“Eh, the damned thing’s gonna keep me awake all night, shinin’ in here like that.”
She chuckled. Yes, Dirk was a smoothie, no doubt about it.
“Don’t you say anything about us sharing a room to Tammy, either,” she said. “If you do, I’ll never live it down.”
He groaned. “I don’t know what the big friggin’ deal is. We’ve spent a million nights together, sitting in a cramped car on a stakeout. You’ve slept with your head in my lap or stretched out on my backseat. What’s the difference? People put way too much emphasis on who sleeps where. Sleepin’ is just sleepin’. It don’t mean nothin’.”
She laid there in the semi-darkness for a long time and thought about what he’d said. Of course, he was right. Eating a meal next to another person, watching a TV show beside them, sleeping next to them... what was the difference?
But there was a difference.
It was somehow cozy, intimate, being in that room with him, even if they were in separate beds, even if they were dogged tired and neither one interested in doing anything but resting, even if the room did reek of stale cigarette smoke and have a spotlight shining through the window every forty seconds or so.
It was sort of nice.
Although, of course, she’d never tell him that.
Old Dirk Bear would laugh at her if she even suggested such a thing.
“You know, Van,” he said, his voice jarring her out of her reverie, “I was just lyin’ here thinking.”
“What about?”
“Last night. I don’t want to make a big deal out of it or nothin’, but it was sorta nice, layin’ there in your bed after John forced me to drink that frog-piss drink he made.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I mean, I usually sleep in my trailer and it’s... you know... a guy place. But your room... with those satin sheets... and those foo-foo lacy curtain things on the window and your nightgown was hanging there on the chair in the corner and the whole room sorta smelled like your perfume.”
“Yes?”
“And I was sick and feeling like shit and... well, it made me feel better. Being there... you know... in your room.”
She gulped. “Oh. That’s nice, Dirk.”
“Not a big deal. I just wanted to tell you that.”
“Thanks, darlin’. Thanks for sharing.”
“You’re welcome. Goodnight, babe.”
“Goodnight.”
She reached down, ran her hand over the softness of his T-shirt, which had still been warm from his body when she had slipped it on. She could smell a hint of his Old Spice deodorant.
Wearing it felt a bit like getting a Dirk hug. And she had to admit it was nice—very nice—to be going to sleep with someone else in the room besides the cats.
A second later he began to snore.
Chapter
22
Savannah had always loved the smell of a library. That slightly musty, but delicious aroma of books took her back to Georgia every time she smelled it. One whiff and she was back in that spooky old house in the middle of the tiny, rural town of McGill, where she and her other eight siblings had been raised by their grandmother.
The creaky, decrepit Victorian house had been donated to the town by an equally spooky old lady known as Widder Blalock, who had designated the house be turned into a library after her death.
Savannah spent many a delicious hour combing through the shelves of that library, living the more exciting lives of the people on those pages—far more interesting worlds than that of a poor girl from McGill, Georgia.
Nancy Drew’s and the Hardy Boys’ adventures were never quite so scary as when read in the cubicle below the staircase in that rickety old house.
So, when she and Dirk walked through the doors of the Santa Tesla Public Library, she paused just a moment to recollect and reminisce.
“You coming?” Dirk barked over his shoulder as he strode away from her and toward the periodicals racks.
“Yeah, I’m coming. And don’t you rush me, boy,” she said, following close behind. “I’m only half awake.”
“I just want to get this business over and done and back home.” He jerked a stack of newspapers off a shelf and began to thumb through them. “I don’t like being away from American soil.”
“Give me some of those and go sit down,” she told him, pointing to a pair of easy chairs that had been arranged in front of a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the ocean.
He did as she told him and even paused to enjoy the view for a moment. “This is a pretty neat library,” he said.
“I know a better one,” she replied with a sweet, slightly homesick smile.
She joined him in the chairs, and they both searched the papers in their hands, looking for the back pages and the classified ads.
“Not much of a rag, this one,” he said. “But then, I guess there’s not much news around here.”
“Sounds refreshing.”
“You mean boring.”
“No-o-o, I mean refreshing, restful, peaceful, safe... like San Carmelita used to be before the so-called City of Angels moved in.” She found some ads and began to peruse the various events and objects for sale on Santa Tesla. “This is a good idea I had,” she told him. “Especially since I had it before breakfast.”
“Yeah, we’ll see how good it was. Don’t go tooting your own horn there, girlie.”
“I have to toot it or it goes tootless. Why I’m—”
“Sh-h-h-h. Please, no talking in here.”
They both turned around and saw a woman who looked frighteningly similar to the bank manager they had sparred with the day before. She was standing behind their chairs, her hands on her hips, her glasses on the tip of her nose, glaring at them.
Savannah couldn’t help giggling. “Sorry,” she whispered. “Is it okay if we pass notes?”
“Just keep it down.”
“Okay, we will. I promise.”
As soon as the woman was gone, Dirk said, “If she comes back over here I’ll shoot a spit wad into her hair.”
“Oh, cool! And can you make fart noises in your armpit, too?” Then an ad caught her eye and all juvenile delinquencies fled... or were at least put on hold. “Here we go,” she whispered, looking over her shoulder. She tapped her finger on the page.
“Read it to me.”
“Executive home, new split-level ranch, four bedrooms, three baths, formal dining room, fully finished basement, fully landscaped yard, and spectacular ocean view. One-point-two million. Elizabeth Fortunato Realty.”
“Well, here’s another one,” he said. “Similar to that one, only it’s five bedrooms, a guest house, and pool. One and a half million.”
“Elizabeth’s listing?”
“Yeap. And this one has an address. Let’s go. It’s in the hills up there where our taxi buddy was wringing out the curves yesterday.”
“Oh goody.”
“This time you won’t get so sick,” he said reassuringly.
“How do you know?”
“Because this time you aren’t plastered on piña coladas.” Again, they heard a rustling behind them. Again the grating voice spoke. “I warned you before not to talk so loudly. Now you’re going to have to leave.”
Savannah turned to Dirk. “Do you have that address out of there?”
He nodded. “Got it.”
She turned back to the librarian. “Not to worry, ma’am. We’re leaving. You have a nice day now, you hear?”
The woman eyed them suspiciously until they walked out the door.
Savannah laughed as Dirk called for a cab on his cell phone. “I just love being sweet to cranky people,” she said. “It just confounds them somethin’ fierce.”
Savannah had a strange fluttery feeling in the pit of her stomach. And it had nothing to do with the hairpin curves they had just traveled to arrive at the top of this steep hill.
The scenery was breathtaking from up here: the island spread beneath them, green and lush, the lighthouse n
earby, gleaming white in the morning sun, a stretch of the sparkling, blue Pacific between them and home, and to the west of them, the ocean disappearing into the horizon.
“I’ve got a feeling,” she said as the cab pulled up and stopped in front of a beautiful home that looked like an Italian villa.
“Me, too,” Dirk replied, pointing to a sign on the front lawn of the property. It was an Elizabeth Fortunato listing sign, and across it had been pasted a bright red banner that read, SOLD.
“Of course, it could still be that other house in the paper,” she said, afraid of getting her hopes too high.
“Or she might have sold her some other house entirely—one that wasn’t even listed in the paper.”
“True, true. So we should prepare ourselves that this is probably just a dead end.”
“A dead end. That’s all it’s going to be,” Dirk replied as he paid the cabby and got out. He offered Savannah his hand, and she slid out as well.
But as they hurried up the stone walkway, Savannah couldn’t help saying again, “But I’ve got a feeling.”
“Me, too.”
“You want me to go around to the back of the house, in case she tries to run out that way?”
Dirk thought about it for a minute, then said, “Naw, let’s just knock on the door and see who answers. It’s probably not her and even if it is, it’s an island. How far can she get?”
“That’s what they said about those guys who escaped from Alcatraz.”
Dirk knocked on the door. This time he used his nice, gentle, Avon-lady knock, not his usual heavy-duty S.C.P.D. pounding.
When no one answered, he tried again.
They heard a shuffling on the other side of the door, and then the dead bolt turning.
They both tensed.
But it was a lovely young Hispanic woman in a gray and white maid’s uniform who pulled it open. “Good morning,” she said with a strong Spanish accent. “May I help you?”
At her feet a small white poodle scampered, barking, trying to stick his head out the door for a better look at the visitors.
He was wearing a rhinestone-studded collar.
Savannah gave Dirk a sidewise smile and whispered, “Sammy.”
He grinned back. Then to the maid he said in his sweetest sugar-and-spice tone, “I have to talk to your lady. Is she at home?”
The woman nodded. “She is. But she sick. Cannot have visitor.”
“I’m sorry she’s sick, “Savannah said. “But we must talk to her. Just for one minute. Please. It’s very important. Por favor.”
Dirk took his badge from his pocket and showed it to her. The woman’s dark eyes widened. “What is your lady’s name?” Dirk asked.
“Her name? My lady’s name, Norma.”
“Norma?” Savannah looked at Dirk. “As in Norma Jean Baker?”
“St,” said the maid, “Norma Baker.”
“Okay, that does it,” Dirk told Savannah. “We’re going in.” Then to the maid he said, “I’m sorry. We must talk to your lady. Now. Okay?”
She nodded, opened the door, and stepped back to allow them to enter.
The poodle scampered at their feet, sniffing their shoes and pants legs.
“Gracias, Señora,” Savannah said, glancing down at the simple gold wedding band on the woman’s finger.
“No trouble, please,” the maid said.
Savannah smiled at her. “No, Señora, no trouble. Not to worry.”
Dirk pressed his finger to his lips, then said softly. “Where is she? Your lady?”
“Miss Baker lie down. She very sick. She have operation.”
“Operation?” Savannah gave Dirk a quick sideways look.
“Yes, operation. In afternoon yesterday at clinic. I take care of her last night and today.”
“I’m sure you’re doing a very good job, too,” Savannah said. “Where is she? In the bedroom?”
She nodded. “St. Sleeping.”
“Not for long,” Dirk muttered. “Can you show us where? Which room?”
Reluctantly, she lead them through the sun-drenched home, down marble-tiled hallways lit by skylights and massive windows that made the most of the hilltop views. The dog followed alongside, gleeful about having guests. Savannah stopped once to pat him on his woolly head.
“Nice, what four and a half million dollars worth of stolen money can buy,” she whispered to Dirk, looking around.
“Oh yeah. It’s gonna be a bit of a drop to a six-foot cell.”
They found the master suite at the end of one particularly long hallway. And inside, lying on a canopy bed, her face swathed in bandages, was the lady of the house.
The poodle jumped up onto the bed beside her, nuzzling her hand, wanting to be petted.
“I am very sorry, Miss Baker,” the maid told her as they walked through the bedroom door. “But this woman and this man, they say they must speak to you. I told them you are sick, but the man... I think he is policía.”
Even though the woman on the bed had her head wrapped like a mummy’s in pressure bandages, there was no mistaking the alarm in her eyes.
“No,” she whispered through the slit in the bandage that revealed her swollen, bruised lips. “No.”
“Oh, yes,” Dirk said as he walked over to the bed. “Norma Jean Baker, huh? Didn’t it occur to you that one might be a bit on the nose for an alias? I mean, you can only take this Marilyn thing so far.”
Savannah looked at the sprigs of blood-matted platinum blonde hair that poked from between the bandages here and there. “What did you do?” she asked, “get more surgery here on the island to make the transformation complete? I’ve heard of that sort of thing, but wow, talk about a groupie!”
Dirk sat down on the bed beside the woman and showed her his badge. “By the way, allow us to introduce ourselves. This is my friend and fellow investigator, Savannah Reid. And I’m Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter with the San Carmelita Police Department. And you, Ms. Suzette Du Bois, are under arrest for the murder of your former lover.”
Chapter
23
“No, no... I didn’t hurt anyone,” the mummy on the bed protested as Dirk took a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and attached one cuff to her right arm.
Savannah could see the puncture mark and some bruising from an IV in the crook of her elbow. “Be careful with her, Dirk,” she warned. “She’s just had surgery. We may have to arrange for a Medevac to get her back home. She doesn’t look like she’s ferryworthy to me.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll treat her a lot better than she treated old Sergio, rat that he was.”
Savannah shook her head as she studied what she could see of the woman’s face. Her eyes were black and blue and swollen nearly to slits. Apparently she had just undergone some major work. “I guess you were hoping to have your face changed so much that no one would ever recognize you, huh, Suzette?”
She just groaned in response.
“And,” Savannah continued, “did you even consider your sister, Clare? She told me you weren’t dead, but just hiding out somewhere.”
Glancing over at the window, Savannah saw that there was a magnificent view of the lighthouse from the master suite. “She also told me you love the lighthouse. I guess you thought you had it set up pretty nice here, with your view and your new face. Too bad it had to cost someone else his whole life for you to have it.”
A buzzing sound made all four of them jump a bit, until Dirk took out his cell phone and answered it. “Yeah, Coulter here.”
He looked a bit surprised. “Yes, hi there. I didn’t think I’d hear from you.”
He mouthed the word, “Elizabeth,” to Savannah, then continued. “Actually, we found the house after all. Yes, we’re good. And I’m in the process of arresting Ms. Baker even as we speak.”
He listened intently for a long time, then said, “Oh, really? That’s very interesting. Yes, I understand now why you were reluctant to say anything last night, but thank you for reconside
ring and calling. Sure. No problem. I’ll check it out and call you back later.”
When he snapped his phone closed, Savannah could tell something was up, just from the look on his face.
“What is it?” she asked. “What did she want?”
Dirk reached over and locked the other cuff around the bedpost. Then he said to his prisoner, “Ms. Elizabeth Fortunato just told me something very interesting about you. She says I should check your pool house. Do you think I should do that, Suzette? Should I see what I can find in your pool house?”
Savannah was confused, but all ears. “What’s in the pool house?”
Dirk gave her a strange look. He, too, looked confused, but excited.
“Elizabeth says that she and that kid who takes care of her office helped Suzette here move a particularly heavy box into the pool house. She says it had a weird, bad smell to it. That Suzette here told her it was books that had suffered some water damage. But Elizabeth says she opened the trunk of her car today and it still stinks.”
“Oh, really?” Savannah’s own brain gears were spinning. “The smell was that bad, huh?”
“Yeah, and in light of what we told her at the bar last night, she was thinking that maybe she might get in trouble if she admitted she’d helped move such a... stinky, heavy box. So she slept on it and this morning, she decided she’d better tell us about it.”
“Well, there’s only one thing to do,” Savannah said, her heart pounding in her throat. “Let’s go check out that box of smelly books.”
They were still at least fifty feet from the pool house when Savannah got her first whiff and nearly gagged.
“Oh, Lord,” she said, “there’s only one thing in the world that smells like that.”
“Yeah, a DB,” Dirk said, wrinkling his nose. “My favorite call.” Savannah agreed. If there was anything in the world that cops hated to hear on their car radio it was the term “DB”—dead body—or just as bad, “suspicious smell.”
In all her years on the job, Savannah had seen and heard plenty of things that made her old before her time, things that scarred her soul and kept her awake at night. But there was only one thing that made her barf.
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