Killer Gourmet (18 page)

But judging from how close she and Waycross were sitting on the sofa—hip to hip and thigh to thigh—Savannah more than suspected that “sleuthing” might have slipped to second place on Tammy's priority list.

That was just peachy keen, fine and dandy, with Savannah. But time would tell whether it was all right with Granny.

“What about this guy who went to Yale?” Waycross asked.

“He didn't go to Yale,” Savannah replied. “His
name
is Yale.”

“He might've gone to Yale,” Dirk interjected. “He certainly has enough money.”

“We're going to interview him tomorrow.” Savannah took a drink of her ice tea, wishing that its invigorating frostiness would alleviate her headache. So far, it hadn't. And neither had the aspirins she had snuck earlier. If it didn't let up at least a little bit, she wasn't going to feel like eating supper with the rest of them. And that would be an all-time, record-breaking first that everybody was bound to notice.

“I'm not expecting much from that face-to-face,” she continued. “Yale may have had a falling out with Norwood, but all we've got is him showing up for a few minutes at the restaurant kitchen, having a brief argument, and then leaving. Nobody saw him anywhere near the restaurant the day of the murder.”

Dirk agreed. “We'll talk to him, go through the motions. No stone unturned and all that. But we've got no real reason to think it was him.”

“That leaves you with this Francia person,” Gran said, pointing to the bit of paper with the sous-chef's name on it.

“Yes,” Savannah said. “That leaves us with Francia. When you track everybody there that night, she was the only one who had both motive and opportunity.”

“You're right. It seems everybody had a motive,” Tammy replied. “But Francia was the only one unaccounted for when the murder actually occurred.”

Dirk popped half a cookie into his mouth and chewed it as he said, “That's the second rule of homicide investigation—right after Rule Number One: The spouse/ex-spouse/lover did it. Rule Number Two: It's the one who reports it. And boy, did she ever report it. That gal should get a job screaming for horror movies. She's got screeching down pat.”

“Now that you mention it,” Savannah remarked, recalling her conversation with Francia right after the murder, “she seemed pretty calm when we were talking at the table.”

“Maybe all that screamin' and hollerin' was just a show,” Gran suggested. “Wouldn't be the first time in the history of the world that a guilty person pitched a ungodly fit just so's they'd look innocent.”

Savannah nodded. “Ain't it the truth.”

 

Two hours later, when supper had been cooked and eaten and the dishes done, Tammy and Waycross said good-bye and left Savannah, Dirk, and Granny to themselves.

Although Savannah was enjoying her grandmother's company enormously, she couldn't help being relieved when Gran suggested an early turn-in.

“I'm sorry,” she said, “but I'm still on Georgia time and it's three hours past my bedtime. I'm liable to turn into a pumpkin any minute now.”

“Of course, Gran. That's fine,” Savannah said, rising from her chair and placing Diamante on the footstool. “Let me walk you up to the guestroom. There's been a few changes in it since you were here, and I'll have to show you where the extra quilts are now.”

Granny rose, set Cleo next to her sister, and walked over to Dirk.

When he stood, she gave him a peck on the cheek. “Thank you for giving up your . . . what do they call it, a ‘man cave'? . . . for me. I sure 'preciate it.”

“Any time, Granny. It's nothing, really.”

“It is, too. It's a matter of privacy and solitude. Both of those things are precious and in low supply these days. If you get a hankerin' while I'm here to be by yourself, you just kick me out and run right in there. I'll understand. You hear?”

Dirk pulled her to his chest and gave her a bear hug. “Don't you worry about that. I'll be fine. I'm just so glad you came to visit us.”

Savannah watched them, enjoying the obvious and genuine affection between them—the two people she loved most in the world. What a joy it was for her, to have them not only like each other but love one another. A blessing, indeed.

Once Gran had said good night to Dirk, Savannah led her up to the spare bedroom.

Gone were the frilly curtains, the girlie bedspread, and the fluffy alpaca rug. A simple daybed and a throw rug with the Dodgers symbol had taken their place.

Instead of framed floral prints on the wall, there were shelves lined with Harley-Davidson memorabilia. Not expensive collectors' items. Just ashtrays and shot glasses and a few cheap snow globes with motorcycles in them instead of Christmas scenes. But they were Dirk's treasures. And Savannah knew that Gran would appreciate them as such.

“I hope you're comfortable,” Savannah said. “The daybed isn't nearly as soft as my old mattress was, but—”

“Stop your frettin', sweet pea,” Gran told her. “I'm so tired, I could fall asleep standin' up, here and now.”

“Then I'll leave you be. If there's anything else I can do for you . . .”

“Just one more thing, so's I can get a good night's sleep with a clear mind.”

“What's that, Gran?”

Granny stepped closer to Savannah, reached up, and placed her hand on her granddaughter's forehead, as she had done so many times when Savannah was a child.

“What you can do,” Gran said, “is tell me what's amiss with you.”

Savannah put on her best “innocent” look and said, “Nothing. Why do you ask?”

“I ask because your face is pale as a haunt and you've got dark circles under your eyes. I spied you rubbing your temples earlier this evenin', and I know that's means you got a headache. Plus you're moving slower than you used to. In my book, that adds up to somethin' or the other bein' wrong.”

Savannah gulped and tried her best to look straight into her grandmother's bright blue eyes and not blink.

It wasn't easy, lying to Granny, for more reasons than one.

In the first place, standing there in the soft, golden light of the lamp, Granny's silver hair glistened like a halo around her head. More than once, when Savannah was a girl, she had truly believed that her grandmother might be an angel in disguise. And she certainly looked like one now, as she gazed up with love and concern at her granddaughter's face.

Then there was the second reason. Above all things, Granny Reid had impressed upon her offspring the necessity of telling the truth at all times. Especially when they were speaking to their grandmother. Because if there was anything Granny hated, it was being lied to. And if there was one reason why she would take you behind the barn and switch you until you danced an Irish jig, lying was it.

Therefore, between the love and respect she had for her grandmother and the fear instilled at such an early age, Savannah could scarcely let the words pass her lips. But she managed to, knowing it was for Granny's own good in the long run.

Any minute now, Savannah believed that whatever was going on inside her body and knocking her off kilter would straighten itself out and she would be back to normal. And then all this worrying would have been for naught. Until then, the less her family knew about what was going on inside her, the better.

Granny nodded thoughtfully, then said, “Okay. It's plain as the nose on your face that you don't want to tell me. And since you ain't a youngun no more, I can't rightly force you. So I reckon I'll wait until you're ready to talk about it.”

Savannah fought back the hot tears that sprang to her eyes. She gathered Granny in her arms and gave her a tight, long hug.

“Thank you, Gran,” she said. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, my brave, strong girl . . . all the way to the moon and the stars and then back again.”

 

When Savannah left her grandmother in the guest room and went downstairs to take another couple of aspirins, she was relieved to see that Dirk had already gone upstairs to their bedroom.

For what she needed to do next, she wanted a bit of privacy.

On the way to the kitchen, she scooped up her cell phone from the end table beside her comfy chair and shoved it into her jeans pocket.

As soon as she had downed the aspirin with a half-glass of milk, she made her way to the downstairs bathroom at the rear of the house.

After glancing around one more time to make sure that Dirk was nowhere nearby, she ducked into the bathroom.

She scrolled down the list of numbers in her phone until she found the one she was looking for, and she called it. It took about five rings before there was an answer.

“Dr. Dalano's answering service. May I help you?”

Savannah took a breath and plunged into the cold, dark water of the deep end. “Yes, um, this is Savannah Reid. I'm one of Dr. Dalano's patients. I need to come in and see her as soon as possible.”

“Is this an emergency?”

Is this an emergency?
The question raced over and over through Savannah's mind, causing her fear factor to rise several degrees.

Finally, she said, “No. I don't think so. Not like an emergency room kind of emergency. But I do need to see her. Tomorrow, if she can fit me in.”

“Then I think the best thing for you to do is to call the office tomorrow morning and schedule an appointment,” the operator told her.

“Would it be possible for you to just give her office the message? Maybe they could text me at this number and tell me what time to show up.”

“I'll forward your message to their receptionist, Ms. Reid. You can expect to receive a text from her tomorrow.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it.”

As soon as she gave the operator her phone number and wished her good night, Savannah felt her knees suddenly go so weak that they wouldn't hold her. She sat down abruptly on the toilet.

In an instant, it felt as though every molecule of oxygen had left the room and she had nothing to breathe. Her heart began to pound as she struggled for air. Her hands shook violently as she reached into a nearby cupboard, pulled out a washcloth, and wet it in the sink. Pressing it to her face, she shuddered and, for the second time in the past five minutes, fought back tears.

“What's happening to me?” she whispered. “Good Lord in heaven, what's going on inside me?”

As she had expected, no deep, celestial voice boomed an answer from up above. Nor did her body send any discernible reply from deep inside.

Gradually her heart rate began to slow, and her trembling stopped. She could breathe again, and the cold, wet washcloth felt good against her face.

Once again, she decided to send a message skyward. “I don't mind telling you, I'm a little worried about this. And I try not to bother you about stuff that I can work out on my own, seeing as how you've got famines and wars and a lot bigger fish to fry than my measly concerns. But so far, I'm not doing so hot with trying to handle this one alone. So tomorrow, if you've got the time and are so inclined, I'd sure appreciate a little help.”

As before, there was no rumbling, thunderous reply. And for that, she was somewhat grateful, because, no doubt, such a thing would have sent her right over the edge.

But as Savannah hung her washcloth to dry on the towel rack, picked up her phone from the edge of the sink, and left the tiny bathroom, she felt much better than she had when she'd entered it.

Booming voice or not, something deep inside told her that her request had been heard and would be answered.

Whatever this strangeness in her body might be and whatever happened as a result, she would get through it.

Her husband loved her. Her grandmother loved her. And her family loved her—both the ones she had been gifted with biologically and the ones her heart had chosen.

With all that love and some help from up above, she was bound to make it through.

“G
ranny was pouting something fierce when we left. Did you notice?” Savannah asked Dirk as they exited the 101 Freeway and drove inland toward the small, rural community of Twin Oaks.

“No kidding. I thought she was going to ‘pitch a hissy fit,' as you Confederates call it, when we were walking out the door.” Dirk reached into the glove compartment and pulled out his baggy of cinnamon sticks.

“I know. I feel so guilty. Deserting your own grandmother after she's traveled three thousand miles just to look upon her loved ones' faces. What kind of granddaughter does a thing like that? Lower than a snake in snowshoes—that's me.”

Dirk shot her a quizzical look. “Do you really believe that she was pouting because she is not going to get to see your face for a few hours?”

Savannah shrugged. “Well, yeah. I guess so. Why?”

Laughing, he stuck the cinnamon stick in his mouth. “You goofy girl. I'm sure your grandma loves that sweet mug of yours, but I guarantee you that's not why she was in a foul mood this morning.”

“Then why?”

“Because, my darling, she overheard us saying that we were going to question a suspect. And she would've liked to have tagged along.”

Savannah rolled up the Mustang's window as the stink of the oil fields replaced the fresh scent of the ocean. On either side of the highway, big black pumps bobbed up and down, drawing oil from deep inside the earth to the surface.

To Savannah, they looked like colorless, oversized versions of the wonderful bobbing bird toy that Waycross had won for her many years ago when a carnival had passed through their hometown. She had loved that little guy, which she had named Dippy, with his red body and bright yellow hat. For hours she had watched in delight as he dipped his beak into a glass of water, then happily rocked back and forth.

One swipe of the family cat's paw had sent Dippy flying off the kitchen table. He had crashed on the floor, breaking into a hundred pieces, staining the linoleum tiles with the mysterious red fluid from inside his body, and creating Savannah's first “blood-spattered” crime scene.

She still missed Dippy. But if for some delightful but highly unlikely reason the oil industry decided to remove those hideous pumps, she certainly would not miss them.

As she followed the sign that indicated the turnoff for Twin Oaks, Savannah allowed her mind to drift back to her disgruntled grandmother, though it bothered her to do so.

For as long as she could remember, Savannah had wanted nothing more than to give her precious granny everything she had ever wanted—and even a few things she hadn't. When Savannah had been about five years old, her heart's dearest dream was to grow up, become a princess, and give Granny a diamond-encrusted tiara.

As an adult, Savannah looked back on that lofty goal and realized that, at the time, Granny would've been much happier to receive a larger vehicle to haul the hoard of children she was raising. Or better yet, two extra bedrooms and another bath.

“But we can't bring her along every time we interview a suspect,” she said, appealing her case to Dirk.

“I know,” he said. “It's just not practical.”

“I mean, she's not a cop. For heaven's sake, she's just a civilian.”

They shot each other a quick, uncomfortable look and decided to change the subject.

Of course, Savannah was a civilian, too, yet she felt she had every right to tag along on Dirk's official business. And if it hadn't been for the fact that she helped him solve most of his cases, she was sure the SCPD brass would have called a halt to it ages ago.

“How long did Tammy say that Francia's been living out here in Twin Oaks?” Dirk asked, blowing cinnamon-scented breath in her direction.

“Six months,” Savannah replied, happy for the change of topic. “Apparently, she moves around a lot, living first with one friend or relative and then another.”

“Unstable.” He nodded. “I like that in a suspect.”

“Stop it. In this economy, lots of people are shuffling from one place to another, crashing wherever they can. It certainly doesn't make them cold-blooded murderers.”

“Hey, I'm trying to be optimistic here. Aren't you always has-slin', telling me I oughta look on the bright side?”

“I apologize most profusely. How insensitive of me. Here you are trying to raise your consciousness and improve yourself as a spiritual being by deciding that people who move around a lot make good homicide suspects. Whatever was I thinking?”

He sat quietly, staring at her for a long time. Silence reigned in the Mustang's interior—heavy and intense.

Finally, he said, “I've made a decision, Savannah.”

“Woo-hoo. What is it?”

“I've decided that I'm going to start charging you five dollars for every smart-ass comment you make at my expense.”

She thought it over for a while and said, “Okay. I can live with that. But I think I should get some kind of discount when you do something really stupid first and you totally deserve it. How's about two bucks for those inspired by pure dumb-nuttiness?”

He held out his hand, palm up to receive his fine.

Instead she slapped it and said, “Put it on my tab, boy. And you'd better be starting that tally on a long, long piece of paper.”

 

The numbers on the crooked, rusted mailbox told Savannah and Dirk that they had arrived at 412 Twisted Oak Road, Francia Fortun's most recent crash pad. After Savannah turned onto the dirt road, they found themselves driving through a deep and lush orange grove.

Quickly, she put her window back down and breathed in one of her favorite scents in the world . . . that of sun-warmed citrus trees. The perfume of their fruit and deliciously fragrant blossoms lifted her spirits like few things could.

No matter how many times she entered a grove, she would never get over the wonder, the beauty of it all. The dark green leaves, the bright, succulent fruit, those star-shaped white flowers, the peaceful quiet and solitary feel of the place . . . all combined to make an orchard one of Savannah's most cherished spots on earth.

“Don't you just love driving through an orange or lemon grove?” she asked the love of her life. “I have to tell you, for me, it's like a spiritual experience.”

“Not really. I've found too many dumped bodies in orange groves. When I'm in one, I can't help looking for the next one. Sorta ruins the overall experience for me. Know what I mean?”

She shot him a dirty look. “Yes. As a matter of fact. I know exactly what you mean.”

At the end of the dirt road, they came upon a small, quaint farmhouse with a wraparound porch and some flower baskets hanging on either side of the door. The baskets were overflowing with a profusion of bright red geraniums and yellow nasturtiums.

Otherwise the house could have used some tender love and care. A new roof and a fresh coat of paint would have spruced the old place up nicely.

But one glance at the area surrounding the house and Savannah could tell instantly where the owner's time and efforts were spent. She hadn't seen such a wildly abundant garden since she had last set eyes on Granny's, back home in Georgia.

Tomato plants struggled to hold their heavy, succulent fruit. Squash and pumpkin vines vied for space, and beans curled their way up cornstalks that were ready to be picked.

In the midst of an herb garden that Savannah herself would have been overjoyed to have right outside her back door stood Francia Fortun. She had a basket slung over her left arm, and she was peacefully gathering what appeared to be herbs. She had a look of joy and well-being that Savannah had seen only on the faces of those who were tending a garden or holding a sleeping child.

If it hadn't been for all the tattoos and the black spaghetti-strap tank top, she would have looked like a fine Victorian lady cutting flowers for her drawing room vases.

Savannah parked the Mustang, and she and Dirk got out. When she closed the door, the sound caught Francia's attention. She turned and squinted into the morning sun, trying to see who had come calling.

Savannah could tell the moment Francia recognized them. The tranquil smile vanished from her face, and a look of annoyance, bordering on hostility, replaced it.

“It's you two,” she said, not bothering to sugarcoat her tone one smidgeon.

“Yeap,” Savannah said. “Just us chickens.”

When she felt Dirk tense beside her, Savannah realized she had broken the cardinal Dirk rule: Don't mention chickens.

Unless they were in drumstick form, slathered in sauce and roasting on a barbecue grill, he hated chickens. He had an inexplicable phobia and couldn't bear the thought of them. Therefore, it was unacceptable to mention them in his presence. Not even in a passing joke.

She thought the number one Dirk rule was stupid as all get-out. But then, he didn't make fun of her when she did her “mousey dance,” so she cut him some slack.

“I thought we were done with the interviews,” Francia said.

“We're not ‘done' until the handcuffs have been slapped on and somebody's getting read their rights,” Dirk told her, his voice and his eyes even a bit less friendly than hers.

She tossed the basket onto the ground, far more roughly than Savannah would have predicted, considering how lovingly she had been gathering its contents only moments before.

“That's how we conduct a murder investigation,” Savannah told her. “You're an expert at sauces and spices and how to cook Chateaubriand for thirty people all at once, and this guy here”—she pointed to Dirk—“he and I know how to catch killers. That's what we're good at.”

“Then I guess by now you've caught the one who killed the chef, right?”

Something about the taunting tone of the young woman's voice made Savannah want to shove a big sprig or two of that freshly picked dill up her left nostril.

Instead, she glared at her and said, “We're getting very close. We've got it pretty much narrowed down . . .” She paused a moment for effect, then added, “. . . to you.”

“Me? You've got to be kidding!”

Yes, no doubt about it. Francia's “cool” façade had slipped. In fact, with her eyes slightly bugged and her mouth hanging open, she reminded Savannah of a Georgia swamp frog, just waiting for a fly to pass by.

“I would never kid about murder,” was Savannah's solemn answer. “Not once.”

“Then you're mistaken!” Francia's face was growing redder by the moment, and she began to breathe hard and fast, the way she had the night of the killing.

It occurred to Savannah that she might start to hyperventilate again. And this time, she just might let her.

If she had to throw up again, she could do it over there among the radishes.

Dirk stepped a bit closer to Francia, deliberately invading her space to keep her off-balance. “We've been marking our suspects off the list, one by one. Everybody's accounted for. Everybody was where they said they were. Except for one. And that's you.”

Francia turned and began to walk away from them, toward the house. But Savannah and Dirk followed her. She had taken only a few steps when she must have reconsidered and realized they weren't about to be left behind.

She whirled back around and faced them. And the look of rage, raw and searing, in her eyes surprised even Savannah.

Having arrested murderers, rapists, robbers, and abusers of all kinds, she thought she had seen every variation of anger under the sun. But in a temper contest Francia Fortun could have competed with the best—or worst—of them. Savannah had seen friendlier looks on the faces of criminals who, one second later, had attempted to kill her.

She couldn't help wondering if those angry eyes were the last sight that Chef Baldwin Norwood had seen before leaving this earth.

“I can't be your only suspect,” Francia shouted. “Of all the people who hated that guy, you'd try to pin his murder on me? What about Perla? She had every reason to kill him.”

“Like what?” Savannah asked.

“Pick a reason. Any reason. I'm sure she had a dozen or more. She'd put up with his womanizing and his abuse for fifteen years, and then he kicked her out for another woman?”

“What woman?” Dirk asked.

“I don't know. Probably some bimbo he picked up in a bar the night before. It wouldn't matter to him.”

“When did he kick her out?” Savannah wanted to know.

“Last week. He told her to pack her bags and get out . . . that he had bought his new girlfriend an expensive ring and was taking her to Santa Tesla Island. He told Perla by the time he got back, she'd better be gone. And she was. But she let the whole world know that she intended to sue him for everything he had. Palimony and all that.”

Savannah turned to Dirk. “The luggage,” she told him. “That mountain of suitcases in the living room.”

“She said they were getting ready to take a trip,” Dirk said, remembering.

“Trip? There's no trip,” Francia interjected. “If there was a pile of luggage in the living room, it was because Perla was moving back into the house now that he's dead. She'll probably wind up with everything he had. And she should. She worked herself half to death and put him through the top culinary school in Paris. But do you think he appreciated it? Hell, no. She got nothing in return for all she did for him. Not even a ring on her finger. Are you going to tell me that's not a motive for murder?”

“It might be,” Savannah said. “But it doesn't matter. She has an alibi. She was with her daughter at the Pantages in Hollywood, watching a show. They proved it.”