Authors: G. A. McKevett

Buried In Buttercream (13 page)

BOOK: Buried In Buttercream

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The doctor moved to the lower end of the table and pointed to the body's right shin. “There's scraping there, too, consistent with that on the hands.”

“She wouldn't have gotten those by falling inside the hotel room,” Savannah said. “It has thick, plush carpeting. And the bathroom has smooth tile.”

“The patio tiles are rough,” Dirk added. “She might have been stabbed right where you found her, Savannah.”

“And shoved right into the water.” Savannah shuddered, thinking of how Madeline had looked when she discovered her. “Her feet were out of the water. She could have skinned her shins on the rock edge of the pool when she went in.”

“Was she dead before or after she hit the water?” Dirk asked.

As Dr. Liu peeled off her surgical gloves and tossed them into a nearby waste can, she said, “She had some water in her lungs. Not as much as you would expect if the cause of death were simply drowning. I think she died quickly from the stab wounds, and the water was incidental.”

“No defensive wounds?” Savannah asked.

“None.” Dr. Liu removed her surgical cap and jacket and tossed them into a hamper. She looked tired, as she always did when she had finished an autopsy and ruled it a homicide.

Murder was hard on the spirit. Anyone's. Even a spirit as stalwart as Dr. Jennifer Liu's.

“Your lady there didn't fight back,” she said. “Sadly, I don't think she got the chance to.”

Savannah sighed and looked at Dirk. He seemed as tired and weighed down as the doctor. “And now it's up to us,” she said, “to make sure that her killer doesn't have a fighting chance either.”

Chapter 11

S
avannah never passed up an opportunity to take a little sightseeing trip into Spirit Hills, one of her favorite areas of San Carmelita.

Only rich people lived in Spirit Hills. Or, at least, people who had enough money to “put on the dog,” as they said in McGill, Georgia.

Savannah had never figured out the logic behind that little Southernism, but as a daughter of Dixie, she knew that it had nothing to do with wearing anything canine related. It had to do with showing the rest of the world that you had more than they did ... and, therefore, were a far more valuable human being than their sorry ass.

And Savannah would be the first to admit that anybody who could afford to live inside this gated, exclusive community in one of its Tudor mansions, Italian villas, contemporary wonders, or French chateaus, had to be better than she was.

They probably never had mussed-up hair, a bad night's sleep, a pimple on their nose, or a fight with their spouse.

Mundane problems like that simply wouldn't be allowed inside those giant wrought iron gates with the twenty-four-hour guard.

Of course, she knew better, because she had investigated murders and other horrors behind these gates, and knew firsthand that tragedy could strike anywhere. Life had an unpleasant and often unexpected way of circumventing the protective walls that wealth erected ... twenty-four-hour guard or no.

“Who'd a'thunk that planning shindigs for rich folks would make enough money to buy a place in here?” Dirk said as they drove through the gates and into the community of enormous estates, sprawling grounds, gatehouses, and guest cottages.

“I guess it pays well if you're good enough at it,” she replied. “And to hear Ryan and John tell it, Madeline and Odelle were the best at one time.”

They turned onto a street called Whispering Wind Song, and Savannah thought how lovely that would look on one's stationery. She noticed that the numbers on the houses were single digits, too. Nice.

Ah, yes, Lady Savannah Reid at number seven Whispering Wind Song in Spirit Hills,
she thought
. Has a nice ring to it.

“I guess the people in here wouldn't be caught dead in my trailer court,” Dirk said.

“You never know. There're plenty of rich folks who're down to earth and don't mind mingling with the riffraff.”

Dirk chuckled. “That's me all right.” Then he gave her an affectionate smile that went right to her heart. “I'm glad you don't mind mingling with the down-and-dirty ... classy gal that you are.”

“Yeah, I don't mind fraternizing with the rabble when it suits me. Adds color to life.”

“Some say you're marrying beneath you. Quite a few say that, in fact.”

She shrugged. “All women do.”

They laughed together.

She reached over and placed her hand on his thigh. She could feel the well-rounded muscle, firm and warm, just beneath the denim, and she had to admit, it made her look forward to their eventual wedding night.

Or, at least, it would ... if it hadn't been for her misgivings about her own perceived flaws.

She thought of the deep, red scar on her own thigh and moved her hand.

Fortunately, they had arrived at their destination, and she found it a welcome distraction.

Odelle Peters' house was one of the most beautiful examples of an Arts and Crafts home that Savannah had ever seen, either in person or on the pages of any of her architectural design magazines.

It looked like a quaint cottage that had drunk some of Alice's grow-larger potion and become a mansion.

With its brick walls, steep roof, deep porches, pointed window arches, and stained glass windows, it personified “cozy,” while its massive proportions said, “grandeur.”

“Wow!” Savannah said, taking in the elegant yet casual country garden-style grounds. “I wish Granny could see this! She'd love it! Lilacs and climbing roses and even hollyhocks ... all her favorites.”

“Didn't John say she designed this place herself?”

“Yes, and you can tell it's had a lot of love poured into it.”

“Uh-oh,” Dirk said.

“What is it?”

“Get a load of that. A âFor Sale' sign there by the mailbox.”

She looked where he was pointing and, sure enough, there it wasâa sign announcing that the property was listed with Golden Touch Realty.

“Ouch,” she said. “That's gotta hurt, no matter what the circumstances.”

Dirk pulled into the driveway and cut the key on the Buick. “Well, let's go find out what it's all about.”

They walked through the fantasyland yard and up to the arched, Craftsman-style doorway with its colorful stained glass insert and hand-wrought hardware.

Savannah knocked and, only a moment later, they heard rapid, heavy footsteps coming their way.

The door swung open and a woman appeared, looking out of breath and highly annoyed. Her short, straight, salt-and-pepper hair was uncombed, sticking out like the back bristles on an angry dog.

At one time she had applied makeup, but now her mascara was smeared below her eyes and most of her purple eye shadow was gone from above her right eye but not her left.

Her simple cotton shirt and slacks looked like she had slept in them ... for several nights in a row.

“What the hell!” she yelled at them. “Can't you people read? The sign says, âDo Not Disturb Occupants!' Call the damned Realtor! Their number's right there, plain as day. Sheezzz!”

Before she could slam the door in their faces, Dirk stuck his foot across the threshold and simultaneously flashed his badge.

Savannah had always been impressed with that move. Dirk was a simple, straightforward sorta guy. It was his only multitasking skill.

“Not so fast!” he told her. “I'm Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter of the San Carmelita Police Department, and if you're Odelle Peters, you and me's gotta talk.”

Odelle froze for a moment and stared at him with blank eyes that were a strange shade of russet brown. It was almost red. And combined with her unusually pale skin, it gave her an unearthly appearance. On Halloween night, with very little costuming, she could pass for some sort of vampire or sorceress.

Jesup would love that look,
Savannah thought.
A little fake blood running down her chin, a spiderweb painted on her forehead and she'd be ready for ... oh ... grocery shopping or a trip to the dentist to have her fake fangs readjusted.

Savannah had always thought that some batânot a storkâhad left her sister under a cabbage plant.

“I don't want to talk to you!” Odelle said, kicking at Dirk's foot with the toe of her ballet slipper. “Get your foot out of my door before I slam it on you.”

Dirk put his hand up to hold the door open and looked down on her with what Savannah called his “Clint Eastwood stare.”

“I wouldn't recommend you do that, ma'am,” he told her. “Because that would be assaulting an officer of the law, and getting hit with a charge like that is sure to ruin your day.”

“My day is already ruined,” Odelle exclaimed, looking like she was about to burst into tears at any moment. “In fact, my whole life is ruined, so you need to go threaten somebody who gives a damn what happens to them.”

Savannah stepped forward and held one hand out to the woman. “I'm Savannah Reid,” she said, “and it's obvious that you're very upset. I'm sorry about that. But it's important that we talk to you. And you need to understand that my friend here isn't going to leave until we do.”

When Odelle didn't shake her offered hand, Savannah dropped it, but she took one step closer into the doorway. “Whatever's going wrong in your life right now ... we can talk about that. Maybe we can even help. But if you shut the door on us, your problems are only gonna get worse, fast.”

Odelle hesitated, obviously thinking things over. Then she raked her fingers through her mussed hair and glanced down at her wrinkled attire.

“I'm not exactly prepared to receive guests,” she said, her voice shaky.

“That's okay, 'cause we're not anybody special,” Savannah told her. “You don't have to get gussied up or dig out your crystal and china for us. Invite us in and give us some water in a Dixie cup, and we'll be happy.”

“Yes, I've already heard about Madeline,” Odelle said, as they sat with her in her gracious living room and watched the flames flicker in the massive stone fireplace.

“How did you find out?” Dirk wanted to know.

“Geraldine Aberson called me.” Odelle fiddled with a crystal tumbler that contained the second shot of scotch that she'd consumed in less than five minutes.

The first she had bolted.

“You and Geraldine are friends?” Savannah asked, taking a sip of water from her own cut glass highball.

“I've known her and Reuben for years, through Madeline. I wouldn't say we're exactly friends.”

“How long were you and Madeline business partners?” Dirk asked.

“Over twenty years. We started fresh out of college. We both knew exactly what we wanted to do, and we were good at it. You wouldn't believe some of the events we coordinated together in our heyday.” Odelle looked sad as she stared down into her drink. “But that was before ...”

“Before ... ?” Savannah prompted.

The sad expression evaporated, replaced with one of pure, raw anger. “Before Madeline went nuts and threw everything away for a guy who wasn't worth the bullet it would take to shoot him.”

Savannah glanced at Dirk and saw his eyebrows go up a fraction of a notch. “And who was that ... ? Ethan?”

“No. Ethan's a decent guy. And he deserved a lot better treatment than he got from his so-called loving and devoted wife.”

“So, who's the dude?” Dirk asked.

“Arlo Di Napoli. He was Ethan's best friendâor so Ethan thought until he found Arlo and Madeline in his bed together. End of friendship, end of marriage.”

“Yes, I can imagine so.” Savannah jotted that one down in her mental notebook for much future consideration. “When did this happen?”

“About two years back.”

“That long ago?” Dirk said.

“Oh, Ethan kicked her out that day and filed for a legal separation. But they were still haggling over the terms of the divorce. Mostly over Elizabeth. They both wanted primary custody of her.”

“Sounds like a barrel of laughs,” Savannah said dryly.

“Oh, you've no idea. And it's lovely for me.” Odelle tossed back the rest of her scotch. “Madeline just stopped even trying where our business was concerned. She didn't give a hoot about anything but Arlo anymore. Showed up late or not at all for our bookings. Wasn't worth anything when she
did
appear. I've lost a fortune because of her. And now I'm financially destitute.”

She glanced around the beautiful room with its handcrafted furniture that was an opulent mix of Mission and Art Deco with the occasional Asian accent. Even Savannah's untrained eye knew the value of the intricate red oak woodwork and thick, silk, embroidered coverings.

“And now I'm going to lose all of this,” she said, waving a hand. “My home. Everything I own. Because Madeline was too stupid to know that she had a good lifeâa loving husband, a thriving business, a beautiful little girl. And she threw it all away for a piece of trash like Arlo Di Napoli, because he was a bit more exciting in bed. Big deal.”

She shook her head in disgust. Savannah could tell by the glassy look in her eyes that the booze was hitting her. She wondered how much Odelle was drinking these days.

“And the funny part is,” Odelle continued, slurring a word here and there, “Arlo broke up with her! She gave him an ultimatum. . . âLeave your wife or I'll tell her about us.' He told Madeline to go to hell, that she'd been nothing but an easy piece for him. So, what did stupid Maddy do? She made a beeline for his wife and told her all the sordid details. She thought that once Francie dumped Arlo, he'd come running back to her.”

“Let me guess,” Savannah said, “that didn't happen.”

“Of course not. Madeline cost Arlo his marriage, his life. No way was he going to take her back. She's lucky he didn't kill her.”

No sooner had the words left her mouth than she gave a little gasp and looked at Savannah, then Dirk ... who looked at each other.

After a long, heavy silence, she said, “Or maybe he did.”

“Maybe,” Savannah replied. “I reckon we're just gonna have to make it our business to find out.”

BOOK: Buried In Buttercream

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