Poisoned Tarts

by G. A. McKevett

  Savannah searched her mental infobanks, trying to recall if the tabloids had ever mentioned Tiffany Dante having an older sister. The name did seem familiar, but she just couldn’t…

  “Robyn,” she murmured, trying to remember.

  “Yes.” The woman looked slightly embarrassed and once again, out of place and ill at ease. “I’m Robyn Dante…Mrs. Andrew Dante.”

  Again, her eyes flooded with tears. She blinked and looked away. “You know,” she said with a bitter tone, “queen of the castle. The mistress of al-l-l this.”

  She gave a wide sweep with her arm, encompassing the bright pink room, the garish, raspberry velvet furniture, the enormous painting of her stepdaughter that dominated the room from its place of honor over the fireplace.

  Mrs. Andrew Dante sighed, shook her head, and added, “Lucky me.”

  Chapter 4

  “Well, that was a friggen waste of time,” Dirk said half an hour later as they left the Dante estate. “That Andrew Dante is a total jerk. Told me nothing. Rich people suck. They just do.”

  “Ah, Detective Dirk Coulter,” Savannah replied, “philosopher, social commentator, orator extraordinaire. And for your information, all people suck, not just the rich ones.”

  Sighing, he said, “Don’t hassle me, woman. I’m tired.”

  He took a small, plastic bag from the dashboard and fumbled with it while he tried to drive.

  “Here, let me open that for you before you kill us both.” Savannah took the bag from him and unzipped it. Inside were half a dozen cinnamon sticks. She held one out to him. “How’s it going?” she asked.

  “Like hell.” He took the stick and popped it into the side of his mouth. “How do you suppose it’s going? Kicking nicotine is worse than going off heroin or cocaine. Ask any junkie who’s tried to shake all three.”

  Savannah made a mental note to question any non-cigarette smoking, former heroin/cocaine junkies she might encounter in the future. And while she was at it, she’d ask them if going cold turkey off those substances was half as miserable as a 1,000 calories a day diet that didn’t include chocolate—while you were in the throes of PMS.

  Now that was suffering!

  Dirk had been trying to quit smoking for months. The cinnamon sticks must be working. He was still officially on the smoke-free wagon.

  Or maybe it was the nicotine patches on his butt, the ones he didn’t think she knew about.

  She had found the wrappers among the taco and hamburger litter in the backseat of his car. And she’d checked the following day and found two more—a day when she’d seen him in nothing but a pair of cutoffs.

  Never try to fool a detective.

  Another one of her mottos.

  She turned in her seat and looked at him, studying his face in the one second flashes of headlights from passing cars.

  He did look tired. And older.

  She couldn’t help thinking that years ago, when they had first met, Dirk had definitely been a hunk—back when she had definitely been a babe. Now in their forties, they were…well…a little bit past hunk and babe. Not much past, but a tad.

  Too bad we didn’t realize how very hunkish and babeesque we were back then, she thought. We could have savored that brief time a little more.

  And she thought of something that Granny Reid had told her a few years ago.

  Savannah had been looking in her bathroom mirror, frowning at some new lines that were beginning on her forehead.

  “Gran, I’m getting old,” she said. “Look at these wrinkles.”

  Granny walked up behind her, put her hands on Savannah’s shoulders, and peered at her granddaughter’s reflection in the mirror. “Lord have mercy, child. You aren’t old. What are you frettin’ about?”

  “I’m not as young as I used to be.”

  “Well, glory be, girl. Who is?” She turned Savannah around to face her. Her eyes shone with wisdom and good humor as she reached out with her forefinger and pushed one of Savannah’s dark curls out of her eyes and behind her ear. “Savannah girl, if the good God in heaven blesses you with long life, you will be old someday. And then, you’ll look back and realize how much of your sweet youth was just plum wasted worrying ’bout getting old. Don’t even start that nonsense, sugar. It’s such a foolish path to walk down.”

  Looking into her grandmother’s face, Savannah thought that she wouldn’t have taken away a single line from that sweet countenance. She couldn’t imagine changing one thing about this woman she adored—not one wrinkle, one gray hair, one extra pound.

  Maybe Gran was right. Maybe worrying about the inevitable and unavoidable was a waste of time and energy.

  “If you’ve just got to worry about something,” Granny Reid continued, “worry about the child across town who’s going to bed hungry tonight or the young mother next door who can’t make her rent. That’s the sort of thing you might be able to do something about. Don’t bother about a little line on your face that don’t amount to a hill of beans.”

  And since that day, Savannah had spent less time peering into the mirror, searching for signs of aging. Instead, she had made a habit of looking deeply into the eyes of the woman in the mirror and saying in a voice that sounded a lot like Gran’s, “You’re doin’ good, sweetheart. You’ve been through your ups and downs, but you’ve mostly done your best. You’re doin’ good.”

  Old didn’t matter so much.

  Most of the time.

  Savannah rolled down the Buick’s window and breathed the sweet, moist night air. “Do you think we’re old yet?” she asked Dirk.

  He turned to look at her, a surprised expression on his face. “What?”

  “Do you think we’re old? I mean, I know we aren’t old-old yet, but…do you think of me as old?”

  “You? Hell, no. You’re not old, Van. You’re no different than you were when I first met you. It’s not like you’re a guy…losing your hair and crap like that.”

  Poor Dirk, she thought. Always with the hair. The world began and ended with The Hair.

  Dirk could lose every tooth in his head and gain three hundred pounds, and all he would worry about was whether his hair had thinned in the past two months.

  “I’m getting older,” he said. “I can feel it in my body, especially the day after I’ve gone a few rounds with some street punk. But you…” He shot her a flirtatious grin that, she had to admit, made her heart beat just a bit faster. “…you’re fresh as a sun-warmed Georgia peach and twice as tasty.”

  Yeap, the pulse rate is definitely up, she thought. “When you look at me like that,” she told him, “you remind me of that guy I met years ago, the one I had to fight off a time or two on stakeouts when we first got assigned together.”

  He bristled. “Who? Somebody got fresh with you? You should’ve told me. I would’ve—”

  “I meant you, dimwit.”

  “Oh.” He cleared his throat and stared straight ahead, suddenly intent on the road. Finally, he said, “It’s been so long since I’ve tried to get into your knickers that I’d forgotten. And that just goes to show you how old I’m getting.”

  “Naw.” She reached over and thumped him on the shoulder. “You’re still a virile horndog. You’re just tired, run down a little. They’ve been working you too hard.”

  “They have been. I’ve got five cases on my desk already, and now they throw this one at me. I’m telling you, if that girl turns up dead, I’m screwed.”

  Good ol’ Dirk. Always thinking of others, she thought.

  “I’ll help you find her,” she said.

  He brightened. “Really?”

  “Sure. Sadly, I don’t have any clients at the moment. I want to enjoy my visit with Gran while she’s here, but I should still have plenty of time to help you track her down.”

  Breathing a sigh of relief, fatigue, or depression—with him, it was hard to tell which—he said, “So, you think she’s all right, this girl? You think she’s still alive?”

  Savannah thought of how many ti
mes Granny Reid had warned her about saying negative things. “A body has to watch what comes out of their mouth,” she’d said. “Your words float out into the universe, and who knows where they’ll land. You can speak things into being, so be careful what you say.”

  “Alive?” she said. “Sure. Daisy’s still alive. She’s just off somewhere, getting into something she shouldn’t, like any other teenager.”

  Savannah thought of Pam O’Neil, of how her mother’s intuition was telling her that something terrible had happened to her precious daughter.

  She thought of Kiki Wallace’s downcast, guilt-filled eyes.

  She thought of Robyn Dante, the so-called queen of the castle, who had answered Savannah’s questions with clipped, curt responses. And even those answers had been contradictory.

  No, Daisy hadn’t been there at all yesterday. Okay, she was there, but not for long.

  No, she hadn’t talked to her. Well, yes, Daisy had mentioned to her that she was excited about taping the sitcom.

  No, Robyn couldn’t imagine why Daisy had gone missing. She was sure it wasn’t anything bad, though. Couldn’t be anything bad.

  Dirk jarred her back to the present. “Really?” he was asking. “Do you really think the kid’s okay?”

  Savannah remembered Granny’s “Don’t speak evil” warning again, but she also remembered that Gran had taught her not to lie.

  “No,” she said softly. “I don’t think she’s okay. After talking to that bunch back there, I don’t think she’s just off getting into mischief. I think it’s a lot worse than that.”

  Dirk nodded…and he did look tired…and he did look old. “Me, too,” he said. “I hate to say it, but me, too.”

  As Dirk turned onto Lester Boulevard and headed toward Savannah’s neighborhood, she asked, “Where are you taking me?”

  “Home. Don’t you want to go home and rest, visit with your grandma?”

  She thought about it for a moment: her soft chair, her big, black cats curled around her feet, a cup of hot coffee, and a slice of the carrot cake that Gran had baked that afternoon. It was tempting.

  But then she thought of Pam O’Neil’s red, swollen eyes, so full of pain and worry.

  “What are you going to do with the rest of your evening?” she asked him.

  “I thought I’d drive over to the mom’s house and talk to her, maybe get a look at the kid’s bedroom. Why?”

  Savannah flipped open her cell phone and dialed her house. Gran answered.

  “Hi, Granny,” she said. “It’s not looking good, this case with this girl. We’re a bit worried about her.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, sugar. Is there anything I can do?”

  “Maybe say one of your prayers for her.”

  “I sure will.”

  “Are you going to be up a while yet?”

  Gran chuckled on the other end. “Just until all my little chickadees are back in the nest,” she said…the reply that Savannah had heard so many times during her teenage years. “Why? Are you wanting to stay out with your young man past your curfew?”

  Savannah laughed. “Just another hour or so. I’d like to go with Dirk to the girl’s house before I come home.”

  “I’ll be up quite a while longer. I’m reading my Bible and my new True Informer.”

  Savannah knew that if her grandmother had a new True Informer, she wouldn’t be going to bed for two hours. Granny Reid devoured the tabloid from cover to cover, including the classified ads in the back.

  “Don’t wait up for me if you’re tired, Gran. Go on to bed if you’ve a mind to, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “You’ll see me when you set foot inside this house,” Gran replied. “You go find that little missing girl. Don’t you worry ’bout me.”

  Savannah told her good-bye and snapped the phone closed. “Granny says we can stay out a little longer, but no French kissing and you gotta drive below the speed limit.”

  “Darn. I guess that means no parking and making out at Lover’s Leap.”

  “Gran’s death on parkin’, demon alcohol, and chewin’ tobacco. She used to threaten me something fierce about partaking of any of those three.”

  “And did you?”

  “Partake?”

  “Yeah.”

  She grinned. “Of course not. I was a good girl. The perfect teenager.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Okay. Two out of three.”

  “You partook of two out of three? Or you avoided two out of three?”

  She chuckled, reliving fond memories. “That’s right. You’ve got it.”

  When Dirk called Pam O’Neil to see if they could drop by, she eagerly invited them over. And when they pulled into the driveway of the humble duplex in the working class end of town, she was sitting on the stoop, smoking a cigarette, waiting for them.

  “I couldn’t believe it when you called,” she said as she ground the cigarette out with the toe of her construction boot. “I’m sure glad you did, though. Did you get anything out of Dante or those brat girls?”

  Dirk shook his head as he and Savannah followed her into the house. “No, nothing worthwhile. But I’m not done with him or that bunch over there.”

  “Don’t worry,” Savannah said, “We’re just getting started with this investigation.”

  Pam led them through the living room with its threadbare plaid sofa, Mediterranean-style coffee table, and plastic, fake Tiffany lamp and on into the kitchen. She offered them a seat at a chrome and Formica dinette table that reminded Savannah of Gran’s old set.

  “Want some coffee?” Pam asked. “It’s fresh. I just made it.”

  “Sure, thanks,” Dirk said.

  “Not for me,” Savannah said as she looked around the kitchen. Apparently, Pam was into chickens. The wallpaper was a blue and yellow print with chickens of every breed, size, and age doing chicken things: pecking at the ground, crowing from tops of fence posts, and emerging from cracked eggs.

  Even the dishtowels hanging on the rack and the canisters on the cupboard were spangled with chickens.

  Savannah resisted the urge to judge, remembering her own Unicorn Period. She was so glad she had resisted getting that tattoo on her right breast and spared herself the depressing spectacle of a less than perky unicorn.

  Pam slipped a cup of coffee onto the table in front of Dirk, along with a sugar bowl and creamer.

  Dirk took a notepad and pen from inside his leather jacket. “We just need to get a bit more information from you,” he said. “A description of the car your daughter’s driving, the plate number, what she was wearing the last time you saw her, just your standard stuff like that.”

  “Of course,” Pam said. “I want to help any way I can.”

  “Would you mind,” Savannah asked, “if I took a look in Daisy’s bedroom? I hate to poke around in your daughter’s things, but considering the circumstances…”

  “Oh, sure. No problem. It’s right down the hall there, the door on the right. Help yourself.”

  “Thank you.”

  Savannah walked down the short hallway to a closed door that had a plaque on it that said, “Daisy.” As might be expected, yellow daisies surrounded the name, and the “i” was dotted with a pink daisy.

  When she opened the door, Savannah expected to find a typical teenager’s room: posters of the latest rock heartthrobs, garish colors, and stuffed animals vying for space with more grown-up possessions like mountains of makeup, shoes, and purses.

  But not this room.

  One look told Savannah that Daisy O’Neil was no ordinary teenager.

  At first glance, Savannah thought she had stepped into some small tropical paradise. Someone had painted murals on all four walls, surprisingly good murals, of a lush jungle full of exotic palms and greenery, monkeys, parrots, and toucans.

  And most impressive of all were the cats. Spotted leopards, black panthers, and ocelots crouched in the trees, while tigers hid in the foliage, their stripes blending perfectl
y with the tangled vines and thick grasses.

  Apparently, Daisy was not only in love with the jungle and its big cats, but she was a talented artist, as well. On one wall, toward the bottom of the mural, Savannah saw the signature, “Daisy O.”

  The girl was also quite a gifted botanist. The room was filled with all sorts of palms and philodendrons, pothos and schefflera, Chinese evergreens and peace lilies.

  The furniture was sparse and inexpensive—a daybed, one chest, and a desk—but the wicker style fit the jungle theme perfectly. And the bed was neatly made with dark green linens.

  Savannah walked over to the desk and sat on the small stool. With practiced deliberation, she quickly but thoroughly examined each book, letter, note, and item both on the desk’s top and in its four drawers. Mostly, she found books about wildlife, the Amazon rainforest, ecology, and botany.

  One drawer held a small case of makeup: mascara, lip gloss, one color of eye shadow. Apparently, Daisy was a natural beauty. One bottle of clear nail polish, a file, and some clippers were her manicure-pedicure kit.

  Savannah thought of Daisy’s high maintenance friends and wondered briefly how many bottles of polish and tubes of lipstick were in Tiffany Dante’s makeup drawer.

  In one of the bottom drawers, far in the back, hidden beneath some folders, was something that caught Savannah’s eye.

  It was a white bag with a red logo from a local drugstore. And inside the bag was a pregnancy test and a receipt dated September 15th. It was the type that contained two kits in one box. One kit was gone; the other was still inside the box and in its original wrapping.

  Savannah stored that bit of information in the back of her mind for future reference, along with the name of the drugstore and date on the receipt.

  She returned the kit to its original place in the back of the drawer, deciding, at least for now, to protect any of Daisy’s secrets.

  As the oldest child in a family of nine kids, Savannah had enjoyed precious little privacy of her own, so she respected others’ as much as her occupation would allow her.

  She left the bedroom and its exotic decor, returning to the more mundane regions of the house.