Death by Chocolate (18 page)

Chapter

“Y
ou just got home! Are you
going out again?”

Cordele stood in front of the
door, blocking the hallway and Savannah’s way out of the house.

Savannah stood there, purse
in one hand, car keys in the other. ‘Yes. I was going to run one more errand
before we go out for dinner tonight. Is that all right with you?”

Cordele’s face screwed into
a petulant pout. “Not really. I was hoping you and I could talk awhile this
afternoon.”

Savannah wondered whether
to ask or not, and decided there was no way around it. “Is something wrong?”

“Wrong? Wrong? Of course
something’s wrong. It’s been wrong for years. We share a lot of past family
history together that we need to deconstruct in order to work our way out of
it. That’s what I came to California for.”

Savannah closed her eyes
for a moment, then said, “I meant to say, is anything
new
wrong?”

“Well.... not anything
really new, but...”

“If it’s waited this long,
could it wait a little longer? I have something I really need to do.”

“Business or personal?”

Either way, it’s none of
your
personal business, she thought, but she didn’t say it. There was no point in
making a bad situation miserable.

“Would you like to come
with me?” she asked. “Where are you going?”

“To juvenile hall.”

“What for?”

“To talk to a social worker
there. A friend of mine.”

“About what?”

Savannah steeled herself
and counted to five. “Cordele, darlin’, would you like to come with me? Or do
you want to stay here and read or whatever?”

Or would you prefer to swim
to Hawaii? she added mentally. I’d be happy to give you a ride to the pier and
throw you off the end of it.

“I finished the book this
morning,” she added in an accusing tone. “I didn’t come all the way here just
to sit around the house and be bored. I guess I’ll come.” Savannah turned and
walked to the door. ‘That’s fine,” she said with the enthusiasm of a bored
convenience-store clerk. “Let’s get going.”

The offices of San
Carmelita Youth Corrections were on the outskirts of town, where the warehouses
and car repair shops gave way to orange groves and strawberry fields. Off the
main highway, down a road lined with eucalyptus trees, sat a low, flat, and
rambling building that looked like any other office complex until you noticed
the heavy-gauge steel netting over the windows.

“Not a very cheerful
place,” Cordele remarked as they pulled into the parking lot and stopped in a
space marked
visitors.

“It’s not supposed to be
cheerful,” Savannah told her. ‘The idea of winding up here really shouldn’t be
attractive. An overnight stay will hopefully dissuade any budding delinquent
from burglarizing his neighbors’ houses or selling drugs to her schoolmates.”

“Troubled kids need help,”
Cordele said.

“That’s very true,” she
agreed as they got out of the car and walked to the entrance. “But
unfortunately, a certain percentage of them have to be locked up until some of
that help ‘takes,’ to keep the rest of society safe. We don’t lock up children
for turning over outhouses around here. Some of these kids are hard-core
gangbangers who’ve committed murder as an initiation ritual.”

“They still need help.”

“That’s why there are
people in the world like you... and the lady we’re going to see now.”

Once inside the building,
Savannah and Cordele had to pass through a security checkpoint that hadn’t been
in place before 9-11. Even in the small, sleepy town of San Carmelita, the
world had changed.

Down a hall and to the
right, they found a door that bore the name
angela
herriot.
Savannah knocked, and within seconds the door was opened
by an elegant black woman of generous size.

Angela would have stood out
in any crowd, not only because of her exceptional height and weight, but
because of her brilliant personal adornment. An orange and yellow caftan
swirled around her, reaching to the floor, and her jewelry was equally
oversized: enormous copper earrings that dangled nearly to her shoulder,
several strands of colorful beads around her neck, and rings on every finger,
including her thumbs. It was safe to say that Angela Herriot was no shrinking
violet. She was more like a glorious giant parrot tulip.

“Come in, Savannah, come in,”
she said, waving them inside the small office that was cluttered with books and
stacks of papers everywhere. Having visited her office before, Savannah
suspected that Angela’s people skills were more acute than her organizational
ones.

“This is my sister,
Cordele,” Savannah said. “She’s visiting me from Georgia. She’s studying to be
a psychologist.”

Angela laughed, and the
deep sound of it filled the tiny room. “I don’t know whether to congratulate
you or give you my condolences. It’s the hardest work in the world, I believe,
but I wouldn’t do anything else.”

Cordele blushed and nodded;
she seemed a bit overwhelmed by this larger-than-life persona.

“Sit down, sit down,”
Angela said, pointing them toward a couple of metal folding chairs. “Sorry I
don’t have proper furniture, but, you know, budget cuts.” ‘Yes, Dirk has told
me all about the belt-tightening.”

“I wouldn’t know about
that,” Angela said, pointing to her nonexistent waistline. “I gave up wearing
belts in nineteen-eighty.”

She pulled her own chair
away from the desk and turned it to face theirs. “Sit, sit.”

Savannah had noticed long
ago that Angela tended to say things twice, as though to make sure no one would
misunderstand what she was trying to communicate. She found the characteristic
endearing, along with Angela’s no-nonsense approach to almost everything.

“How can I help you,
Savannah? You said you need a favor?”

“Maybe, maybe not. I’m
worried about a little friend of mine, a six-year-old girl I recently met.”

“Worried in what way?”

“I think she’s—no, I
know
she’s being neglected. I just don’t know if it’s a case for Child Protective
Services.”

Angela leaned back in her
chair and toyed with one of her earrings. “What sort of neglect are we speaking
of? Does she get enough to eat?”

“Probably more pizza than
the FDA would recommend, but I don’t think she goes hungry.”

“Is she clean?
Appropriately attired?”

“She could stand to have
her face washed a bit more often and her hair combed. She has good clothes.”

“Is she healthy?”

“Appears to be.”

Angela shrugged. “Doesn’t
sound like a legal matter, Savannah. What are your concerns?”

“Her mother may have a
substance-abuse problem, at least from time to time. I understand there’s been
several hospitalizations or stays at clinics.”

“Does the child have proper
care during those times?”

“I believe she stayed with
one of her grandparents, although that may not be an option in the future.”

“Then we’ll have to wait
until next time to deal with that.”

Savannah had a sinking
feeling. She had certainly experienced it before—this desire to help a child in
what might be considered a borderline case. Abuse had to be fairly overt for a
parent’s custody to be challenged.

“She stays outside at all
hours, even until midnight,” Savannah offered.

“Doing what?”

“Roaming around the
estate.”

Angela’s right eyebrow
notched up a bit. “Estate? Is this a privileged family?”

“Yes, in terms of money.
But her mother allows her to stay home from school anytime she likes. I suspect
she’s just too lazy to get her up and out the door. There’s no father on the
scene, and I don’t think the poor kid has any quality time with her mom. The
grandmother provided the closest thing the girl received to parental attention,
but she recently died.”

Awareness lit Angela’s
eyes. “Is this a case you’re working on now, Savannah?”

Cordele had been sitting
quietly, listening, but she chose that moment to enter the conversation. “Yes,
the grandmother is Eleanor Maxwell, the woman on TV who—

“Cordele,” Savannah said
softly, trying not to sound as irritated as she was, “I wasn’t going to mention
names just yet.”

“That’s okay.” Angela
chuckled. “I won’t say anything to anyone. I loved that woman’s television
show! Although every time I tried her recipes they never turned out.”

“I’ve heard that before,”
Savannah replied. “So, you don’t think Child Services could do anything for
this girl?” Angela gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘You know this isn’t a
situation for CPS, Savannah. I’m sorry.”

Savannah stood and reached
to shake Angela’s hand. ‘Thank you. I guess I wasted your time. I was just
hoping.” Angela’s hand closed around hers warmly. “It’s never a waste of time
to see you, Savannah. I’m glad you came by. And it was nice meeting you, too,
Cordele. If you don’t mind me asking, what sort of name is Cordele?”

“Stupid,” Cordele replied.
“Our dad’s name was Macon—you know, like the city in Georgia. So our mom
decided to name all of us after Georgia towns, all nine of us—even our little
brother, who’s Macon, Jr.”

“Oh,” Angela said. “How
creative of her.”

“Yeah, Mom was really
creative, when it came to popping out babies,” Cordele said. “She wasn’t much
on taking care of them once they arrived. She left that up to our grandmother.
We had a very troubled childhood.” Angela’s sharp eyes searched Cordele’s face.
Then she said softly, “Isn’t it wonderful that your grandmother could do that
for you. Raise nine children, I mean. She must be a remarkable woman.”

Cordele shrugged. ‘Yeah, I
guess so.”

“She
is
,” Savannah
said. “Gran’s amazing. A real blessing. Thanks again, Angela. If I can ever
return the favor....”

“I’ll give you a call.
Nobody’s bashful around here.”

* * *

When Savannah and Cordele
got back into Savannah’s Mustang, Savannah turned to Cordele. “What did you
think of Angela?”

“She’s cool,” she said with
limited enthusiasm. “But I don’t want to work in a lousy little office like
that. I’m going to have a private practice in a nice modern building where
there are doctors and lawyers and other successful professionals.”

Savannah could have pointed
out that the little rural town of McGill, Georgia, didn’t have any modern
buildings, nice or otherwise, and that if the entire town came to Cordele for
therapy once a week, she’d barely squeak out a living. She’d have to take half
of her pay in the form of farm-fresh eggs and bushels of peaches and pecans.
But she decided not to say anything. No point in ruffling feathers.

So she backed the car out
of the spot and headed out of the parking lot. It was when they were pulling
into traffic that Cordele said, “At least Mom gave you and Atlanta nice names.
How’d you like to have to go through life with a dumb name like Cordele?”

Savannah sighed. “She could
have named you Jesup, instead of your sister.”

“Yes, but at least you can
change Jesup into a nickname—Jessie. What can you do with Cordele? Cordie
sounds stupid and so does Delie. Sounds like a place to buy lunchmeat. You
know, I’ll bet Mom did that on purpose, just to embarrass us, like in that song
‘A Boy Named Sue.’ Remember that?”

But Savannah didn’t answer.
She had stopped listening.

It was a matter of
self-preservation.

Chapter

“Boy, don’t you look
fancy-schmancy,” he said as he brushed by her and walked into the house. “Going
on a

date?”

She could hear the jealousy
under the surface—barely under—but she chose to ignore it. “Ryan and John are
taking us to Chez Antoine for dinner.”

“Us? I guess that means me,
too.” He brightened.

She tried to think of a way
to break it to him that his name hadn’t been on the engraved invitation. Not
even close.

But before she opened her
mouth, he frowned. “Wait a minute. Isn’t that the French place where Ryan
ordered those friggin’ frog legs and tried to pass them off on me as buffalo
wings?”

“Might be,” she said
demurely.

“Oh, well, forget about it.
You couldn’t get me anywhere near that place. Hell, I gag just thinkin’ about
it!”

He walked into the living
room and plopped down on the sofa. He gave her another once-over as she sat on
the other end. ‘You do look good, though. Is that a new dress?”

She had worn the sapphire
blue silk wraparound several times in his presence, but Dirk wasn’t exactly a fashion
hound. He could remember every detail of clothing on a suspect, but not a silk
dress.

“I’ve had it awhile,” she
said, adjusting the pearl necklace that dipped enticingly into her cleavage.

He noticed that. Dirk might
not give a dang about fashion, but he was all male.

“I just dropped by to see
what you got outta Burt today.” He glanced again at her neckline. “If you wore
that dress, you could’ve probably got him to confess to anything.”

She batted her eyelashes.
“Why, thank you, kind sir. But I was wearing slacks and a sweater. And I didn’t
even talk to him.”

“Oh, man... then the whole
day’s down the drain.” He flung himself backward on the sofa, arms outspread,
as though he’d been shot. Dirk could be a bit overly dramatic sometimes. “I
hate this damned job. I’m gonna become a professional wrestler or somethin’.”

“Well, before you go
climbing into a pair of rhinestone-studded bloomers, let me tell you what I
saw—or rather,
who
I saw with him. Right there in Starbucks, in front of
God and everybody. Givin’ him a little kiss. Lettin’ him slide his hand down on
her heinie.”

He perked right up.
“Really? Who?”

“Kaitlin Dover.”

His enthusiasm quickly
waned. Savannah understood; an avowed pessimist could celebrate only in spurts.
‘That doesn’t mean they knocked off ol’ Eleanor, or even that she’s the one
Eleanor was referring to in her diary. It just means they’re foolin’ around.”

“It doesn’t really even
mean that. They could just be thinking about it.”

“Naw, if he got a butt
squeeze in a public place, they’ve done it.”

“You know that for a fact?”

“Oh, sure. Every teenage
boy knows you don’t grope a girl’s rear for the first time in a public place.
If she’s gonna slap you, it should be in private—less embarrassing that way. I’m
surprised you don’t know that, Van.”

“I was never a teenage boy.
Thank God.” She glanced up the staircase. “Listen, I don’t want to cut you
short, but I was helping Cordele get dressed up. She’s a little nervous about
going out to a fancy restaurant. There hasn’t been a lot of five-star dining in
her experience.” ‘Yeah, yeah.... I know. Get lost.” He hauled himself off the
sofa. “I know when I’m not wanted.”

“Oh, please.” She groaned.
“I get enough of that whiny crap without you chiming in.”

After shoving him out the
door, she hurried back up to her guest room, where she found Cordele standing
in front of a full-length mirror, eyeing herself with skepticism.

“I look like a country
hick,” she said, frowning at her image.

She was wearing her usual
uniform of a white cotton shirt, black skirt, and black penny loafers. In honor
of the occasion, she had pinned a black onyx brooch under her chin. Her hair
was slicked straight back.

She didn’t look like a
hick, but she certainly could have passed herself off as an undertaker.

“Come in my room, sweetie,
and let’s see what I can dig up for you.”

“Are you kidding?” she
said, following her down the hall. “I could never wear your clothes. They’d
hang on me. I’m much smaller through the hips than—”

“Can it, Cordele, before I
smack you upside the head.” Savannah walked into her bedroom and opened the
closet door. She dug around in the back and came out with one of her “hooker
stroll” outfits that she had used for vice undercover work.

Cordele’s eyes bugged at
the black leather miniskirt and the red sequined sweater with its
ostrich-feather trim. “I’m not wearing that getup! What have you even got
clothes like that for? Never mind, I don’t even want to know, but I ain’t
wearing it.”

“I wouldn’t
let
you
wear it, turkey butt. But it does have some accessories that we could use.”

She peeled off a few items
and laid them on the dresser. Then she turned to Cordele. “Come here, punkin’,
and let’s spruce you up a bit.”

“Oh, first I’m a turkey
butt and now I’m punkin’,” she grumbled as she walked over to Savannah and
submitted herself.

“They’re all terms of
endearment. Be still.”

Savannah removed the
brooch, set it aside, and unfastened Cordele’s top three buttons. She spread
the collar apart and clasped an antique necklace of tarnished silver and pale
blue stones around her neck. “I have earrings to match this over there in the
jewelry box,” she said. ‘They’ll show up pretty with your short hair.”

She took a belt made of
black satin with plaited cording and tied it around Cordele’s waist, which she
had to admit was considerably smaller than hers.

“We still wear the same
size shoe, don’t we?” Savannah asked, turning to her closet.

“I guess so. What’s the
matter with my shoes?”

“Nothing’s the matter with
anything. But it’s fun to dress up sometimes. Remember when we used to get into
Gran’s old trunks and play with her.... never mind.” She had learned the hard
way not to stroll down memory’s long and winding road with Miss Cordele.

“Slip off those loafers and
try these on,” she said, holding out a pair of high-heeled sandals with a sexy
ankle strap.

“Oh, I couldn’t.” But
Cordele’s eyes were gleaming with anticipation.

“Sure you could. Slap some
red polish on those toenails—there’s a bottle in the bathroom medicine chest—
and put those heels on. You’ll be the original glamorpuss.”

She giggled. “Do you really
think I have time? Ryan and John could be here any minute.”

“Eh, if they arrive, I’ll
keep ‘em occupied downstairs. It’ll be worth the wait.”

Savannah could tell, just by
looking at her sister across the table, that Cordele was having the time of her
life. But she wasn’t surprised. Ryan and John had a way of creating magic for
anyone they entertained.

And they were an
entertaining pair.

They had driven the ladies
to Chez Antoine in their classic Bentley; Cordele had been ecstatic. They had
given Savannah a perfect lavender rose, Cordele a white one. Again, she had
been agog. Ryan had noticed the sexy sandals and red toenails—after Savannah
had given him a discreet wink and nod toward Cordele’s feet—and he had
complimented her profusely. That was, undoubtedly, the point when Cordele had
fallen hopelessly in love.

Upon arriving at the
restaurant, Antoine himself, a slick little Frenchman in a tuxedo, had gushed
over them, kissing their hands and commenting on the high-heeled sandals
without any prompting from Savannah. His high level of enthusiasm about those
shoes caused Savannah to conclude that he must have a foot fetish.

He ushered them to their
favorite booth, which was wonderfully private, surrounded by palms and
partitioned off with dividers made of sparkling beveled glass framed in brass.

Between their before-dinner
cocktails and appetizers, John had regaled them with tales of his interactions
with British nobility while still a “lad” in England. Ryan added his own bit of
blarney, relating some of his adventures while guarding the bodies of the rich
and famous in Hollywood.

But sooner or later, the
conversation had to turn to “shop talk.” And it was halfway through their
chateaubriand that Ryan asked, “How’s the case going?”

“Nowhere fast,” Savannah
replied. “We thought it might be that Streck guy, the accountant. But the D.A.
brought in some hotshot CPA who looked over those files we had, and they say it
wasn’t to his advantage to murder her right now. That doesn’t mean he’s totally
in the clear, but we’re looking elsewhere.”

From the corner of her eye,
Savannah saw Cordele sigh and start picking at her food. Apparently, this line
of conversation wasn’t as exciting as movie stars and the British royal family.

Too bad, she thought. She
never missed an opportunity to bounce ideas off Ryan and John. Their combined
experiences in the FBI had made them first-rate detectives in their own right.
And there was no point in letting all that expertise go to waste.

“How about the former
husband?” John suggested. “I do believe you mentioned that it was the lady
herself who initiated the divorce proceedings. Perhaps he was bitter.”

“We did just find out that
he’s carrying on with the woman who produced Eleanor’s TV show.”

“Hmmm.” Ryan took a sip of
his merlot. “What would they have to gain from Eleanor’s death?”

“Nothing that’s obvious at
this point. Dirk’s checking.”

“How about the servants on
the estate?” John asked. “You know, we always say it was the butler who did
it.” ‘There’s no butler. Just a maid and a chauffeur-sometimes-handyman. They
seem like decent people. I doubt that Eleanor left them anything in her will or
anything like that, so no motive there.”

“I suppose that leaves the
daughter,” Ryan said. “Didn’t you mention that she’s an unpleasant person who
had a rocky relationship with her mother?”

At Savannah’s left, Cordele
perked up. “Eleanor Maxwell’s daughter didn’t like her mom?” she asked.

“No,” Savannah replied.
“She was quite outspoken about what a crummy mother Eleanor had been and how
messed up her life was because of her mom.”

“Figures,” Cordele said,
stabbing at her meat with her knife. “A mom can really mess you up. A rotten
one, that is.”

There was a brief, heavy silence
around the table. Ryan broke it. “Do you think it might have been the daughter?
Was she that upset with her mother?”

“Maybe. She’s hot-tempered
and selfish. Doesn’t appear to be overcome with grief at Eleanor’s passing. She
told her own daughter that now that Grandma’s gone, they’re rich.”

“I would take a very close
look at that young lady,” John said. “She sounds like the most likely of your
suspects at the moment.”

“It isn’t her,” Cordele
said softly but with quiet authority. “She didn’t kill her mother.”

They all three turned and
stared at her, a bit surprised, but Cordele was looking down at her plate.

“Really?” John said. “Would
you care to elaborate? We’d like to hear your opinion on the subject.”

Cordele looked up. “You
would?”

“Of course,” Savannah said.
Though she was doubtful.

“Okay.” Cordele laid down
her knife and fork and dabbed at her mouth with her napkin before answering.
“If this woman goes around telling everybody how much she hates her mom.... if
she blames her for everything that’s wrong in her life.... if she feels like
her mother neglected or abused her... then she would have still been hoping.”

“Hoping for what?” Savannah
said.

“That her mother would
change. That she’d become a better person. That she’d realize how much she had
hurt her kid and try to make it better somehow. And as long as her mom was
alive... there was still a chance.” Savannah swallowed hard, nearly choking.
She could hear the conviction in her sister’s voice, the hurt, the longing.
Cordele still hadn’t given up on their mother.

Long ago, Savannah had
resigned herself to the fact that Shirley Reid was very probably a lost cause.
She was going to spend her days sleeping and her nights sitting on that bar
stool under the autographed picture of Elvis, smoking and belting back the
booze. She would sit there until she was carried out of the bar and taken to
the local funeral home.

She was never going to walk
up to one of her nine children and say, “I realize how selfishly I’ve spent my
life and how much that has hurt you. Please forgive me.” It simply wasn’t going
to happen.

Savannah had finally
realized that she was never going to have a “good” mom. She had Shirley. And
Shirley was Shirley. End of story.