Death by Chocolate

by G. A. McKevett

“Cordele, honey,” she said slowly, deliberately, “would you please tell me what it is that you want from me? What is it that you need, darlin’, that I’m not giving you?”

  Cordele looked at her in wounded amazement. “What I want from you? What I need?’

  Lord, could you give me that patience right now? ‘Cause if you don’t, I’m going to strangle her until her eyes pop out, and then I won’t even need it.

  “Yes... what do you want from me? Tell me, and I promise I’ll do my best to—”

  Cordele burst into tears. “Don’t you realize that the very fact that you would have to ask me such a question shows how emotionally and spiritually distant we are?” Savannah considered handing her the box of tissues that were on the end table, but that would involve getting within reach of her, and she didn’t trust herself. So she just allowed her to go on sniffing, tissueless.

  “It breaks my heart,” Cordele continued, “to think how close we used to be. How we used to talk for hours about.... things...”

  Savannah thought back, trying to pinpoint those happy days. “You mean, when you first started college, and we sat around trashing Mom and Dad all afternoon?”

  “We weren’t trashing anybody. We were exploring our feelings about our childhoods, evaluating our formative years and how those experiences affected us.” Savannah nodded. “Yes. I remember that after a lot of ‘exploring,’ we decided that Shirley and Macon were basically crappy parents and that we were lucky that Gran took up the slack. It didn’t take rocket science to figure that out.”

  “How can you be so flip about something so awful.... just dismissing the horrors of our upbringing that way?”

  “I’m not dismissing anything, Cordele. I know there were some bad times with Dad on the road, driving his rig, and Mom leaving us alone while she hung out at the bars. Her coming home drunk and getting sick on the living room floor. Us cleaning her up and putting her to bed. It wasn’t fun. But most of that was before you were even born. Before Gran took us in.”

  Cordele tossed her journal onto the ottoman and crossed her arms over her chest. “So, what are you saying? That you had it worse than I did, because you’re older?”

  “This isn’t some kind of sick contest, Cordele. For heaven’s sake, who gives a rat’s ass? So, you and I both had it rough. Big deal. There’s always somebody out there who had it better than you and somebody who had it worse. What does that have to do with the present, and us sitting here in my living room in California, or whether we’re going to eat pizza or broiled tofu for dinner?” ‘That’s so-o-o like you, Savannah.... to live in denial.” Savannah felt it snap—her last string that connected her to sanity. She jumped up from the sofa and grabbed her lemonade. “That tears it, Cordele. If you want to call it denial, go right ahead. Label me or my attitudes any damned way you want. But I’m not going to rehash ancient history with you. I’m not going to sit around and feel sorry for myself. I already did that. But sooner or later, I decided that if I was going to get anything else accomplished in my life, I had to move on. And I’m not going back there for you or anybody. If you want to interpret that as a rejection of you as a human being... that’s your choice.”

  She headed for the staircase, her own bedroom, some privacy and sanctity. But she hesitated on the bottom step and turned back to Cordele, who had stopped crying and was sitting there with her mouth hanging open, eyes lightly bugged.

  “By the way. It’s not you I’m rejecting. I love you to pieces. It’s just the bitterness and the friggin’ whining I can’t stand.”

  Oh, yeah.... that little addition helped a lot, she thought as she continued up the stairs. So glad I tagged that on the end there.

  It was when she reached the top of the stairs that heard Cordele’s final diagnosis floating up to her: “Denial. Denial is such a destructive force. No doubt it’s the root of that food issue...”

  Savannah lay In her bed, reading Eleanor Maxwell’s journal, as she had almost every night since her death. And while Savannah had spent most of the evening being peeved and out of sorts, thanks to her heart-to-heart with Cordele, she felt a little better having read the diary. It proved exactly what she had told Cordele in the heat of their argument: somebody, somewhere, always had it worse.

  “Hindsight don’t need spectacles,” Gran had always said. And it seemed, as Savannah read the pages of the journal, that Eleanor should have seen it coming. Louise hated her mother with an intensity that could have motivated her to do anything, including commit murder.

  This journal would prove to be a powerful piece of evidence in prosecuting her. Savannah could hardly wait to show Dirk the passage she was reading now. It had been written only three months ago.

  Lou hit me with a wine bottle today. Cut my head open. Had to get five stitches. They didn’t recognize me at the hospital. Wouldn’t that be great if the news got hold of that? Kaitlin would throw a fit. The cops wanted me to file charges on her, but she’s my kid. I know she thinks I’d do anything to her, but I wouldn’t have her arrested. How‘s that for a mother’s love? I can’t be all bad, right?

  Less than a week later was an even more disturbing entry:

  I told Lou today that I should have pressed charges on her. She told me that if I ever did anything like that, she’d break the bottle next time and cut my throat with it. She’s always saying what a terrible mother I was, but what kind of daughter says something like that to her mom? Now that my daughter’s all grown up, she hates me. My twin sister and I have always hated each other. I guess hate just runs in the family.

  Savannah closed the diary, laid it on her nightstand, and turned out the lamp. She had enjoyed as much family politics—her own and Eleanor’s—as she could stand for one day.

  But as she drifted off to sleep, she thought of little Gilly, her small face lit with joy as she played with her new puppy. Savannah could also remember a moment there in the moonlit gazebo when the child had been speaking about her mother leaving her alone for long periods of time and about Grandma smelling like booze and talking bad. Savannah recalled the traces of bitterness and anger on that tiny face. The cycle was beginning all over again. Yes... it seemed that hate just ran in some families.

  Savannah was awake another hour, thinking about it. But she wasn’t wondering why.

  Chapter

  22

  Savannah silently cursed Dirk, who sat across the table from her, an expectant grin on his face. He had a lot of nerve, showing up before she’d even downed her second cup of coffee and asking for a favor. A favor which he could have easily done himself—if it hadn’t been for that stupid “male pride” thing.

  Apparently, it wasn’t easy for some men to ask another guy for help. And in Dirk’s case, why should he? He had Savannah to do it for him.

  As Dirk watched, tapping his fingers on the tabletop, and Cordele poked around in the refrigerator, looking for something “worth eating,” as she had delicately phrased it, Savannah sat with her coffee cup in one hand and the phone in the other, waiting for Ryan to pick up on the other end. He did.... on the third ring.

  “It’s Savannah,” she said, instantly cheering at the sound of his deep, virile voice. A shot of Ryan in the morning was more stimulating than any caffeine.

  “Dirk has a favor to ask you,” she said, wrinkling her nose at Dirk.

  “Oh, goody,” Ryan replied. She could hear the semi-sarcastic tone. It was hard to miss. The fact had been established long ago that Dirk, Ryan, and John would probably have nothing to do with each other were it not for the common denominator of their friendship to Savannah. “What can I do for Detective Coulter?” he said wryly.

  “He wants you to put on your sexiest swim briefs— the briefer the better—and go hang out on the beach.” There was a long silence on the other end. Finally, Ryan said, “I’m afraid to ask why.”

  She grinned. “I understand. But if you’ll slip those on and grab a beach towel and a book, we’d like to meet you at Topanga Park in an hour. Do you mind?” />
  Again, silence. Then, “For you, Savannah, anything.”

  “I love you.”

  “And obviously, I do you, too. See you in an hour.” As Savannah was pushing the TALK button to end the call, she glanced over at Cordele, who had suddenly emerged from the refrigerator. “Ryan Stone.... in a skimpy swimsuit?” she said, tongue hanging slightly out. “Can I go along?”

  Savannah shook her head. “No.”

  She stomped her foot. “Yes!”

  “I said, ‘No.’ It’s business, not pleasure.”

  “Since when is seeing Ryan Stone’s bod in a swimsuit not a pleasure?” Cordele wanted to know.

  Dirk had had enough. He pushed away from the table and stood. “You broads are disgusting, you know that? And you talk about us guys ogling chicks!”

  “Oh, shut up, Dirk,” Savannah replied, burying her face in her cup. “After all, Ryan in a swimsuit was your big idea.”

  Dirk grunted and left the room.

  “See ya in an hour,” Savannah called after him. She heard the front door slam.

  “I wanna go!” Cordele whined. “I mean it, Savannah! I really, really wanna go! And you'd better let me.”

  Savannah took a deep breath and another drink of coffee.

  “No.”

  An hour later, Savannah, Dirk, and Ryan rendezvoused at the Topanga State Park, a beach reserve that was conveniently located only about a quarter of a mile from the Maxwell estate. Ryan was wearing a navy polo shirt and white walking shorts, but he quickly assured her that he had a pair of red Speedos underneath.

  “I wasn’t going to drive around town in them,” he told Dirk, whose perpetual frown had deepened upon seeing his attire. “Not even for you.” He turned back to Savannah. “What’s this all about, anyway?”

  She pulled a pair of binoculars off the Buick’s dash and beckoned him. “Follow me.”

  They walked to a small cliff that had wooden steps leading to the beach. She pointed down the stretch of sand to a tiny cove and handed him the binoculars.

  “Check out the blonde in the pink bikini lying there on the towel,” she told him.

  He looked through the glasses and focused. “Yeah. So?”

  Dirk gave her a quick look and a smirk. Savannah’s nostrils flared, so he swallowed whatever he was going to say.

  "We need you to keep her busy for as long as you can,” Savannah said.

  “Yeah, at least half an hour,” Dirk added. “I gotta search her place, and I don’t want her comin’ home till We’re done.”

  “Do you have a warrant?” Ryan asked, still looking through the binoculars.

  “Yeah, but I don’t wanna give her a heads-up that we’re lookin’ at her just yet,” Dirk replied. “Not till I see what I’ve got on her, if anything.”

  Ryan handed the glasses back to Savannah and started to peel off his polo shirt. A second later, the shorts came off, and Savannah could no longer speak.

  Glancing at his watch, Ryan said, “Half an hour, starting now.”

  Dirk looked at his. ‘Yeah. Startin’ now.”

  Ryan went back to his car, tossed the clothes inside, and retrieved a San Carmelita Yacht Club towel. Tossing it over his shoulder, he headed for the steps and the beach.

  “You wanna stick your eyes back in your head?” Dirk finally said, shaking Savannah’s arm.

  She continued to stare at what had to be the most incredibly perfect male body on the planet. The broad shoulders, the toned muscles, the tiny waist and hips, the legs that—

  “You comin’ or not?” Dirk said as he left her and marched back to the car.

  “Coming?” she whispered as she continued to stare, transfixed, at the retreating figure on the beach. “No.... but I’m sure a-breathin’ hard.”

  Louise’s cottage was no neater or cleaner than Savannah remembered it. If anything, even more movie magazines, tabloid papers, empty fast-food containers, and soda cans lay about, littering every horizontal surface in sight. The place stank of garbage.

  Savannah thought of little Gilly, and her heart ached that a child, presumably born to wealth, was being raised in such squalor. The only sign of joy in the small house was a smattering of plastic dog toys scattered around the floor.

  But they saw no sign of the dog, Gilly, or Louise— who was at that moment, being entertained by the charming Ryan Stone.

  Tammy had met Savannah and Dirk outside the mansion’s gates, and they had entered the cottage together. For the first time since Eleanor’s demise, Savannah had some real hope that she and her friends were within reach of a solution to her murder.

  “Gloves,” Dirk said as he slipped on a pair of his own and offered some to the ladies.

  Savannah could recall a day—that didn’t seem so long ago—when being a peace officer or a private investigator could be done with one’s bare hands. But no more. If you weren’t afraid of catching a deadly bug from somebody or safeguarding potential evidence, you were warding off the possibility of being accused on the stand of having done a sloppy crime-scene inspection, thereby jeopardizing the prosecution’s case.

  Whatever the precautions, Savannah longed for the good ol’ days when her sweaty palms hadn’t been encased in latex and the only gloves she owned were the yellow ones under the bathroom sink that she used to clean her toilet.

  “There’s the computer,” Tammy piped up. “Want me to get started there?”

  “That’s what we brought you for,” Dirk grumbled. “Certainly wasn’t for your good looks.”

  “No, the only one along for his looks was Ryan,” Savannah said as she followed Tammy over to a corner desk and an old, enormous and bulky desktop PC that sat on it. ‘Jeez, Tam... you should get a load of Ryan in a swimsuit. He”—she cut an eye over to Dirk and added—“never mind. I’ll tell ya later.”

  Tammy sat down at the desk and switched on the computer. Savannah hovered over her shoulder as Dirk walked around, opening drawers, cupboards, and closets.

  “Let’s see what we’ve got here,” Tammy said as she browsed the desktop screen of the computer. “Windows ‘98... some computer games that are probably Gilly’s.... Internet access.... a bunch of downloaded music.”

  “Did she write those damned letters on there or not?” Dirk snapped as he meandered over toward them, having momentarily satisfied his curiosity about the rest of the apartment.

  “Just give me a minute, will you?” Tammy barked back. ‘Just how irritating can you be, Dirko? I—wait a minute. Here we are. I’m into her word-processing program.” Savannah leaned over her, staring at the screen. “What’s the default font?” she asked, barely daring to breathe.

  Tammy’s face widened with a broad smile. “Arial... 14.”

  “Yes!” Savannah started pulling the desk drawers open. “Whatcha wanna bet I find that tan parchment stationery here, too?”

  “What’s a default font?” Dirk asked.

  Savannah smiled to herself, knowing what it must have cost him to ask. Dirk didn’t relish looking uninformed under any circumstances, but especially in front of Tammy, whom he regarded as a bothersome kid sister.

  “The default font, Arial 14,” Tammy explained without any note of haughtiness, “is just the style and size of print that she has the computer set to type.”

  “It’s not like a typewriter?” Dirk asked. “It can type different ways?”

  “Many, many ways and sizes,” she told him. “It’s all adjustable by the settings, and she’s got hers set to the same as the threatening letters were.”

  “Can you tell if she typed those exact letters on this?” Dirk asked. “I know some guys at the lab can go into a computer and see what the user’s been doing on it.”

  “That’s what I’m checking right now.” Tammy continued to click and move around the screen with a level of skill that easily impressed both Savannah and Dirk.

  “There’s hardly anything in her documents file, except some stuff that might have been school homework for Gilly. Nothing here that’s like
those letters,” she said.

  “Shoot,” Savannah said as she opened the bottom drawer of the desk and looked inside. “I was hoping— well, you know what I was hoping.”

  “Yeah, we all were,” Tammy replied, continuing to type and click away. “But I didn’t really expect to find the letters among her documents. If she’s smart, she would have deleted them.”

  “Deleted?” Dirk sounded crushed.

  “Yeah, but...” Tammy suddenly brightened. “Now that’s what I was hoping for!”

  Savannah stopped her search and stood straight. Dirk leaned over until his head was obscuring both of their views of the monitor screen. “What?” he asked. “What? What?”

  “She didn’t empty her recycle bin.”

  “Empty the garbage?” Savannah asked. “What are you talking about?”

  Tammy tapped a tiny symbol on the computer screen that looked like a miniature garbage can with white papers sticking out the top. “When you delete something in the computer, it goes into the ‘trash.’ But it’s not really, truly gone until you also empty what they call the ‘recycle bin.’ ”

  “Can you see what she put in there?” Dirk asked.

  “I sure can. Hold on....”

  Nobody breathed as Tammy clicked on the little garbage pail and a list of documents popped up. They had been labeled: “Mom 1, Mom 2, and Mom 3.”

  One by one, Tammy opened the letters on the screen, and they read the threats that they had practically memorized from the letters that Eleanor had given Savannah.

  “We’ve got her!” Dirk said. “I’m going to cart this whole computer thing down to the lab, and have them print this stuff out. Wait’ll the D.A. gets a load of this.” Savannah had resumed her search for the paper, and it was in the bottom of the lower drawer that she found it: a box of parchment stationery of assorted colors, including tan. She pulled out the box and handed it to Dirk with a smile. “And let your D.A. stick that in his pipe and smoke it, along with what they get from the computer there.”