Fat Free and Fatal

by G. A. McKevett

  “That’s rough.”

  “About as rough as it gets, next to losing a family member.”

  “I wonder if it’s occurred to Dona that whoever took the shot probably thought they were aiming at her.”

  Dr. Liu nodded, a solemn look on her pretty face. “Oh, I think it’s occurred to her, all right.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because the last time I walked through the house for something, I heard her crying and telling Dirk, ‘They hate me. They always have. And they hate seeing me make a comeback. Some of them hate me enough to kill me.’”

  “Hmmm.” Savannah looked over at the mangled, bloody fox fur. The torn bits of finery left from the silver evening gown that the paramedics had cut off the victim’s body. The medical supplies that had done nothing to halt the flood of precious blood from her ruined body. “Yep. It sure looks like somebody hated somebody,” she said, “big time.”

  Chapter 4

  Savannah left Dr. Liu to her crime scene and walked past a couple of uniformed policemen through the half-open front door of the mansion.

  Even under the sad circumstances, Savannah couldn’t help noticing and being impressed by the grandeur of the house. It reminded her of some of the mansions she had seen while touring the stars’ homes in Hollywood. Although the mansions in Spirit Hills were less than three years old, this one had been built in a style reminiscent of the silver-screen era. The exterior was Spanish, like many of the homes in old, vintage Hollywood, the interior was markedly art deco.

  The front door held a glass insert that was delicately etched. The stylized lily design was repeated in matching panels on either side of the door and in a transom above.

  Savannah stepped into the cool, dim entry where a spiral staircase with a white wrought-iron banister curved gracefully from an expansive balcony to the pink marble floor at her feet.

  In the center of the circular room stood a bronze, life-size statue of the goddess Diana, holding a hunting bow in her right hand and a crescent moon in her left. It was a particularly beautiful piece, and Diana was one of Savannah’s favorite mythical characters, but she couldn’t take the time to stand and enjoy it, as she would have under different circumstances.

  To either side of her were two arched doorways, leading to opposite wings of the house. And through the one to her left she could see a dark, elegant library…and Dirk kneeling beside a wingback chair where a woman sat, sobbing, her hands over her face.

  But Savannah didn’t need to see the famous face to know it was Dona; her wavy, blond bob was her trademark, evoking memories of the classic silver-screen temptress. And even though her hair was mussed, her pale-green silk dressing gown smeared with blood, Dona Papalardo was the quintessential glamorous movie star.

  Dirk glanced up and saw Savannah standing in the doorway. A look of relief flooded his face. “Savannah,” he said, rising from his knee, “you’re here.” He turned to Dona. “Miss Papalardo, this is the gal I was telling you about. She can help you a lot more than I can, because she’s…she’s….”

  Not scared spitless of a crying female, like you are, Savannah thought.

  Dirk didn’t hold back even for a second when it came to charging through a door, knowing there might be an armed and dangerous criminal on the other side of it. But when a woman started weeping over anything from a deep family tragedy to a simple case of having her keys locked in her car, Dirk’s carefully constructed facade of “cool” melted like a popsicle on a Georgia sidewalk in August.

  Dona dropped her hands from her eyes and looked up at Savannah, her pretty face distorted by anger and bitterness. “You’re going to help me?” she said. “You’re going to tell me that you know how I feel, having someone I love die in my arms? You’re going to sympathize with me and make it all better?”

  “No,” Savannah said, her voice as soft as the other woman’s was harsh. “I’ve had the sad experience of holding people while they died, but never one of my loved ones, thank God. So, I’d never tell you that I know how you feel. I wouldn’t presume.”

  Dirk cleared his throat and crossed his arms over his chest. “Actually,” he said, giving Dona a quick sideways glance, “my ex-wife was murdered. And she died in my arms. So, I know enough about it to tell you that there ain’t nothing that’s gonna make you feel okay for a long time. That’s just the way it is. No getting around it.”

  Dona stopped crying and stared at him for several long, tense moments, then she gave him a small, sad smile. “Thank you for sharing that, Detective,” she said. “I’m sure it isn’t easy to think about it again.”

  Savannah herself was surprised at Dirk’s candor. He didn’t usually talk about Polly’s murder. It had been one of the most difficult chapters of his life, and Dirk tended to keep that book tightly shut. It occurred to Savannah that he must have been particularly touched by Dona’s sorrow to have been that open with her.

  Savannah sat down on a chair next to Dona’s and gave Dirk a subtle, dismissive nod. She could tell by the tight, pinched look on his face that, for right now, he’d had all he could take of this situation.

  Cops—even good cops—had their limits when it came to dealing with the brutality of human sorrow at its worst.

  And murder was always the worst.

  Accidents happened and could be chalked up to destiny—a sad part of some great, higher, universal plan. Illness and aging were part of life also, nature in action.

  But murder—there was just no way to reconcile it as “natural” or “meant to be.” It was always so terribly wrong and so painful. And Savannah couldn’t help hating the people who caused such unnatural sorrows in the world.

  Just as she couldn’t help the crushing sadness she felt when dealing with the families and friends left behind, the killer’s other victims. She had learned long ago that no one who lost a loved one to murder ever got over it.

  She knew that a part of Dona Papalardo had died in that driveway today, along with her friend. A part that she would never get back.

  “I’m going to go talk to the ME,” Dirk was saying to Dona, “the medical examiner. I’ll leave you here with Savannah, if that’s okay, Miss Papalardo.”

  Dona nodded, and he wasted no time making his exit through the arched doorway.

  Savannah reached into her purse and produced a handful of fresh tissues. She handed them to Dona, leaning close to her as she did. The scent of the movie star’s distinctive floral and spice perfume enveloped Savannah, reminding her of older, more gracious and elegant times.

  Dona Papalardo was the epitome of Hollywood glamour, even in a moment of personal tragedy.

  “Is there anything I can do for you?” Savannah asked, “Maybe get you a glass of water? Call someone for you?”

  Dona shook her head. “No. Kim had no family to speak of, so there’s no need to inform anybody. That pack of media jackals out there will make sure that her blood is splashed all over the evening news. This is what they live for. They feed off people’s pain and suffering. They lap it up, the filthy, soulless scavengers.”

  Savannah was taken aback by the venom in Dona’s words and the caustic tone of her voice. But only for a moment.

  She couldn’t really blame the woman for feeling that way toward the press. The media—especially the tabloids—had been ruthless and cruel to Dona Papalardo over the past few years, never giving her a moment’s peace or treating her with even a modicum of common decency.

  Savannah wasn’t surprised that the star would hate anyone with a camera or microphone—even the honest, hardworking reporters who were just trying to make a living by covering mainstream news items, like a deadly shooting in front of a celebrity’s mansion.

  “If you don’t mind,” Savannah said, “I’d like to ask you a few questions about the victim. She was your personal assistant, I understand.”

  Dona nodded. “And my friend, too. I don’t know what I’m going to do without her.” She reached up and patted her hair into place in a practiced
, if vain, gesture that seemed inappropriate, considering the circumstances.

  “Do you know why anyone would want to hurt her?” Savannah asked. “Did she have any enemies that you know of?”

  “No. Kim didn’t have an enemy in the world. She was a sweetheart.” Dona wiped her eyes with the tissues Savannah had given her. Then she turned those famous green eyes on Savannah. Even though Dona’s eyes were red and swollen, Savannah couldn’t help but be struck by the woman’s beauty. And even though she was past the first bloom of youthful beauty, Dona had the classic high cheekbones, the perfect skin and fine features that would assure that she remained beautiful for many years to come.

  Her weight loss was equally obvious. The last time Savannah had seen her picture on the cover of a tabloid at the grocery store checkout, she had been at least fifty or sixty pounds heavier. And while Savannah thought Dona was lovely no matter what her weight, she could see that this drastic drop in size would be advantageous to her career in the ever weight-obsessed Hollywood.

  “So,” Savannah said, “if Kimberly had no enemies, why would someone kill her? Somebody must have had something against her if they would—”

  “No.” Dona shook her head and blew her nose loudly. “Whoever shot Kim wasn’t trying to kill her,” she said emphatically. “It was me they were after. That’s obvious enough.”

  Savannah had already considered that possibility, taking into account the borrowed fur coat and gown, but she wanted to hear what Dona had to say. “Tell me why you think it’s so obvious,” she said.

  “She was wearing my coat, my gown, and she was getting into my car. From a distance, she looks a lot like me. And I’m the one who has people mad enough to kill her.”

  “Who in particular is angry with you?”

  “My former agent and my old boyfriend. I’ve had a parting of the ways with both of them recently. And neither one of them is very happy with me. They’re both pretty infantile when they’re upset about something.”

  “I’d call what happened in front of your house today a long way from infantile.”

  “I just mean that neither one of them handle conflict well.”

  Savannah took a pen and a small notebook from her purse, flipped the notebook open, and began to write. “What is your former boyfriend’s name?”

  Dona glanced down at the notebook and a guarded look came over her face. “Mark wouldn’t shoot Kim. He and she were good friends.”

  “Yes, but you said yourself that the killer probably thought Kim was you. What’s Mark’s last name?”

  “Kellerher. His full name is Mark Lee Kellerher. But there’s no way that he would have done this.”

  “Did you break up with him, or vice versa?”

  “I ended it, but….”

  Savannah began to write in her notebook. “Men hate getting dumped,” she said, “Some guys more than others. It’s one of the most common reasons in the world for a woman to get hurt or killed.”

  Dona shook her head. “No, really. You don’t know Mark. He’s a mouse. A total wimp. I was involved with him for seven years, and he never even raised his voice to me. Not even once.” She gave a dry, bitter chuckle. “That’s why I broke it off with him. Let’s just put it nicely and say he was…passion-challenged.”

  Savannah thought of all the “quiet, soft-spoken, wouldn’t-sayboo-to-a-goose” murderers she had encountered over the years. In spite of Dona’s insistence to the contrary, she’d definitely tell Dirk to take a good, long look at Mousy Mark.

  “And your agent?” she asked. “What’s his name?”

  “Miles Thurgood. Now there is somebody you should check out,” Dona said. “He’s furious with me. I fired him a month ago—an action long overdue—and he’s suing me. He’s a vindictive little bastard if there ever was one.”

  Savannah scribbled down his name, as well. “Okay. We’ll check him, too. Have you had problems with him before?”

  “Oh, please. Nothing but problems. And now that I’ve let him go, he’s determined to ruin me. Somebody keyed my new Jag a week ago, and I’m just sure it was him. I was parked on Sunset Boulevard, having lunch with my new agent. I saw Miles sitting at the bar of the restaurant. A few minutes later, when I glanced his way again, he’d left, and when I went out to my car, I found a long, deep scratch all along the passenger side. It cost me six thousand dollars to fix it, and the body shop still doesn’t have the paint job right.”

  Savannah looked up from her note-taking. “Is there anyone else that you’re on the outs with right now?”

  Dona shrugged. “Oh, this one and that one. Nothing all that serious. A person in my position has enemies, people who…let’s just say…don’t wish me well.”

  “Why?”

  “This is a highly competitive business. Some people were very happy to see me out of the spotlight for so long. And they aren’t happy now that I’m ‘back on the market,’ so to speak.”

  “That’s too bad,” Savannah said, her voice soft with sympathy. “I’m sure you worked very hard and sacrificed a great deal to lose so much weight. And I’m sure it takes a lot of courage to step back out into that spotlight, knowing how closely you’ll be scrutinized, and considering how unkind some people have been.”

  Dona stared at Savannah for a long, long time, saying nothing. Her green eyes searched Savannah’s face with a guarded cynicism that had to come from years of emotional abuse. Then, just as quickly, she softened and even smiled. Apparently, she figured Savannah’s words and intentions were honest and sincere.

  “You have no idea,” she said, “what this comeback has cost me. Is still costing me, for that matter. It’s been nothing short of agony. The surgery, the complications that I’m still suffering, the pain and misery of it all. And for what? So that I can fit into a size five again and conform to an artificial standard of youth and beauty? This is supposed to make me a better actress?”

  Dona shook her head, covered her eyes and, once again, began to softly weep. “And now this. The price wasn’t high enough before. I sacrificed my health, the simple joys of living that everyone else takes for granted, like eating an ice cream cone. Now I have to pay with my friend’s life? Where is it all going to stop?”

  Savannah reached over and put her hand on Dona’s shoulder. She was shocked to feel how thin—bony even—Dona felt beneath the silk robe.

  Dona really had lost a lot of weight. She felt so frail, so fragile, as though if Savannah were to simply squeeze, she might break her shoulder.

  She agreed with Dona. This was supposed to be better somehow? Becoming a bag of bones was preferable to enjoying the soft, feminine curves that nature gave most women once they entered their thirties and forties?

  “I’m so sorry, Dona,” she told her, stroking her shoulder. “But if it’s any comfort at all to you, please know that I’ll help Detective Coulter find the person who’s responsible for your friend’s death. And if you want me to, I can work for you, keep a close eye on you for a while, to make sure that nothing else like this happens.”

  Dona nodded, reached up and covered Savannah’s hand with her own. “I want that,” she said through her tears. “I want that very much.”

  “Then you’ve got it.”

  Savannah smiled—a small, grim smile that added no warmth to the cold blue of her eyes. Oh, she’d help Dona Papalardo, all right.

  Catch a bad guy, a killer who would hide in the brush like a coward and shoot a helpless woman down in cold blood?

  Protect another innocent woman and prevent him from doing the same to her?

  Oh, yes. That was better than a bubble bath with a glass of champagne and a box of chocolate truffles.

  Wa-a-ay better.

  Chapter 5

  When Savannah arrived back home later in the evening, she found Tammy sitting at the rolltop desk in her living room, working away at the computer. Although exactly what Tammy found to do at the computer that was “work” related, hour after hour, day after day, Savannah could only guess. B
eing ignorant of even the most rudimentary workings of all machines—except her Beretta and her Mustang’s carburetor—Savannah didn’t surf, chat, send or receive e-mail, IM, blog, or even Google.

  And she was fine with that. Her ignorance was fully intentional. She had more than enough people to aggravate her in her everyday life. Why add a worldwide network of numbskulls to compound the problem? That was one of her favorite mottos, and she held it dear.

  Savannah had a lot of mottos. She lived by them…when it was convenient. And when it wasn’t, she revised or tossed them.

  Life is complicated enough without bogging yourself down with a bunch of stupid rules—especially those that are self-imposed. And most are.

  That was her main motto.

  Tammy looked up with a bright smile on her face when Savannah came into the room. “Did you get the job?”

  Savannah’s cats—miniature panthers named Diamante and Cleopatra—bounded off their window perch and ran to her. She nearly tripped over them as they rubbed against her ankles and meowed loudly.

  “Of course I got the job,” she said, bending down to stroke their silky black coats. Ah, unconditional kitty love made it worth coming home every time.

  Well, mostly unconditional.

  A never-ending flow of Kitty Vittles and a clean litter box. Constant petting and never being able to sit down without a cat on your lap. Black cat hair on every garment you owned, and never being able to leave a half-eaten tuna sandwich on your coffee table…or kitchen table either, for that matter.

  Okay. So kitty love wasn’t all that unconditional. In Savannah’s estimation, it was still good. There was something to be said for having someone to come home to—someone who didn’t leave the toilet seat up and still miss the bowl.

  Cleo let out a particularly plaintive yowl, and Tammy said, “Those beasts are lying to you. I fed them both half an hour ago.”

  “Celery stalks? Carrot sticks? Green tea?”

  Tammy made a face. “No, that foul-smelling, fishy crap that they like. The canned stuff, not the dry. I nearly gagged.”