Bitter Sweets (3 page)

“Yep, that's Beowulf's master, all right,” she said, gazing at the picture, the buzz of gray hair, the intense eyes. “And his license was renewed about the same time as Lisa Mallock's, at the same address. Seems they were living together at one time, if not now.”

“The woman you're looking for lives with Forrest Neilson?” Dirk said, staring at the picture on the screen.

“Maybe. Don't know for sure. When I asked, he didn't really say, one way or the other. He just made it clear that she wasn't available. Why? Do you know him?”

“Sure I do. He's
Colonel
Forrest Neilson, a Congressional Medal of Honor recipient, retired, very active in local vet programs. I met him at the American Legion last year. A great guy.”

“A colonel? Really? Hmmmm. . . .”

“And you know what else?”

“What's that?”

“He's got a grown daughter . . . . his only kid . . . . adopted, I heard. Saw her from a distance one night . . . . across a parking lot.”

“Redhead? About five-six,130 pounds?”

He nodded and shoved the last bite of chocolate into his face. “Yep, just about that size,” he said around the mouthful. “And a real carrot top.”

 

The next morning, as Savannah walked into the Moonlight Magnolia Detective Agency office—formerly known as her den—she saw Tammy snatch a pair of tortoiseshell framed glasses off her tiny face and stash them behind the computer monitor.

“Aha! Caught ya!” she said, chuckling at the young woman's vanity. She had been vain once, too. Long ago . . . . when she had been much younger and cuter.

Tammy giggled self-consciously. “Well, you know what they say about men not making passes at women who wear glasses.”

“Yeah, I've heard that. But they also say that guys don't leer at gals with big rears.” She placed her hands on her ample hips and struck a seductive pose. “But I'm here to tell you, darlin', it just ain't so.”

Savannah leaned across her assistant, retrieved the glasses, and held them out to her. “The opposite sex isn't all that picky

. . . . so, we have to be. Put those back on, sugar. You need to be able to tell the good ones from the bad ones at a distance . . . . while you've still got time to run.”

With a sheepish smile, Tammy slipped the huge glasses onto her small face. Everything about Tammy Hart reminded Savannah of a valentine. Delicate, sentimental, ultrafeminine . . . . but passionate, Tammy had a soft pinkness about her personality that was endearing, but Savannah believed she had the capability to flash fiery red under the right/wrong circumstances.

“By the way,” Tammy said, running her fingers through her pale blond hair that fell, straight and glossy, to her shoulders. “I'm finished checking out Brian O'Donnell for you. He's who he says he is. Sounds like a really good guy.”

“I'm sure you were very thorough,” Savannah said. “Bring your notes into the living room and we'll go over them. But first things first. I have a cup of mocha blend and a cream cheese Danish with my name on it waiting for me in the kitchen. Would you like a . . . . ?” She glanced up and down the young woman's slender figure. “No, of course not. How silly of me. May I offer you a stalk of celery in a glass of Perrier?”

 

Savannah sat in her favorite spot in the world, her overstuffed, wing chair with Diamante in her lap and Cleopatra curled on the footstool at her feet. Both cats were purring contentedly.

As though she needed anything to make her more comfortable, she was surrounded with soft, floral print, satin-fringed pillows. Unable to discard the atrocious flowered housedresses that Granny Reid sent to her regularly from Georgia, Savannah had fashioned them into cushions. Sitting among them, she could almost feel as though she were receiving a hug from the octogenarian darling.

Perched on the edge of the sofa, Tammy sat with her notebook in hand, an alert expression on her pretty face. Eager. Very eager.

“I checked with the phone company in Orlando to verify the number and address that Brian O'Donnell gave you,” she was saying as she happily rattled away. “And then I called and talked to his family. His wife seemed sweet and happy to speak to me. We compared physical descriptions and they matched down to his handlebar mustache. She made it perfectly clear that she supports Brian completely in his search for his sister.”

“Then she knows he's here?”

“Oh, yes. She said he left four days ago for California. I think she said something about him driving and—”

“Driving? I thought he told me he flew.”

Tammy pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Oh . . . . okay . . . . maybe I misunderstood. Anyway, she wished us luck in finding Lisa. Said it would mean a lot to them all. Isn't that nice?”

“Very.”

“But there's something else. . . .”

“What's that?”

“He has a reason, other than sentimentality, for wanting to find his sister right now.”

Savannah stopped stroking Diamante and gave Tammy her full attention. “You mean the inheritance money?”

“Oh, you knew about that already?” Tammy looked a bit disappointed.

“Brian mentioned it, said it wasn't much.”

“Not much? Well . . . . I guess it depends on how you look at it, but fifty thousand seems like a lot to me.”

Savannah thought of the stack of unpaid bills on her kitchen counter. “Yeah, sounds like a lot to me, too. I wonder why Brother Brian felt the need to underplay that aspect of his story.”

Tammy shrugged. “Maybe he thought you would look harder if you thought it was only a mission of love.”

“Perhaps.”

A prickling of premonition and apprehension ran along the back of Savannah's neck, a feeling she was well acquainted with, but hated. Mostly, because it had proven to be painfully accurate at portending disasters.

She tried to push the sensation to the back of her mind, to ignore it. This was her first job as a private detective. It felt wonderful to be working again.

And she didn't want anything to interfere with that sense of pride and fulfillment.

Shut up
! she told it.
And go away! You don't know everything. This could turn out just fine.

“Is everything okay, Savannah?” Watching Savannah closely, Tammy looked nearly as worried as she felt.

“Sure.” She gave a little shrug and chuckled, but the sound wasn't very cheery. “Everything's fine.”

But no matter what she told Tammy or herself. . . . that feeling of unease just wouldn't go away.

 

About twenty-five miles out of town, in an isolated resort cabin on the shore of Lake Arroyo, another person was trying to believe that, in spite of misgivings, everything was fine.

Nervously pacing the old cabin which smelled of mildew and fish, the individual marked time. Waiting, hoping, aching for the moment to come, when so many carefully laid plans and cherished fantasies would be fulfilled.

But everything hinged on Savannah Reid's ability to locate Lisa Mallock. And Lisa had no intention of being found.

Carefully, the person examined the paraphernalia spread on the threadbare chenille bedspread: thin copper wire, wads of cotton batting and silver duct tape, the all-purpose hunting knife, and . . . . of course . . . . the pistol.

The scene was set.

All that was needed . . . . was the not-so-innocent victim. It wouldn't be much longer now. The waiting was almost over.

W
hen Savannah had begun to canvass Lisa Mallock's neighborhood that afternoon, she could have sworn that her face had been three-dimensional. But with every door that had been slammed on it, she could feel her profile becoming more and more flat.

There had to be an easier way to make a living.

Once, she had thought that people opened up to her because of her charm, her good looks, her warm wit. Now she realized that they had only talked to her because they'd had to. She had been a cop. Without that badge hanging on its gold chain around her neck, the members of her adoring public weren't nearly so accommodating.

She stood on the sidewalk, roasting in the heat of a dry, Santa Ana afternoon. The weather man had predicted smog warnings, bad air quality that might be harmful to sensitive persons.
No kidding,
she thought, tasting the pollution on her tongue.
Sensitive people or anyone with a set of lungs.

Glancing around her, she made a quick mental tally of the houses visited. Eight in all. The ones on either side of the colonel's home and several across the street.

Lisa Mallock's neighbors were extremely suspicious . . . . far more than normal, even in typically paranoid suburbia. . . . and very protective of her.

“Why do you want to know?” and “What do you want with her?” were the questions Savannah had received instead of answers. So far, no one would even confirm or deny that Lisa still lived with her adoptive father, the colonel.

Ever the hopeful heart, Savannah strolled up the walk of a house four doors north. The flowers in the yard, the children's rope swing that dangled from a sturdy oak limb, the tole-painted birdhouses, all seemed to suggest warmth, hospitality, and welcome.

Maybe.

The woman who answered the door wore a bright smile and a white apron. Savannah didn't think that anyone wore those anymore. She felt as though she had stepped back in time into a 1950s Frigidaire commercial.

“Hello, may I help you?” the lady asked.

Savannah could smell the wonderful fragrance of chocolate chip cookies baking.

“I certainly hope so,” she said, trying not to sound too discouraged. “I'm trying to get in touch with Lisa Mallock. Can you tell me if she lives around here?”

The beautiful smile froze on the woman's face. “Not anymore,” was the reply. “She moved a couple of weeks ago.”

Well, at least that answered one thing.

“I really do need to speak to her. Do you know where she is now?”

“I . . . . ah . . . . I really don't think I should tell you. Lisa asked us not to say because . . . .”

“Yes? Because?”

“Nothing. I don't think I should discuss her with you. She's a really nice person, one of the best people I've ever met, and she's had such problems lately with. . . .”

“With?”

The woman shook her perfectly styled head of hair. “No. That's all I'm going to say. Good-bye.”

At least she didn't slam the door in her face. She simply closed it. Firmly, decisively, if apologetically, she closed it.

Same difference,
Savannah thought as she dragged her body—which suddenly seemed bone tired—down the sidewalk.

“Hey, lady,” said a soft, barely there voice behind her.

She turned and was surprised to see a small fairy princess, about ten years old, standing on the porch of the house she had just visited. Instantly, she knew it was a fairy, because of the pink tights and leotard, the lacy skirt, and, of course, the glitter-spangled wand in the child's hand.

“Yes?” she asked, smiling down at the dainty apparition as it tiptoed toward her on pink satin ballet slippers.

“You were asking my mom about Christy's mom, huh?” the girl said, a slight pout on her pixie face.

“Christy's mom?” Savannah's mind raced.

“Yeah, Christy Mallock, the girl who used to live down the street.”

“Lisa's daughter?”

“That's right. She's the same age as me, and we used to go to ballet class together, but now she moved across town, and we have to go to rehearsal in different cars. I miss her.”

“I'll bet you do.” Savannah's heart beat wildly. She was embarrassed by her eagerness to extract whatever information possible out of this innocent, unsuspecting child. “But you still see her in dance class?”

“Oh, sure. Christy gets to be the queen of our pageant.”

Savannah cast a furtive, guilty look at the house, but Mommy Perfect seemed to be nowhere in sight. She was sorely tempted simply to ask the girl outright where Lisa and Christy were living now. But, having just been refused the information by the mother, it seemed down and dirty to use the child that way. Even a P.I. had to draw a line somewhere.

But there were other ways. . . .

“Your pageant? That sounds very exciting,” Savannah said. “When are you having it?”

“Day after tomorrow, in the gymnasium at our school.”

“And where do you go to school?”

“Channel Islands Elementary.”

“What time is the recital?”

“It's at two o'clock in the afternoon.”

“May I come?”

The girl beamed with pride at Savannah's interest. “Sure. Anybody can come, if you pay three dollars.”

“Thank you . . . . and what is your name?”

“Marilee.”

“Thank you, Marilee. I'll be looking forward to it.”

“Are you really going to come?” the girl cried after her as Savannah climbed into the Camaro.

“Sure, and thank you for the invitation,” she replied. “I'll be there. I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

 

Savannah lay in her bed, trying to enjoy her new rose-sprinkled sheets and her latest Victoria's Secret acquisition, an oversize, silk poet's shirt. The ruffles spilled over her wrists and tickled the backs of her hands. The deep vee in the neckline revealed softly rounded femininity.

Here, in her own bedroom, she had always indulged her female side . . . . a part of herself that was often neglected in her day-to-day work. In the course of being a detective, she saw some pretty horrible aspects of society, revelations that would have made her hard and cold before her time. But every night, she could walk into this cozy room with its antique brass bed, the turn-of-the-century French armoire, the floral wallpaper and crisp, ruffled linens, and she could feel pampered and soothed.

But tonight, it wasn't working.

She sat up in bed, propped against half a dozen pillows, Tammy's latest reports spread across the duvet. And the facts she saw there in black and white disturbed her.

 

Name:
Lisa Mallock

Previous occupation:
Registered Nurse

Military history:
Nurse in army hospitals, 23 years

Divorced:
Ex-husband's name, Earl Mallock

Children:
One daughter, Christy, age 10, full custody

Credit rating:
Excellent

 

Savannah continued to scan the report. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Lisa Mallock appeared to have led a responsible, productive life, until a year ago, when she had begun to move from one place to another about every three months. She had left her long-standing, well-paying job at the Veterans' Hospital and had worked for a string of temp agencies, providing in-home nursing for less than half the money.

Why?

Usually, people didn't pull up stakes and move households every three months just because they got an itch. Being on the run was a lot of work, especially with a child.

What was Lisa Mallock running from?

More importantly,
whom?

Earl Mallock seemed the likely person. Mothers were seldom given full custody of a child, unless the court deemed the father unsuitable for some reason.

Savannah thought of the man who had sat, sipping coffee and eating cookies in her den. Brian O'Donnell . . . . biological brother in search of his sister.

Tammy had said that he checked out, that he was who he claimed to be.

All the same, Savannah decided to proceed carefully, paying close attention to that voice inside that was warning her about this situation. She had no intention of being a pawn in some bitter ex-husband's game, or anyone else's for that matter. From what she could see on paper, Lisa Mallock was a decent person, a hardworking mother.

Someday the devils who were chasing Lisa would probably catch up to her; that was the way life usually worked. Savannah might not be able to prevent that from happening, but she sure as hell didn't want to be the cause of it.

 

Saturday afternoon, at one-thirty sharp, Savannah stood in line outside the gymnasium with her three dollars in hand, eager to see “The Snow Fairy Queen” pageant in all its glory.

With the golden California summer sun beating down on her dark hair and perspiration pooling in the cups of her bra, it wasn't easy to get into the “winter” mood, but she was trying.

Fifteen minutes later, she was allowed in and found herself an excellent, if uncomfortable, seat on the bleachers . . . . four rows back in the center.

As the giggling cast of dozens scurried about on the makeshift “stage,” wearing pink satin, ruffles of stiff netting, glistening with bits of iridescent glitter, Savannah felt a twang of regret. Here she was, forty years old, no kids of her own, not even a marital prospect on the horizon.

Loving children, she hadn't exactly planned her life this way. Like most women she knew, she had nurtured fantasies of home, hearth, husband, and a handful of hellions. But “Life” had a way of happening while you were busy coping with the present and dreaming about the future. And when today's problems were settled and tomorrow arrived, it seemed to always have a new set of concerns all its own. Either way, she was discovering that the “future”—once it had arrived—wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

Shaking herself out of her somewhat depressing reverie, Savannah searched the crowd for the hundredth time, looking for the red-haired woman whose picture she had seen on Dirk's computer screen.

But the moment the presentation began, it was Christy Mallock who first caught her attention.

The child, who twirled across the stage on her tiptoes, was the image of her mother. Dark, copper hair fell in shimmering waves to her waist. Her pretty face reflected the same strength of will, the same enthusiasm for life, as her mom's.

And there was no mistaking the costume with its extra ruffles, excess glitter, and the jeweled crown perched on her head. Christy was, indeed, the personification of a Snow Fairy Queen.

A second later, Savannah spotted Lisa Mallock, sitting a few rows behind her and to the left, wearing an infinitely proud smile on her tension-tight face. At that moment, Savannah envied her. . . . despite whatever personal problems she might have. Savannah would have given anything to have felt that kind of pride, even for a moment, to take that little girl home with her and spend the evening baking chocolate chip cookies and maybe watching
Beauty and the Beast
on home video.

She had intended to approach Lisa Mallock here, after the show in the parking lot, to attempt to give her the information about her brother and his search for her.

But she couldn't bring herself to interfere with this event, which obviously meant so much to both mother and daughter. If Lisa Mallock had been living under even half the stress that Savannah supposed, she would need this fanciful interlude to enjoy some of the precious aspects of life.

No problem. Savannah had tailed more than one person from place to place. She would follow them home, and then, only then, would she intrude on their lives. If worse came to worst, she'd just get another door slammed in her face, right?

 

Wrong. It was worse. Much worse.

That evening, when Savannah knocked on the door of the modest duplex, it opened promptly, and she found herself staring down the barrel of a gun.

The face at the other end of the pistol had the same basic features, but bore little resemblance to the proud mommy at the dance recital.

“I wondered how long it would take someone to show up here,” Lisa Mallock said, sighting down the barrel. “Get away from my door and leave me alone.”

Savannah had a long-standing policy: If they're pointing a gun at you, do whatever they say . . . . within reason.

She had been at gunpoint before, but each time, she had previously anticipated the problem and had been somewhat emotionally prepared. When you went barging into a major cocaine dealer's house with a dozen ATF officers, you expected trouble.

She hadn't seen this one coming.

The thought deeply disturbed her. Mistakes like that could leave her dead.

She was getting old and sloppy . . . . at least, complacent. Not a comforting realization.

If she were smart, Savannah knew that she would turn on her heel and march away from the door, tell Brian O'Donnell where his sister lived, wish him luck—he would need it—and collect her money.

But she didn't work that way.

Why? Because she was a compassionate, caring person.

Or maybe just stupid. Time would tell.

“Lisa,” she said in what she hoped was her most cajoling, soothing tone. “I'm not here to cause you trouble of any kind, really. I just—”

“I know why you're here. He hired you, just like he hired all the other ones.”

“He? He who?”