Sour Grapes (A Savannah Reid Mystery #6) (13 page)

Savannah saw that Catherine Villa was still there, standing in the hall outside the doorway with that distraught

look on her face.

"Mrs. Villa, good news," Savannah said, motioning her to come closer. Then she added under her breath, "If you consider having chicken blood and guts on your

bedspread good news." She patted the woman's shoulder comfortingly and said, "Now I'm not nearly so worried about Barbie Matthews, and you shouldn't be either. She's probably ju-u-ust fine."

.A;

Savannah stood in the shower and allowed the of water to flow over her weary body, she wished that she could just melt and slide down the drain along

with the shampoo suds.

She was sure that she had been this exhausted and

discouraged at some point in her life, but at the moment she couldn't remember when.

The night hours spent looking for Barbie Matthews

in every nook and crook of Villa Rosa had rendered absolutely

zip, and in spite of what Savannah had been telling everyone associated with the winery and the

beauty pageant, she was worried about the missing teenager. She was worried sick.

Having missed an entire day's worth of food, and a whole night of sleep, Savannah had already decided that when they found the kid, she had better be dead, or she would kill her for having caused such a ruckus.

But she was afraid someone might have beaten her to it, or at least done the girl some major harm.

Stepping out of the shower and drying off with one

of Villa Rosa's lush towels, she silently thanked Catherine Villa for furnishing her guests with quality appointments.

One nice thing about most snobs, Savannah had noticed: They tended to have good taste in clothing, furnishings, and cocktail-party guests.

She pulled her robe around her and stepped into the

room where her younger sister lay sleeping on a twin

bed. This second-story room was similar to the one downstairs that Atlanta had shared with Barbie, only a bit larger and more lavishly furnished. Catherine had offered it to Savannah, making it clear that she hoped she would remain on the property until Barbie had

been found. And Savannah had insisted that Atlanta sleep there, where she could keep an eye on her.

"Van? What are you doing?" Atlanta asked, stirring beneath the covers. One foot emerged, then a hand and finally a tousled, platinum blond head.

"Getting ready to go to work."

"Work? Have you been to bed yet?"

"No, but I'm not a contestant; I don't need that much beauty sleep."

Atlanta yawned, stretched, and opened one eye. "Did you guys find Barbie?"

"No. That's why I'm heading back out. It's dawn now, and we're going to check the grounds again. Hopefully, we'll find something we missed, now that it's daylight."

"Dawn?" Her other eye blinked and opened. "It's dawn? No wonder I'm still dog-tired. You can get up with the chickens if you want to, but I'm lyin' here and relaxin' for a couple more hours at least."

"How lovely for you," Savannah replied dryly as she

IS

slipped into a silk tank, linen slacks, and loafers. "Catch a few winks for me, and don't let anybody in here except members of the Moonlight Magnolia gang. Do you hear me?"

There was no reply.

Savannah strapped on her shoulder holster and

Beretta and pulled a light jacket on over it. "You've gotta rise and shine, at least long enough to bolt this door behind me."

A grunt was all she heard from beneath the rumpled

covers.

"Shake a leg, gal. You're holding me up here."

Finally, Atlanta rolled out of bed, a drowsy figure in pajamas with big, yellow roosters crowing on bright red flannel. She followed Savannah to the door, where she accepted a kiss on the cheek from her older sister.

"Be careful, Atlanta. Stay in here by yourself with the door locked or out there in a crowd of people. Okay?"

"Okay. Okay. Okay. Don't worry, Mom."

"It's my job. Throw the bolt and then go back to bed, Sleeping Snoozie."

In the twenty-five minutes it had taken Savannah to

run upstairs and shower, reinforcements had arrived. As she entered the gallery she saw Ryan standing near

the door, talking to Dirk, Tammy, and John.

Tammy was holding a small, pink, paper bag in her hand, that Savannah didn't dare to hope was . . .

"Tammy, you darlin' girl! Did you bring me donuts from the Patty Cake Bakery?"

Smiling, Tammy held out the bag to her and gave her a hug. "Better than that. I bought you two chocolate-covered, custard-filled Long Johns and an apple fritter."

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"I love you. I truly do. I'll give you a nickel-an-hour raise."

"Gee, after a month or so, I'll be reimbursed for the ionuts."

Savannah attacked the bag with a fury born of acute

marvation. And while she was filling her face with creamy custard and chocolate, Dirk presented her with super-sized Styrofoam cup of coffee.

"Ah, Dirk. Bless your little heart. You dropped by the [ava Nut House and bummed them out of a free coffee. You shouldn't have."

"An extra big one, too."

"What a guy! When you panhandle, you beg for only he best. You're a class act, Coulter."

Dirk beamed, and Savannah wondered whether the Fact that insults frequently flew over his head made the

;ame more fun or a source of frustration. She decided was a bit of both.

Savannah looked over at Ryan and noticed, for the irst time, that he looked almost as tired as she felt. His isual, outdoorsy tan was more pale than golden, and ae, too, had dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. kpparently, he had gotten the same amount of sleep hat she had . . . none. And Savannah knew how serimisly Ryan took his work, especially when it involved roung people and their safety.

In a fit of self-sacrifice, she offered him her precious ipple fritter.

Realizing the depth of her generosity, he gave her a warm smile and shook his head. "No thanks. You need more than I do; John brought me fresh bagels with ox, cream cheese, and capers."

Savannah sighed. "Ahhh, lox and bagels. . . John

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Gibson, would you do me the honor of being my husband?"

John took her hand and lifted it to his lips, tickling her with his mustache as he kissed her knuckles that

were dusted with powdered sugar. "My dear Savannah, I assure you . . . should I decide to take a bride, you would be the first lady on my short and exclusive list."

Ryan laughed, Tammy giggled, and Dirk snorted, but for once he kept his comments to himself "So," he said, "what's the game plan?"

"We're here to help," John told him. "Put us to work wherever you like."

Tammy began to practically hop up and down in her

well-worn running shoes, so eager that Savannah had to resist the temptation to do her bodily harm; it was that "morning person" thing again. "I've already talked to Mrs. Lippincott," she said. "And she specifically asked me if I would go along with some of the girls who want

to take a morning jog around the property, look at the vineyards and all that."

'That's good, and I need to call Barbie's parents again," Savannah said. "When I spoke to them last night on the phone, her mother didn't seem terribly concerned that her daughter was missing. I got the idea this disappearing act might be Barbie's standard MO."

"Did you tell Mrs. Matthews about the blood on the bed?" Ryan asked.

"I just told her that the room had been vandalized. She didn't ask for details, so I didn't elaborate."

Dirk grabbed Savannah's coffee and took a long

drink of it. "Yeah, you don't want the old lady thinking that her daughter got nabbed by some voodoo cult. She'll start worryin' that the kid might be stretched out

naked on some sacrificial altar somewhere with her

throat cut, a big, upside-down pentacle painted on her chest in blood."

Savannah nearly choked on her fritter. "Well, thank you very much, Detective Coulter, for that lovely visual. Personally, the worst I had imagined was the girl lying, raped and murdered, out among the grapevines."

Wearily, Ryan ran his fingers through his hair. Savannah was fairly sure it was the first time she had

ever seen it mussed. She hated to think what her own dripping-wet mop must look like. "So, this is what we're going to do," he said. "Savannah, you call the parents. Tammy, take the girls for their run. John and I will search the grounds again. Now that it's light out, maybe we'll see something we missed earlier."

"I'll go with you," Dirk said, returning Savannah's coffee and snatching one of the Long Johns out of her

bag. "I wanna check that parking lot again. It was so dark out there last night, you couldn't see squat"

As Savannah watched the team disperse, she felt a wave of sadness. Mostly, she felt that way because with every hour that passed, the hope grew dimmer that this disappearance would have a happy outcome. And partly because Dirk was walking away with the rest of

her breakfast Two pastries and half a cup of coffee just

didn't contain enough chemical stimuli to make up for

a day's fasting and a night without sleep. She decided to hit the kitchen on her way to the telephone. What the heck--the Matthews clan wouldn't want to be awakened this early anyway.

"I think you might want to come out to Villa Rosa," Savannah had told Mrs. Matthews on the telephone. "I

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really do. We'd like to ask you and your husband a few questions about Barbie's . . . habits. . . and we don't want to interrupt our search here."

This time, Mom Matthews had seemed more concerned and assured Savannah that she and Pop Matthews

and Sis Matthews were on their way.

And they were--promptly. Less than twenty minutes after Savannah called them, they came screeching up to the front door of the complex in their late-model Volvo

and ran inside.

Savannah had been on her way up to Frande's room, to see if the girl was awake yet, but she was intercepted in the gallery.

"Where's my daughter?" Mrs. Matthews demanded. "I was told you had excellent security here. How could you morons lose one of the girls?"

Savannah checked the family out with a quick once

over. Middle-aged dad was deeply tanned, muscular, and dressed in a stained T-shirt and jeans decorated

with splotches of paint and bits of dried cement. A builder of some sort, no doubt.

Dressed in a calico-print dress with a white-lace collar

and white sandals, Mom looked as though the extent of her physical labor might be lifting the gavel at a PTA

meeting. From the bossy, take-charge look on her face, Savannah was sure she would be president. She could also see where Barbie had gotten her penchant for

heavy makeup and "big" hair.

Younger sister would have been perfect for a talk

show makeover. The opposite of her mother and sister, the dowdy teenager appeared to give no time or effort

to vanity. Her unwashed hair had been pulled back into a scrunchy, her baggy jeans and oversize sweatshirt hung limply off her shapeless body, and her thick

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lensed glasses would have been improved by a simple

cleaning.

Savannah instantly pigeonholed them into three uncomplimentary

slots: Mom the Hen, Dad the Pecked, and Sister the Ugly Duckling.

In her personal life, Savannah tried to avoid snap judgments of individuals. People were complicated creatures, far too complex to be evaluated in a matter of minutes.

But, as a street cop Savannah had learned that survival itself depended upon making evaluations in seconds.

And, while she was always willing to change her original opinion of a person--given evidence to the contrary--experience had taught her to trust those valuable first impressions.

Although she would have preferred to give this

woman a karate chop, Savannah decided to ignore the insult_ Exercising restraint was an excellent way to build character, and she figured it was a good time to chalk up some spiritual brownie points. Besides, she needed the bucks and didn't want to get fired from the gig.

"Mrs. Matthews," Savannah said, "I wouldn't necessarily say that your daughter is lost. She probably knows exactly where she is; the problem is, we don't know. And we're doing everything we can to find her."

"Then you'd better do more," Mrs. Matthews said. "If anything's happened to my baby girl, we're going to sue you people for all you're worth--you, and that Lippincott gal, and Villa Rosa."

"I have no doubt that you would do precisely that, Mrs. Matthews," Savannah replied. "But hopefully, we'll find Barbie soon, safe and sound, and all that nasty suing business won't be necessary. Because, if you intend to sue me for all I'm worth, I'm sorry to say, you won't get

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much. . . two lazy cats who eat as much as a couple of great Danes. That's about the sum of my assets."

No abusive reply was forthcoming, so Savannah softened her tone. "Come along with me," she said. "They have a lovely courtyard out here with tables where we

can sit, and maybe you can tell me a few things about your daughter."

"Talk? Answer questions?" Mrs. Matthews's densely ratted, stiffly sprayed hair seemed to bristle, like a hunting hound who had caught a whiff of a raccoon. "We don't need to waste time talking, and the only question you need to answer is, 'Where is my daughter?'"

"I understand, Mrs. Matthews, that you're upset," Savannah replied. "I'm sure I would be, too, in your situation. But the best thing you can do for Barbie right now is to spend a few minutes with me, telling me about her daily life, her habits, her friends, et cetera."