Corpse Suzette

by G. A. McKevett

  Savannah studied her old friend’s face and saw only sincerity. She gave him a sweet, warm smile. “I love you,” she said.

  He looked pleased but confused. “Okay. First you criticize me, then you say something like that. You’re nuts.”

  “But not a bimbo?”

  He smiled back. “Not even in the ballpark with bimbo.”

  “Tell me more about the receptionist.”

  “She’s gotta be pushing sixty, but she was flirting with me, actually coming on to me.” He shut his eyes and shook his head as though trying to shake out the very thought. “Yuck. She could almost be my mom. And that wouldn’t even matter, except that she’s had a ton of bad plastic surgery. Her eyebrows are up to her hairline, her nose is as pointed as a just-sharpened pencil, and her lips are all plumped up like she’s been bee-stung. It’s gross, I tell you. If she’d had one more face-lift, I swear she’d have a beard.”

  Savannah groaned. “That’s an old one.”

  “But applicable in her case. She asked for my number. Can you believe it? She was commenting on the fact that I’m not wearing a wedding ring and wanted my home phone number.”

  “Did you give it to her?”

  “Hell no. I gave her Ryan and John’s.”

  “You’re a bad boy.”

  He snickered. “I know.”

  “Did you get a read on her about Suzette?”

  “Just that she doesn’t like her. Has worked for her and ol’ Sergio forever, but doesn’t have an ounce of respect for either one of them.”

  Savannah shrugged. “Well, I can understand that where Sergio’s concerned. He seemed more than a bit smarmy to me.”

  “And Suzette lived like a pig.”

  “She was a bit sanitation-challenged, yes...

  “And who was that pretty boy you were talking to over there by the butterfly cage?”

  “The gentleman by the atrium was Jeremy Lawrence, Emerge’s style consultant.”

  His eyebrows raised a notch. “Lawrence?”

  “Yeap. How much do you want to bet he was Suzette’s luncheon date that didn’t show at Toscano’s?”

  “Gotta be. I’ll be talking to him next. And the gal with the weird hair and the sprayed-on jeans?”

  “Devon Wright. She handles public relations for Emerge. We don’t like her much either.”

  “Oh, why not?”

  “Because she doesn’t like me. Didn’t believe me when I told her I’m a reporter with San Carmelita Today magazine.”

  “That newspaper thing that comes out on Sunday?”

  “That’s the one. And just because I didn’t have a press pass or a business card, she didn’t buy my story.”

  “You’re slippin’, gal. Once upon a time, you’d have had a business card for at least six businesses at a given time in your wallet.”

  “I know. Tammy hasn’t printed any for me lately. It’s her fault.

  Anyway, I—”

  Her cell phone began playing an obnoxious tune from her purse. She made a face as she reached inside and pulled it out. “Damn it, Dirk,” she said, “I told you to stop messing with my phone. ‘La Cucaracha' just ain’t my song.”

  “You started it, setting mine to play ‘Wind Beneath My Wings.’ Embarrassed me to death in the middle of a meeting with the chief.”

  “Shhh,” she said as she pressed the Talk button. “Hello?” She gave Dirk a quick, knowing glance. “Uh, yes, Sergio. It was nice meeting you earlier, too. How can I help you?”

  “What does he want?” Dirk whispered. She reached out and put her free hand over his mouth.

  “Yes, I’m alone. We can talk freely. What is it?”

  She listened for a long time, then said, “Of course I’m very discreet about my investigations. No, Detective Coulter wouldn’t need to know anything at all. Yes, I’d be interested. Good. I’d be delighted. See you at noon.”

  She clicked the phone off and sat there grinning at Dirk for as long as she could hold the secret. Then she spilled it. “Sergio D’Alessandro wants me to investigate Suzette’s disappearance privately for him.”

  “And not tell me anything about it.”

  “That’s right.”

  They both grinned... big, evil, face-splitting grins.

  Then Savannah sang, “In the mornin’, in the evenin’...”

  And he replied with, “…ain’t we got fun!”

  Chapter

  5

  Savannah made a practice of arriving at appointments early. Funny how much you could learn sometimes just by being someplace a few minutes before someone expected you.

  And by arriving at the San Carmelita Marina fifteen minutes early, she learned something about Sergio D’Alessandro and Devon Wright. As Granny Reid would put it, they were “carrying on.”

  From her vantage point on a second-story balcony of Café Carolina, she could see the front of the harbor condominiums where Sergio lived—according to Tammy, who had done a quick computer check for her. The restaurant where he had suggested they meet was only a stone’s throw away. So she had a clear view when he left his condo, walked Devon to a black Corvette convertible in the parking lot, and passionately kissed her good-bye. The farewell had included a quick, not particularly discreet butt feel, which sealed Savannah’s opinion that they were, indeed, “carrying on.”

  She mentally added that to the list of things she was not supposed to tell Dirk, but undoubtedly would.

  As Devon drove off and Sergio strolled her way, she decided to take her glass of iced tea and move to a table inside. No point in letting him know that she knew about Devon. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him... or, more importantly, cause her any grief.

  He came swaggering into the room a couple of minutes later, looking like he had just stepped off a yacht, wearing crisp white slacks, a navy blue blazer, and a red mock turtleneck. The smile he flashed her way told her that he was most impressed with himself and expected her to be, too.

  She smiled back and lifted her glass in salute. If he had only known what she was thinking: that she should get one of those outfits and ship it back to her brother, Macon, in Georgia. He needed a git-up like that to wear when he was changing transmissions on trucks there in his garage.

  “Ms. Reid... the private investigator,” he said as he pulled out the chair across from her, unbuttoned his jacket, and sat down. “Or is it Ms. McGill, reporter at large?”

  Savannah chuckled. “Well, I guess I’m just plain ol’ Savannah right now, until you tell me what you want from me.”

  He motioned to the waitress and ordered a vodka martini on the rocks. Then he looked around the restaurant and waved a hand, indicating the giant palms, the tropical ceiling fans that swirled overhead, the heavy wicker furniture, and the expansive view of the marina. “You like?”

  She nodded. “I like. Nice choice.”

  His eyes skimmed over her outfit, taking in the simple Aran sweater and beige twill slacks. Her only adornment was a pair of plain gold hoop earrings that Granny Reid had given her for her twenty-first birthday.

  She could tell he wasn’t impressed, and that was just fine with her. Occasionally, her private detective’s income allowed her to splurge on something nice from the Victoria’s Secret catalogue, but she wasn’t about to tell ol’ Sergio that she was wearing a rather daring silk teddy under that tame exterior. Her bloomers weren’t—and never would be—any concern of a guy who dyed his hair “Midnight Black” at the age of fifty-something.

  “I checked up on you, bella” he said, his Italian accent thick as Georgia sorghum and about as sickeningly sick. “You’re quite a detective. You’ve solved some rather important cases here in San Carmelita over the years... you and that friend of yours, Sergeant Coulter.”

  “One or two, here and there,” she replied.

  She said nothing as the waitress gave him his martini, but as soon as she walked away, Savannah fixed him with a mischievous grin and said, “I’ve done some checking on you, too, since you called this mor
ning.”

  He froze, his martini halfway to his lips, and said, “Oh? And what did you find out?”

  She glanced around, but no one was seated near them. She lowered her voice anyway. “Oh, a couple of things. First of all, you’re from a little-known area of Italy....”

  He took a sip of martini and gulped it down. “Yes...?”

  “A little-known, western part of Italy, called Bakersfield, California. Name on birth certificate: Leonard Roy Hoffman. Graduated from Thurston High School, class of ’71. Finished number 273 out of 275 students. You’ve had a number of aliases over the years: Mario Barbarino, Stephano Gucci, Salvador Donatello. Served time in Lompoc for embezzlement of company funds from a designer in the LA garment district.” She paused for a breath. “How am I doing so far?”

  He found his voice and croaked out a simple. “Fine. And...?”

  “You and Suzette Du Bois weren’t actually married. You had a church wedding, close friends and all that, about five years ago, but nobody bothered to fill out the proper forms and get them to the county courthouse, so it wasn’t really legal. Which was handy because you didn’t actually have to go to the trouble of getting a divorce about a year later when she kicked you out... for fooling around with other women.”

  He nearly choked on his olive. “How did you know that!?”

  She resisted the urge to laugh. Although she and Tammy had verified all the rest on the computer an hour before she had left the house to join him at the restaurant, she had just guessed at the reason for the split-up. Sergió-Leonard wasn’t a difficult book to read.

  “I’m good,” she said. “Don’t you think?”

  “Maybe a little too good,” he replied. “I wasn’t hiring you to check up on me. I know more than I need to know about myself.”

  “And now, so do I. But you’ll find me a very nonjudgmental person. I’ve known a lot of perfectly lovely people who’ve gone by a dozen other names, swindled, lied, and cheated, and served time in federal prisons. I’d never think any less of you for it.”

  He studied her a long time over the rim of his martini glass, a scowl on his otherwise line-free brow. Then he said, “I want you to look for Suzette. That’s all I want you to do. And I’ll pay you extra well if you find her.”

  • “How well?”

  He named a figure that set her head to spinning. Visions of Victoria’s Secret shopping sprees floated in her head along with the prospect of repaving her driveway and giving Tammy a raise.

  “Okay,” she said. “You cover my expenses, and I think we can work with that number. You can drop by my office and my assistant, Tammy Hart will have you sign the appropriate papers. Then we can—”

  “There’s just one thing,” he said.

  A catch. There was always a catch.

  “What’s that?”

  He glanced around the restaurant, leaned forward, and lowered his voice. With not even a trace of an Italian, French, or Spanish accent, he said, “You have to find that thieving, double-crossing bitch before the cops do.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she’s got something of mine. And I want it back.”

  “So, you’re the one who trashed her house, looking for your property?”

  He glanced away and cleared his throat. “I might have.”

  “Okay, that’s a ‘yes.’ What did she take from you? Money?”

  He hesitated, then shrugged. “Oh well, you’ll find out sooner or later, I’m sure. So I might as well tell you. Yes, money. A lot of it.”

  “How much is a lot?”

  “Now that is something you don’t need to know.” He drained his martini and motioned to the waitress for another. “Just find her, Savannah. Find her, help me get back what’s mine, and you and I will both be a lot richer.”

  Savannah liked to think that she didn’t work for money. She worked for the soul-deep satisfaction of bringing bad boys—and occasionally girls—to justice. What was money when you could look in the mirror and see a person who served the community, who made the world a better place?

  If there was anything better than that, it was looking in the mirror and seeing a woman who had righted a wrong... and was wearing Victoria’s latest silk and chiffon peignoir set.

  She lifted her tea tumbler and clicked his martini glass. “Sergio, darlin’, you’ve got yourself a deal.”

  Savannah stood at her kitchen window and looked out at Abigail, who was reading in one of her chaise lounges in the back yard. Tammy stood next to her at the counter, slicing lemons and placing them in a pitcher of mango sun tea.

  “How did your morning go?” Savannah asked, although she al-ready had a clue, judging from the glum look on Tammy’s normally sunny face.

  “Lousy,” she replied. “I offered to take her to the beach, to Lookout Point, to the old mission, even Disneyland or Six Flags, but no-o-o, she wouldn’t budge out of that chair. Who comes to Southern California to sit and read?”

  Savannah shrugged. “Hey, some people actually go to Las Vegas to see the shows and eat cheap shrimp cocktails. Go figure. I gather you’re sorry you invited her here in the first place.”

  “Sure I am. Especially now that it seems she’s not even going to get the makeover. If Emerge’s plastic surgeon is missing... who knows what’s going to happen.” She plopped the lemons into the pitcher, grabbed a spoon, and stirred. “Do you think Suzette Du Bois is dead?”

  “I did last night. This morning, too. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “Because Sergio D’Alessandro hired us to find her?”

  “More because D’Alessandro has explained a motive for why she may have disappeared on her own.”

  “The money she’s supposed to have taken?”

  “Right. He had huge dollar signs in his eyes when we were talking. I didn’t get the idea it was five or even six figures.” Tammy froze, knife in hand. “Really?”

  “Really. The guy lives in one of those marina condos and owns a fifty-foot yacht that even ‘well off’ folks could only dream about. He showed it to me after we ate lunch. Offered to take me out for a spin around the harbor, but I told him ‘no thanks.’”

  “He’s not your type?”

  “No, a potential murderer is definitely not my type. Especially one who’s fifty going on thirteen.”

  Tammy reached up into the cupboard and took down a glass. “I’m going to take this out to Abigail. How much do you want to bet that she’ll find some reason to bite my head off again?”

  “Has she always been this crabby?”

  Tammy thought for a moment, then nodded. “Yeap. Ever since I can remember.”

  “Then why did you set this up?”

  A sad look crossed her face. “I’ve always felt sorry for Abby.”

  “Because she was a heavy kid?”

  “No. I mean, she was, but I didn’t feel sorry for her because of that. I was superskinny, and I got teased, too. When you’re a kid you’re always either too much this or not enough that. I felt sorry for her because of her parents. My mom is her dad’s sister. But they’re very different. My parents are great, but Abby got the crummy ones. Her dad was never around, never paid her any attention, like my dad did me. And her mom wasn’t there for her either.” Tammy looked out at the woman on the chaise lounge and a kind of understanding dawned on her face. “In fact, all I remember my Aunt Betty ever doing was lying around, reading books and magazines. I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree and all that.”

  “Guess not. Anyway, I still think it was sweet of you to set this up for her, whether she understands and appreciates your motives or not.”

  “Thanks. Wish me luck.”

  “Good luck. Take the knife with you in case things get ugly.” Tammy snickered, grabbed the pitcher and glass, and headed outside.

  Savannah looked down at the black cat, who was doing figure eights around and between her ankles. “It isn’t dinnertime yet, so don’t even start with me,” she told her. “Cleo, go bite your sister or whatever. If yo
u trip me again, I swear I’ll—”

  The front doorbell rang, and she hurried to answer it, nearly stepping on the cat’s tail in the process.

  It was Dirk. And he had his cop face firmly in place.

  “I gotta talk to you and that Abigail What’s-Her-Name, too,” he announced without the preamble of a “hi” or “how do you do?”

  “Nice to see you, too,” she said, opening the door wider and ushering him inside. “What’s up?”

  “Not a lot on my end. That’s why I want to know what you and that Sergio dude had to say at your lunch.”

  She followed him into the living room. He plopped himself on the sofa, and she sat in her easy chair. He looked tired. Dirk frequently worked around the clock on a murder investigation. And this was as close to a homicide as you got without a body, so she wasn’t surprised that he was tired and cranky.

  She also wasn’t impressed with his cranky self. “Mr. D’Alessandro is now my client,” she said, grinning at his scowl. “You know that what I discuss with my clients is confidential.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since he promised me a big ol’ bundle of bucks if I find her before you do.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeap.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Maybe because she absconded with a ton of his money. Or maybe not, I’m not at liberty to say.”

  He sniffed. “Good thing you’re so discreet.”

  “Ain’t I though?”

  “Did he give you any good leads about where you might start looking for her?”

  “Nope. But he gave me the keys to her house and permission to search it thoroughly, no warrant needed or any of that messy legal stuff.”

  “It’s her house, not his. Where does he get off giving you permission to search her property?”

  “Don’t know, don’t care too much. I’m not planning to hoist any flags up the pole announcing I’m there... when I do my searching, that is.”