“Exactly.”
“If they argued before she disappeared,” Tammy mused, “then it might not be foul play after all. It might just be a domestic dispute.”
“That’s right, and he’s determined to guard their privacy and avoid a paparazzi feeding frenzy, if at all possible.”
“I’ll get on it, all of it, right away. Anybody else you want me to run a check on?”
“Yes, a guy named Orman. Caucasian male, six-foot-two, slender build, thinning blond hair, drives a silver Jaguar that’s about a block long. He was a visitor there at the house today, and I got the idea that he wasn’t particularly welcome. Also, they have some sort of personal assistant or maid or whatever called Amy. Don’t have a last name. Mid-twenties. Long dark hair. Attractive in a wholesome way.”
“You want me to check out someone who’s wholesome?”
“Are you kidding? Those ‘wholesome’ folks are the ones you have to seriously look out for.”
* * *
When Savannah pulled into her own driveway and savored the sight of the quaint, Spanish-style house with its plastered, cream walls and red-tile roof, she almost always felt a surge of heart warmth and self-satisfaction. The front porch with wicker chairs welcomed her with their soft, floral-print cushions that beckoned a body to “relax and sit a spell.”
The matching bougainvillea bushes on either side of the doorway, which met and intertwined over the transom, greeted her as well. She had named them Bogie and Ilsa years ago, when they were little more than mere sprouts, stuck in a couple of clay pots. Over the years, in spite of her neglect, they had burgeoned into crimson giants that added a lush and gentle beauty to her home.
Like the blue and purple hydrangeas that lent their loveliness to homes, grand and humble, in the tiny, rural Georgia town where Savannah had been born and raised, bougainvillea had no prejudices or even preferences. Throughout Southern California, it graced castillo and hacienda alike.
As was her habit, Savannah reached out and lightly touched a branch of each when she passed beneath them, being careful to avoid the thorns. For her, it was a constant reminder that, as someone wiser than she had once said, “Life is like a rose. A few thorns don’t make it any less beautiful.”
Once inside her front door, she placed her purse on the old, round piecrust table in the foyer, near the foot of the stairs.
“Is that you, Savannah girl?” a beloved voice called out to her from the living room.
“Sure is, Gran,” she replied, hurrying to greet her favorite human being on earth, except maybe her husband. And on days when he slurped his cereal, propped his filthy sneakers on her freshly polished coffee table, and left his day-old underwear hanging from the bathroom doorknob, Granny Reid scored a solid Number One.
Not only did the sight of her precious grandmother, who had raised her and continued to inspire her every day of her life, elevate Savannah’s mood at least fifty percent, but the delicious aroma of baking apple pie caused it to soar to one hundred.
Unfortunately, her taste buds were all atwitter before she remembered that Gran had asked if she could come to Savannah’s house and use her oven to bake a welcome offering for Tammy’s parents. Savannah’s mood tumbled, like a bad day on Wall Street, when she realized that she was unlikely to sink her choppers into a single bite of that heavenly dessert.
“Don’t worry,” Gran told her as she folded her into a warm, tight hug. “There’s two in the oven. You don’t think I’d use your facilities and not make sure you had a taste, do you?”
Savannah placed a kiss on the top of her grandmother’s silver hair and marveled at how, after all these years, Gran could still read her mind.
“Yes, I can still tell what you’re thinkin’, Savannah girl,” Granny said with twinkling eyes. “Let’s just say I’ve had a lot of practice at it.”
“You have, indeed,” Savannah replied. “If a grandmother’s going to stay ahead of nine grandkids, she has to be a bit of a mind reader.”
“No mind reading involved. The trick is just to assume that, at any given minute, a young’un’s up to no good, and most of the time you’ll be right.”
“I’m taking all of this in, Granny,” Tammy said from the corner of the room, where she sat at the rolltop desk, staring at a computer screen. Baby Vanna Rose was cozy in her mother’s arms, nursing vigorously. “I figure if I can learn one percent of what you know about raising children, I’ll be able to stay ahead of this one.”
Granny chuckled. “Don’t even think about trying to stay ahead of a feisty, little puddin’ cat like that one there. I can tell you right now, you’ll be running for the rest of your life just trying to catch up to her.”
Gran gazed up at Savannah, her eyes filled with love and admiration. “Believe me, I know the type o’ gal that one’s gonna be. Raisin’ the likes of her will be the adventure of your lifetime.”
Tammy smiled down at the baby in her arms. “I’m looking forward to it. Every minute of it.”
Gran whispered to Savannah, “Spoken like a mother who’s never found a frog in her underwear drawer. Not yet, leastways.”
“I heard that,” Tammy replied. “Waycross told me all about that youthful transgression, and he repented of it long ago.”
“Oh, he expressed remorse, all right,” Gran said. “Young’uns tend to do that when they’re doing a jig at the end of a hickory switch.”
Savannah suppressed the urge to correct her elder. In fact, neither she nor her siblings had done much dancing at the end of any switch, hickory or otherwise. Gran had applied corporal punishment, but she had saved it for special occasions. Switches and paddles had been reserved for capital crimes. Actually, for only one such transgression. Lying.
Granny’s grandkids could have confessed to just about anything short of first-degree, premeditated murder and received little more than a “talkin’ to.”
Church-going, Bible-thumping Gran firmly believed that any sin that was confessed and repented must be forgiven.
But if a Reid kid committed homicide and then fibbed about it, their hide was in grave danger of being tanned.
As Savannah watched Tammy finish with the nursing, lift her baby onto her shoulder, and gently pat her back, Savannah seriously doubted that little Miss Vanna Rose would be spending a lot of time dancing jigs behind the barn. Any time at all, for that matter.
If this child misbehaved, she would probably pay the price by having to plant a tree, pick up trash on a beach, or paint Earth Day posters. Since she would be doing these things with her playful mother at her side, paying her debt to society would, undoubtedly, be great fun.
Once Vanna Rose had burped, and Tammy had dabbed away the bubbles from her mouth, Tammy handed her to Savannah and turned her attention back to the computer.
“I ran checks on those people you mentioned,” she said. “I turned over some rocks that had a few bugs and worms under them.”
She shot a sideways glance at her daughter and quickly added, “Not that there’s anything wrong with bugs and worms. They’re a necessary, important part of nature. They do a lot of good work for us.”
Giving Savannah a tired, worried look, she said, “Boy, you don’t think about what you say until you’re around a young, impressionable child. Then, all of a sudden, everything that comes out of your mouth is important.”
Savannah opened her own mouth to reply, to say something like, “Lighten up, sugar. You don’t have to be perfect to be a mom, and you don’t have to raise a kid all in one day.” But she decided to save her breath. Tammy was determined to be the perfect parent, and if anyone on God’s green earth could pull it off, she would.
“Tell me about these necessary bugs and important worms you uncovered,” Savannah said. “Let’s hear it all—dirt still attached.”
A timer dinged in the kitchen. As Granny rose from the sofa and strolled in that direction, she said to Savannah, “If you wanted to know the nitty-gritty on a movie star, all you had to do was ask me. When it com
es to celebrity gossip, I’m a walkin’ encyclopedia. You should know that by now.”
Savannah grinned, thinking of the stack of tabloids in the magazine stand next to Granny’s easy chair. Just under the Bible, which was always neatly placed on top of the assorted reading materials, one could find at least three months’ worth of weekly editions of Gran’s favorite gossip rags.
Not only did Granny enjoy the gossip she found printed on those pulp pages, but she considered everything she read from that rack to be the absolute gospel truth.
If a tabloid said that Gran’s favorite soap star had been abducted by aliens, she prayed for their safe return. If that star had succumbed to the charms of one of those aliens and was now pregnant with its offspring, she prayed for their immortal soul.
“Soon as I get those pies outta the oven,” Gran said, turning the corner and heading in the kitchen, “I’ll tell you all about why that young man don’t want the paparazzi hangin’ round his house. He’s got more reason than most to avoid media attention.”
Savannah turned to Tammy with a questioning glance. “Have you heard this theory of hers yet?”
Tammy nodded. “Yes, and it’s actually worth considering. Nothing to do with extraterrestrials, or Bigfoot, or the JFK assassination.”
Pulling a chair next to Tammy’s, Savannah laid Vanna on her lap, the baby’s head on her knees, the tiny feet against her belly. She tickled under the infant’s chin, then her ribs, and finally, those sweet, baby toes.
Vanna wasn’t laughing yet, but she cooed with approval, and Savannah enjoyed every second.
She knew from past experience that the period of time when she could hold her little namesake in this position would be regrettably short. In fact, every stage of her niece’s childhood would be far too fleeting and needed to be savored to the fullest along the way.
“Do you have any non-tabloid info for me?” Savannah asked Tammy, who was bringing up half a dozen screens on the computer.
“Of course. You ask; I deliver.” She turned and gave Savannah a shy grin. “At least I try.”
“You had it right the first time, kiddo. Never, never dilute honest and true words of self-approval. Your heart needs to hear them.”
Tammy blushed under the praise, then quickly turned back to the screen. “I checked out Ethan Malloy first, which was the hardest because there’s so much about him. He has so many fans, and they’re absolutely rabid about him. I found millions and millions of hits. But, of course, who knows how much of it’s true.”
“With celebrities, you have to figure not much.”
“I always do.” She brought up a word processing screen where she had made notes and read them to Savannah. “He was born in—”
“Amarillo.”
“Okay. You know that. His father was a—”
“Rancher.”
Tammy turned in her chair and gave Savannah an offended, annoyed look. “You know how much you hate it when Dirk finishes your sentences for you?”
“But that’s because ninety-nine percent of the time, he’s wrong. Then he’s sure he’s right and gets all huffy about it and that leads to a fight. I’m not like him, so it shouldn’t bother you.”
Her “logic” was met with stony silence.
Savannah shrugged. “Okay, point taken. I’ll work on it. What else have you got there?”
Sighing, Tammy turned back to the computer. “Ethan Malloy is his real name. He’s thirty-five years old and—”
“That young? Wow. He seems older. In a good way. You know, more experienced, more sophisticated.”
When Savannah returned the annoyed look, Tammy chuckled and continued. “Like I said, his fans are rabid. Okay . . . he and Elizabeth Sarsone, otherwise known as ‘Beth,’ have been married four years. They met on the set of—”
“They met while they were remaking that movie, The Great Gatsby,” Granny said as she strolled in from the kitchen, carrying a tray with two dishes of apple pie à la mode and a bowl of fresh, sliced strawberries topped with yogurt.
“This interrupting thing runs in the family,” Tammy muttered under her breath as she reached over and took her daughter from Savannah. “But is it nature or nurture?”
Gran handed the hot apple pie with its melting ice cream to Savannah and the yogurt to Tammy. “That handsome Mr. Malloy played the main guy in that movie. His name was Mr. Jay Gatsby. A mighty handsome Gatsby that Mr. Malloy made, too, if I do say so myself.” She settled onto the sofa with her own plate of pie. “The heroine,” she continued, “if you can call anybody in that story a hero or a heroine, was played by Miss Fancy Pants, Candace York. I don’t have to tell you, she’s a bigtime movie star. Rich as sweet potato pie and pretty as a speckled pup.”
“She’s rich and she’s pretty, all right,” Savannah said. “But I’ve seen her interviewed, and she seemed a little ditsy, not to mention a bit full of herself.”
“Not all of us blondes, who seem a bit ditsy, really are, you know,” Tammy added softly, as she printed her notes and handed them to Savannah. “That’s really just a not-very-nice stereotype.”
“That’s for sure,” Savannah said, giving her a warm, encouraging smile. It hurt Savannah’s heart to see Tammy, who was almost always bouncing with happiness and confident as a summer solstice day is long, doubting herself.
“We all have abiding faith in you, Tammy girl,” Gran said. “Don’t you forget that for one minute these next few days. You hear?”
When Tammy gave her a brief nod, Gran continued, “As I was sayin’, everybody thought Candace had Ethan tied up good and tight. But Miss Elizabeth Sarsone was on that movie set, too, playin’ Myrtle Wilson—a sorry character who met a sorry end. Some might say she deserved it, but that’d be judgin’. Anyway, the scurrility committed by a certain somebody on that set was downright shameful. Dang near as bad as the shenanigans done by the characters in the movie itself.”
“Scurrility? Scurrility and shenanigans were done?” Savannah asked with a grin.
“They sure were. Why that Elizabeth Sarsone snatched Ethan right out from under Candace York. That gal, Beth, wasn’t half as pretty as Candace, but she set her cap for Ethan and nabbed him right up.”
“Maybe the engagement wasn’t a serious one,” Tammy offered, always the first to play the devil’s advocate in any circumstance. “You know how Hollywood is. People get engaged, married, and divorced all in the course of a week. Sometimes just because their agent tells them it would be good for their career.”
Gran shook her head. “No. This was the real thing. Candace was sportin’ an engagement ring on her finger. They had a date set, wedding gown ordered, the whole shebang. The diamond in that ring was the size of a doorknob, too. Ethan had to know that a gal like Candace York wouldn’t have settled for anything less.”
“Maybe Beth was a nicer, sweeter person than Candace,” Savannah said. “From what I’ve heard, it wouldn’t take much.”
Gran considered Savannah’s words thoughtfully, then nodded. “I thank you for pointing that out to me, Granddaughter. I was just goin’ along with what I read in my magazines, but you could be right. Maybe he picked the right gal after all. But either way, there was a major ruckus about it, the fans weighin’ in one way or the other. Some said neither Ethan or Beth would ever work in Hollywood again. Especially Beth, since she was considered the other woman.”
“This is all coming back to me now,” Savannah said between bites as she devoured the pie—the cinnamon rolls a fond, distant memory. “I remember seeing those tabloid covers when I was waiting in the grocery store back in the day. A picture of Ethan and Candace being all lovey-dovey, torn down the middle and a shot of Beth stuck in the middle.”
“The public took a dim view of it,” Gran said. “They were all lookin’ forward to a downright royal wedding between Candace York and Ethan Malloy. Then, not only did Beth steal him away, but the two of them eloped to Las Vegas, and we didn’t even get a picture of the wedding.” She sniffed. “Was probably do
ne in one of those silly, all-night, so-called chapels, and they likely wore jeans and T-shirts. It’s shameful how young people don’t dress proper for formal occasions anymore.”
Tammy giggled. “Jeans and a Vegas chapel would’ve been an upgrade from my wedding. I was all sweaty and discombobulated, lying on my childbirth bed.”
Gran gave her a loving smile. “You were a beautiful bride, child. No matter the circumstances. Better late than never. Like they say: Those first babies can come anytime. After that, it takes nine months.”
As Savannah devoured the rest of her pie, she read the notes that Tammy had printed out for her. “Okay, Amy’s last name is Foster. She’s been with the Malloys for four months, and her official title is ‘Personal Assistant.’”
“No criminal record at all, as you can see,” Tammy added. “Super-clean history. Graduated last year from Pepperdine’s film school with honors. Wants to be a director someday.”
“Then I’ll put her near the bottom of my mental suspect list,” Savannah said, continuing to read Tammy’s notes. “For now, anyway. Unless she does something more sinister than make goo-goo eyes at her boss.”
“You go suspecting everybody who makes eyes at that man,” Gran said, “you’ll be busier than a one-eyed cat watchin’ nine rat holes.”
“You keep talking that way, Gran, and I’ll start suspecting you,” Savannah told her.
“What did I tell you?” Tammy said. “His fans are rabid! Even in this household, it seems.”
Granny giggled, but didn’t bother to challenge Tammy’s assertion.
Savannah came to the next item in Tammy’s notes. “Hmmm. That’s how Mr. Abel Orman can afford a Jaguar that size. He’s Ethan Malloy’s manager.”
“Not just Mr. Malloy,” Tammy told her, “but a bunch of other big stars, too. Keep reading, and you’ll see who he just signed last week.”
Savannah scanned the list of celebrities represented by Abel Orman, all household names. The last entry on the list caught her eye. Elizabeth Sansone. “Elizabeth? Beth? Ethan’s wife just signed up with his manager?” she asked.
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