Authors: G. A. McKevett

Buried In Buttercream (9 page)

BOOK: Buried In Buttercream

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“All right,” she heard him say, “you can take it.”

Savannah closed her burning eyes for a moment and wondered if Zsa Zsa Gabor or Liz Taylor went through that many wedding gowns.

“They're asking me if you're gonna want it back,” he said.

She thought about it only for a second, remembered her awful dream, and the real-life nightmare of dragging Madeline Aberson's dead body out of that pool.

“No,” she said. “I'd rather just get married in my Minnie Mouse jammies next time.”

As she was telling him good-bye, a wave of women in blue flowed toward her, an ocean of discontent wrapped in silk and satin.

“What was that call about?” Marietta demanded to know, hands on her ample hips. “What is it
this
time?”

“Yeah!” Vidalia held a toddler on each hip. Jack and Jillian were hanging on to her skirt. “What's going on?”

“Don't I get to be your flower girl,” Jillian whined, “again?”

“It's not my fault!” Jack complained. “Marietta never put the rings on my pillow! I couldn't be the ring bearer if nobody gave me the rings!”

But Atlanta was the most indignant of all. “What the heck were you two doing? You left me standing up there in front of God and everybody, singing my heart out for half an hour! I was running out of songs! It would have served you right if I'd started doing Christmas carols! I'm plum hoarse now.”

“Okay!” Granny held up one hand like a traffic cop. “That's enough! You bunch o' hyenas back off right now. Can't you see your sister's got way more problems right now than the likes of you? She needs your support, not your belly achin'.”

As they had when they were children, the entire group instantly amended their ways. When Granny spoke, they didn't dare not listen.

Memories of a certain wooden paddle, hung on the back of the kitchen door, lasted a lifetime.

“That's better,” Gran said. “The sad fact is: Somebody got themselves kilt in Savannah's fancy bridal suite, and Dirk's in there with the coroner, trying to figure out what happened.”

“Yes, he is,” Savannah told them, “and I need to get back in there with him. I just came out here to tell everybody how sorry I am that this sort of thing happened ... again ... and to tell you to eat whatever you want in there in the reception room and then get along home.”

“But when are we gonna eat supper?” Marietta wanted to know. “Are you going to be home in time to cook us something fit to eat? We can't keep ordering pizza like we've been doing. It's expensive.”

“Yeah,” Atlanta agreed. “And that cake and ice cream's only gonna last so long in our stomachs, you know. I worked up a powerful appetite with all that singing.”

Granny spun Atlanta around and gave her a not so gentle shove toward the clubhouse. Then she turned and did the same to Marietta. “You girls oughta give some thought to something other than your bellies once in a while. You know, gluttony's a sin when carried to extremes.”

Fortunately, at that moment, Ryan and John strolled by on their way to the clubhouse. When Marietta caught sight of Ryan, she wasted no time leaving her sisters behind and scurrying after him.

“Look at her following him,” Granny remarked, “trailing after him like an orphaned pup.”

“Eh, more like a bitch in heat,” Savannah muttered under her breath.

“I heard that, Savannah girl.” Granny gave her a disapproving look, tinged with a grin.

“And you disagree?”

They both watched as Marietta caught up with Ryan and grabbed him by the arm. She leaned into him, making sure that her voluptuous curves nestled into his side, whether he wanted to be nestled or not. All the while she was tittering like a teenybopper, instead of acting like the forty-plus woman she was.

“Do I disagree?” Gran said. “Only with your choice of words. Not with your evaluation of the situation.”

Gran turned to Savannah, reached up, and tucked one of her dark curls back behind her ear, then laid her soft hand along her granddaughter's cheek. “You get back to your man, sweetie pie. Don't pay this bunch no never mind. I'll see to it they behave themselves and get back home all right.”

“What about feeding them?”

“That's the least of your troubles. Every blamed one of them knows full well how to stack a bologna sandwich if it comes to that. They're not a bunch of helpless children anymore, even if they do act like it when you and me are around. We spoil that lot, Savannah. Always have.”

“Is it okay, then, really, if I work this case with Dirk and leave you all to fend for yourselves?”

“It's more than okay. It's the right thing to do. Take care of your detective business. It's what you do best, and the only thing that'll take your mind off what you lost here today.”

As Savannah walked away from her grandmother and crossed the lawn, heading back to the clubhouse and the crime scene, she knew that she wasn't going to be able to hold it together much longer. She felt like she had been through a rough cycle in a giant washing machine.

And she was about to fall apart at the seams.

Chapter 7

W
hen Savannah arrived back at the bridal suite, she found the Crime Scene Investigation squad in full swing.

The once immaculate room now bore a dark coating of fingerprint powder on nearly every surface. And the print technician squatted beside the bedroom door, deftly swirling her long bristled brush over the knob.

Another tech was in the bathroom, swabbing the sink with cotton swabs, which he then stuck into vials and sealed them.

A third was on her hands and knees, shining a bright light onto the carpet. She stopped and used a pair of tweezers to pick up a wad of some sort of fuzz and put it into an envelope.

Dirk stood over her, watching, with a look of dark concern on his face. His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of his tuxedo. His head was down. Savannah could tell, just by his posture, that he was very unhappy.

He did seem to perk up slightly, though, when he saw her.

Leaving the technicians to their work, he walked over to stand with her in the open doorway leading to the hall.

“Anything yet?” she asked.

“No. You know how hard it is to process a suite like this where multiple guests stay. It's as bad as a hotel room. You never know what you've got or who it's from. Could be anybody, with all the people that pass through a place like this.”

“Any good prints?”

“A few. But how much you wanna bet most of them are yours?”

“True. Did Dr. Liu transport the body yet?”

“She just left with it. Said she'd get right on the autopsy.”

“Good.”

He nodded down the hallway. “How're the troops?”

“Hungry. I told them to eat cake.”

“Suppose we'll get some this time?”

“About as much as we got before.”

“That's what I was afraid of.” He glanced at his watch. “I called Ryan a minute ago, asked him and John to come by here.”

“Do they know yet?”

“They heard it was a dead body, not who it was.”

“Damn. She's ... er ... she was ... a friend of theirs.”

“I know.”

Savannah heard footsteps behind her, and when she turned, she saw Ryan and John striding down the hallway toward them, worried looks on their faces.

“I'd rather have a root canal than do this,” Dirk said.

“I'll do it,” she told him. “It would be better coming from me.”

“What's that?” Ryan asked as they approached. “What's better coming from you?”

“What's wrong, love?” John said, taking her arm and looking into her eyes with sweet concern.

She'd rather do anything than hurt these dear people. But ...

“I'm sorry,” she said. “You may have heard that we had a ... fatality ... here in the hotel. Right here in the bridal suite, as a matter of fact.”

“We heard that somebody collapsed in a pool or something like that,” Ryan replied.

“It's a little worse than that,” Savannah told them. “And I hate to have to tell you ... it was Madeline.”

Both men gasped. “No!” Ryan said.

“Are you certain?” John asked when he'd regained some of his composure.

“Absolutely sure.” Savannah replied. “I discovered her myself. I tried to revive her, but she was gone. I'm really sorry.”

“That's terrible.” Ryan wiped a hand over his face. “What happened? Did she fall? Hit her head?”

“She couldn't have just drowned,” John added. “She was a very good swimmer.”

When Savannah hesitated, Dirk supplied the answer. “She had wounds on her back,” he said gently. “We think it's a homicide.”

“Wounds? What kind of wounds?” Ryan wanted to know.

“Dr. Liu isn't certain, but she thinks they might be puncture wounds.”

John's face went dark as he registered the news. “Are you telling us that Madeline was stabbed?”

“We're afraid so,” Savannah said. “We'll know more once the autopsy's finished. Dr. Liu said she's getting right on it.”

Dirk laid a hand on Ryan's shoulder. “Man, I'm so sorry. This is tough, I know.”

Ryan nodded, looking dazed. “It is. I mean, Madeline had her flaws. She was far from a perfect person in many ways, but we've known her a long time. It's so hard to believe she's gone. And that way ...” He shuddered.

“We need to inform the next of kin,” Dirk said. “Who would that be? Her husband?”

Ryan shot a quick look at John. “Uh ... that might be a bit complicated.”

“Why?” Savannah wanted to know.

John cleared his throat. “As it happens, she and her husband are going through a divorce right now. A rather nasty one.”

“Oh, really?” Savannah could feel her antenna rising out from under the big hairdo that Marietta had given her that morning. “How nasty?”

“Very,” Ryan said, “especially the custody aspect. They have a daughter who's ten years old. It's getting, well, ugly.”

Savannah glanced at her watch. “Where would her daughter be this time of the afternoon?”

“To my knowledge, Madeline doesn't have any family of her own. I think her mother-in-law watches the little girl when Madeline's working,” Ryan said.

“That poor child.” John shook his head sadly. “This is going to be dreadful for her. She loves her mother so.”

Ryan nodded. “Most people didn't like Madeline. Quite a few even hated her. But say what you will about her ... she seemed to be a devoted mother.”

In deference to her friends' grief, Savannah didn't ask who hated Madeline Aberson or why. Not yet.

But sooner or later, she'd have to make it her business. Because one of those people on that long list apparently hated her enough to kill her.

Savannah was expecting something a bit more posh than the simple modular home on its tiny lot in a not-so-great part of town. Madeline had dressed so expensively and driven a large, luxury car. Somehow, Savannah had thought her in-laws would be more well-to-do than this.

The property was well tended, with a charming cottage garden in the front, surrounded by a white picket fence. There was even a cedar arbor over the front gate, bearing a cascade of pink, climbing roses.

A small, purple bicycle leaned against a tree that had a swing hanging from one of its largest limbs.

Savannah's heart ached at the thought of making this notification. All notifications were tough, but when there were children involved, it was pure hell.

“This bites,” Dirk said as they walked up the sidewalk and under the arbor.

“Yeah. Really.” Savannah could feel her jaw tightening, her spine stiffening. “We've gotta close this case ... for so many reasons.”

“Oh, yeah.”

They knocked on the door and heard a small dog yipping ferociously inside.

“Watch out,” Dirk said. “A barking rat.”

“Yeah. Might rip out your Achilles tendon, if you're not careful.”

Eventually, the door opened and a grandmother straight out of central casting appeared. Every wave of her silver hair was in place. She wore a simple house dress with pastel pink and lavender flowers. And Savannah was surprised to see that at least one woman in the world, other than Granny Reid, still wore a snowy white apron when cooking.

She even had a small smudge of flour on her chin.

At her feet, a small, fluffy white dog of questionable heritage scampered, still barking with impressive volume and endless enthusiasm. Savannah couldn't help thinking that she could quickly get tired of such an animal. It made her glad she had non-barking cats.

“Yes?” the woman said with a smile, wiping her hands on her apron. “May I help you?”

A little girl with big brown eyes and glittery butterfly barrettes holding back her long, chestnut hair peeked around her grandmother's skirt. She was holding a large chocolate chip cookie in her hand. Some of the chocolate was smeared around her mouth.

The scent of the cookies wafted through the door, smelling like heaven itself.

“Are you Mrs. Geraldine Aberson?” Savannah asked.

“Yes, I'm Gerri Aberson,” she replied as she scooped the dog up and tucked it under her left arm. “Shhh, Snowflake. That's enough.” It stopped barking immediately and began to lick her cheek.

Dirk pulled his badge from his pocket and showed it to the woman. “I'm Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter. This is Savannah Reid. We need to talk to you.” He glanced down at the child. “Is there anyone else here, other than the two of you?”

The woman looked confused, concerned. “Yes, my husband is here.”

“Anyone else?”

“No, just the two of us and our granddaughter here, Elizabeth. Why?”

Dirk glanced down at his shoes, then at the girl. “Are you friendly with either of your neighbors?” he asked.

“Uh, yes. All of them. Why?” the grandmother wanted to know.

“Are any of them home now?”

She nodded and pointed to the house on the right. “Leslie's always at home this time of day.”

“Could you send Elizabeth over there for a little while?”

“Yes, I suppose so.” She bent down, eye level with the girl. “Lizzie, could you go to Mrs. Connell's house and knock on her door and ask her if you can stay with her for a few minutes?”

“Can I have more cookies when I get back?” the girl asked.

“Sure you can. And a glass of milk, too. Scoot along now.”

Dirk and Savannah waited until the child had left the yard before Savannah said, “Could we please come inside? We really need to talk to you about something very important.”

“Of course. Please come in.” Geraldine took a few steps back into the house and beckoned to them.

They followed her inside to find that the home was as quaint and grandmotherly as the lady who lived there. With its Victorian-style furniture, assorted antique accessories, classic art in gilded frames, and stained glass windows, Savannah imagined that this would be the way Granny Reid would furnish her home ... if only she could afford to.

“You should call your husband in here, too,” Dirk told her.

“Oh. Okay. Just a moment, please.” She set the dog on a hand-hooked rug and walked halfway down a hall. “Reuben!” she called out. “Reuben, come here! We've got company!”

“Who is it?” replied a male voice from the depths of the house.

“Leave that birdhouse alone and come out here now.”

She walked back to Savannah and Dirk, shaking her head. “He's converted that back bedroom into a workshop, and I can't get him out of there. If he's not working on Lizzie's dollhouse, he's making feeders and houses for the birds.”

Savannah thought of her own grandfather, forever tinkering in the shed behind his and Granny's house. And she felt a pang of sorrow for this couple, whose family had been visited by tragedy ... and they didn't even know it yet.

Stealing a look at Dirk, she saw he was feeling as miserable as she was. Notifications were the pits; no way around it.

An older man came down the hall, looking mildly disgruntled to have been disturbed. With his shoulder-length, curly white hair, big white mustache and goatee, and a red and green plaid, flannel shirt, he reminded her a bit of Santa Claus.

“What's all this about?” he asked as he entered the room. “Who's this?” He nodded toward Dirk and Savannah.

Again Dirk took his badge from his pocket and introduced himself to the man.

Less friendly than his wife, he eyed them both with suspicion. “Well, what can we do for you two?” he asked gruffly.

“Honey, we should at least ask them if they want to sit down,” Geraldine told her husband. Then she turned to them. “And would you like some cookies? They're fresh from the oven.”

“No, ma'am,” Dirk said. “We'd best get to what we came here for.” He shot Savannah a helpless look. He often froze at this point in a difficult notification.

“I'm afraid we have some bad news for you,” Savannah began.

“Our son, Ethan?” Mr. Aberson asked, his voice cracking.

“No. To the best of our knowledge, your son is all right. It's his wife, Madeline.”

Geraldine gasped and sat down abruptly on the footstool of a winged-back chair.

BOOK: Buried In Buttercream

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