Killer Gourmet (12 page)

Tammy was outraged. “Creepy? Monstrosity?” She shook her head. “And this from a man who used to live in a house trailer.”

It was Dirk's turn to be miffed. “I'll have you know, that's a mobile home. And before you make fun of it, remember that your boyfriend there is living in it right now.”

Waycross laughed and jostled Tammy playfully. “He's gotcha there, puddin'.”

“It's a mobile home now,” Tammy conceded, “because Waycross has it all neat and tidy, the way a home is supposed to be. When you lived in it, it was just a house trailer. And by the way, I think Mr. Ingram's Victorian mansion is breathtaking. It's my dream home.”

“If your dreams are nightmares, I suppose,” Dirk grumbled as he fed Cleo some nonchocolate crumbs from his cookie.

Savannah ignored the squabbling as best she could. She had learned sometime back that trying to referee these fights between Dirk and Tammy was a thankless job. Occasionally, she yielded to temptation and tried to broker peace between them—mostly by threatening to stick them in opposite corners of the room, their noses pressed to the wall for lengthy time-outs.

But mostly she just left them alone to fight it out and, if worse came to worst, she would be nearby, ready to apply tourniquets or spray the fire extinguisher.

“When you guys get tired of discussing the finer points of Gothic mansion versus manufactured housing architecture, you let me know,” she told them, “and we can get back to business.”

“That's right,” Waycross said. “I believe you said there were two people who didn't show up that night after the chef invited them. Ingram and who else?”

“A gal by the name of Perla Viola,” Dirk replied after consulting his pocket notebook. “Ryan says she's like the chef's main squeeze or something. Norwood and her, they've got the same address.”

“What else do you know about her?” Tammy asked, making a point to address the question to Savannah, rather than Dirk.

“Not much,” Savannah answered. “Why don't you get on that for us, sweet pea? Find out all you can about her.” She turned to Dirk and flashed him a too-bright smile. “Wouldn't that be nice, Dirk, if Tammy did that for us?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” was the lackluster reply. “But try to get it right this time, would you, fluff head?”

Savannah's last thin thread of patience snapped. “What's the matter with you, boy? Don't go calling her names like that.”

He shrugged. “Fluff head, sweet pea, puddin' . . . All just terms of endearment, right?”

But Tammy wasn't ready to wave any white flags of peace. “No, wait a minute. I wanna know what you meant by that, Dirk-o. What did you mean, ‘try to get it right this time.' Are you suggesting I gave you some bad information or something?”

“Well, since you brought it up—” Dirk began.

“I didn't bring it up.
You
brought it up,” Tammy barked back. “So explain yourself.”

Savannah sighed, feeling more exhausted by the moment. “Yes, by all means explain yourself, dear husband of mine. But be nice, or I swear I'll use that extra cream we've got for tomorrow night's dinner.”

Tammy wrinkled her pert nose. “Ew-w-w. That better not mean what I'm afraid it meant.”

“What I was referring to,” Dirk said, “is that information that you gave us about Manuel Cervantes. You said he's been married five years to a woman who's a U.S. citizen.”

“Yes? So?”

“It isn't true.”

“How do you know?”

Savannah decided to join the affray. “Because we asked him how long he'd been married, and he acted weird, very suspicious, about it. Plus his wedding ring is brand-new. Not a scratch or mark on it in spite of all the hard work he does. You don't get that many calluses on your hands and not get your ring scuffed a bit in the process.”

“Maybe he doesn't wear his ring when he's working,” Waycross offered gently. “Brother-in-law Butch always takes his off when he's overhauling an engine. Of course, Vidalia thinks it's so that he can flirt with the waitress at the Chat 'n' Chew Café around the corner from his garage.”

“Yeah, well, Vidalia's a ding-a-ling, and if you tell her I said that, I'll snatch you bald. You hear me, boy?”

Waycross grinned and nodded. “Can't say as I disagree with you none on that score. Vi is a few watts shy of a night-light. That's for sure.”

Tammy ignored them as, once again, her nimble fingers slid over her tablet's screen. “I'm sure that the background search I did on him was accurate. But based upon
your
misgivings,
Savannah
, I'll certainly recheck all the data. You know I take great pride in giving you only the most accurate facts. Your trust in me—”

Savannah held up a hand to halt the flow. “Okay, okay, darlin'. I have no doubt that you'll do exactly that. Don't worry about it. Everybody makes a mistake once in a while.”

She glanced over at the clock, then picked up the remote control and flipped on the TV. “I don't know about you guys,” she said. “But I'm going to watch the headlines on the evening news. And once that overly perky weather girl comes on, I'm going to bed.”

“Good idea,” Dirk said. “A good night's sleep and you'll be a whole new woman.”

Savannah wasn't nearly as optimistic as he sounded. Lately she'd been having trouble falling asleep and remained awake throughout the night. Maybe that was why she was so tired, but she didn't think so.

Fortunately, she didn't have long to worry about it, because the evening news had begun. And the subject matter of the lead story was all too familiar.

“The investigating officers of the San Carmelita Police Department remained tight-lipped today about their investigation of the murder of celebrity chef Baldwin Norwood,” said the perfectly beautiful female newscaster with the perfect hair, perfect makeup, perfect teeth, and perfectly low-cut blouse that showed only the tiniest glimpse of perfect cleavage.

“What investigating officers?” Dirk said. “I'm it. Me, myself, and I.”

The news commentator continued to deliver her story. “As we reported to you on the noon news, no suspects have been named in the brutal homicide that occurred last evening in that lovely, little seaside town. The bloody and vicious attack took place in the kitchen of ReJuvene, a chic, new restaurant that had just celebrated its grand opening in the mission district of San Carmelita. We take you now, live, to San Carmelita where our own Desiree Haddrell reports to us from the magnificent home of Chef Norwood and his longtime companion, Perla Viola.”

The scene changed to a stretch of beachfront homes that Savannah instantly recognized as one of the more posh areas of town. A mishmash of all sorts of architecture—mostly gaudy, a bit overstated—this neighborhood boasted everything from glass and steel contemporary structures, to Wall Street Tudor, to Italian villas, Spanish haciendas, and even the occasional French chateau.

A young blond reporter stood in front of a stunning Mediterranean mansion, a professional smile pasted on her face and a microphone in her right hand. The evening onshore wind was brisk, and she was having a difficult time keeping her full skirt down and in place with her left hand, while her hair whipped across her face, the ends of it getting stuck in her mouth.

“Yes, this is Desiree Haddrell. I am here at the Norwood mansion, where no one is answering the door. But earlier this afternoon we did catch a glimpse of Perla Viola, longtime girlfriend of the chef, as she was leaving this beautiful home that they have shared for the past fifteen years. When we asked her for a comment, this is what she said . . .”

Again the scene changed, and it was daylight outside the mansion. Desiree was in hot pursuit of a smartly dressed woman in a stylish business suit and outrageously high-heeled pumps, who was racing toward a super-charged V8, silver Jaguar in the driveway.

In those high heels, Perla didn't stand a chance. Desiree intercepted her before she could get the automobile's door open. Shoving a microphone into her face, the reporter said, “I'm sorry for your loss, Ms. Viola. Could you comment on Chef Norwood's tragic demise.”

Perla Viola whipped off her designer sunglasses and faced the camera, a fierce light burning in her eyes.

Savannah thought she was going to rebuke the intrusive reporter, maybe feed the cameraman his equipment, make a statement about how callous the press could be when dealing with grieving people.

But Perla Viola had other things on her mind, and quite a different statement to make.

“All I have to say about Baldwin Norwood's murder is . . . You get what's coming to you in this life. And when karma bites you in the ass, sometimes it tears a great big chunk out and spits it at you.”

Even Desiree seemed a bit surprised at this unexpected response. She stammered for a moment, then said, “Excuse me, Ms. Viola. But are you saying that Chef Norwood got what was coming to him?”

“No,” was the curt reply. “He got a
little piece
of what was coming to him. I suppose we'll all have to be satisfied with that.”

The on-scene reporter signed off and the desk anchor concluded the story by saying, “The owners of ReJuvene, Ryan Stone and John Gibson, were also unavailable for comment.”

Quickly she moved to another story, as those who were watching the broadcast in Savannah's living room sat silently, staring at the television screen. No one said anything for a long time as they digested what they had seen and heard.

Finally, Tammy said, “Ho-ly cow!”

Waycross nodded. “Appears she ain't all that broken up about her honey's tragic, untimely passing.”

“No kidding,” Dirk said. “Considering that she was mad enough to spew bile right there on camera for everybody to see, I guess we'll be adding her to our tally of suspects.”

But Savannah was a few steps ahead of them. She had already written “Perla Viola” on a Post-it and was rearranging the ones she had previously affixed to her board. “You can bet your lily-white hiney on that,” she said. “I just moved Ms. Viola to the top of my list.”

T
he next morning, after nine hours of fitful sleep, Savannah forced her protesting body out of bed. Still wearing her pink flannel Minnie Mouse pajamas, she plodded downstairs, following the scent of freshly made coffee.

Bless his little pea-pickin' heart
, she thought, realizing that her husband was already up and had brewed that life-giving elixir.

He was pretty darned good at it, too. As with most of his vices, Dirk's motto was, “More is more.” And the coffee he brewed, using twice as many beans as instructed on the can, had the power to fuel cruise ships to the Bahamas or launch a satellite into outer space.

It was nearly strong enough to enliven a morning-despising gal like Savannah to full wakefulness.

Not quite, but almost.

Three mugs of it, diluted with a little half-and-half, and she could usually manage to speak a coherent sentence.

When she entered the kitchen, Dirk was bent over the cat dishes, filling them to the brim. She couldn't help noticing that her girls, Di and Cleo, were entwining themselves around his ankles in the most ingratiating manner.

It was disgusting really, how they sucked up to him just for some food.

Of course, they had done that to her every morning for years, before he had come along. And for some reason, back then, she had thought it irresistibly adorable. All that purring. All that rubbing. The goo-goo eyes gazing upward with rapt adoration.

It just had to be love. Once-in-a-lifetime love.

Fickle, ungrateful, rotten, worthless beasts.

“Hey, girls,” he practically shouted, far too cheerfully for Savannah. She figured no one should be that chipper before, say, nine o'clock in the evening. But he continued as enthusiastically as ever, “Diamante, Cleopatra, look! It's mo-o-m-my! Say, ‘Good morning, mommy! ' ”

Savannah opened the refrigerator door and gazed with blurry eyes at its crowded contents, trying to identify the quart carton of half-and-half. “Bite me,” she grumbled.

Silently, she cursed him further for having placed his own brand of coffee additive in front of her half-and-half . . . not only obscuring it but requiring her to actually have to move his stupid creamer crap aside to get to her stuff.

Why the hell did I ever marry him
? she thought.
I never used to have to move everything in the dadgum icebox around just to find my half-and-half.

Another, less annoyed, kinder voice inside her head suggested,
Yes, but if you hadn't married him, you would've had to make your own coffee this morning. And that's a lot harder than just locating a carton in the refrigerator.

Oh, shut up
, she told the sweeter voice.
What the hell do you know?

As she poured a generous dollop into her Mickey Mouse mug, she could hear him still talking to the cats, but, thankfully, now under his breath.

“I know. I know,” he was whispering. “Mommy's a bit of a nasty bitch in the morning. But she gets better as the day goes on. And we love her anyway. Don't we? Yes, we do-o-o.”

 

Fortified with three mugs of Dirk's superoctane coffee and a couple of raspberry Danishes from the Pattycake Bakery, Savannah was primed to take on the day—or at least slog through it.

The first item on the “to do” list was a visit to the home of the recently departed Chef Norwood and the not-so-shy-and-retiring Perla Viola.

When they arrived at the address on Harbor View Drive, Savannah had to admit that the sprawling Mediterranean mansion was even more impressive in person than it had been on television last evening. Although the neighboring houses were expensive and oversized, the walls of the Norwood mansion towered over them.

Unlike Savannah's tiled roof, which seemed to always be in need of some sort of repair, this roof and everything else about the house appeared to be in perfect condition. Ornate iron work accented the home's graceful lines, enhancing its windows, doors, fences and gates, and balconies. Scarlet bougainvillea and white oleander hung in lush profusion over stone walls, while overhead palm trees sparkled in the morning sunlight.

As she parked the Mustang in front of the house, Dirk said, “Not bad, for a world-famous chef who couldn't cook his way out of the frying pan—or so it's been rumored.”

“No kidding,” she replied. “I'm probably a heckuva lot better cook than he was, and nobody ever offered me a house like this.”

Dirk opened the car door to get out. “Yeah, but before you get too jealous, remember, he's dead.”

That was true, she reminded herself as she remembered how Chef Norwood looked, lying on Dr. Liu's autopsy table. There had been nights when she had actually prayed to God, before falling asleep, that when it came her time to go toes up, He would let her kick off from natural causes.

She would much prefer to bypass the good doctor's scalpel and scales altogether and head straight for the mortuary.

“You're thinking about the autopsy again, aren't you?” Dirk said, giving her a searching look as they left the car behind and headed up the sidewalk toward the mansion.

She shook her head, amazed and not a little unsettled by his uncanny ability to read her mind. He'd always been pretty good at it, but since they had gotten married, it was getting downright scary.

Two shall be one, indeed.

“And now,” he said, “you're thinking how annoyed you are that I knew what you were thinking. That's what you're thinking. I'm right, huh? And now you're thinking that you're getting really bent out of shape because, lately, I've been right a lot.”

“If you really must know,” she told him, “I'm thinking that if I had just gone ahead and murdered you the first time you annoyed the hell outta me, I could've served my sentence and been out by now.”

He laughed. “Timing's everything, babe. Timing's everything.”

 

A few moments later, they were sitting in the formal living room of the mansion, a room that—with its soaring three-story ceiling, twenty-foot-tall ficus trees, fern pine and assorted palms, concert grand piano, sparkling travertine floors, and circular, wrought-iron staircase—was positively breathtaking.

Except for the haphazard pile of luggage stacked in the middle of it.

Dirk leaned close to Savannah and whispered, “Looks like a baggage conveyor belt at LAX threw up in here.”

“Sh-h-h, I hear somebody coming,” she said, leaning over to look down the hallway.

Ten minutes ago, a maid had ushered them inside and seated them in the living room, where they had been waiting, not all that patiently, for the mistress of the house to make her appearance.

Yes, Savannah was sure that she heard movement, a door opening, keys jingling. And she realized the sound was coming from the foyer, not the center of the house.

A moment later, a female who was maybe in her late teens or early twenties walked into the living room. At first, she didn't see Savannah and Dirk sitting on the sofa. She walked over to a desk in the corner of the room, set her purse on it, and tossed some keys into a copper bowl.

Her face, rather plain by Hollywood standards, was somehow appealing in a fresh, unaffected way. She wore no makeup but had large Bambi eyes and a pretty complexion—except for a rather pronounced sunburn.

Her long brown hair was pulled back and fastened with a tortoiseshell barrette. Her simple jeans and ivory blouse accented her nice figure.

But her expression was one of extreme sadness, pain, and exhaustion.

It occurred to Savannah that this girl looked like every other family member she had ever seen who had lost a loved one to homicide. They all had a certain look about them: a haggard face; a dejected body posture; a slow, almost mechanical way of moving from one place to another, as though sleepwalking.

Walking through a nightmare that never ended.

As the girl turned, she saw Savannah and Dirk and was startled. “Oh,” she said. “I didn't realize we had company.”

Savannah stood, and so did Dirk.

“We aren't company,” Savannah told her. “No cause for alarm.”

Dirk took out his badge and showed it to her. “I'm Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter from the San Carmelita Police Department. And this is Savannah Reid. We're just here to ask a few questions about Chef Norwood. And you are . . . ?”

She walked over to them—in that stiff, wooden manner—and held her hand out to Savannah. “I'm Umber Viola.” She hesitated. “I would say it's nice to meet you, but under the circumstances . . .”

“We understand.” Savannah shook her hand and found it cool and moist. “Not very many people are happy to meet us.”

“Especially me,” Dirk said. “Most people hate me the minute they meet me. But I don't care. I'm used to it.”

Umber appeared to think that over for a moment, then she said, “That must be rather nice, actually . . . not caring what people think of you. I wish I could be like that.”

Dirk cleared his throat. “Saves a lot of time and energy.”

“But on the other hand,” Savannah added, “he hardly ever wins the Miss Congeniality title in the beauty pageants he enters.”

Again the look of sadness crossed the younger woman's face. She looked down at her simple ballet flats and said, “I wouldn't know. I don't enter a lot of beauty pageants.”

Savannah gave her a soft, sympathetic look. “I don't either.”

Waving a hand toward the sofa, Savannah said, “Can you join us for a minute? We're here to speak to Perla Viola. And she's your . . . ?”

“Mother.”

Savannah couldn't help noticing that there was a lot of pain spoken in that one word. And having seen Perla Viola in action, she wasn't surprised.

Yes, the crime of murder brought out the worst in many people. But Savannah's instincts told her that the woman who had freely spewed her bitterness at the television camera last night habitually did so in everyday life. She appeared to be well practiced at the fine art of rage.

Savannah couldn't imagine that it had been a lot of fun being Perla Viola's daughter.

When they were all seated—Savannah and Dirk next to each other on the sofa and Umber on a side chair—Dirk pointed to the avalanche of baggage in the center of the room. “Are you guys getting ready to take some sort of vacation, or did you just get back?”

Umber opened her mouth to speak, then closed it, as though reconsidering what she was going to say. She thought about her answer long and hard.

Too long. Too hard. And Savannah made a mental note of the extended hesitation.

“Um, yes. Well, maybe,” was the tentative reply. “My mother . . . she was thinking that it might be good for us to get away and—”

“Who the hell are you?”

The angry, authoritative voice boomed through the room like the warning shot of a cannon fired over a ship's bow.

All three of them turned to see Perla Viola rush into the room, looking like someone who had just escaped from the set of a zombie movie.

Unlike the immaculately groomed, perfectly coiffed lady on last night's television news, this woman was a disheveled mess.

Her hair stood practically on end. The front of her white cashmere cardigan was stained with what appeared to be red wine, as were her otherwise snowy palazzo pants. Her mascara, smeared liberally beneath her eyes, made her deep, dark circles look even worse. On her feet were red, high-heeled slides, adorned with ostrich feathers, of a style that Savannah had seen only in old movies.

Savannah picked up on three important facts within the first two seconds of being in the woman's company. One, Perla Viola wasn't doing so well. Two, she was as mad as a bull that was in the process of becoming a steer. And three, judging from the way she was wobbling on those slides when she walked, she just might be a heavy drinker.

“Why are you talking to my daughter?” She marched over to the sofa and stood not two feet from Savannah, hands on her hips, glaring down at her. “I never gave you permission to speak to my child.”

As Dirk reached into his pocket, once again, to pull out his badge, he turned to Umber and said, “Ms. Viola, would you please tell me your age?”

In the presence of her mother, Umber Viola seemed to visibly shrink inside herself, becoming more of a frightened little girl by the moment. She stared down at her hand in her lap, and nervously toyed with her fingers. “I'm, uh, eighteen, sir.”

Dirk stood, took a step toward Perla and flipped his shield open, sticking it directly under her nose. “I'm Detective Coulter with the SPCD. And it appears that your ‘child' is, in fact, of legal age. Therefore, I don't need your permission to talk with her. And right now we're having a little chat about you having a pile of luggage in your living room. I hope you aren't planning any trips in the near future. Because until this case is solved, you aren't going anywhere.”

Perla whirled on her daughter. “What did you say to them?”

“Nothing!” Umber looked like she was about to burst into tears. “They asked me about the suitcases. They wanted to know if you were going on a trip. I told them that maybe, but just maybe, you were thinking about it.”

Perla stared down at her daughter for what seemed like a very long time, then turned to Savannah. “What if I am? You can't keep me here against my will just because you're investigating a murder. It's not like I'm a suspect or anything, right?”

Savannah had taken an instant dislike to this woman. She couldn't help it. And she didn't feel the need to hide it. She rose and took a step closer to Perla until the women were almost face to face, though even in her extremely high heels, Perla was still considerably shorter.