shallowly as she stood just inside the door and waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. California might have outlawed smoking in public places some time back, but the miscreants who frequented The Keg weren’t known for their law-abiding tendencies.

The patrons swigging beer and other potent potables at the bar looked up from their various containers and gave Savannah a thorough once-over as she entered the place. Their looks of bored, mild surprise told her that a fresh face coming through the door was a rare event.

She scanned the drinkers quickly and felt her pulse rate quicken a bit when she spotted the red-haired beauty at the end of the bar.

Savannah recognized her instantly as the woman they had seen leaving Sulphur Creek Road earlier that morning. But apparently, Sharona didn’t recognize her. She gave Savannah a quick dismissive look, then went back to drinking her beer.

She hardly even seemed to notice when Savannah sat down on the empty bar stool next to hers. Her eyes were badly swollen from crying and dark mascara smudges and mussed hair and a wrinkled halter dress completed the picture of total dejection.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asked Savannah.

He was a handsome enough kid, dark hair slicked back, a deep tan, and muscular body. But with his black polyester shirt and his thick gold chain, he had a smarmy look about him that Savannah didn’t trust. Whether he was truly a wiseguy or a wanna-be, she didn’t care. She didn’t like him.

“I’ll have an iced tea,” she said, “with plenty of sugar.”

“A Long Island iced tea?” he asked with a mocking grin. “Something with a little kick to it?”

“Nope. You heard me right the first time,” she said. “And if you’d pass me some of those peanuts in that there bowl, too, I’d be much obliged.”

He reached for the bowl of nuts on the bar, but instead of handing it to Savannah, he stuck it somewhere behind the bar. “It’s not happy hour yet,” he told her.

Looking around at the drab surroundings, she said, “Y’all actually get happy in a place like this? Hard to imagine.”

Grumbling, he walked to the other end of the bar, where he began to stir some evil-looking brown powder into a tall glass of water.

“Oh, yum,” she said to Sharona. “I can hardly wait.”

“I wouldn’t piss him off if I was you,” Sharona replied in a lackluster voice, as she stared into her beer.

“Yeah? He doesn’t look that tough…or big. I think I could take him.”

That got her attention. Sharona looked up, locked eyes with Savannah. When she saw that Savannah was grinning, she returned the smile weakly. But only for a moment, then she added, in a very serious tone, “I mean it. Aldo’s not somebody you want to mess with. Believe me. I know.”

Sharona glanced down the bar at the guy who was tossing one solitary ice cube into Savannah’s drink, and Savannah saw genuine fear in Sharona’s eyes.

When she had first entered The Keg, Savannah had intended to interview Sharona then and there, if she found her. But something told her that Sharona wasn’t going to open up to her about anything important in a place where she felt threatened. And, apparently, she had good reason to be afraid of Aldo of the Golden Chain.

“I came here to talk to you,” Savannah said, keeping her voice low. “It’s really important.”

“Talk to me? About what?”

Savannah noticed that she was gripping her beer mug tightly and her hands were shaking.

“About Bill and what happened to him.” She saw the bartender was sticking a straw and the token lemon slice into the tea. She didn’t have long. “I’m going to leave now. Meet me at the service station down on the corner in ten minutes. Okay?”

The redhead shook her head. “No,” she said. “I can’t. You’re going to get me in trouble.”

“I won’t, I promise. Meet me…ten minutes…the service station. Do it for Bill.”

Aldo had returned and gave her a nasty look as he shoved the drink in front of her. “There you go. Iced tea. That’ll be five bucks.”

“Five bucks? For tea with one lousy piece of ice and no happy hour peanuts? You gotta be kidding.”

Aldo gave her an ugly grin. “You’re paying for the atmosphere,” he said.

“Yeah, I’m going to go home, change clothes, take a shower, and wash your ‘atmosphere’ out of my hair.” She slapped a five-dollar bill and one penny on the bar. “Don’t spend that whole tip in one place. You’ll upset the balance of the economy.”

Ten minutes later, Savannah was standing beside the service station’s air pump, leaning on the Mustang’s trunk. She had checked her watch an average of every fifteen seconds since arriving, and now, forty-one checks later, she saw an older blue Honda pull into the lot. Her hopes rose as the car bypassed the pumps and headed in her direction.

“Yes! Thank you, Lord,” she whispered when she saw that the woman at the wheel was Sharona.

The Honda pulled up beside her, and the car window rolled down.

“Well, I’m here. What now?” Sharona asked.

“Park right over there,” Savannah told her, pointing to the back of the lot, behind the garage. “And then get yourself into my car here. We got us some talking to do, girl to girl.”

A few minutes later, Savannah had taken Sharona to a park on the town’s state beach. Few tourists visited this spot, preferring the more pristine beach near the city pier. With its prominent sand dunes and clumps of thick brush, there were plenty of private spots where people could park, make out, smoke illegal substances, drink beverages that were forbidden on public beaches—and, of course, interrogate subjects from time to time.