Corpse Suzette

by G. A. McKevett

  Savannah glanced around the room, noting that, although it was a gorgeous, modern kitchen with lots of architectural accents like beveled glass inserts in the cupboards, an ornate wrought iron pot rack, a brick oven, and marble countertops, it was a mess.

  Dirty dishes sat in the sink in a bath of scummy, greasy water. Pans half-filled with dried food littered the stove top. With one finger Savannah opened the dishwasher and it, too, was full of crusty dishes.

  “It’s a little hard to tell if she ate here last night or this morning,” she said. “Most of these dishes look pretty old.”

  “Eh, she’s a pig. She may have a fancy joint here, but my trailer is cleaner than this mess.”

  While Savannah wouldn’t label the woman quite so quickly or harshly, she had to agree that, even though Dirk lived in an old, rusty mobile home in a trailer park on the bad side of town and decorated it with plastic milk crates and rickety TV trays, his place was basically sanitary at all times. And she, herself, had been raised by Granny Reid to believe that a “filthy kitchen” was one where the dishcloth hadn’t been thoroughly rinsed and neatly hung on the rack to dry.

  “There’s no excuse for bein’ nasty,” Gran always said in her soft, Georgian drawl. “Maybe a body can’t help being poor, but everybody can afford a bar of soap. There’s just no reason for dirtiness, not a-tall.”

  “I’m going to go look for her purse,” Savannah said.

  He nodded. “I’ll check out the bedrooms.”

  Savannah found the pocketbook quickly. It was on an accent table in the living room, next to the door that led into the foyer. And beside the Louis Vuitton bag was a set of keys and a cell phone.

  The living room resembled the kitchen in that it was beautifully decorated with high-end mission style furniture but was cluttered with magazines, newspapers, clothing, and a plethora of used wine glasses. Savannah noticed that nearly all of the glasses were smudged with the same shade of bright red lipstick. Apparently, Suzette Du Bois drank alone... and a lot.

  But there was more than just the usual disorder caused by messy housekeeping... or a lack thereof. Books had been pulled off shelves and the drawers of an entertainment center were open, their contents on the floor. A desk against the far wall had been rifled through, as well.

  Suzette Du Bois’s home had been searched.

  And Savannah had seen enough houses that had been burgled by professionals to know that whoever had searched this house was an amateur. Somebody had been looking for something, but wasn’t very good at finding it. She wondered whether they had.

  On the floor near the sofa sat a miniature bed, and at first glance, Savannah thought it was for a doll. With a red velvet tufted headboard and a coverlet of the same fabric, it looked like something out of a tiny boudoir. But when she walked over to it, bent down, and examined it more closely, she saw the name “Sammy” embroidered on the bedspread.

  Something told her that Sammy was a pet of some sort. And the fact that there was no hair on the velvet ruled out a cat. Probably a poodle, she thought. Or some other type of pooch that doesn't shed.

  “There’s some kind of mutt living here,” Dirk called from the bedroom. “The damned thing’s got a whole wardrobe of ridiculous junk to wear in here.”

  “And a bed for it in here,” she yelled back.

  “Somebody tossed this room,” Dirk hollered. “All the drawers are open.”

  “In here, too.”

  On the coffee table, amid the heap of magazines and next to a nail file and bottle of polish lay a small leather dog collar. It was bright pink, studded with purple rhinestones. How gaudy, she thought, fingering the tiny collar. Cleopatra and Diamante wore only black with clear rhinestones. In Savannah’s household, no self-respecting pet would be caught dead in purple rhinestones. Especially if his name was Sammy!

  Dirk walked into the living room just as Savannah was picking UP a daily planner from a side table next to an easy chair. She thumbed to the current date and found two entries. “AS workup” under 9:15 A.M., and “Lunch—Toscano’s” under 1:30 P.M.

  “The barking rat’s not here,” he said, “or it would already be nipping at our heels. I checked all the other rooms. No sign of her or Fido.”

  “AS work-up,” Savannah muttered. “I’ll bet that is for Abigail Simpson, Tammy’s cousin. Wonder if Suzette made her luncheon date.”

  “What makes you think she had a date for lunch?”

  “Toscano’s is one of the most romantic restaurants in the county. No woman would go there alone.”

  “Maybe she was meeting another chick.”

  “Maybe, but I doubt it. ‘Chick’ lunches, as you call them, usually go down at Kimberly’s Garden or Casa del Sol.”

  “So, we gotta check Toscano’s first thing when they open tomorrow,” he said.

  “Nothing in the bedroom?”

  “Nope, nothing but more mess, like in here and the kitchen.”

  “Was her bed slept in?”

  He shrugged and looked puzzled. “How can you tell?” Savannah thought of the tiny cubicle in Dirk’s trailer that served as a bedroom and its perpetually mussed sheets and blankets. “Never mind,” she said. “She probably doesn’t make hers daily either.”

  “I never did understand the logic behind that,” he replied. “I mean, you’re just going to get right back in it again, so what’s the point?”

  “The same could be said for doing dishes and changing your underwear. It’s what separates us civilized folks from the heathens.”

  “Or us practical people from the fusspots.”

  “Whatever.”

  “You always say that when you’re losing an argument.”

  “Or when I’m tired of a stupid one.” She glanced around the room once more. “What do you think?” she asked him.

  “I still think you quit every time I’m getting the best of you.”

  “I meant about Suzette Du Bois.”

  “I think she’s dead.”

  Savannah nodded thoughtfully. “Me, too. She leaves her car, her purse and keys, her cell phone. Is her makeup in the bathroom?”

  “Yeap. You taught me to always check that first when it’s a broad who’s gone. A woman goes off without her face, that’s a bad sign.”

  “The worst. But what about Sammy?”

  “Sammy?”

  “The dog.”

  “How do you know its name?”

  Savannah pointed to the bed.

  “Oh,” he said. “Well, there’s a nice little sweater with four arm—or leg—holes in it, layin’ on the bedroom floor, and it’s a chilly night out.”

  “And his rhinestone collar is there on the coffee table.” She took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “I agree. I’ve got a sinking feeling that Dr. Suzette Du Bois is a goner. And things don’t bode so well for Sammy Du Bois either.”

  Chapter

  4

  Savannah stood in front of her stove, spatula in hand, watching the breakfast eggs fry in the skillet, the grits bubble on the back burner, and Abigail stew at the kitchen table.

  “I can’t believe they’d cancel the press conference this morning,” she was complaining to Tammy, who sat across from her, her elbows propped on the table, her head in her hands. “Why? Why would they do that!”

  “Because Dr. Du Bois has gone missing,” Tammy said for the fifth time in the past fifteen minutes. “Dr. Du Bois owns Emerge. She is Emerge. They can’t have a press conference to announce the opening of Emerge without her there! I’m sorry you’re so disappointed, Abby, but...”

  Savannah left her position at the stove and walked over to the table with a basket of hot biscuits and a jar of Granny Reid’s peach preserves. She set them in front of Abigail, hoping that the sight of fat-filled, carbohydrate-rich foods would improve her mood. Hey, it always worked for her.

  “Yes, Abigail,” she said as she shoved the butter plate in Abby’s direction, “why are you so disappointed? Frankly, I’m a little surprised. In the begin
ning you were so opposed to the whole idea and now you’re plumb beside yourself that everything’s been put on hold. What’s that about?”

  Abigail fixed her with a baleful eye, then reached for the biscuit basket. “I didn’t like the idea at first, but I had decided to go ahead with it. At least until. .

  Savannah searched her face, but Abigail would have made an excellent poker player. Other than general anger and habitual annoyance, nothing more registered on her features.

  “Until what?” Savannah prompted. “You were going to go ahead with it until what?”

  Abigail shrugged. “I don’t know. I just figured when the time was right, I’d…”

  “What?” Tammy said, dropping her hands from her face. She looked as suspicious as Savannah felt. “What were you up to, Abby? I want to know, too. I think I have a right to know, since I’m the one who—”

  “Who got me into this mess in the first place?” Abigail dropped two of the biscuits onto her plate and started to slather on the butter. “I know. I owe you one, too, cousin.”

  Savannah didn’t like Abigail’s tone. It wasn’t the sort of “I owe you a nice lunch some time” tone she would have preferred. It was more like an “I’m gonna get you, sucker, in a dark alley some night” tone.

  And the “too” stuck in her craw even more.

  She walked back to the stove, and, while she tended the eggs, she glanced at the woman sitting at her kitchen table and wondered what was behind that angry face. A world of hurt. She was sure of that.

  And Savannah understood that pain all too well. Living as an unsvelte woman in a svelte-worshipping society... hurt was inevitable. Deep, soul-scarring hurt.

  On most days, Savannah could fend off the barbs and arrows with her own inherent self-confidence. Who cared if your butt was big if you had great boobs and helped take a bad guy off the streets so that he couldn’t hurt anybody else for a while? She’d be damned if she’d hate herself and her own flesh just because somebody else thought there was a bit too much of it.

  But Savannah knew that not everyone was as satisfied with their life as she was, and not everyone had benefited from having a grandmother who had raised them with such daily helpings of wisdom as: “Don’t fret about such nonsense as a number on a scale, Savannah Girl. People measure everything by numbers in this world—mostly so’s they can feel they’ve got a leg up on everybody else—and most of what they’re measurin’ ain’t worth squat in the overall scheme o’ things.”

  Savannah strongly suspected that Abigail Simpson hadn’t been raised to believe that she was far more than just a number on a scale. Sadly, there weren’t enough Granny Reids in the world to go around.

  But was all that hurt and anger a danger to society? More specifically, was it a threat to the missing owner of Emerge—an establishment that symbolized the intolerance that caused Abigail and others so much pain?

  Savannah slipped into detective mode and made a quick mental note of Abigail’s whereabouts since she had arrived. She realized there were numerous holes in Abby’s schedule that were large enough to allow for mischief.

  But if Abigail had actually done something to cause Dr. Du Bois to disappear, that would involve far more than mere mischief. And looking at the woman who was sitting at her table, eating her biscuits and peach preserves, Savannah found it hard to believe that Tammy’s cousin was capable of kidnapping. Or worse.

  She decided to talk it over in detail with Dirk later, when they met at Emerge as planned.

  After a few more unpleasant exchanges with Abigail, Tammy left the table and walked behind Savannah to the refrigerator. Pouring herself a glass of apple juice, she shot Savannah a haunted look. Savannah shrugged. There was only so much she could do. Abigail might be staying in her house, but she was Tammy’s guest.

  Lucky Tammy.

  “Why don’t you take Abigail over to the pier today?” she suggested. “Check out the carousel and get your palms read. Have one of those giant ice cream waffle cones.”

  “Is that what you think I do all day? Eat?” Abigail snapped while chewing on a biscuit. “Is that why you’re suggesting stuff like that and feeding me every minute?”

  Savannah slipped the eggs onto a plate and shoved them in front of Abigail, along with a bowlful of grits and a platter of bacon and sausages. “I don’t know how much you eat, Abigail,” she said, “and I don’t give a hoot what you eat. I have a lot more interesting things to think about on any given day than your dietary habits. I just know what this kid”—she nodded toward Tammy—“has for breakfast, and I wanted to spare you eating a bowl of sawdust covered with soy milk. Don’t get your dander up, sugar. I’d do it for anybody.”

  Abigail’s mouth dropped open for a moment, then she snapped it closed and smiled.

  She actually smiled, Savannah thought in wonderment. I got a grin out of her!

  “Well,” Abigail said, “as long as you’d do it for anybody.”

  “Yeap. Anybody. You ain’t nearly as special as you think you are, Miss Abigail,” she said with a sweet, soft tone that sounded in her own ears a lot like Granny Reid. “Leastwise, not special in that way.”

  Tammy gave a little gasp, and for a moment, a heavy, awkward silence hung in the air between them.

  Then Abigail threw back her head and laughed. It was a hearty, throat-roaring laugh that echoed throughout the house, startling both Savannah and Tammy and the cats, who left their feeding bowls and raced for the living room.

  When Abigail finally caught her breath, she studied Savannah for a few long moments and then said, “You’re a pisser, Savannah. I think I like you.”

  Savannah dumped another biscuit onto her plate. “Yeah, yeah... well, you don’t know me yet. Wait’ll I make you my usual, run-of-the-mill Southern fried chicken dinner with all the fixins. That’ll probably be more of an insult than your system can handle.”

  Abigail’s eyes softened, and for a moment, Savannah noticed that she really could look pretty. Quite pretty, in fact. “You go ahead and make that dinner for me, and I won’t take offense,” Abigail said. “Throw in some old-fashioned cream gravy, and I’ll even be nice and say ‘Thank you.’”

  “Well now, we don’t have to go that far. You go straining yourself like that, you might bust somethin’.”

  Savannah had driven past the building site for the new Emerge facilities many times, as it was situated on a major road that skirted the foothills at the edge of town. Like too many areas in San Carmelita—in Savannah’s opinion—that section of the city had been “improved” by chopping down the orange and avocado groves and planting commercial buildings and condominiums in their stead.

  Savannah missed the strawberry fields and lemon trees. While a giant office supply store and a sprawling home improvement center might be handy when you needed an ink cartridge for your printer or wallpaper and paint, they didn’t smell half as sweet when warmed by the morning sun.

  But she had to admit that the new Emerge building was a beauty. Set back from the road, a wide driveway took the visitors to an elegant, contemporary facade. An asymmetrical arrangement of rose-colored granite walls and brass-trimmed windows and doors set with copper-tinted glass, the establishment exuded both modern sophistication and warmth.

  The word “Emerge” and a simple butterfly were displayed in brass over the wide, double front doors. Savannah drove into a parking area to the right and behind the building, where she found Dirk, sitting in his Buick and waiting for her.

  She glanced at her watch. It was two minutes past nine.

  She was late. Two whole minutes. Mr. Fidget Britches would be having a hissy.

  He glowered as he saw her approach the car and tapped a finger on the dial of his wristwatch.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she said, casually opening the passenger door and climbing inside. “Get over yourself. Like your schedule’s any more important than anybody else’s.”

  She reached into her oversized purse, pulled out a wad of aluminum foil, and tossed it int
o his lap.

  “What’s this?” he asked, brightening instantly.

  “Biscuits. Still warm from the oven.”

  “Wow, Van, thanks!” He dug in immediately, ripping away the foil. “Did you butter them?”

  “Of course.”

  “Peach jam?”

  “Yes, shut up and eat.”

  He bit into one and groaned in gluttonous, orgiastic pleasure. “Oh, man, that is heaven,” he said. “Pure heaven. I forgive you for being late.”

  She sniffed. “That’s big of you.”

  He glanced over toward her bag. “Where’s the coffee?”

  “What?”

  “You brought me biscuits and no coffee?”

  “I figured you’d have your own.”

  His smile evaporated. His shoulders slumped. “Well, I guess I can just gag them down without—”

  She snatched the foil out of his lap. “Forget about it! I do something nice for you and you bellyache about it?”

  “Gimme those biscuits, woman, before I fly into a blind rage!” She laughed and handed them back. “Did you get over to Toscano’s yet?”

  “Yeah. Nobody was there but the cleaning crew, but they let me in. I looked at their reservation book. There was a one-thirty entry for a ‘Lawrence.’ The other names were marked through, but Lawrence wasn’t. I figure that’s because they didn’t show.”

  “Likely. But does Du Bois know a Lawrence?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t know. But I’ll keep my eyes open for a Larry. How was our girl Abigail this morning?”

  “Testy after she got the phone call from Myrna, Emerge’s receptionist, this morning. She told Abigail that not only was the press conference cancelled, but the whole kit and caboodle has been put on hold for the time being.”

  “That Abigail’s up to something, I’m telling you. There’s just something sneaky about her.”

  “Yeah, I think so, too. But ‘sneaky’ is a long way from kidnapping or murder.”

  “Did you say anything to Tammy?”

  “Over breakfast we discussed the fact that Suzette Du Bois is missing, but of course I didn’t mention that we were wondering about Abigail. You don’t seriously think she’s done anything... you know... like that, do you?”