Sour Grapes (A Savannah Reid Mystery #6) (9 page)

Even Ryan was gone. She assumed he was patrolling the downstairs hallway of the guesthouse, or checking the grounds.

Villa Rosa's visitors had migrated to the tasting

room, and Savannah could tell by the clatter of dishes and silverware that dinner was well under way. The smell of food was driving her crazy. Right now she would even settle for one of Dirk's bargain kids' burgers

and a greasy bag of cold fries.

When she entered the tasting room, she found a semidark, discreet spot against the wall to the left of the main door, where she stood for over half an hour, keeping an eye on things but maintaining a low profile.

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Other than the fact that she was starving, she had to admit, this was a pretty easy way to make a buck. She'd have to thank Ryan again for recommending her. It had been ages since she'd had a gig this laid-back.

If she could only get her paws on one of those plates

of herb-roasted chicken. . . .

Barbie Matthews was feeling better than she had for

weeks; finally, things were starting to go her way. The plan she had crafted so carefully was beginning to unfold.

Winning

beauty pageants was fine, but Barbie had so much more in mind for her future. After all, what was the point of being beautiful if you didn't use it fully to

your advantage?

As she hurried through the now-vacant upstairs corridor

of the guesthouse, she felt her pulse pounding with excitement. When she had made the phone call and demanded the meeting, she hadn't really expected the other party to agree. But, to her shock and delight, the person had, and she was on her way to a meeting that would change her boring, mundane life forever.

Once downstairs, she stuck her head around the corner and glanced around the gallery. The only activity she saw was the bustling of waiters and waitresses, who seemed preoccupied with their own activities.

Head held high, her purse tucked under her arm, Barbie walked briskly through the gallery and out the

front door, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible-- for a young woman whose life was about to change dramatically.

Outside,

the cool, damp night air was filled with the

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fragrance of fruit on the vine. . . and the evening was full of delicious possibilities.

Wouldn't everyone be surprised?

Sometimes Barbie felt that those around her hadn't given her the proper respect she was due. A lot of people claimed to be special, but she really was. Though sometimes that gift was less of a blessing and more of a

burden.

It wasn't easy, being the prettiest and brightest person in a room at any given time and not being recognized as such. But those days were over. After tonight, everyone would see her in a whole new light. She would receive the special attention she had always craved.

She glanced around, trying to get her bearings, but--although gifted in all the really important ways-- she had never developed a sense of direction, and everything looked different than it had earlier in the

daylight.

This far out in the country, the night was darker than in town, and only a few round-globed, antique streetlamps illuminated the grounds.

To her right was the small building that housed the

Villa Rosa gift shop, straight ahead lay the road that led to the main gates and the highway, and to her left was the parking lot.

She headed in that direction, as she had been instructed on the phone. She had been told to go to the far side of the parking lot, where she would be met by her visitor near the swimming-pool area.

Her heart began to pound even harder, and she shivered with anticipation. She had won! Of course, she had always known she would, but now that victory was within reach, it was far sweeter than she had even imagined.

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A cold, wet breeze swept over her, chilling her back, which was bare, her dress being particularly low-cut. She had just left the terra-cotta-tiled walkway and stepped

onto the parking-lot asphalt, when the cell phone inside her purse buzzed against her ribs.

"Not now!" she said as she fumbled inside her purse and brought out the phone. Aggravated though she was, she was afraid not to answer it. Her party might be calling to inform her of a change of plans.

"Yeah? Who is it?" She paused beside an old, bright red Mustang and tapped her foot impatiently.

"Your mother," said a voice just as impatiently. "Where are you? Your father and I are sitting here at this banquet table, waiting for you to show up. I sent your sister to find you twenty minutes ago."

"Great. . . that's just what I need. . . the Squirt on my tail."

"And your friend, Francie, is here. She said you were on your way down from her room half an hour ago." "I'm not coming."

"What do you mean you aren't coming? If your family shows up at these functions to show their support for

you, the least you could do is make an appearance."

Barbie sighed and rolled her eyes. Once again . . . no respect.

"I don't feel good, Mom, and I sure don't feel like eating the garbage that they're serving. I'm just going to stay here in my room."

"What's the matter? Are you throwing up again? I'll bring you something to settle your stomach."

"No! I don't want to see you. I don't want to see anybody. Just leave me alone. If you guys are bored, go home. I never asked you to come anyway."

She punched the "talk" button before her mom

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could get in that irritating last word that she always insisted

on having. Mom was quite the controller in the family, leading Dad and Louise around by the nose. Barbie was the only one with enough guts to put her in

her place.

Barbie smiled broadly. Yes, when Mommy Dearest found out what was going on, she was probably going to be the most surprised of all. Everything wasn't as in control as she had thought.

Smoothing her hair and licking her lips, Barbie continued across the lot. She peered into the darkness on either side of her, but saw no one--only rows of parked cars. The night here seemed even cooler than before, and she had to clench her teeth to keep them from

chattering.

Out here, alone in the dark, her mental vision of her bright future dimmed just a little. For a moment, Barbie felt a trickle of fear run from her tailbone up

her back to the base of her skull.

Something wasn't quite right.

She had felt this way once before. . . when she was six years old. She had stretched out her hand to pet the neighbor's German shepherd. Looking into his eyes, she had felt the same sensation that she felt now. The dog had bitten her. Hard. It had taken seven stitches in the hospital emergency room to close the wound. She still had the scar to remind her, the only blemish on an otherwise perfect body.

Having reached the edge of the lot and the appointed

spot near the pool and patio area, there was nothing else for her to do but wait. And Barbie wasn't good at waiting, especially when she was feeling a bit weird and freaky. She gripped the cell phone tightly and felt a little less vulnerable.

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"You'd better show," she said under her breath. "And you'd better get here pretty soon, too. I'm not going to wait all night. . . not even for you."

Just as she was deciding that she had, indeed, been stood up, Barbie heard footsteps approaching from behind her. She turned around, a smile of greeting on her carefully glossed lips. But the smile quickly faded when she saw her visitor's face.

"You ?What are you doing here?" Rage swept through Barbara Matthews, hot and searing, replacing cold caution. "No, no, no! You aren't going to screw this up for me. You're noti I swear, I'll kill you first."

The dark figure laughed, and the harsh, hard sound of it would have terrified a more timid--or sensible-- soul than Barbie Matthews.

But Barbie's terror came a moment later when she

saw the glint of a gun pointed straight at her head. "You have two choices," the person told her. "Number one: You don't follow my instructions, and I kill you here and now. Number two: You be a good girl, do everything I tell you to do--when I tell you to do it-- and I'll kill you later. It's up to you. What's it gonna be?" Barbie could almost feel that German shepherd's

fangs sinking into her tender hand. The danger she had seen in the dog's eyes was exactly what she could

hear in this person's voice. She was in trouble .

. . big trouble.

And she wanted to live, even if it was only for a few more minutes or hours. Barbie Matthews, Miss California Sunshine, swallowed her pride and nearly choked on it.

"What you want me to do?"

"Turn around. . . and put your hands behind your back."

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For one of the few times in her life, Barbie did exactly as she was told.

"Now see there; isn't that easy?" said the person with the gun. "Even an airhead like you can do it."

While Savannah wasn't jazzed about the idea of her

little sister strutting her stuff in what she considered a

glorified meat market, she had to admit that she was pretty proud of the kid.

From her posted position against the wall, Savannah could see Atlanta across the room, sitting at a table with some other girls, laughing and chatting as though they had known each other for years. With familial satisfaction, Savannah noted that Atlanta was, by far, the most attractive one at the table, despite the fact that she was dressed less expensively than the average attendee.

Savannah wished that Atlanta had asked her for

something more appropriate to wear, but she quickly dismissed the idea as ridiculous. . . as if anything in her closet would fit that teeny-tiny body.

She watched to see if Atlanta was actually eating anything

off the plate set in front of her. While she had her fork in her hand and appeared to be moving food

from one place to another, she didn't actually seem to be sticking any of it in her mouth, chewing, and swallowing.

A look around the room at the other girls did little to

put Savannah's mind at ease. Most of the young ladies appeared to be doing the same thing . . . pretending to

eat. And most of them were just as slender as Atlanta, some even more so.

Savannah could remember being that thin . . . but

she had to stretch her memory back . . . way back . . . to

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92 G.A. McKevett

junior high school. Though not as skinny as these girls, she had been teased mercilessly, called Beanpole, Toothpick, and Ostrich Legs.

At that time, voluptuous curves were "in." And she was basically curveless, until the hormones kicked in . . . about tenth grade. Suddenly, those distinctly feminine attributes appeared, burgeoning forth with a vengeance. And for about a week, Savannah had been hot stuff on campus.

But then, suddenly, "stacked" was "out" and models in miniskirts with figures similar to those of prepubescent

boys were "in."

In one week, Savannah had gone from Beanpole to Major Babe to Fatso.

Life sucked.

But she had learned a valuable lesson: You can't rate yourself by society's fickle standards.

She had decided, then and there, to love her flesh . . . every gorgeous, soft, feminine inch and ounce of it. And, with all her heart, she wished she could give that precious gift of self-love to every young woman in the

room. Unfortunately, it wasn't something you could transfuse.

Clicking back into professional-bodyguard mode, the surveyed the room again, looking specifically for Barbie Matthews. But she didn't see her. Apparently the ;irl hadn't come down yet. Her friend, Franck, had taken a seat at Atlanta's table, and there was an empty :hair beside her. Savannah assumed she was saving it For Barbie.

The girl still looked worried and preoccupied, not joining in the lively conversation at the table.

The welcoming speeches had begun with Mrs. Lippincott onstage, introducing the various luminaries in

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their midst Savannah watched her with interest, noting her expertise and ease at the microphone. If beauty-pageant experience imparted this sort of social grace to

its participants, perhaps it could be a positive thing for the contestants after all. Such skills would be useful in many of life's venues.

If only Savannah could get over the unpleasant feeling

that these girls were being evaluated on the sum of

their external parts, rather than the intrinsic value of their souls.

When Mrs. Lippincott began to introduce the girls, and they filed across this stage, one by one, speaking a quick hello into the microphone, Savannah's uneasiness increased. Across the audience, she saw expressions on some of the men's faces that reflected genuine

appreciation for the girls' youthful beauty, and even some worshipful adoration.

That was all fine and good.

What she didn't like were the eyes that racked up

and down each girl, while their owners engaged in their own little private, out-of-body experiences. . fantasies that probably would have offended, if not horrified, the girls on the stage. And most of those wearing that sort of look were old enough to be the girls' fathers. . . in some cases, their grandfathers.

One of the worst offenders was the guy that Ryan

had warned her about earlier, one of the judges, Frank Addison. Sitting at a front table, he had an excellent view, which he was taking full advantage of.

When Atlanta's name was called, and she glided across the stage to speak her "hello" into the microphone, Savannah couldn't help noticing the lecherous attention he was paying to her baby sister.

"Roll up that tongue of yours and stick it back in