Authors: G. A. McKevett

Tags: #Mystery

Bitter Sweets (15 page)

BOOK: Bitter Sweets

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“The police. Some half-bald guy in a trench coat and dirty sneakers came in this morning and told her.”

“That would have been Dirk Coulter. The sneakers aren't really all that dirty, just ancient. He really does toss them into the washer once in a while.”

“You know him?”

Savannah nodded.

“Are you a cop, too?”

“No, a private detective.”

Zelda looked up and down the bar, but the place was empty and they were alone. She pulled up a stool and an ashtray and settled down to talk to her only customer.

“You're a P.I., huh? Who are you working for?”

“At this point, I suppose I'm working for Christy, Lisa Mallock's little girl.”

“Oh, yeah. Earl has brought her in here a few times; Vanessa has, too. Vanessa is crazy about that kid . . . . about all kids, for that matter.”

“Really? She didn't seem like the maternal type.”

“Aw . . . . she just likes to show off with the purple hair and the chains and black leather and all. She's a pain in the neck, it's true, but she's not as bad as she thinks she is. I've known a lot rougher.”

“How were she and Earl getting along lately?”

Zelda stubbed out her cigarette butt and promptly lit another. “Funny you should ask. They had a big, hairy fight in here about a week ago.”

“Do you know what it was about?”

“Sure. Everybody in the joint with two ears knew what it was about. Vanessa isn't exactly subtle when she's mad. She was accusing him of wanting Lisa back. She's always been pretty insecure about that.”

“Do you think he gave her a reason to feel insecure?”

“Oh, yeah. Earl never got over losing Lisa and Christy. He was always scheming about how he could get Lisa to come back to him.”

“How bad was the fight?”

“Well, there weren't any beer bottles thrown, or shots fired, nobody got stabbed. So, for this place, I guess it wasn't too bad.”

“Did Earl threaten Vanessa, orâ”

“Oh, no. Vanessa was the one doing all the yelling. Poor old Earl looked like he wanted to crawl under a booth somewhere. She told him that, if he dumped her to take off after Lisa again, she'd kill him. I guess that's a threat, huh?”

“Do you think she meant it?”

“I'm sure she did at the time.”

“Yep, then I would definitely call that a threat.” Savannah nodded thoughtfully. “When the cop told her that Earl had been killed, how did she take it?”

“Really hard. She had a fit, crying, screaming, and all that.”

“What happened then?”

“After the cop left, she calmed right down and said she wanted to take the day off.”

“Do you have any idea where she may have gone? Home orâ?”

“No, she said she was going downtown to the Fiesta Del Mar, the big beach party down by the fairgrounds.”

“Yes, I know the place.” Savannah studied Zelda's plain, seemingly honest face to see if she was telling her the truth. She seemed guileless, but you couldn't tell these days.

“Vanessa helps out at the booth there for the Boys' and Girls' Club every year, no matter what,” Zelda said. “It's a big deal to her. She wouldn't miss it . . . . not even for Earl.”

“But you say, as soon as the cop left, she cheered up?” Savannah asked again, just to make sure she had it straight.

“The minute he walked out the door. The difference was night and day. Judging from the way she was acting when she left, I'd say she's down at the beach, partying hard.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

L
ike the other ninety percent of San Carmelita's population, Savannah had to park about a thousand blocks from the beach and walk to the city-sponsored fiesta. Los Angeles tourist bucks were a big boon in the summer, and the town council wasn't above throwing these little shindigs to lure hot, stressed-out city dwellers to the cooler, less smog-choked coast.

And there were never enough parking spots. A few more mercenary downtown citizens were allowing cars to park on their lawns for five bucks. Savannah declined on principle alone. Where she came from, only white trash parked vehicles on grass.

Four blocks of city beach were cordoned off for the party. Families milled up and down the sidewalks, viewing local art displays, eating cotton candy and ice slushies, riding skateboards, tandem bikes, and, occasionally, dads' backs.

The scent of barbecued chicken and ribs filled the air, along with the sounds of merrymaking.

A local radio station blared “Surfin' U.S.A.” and other selections by the Beach Boys, while the disc jockey interviewed the “man on the street” or the “kid on the beach,” whoever walked by between songs.

Booths, distinguished by bright banners that flew and snapped in the sea breeze, advertised various businesses and charitable organizations.

It didn't take long to find the Boys' and Girls' Club of San Carmelita setup. The display was quite impressive. They had erected a huge pavilion that was filled with tables full of children doing crafts: finger painting, clay modeling, and miscellaneous projects with popsicle sticks, cotton balls, and Elmer's glue.

Vanessa was equally easy to locate. With her purple hair and exceptional height, she was distinctive. Although, this time it wasn't the color of her hair that Savannah noticed first. It was the expression on her face.

She sat on a stool in the corner of the tent, a paintbrush and palette in hand. A line of children waited for her to decorate their faces with stars, moons, green cheeks, red noses, or a rainbow across their forehead.

Savannah couldn't remember seeing anyone more happy, more completely content.

Vanessa was laughing and chatting with the kids, who complained of the brush “tickling.” Wearing a simple white tee shirt and jeans, she bore little resemblance to the black leather, chain-toting motorcycle mama at the Shoreline.

The boy she had been working on was finished, and the next in line was a young girl who looked very much like Christy in fair complexion, long red hair, and dainty demeanor. She wore a pink-and-lavender crown of sparkling glitter and ribbon streamers.

Savannah recalled what Zelda had said about Vanessa adoring Earl's daughter. She waited, wondering if Vanessa would notice the similarity.

“And what do you want me to paint on
your
face, little princess?” Vanessa asked. “How about a nice fat toad with warts and everything?”

“No! I want something pretty!”

“You do? How boring. How about a unicorn?”

“That would be great! I want a white unicorn.”

Savannah watched, staying well out of sight, as Vanessa created something resembling a unicorn with only a few strokes of the paintbrush.

But as she worked, tears flooded Vanessa's eyes. One spilled down her cheek.

“Are you crying?” the little girl asked, very concerned.

“No,” Vanessa replied, ruffling the girl's hair. “What reason would I have to cry? I'm having fun. I just have some sand in my eye.”

Savannah turned and walked away without disturbing Vanessa or her afternoon, surrounded by the love and rejuvenating innocence of children. Of course she had noticed the similarity between the two girls, Savannah thought. And she had shed tears accordingly.

Did those tears mean that she had loved Earl, that she loved his daughter? Did her acts of kindness toward the children mean that she was incapable of doing anything so hideous as two murders?

Or, as Granny Reid had observed, was it simply a case of someone being a complex mixture of good and evil?

With a bit of computer digging, Tammy had uncovered Alan Logan's home address: a slip number in the marina . . . . a fifty-foot-long sailing yacht with two masts, named
The Big Bust.
When the unfriendly female clerk at the antique store on Lester had told Savannah that Al had “split an hour ago,” she had hoped she would find him in the marina.

From what little she knew about boats, she knew that owning one meant you had no time for other hobbies. Anytime she had extended a weekend invitation to a friend/boat owner, she had been refused because they were sanding, polishing, mending sails, working on the engine, or plugging leaksâ
when
they weren't simply trying to find out what the hell was leaking.

Bingo,
she thought as she approached the slip and saw a decidedly male figure kneeling on the deck, sanding.

She watched his face carefully as she approached, to see if he was happy to see her, or apprehensive.

Of course, she told herself that her interest was purely professional. It had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that he was a very attractive man with well-defined muscles, nicely curled chestnut hair, and hazel eyes. Nope, nothing at all.

But when he did spot her walking in his direction, she couldn't read his expression behind his wire-rimmed glasses.

Enigmatic,
was the best word she could think of to file away in her ever-increasing mental cabinet.

“Permission to come aboard, Captain?” she asked.

She had plenty of time to listen to the seagulls squawk and contemplate the meaning of life before he finally answered. “Permission granted, Ms. Private Investigator Reid.”

He rose from his knees, walked over to the side of the craft, and offered her a hand. “Watch your step, unless you're a good swimmer.”

She tried not to cling desperately to his hand, but it wasn't easy. Like shaky ladders and other things that bobbed beneath her feet, boats weren't her favorite things. She was definitely a “landlubber.”

“Who told you I was here?” he asked, sounding just a tad put-out.

“Your saleslady said you were gone for a while. My personal assistant found the âaddress.' ”

“A good agency,” he mumbled. “I'll have to remember that if I ever need you.”

She pointed to the name painted on the hull.
“The Big Bust?
I don't think I should ask.”

“Why not? Everyone else does. Number one: No, I'm more of a leg man, myself. Number two: I went broke after the divorce. She got the house, the cars, the bank accounts, and a face-lift. I got this. But enough about me. Why are you here?”

“The weather was great and I like the marina. I like boats and all that nautical stuff, so I thought I'd drop by.”

“You like the marina? Maybe. But I don't think you're being completely honest with me.” He grinned at her, watching her wobble on unsteady legs. “You can't fool an old sailor like me; I can tell. You don't like boats.”

“Does it show that much?”

“Oh, yes. You look like you could get seasick right here in the slip.”

“That's highly likely.”

“So, have a seat, but if you feel like you're going to barf, do it over the edge.”

“Thanks.” This wasn't turning out to be the semiromantic encounter she might have hoped for. She looked around, but there was nothing resembling a chair in sight. “Where?” she asked.

“There.” He pointed to an unsanded spot near where he had been working. Once she was seated, he tossed her a block of wood covered with sandpaper and pointed to the deck. “Don't take it personally. I make everyone I know work if they drop by. It keeps me from having a lot of unwanted guestsâa built-in hazard when you own a boat.”

“Yes, I suppose that would take care of the problem,” she admitted gruffly as she began to sand. Not a good day to be wearing a white denim skirt.

He continued to work at a feverish pace. It occurred to Savannah that this man probably couldn't stop working and relax if his health and happiness depended on it.

“Well . . . .” he said, “. . . . did you find Earl?”

So, he didn't know, or he didn't want her to know he knew. As usual, she wasn't sure which.

“Yeah, I found him.”

“Did you deliver my message?”

“The bit about you not being even with him yet, not by a long shot?”

“That was it. Don't tell me, you forgot.”

“You're right. I forgot.”

“We had a deal. See if I help you out again.”

“You honestly don't know yet?” she asked, wondering that Dirk hadn't made it out here already.

“Know what?”

His hazel eyes were guarded; a muscle bunched in his jaw.

“Earl is dead.”

“Dead?” He dropped his wooden block and sat down hard on the deck. She could have sworn he turned a bit pale beneath his sea tan. “My God,” he said, “are you sure about this?”

“Very. I saw the body.”

He covered his face with both hands and a shudder ran through him.

“Oh, man . . . . this is too weird,” he said. “I mean, you wish a guy dead for so long and then it happens and you . . . . it's just too strange.”

She didn't reply but watched him closely. Although she had informed many people of many terrible things over the years, she had decided long ago that no two reacted in exactly the same way.

“You wished Earl dead?”

“Of course I did. That bastard cost me everything I had: my business, my life's savings, my home, even my wife and kids. I wanted him to suffer, big time.”

He drew his knees up to his chest and hugged them tightly, rocking slowly back and forth. “Did he?” he asked.

“Did he what?”

“Did Earl suffer?”

Unbidden, mental pictures of twisted wire appeared in technicolor across the movie screen in her head. Pictures of thin wire cutting into flesh. “Yes,” she said, “I think it's pretty safe to say that Earl suffered a lot before he died.”

“What a surprise. That actually makes me feel worse, not better. I wouldn't have bet on that a week ago. You never know how you're going to react to a situation, until you're in it.”

“That's true.”

Savannah waited for him to collect himself, waited for the obvious question that didn't seem to be forthcoming.

“He had it coming, you know,” Alan said, rubbing his eyes as though they stung. “He's hurt so many people for so long. It's a wonder somebody didn't knock him off long ago. Hell, I've even threatened to do it myself.”

“Did you?”

His eyes locked with hers, and she could see he had switched to “red alert.” She remembered how cold he had gone that day when he had asked her to deliver his message to Earl.

“Did I threaten him? Yes. Did I murder him? No. Thinking about it and talking about it, are a long way from doing it.”

“If you don't mind me asking, do you have an alibi for Wednesday night?”

“Am I going to need one?”

She shrugged. “I don't know. I'm not a cop anymore. But it never hurts to remember where you were when something like that happens. Especially considering your past history with Earl and your public threats against him. Sooner or later, somebody besides me is gonna ask you.”

“Yeah, I've got an alibi.” He shook his head as though disgusted with himself, or perhaps with Fate. “See that spot right there . . . .” He pointed to a four-by-four-foot square on the deck near the bow, where the surface was dull. “. . . . I was sanding that. Do you suppose anybody would believe it?”

A few minutes later as Savannah was wiping the dust from her white skirt and climbing back into the Camaro, she was thinking of how she would describe the conversation to Dirk.

Sitting in the car, she reached into her purse and pulled out her tiny, personal recorder.

“Overall, he seemed sincerely upset,” she dictated into the minuscule machine. “Important to note, though . . . . I didn't tell him Earl had been murdered. I only said that he was dead, and he never asked how he got that way. Mr. Alan Logan, captain of
The Big Bust,
seemed to know that all by his lonesome.”

Savannah checked out the station house parking lot, before going inside. Not seeing the chiefs BMW or Bloss's generic, beige, “Fed” sedan, she decided the coast was clear. Dirk's grungy Skylark was a welcome sight. These days, she missed him more than she wanted to admit.

It was around seven, and most of the “brass” had gone homeâat least the ones she was openly feuding with. Bette the Blabbermouth was at the front desk; Savannah wasn't pleased.

“Oh, hi there, Savannah. Nice to see you again.” At least Bette had the decency to look a little embarrassed.

“Uh-huh,” Savannah replied without enthusiasm. “Where's Denise?”

“Vacation. Aren't you happy to see me?”

“That depends. Are you going to put me on hold so that Bloss can shove my backside through a wringer?”

“Oh, come on, Savannah. I was just doing my job.” Bette toyed with one of the bleached, frosted, and permed locks that curled over each ear. The rest were piled on top of her head and haphazardly held with a butterfly clip.

A quaint, Southern phrase drifted through Savannah's mind. Something about: Snatching her bald. . . .

Bette held out her hand. “Sisters?”

Savannah grunted and gave it a brief, limp shake. “Cousins . . . . maybe,” she mumbled. “Twice removed.”

BOOK: Bitter Sweets

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