Killer Calories (15 page)

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Authors: G. A. McKevett

Tags: #Mystery

BOOK: Killer Calories
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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
S
avannah couldn't locate Dion until late afternoon. On a hunch, she decided to take a run along the foothills. Sure enough, there he was, jogging through the marguerite daisies and wild sage.
As always, he was gorgeous, tanned, and glistening with just a misting of perspiration. Not enough to run in rivulets down his forehead ... the way it was streaming down hers. No, Dion was and always had been a “star.” And apparently, “stars” didn't sweat. At least, not as much as your run-of-the-mill private detective.
She wiped her forehead on her Royal Palms sweatshirt sleeve and picked up her pace so that she could catch him where their paths intersected.
“Hi, Savannah,” he called, seemingly pleased to see her, as she approached. “Running off a little excess energy?”
“Excess energy?” She fell into step beside him. “I've been getting out of bed at dawn, eating salad, and exercising like a hyperactive Tasmanian devil. Who has any energy at all, let alone excess?”
Dion laughed and shot her a breathtaking smile. “All that clean eating and activity is supposed to invigorate you.”
“Yeah, I've heard the theory,” she said. “Do you mind if we stop and catch our breath under those avocado trees over there?”
As soon as she uttered the words, Savannah realized that he didn't need to catch his breath. No, she was the only one huffing and puffing enough to blow down a little pig's brick house.
“Sure, no problem,” he said, heading for the copse of trees she had indicated. “But don't be tempted to smuggle any back for guacamole.”
“
Real
food, high fat content, heaven forbid. Would I be shot at sunrise? Or would they be extra cruel and have me do morning exercises first?”
“I wouldn't tattle on you. But these trees belong to the Chesterfields, and Phoebe is probably spying on us this very minute. Rumor has it she keeps a rifle with buckshot and a scope in that bell tower with her to shoot anybody who touches the forbidden fruit.”
Rifle, buckshot, a scope ... Mr. Movie Star didn't know diddly about firearms, she decided. Obviously, he hadn't played in many Westerns.
But, since the plan was to get him to open up to her, she figured that insulting him wasn't the best way to gain his confidence.
When they reached the shade of the avocado trees, he pulled a sipper full of water from his fanny pack and offered it to her. She drank gratefully, then returned it, and he did the same.
“If Phoebe Chesterfield sees all and knows all about what goes on around here, I should try to talk to her again,” Savannah said, thinking aloud. “She must have an opinion or two about Kat's death.”
“What about Kat's death?” Dion's turquoise eyes searched Savannah's with a degree of intensity that interested her. “She died of an accident, right? I mean, that's what the medical examiner said.”
“Then, for the moment, that's what we go on.”
“What do you mean? Don't you think it was accidental?”
Did he look scared, angry, shocked, worried, or a bit of all of the above? Savannah watched him carefully, trying to evaluate. But the man was an actor, after all. That complicated things a little.
For right now, she decided on “worried”—which could mean anything.
“I don't know,” she said. “I've heard rumors that Kat might have been done in by somebody ... maybe somebody she had a fight with just before she died.”
There. Her verbal arrow had found and pierced its bull's-eye. Actor or not, the look on his face was pure shock, quickly followed by fear.
“Who said that? Who?”
“Oh, I can't say for sure. You know how gossip is; it just splatters like a wet cow pie through a fan and lands on everybody. It's hard to tell where it got started.”
He took a long swig from the sipper, and she noticed he was gripping the container a lot harder than necessary.
“Did any of these gossips have any idea who might have done it?”
“Oh, I heard a theory or two, but none I'd get too excited about. Not unless there was some sort of physical evidence to back it up, that is.”
Was he looking a little pale beneath his perfect movie-star tan? she wondered. Or was it wishful thinking on her part?
Not that she wanted Dion Zeller to be a murderer, per se. But right now, she would take any lead she could get. High-and-dry private detectives couldn't be choosy.
“Don't believe everything you hear, Savannah,” he said as he poured some of his water into his palm and splashed it over his face. “Just because someone disagreed with Kat doesn't mean they killed her. Kat was a controversial, difficult woman; a lot of us had differences with her. We couldn't all have murdered her.”
“Sounds like you're speaking from experience. Did you have problems with her?”
He didn't answer right away. She could practically hear his mental hard drive whirring.
Finally, he said, “I loved Kat; she was one of the dearest friends I ever had. Sure we had problems, some nasty arguments, all that. But I never, never would have hurt her.”
“Did you ever threaten her?”
Yes, his tan was definitely fading.
“I might have. In the heat of an argument people say a lot of things they don't mean.”
Savannah weighed the risk of asking her next question. She was alone on a hillside with man who outweighed her by at least fifty pounds, a man in excellent shape, who might be a killer. On the other hand, this was the perfect opportunity, the only one she might have.
Besides, she figured the Beretta tucked into her waistband gave her an edge. So, she decided to go for it.
“Do you think Kat meant it when she threatened to tell on you?” she asked him, quietly, smoothly delivering the verbal punch to his diaphragm.
The real thing couldn't have had a more dramatic effect. He gasped, and, for a moment, she actually thought he might pass out on her.
She saw a wild, desperate look in his eyes as he stared at her, trying to look through her, to see how much she knew. But Savannah was an excellent poker player, and she knew she wasn't giving anything away.
When he recovered his breath and some of his composure, he said, “Kat was a kid at heart. That was both her charm and her downfall. She made a lot of threats she never intended to carry out. I knew that about her, so I just ignored anything she said that I didn't like.”
“Then the rumors I've heard ... they must be a lot of hogwash, huh?”
“I don't know what you've heard and how much of this you're making up, Savannah. You strike me as a person who might spin a yarn or two if it suited your purpose.”
She laughed. “That's true. I've been known to embroider the truth from time to time. It's my Southern heritage.” Her smile melted. “But rumors about murder are serious stuff. They don't need embellishing to get my attention.”
He shoved the water bottle back into his fanny pack and zipped it closed with a flourish. “Well, before you pay too much attention to any rumors you hear, you might consider the source. Whoever is spreading this crap ... I'll bet you could trace it directly back to Lou.”
“Why would he spread gossip about you?”
“He wouldn't. He'd get somebody else to do it for him. God knows, he's got enough lame brains at his beck and call. And he's the one who wants Kat's death to be an accident or murder. Anything but a suicide.”
So, Dion knew about the insurance policy, too. Was it public knowledge?
“Lou hasn't paid any of us our salaries for the past month,” he continued, “because he's flat broke. If that insurance money doesn't come through, this place is going to be closing ... soon, too.”
“It's that bad? He told you that himself?”
“You're damned right. So take those rumors you've heard with a grain of salt, Savannah. Like I said, consider the source.”
Without another word, he took off down the trail, heading back toward the spa and leaving her alone with the avocado trees.
But the last thing on her mind was guacamole. As he had requested, she
was
considering the source.
Bernadette.
If there was anyone at the spa who was firmly ensconced in Lou's back pocket, it was Bernadette. In fact, it was safe to say, she was right there in the front ... of his Jockeys.
 
A sudden yearning for the perfume of roses and the company of an older woman led Savannah to Phoebe Chesterfield's garden again. As she had hoped, she found the lady there, tending her botanical paradise.
This time, Miss Chesterfield had abandoned the flouncy skirt in favor of slacks. But her blouse bore the same splash of bright color in the form of scarlet tulips and yellow daffodils. Her flowing waves of silver hair were, once again, covered with the straw bonnet decorated with a sprig of freshly picked lavender.
Instead of cutting roses, she was in a less delicate position—on her hands and knees digging in a flower bed.
“Ah, you caught me in my dungarees,” she said, as she dusted the dirt from her leather gloves, squinting up at Savannah. The late-aftemoon sun shone in her eyes and gave her fair skin a rosy glow.
For a moment, Savannah felt a pang of nostalgia, remembering her granny Reid and the wonderful bonding moments the two of them had shared while planting seeds, separating bulbs, or even spreading manure.
Gran had glowed with the same health and vitality that radiated from Phoebe Chesterfield. Long ago, Savannah had formulated the theory that gardening kept a woman young—not to mention beautiful—if she only used enough sunscreen and wore a wide-brimmed bonnet.
“I had intended to get my landscaper to do this job for me,” Phoebe said, pointing to the hole she had just dug and the bareroot bush beside it. “But he won't be by until Tuesday, and that azalea was going downhill fast over there. Too much sun, I expect.”
“Yes. That would be my guess, too.” Savannah nodded thoughtfully. “It should do much better here in the partial shade. I believe you rescued it just in time.”
“Well, the job isn't done yet.”
Was that a slight hint Savannah heard in Phoebe's tone? It almost sounded as though the Royal Palms's Official Pain-in-the-Backside Neighbor was asking another person for help ... maybe even a moment or two of female companionship.
“I could give you a hand with it, if you like,” Savannah said, eager to feel the cool richness of the soil running through her fingers again. It had been too long since she had been in touch with Nature.
“You're probably busy,” Phoebe replied curtly.
“Not at all. I'd love to help.”
A moment later, both women were on their knees, and Phoebe was mixing a bit of bonemeal into the hole she had just dug. Savannah fetched a bucket of water which she poured in, once Phoebe had finished.
“Now ... there you go,” Savannah said as she eased the azalea into the ground and began to gather the dirt around its roots. Phoebe helped her, and in a couple of minutes, the bush was transplanted.
“There, that didn't take long,” Savannah said, looking down at her manicure, which was now ruined, but she didn't care. Some experiences were worth the price of vanity.
Savannah took a look around, but they appeared to be alone in the garden. “The last time I was here,” she ventured, “you mentioned something about Kat Valentina actually making a play for your brother. Is that really true?”
She had delivered the question with just the right front-porch-gossip tone, and Phoebe responded predictably.
“A play? Heavens no,” she replied. “She wasn't playing at all. She was
working
at it. I tell you, it was absolutely disgusting. An old codger like him.... ”
Savannah thought it best not to mention that Brother Ford Chesterfield appeared to be several years younger than his sister, Phoebe. And having seen the gentleman, Savannah could understand Kat's attraction to him. In spite of his advancing years, he was a physically fit, handsome man with sharp, intelligent eyes.
And, of course, he appeared to be very wealthy. For a woman like Kat, that had to mean more than his thick silver hair or youthful physique.
“How serious were they? I mean, did they actually ... ?” Oops, she thought.
That wasn't exactly the most graceful verbal soft-shoe shuffle you've ever accomplished, old girl.
But Phoebe didn't seem insulted. She pursed her thin lips and nodded vigorously. “Oh, yes, they did. Kat would do ‘it' with anyone, and of course, my brother couldn't help himself.”
“He couldn't? Why not?”
“Well, he's a man. They're weak, you know. All of them. Ever since Adam took a bite of that apple, they've been more animal than human ... helpless to control their lust.”
“Well, I don't know if I'd go so far as to say that they're all helpless—”
“But it's true. They're weak, and they're foolish. Without their mothers, sisters, and wives to keep them in line, they'd never survive.”
Savannah cleared her throat, trying to put aside all of Granny Reid's admonitions about respecting one's elders. Gran had also taught her to confront bigotry wherever she encountered it. Those instructions seemed to contradict each other, given the present company.
“I don't think a person has to be male to be foolish,” she said as gently as she could.
Phoebe slipped off one of her gloves and began to fan herself with it. “Of course not. Women are stupid, too. They marry men, don't they? That's why I never married. I practically reared my younger brother, and one man is enough responsibility for any woman.”

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