Corpse Suzette (3 page)

Dirk took a swig of
lemonade and cleared his throat. “Sounds suspicious to me. She’s up to
something.”

“Yeah, that’s what I think,
too,” Savannah added. “I saw a gleam in her eye that my nephew gets right
before he pulls the tail off a lizard.”

“Don’t say that.” Tammy
winced.

“Sorry, but I think that
kid’s a budding serial killer. Vidalia had better get her bluff in on him
before he gets much older or—”

“No,” Tammy said, “I mean
don’t say that about Abigail. Have a little faith, will you two?”

“In what?” Dirk wanted to
know.

“Humanity.”

He grunted. “That’ll be the
day. I’m a cop, remember? I see every day what ‘humanity’ is up to. And it
ain’t pretty.”

Tammy Sunshine shook her
head in disgust. “Not
everybody
is up to something. Some people are good
and kind and—”

“Only the ones who are
afraid of getting caught and punished.” He gave her a nasty little smirk.
“That’s where I come in. I keep the regular folks honest.”

Savannah chuckled. “Oh,
yes, Dirk. That’s it. Everybody in society is law-abiding because Dirk Coulter
is on duty. We live in fear. We tremble in—”

“Yeah, yeah, enough
already.” He held out his glass. “Gimme some more of that lemonade and mark my
words: She’s up to something. It’s just a matter of time until we find out
what.”

In less than forty-eight
hours, around nine in the evening, Savannah got the phone call. She was sitting
in her favorite chair, her feet on the ottoman, a cup of double-fudge hot
chocolate on her side table, a romance novel open on her lap, and a cat on
either side of her feet—kitty foot warmers, she liked to call them.

Dirk’s surly voice barked
at her through the phone. “Where is that houseguest of yours?” he asked without
preamble.

“She went to bed an hour
ago. Why?”

“How did she seem?”

“Seem?”

“Yeah, you know, her mood.
Was she grouchy, grumpy?”

“Not particularly. Not
Sneezy or Bashful, either. She spent the day there at Emerge, getting her blood
work done and other things to get ready for her surgeries. They’ve scheduled
her liposuction for the day after tomorrow. She seemed a little tired... wanted
to go to bed early. What’s this about?”

“I just caught a case.”

“What is it?”

“Missing person.”

“What’s this got to do with
me?” she said, glancing down at her half-read romance novel. In the last
chapter, the virgin heroine had finally trusted the swashbuckling hero enough
to take a moonlight sail on his ship. He had “trusted” her right back... very
nicely, and in graphic, steamy detail. So well, in fact, that Savannah
suspected the newly deflowered lady would allow him to trust her in the next
chapter, too.

Something to look forward
to.

Dirk’s timing had always
left a lot to be desired.

“It’s Suzette Du Bois who’s
gone missing,” he said. “The plastic surgeon who’s supposed to operate on your
girl there. The one who owns the joint where she’s—”

“You’re kidding! When?”

“Last night was the last
time anybody saw her. She didn’t show up at the clinic this morning. Didn’t
Abigail mention it to you? Apparently, everybody there was talking about it.”

Savannah glanced at the
staircase and wondered about her houseguest upstairs. Now that she thought
about it, maybe Abigail had seemed a little weird tonight. But then, with
Abigail, who could really tell?

“Where are you?” she asked.

“On my way to Du Bois’s
house, down by the marina. Her business partner has a key to the place. He’s
going to meet me there and let me in.”

“Want some help?”

“I don’t need help.”

Savannah rolled her eyes.
“Of course not. What was I thinking?”

“But I’d like to have your
company. Got any more of those chocolate chip cookies... the ones with the nuts
in them?”

Chapter

L
ike many Southern
California coastal towns, San Carmelita was longer than it was wide, with the
ocean forming its western border and the eastern edge a row of sage-covered
foothills.

Spring rainstorms would
temporarily green the hills until they looked like the mountains of Killarney,
but the rest of the year they were a relatively boring tawny beige. Their only
adornment: sprinklings of prickly pear cactus and the occasional gnarled oak
tree.

When those spring rains
were generous, it was easy to forget that Southern California was basically a
desert, each community a man-made oasis. But when spring came and went with
only minimal rainfall, it became all too apparent to the residents that they
were desert dwellers and that every drop of water counted.

As Savannah left her home
in the middle of town, halfway between the beach and the foothills, and drove
toward the waterfront area and the marina, she noticed that her neighbors’
yards, like hers, were extra crispy this year. Watering lawns—like wash-mg
cars, rinsing down sidewalks, showering alone, and flushing a number one”—was
temporarily outlawed.

But if March brought its
usual tropical storms, Savannah and her fellow Californians would be building
sandbag dams around their houses to prevent the rivers of water that coursed
down the streets from rushing through their front doors. The mansions, perched
on the hillsides for the optimal ocean view, would be sliding down onto their
neighbor’s mansions, mountains of mud and rock would be cascading onto the
Pacific Coast Highway, traffic would be backed up from Santa Monica to Santa
Barbara, and Southern California would be back to “normal.”

Sometimes Savannah missed
the relatively uneventful weather of the small, rural Georgia town where she
had been born and raised. She missed it most during earthquakes. But about the
time she waxed too nostalgic, she would round a corner and see the sparkling
Pacific spread out before her, lined with golden beaches and majestic rows of
graceful palms, and she forgot all about peach orchards and pecan groves.

Tonight the ocean was
particularly beautiful, sparkling in the silver light of a full moon. On the
distant Santa Tesla Island she could see the occasional wink of the
lighthouse’s beam as it made its rounds.

Yes, this Georgia peach was
usually quite contented and happy to be transplanted.

As always when she entered
the waterfront areas of town, she noticed that they had more than their share
of stately palm trees. Apparently palms grew best in soil enriched with
beaucoup
de
bucks.

Luxury cars did, too.
Everywhere she looked she saw some version of Mercedes, Jaguar, or BMW, along
with the perfectly restored classic Chevrolets, Fords, and Rolls Royces.

Savannah felt right at home
in her own ’65 Mustang, except for the black smoke coming out of her exhaust
pipe—another issue she would have to address if she ever got another client. At
the moment they weren’t exactly knocking down her door.

She found the address
quickly, an elegant Spanish-style home that backed up onto one of the many
channels that interlaced this area. Around the rear corner of the house she
could see what appeared to be at least forty feet of dock and an ocean-worthy
sailboat.

Not bad,
she thought, looking over
the multilevel dwelling with its glistening white stucco walls and red-tiled
roof.
That's what my little house is going to be when it grows up someday.

But, ever-practical, she
reminded herself that she didn’t want a spread like this. The taxes alone would
be more than her mortgage, utilities, and Victoria’s Secret bill combined.
There’d be no money left over for bubble bath or Godiva chocolates. And a lady
had to keep her financial priorities in order.

She considered pulling into
the driveway next to Dirk’s Buick, but decided instead to park on the street
and drip oil on public property.

A late-model Mercedes sat
next to the Buick, and she saw no radio cars, ambulances, or medical examiner’s
wagon. No yellow tape across the door. Apparently Dirk hadn’t found anything
too alarming. Yet.

Most likely, there was a
perfectly good reason that the doctor was missing. Most people disappeared,
temporarily or permanently, of their own accord. Although, not usually wealthy,
successful, well-rooted types like Dr. Du Bois. From the look of her real
estate, Suzette Du Bois had spent a lot of time and money establishing herself
in this community. She wasn’t likely to just walk away from it all.

As Savannah left her car
and walked up to the front door of the house, she couldn’t help noticing the
landscaping. Although the Yards in this part of town were miniscule—with every
inch of waterfront property a precious commodity—Suzette Du Bois or her
groundskeepers had made the most of the tiny lot. Strategically placed lights
illuminated the terraced flower beds, which brimmed with Martha Washington
geraniums, glistening white alyssum, and deep blue lobelia. Ivy climbed the
stucco walls and intertwined with equally hearty bougainvillea, adding an
old-world charm to the house that was obviously new.

When she approached the
front door she saw that it was ajar, and she could hear male voices coming from
inside the house. One of them was Dirk’s.

Through the sparkling
beveled glass sidelight next to the door, she could see him standing in the
well-lit foyer with a tall, dark-haired fellow who appeared to be in his late
forties or early fifties.

Pushing the door open, she
stuck her head inside. “May I come in?” she asked.

Dirk gave her a curt nod,
then turned his attention back to the man. “And that was the last you or anyone
you know saw her?”

“Yes. She was leaving the
office.”

“You saw her drive away?”

He nodded. “In her BMW,
which is in the garage. I checked. So, at least, she made it home,” he said
with what sounded to Savannah like a less-than-genuine Italian accent. A number
of things looked less than natural about the guy, from his heavily-gelled hair,
which was a suspiciously intense shade of blue-black, to the eyebrows perched
halfway up his forehead and the perpetually surprised look on his face.
Apparently, he had had a few too many face-lifts in the losing battle against
looking his age.

He also looked worried.
Worried and tired... as if he hadn’t slept for days.

Savannah wondered why he
would be so tired. Suzette had only gone missing today.

She walked over to them and
stood next to Dirk. When he said nothing, but continued to scribble on his notepad,
she held out her hand to the man. “I’m Savannah Reid, a friend of Sergeant
Coulter here.”

Dirk glanced up and
grunted. “Oh, sorry. Yes, she was my partner on the force for years. Now she’s
a private investigator. I ask her to hang out with me once in a while. You
mind?”

The man didn’t seem to mind
at all. In fact, he visually perked-up at the mention of her being a P.I. “I’m
Sergio D’Alessandro,” he said as he took her hand and gave it a hearty shake.
At the same time, his eyes traveled up and down her body, giving her what she
called, the “elevator look,” stopping at several floors along the way to
window-shop.

Apparently, he liked what
he saw, because he flashed her a dazzling smile. A bit too dazzling. Savannah
suspected he was one of those males who hadn’t met a female he didn’t like
since hitting puberty.

She pulled her hand out of
his and resisted the urge to wipe her palm on her pants.

“Nice to meet you,” she
said through only slightly gritted teeth. “And you are...?”

He visibly swelled with indignation.
“7 own the Mystic Twilight Club, an exclusive spa that caters to only those of
the most refined taste and—”

“I know the place,” she
said. “I meant, who are you in relationship to the missing pers—”

“I’m Dr. Du Bois’s business
partner. Have been for years. And she was also my ex-wife.”

Savannah lifted one eyebrow
ever so slightly. “Was? I should think she still
is
and always will be
your ex-wife.”

He shrugged. “You know what
I meant. I mean she’s missing now and...”

And you’re already referring
to her in the past tense
,
she thought, but she kept any further comment to herself. There was little to
he gained by letting a potential suspect know how suspicious they appeared.

And if, indeed, Suzette Du
Bois was a missing person or a victim of foul play, ex-husbands and current
boyfriends were always at the top of the suspect list.

She could feel Dirk tense
slightly beside her, and she knew he had picked up on it, too.

He cleared his throat and
took on an even more officious tone. “Is Dr. Du Bois in the habit of missing
work?”

“Never. Never, never. She
was a workaholic and she knew more than anybody how important it was for her to
show up today to start this new Emerge campaign.”

Again with the past tense.

Savannah decided something
then and there. For all of his high-falutin’ name, Brioni suit, and Tutima
watch, Sergio D’Alessandro wasn’t that sharp. Obviously, he knew or strongly
suspected his former wife was dead, and he was too dumb to realize he was
exposing that fact.

And while most people might
fear that possibility if an otherwise responsible, predictable person went
missing for twenty-four hours, experience had taught her that most innocent
folks continued to speak of their loved ones in the present tense, even after
they were confirmed dead. It was only natural.

“All right,” Dirk said,
flipping his notebook closed. “I’m gonna have a look around. You can get back
to whatever you were doing before you drove over here.”

Sergio shifted from one
Bruno Magli to the other. “Don’t you want me to stay... in case you need
something or . .

“Nope. You let me into the
house. That’s all I need or want from you right now,” Dirk replied with his
usual lack of charm. “Don’t call me. I’ll call you. And stay in town. Don’t go
takin’ no unscheduled vacations to Tijuana or Vancouver, if you know what I
mean.”

He turned and walked away,
leaving D’Alessandro standing there with an aggravated look on his face.

When Dirk was out of
earshot, Savannah sidled up to him. “There’s something you should know,” she
said. “Sergeant Coulter’s bite is a lot worse than his bark.”

“Huh? Don’t you mean...?”

“Nope. I meant what I said.
You should probably leave now.”

The next thing she saw was
the back of Sergio D’Alessandro’s fancy suit, walking briskly out the door. She
couldn’t help but think that the atmosphere improved with his absence. There
was something about the man she didn’t like... beyond his basic smarminess. And
her instincts seldom led her astray in that regard.

Yes, if anything had
actually happened to Dr. Suzette Du Bois, she would give ol’ Sergio a second
look. Maybe a third and a fourth.

She found Dirk in the
kitchen, listening to the messages on an answering machine on the counter.

“Anything good?” she asked.

“Just the usual crap,” he
replied. “A couple of calls from somebody named Myrna, wanting to know why she
wasn’t at work this morning.”

“I think Myrna is the
secretary or receptionist at Emerge. She’s called at my house and talked to
Abigail a couple of times to schedule things with her.”

Savannah glanced around the
room, noting that, although it was a gorgeous, modern kitchen with lots of
architectural accents like beveled glass inserts in the cupboards, an ornate
wrought iron pot rack, a brick oven, and marble countertops, it was a mess.

Dirty dishes sat in the
sink in a bath of scummy, greasy water. Pans half-filled with dried food
littered the stove top. With one finger Savannah opened the dishwasher and it,
too, was full of crusty dishes.

“It’s a little hard to tell
if she ate here last night or this morning,” she said. “Most of these dishes
look pretty old.”

“Eh, she’s a pig. She may
have a fancy joint here, but my trailer is cleaner than this mess.”

While Savannah wouldn’t
label the woman quite so quickly or harshly, she had to agree that, even though
Dirk lived in an old, rusty mobile home in a trailer park on the bad side of
town and decorated it with plastic milk crates and rickety TV trays, his place
was basically sanitary at all times. And she, herself, had been raised by
Granny Reid to believe that a “filthy kitchen” was one where the dishcloth
hadn’t been thoroughly rinsed and neatly hung on the rack to dry.

“There’s no excuse for
bein’ nasty,” Gran always said in her soft, Georgian drawl. “Maybe a body can’t
help being poor, but everybody can afford a bar of soap. There’s just no reason
for dirtiness, not a-tall.”

“I’m going to go look for
her purse,” Savannah said.

He nodded. “I’ll check out
the bedrooms.”