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

To the left lay the guest lodge, a two-story house Nith twenty beautifully decorated rooms for overnight

visitors. Straight ahead, through two sets of French loors, lay a courtyard, lush with palmettos, hanging gar-lens, a three-tiered fountain, and comfortable lounging Furniture.

The Villa family loved their wines, but just as much, they enjoyed sharing their passion with others. And the visitors' center reflected that generations-old tradition

3f hospitality.

But Marion Lippincott had precious little time to ap3reciate

such things with a pageant to run. Waving away ;everal other mothers with equally distressed looks on

heir faces, she picked up the telephone which was restng atop an antique that had once been a winepress, 3ut now functioned as a visitors' registration desk. After 3unching in a few numbers, she heard her activities co3rdinator on the other end.

"Gertrude, I spoke to Anthony Villa, and he needs a )odium for his welcoming address this evening, just a nicrophone and stand for me. Have the plaques arived yet? Well, get the engraver on the line and give tim grief. And dessert for the closing ceremonies? Tell he chef we need a low-fat sorbet selection."

From the corner of her eye, she saw a spray of spring lowers approaching, with a deliveryperson's legs below ind a face hidden among the tulips, daffodils, and hyicinths. The flowers spoke, "I'm with Fancy Bloomers. Chese are for one of your contestants. . . a Barbie viatthews."

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"No, I don't want the cheesecake on the menu," Marion barked, "or the chocolate mousse. These girls are watching their weight and their complexions."

"Excuse me," said the deliveryperson, "a Barbie Matthews?"

Marion glanced down at her notebook. "She hasn't arrived yet."

'Then where should I leave these?"

She flipped the pages until she found the room

chart. "Room ID." She jabbed a finger toward the hallway that branched off the gallery to the left, then turned her attention back to the phone. "I have to check the registration tables, to see how it's going," she said. "Gert, I'm sure you can handle all of this, and when I check back with you in half an hour, you'll have only good news for me, right?"

She hung up the phone before receiving the affirmation.

She didn't need it. Gertrude was a most-capable coordinator. And she possessed another virtue that made her even more valuable. . . she was positively terrified of Marion Lippincott.

And that was exactly the way The Lip liked it.

Room ID. A first-floor room. That was good. Perfect, in fact.

The person with the flowers had brought along

more than tulips. The jar of red gore was tucked inside a jacket pocket, just in case.

But no. The "delivery person" wasn't that lucky The

room was locked, and there was no choice but to leave

the arrangement outside in the hallway next to the door.

Oh well. It was probably better this way. The old bat

with the notebook might remember later, and there

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G.

needed to be some time between the "delivery" and the "incident."

Tonight would be fine.

Counting the steps to the exit at the end of the hall, the person mentally rehearsed the return. Fifty-five steps. Feeling the jar, heavy inside the jacket pocket, its contents sloshing around, brought a smile. If the flowers didn't change her mind, Barbara Matthews was going to get an unpleasant surprise.

avamiah began to relax and enjoy the drive as she

guided the Mustang along the winding highway

through San Carmelita's outskirts. Although the steering was a bit off, the car drifting to the right. The temporary tires that Dirk had provided, while they waited for the city to come through with the new radials, were Mismatched, and she was pretty sure he hadn't paid the extra few bucks to have them balanced. Tightwad. She'd have to give him a verbal slapping-around.

Atlanta sat in the passenger's seat, for once having little to say. There were a few advantages to quarreling--blissful silence being one of them.

Having left the beaches and citrus groves behind, they gradually climbed tawny velvet hills, dotted with copses of dark oaks, into California's Gold Coast wine region. On either side of the highway, perfectly straight

rows of vines, heavy with fruit, glistened in the sunlight. And the smell of sun-warmed grapes scented the air.

All along the highway, at the end of each row, a rosebush had been planted, each blooming in a different shade of crimson, pink, yellow, and coral--Villa Rosa's trademark. Local legend had it that the winery's founder had planted them for his wife, Rosa, and they had been maintained and replanted in her memory since.

"We're there," Savannah told her silent passenger. "T'his is Villa Rosa, the winery where your pageant is being held. They're one of the oldest, but fastest growing wineries in the area . . . and they never pass up a

publicity opportunity"

"Humpf."

Ignoring the less than enthusiastic reply, Savannah continued. "How about that . . . both of us winding up there, you competing and me working security."

"Yeah, it sucks. It major sucks."

Savannah looked over at the petulant face and ignored

the itch in her palm. It was an irritation she often felt when she badly wanted to slap somebody.

"Sorry, Twerp," she said, knowing how much the nickname irked the kid. "I didn't mean to sneeze on your ice cream, rain on your parade, et cetera."

"Yeah, sure. Once again, Big Sister is watching every move I make."

Savannah gritted her teeth as she turned down a private

road, marked with ornate wrought-iron gates and a carved, gilded sign which read: VIIIA ROSA.

"I'm not sure how I turned out to be the bad guy

here," she said. "You were the one who signed up for this thing, saying you'd been living in San Carmelita for

SOUR GRAPES 59

the past five years, using my address without asking

me.

"I saw it on the Internet, okay?" Atlanta said, examining the nail cuticles of her left hand. "It sounded cool, so I signed up on-line. How was I supposed to know that you'd be stingy with your ol' address?"

"Come on, 'Lanta. I may not be everything you want me to be, but the one thing I'm not is 'stingy' where any of you kids are concerned."

They were approaching the Villa Rosa complex, a sprawling but lovely configuration of buildings that resembled

an elegant Italian villa more than a highly successful

commercial enterprise. Ordinarily, Savannah would be looking forward to spending the next few

days in such luxurious surroundings, but . . .

"You're acting like I'm some sort of silly kid with a

pipe dream," Atlanta moaned. "This is for my career, you know."

The only "career" Savannah was aware of was Atlanta's weekend job at the Dairy Queen, but she thought it best not to ask for clarification on the subject.

"There

are going to be talent scouts at this pageant," the teenager continued. "And when they hear me sing, I'll probably get a contract offer right on the spot."

"I hope you're not expecting too much from this," Savannah said dryly. "They'll probably wait until an intermission to make that offer, rather than disrupt the pageant with a lot of contract signing there on stage."

"Don't be a smart-aleck. Of course they'll wait until later. But that's how a lot of female country singers got discovered, you know."

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"No. . . I wasn't aware of that fact. Who exactly got her start that way?"

Atlanta hemmed and hawed for a moment, then shrugged. "I can't think of names right this minute, but take my word for it. . . a bunch of them. . . a big bunch."

"So, you don't care if you win the pageant or not, as long as you get discovered."

"That's right. Although I'll probably win, too. And that would be pretty neat."

Savannah had to laugh. The Reid women possessed many virtues, but humility wasn't among them. The Fear of Failure gene didn't appear to be swimming

around in their pool.

As she pulled the Mustang up to the front of the Villa

Rosa visitors' center, she saw Ryan Stone standing beside the door, wearing a tuxedo that complemented his dark good looks--as if they needed enhancing.

"Ryan is here?" Atlanta nearly bolted out of her seat. Like most females between the age of eight and eighty, Atlanta was wildly smitten with the handsome hunk. On her subsequent visits to California, she had fallen madly in love with him, convinced that if only given the chance, she could permanently alter his sexual preference. "Oh, wow! You didn't tell me that Ryan was going to be here!"

"Yes, he's working security with me. But don't worry . . . like I told you before, we'll be sure to stay out of your way. I don't want you to feel smothered or--"

"Oh, hush up. You know what I meant. I don't care if you and Ryan hang around me. . . some."

"Especially Ryan?"

"Well, he is mighty easy on the eyes."

Savannah gave Ryan a wave as she headed into the

parking lot. He waved back and flashed her a breathtaking smile that set her hormones aflutter.

"Oh, yeah . . . Ryan's easy to look at," she agreed. 'This is gonna be fun. A nice, easy gig . . . hangin' out with the gorgeous and genteel Mr. Stone. The worst thing that's apt to happen is a couple of girls wrestling

over a can of hair spray. We'll stay out of your way, so that you don't feel smothered."

She shot a sideways look at her baby sister.

Pouting . . . again.

"What if I don't like this girl they stuck me with . . . this Barbie Matthews?" Atlanta's lip was protruding even farther than Savannah thought was physically possible.

Hefting

two suitcases under each arm, Savannah led the way from the gallery down the center hall of the adjoining

guesthouse. "You don't have to like her. You're not marrying her; you're rooming with her. And it's only for a few days."

"But I thought we were going to get rooms of our

own. That's what it said on the web page."

Halfway down the long hall, they found the door with the brass "1D." Savannah set two of the suitcases on the floor and gave it a "shave-and-a-haircut" knock.

"Yeah, whaddaya want?"

Savannah flinched. If the current occupant of 1D was as rude as she sounded, this pageant could be a long, dreary experience.

One glance at her younger sister told Savannah the

kid was ready to do battle. A harbinger of evil to come.

Atlanta pushed the door open with a much harder

shove than was necessary, and it flew open, slamming against the wall.

Inside was a cozy, delightfully feminine room, a vision of hand-carved antique furniture, rose-printed damask spreads on the twin beds, and wallpaper sprinkled with tiny pink-and-red rosebuds. Atop a marble-topped dressing table was a lush spray of spring flowers.

The only item that seemed out of place in this dainty

room was a young lady who was stretched out on one of

the beds, drinking diet cola from a can. Though the term "lady" might be used loosely, considering the skimpy leopard-print teddy she was not-quite-wearing and the

fact that she had one leg raised and propped on a bookshelf

on the wall.

The teenager had impossibly red hair--a color that could have been achieved only with a bottle of hair

coloring that contained the word "fiery" on its label. Her makeup was the heaviest Savannah had seen on a

young woman north of the Mason-Dixon line. Beneath all the carefully applied goop, her face might have been considered pretty, had it not been pulled into a nasty frown.

"Hey, what do you think you're doing?" she snapped, lowering her leg from the shelf and tucking it under

her. "Nobody invited you in here."

Atlanta stormed into the room, tossed one of her suitcases onto the floor, and said, "I registered. They told me room `1D.' That's all the invitation I need, thank you very much."

"Oh goody, a So-o-o-outherner. What are you, a Georgia peach? Or are you just a Georgia pee-can?"

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Savannah winced, expecting the fur to start flying any minute.

Atlanta bristled. "As a matter of fact I am from the proud state of Georgia. . . originally, that is. Have you got a problem with that?"

"No problem at all," she drawled in an exaggerated and--as far as Savannah was concerned--downright vulgar impression of a Southern accent. "Yeah, boy, howdy . . . I whup Dixie belles in pageants every day '

the week and twice on a Sunday."

Now she was asking for it.

Savannah decided that if Atlanta didn't thrash her, she would. She could always claim the girl had presented some sort of grave security risk, and anyone who knew the kid would probably be grateful that she had

beaten her.

But, ever the consummate professional, Savannah repressed her homicidal tendencies and stepped between

them. "Okay, okay, girls, this is no way to start off the weekend. You'll be pulling each other's hair out by the roots, and heaven knows, you need every lock you've got to achieve that pageant 'big hair' look."

She walked across the room to the vacant twin bed

and started to lay the luggage on it. But Atlanta grabbed her arm. "Wait a second," she said. "Mrs. Lippincott told me that! was supposed to have the bed against the wall. I'm sure that's what she said."

Savannah could practically hear the bell sounding

"Round Two." "Well, it doesn't really matter all that much which--"

"It matters to me!" Barbie snapped. "I got here first, so I get to pick which bed I want. And I want the one by the wall. So there." She painted a saccharine smile