Killer Calories (3 page)

S
avannah looked across the dining table into the most beautiful green eyes she had ever seen. She was madly in lust with Mr. Perfect, otherwise known as Ryan Stone. He was the ideal man in every way. Around forty, tall, dark, so handsome that just seeing him made her ache, romantic, kind, and sensitive. And he adored her; he had said so on many occasions.

But there was always a snag.

Ryan was involved, committed to someone else, heart, body and soul. Oh, yes ... and he was gay.

His life companion, John Gibson, sat beside Savannah, just as handsome and charming as Ryan. A middle-aged man with thick silver hair, a melodic British accent, dry wit and old-world charm ... no wonder Ryan loved him.

And Savannah loved them both.

“Thanks for inviting me to dinner. It was wonderful,” she said, savoring the ambience of Chez Antoine, her favorite French restaurant. As always, Ryan had called ahead and asked Antoine to prepare his salmon mousse, just for her. Gibson had brought her a single, perfect, lavender rose that stood beside her wineglass in its sparkling, crystal bud vase.

Maybe she could figure out a way to marry them both.

From behind one of the potted palms, Antoine himself appeared, a tiny man with a gaunt face and too-black hair slicked back from a pronounced widow's peak. He might not be particularly attractive, Savannah had decided upon meeting him years ago, but he made incredible crepe Suzette. And on Savannah's list of priorities, a great dessert always took precedence over a GQ haircut.

He took her hand and kissed it for the fourth time that evening. “And my lovely Savannah, did you enjoy the food I make for you?” he said, his voice dripping with French mystique. Okay, she admitted, so he spread it on a little thick. She couldn't help lapping it up.

“Very much, Antoine. Everything was perfect.”

He sighed, and his smile faded. “Then I fear, your perfect evening is about to be ruined. There is a ... gentleman ... at the door, who says he is a friend of yours. He wants to join you.”

Antoine lowered his voice and leaned closer, making the most of the opportunity to peer down the front of Savannah's low-cut evening dress. “This man ... forgive me ... he looks a bit like a ruffian. I don't know that you would welcome his company.”

“Dirk.” Savannah gave Ryan and John an apologetic look. “Do you mind?”

Of course they minded. Dirk-after-dessert was hardly the way to end a lovely meal. But they were far too well mannered to say so.

“Show the ‘gentleman' to our table, Antoine, and bring him a chair,” Ryan said. “Any friend of Savannah's is welcome.”

“You're too kind,” Savannah said gratefully. She hated to think what a scene Dirk would have made if tiny Antoine had tried to toss him out the front door.

Ryan shot Gibson a quick, but distinctly sour look. “Yes, I am, aren't I.”

“It's probably something important, or he wouldn't follow me in here,” she said. “He'd be afraid they'd charge him just for coming through the door.”

“I'll speak to Antoine about instating a cover charge,” Ryan mumbled.

John pasted a mildly pleasant and infinitely patient look on his face.

A moment later, Dirk ambled into the room, winding his way between the sparkling beveled-glass partitions, dodging the palm fronds. He looked even more disheveled than usual and not particularly happy to see her sitting there with two men he had decided long ago to despise.

He gave Ryan and John a curt nod, which they returned, and plopped down on the chair beside Savannah's. Pausing to reorient, he looked her up and down, taking in the French twist hairdo, the pearl drop earrings, the simple but elegant black dress.

“Damn, you clean up good,” he said. “Why don't you get dolled up like that when I take you out?”

“I thought the pearls were a bit much for the all-you-can-eat-for-a-buck, happy hour at Joe's Sports Bar.”

He glanced around, looking—as Savannah's Granny Reid would say—as nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. “Yeah, I bet they won't sell you a glass of water here for a buck.”

On cue, Antoine appeared. “Good evening, sir. And what will you be having?”

“Whatever you got on draft.”

Antoine waited, but when no other information was forthcoming, he lifted his pinched nose a few notches and said, “That will be one ... beer ... for monsieur.”

“And some pretzels.”

Antoine raised one eyebrow. “Pretzels, monsieur?”

“That's right. A bowl full of them and keep 'em coming. I'm starved.”

Antoine cast a questioning look at Ryan, then at John. But both men had become fascinated with the hems of their napkins. Savannah didn't know whether to blush or giggle.

“I'm sorry, monsieur,” Antoine said, sounding anything but remorseful. “But we have nothing like ... pretzels.”

“You gotta have something around here to munch on. How about Buffalo wings?”

Antoine's eyes widened.
“Buffalo wings,
monsieur?”

Ryan cleared his throat loudly and held up one hand. “Excuse me, if I may,” he told Dirk. Turning to Antoine, he said, “I think perhaps the gentleman would enjoy
les cuisses de grenouille
with a nice
sauce piquante.”

“Hey, wait a minute. That sounds expensive.” Even the thought of spending money flustered Dirk.

“Everything sounds expensive when it's ordered in French,” Savannah told him.

“Don't concern yourself with the cost,” Ryan told him. “It'll be my pleasure.”

Dirk sputtered for a moment, then muttered a semigracious thank you. “Exactly what is it ... that stuff you ordered?”

Savannah bit her lower lip to keep from snickering. Gibson's eyes sparkled as he took a sip of his cognac. Ryan looked Dirk straight in the eye and said, “Why, it's French Buffalo wings. That is what you wanted, isn't it?”

“I just don't wanna find myself eatin' nothin' like snails and shit. I don't eat crap like that.”

Savannah punched Dirk's shoulder. “So, how did you know I was here?” she asked, heading for safer waters.

“I stopped by your place. Miss Prissy-Pot was there.”

Savannah turned to Ryan and John. “That's his term of endearment for Tammy. The two of them get along splendidly.”

Dirk grunted. “She told me you were over here, chowin' down, and I thought I'd come over here and fill you in on the latest with Kat Valentina.”

Savannah perked up instantly. “Did you get the autopsy report?”

“Yep. Dr. Liu wrapped it up a couple of hours ago.”

“So, tell us,” Ryan interjected, a half smirk on his handsome face, “exactly how did Ms. Valentina ... croak?”

John Gibson nearly strangled on his cognac. Savannah dabbed furiously at her lips with her napkin.

Dirk studied each one suspiciously in turn before replying. “Dr. Liu ruled the death accidental. She had hyperthermia—that means she got too hot sitting there in that mud bath, plus drinking tequila—and she fainted and drowned herself.”

Ryan was on a roll. “And how did Dr. Liu ... leap ... to this conclusion?”

Dirk ignored him and turned to Savannah. “Like the doc said at the scene, you shouldn't mix booze and a hot tub. Apparently, Kat had been knockin' those margaritas back somethin' fierce.”

“Mmmm ...” Savannah tapped her fingernails on the base of her wineglass. “That's sorta anticlimactic, don't you think?”

“But it's good news,” Gibson said. “At least the poor lady wasn't murdered.”

“Of course, it's good news.” Savannah wondered at her own reaction. An unexpected death was tragic enough, without the added horror of knowing it was homicide. For those who cared about Kat Valentina—like Tammy—this was the best report possible.

So, why did she feel so uneasy? Had she been petty enough to be hoping for the worst. No, she hadn't disliked the woman that much. Surely ...

“How do you feel about it?” she asked Dirk.

“One less folder on my desk,” he replied matter-of-factly. “Hey, here's my Buffalo wings.”

He bent over the plate that Antoine had left behind and peered at the thin, flat pieces of meat, artistically arranged in a half circle and garnished with greens.

“These don't look like chicken wings,” he said, darting a suspicious look at Ryan.

Ryan smiled benevolently. “Of course not. They're French chickens.”

Half an hour later, Dirk had devoured his food and downed several more beers. After all, he was off-duty, and, most importantly, Ryan was picking up the tab.

Savannah offered to drive him home.

“Hey, Dirk,” she said, as they were leaving the restaurant. “I've got a silly little joke for you, one I heard years ago.”

“All right. What is it?”

“How do you eat a frog?”

His expression darkened, his eyes narrowed. “I don't think I'm gonna like this ... but how?”

“It's easy. You just hook one little leg over one ear, and one little leg over the other and ...”

 

When Savannah opened her front door, Diamante and Cleopatra were there to meet her, as always. Their sleek black fur, their pale green eyes, and their rhinestone collars gleamed in the porch light.

They curled around her ankles and purred as she bent over to stroke them, arching their backs as they slid beneath her hand.

“Hello, girls. I'm happy to see you, too. Did any tomcats come prowling while I was out?”

She was about to step inside, when she saw the corner of something protruding from her mailbox beside the door. “Looks like we
did
have a visitor,” she said, reaching for the oversize beige envelope. “I distinctly remember getting the mail earlier.”

There was no postage or even an address on it. But it was sealed, very well, with several passes of cellophane tape.

Once inside the house, Savannah took the envelope to the kitchen and ripped it open with a steak knife. Green. At first, that was all she could see. The envelope was absolutely stuffed with cash.

Her heart skipped a beat. In the olden days, as a public servant, an envelope crammed with money could only spell trouble, and she sure as hell wouldn't have been able to keep it.

But as a private citizen ... maybe ... just maybe ...

On the bottom of the pile was a small note, the same beige stationery as the envelope.

On it were a few typed words:

Murdered?
The word shot through Savannah's brain, verifying what some part of her had known all along. That was why she had been uneasy at dinner, hearing of Jennifer Liu's “accidental” ruling. For some reason that was impossible to explain, but potent all the same, Savannah knew that Kat Valentina had been a victim of homicide, not just her own carelessness.

And, apparently, whoever had left this in her mailbox knew it, too.

Just the thought of trying to solve the crime, of going after the bastard who did it, gave Savannah a jolt of adrenaline. Nobody deserved to have their life taken. And everybody deserved justice. Even somebody like Kat Valentina.

Then, of course, there were those other little words:
more where this came from.

In spite of the stack of overdue bills on her kitchen table and the dwindling savings account, Savannah liked to think that her adrenaline rush had nothing to do with the pile of greenbacks and the promise of more.

Nope. Nothing at all.

N
ot for the first time, Savannah pulled into the Shady Vale Trailer Park and wondered where this nondescript piece of real estate had gotten its name. Without a tree in sight or even a minor indentation that might be considered a ditch, let alone a valley, she couldn't imagine.

Near the beach in San Carmelita was another mobile-home park, one with perfectly manicured lawns and spacious homes that were like miniature mansions inside. But that park had nothing in common with Shady Vale.

Situated on the outskirts of town, the park housed Dirk Coulter, twice-divorced police detective, a few lower-income families with young children, who were starting out in life, and one old codger and his wife who were ending theirs. Not quite soon enough was the opinion held by some at Shady Vale, including Dirk.

Savannah had long held the notion that pure and simple meanness had the power to preserve certain individuals, not unlike pickling vinegar, alcohol, and formaldehyde.

More often than not, when Savannah came here to see Dirk, she had to run the gauntlet of Mr. and Mrs. Biddle's verbal abuse and interrogation. Having lived in the park longer than anyone else, and possessing the first lot on the right near the entrance, they seemed to think that they owned the place—locks, stocks, and trailer hitches.

“Hey you! Who are ya and whatdaya want?” Mr. Biddle hollered across the narrow dirt road as Savannah climbed out of her Camaro and headed for Dirk's green-and-white-striped and rust-streaked trailer.

“Mr. Biddle, don't hassle me,” she snapped, not in the mood for his foolishness. “You know darned well who I am.”

From his seat on a broken-down plastic chaise in front of his trailer, Mr. Biddle could see everything in his “domain.” Or at least, he could if he weren't as blind as a bat with faulty sonar. What he lacked in perfect vision, he seemed to make up in pure nasal audacity, Savannah surmised. Even in her tiny hometown in Georgia, people weren't
that
nosy.

Well, maybe they were, but they were far too well mannered to appear so. If they were going to spy on you, they had the common decency to do it while peeking from behind drawn curtains.

“If you're goin' to see that cop fella, he ain't outta bed yet,” Mr. Biddle announced over the top of his beer can ... the breakfast of champions. Most of the ale he had consumed over the past few decades seemed to have settled around his midriff. The rest of his lanky body was thin, so he looked like a donut stuck halfway down a stick.

“How do you know Dirk isn't up yet?” She couldn't resist asking, because she could never tell herself. Dirk always kept his curtains drawn; he seemed to think it negated the need for dusting. And he seldom ventured outside unless he was in the process of coming or going.

His old Buick was parked in his gravel driveway.

Mr. Biddle grinned a sly, toothless smile. “Ain't heard his commode flush yet,” he announced proudly.

Not bad detective work,
she mused. If old Mr. Biddle would only use his powers for good.

“He'll get up for me,” she said before considering the possible sexual innuendo. No matter; Old Man Biddle probably hadn't even heard her.

Quickly she passed Mr. B., his trailer, his chaise, and his beer. Today, his vision seemed better than usual. His bleary eyes followed her as she walked by, and she could almost swear he was checking her out.

“Yep ...” He nodded his approval. “... I'd say, if
you
can't get 'im up, missy, nobody can.”

Savannah did a double take to see if she had heard correctly. Yes, there was definitely a leer on the wrinkled face—toothless, perhaps, but a distinct leer.

“Harry, get the hell in here this minute,” screeched a female from inside the trailer. “And stop making a donkey's ass of yourself.”

Sweet Mrs. Biddle. It was always such a pleasure to hear the velvet words that rolled off her silken tongue. Like an obedient puppy, the king of the trailer park rolled out of his chaise and trudged across the yard to disappear inside his mobile home.

Snatches of conversation wafted through the torn screen windows to Savannah—phrases like, “... flirtin' with that hussy ... makin' eyes at ... right in front of God and everybody ...”

Savannah was still chuckling when she rapped on Dirk's door. Judging by the length of time it took him to answer, she knew Mr. Biddle had been right—Dirk hadn't been up and about yet.

“Sleeping in, huh?” she said, as he opened the door and glared down at her, wearing an undershirt, boxers, mussed hair, and a scowl.

“Trying to,” he replied. “Did you bring food?”

She held out a brown paper lunch bag, half-expecting him to loll his tongue, roll his eyes, and wag his tail. Dirk was a sucker for sweets ... or food of any kind, for that matter.

“What is it?” he asked, opening the door and reaching for the bag.

“It meets two of your basic food group requirements: edible and free,” Savannah replied as she pushed her way past him and into the trailer.

He peeked inside the bag and lit up instantly. “Donuts!”

“More specifically, apple fritters and French crullers. I was hoping you'd share,” she added, watching him eagerly dig in.

His smile drooped. “But there's only four.”

With a sigh, Savannah walked to his kitchen sink, shoved some dirty dishes aside, and began to make coffee in his old percolator pot. He removed a pair of jeans from a doorknob and slipped them on.

“Now, you don't have to go gettin' dressed up for me, sugar,” she said, setting the pot on the two-burner stove and turning up the flame. “It's not like I haven't seen it all before.”

He bristled. “You haven't seen it
all.”

“That's true. But not because you haven't offered to show it to me.” She squirted some detergent into a couple of mugs.

He grunted, his mouth full of fritter. “Humph ... that was a long time ago. I've done given up on trying to get you into the sack.”

“It wasn't a good idea, and you know it. So don't pout.”

“It wasn't a good idea when we was partners on the force. But since you're not a cop no more, what's your excuse now?”

Savannah glanced around the cluttered trailer at the piles of unpaid bills on TV trays that served as end tables, the dirty laundry overflowing from a plastic milk crate in the corner, the kitchen cupboard littered with dishes and crumpled fast-food bags.

Then there was Dirk himself. Chewing his fritter with his mouth open. Slouching in his frayed T-shirt and jeans that been washed in hot, hot water too many times and had shrunk to at least three inches above his bare ankles. He was in desperate need of a pedicure ... even if it was done with gardening shears.

She loved Dirk. He was a dear, sweet, gruff, teddy bear of a guy who had been her closest friend for years now.

But she didn't want to see it all.

“You're just too much man for little ol' me,” she said with an exaggerated Southern lilt and a down-in-Dixie grin that deepened her dimples. “If I were to take you on, you'd spoil me for all the other men to come.”

He nodded his head solemnly, continuing to chew. “That's true,” he said. “I would. Good point.”

As she joined him on the sofa with two clean mugs full of fresh coffee in hand, she decided to jump right in her proverbial, verbal mud puddle with both feet. No matter how much sugar and caffeine he had careening through his bloodstream, he wasn't going to be overjoyed with her news.

Dirk loved investigating a case. But once he had filed it away, he hated nothing more than to have to resurrect it.

He spared her the awkward gambit. “So, why did you show up here at this ungodly hour to bribe me with donuts?”

“Bribe you?” Her blue eyes widened, black lashes fluttered, dimples deepened. “Now why ... after all the favors I've done for
you
... some very recently ... would I have to bribe you with donuts, just to get you to do me one small favor?”

He choked down the mouthful of pastry he was chewing and took a loud slurp of coffee. “Oh, man ... let me get out my hip boots. It's piling up deep in here.”

“Just one itty-bitty favor?”

“How itty? How bitty?”

“Okay, it's a biggy. I want you to reopen Kat Valentina's investigation.”

He stared at her, glazed sugar trembling on his chin. “Now, why the hell would I do that?”

“Because last night I found this shoved under my door.”

She handed him the note. After he had read it, she shoved the envelope full of money into his hand.

“Damn,” he muttered, doing a swift count. “And you get to actually keep this?”

“I guess so, if I can figure out how she was murdered and by whom.”

He sat for a long time, fingering the bills and studying the note. Savannah could almost hear those mental cogs turning. Dirk might be a slob, but when it came to criminal investigation, the guy was no slouch.

“All right,” he said. “I'll talk to Dr. Liu, see if there's anything we missed. Captain Bloss ain't gonna be happy about it, though. He thought the whole thing was wrapped up nice and neat.”

Savannah gave him a saccharine grin. “Now, that's too bad. Because we both know how much that dear man means to me.”

Like a true friend, Dirk's eyes glimmered with hatred for the man who had ousted Savannah from the force. “Yeah, I know how much love you have for him,” he said. “You'd be happy to see him with an apple in his mouth, roasting on a spit.”

Savannah grinned at the fantasy. The apple was a nice touch; sometimes, Dirk had a real way with words. She had always thought of Bloss as a guy with porcine qualities. “Sounds good to me. But only if I can turn and baste him.”

 

Savannah looked into Tammy's eyes, with their long, fluttering Bambi lashes, and thought sadly that the young woman seemed to have lost some of her innocence in the past thirty-six hours. And if she followed Savannah into that autopsy suite, she was going to lose even more.

They stood outside in the morgue hallway with its calm—to the point of depressing—blue-gray walls and gray-blue carpeting. Assorted abstract paintings completed the placid surroundings, studies of blue on gray and vice versa.

“You don't have to come in if you don't want,” Savannah told her for the third time in the past ten minutes. “Or we could wait to talk to Dr. Jenny when she's finished this autopsy.”

“How long would it take?” Tammy was looking a bit peaked beneath her beach-bum tan.

“Probably about an hour or so. We could go grab a bite to eat and come back.”

Tammy shook her head emphatically. “No, as upset as I am, I couldn't possibly eat a thing.”

Savannah stared at her, trying to fathom the concept of being too upset to eat. Some things were simply not to be understood.

“Let's just go talk to her and get it over with,” Tammy said, squaring her shoulders and hiking her chin up a notch.

“Okay ...” Savannah pointed to the gleaming double doors. “... but promise me you won't barf. Dr. Jenny hates it when people puke or pass out in her autopsy suite.”

“You sound like you know what you're talking about.”

“I do. I've done both.”

“It can't be
that
bad.”

“Famous last words.”

 

“I'm really sorry, Jenny. I should have seen it coming ... what with her turning that nice shade of green and all.” Savannah knelt beside a prostrate Tammy, who was splayed across the tile floor.

Dr. Liu walked to a nearby drawer, withdrew some smelling salts, and passed them to Savannah. “No problem. Happens all the time.”

Savannah popped the cap and waved the small wand under Tammy's nose. Wheezing and sputtering, she quickly fought her way back to consciousness.

As Savannah helped Tammy to a sitting position, Jennifer Liu returned to the stainless steel table and the body she had recently disemboweled.

Perhaps it had been the dissected liver, lying on a small table at the foot of the larger one, or maybe it had been the coils of intestines pulled out of the belly and piled onto the pelvic region that had sent Tammy over the edge.

Either way, Savannah positioned herself between her young assistant and the hapless fellow on Jennifer's table. She didn't want to risk losing her again so soon.

“Hey, what happened?” Tammy said as she sat up and held her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. Her face had turned from pea green to a shade of white that was as deathly as the corpse on the table.

“Don't worry,” Savannah said, patting her head as though she were a distressed cocker spaniel. “I've seen big guys—rough, tough cops—keel over like felled oaks when they see their first autopsy.”

“Autopsy?” Recollection dawned in her eyes. “Oh, god, that's right.”

She cast a furtive glance over Savannah's shoulder at the table. Dr. Liu looked moderately amused as she sliced away samples of the liver and placed them into a small specimen jar.

“So, you're a virgin, huh?” Jennifer said. “Come over here, and I'll show you a few things. Once you get over the initial shock, you might find it interesting.”

Savannah cringed. Jennifer Liu was obsessed with her work and didn't realize that not everyone shared her fascination with the macabre. More than once, Dr. Liu had shown Savannah “interesting” things that had haunted her dreams for weeks, even months.

And Tammy was one of the most squeamish persons she had ever known. Talk of earthworm farms could put her off a spaghetti dinner.