Bitter Brew (A Savannah Reid Mystery)

by McKevett, G. A.

  Tammy nodded. “If you search ‘suicide,’ mostly you’ll find sites that try to talk you out of it. Others inform the public about how to help a loved one who’s depressed or how to save someone’s life who’s overdosed. But there are plenty of other sites designed by people who fully support an individual’s right to decide to end it all.”

  Savannah thought it over for a moment and said, “I think life is sacred, and I can’t imagine ending mine or encouraging someone else to. Though I wouldn’t judge someone who did if they had a painful, fatal illness.”

  “I agree. But not all of these people have a fatal illness. Many are suffering from depression.”

  “That’s a terrible pain of its own, but there are treatments for it. There’s hope.”

  “I know. But on some of these sites, they even encourage depressed people to go through with it. They tell them there’s no other way out, that their loved ones would be better off without them.”

  “That’s horrible! Those poor folks have enough demons in their own heads whispering lies like that. They need to be encouraged to seek help. They need to be told not to give up, that it’s still possible to get help and live a happy and productive life, no matter what their depression’s telling them.”

  “I agree. But some of these sites encourage individuals to form suicide pacts between two or more people, then discuss how they’re going to go through with it. If someone tries to back out, the others lay a guilt trip on them, telling them they’ve let down their suicide partners.”

  “That’s chilling.”

  “It gets worse. There have been instances where some sickos, who have no intention of killing themselves, have gone onto these sites pretending to be depressed and suicidal. They’ve talked desperate, vulnerable people into entering a pact with them, claiming that they, themselves, would do it at the same time and in the same way.”

  “I hate to even imagine why.”

  “Get this.... They encouraged them to film it, to send it out, live, on the web.”

  “No doubt because they wanted to watch someone die. They were probably aroused by it . . . like a serial killer when they take a life.”

  Savannah felt sick. It was yet another scar on her soul that would never heal. Something else to think about when the lights were off and sleep wouldn’t come.

  “I hope they were tried for first-degree murder and are serving a life sentence,” she said.

  “Not even close. One man was charged with assisting a suicide and got six months. Another guy pretended to be a depressed young woman in a chat room. He developed this warped mother/daughter relationship with a depressed, older lady, begging her to ‘do it’ with him, er, her. The woman finally agreed. Instead of offing himself, he watched the video. Over and over.”

  “And he got . . . ?”

  “A year for counseling someone how to commit suicide in a state where it’s still illegal. He was let out on probation after nine months and told not to use the Internet for a year. A month later, they caught him doing the exact same thing again.”

  “Maybe it was some psycho like that who talked these two into it,” Savannah surmised. “Or maybe they found each other in one of those suicide chats and agreed to do it around the same time.”

  “Which brings us back to the idea of some sort of pact.”

  “Right.”

  Tammy flipped off the screen. “If I could get my hands on their personal electronics—phones, tablets, laptops, whatever they commonly used—I’d probably be able to find links to websites like that. If I’m lucky, maybe even a chat.”

  “That won’t be easy under the circumstances, with everything being hush-hush. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Savannah stood, drank the last sip of her tea, and took the glass to the kitchen. Tammy followed, nibbling on her celery stick.

  As Savannah poured Kitty Vittles into the girls’ bowls, she said, “I’m going to try to interview Brianne’s fiancé, see what he has to say.”

  “What’s your cover story going to be? You can’t tell him the truth about who you are.”

  “I’ll tell him the truth. But only part of it.”

  “Which is?”

  “That I’m a private investigator who’s looking into the passing of more than one person who was struggling with a fatal illness. I’ll tell him my client is doing research about the depression people feel when confronting the end of life.”

  “If he asks who you’re working for . . . ?”

  “I’ll tell him that I can’t say. It’s true. I can’t.”

  “You aren’t going to suggest that someone might have murdered her, are you? Or that maybe she wasn’t even sick?”

  “No.” Savannah petted her cats’ soft, glossy backs as they began to devour the food. Usually, it helped when she felt bad. But not at the moment. “I’m not going to tell a grieving man a thing like that unless I absolutely have to. If he didn’t kill her himself, then he’s drowning in grief right now. The last thing I’d want to do is hold the poor guy’s head under water.”

  Chapter 10

  Savannah tossed the last half of her turkey sandwich into the kitchen garbage can, then stood there looking at it, trying to remember the last time she had been too upset to eat and had thrown away the better part of her meal.

  It had been a long time. That was for sure.

  Back then, her discarded lunch had probably been a pterodactyl drumstick.

  Having put off her next unpleasant chore for as long as her conscience would allow, she decided that, personal problems or not, it was time to get back to work.

  Scooping up her phone from the kitchen counter, she gave Jennifer Liu another call.

  “Okay,” she said when the doctor answered, again sounding anxious and a bit out of breath. “I’m heading out to find Brianne’s fiancé to see what I can get out of him.”

  “Be careful. We don’t want to raise his suspicions.”

  “That’s a risk, I grant you,” she admitted. “But it can’t be helped. How do you conduct a proper investigation without interviewing at least the principal players? They don’t get more ‘principal’ than the people your possible victims were sleeping with.”

  “I know. Go ahead. Do what you have to do.”

  Glad to have that behind her, Savannah said, “Where is Paul this time of day?”

  “I assume he’s still in Brianne’s house up in Cañón Ventoso. They’ve lived together about a year. He’s an artist, and his studio is there.”

  “Do you happen to know the exact address? A number?”

  “You won’t need a number. It’s the house at the top. The only mansion in that canyon that looks like a massive barn.”

  Savannah tried to picture it. “A mansion-barn?”

  “That’s right,” Jennifer replied. “Brianne’s dad died a couple of years ago and left her a ton of money. I told you, we had a lot of fun playing in the stables there on her parents’ estate. She wanted a place of her own that reminded her of better, simpler days, before her mom got sick.”

  “Okay. I’ll look for a barn—”

  “That you would be thrilled to live in. It’s gorgeous.”

  Jennifer was quiet for a moment, then said, “There’s someone else living there who might be worth talking to. Her name is Delilah, Dee for short, and she’s the groom. She has her hands full tending the horses and livestock.”

  “Livestock?”

  “Brianne’s property covers ten acres.”

  “Wow! Ten acres in this area? Daddy sure did leave her a ton of money!”

  “Yes, he did. And she loved animals. Talk to Dee and ask her to show you the miniature goats. This might be grim work you’re doing for me, but that’ll be the bright spot in your day. They’re super cute.”

  I could use a bright spot, Savannah thought as she told her friend good-bye. Because, sooner or later, this day’s going to end with me back here at home.

  With a disgruntled husband.

  * * *

  Jennifer
had been right. Savannah didn’t need a street number.

  At the top of Cañón Ventoso there was only one mansion that looked like a barn, and quite a mansion it was! Although it had the basic shape of a barn and was made of rustic materials, like stone and rough-hewn wood, it had the elegance of a Tudor manor house and the imposing presence of a Spanish citadel.

  As impressed as she was, Savannah couldn’t spend a lot of time admiring the place. She was too busy practicing the lies she might have to tell to cover the unpleasant truth of her mission.

  Long ago, even back when she was a street cop, Savannah learned that telling the occasional fib was just part of the job, and she was particularly good at it.

  How many times had she told a suspect that she had them dead to rights, when all she had was a sneaking suspicion of their guilt, just to gauge their reaction?

  Good at it or not, lying certainly wasn’t her favorite part of the job. Granny Reid’s training has gone far too deep for Savannah to be comfortable with uttering an out-and-out falsehood.

  But Gran had also taught her the necessity of being practical. Sometimes a body had to be shrewd when battling the forces of evil.

  Or trying to get an artist to open up about the death of his fiancée.

  The farther into the canyon she drove, the larger Brianne Marston’s estate appeared and the more Savannah appreciated the grandeur of it. She could see various substantial outbuildings behind the main house. Farther up the hill she spotted a smaller, honest-to-goodness barn and a paddock that held several horses which, even to Savannah’s unpracticed eye, appeared to be healthy, well cared for, and probably expensive.

  On the other side of the barn was a smaller pen that contained a structure that looked like a storybook house—with about a zillion tiny goats standing on its steeply sloped roof.

  It was certainly one of the more charming sights she had seen in her lifetime.

  Savannah couldn’t help smiling. As Dr. Jen had said, they were super cute as they jumped up and down off the house, jockeying for the highest position. She wondered what Diamante and Cleopatra would say if she managed to smuggle one of the kids home in her purse.

  Pulling the Mustang into the driveway, she put all thoughts of adorable, miniature goats aside and concentrated on the upcoming task. She had practiced her spiel so much that she would have to work at not sounding like a third grader reciting a poem in front of the class.

  “Let Paul be home,” she whispered as she took her purse from the passenger seat and got out of the car. “Him or at least Dee, the goat lady.”

  She walked to the door, rang the bell, and had to wait quite a while before someone answered.

  A tall, thin man with blond hair, a smear of green paint on his cheek, and multicolored stains on his hands, forearms, and the front of his T-shirt gave her a quick, overall glance, and said, “Good afternoon. May I help you?”

  “If you would be so kind,” she said, daring to hope that this visit might go better than she had originally thought.

  He seemed to be friendly and open, not suspicious or guarded. With any luck and all of the diplomacy she could muster, perhaps she could keep him that way.

  Stretching out her hand to him, she said, “My name is Savannah Reid. I apologize for arriving on your doorstep unannounced like this. But I was wondering if you could give me a few minutes of your time.”

  “That depends,” he said, still cordial. “Are you selling something I need?”

  “Not at all. Actually, I’m a private investigator. At the moment, I’m conducting some research on behalf of a client who is trying to help people . . .” She paused, trying to remember the rest of her well-practiced speech. “People like, forgive me, like your fiancée who recently passed. I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Oxley, and for intruding on you at a time like this. Believe me, I wouldn’t, if it wasn’t important.”

  He looked away for a moment or two, then down at his stained hands.

  She sensed he was about to tell her to leave or, worse yet, slam the door in her face. But to her surprise and relief, he did neither.

  Instead, he opened the door a bit wider and said, “Okay. I was working, but I could use a break. Come on in.”

  Gratefully, Savannah hurried over the threshold, before he could change his mind.

  She had made it to first base and without even telling a single lie.

  Granny would have been proud.

  * * *

  A few minutes later, Savannah and Paul Oxley were sitting in the massive, post-and-beam living room of the mansion. She was settled comfortably, where he had directed her, on an oversized, leather chair that faced the two-story-high stone fireplace. Numerous wrought-iron lantern chandeliers cast a warm, golden glow on the dark beams and knotty pine, cathedral ceilings and walls.

  At her feet, the glossy mahogany pegboard flooring was partially covered with a large Navajo rug, whose cheerful red background and geometric patterns of turquoise and gold lent an intimate, cozy feel to the enormous room.

  Paul walked over to the kitchen area for a few moments, then returned carrying a steaming mug in each hand. He gave one to her and took a seat in the matching chair beside the one she was sitting in.

  Even before she looked into the cup, she could smell the rich aroma of a fine blend of coffee.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I should’ve asked how you take it. That’s one sugar and some milk. If you would prefer something else . . .”

  “No, this is fine. It smells wonderful. Thank you.”

  He looked down into his mug with a sad, wistful expression on his paint-smeared face and said softly, “One sugar and milk. That’s how she liked it. I’m really not thinking straight just yet.”

  “I understand,” Savannah assured him.

  “I also can’t get used to speaking about her in the past tense.”

  “That happens a lot with people who are grieving.”

  He took a long drink from the mug, then said, “What is it in particular that you want to know about Brianne? For your research, that is.”

  “We’re studying people who are struggling with these terrible, genetic diseases.”

  “The fatal ones . . . like Halstead’s?”

  “Exactly. Forgive me for my lack of sensitivity, but we’re especially interested in how these disorders affect them in their final days. You were probably the closest person to Brianne, so your input would be the most helpful, if you can share your observations.”

  He quickly drained the rest of the mug—obviously a veteran coffee drinker, Savannah noted—then he set it on the table between them.

  “They told us that Halstead’s can manifest differently from person to person,” he said. “But Brianne’s was highly atypical. Usually, once the symptoms start showing, the person has years, not good years, but years, to live. She only had a couple of months, and they were very tough ones.”

  “I hate to even ask, but can you tell me in what ways?”

  “In all the usual ways that Halstead’s affects its victims. The loss of coordination. She had always been so graceful and agile. The change was pronounced. She fell and hurt herself several times. In the end, she didn’t want to eat. She had a hard time swallowing. Then there were the awful seizures.”

  He gulped, and she could see he was steeling himself before continuing. “But it was the changes in her personality that were the hardest to watch. She became a different person.”

  “If I may ask, in what way?”

  “She had always been so open and trusting and clear-minded. A very gentle lady.”

  “But that changed?”

  “Quickly. Drastically. She was paranoid, confused, fearful. She claimed someone was trying to kill her.”

  “Did she mention whom or how?”

  “No. Nothing that coherent. It was more like delusional ravings. She was irritable and angry.” He paused and wiped his hands across his eyes as though trying to rid himself of the painful visions of the past. “By the time her body finally
quit, my Brianne was gone. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Yes. I certainly do.” Savannah gave him a few moments to regroup, then she asked, “Were you her primary caregiver?”

  “Yes, I was. Brianne was my world. The best thing that ever happened to me. She’d given me so much. It was the least I could do for her. I would’ve nursed her for years and been happy to do so, but—”

  His voice broke and tears flooded his eyes.

  “I’m sure you would have, given the chance.” She took a sip of the delicious coffee, then set the mug beside his on the table.

  “We were going to get married and start a family,” he said. “She knew the risks of passing the Halstead’s gene along to our future children, and we thought about it long and hard. Finally, we decided . . . actually, it was her decision, because I left it up to her . . . to go ahead and live our lives and face whatever came. But no sooner had we set a wedding date than her symptoms began.”

  “How very sad. I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you. I asked her to marry me, she said, ‘Yes,’ and then our world fell apart.”

  Savannah reached for her purse and said, “Do you mind if I take a few notes as we talk? My memory isn’t what it used to be.”

  “That’s fine.”

  As she took out her notebook and pen, she said, “Truth be told, it never was.”

  “Mine either.”

  For a moment, they exchanged half smiles, and Savannah wished she could be more candid with this open, seemingly honest man. But then she reminded herself that sharing her suspicions with him would only drive his grief deeper.

  If, indeed, his fiancée had been murdered, he would find out soon enough.

  “You say her symptoms began rather suddenly?” Savannah said, getting ready to write.

  “Yes. Supposedly, Halstead’s comes on gradually. Brianne told me that her mother’s did. She was hoping that if, God forbid, she came down with it, hers would take a while, too. Give her a chance to prepare for the worst, complete unfinished business and all that.”

  “Did you know that she had this disease from the beginning?”

  “Absolutely. Very early in our relationship, on our second date in fact, she told me all about it. She thought I deserved to know that there was a fifty-fifty chance she would die young. I can’t say I didn’t know what I was getting into. I knew this could happen.”