Killer Calories (21 page)

“
I
appreciate you taking me out for breakfast like this,” Savannah said as she sat next to John Gibson and watched him maneuver the majestic Bentley around the curves of La Palma Drive.

“You'll be eternally grateful when you see where we're going,” he replied, a smug grin curving his silver mustache.

Visions of strawberry cheese blintzes danced in Savannah's head, or perhaps Antoine's crêpe Suzette. With John's gourmet taste, anything was possible.

“But there aren't any restaurants in this direction,” she said as they headed toward the residential, more rural, hills. “Unless we're going to rob an avocado or lemon grove.”

“Better than that, my dear,” he told her. “Much better. We're going to be sharing a spot of tea—and with any luck, a French pastry—with Ford Chesterfield at his marvelous hacienda.”

“You got us an interview with Ford Chesterfield? But ... but he refused my calls. I've called him at least four times in the last three days, but he won't come to the phone. He tells his sister to get rid of me. Of course, she worded it a little more politely than that, but the bottom line was still the same.”

“I know, love. But, forgive me for saying so, but you didn't attend Oxford at the same time he did, many years ago. And, since I'm not nearly as charming or beautiful as you, I'm certain my Oxford affiliation is the only reason I received this invitation. You mustn't take it personally.”

“He actually
invited
you for breakfast?”

“Well, I rang him last evening and suggested I knock him up this morning at half-nine and that he might have a pot of Earl Grey brewing.”

“Knock up ... ? Half nine ... ?” She did a quick British/ Californian translation. “Ah, ha ... you told him you'd drop by at nine-thirty.”

“Of course, dear girl, that's what I said. You are happy about this, aren't you? I distinctly recall at dinner the other night you were bemoaning the fact that you hadn't had the opportunity to interrogate him.”

“Sure, I am. I'm thrilled. So, he knows I'm coming, too? He agreed to talk to me?”

“Not at all. It should be a lovely surprise. I simply can't wait to see the look on the old chap's face. It should prove most entertaining.”

“Me either,” Savannah said with subdued enthusiasm. “Gee ... just can't wait.”

Savannah sat at a white, glass-topped, wrought-iron table with John Gibson on her right side and Ford Chesterfield to her left. She definitely felt outclassed.

A pot of tea, shaped like a small English cottage, steamed in the center of the table, and each of their cups were filled to the brim with the fragrantly floral-scented Earl Grey.

And Ford Chesterfield had not thrown her out on her ear the moment he saw her. Although he appeared a bit leery, he had certainly been cordial enough when inviting them inside the house, then out to the garden patio.

“Where is Phoebe?” Savannah asked, mildly disappointed that the lady hadn't made an appearance.

“She is attending the monthly meeting of her garden club,” Ford replied between small, delicate sips. “I'm afraid the third Wednesday of every month is the only day of peace and quiet I have. Phoebe is ... well, she's energetic,” he added, after an awkward hesitation.

“Yes. I've noticed,” Savannah agreed. “Thank you for giving up your one tranquil day a month to see us. I wasn't sure you'd welcome me, after you refused to take my phone calls.”

Ford looked embarrassed. He fidgeted briefly with his cup, then refilled it from the pot, and said, “You're here now, so we may as well enjoy our visit.”

Savannah thought the sentiment was nice enough, but the look on his face was anything but one of pleasure. In fact, he looked ill at ease to the point of being miserable.

John led the conversation into more shallow waters, reminiscing about their days at merry old Oxford. While John Gibson had been born and raised only a short distance from the university, Ford Chesterfield had been sent to Britain by wealthy parents to complete his Ivy League education. Although their association had been brief, they had shared a few experiences that provided some entertaining anecdotes.

Besides, their chatter gave Savannah time to formulate how she would steer the subject back to Kat Valentina. Thankfully, John did it for her. She would have to remember to kiss him on the cheek once they were back inside the Bentley.

“I understand you and the recently departed Miss Valentina were close friends,” John said to Ford as he picked up the silver tongs and dropped a sugar cube into his tea. “A rather cozy arrangement, I hear.”

Well, so much for subtle conversation gambits,
Savannah thought, listening and watching with acute interest.

Ford cleared his throat and stared down into his tea as though a miniature shark were circling inside the cup. “I'm not certain where you received your information,” he told John, “but your source isn't as informed as he or she may have led you to believe.”

“Then you weren't ... close?” Savannah asked.

“We discussed business on a number of occasions. That was the extent of our association.”

“Yes,” John said smoothly, “I heard you paid a number of visits to the spa, just before Miss Valentina's unfortunate accident.”

“I was attempting to buy a section of the Royal Palms property from her. That's all. I've grown tired of hearing my sister complain about all the indiscretions within her viewing. I thought if I could purchase the land and fence it off, I might get some peace.”

“Most sensible,” John said, nodding solemnly. “Was she interested in your proposition?”

“Not at all. After several attempts to persuade her, I abandoned the idea.”

“Mmmmm.” Savannah watched him carefully, studying his body language, the movement of his eyes, the way he held himself, the manner in which he handled the teacup in his hand.

Later, when she and John had left the hacienda and were back inside the Bentley, she gave him the kiss she had been saving and asked, “Do you think he was telling the truth about himself and Kat? Was his only interest in her financial?”

“In a pig's eye, my dear girl. I could see it written all over his face. The old chap was smitten with Lady Katarina Valentina ... positively dizzy over her. And I'd venture to say, he still is.”

John shook his head and chuckled. “It was as obvious as the mustache on his face, which, by the way, was trimmed in far too thin a line. For heaven's sake, that style went out of fashion with Errol Flynn. Chesterfield's barber really should tell him how unbecoming it is.”

Savannah cut a sideways glance at John's luxurious silver cookie duster with its carefully combed and slightly uptilted ends.

He gave her a grin that made his mustache twitch and her giggle.

She had to agree.

 

Savannah was halfway back to her dorm room when it occurred to her that even a brief pop-in visit with Dion Zeller might be a good idea. Last night must have been a sleepless one for him, with his life hanging in the balance. Maybe he needed a friend. Everyone needed someone once in a while.

Although he might have been out, running among the daisies, Savannah didn't think so. If she had been in the same circumstances, she would have been holed up in her room, thinking, worrying, deciding. So she stopped by his cottage and rapped softly on the door.

After knocking a second time, she realized the door was slightly ajar. Ordinarily, that fact wouldn't have been particularly noteworthy. But with a suspicious death occurring at the spa only a week or so before, she thought most of the Royal Palm's residents would have been a bit more vigilant about security than usual ... Dion Zeller included.

“Hello?” she called, pushing the door a few inches wider. “Dion, are you here? It's Savannah Reid. May I come in?”

When she didn't receive an answer, she stuck her head inside and looked around. At first, everything seemed as it had before—neat, tidy, every miniature in its place.

Then she saw something that caused a jolt of adrenaline to hit her bloodstream.

Through the open bedroom door. Legs. Sticking out from behind the bed.

Instantly, she recognized the heavily muscled thighs, the well-rounded calves, and the electric blue running shorts.

“Dion!” She flung the door open and ran to him. “Dion, are you all right?”

Of course, she knew he wasn't, but she couldn't help hoping.

Her heart sank when he didn't respond. She entertained a brief, happy fantasy that he was simply lying on the floor, playing with an electric train set—even though she knew better.

Rounding the end of the bed, she saw he was lying on his back, eyes closed, arms outflung. His face was a sickly white, tinted with blue around his lips. He had vomited profusely.

“No ...” she whispered as she knelt beside him. “Please, no.”

When she pressed her fingers against the inside of his wrist, she could feel a distinct, if weak, pulse. At least he was alive. Maybe not by much, but after thinking she had discovered a corpse, she was thrilled.

He was breathing, but his respiration was rapid and shallow. Laying her palm against his cheek, she shuddered to feel how cold and clammy his skin felt.

“Dion, can you hear me?” she said, glancing over his body, checking for wounds. None were apparent. No blood, no obvious contusions.

Then she saw the three empty pill bottles on the bed, the broken glass, and the water spilled on the floor beside the nightstand.

“Oh shit, Dion,” she whispered. “Why did you go and do a stupid thing like that?”

Spotting a telephone on the desk in the corner of the room, she jumped up, ran to it, and dialed the spa's office. Thankfully, Bernadette answered immediately.

“It's Savannah Reid,” she told her. “Call Dr. Ross and tell him to get over to Dion's cottage right away. It's an emergency.”

Flustered, Bernadette stammered and stuttered for a moment, then she said, “But Dr. Ross isn't here. He's up at the Chesterfield estate. Phoebe called him a while ago and asked him to come up because—”

“Okay, then call 9–1–1 and tell them to send an ambulance. Say we have an unconscious male in his thirties, probable drug overdose. Respiration weak, heart rate thready. Got that?”

“Yeah, but who is it? Is it Dion? Is he—?”

“Just do it, Bernadette!

“But—”

“Damn it! Right now!”

Slamming down the phone, she looked back at Dion, who seemed to be getting whiter and bluer by the second. “Hurry up,” she whispered. “Please, hurry.”

If that ambulance doesn't get here pretty quick,
she thought,
they might as well send the coroner's wagon.

S
avannah sat in the hospital lobby, holding Tammy's hand and sending silent comfort to Ryan, who sat across the room beside John. The four of them had been anxiously waiting, jumping every time a professional wearing a white smock had exited the emergency-room door.

A nurse had told them she would bring them a report on Dion's condition in a few minutes. That had been an hour ago, and still no word.

Savannah wanted to believe that Granny Reid's axiom “No news is good news” was applicable in this case. But Dion had looked horrible by the time they had arrived at the hospital, and she had overheard just enough of the conversation between the attending physician and nurses to know he was just as bad as he looked.

Any members of the Royal Palms staff were conspicuously absent. Bernadette had driven to the hospital along with them, but had left soon with some excuse about having to “take care of Lou.” Savannah didn't even want to think what that meant.

After three cups of stale, machine coffee and a Snickers bar, Savannah had practically memorized the burgundy-and-gray tiles on the floor. They matched the burgundy-and-gray tiles on the walls, and the burgundy-and-gray abstract art on the wall.

“Looks like the decorator was into burgundy and gray,” she had remarked twenty minutes ago. But the conversational gambit had gone nowhere.

Their little vigil had a somber note about it. Thankfully, somebody you knew didn't try to kill themselves every day.

“When are they going to come out and tell us what's going on?” Tammy asked for the eleventh time. Savannah had been counting ... along with the tiles.

“I'm sure they'll let us know as soon as they can,” Ryan replied with as much calm and grace as when he had answered her the first, second, and third times.

“He's in most capable hands,” John said, giving Ryan a compassionate, reassuring look.

“Yes,” Ryan replied. “Thank you for asking your private physician to look at him.”

“Any friend of yours deserves the best,” John said.

Savannah searched John's eyes for any sign of jealousy or resentment. She was certain Ryan had told him that Dion and he had been lovers. Ryan's sense of honesty and openness would have demanded as much. But John seemed perfectly at ease with the situation, other than his concern for Dion and his sympathy for those who cared about him.

“I just don't know why he would do such a thing,” Tammy said, starting to cry again. “He was so handsome and so nice. And he had so much to live for.”

Savannah handed her another tissue. Tammy blew noisily into it, then Savannah said, “I think he was afraid.”

“Of what?”

Savannah glanced over at Ryan and John, thinking that they might be able to offer Tammy a more insightful answer. But they simply watched and said nothing.

Savannah took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “Of having those he loves and respects think of him differently than before.”

“How?”

“Without love and respect.”

“Well, I think it's sad,” Tammy said, sniffing loudly. “I can't imagine being so afraid and depressed that I wouldn't even want to live anymore.”

“Me either.” Savannah patted Tammy's hand and sent a silent “Thank you” heavenward that the young woman had an indomitable spirit ... certainly not someone you had to worry about becoming suicidal.

“I just wish they could give Dion a transfusion of your enthusiasm for life, Tam,” she said.

“Wouldn't that be grand,” John added. “Perhaps there would be enough for us all to have a pint or so. You do seem to have an abundant supply, my dear.”

The words that had been intended to make Tammy feel better seemed to have the reverse effect. She only cried that much harder.

Just when Savannah thought she was going to go into hysterics, the door down the hall opened and a white-smocked Hispanic woman hurried out of the emergency ward. After glancing around the waiting room, she strode over to them.

“Are you Dion Zeller's family?” she asked with a degree of authority that distinguished her as a doctor, even more clearly than the stethoscope slung around her neck or the “Selena Hernandez, M.D.” on her name tag.

“Close enough,” Savannah said as they all jumped to their feet and rushed toward her.

“How is he?” Ryan asked, reaching the doctor first.

“He's in a coma. Unfortunately, he had ingested most of the drugs before he was found, so pumping his stomach had minimal benefits. Fortunately, he had already regurgitated much of what he took.”

Savannah felt a pang of guilt. If only she had stopped by a few hours earlier....

“I understand you were the one who found him,” the doctor said to Savannah. Her coffee-colored eyes were searching Savannah's as though reading the guilt ledger written there all too plainly.

“That's right,” Savannah admitted. “I—”

“If you hadn't discovered him when you did,” the doctor said, cutting off her confession, “he would be dead. So, don't waste your time feeling responsible for his condition.”

“Thank you, Dr. Hernandez.”

“Will the young man recover fully?” John asked.

“It's too early to tell. We'll know more in a few hours, after his body has processed more of the drugs. And, of course, we're waiting until he comes out of the coma before we make any definitive diagnosis of the damage he's done to himself.”

A pager buzzed on the doctor's hip. She reached for it, peered at the number, and grimaced. “I have to go,” she said. “Is there anything else?”

“May we see him?” Ryan asked.

Dr. Hernandez hesitated, studying Ryan's handsome, worried face. When she finally spoke, Savannah could hear the underlying compassion in her voice. “I'm afraid there isn't much to see. Mr. Zeller's coma is quite deep. But, if it would make you feel better, I'll arrange for you to be admitted, one at a time, to the intensive care unit.”

“Thank you,” Ryan said.

“Only for a couple of minutes each.”

“We understand,” Savannah told her. “Thank you, Doctor.”

Dr. Hernandez hurried away to answer her page and arrange for their brief visits.

“Who goes first?” Tammy asked, suddenly sounding very young and frightened.

“Ryan,” Savannah said. She gave John a quick glance.

Graciously, he nodded his silver head. “Absolutely,” he said. “Ryan first, and then the ladies. We old fellows have learned to be patient.”

 

When Savannah entered the intensive care unit and saw Dion lying there—his face whiter than the pillow beneath his head—it occurred to her this was more like viewing a corpse in the morgue than visiting a sick friend.

Based upon her past experiences, Savannah held the theory that the average suicide attempt was a cry for help rather than a sincere effort to end a life.

But it appeared Dion Zeller had meant to go all the way, and—from the way he looked, lying pale and motionless on the bed, hooked to half a dozen, blinking, beeping machines—he had nearly succeeded.

Savannah walked to his bedside, lifted his cold hand and folded it between hers, trying to impart some warmth, comfort, and support ... at least to his subconscious.

“Dion, can you hear me? It's Savannah,” she said, not that she really expected him to answer, but it never hurt to ask.

Remembering only several days ago, when this healthy, vibrant man had been jogging at her side, Savannah was shocked and horrified by how that vitality could be devastated by some pills and a streak of self-destructiveness.

She felt a rush of impotent anger at Dion for surrendering something as precious as himself, his life. She felt rage at society for forcing some of its dearest and most valuable members into horrible positions where suicide seemed the best alternative. And, most of all, she was furious at whoever had murdered Kat Valentina and started this chain of destruction.

If someone killed Kat,
she reminded herself. For all she knew, she was raging at Fate or Kat's own irresponsibility for sitting in a hot tub while drinking alcohol.

Either way, her fury seemed pretty pointless. She needed to spend more of her time and energy thinking about “what” and “how” this had happened, rather than “why.” She was only a detective, not God.

Hearing a footstep behind her, Savannah turned and saw the intensive care nurse coming toward her. “I'm sorry, ma'am,” the RN said, “but you're going to need to leave now. We have to run some tests on Mr. Zeller.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you for letting me see him.”

Savannah bent over and placed a kiss on Dion's cheek. “Don't you dare check out,” she whispered. “I want to go running in the daisies with you again. I'm counting on it; you hear?”

Still there was no response.

Savannah left the room with a heavy, sinking feeling in the region of her heart. She was afraid she would never know if Dion had heard her or not.

 

In the hallway between the ICU and the hospital lobby, Savannah ran nearly headlong into Dr. Freeman Ross.

“I just heard,” he said, breathless, as he grabbed her by the arm. “How is he?”

“Not so good,” she told him. “He's in a coma. But they say he's stabilized; I guess that's good news.”

Dr. Ross took off his glasses and rubbed his hand wearily across his eyes. “Man, what a morning! Some days it doesn't pay to get out of bed. Two in one hospital at once! Who would have thought?”

“Two? What do you mean?” Savannah had a bad feeling about this.

He looked confused for a moment. “Oh, I thought you knew. Phoebe Chesterfield called me this morning, frantic over her brother. I went running up to their house and realized he had suffered a stroke.”

“This morning? But John Gibson and I were with him this morning. We had tea, and he was fine.”

“Apparently she came home shortly after you left and found him lying on the lawn in the backyard. He was incoherent and had lost control of his right side.”

“Oh, no! Is he okay?”

“Not really. I'm afraid he suffered substantial brain damage, though we won't know until the test results are in how serious it is. I was consulting with his personal physician when I heard about Dion.”

For some reason, Savannah thought of crimson Mr. Lincoln roses and snowy white John F. Kennedy blossoms. “Where is Phoebe?” she said, although she knew the answer.

“By his bedside, of course. Room 4E.”

After thanking Dr. Ross and saying a brief good-bye, Savannah hurried toward the elevator, heading for the fourth floor. Of course Phoebe would be by Ford's side. No matter how old he might be, he was still Phoebe's little brother.

And if Savannah knew about anything, it was about the duties of being a big sister.