Savannah Reid 06 - Sour Grapes

by Mckevett, G A

  danced through Savannah's mind.

  It had just been cleaned. Scrubbed from stem to stern. There wasn't one smidgen of sand, dirt, or lint in the entire trunk. She placed her palm flat on the floor and could feel a slight dampness.

  And when she leaned back and played her light

  over the side of the car, the wheels, and bumpers, she realized that the entire vehicle was spotless. Nobody's car, not even Catherine Villa's, was this dean, unless it had just been professionally detailed.

  Turning back to the trunk, she pushed the tennis racket and skateboard aside. Even the carpet beneath those items was damp and immaculate.. . or was it?

  What were these? Six little black things that were almost invisible against the rug. Leaning inside and shining her light directly on them, Savannah could see what they were--six flies, quite dead, lying on their backs, their tiny feet sticking straight up in surrender.

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  Why would flies be in a perfectly clean trunk? And othy would they be dead in that immaculate trunk? iavannah could hazard a guess. But a guess--a feeble me--was all it would be.

  She could see herself going to Dirk and saying, "The lies were there because they were attracted to the smell yf death that was present in the trunk even after

  3arbie's body had been removed. And the ffies died bemuse some caustic chemical. . . like insecticide residue as there, even though it's been cleaned."

  She could just see him presenting that to the DA, dong with Anthony Villa's suspicious reaction to the

  rlephone. And if that weren't enough concrete evilence, they had Savannah's equally useless gut feeling hat he was a guilt-ridden, fearful man.

  Okay, so she needed more. But what?

  Closing the trunk, she stepped back from the car ind looked it over one more time. Shining her light on he rear left tire, she noted that it was well worn, not yew. So, Anthony hadn't had them replaced when he lad the car detailed.

  Maybe they could get a match from the plaster mold yf the track up by the cliff.

  She shone her light on the front left tire, and saw hat it, too, was well worn. But something caught her Ire. It was different. The two tires on this side of the car were different makes, even different sizes.

  "Hmm," she said, as she walked around to the other ide. The rear tire matched the one on the left, but the i-ont right was yet a third make, and it wasn't even a vhitewall.

  Three brands, three sizes on one car.

  Savannah mulled that one over. She was far less vain tbout such things than Catherine Villa, but she had in

  iisted that Dirk replace her shredded wheels with

  matching tires. This mishmash seemed completely out if character for the persnickety lady.

  As Savannah left the car and walked across the park-Jig lot back to the center and the evening's festivities, the could feel the adrenaline hit her tired bloodstream.

  Contrary to popular opinion, a private detective's ife involves a lot of boring, solitary work and few monents of true drama. But now she was getting close. Like a bloodhound with her nose to the ground, she mew she was on a fresh track, and her prey wasn't far may.

  For just a moment she wished that it was almost any

  me other than Anthony Villa. But she thought of Francie, lying crumpled like a broken doll at the botom of the staircase, and she didn't give a damn who he killer was. She just wanted to get her teeth into him.

  Chapter

  23

  sang good tonight."

  "You sang great."

  "And I looked good, too."

  "You looked fantastic."

  "So . . . so . . so, why didn't I win . . anything!" Savannah sat on the edge of the bed, holding her hysterical sister in her arms, rocking her as she had years ago when she had fallen down and skinned her

  knees. But this was much worse than a boo-boo that would respond to a kiss and a Donald Duck bandage.

  "I'm not kidding, 'Lanta," she told her, wiping her cheeks with a wad of tissues that was getting more soggy

  by the moment. "I thought you were amazing! I had no idea that you could work an audience like that! They were behind you all the way."

  "But . . . but. . ." She hiccuped. "But the judges liked that stupid girl with the skull. What was that 'To be or not to be' crap? That doesn't even make sense."

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  "Well, actually, it's Shakespeare, and it's a really cool speech but--"

  Okay, so that wasn't the right thing to say, Savannah decided as Atlanta's sobbing reached new levels of volume.

  "It

  isn't fair!" She hit the mattress with her fist and kicked her foot. "That girl wasn't even cute, let alone pretty. Did you see how fat she is?"

  Savannah figured it wouldn't be wise to mention that

  she thought the winner had a beautiful figure, or that she was especially poised and seemed like a very nice

  person. No, she thought she'd just keep that two-bit opinion to herself.

  "Life isn't fair, 'Lanta," she said, rubbing her back and continuing to rock. "I hate to say it, but it's so true. Rotten things happen to great people and wonderful

  things happen to crummy people, and that's just the way it is. The sooner you stop expecting things to be fair, the sooner you'll be a happy camper. Or at least, not so miserable."

  "Oh, shut up!" She pushed her away. "I just lost the most important thing in my life. I'm devastated, and I don't want to hear any of your Chinese proverbs."

  It had been a long, hard day. Savannah snapped. 'The most important thing in your life? Get real! And get over it already!"

  Her face screwed up again. "You don't understand!" "No, Atlanta Reid. It's you who's clueless. In a world where little babies get burned with cigarettes, and nuns get raped, and good cops with families at home get shot dead in dark alleys. . . you losing a beauty pageant just ain't high drama. Sorry if I'm not impressed."

  "This was more than a beauty pageant. It was my career. My dream!"

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  Savannah sighed. "Oh, yes . . . I forgot. You were going to be discovered."

  "I was. But there weren't even any talent agents there, like they said on the website. I looked around and didn't see a single one."

  "Really? What exactly does a talent agent look like?"

  Atlanta thought for a moment, then shrugged. "Well, I don't know, but if I'd seen one, I would have known it."

  "That's where you're wrong, Twerp. There was an agent, of sorts, there."

  She perked up and blew her nose. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, someone who knew that you're my sister approached me and told me they were very impressed

  with your performance."

  From tears to a radiant smile in less than two seconds--the transformation

  was astounding.

  "Really? Really, really?"

  "Really, really. In fact, he suggested a gig for you next Saturday, if you aren't too busy."

  She jumped up off the bed. "No way! Where? When? How? What?"

  "In Hollywood at a recording studio, singing backup for Dixie Lynn. She's cutting a new record, or CD, or whatever they're cutting these days, and she could use another singer."

  "Dixie Lynn? Dixie Lynn? Are you kidding me? Are you making this up? I mean, Dixie's won Grammys, and she sang at the Oscars last year, and she's been on the cover of Rolling Stone and--"

  "I know. She's very hot right now. Are you up to it?"

  She bounced off the bed and around the room. She

  couldn't have achieved more height with a pogo stick.

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  "Am I up to it? Am I up to it? I've been practicing for this my who-o-ole life. This is too cool! I can't believe it!"

  Since the tide had turned, Savannah decided to crawl into bed and catch a few hours sleep if the human

  yo-yo would settle down. Morning was going to come early, and she already had a mental list a mile long of "to do's".

  B
esides, any minute now, Atlanta might think to ask the name of this high-powered, wheeler-dealer, Hollywood agent. All too soon she would find out that her agent was none other than John Gibson, who knew absolutely everyone who was anyone in most of the continental

  United States, and even more in Europe. He had set the whole thing up, bless his heart, and Savannah would love him forever for doing it.

  But Atlanta didn't need to know that just yet.

  "Good night, sweetie," she told her sister as she climbed beneath the covers. "This is our last night here, and I am going to sleep an entire night in this lovely, free bed. So lights out."

  Moments later, she could hear Atlanta wiggling around in her bed, giggling, still ecstatic. How nice, to be so young and full of hope for the future. Marion Lippincott was right All that energy and beauty, it was wasted on the young.

  Nearly every town had an industrial section, and San Carmelita--graceful seaside village that it was--was no exception. And while most people wouldn't chose to live in that area of town, they were thankful for it when they needed some of the more basic things of life done,

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  like their car lubed, their tires rotated, or a

  fresh coat of paint sprayed on the old jalopy.

  Savannah had brought her Mustang down here so

  many times that almost every shop owner knew her by

  name and reputation. Californians loved their restored classics, and the Ford Mustang was one of the most popular. Savannah liked to think that her baby was the prettiest "pony" in town.

  So, as she drove down one street after another, checking every detail shop she passed, she was heartily greeted and had to fend off a multitude of offers, most of which weren't worth beans.

  When it came to buying classics, a lot of car lovers made empty promises. . . sort of like drunks at a bar at closing time.

  She had already tried at least six or seven places, showing a snapshot of the BMW, and a photo she had cut out of a Villa Rosa brochure she had snagged from

  the reception desk. It was of Anthony Villa pouring a glass of wine. But she had cut off his name and the part of the picture with the wine, just to make sure they didn't make the connection.

  With only two more places to check, she was beginning to wonder if maybe Dirk wasn't right when he told

  her she was ditzy. This morning, when she and Atlanta and the rest of the girls had cleared out of Villa Rosa, he had reiterated his opinion to her. Once again, she had told him where to file his opinions, using his hemorrhoid medication applicator for convenience.

  But long ago, she had observed that, if you actually found what you were looking for, it was always in the last place you looked. Another one of those cosmic rules. And she reminded herself of that profound truism any a

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  time she was searching for anything, be it her keys, a pair of panty hose without a run, that package of Little Debbie cinnamon rolls she had hidden in the back of

  the pantry, or a detail shop that had recently processed a BMW owned by a guy who looked like Anthony Villa.

  As she pulled into Rory's Car Wash, she saw the Irishman standing next to a purple Corvette, his sleeves rolled up to show off the biceps that he had earned

  buffing cars from dawn to dusk. His hands were the same shade of purple as the car, which was covered with some sort of chalky compound. Purple dust had landed in the reddish blond curls that hung down to his collar. He was polishing, muscles rippling, and Savannah didn't mind at all stopping for a chat and a look-see.

  "An, Savannah, me darlin'!" he called out in his delightful Irish brogue as she approached. "'Tis a sight for these sore eyes, ye are, love."

  Ah . . . that accent of his. She swore the man could have simply "talked" her into an orgasm if she listened long enough. And he wouldn't even have to say anything dirty. With a voice like that, he could read the weather report and she would swoon.

  "You're a cheerful sight yourself, lad," she replied, giving him her best Southern sashay as she walked up to

  him.

  "Don't tell me you've brought that little red car of

  yours about for my attentions. She's still looking fine from the last buffin' I gave her."

  "She is, Rory. She is, indeed. So, that's not why I' here."

  His eyes, greener than ol' Ireland, sparkled as he glanced appreciatively up and down her figure. He had informed her long ago that he considered her a "well

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  balanced lass." No anorexic models for this red-blooded son of old Erin.

  "Could it be that Lady Luck herself has smiled upon

  me," he said, shoving a rag, stained as purple as his hands, into the back pocket of his jeans. "Is it me own handsome self ye've come to see?"

  "It is . . . and I'd like to ask you if you've seen this car

  lately." She shoved the snapshot under his nose. "Or this fellow." She handed him the clipping.

  His face fell, but only a little. Rory was an optimistic chap, if nothing else.

  "Ah, information she's after," he said with a cluck of his tongue. "She wants me for me brain and not me body. What a bitter disappointment, but I'll bear up."

  He took the pictures from her and looked from one

  to the other. "And why is it you're askin', lass? Did this fellow do a wrong deed by you? If he did, you give your friend Rory his address, and I'll be settlin' that score straightaway."

  "Thank you for your chivalry, but it's nothing like that. I just need to know if you've cleaned his car recently."

  "I did. Let's see. . . only a couple of days ago, I believe. He tipped me handsomely, told me to do an extra good job for him. I told him I always do a fine job . . . but I took the tip anyway. No point in insultin' the lad."

  "Exactly." She savored the thrill of victory for a second, then said, "Tell me, Rory. Did you notice anything . . . unusual about the car?"

  "Anything out of the ordinary, you mean?"

  "Yes."

  "Like what?"

  "I'd rather not say. Just think back if you would."

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  l70 G.A. McKevett

  He gazed into the distance and rubbed his nose, eaving a purple streak across his face. "Let me see now. recall thimldn' two things, I did. First, I thought the car wasn't that dirty. Didn't really need a deep cleaning. ksked me to shampoo the trunk twice, the fella did. knd second, I thought the trunk smelled a bit strange. _,ike some sort of chemical. . . like ant poison or some ;law of medicine. . . had been spilled in there. But I aw no stain on the carpet. Maybe that smell was why he wanted it shampooed a second time."

  "Maybe." Savannah had to control herself to keep iom doing an Irish jig right then and there. "One more thing, Rory. . . you vacuum thoroughly before roll shampoo a carpet, don't you?"

  "I do, indeed."

  "And that big commercial vacuum of yours. . . how )ften do you clean out the bag?"

  "Bag? Oh, it has no bag. The refuse goes into a big netal drum, and I don't have to empty it but once in a Feat while."

  "Have you cleaned it since you vacuumed that car?" "No. I had cleaned it just the day before."

  She beamed, giving him her deepest dimpled grin. You, Rory, are a jewel, a credit to the mother that bore 'Du. Will you do me an enormous favor and not clean hat drum until later this afternoon when a guy by the

  tame of Dirk will be coming around with his tail tucked

  )etween his legs to collect what's in it for evidence?"

  "I'd be glad to refrain from work, but only because uch a comely lass as yourself asked. And also because ' going to be rubbing out this monstrosity of a vehi:le

  for the next two days anyway."

  Savannah couldn't resist; she stood on tiptoes and

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  gave him a peck on the cheek. He laughed and the sound was deep and throaty, reaching parts of her anatomy that, for far too long, had gone undisturbed.

  'Thank you, Rory
. I owe you a pint of Guinness." "And I'd be glad to share it with you, Savannah, me

  love. Drop by sometime and I'll buff yer fenders for ye." "Yes," she murmured as she walked away. "I'll just bet

  you would. Ah-h-h . . . you cheeky lad."

  Savannah thought there was a plethora of detail

  shops in the industrial area of San Carmelita, but to her dismay, she discovered there were far more junkyards selling used tires.

  She and Tammy had agreed to start at opposite ends

  of the Junkyard Jungle and work their way to the middle,

  giving each other a buzz if either found what they were looking for.

  So far, she had questioned a dozen dealers who were happy to see her, until they realized that she wanted information, not a used radiator or a replacement hood ornament. She had risked life and limb, fending off testosterone-ridden mongrels who guarded their yards, their rusted heaps of metal and piles of tires as though

  these assets constituted the National Treasury.

  But she hadn't found anything yet, and, so far, her purse hadn't buzzed, so, neither had Tammy.

  It was as she was crawling back into the Mustang, feeling a bit down as the "detail victory" began to wear off like a previous sugar fix going downhill, that she heard it. Her purse .

  . . specifically, the phone in her purse.

  "Hallelujah," she said, though silently warning her

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  self not to get too excited. Tammy could be calling to suggest that they meet somewhere for some afternoon

  donuts and coffee.

  But then. . . it was Miss No-Donut, Health Conscious Tammy, not Dirk, so . . .

  "Whatcha got?" Savannah asked.

  "Todd's Tires, Four ninety-eight East Maple." "I'm on my way."

  Three minutes later, Savannah pulled onto Maple Street, which must have been named by a homesick, displaced native of Vermont, because there wasn't a maple. . . or any other kind of tree in sight. She spotted Tammy's hot pink Volkswagen Bug parked under a