Fat Free and Fatal

by G. A. McKevett

  He looked hurt and disappointed for only a heartbeat. Then he shook his head and laughed. “Nope, you’d rather be here with me.”

  “And you think this is true because…?”

  “Because you like the idea that you might get to tackle some bad guy and nail him for murder.”

  “Oh, I thought you meant it was because I reveled in your scintillating conversation about last night’s heavyweight bout and how the Dodgers stunk in that doubleheader on Saturday.”

  “No, the sports roundup is just the frosting on the cake of this experience.”

  “Woo-hoo. Lucky me.”

  She heard a chorus of coyotes begin to yip in the distant hills. “They sound like a bunch of Midwestern farmers at a Vegas floor show when they bring the strippers out,” she observed.

  That was Dirk’s kind of joke. When he didn’t laugh, she knew that he, too, was getting bored.

  “How much longer do you want to sit here?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. You?”

  She rolled the window up and rubbed her arms. “Well, it’s getting a bit airish out here without my jacket on. I didn’t think we’d be out here all night or I’d have brought a coat.”

  “You want mine?” he said, starting to peel off his bomber jacket.

  “Naw, thanks.” She reached over and pulled it back onto his shoulders and gave him a pat. “But we could sit here till dawn and still, most likely, come up empty-handed. And then tomorrow neither one of us would be worth shootin’.”

  “Yeah, you and me, kid, we don’t recuperate from these allnighters as quick as we used to.”

  She opened her mouth to argue with him, but closed it just as quickly. He was right. Fortysomething felt a lot different from twenty or even thirty. She didn’t dare think what eighty might feel like.

  “So, this is just going to be a wasted trip,” she said, “unless…”

  She turned on him, suddenly energized. “Do you still have that old fingerprint kit in the trunk?”

  “I don’t know. I guess so. Why?”

  “If the guy’s been staying there, he’s got to have left some prints. Let’s go dust some obvious surfaces and see what we can find.”

  He looked at her as though she had turned chartreuse. “I haven’t lifted prints in ages, and neither have you. That’s Liu’s department.”

  “Well, Dr. Liu isn’t here, and we are. I can still remember how to lift a print even if you can’t.”

  “I could. I just don’t wanna.”

  “Lazy.”

  “Yep. And proud of it.”

  She reached over and snatched the keys out of the ignition. “I’m getting that kit, and I’m doing some dusting. You can sit here and commune with the coyotes or howl at the moon if you want to. But I want to catch this guy.”

  Wearily he hauled himself out of the car and met her by the trunk. “You know,” he said as she dug among tools, old clothes, empty beer bottles, and ancient copies of boxing magazines, “even if you lift something, it won’t be admissible in court. You’re not a cop no more. Any evidence you gather won’t count.”

  “It’ll count,” she said as she pulled a small black case from under the landfill materials. “Believe me, it’ll count.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “If that time comes, you’ll get up on that stand, hold your hand up and swear to tell the truth—and then you’ll lie through your teeth and take credit for what I did. Men have been taking credit for what women accomplish since the dawn of time,” she added with a smirk. “Why should you be any different?”

  Two hours later, they left the farmhouse with tired smiles on their faces and twenty-two pieces of lifting tape with fingerprints of varying degrees of quality in an evidence bag.

  “I think some of those are his,” Savannah said, running her fingers through her hair and sighing as they walked back to the car. “There was a definite size difference. I’m betting the bigger ones are his.”

  “And that thumbprint you found on the beer bottle in the refrigerator, that one’ll be good enough to run through AFIS,” he said as he tossed the fingerprint kit back into the trunk. “Maybe we’ll even get a mug shot or DMV pic.”

  They climbed into the car. Dirk handed Savannah the envelope and she locked it into the glove compartment.

  “I have to admit,” he said as they drove down the dirt road to the house. “That was a pretty good idea.”

  “And it was a bit like old times, us working a scene on our own like that,” she said, grinning at him.

  “Yeah.” He snickered. “When you were bent over there, dusting the bathroom doorknob, I remembered how cute you used to look in your uniform.”

  “Hm-m-phf. That was a lot of years and quite a few pounds ago.”

  “You’d still look good in a uniform, if you was to put one on.”

  “Well, I’m glad you think so. But then, you have a weakness for big butts.”

  He laughed. “I do. It’s true. No scrawny-assed chicks for this guy.”

  They pulled onto the main road, and Savannah reached out and grabbed his arm. “Wait,” she said. “Look at that.”

  “Look at what?”

  “That old busybody. She’s awake. Standing there on the porch, watching us. Pull over.”

  He did, and she jumped out.

  As she ran up to the house, the lady stepped off the porch and met her halfway in the middle of the weed-infested yard.

  “Hi!” Savannah called out. “Remember me?”

  “Sure I do,” she yelled back. “What are you doing out here at this time of night? I was about to call the cops on you.”

  “Now why would you go and do something like that?” Savannah gave her a smile and in the moonlight she could see the woman’s face soften. Since she wasn’t wearing her sunbonnet, Savannah could see that she had a beautiful, thick head of silver hair. Again, Savannah thought of Gran and missed her.

  “You don’t need to call the police,” she told the woman. “That guy sitting in the car down there, he’s a cop. And we’re here to try to catch that guy on the motorcycle who’s been such a torment to you.”

  “You came out here at this time of night just to do that?”

  “Absolutely!”

  “Well, I do appreciate that.”

  “We aim to please.”

  “But you didn’t catch him, now did you?”

  “No. Appears not.”

  “Then you’re not a whole lot of good to me.”

  Savannah laughed. Who was more delightfully candid than children at the beginning of their lives or older folks at the end of theirs?

  “I’m sorry about that,” Savannah said, “but you know what? You could be an enormous help to me. You could help me and that cop over there catch this guy and put an end to his shenanigans.”

  “How? What do I have to do?”

  Savannah reached into her slacks pocket and took out her tiny notebook and pen. She began to write, squinting to see in the pale moonlight. When she was finished, she ripped off the sheet of paper and held it out to the woman.

  “You’ve got sharp eyes, don’t you?” she said to the old lady. “You see everything that goes on up and down this road.”

  The woman gave her a tiny smile. “I don’t hear really good anymore—thanks to all that damned motorcycle racket—but there’s nothing wrong with my eyes. Not much gets by me.”

  “I’m sure that’s true. So here, take this.”

  “What it is?” she asked suspiciously.

  “It’s my cell phone number. I want you to take this into your house and put it right beside your phone. And the second you hear that guy coming, as soon as you know it’s him, you give me a call. Day or night.”

  “So let me get this straight,” the old woman said, her small grin widening by the moment. “If I call you at, say, five o’clock in the morning and tell you he just came home…you’ll come out here and arrest him for disturbing the peace?”

  “Lady,” Savannah said, “you g
ive me a call at dawn or dead midnight and I’ll be here with bells on. And your buddy with the bike will be wearing handcuffs. Is that a deal?”

  To her surprise, the old woman held her hand out and gave Savannah’s a hearty shake.

  “You’ve got yourself a deal. Hell, I’ll sit, eat, and sleep out here on this porch. And if he comes within five miles of here, you’ll get a call, so be ready.”

  “Oh, I’m ready.” Savannah thought of the bloodstains on the driveway at Dona Papalardo’s mansion. She thought of the motorcycle tracks on the hill above the estate and the expensive boot print.

  She didn’t know for sure if the guy who had been staying over at Kim’s house before her death was also her killer. But she was more than eager to see him in the police station’s interrogation “sweat box” with Dirk firing some questions at him.

  “Yes,” she told the lady. “I’d say I’m as ready as you are.”

  The woman nodded her silver head and gave Savannah’s hand another hearty shake. “Then let’s do it.”

  Chapter 15

  Savannah and Tammy were sitting at the island in Dona Papalardo’s kitchen, Savannah downing her morning coffee and Tammy sipping her green tea, when Juanita hurried in and said, “Senorita Savannah, my lady would like to talk to you right away, if you please. She is upstairs in her room.”

  Setting her mug aside, Savannah jumped off the stool. “Is anything wrong?” she asked.

  Juanita shrugged. “With my lady, there is always something wrong these days.”

  Savannah hurried up the stairs, down the hallway, past the guest bedrooms, and up yet another flight of steep, curving steps to an area of the house that formed a sort of mission bell tower above the rest.

  At the top of the steps was a small, open area with windows that provided a panoramic view of the property and the neighboring countryside. Opposite the staircase, a door—a heavy, arched affair with mission-style hardware—was slightly ajar.

  Savannah walked over to it, stuck her head inside the room and said, “Hello? Dona? It’s Savannah. May I come in?”

  “Yeah, come in,” was the feeble reply.

  Savannah walked in and instantly felt as though she had taken a step back in time. It was as though she had entered a nineteenth-century boudoir. The thick, dark red, velvet drapes were closed and at least a dozen candles gave the room a romantic and yet somehow sinister ambiance.

  The air was heavy with the smell of smoke from the candles and Dona Papalardo’s custom-blended French perfume.

  Gold glinted everywhere on gilded picture and mirror frames, on candlesticks, and in satin brocade fabrics. From the fainting couch, draped with fur throws, to the dressing area separated by a tri-fold screen covered with hand-painted cabbage roses, to the canopy bed with its red velvet curtains and mountains of accent pillows, the room spoke of a gaudy but playful spirit. It looked like a room where a grown-up woman could play “dress up” with Grandma’s old clothes and pretend to be a grand lady.

  If Granny were an expensive French courtesan.

  In the center of the enormous bed, nearly hidden among the pillows, lay Dona Papalardo.

  She was wearing a white lace-trimmed corset and bloomers, and a pink silk scarf was tied headband-style around her hair.

  But in even in the dim candlelight, Savannah could see how pale Dona’s skin looked, and how sunken her eyes were. Her face shone with a fine sheen of sweat, like someone caught in the throes of a terrible fever

  The realization struck Savannah, with a force that nearly took her breath away, that Dona Papalardo wasn’t long for this world. Whatever was wrong with this woman was more than depressing or challenging; it was life-threatening.

  She hurried over to Dona and leaned across the bed to put her hand on her forehead. “Are you all right, sugar?” she asked without considering their employer-employee relationship. “I hate to say it, but you don’t look so good.”

  Dona brushed her hand away. “What are you? My mother?” she asked, irritated, but half-smiling.

  Savannah chuckled. “No, too many people’s big sister, that’s more like it.” She sat down on the edge of the bed. “But seriously, you look sick. Can I get you something? Take you to the doctor or…?”

  “The doctor? No, thank you. I’ve already been to the doctor. That’s why I’m in this condition in the first place.” She reached over, picked up a gold-and-red brocade pillow and hugged it to her belly.

  Savannah found the gesture pathetic and telling.

  “What did they do to you?” she asked softly.

  “Nothing I didn’t ask them to do, beg them to do, demand that they do,” Dona replied. “So I have no one to blame for this but myself.”

  “I heard you had gastric bypass surgery,” Savannah said. “I guess it didn’t go so well.”

  “The whole world knows I had gastric bypass surgery. You can’t keep something like that a secret in this industry. And no, it didn’t go well. It took me a year to find a surgeon who would perform it for me…and this is the result. I’m still sick long past the time when they said my body would adjust. I’m in constant pain, can’t eat anything—no matter how small—without suffering for it, and my weight is now actually lower than I ever wanted it to go. Imagine the irony of that!”

  Savannah was pretty sure she knew the answer, but she asked the question anyway. “Why was it so hard to find a doctor who would perform the surgery for you?”

  Dona gave a horrible, dry, ironic laugh. “Because I wasn’t fat enough. I didn’t meet the body mass index criteria. I had to convince them that I was suffering from a bunch of other nasty symptoms: sleep apnea, diabetes, hypertension.”

  “But how could you fake those things? It would be hard to fool a doctor.”

  “Not an unscrupulous doctor who wants to be ‘fooled,’ who has a fancy car and big house to pay for, not to mention a hefty alimony.”

  “And apparently you found one of those.”

  “Eventually I did. One who was willing to ignore certain test results and fudge on others, one who suggested that if I could just pack on another twenty or thirty pounds, he could justify the surgery. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘it’ll melt right off you afterward. You’ll be surprised and pleased at how quickly.’”

  “And were you surprised and pleased?”

  “At first I was too sick to care if I lost weight or didn’t, or even if I lived or died. I got a post-op infection that nearly killed me. And after I recovered from that, every time I tried to eat anything, I got the condition they call ‘dumping.’ And even though you’re supposed to get over that in time, I still have it.”

  “I’ve heard of that,” Savannah said. “Vomiting and diarrhea, right?”

  “And extreme weakness, dizziness, sweating. I’ve fainted more than once in public. Boy, that gets the paparazzi swarming like buzzards.”

  “I’m sure it does.” Savannah watched as Dona grimaced and held the pillow tighter against her belly. “Does it hurt all the time?” she asked.

  “Yes. I can’t sleep, I can’t think, I can hardly function. The painkillers make me sick, and now I’m getting ulcers on top of everything.”

  “Can it be reversed?”

  “No. I’m going to be this way for the rest of my life.”

  Savannah reached over, covered Dona’s hand with her own and squeezed it. “I’m so sorry. I had my doubts about gastric bypass surgery, but I had no idea it was this bad.”

  To Savannah’s surprise, Dona squeezed back. “It isn’t for everyone,” she said. “It truly saves some people’s lives. They tolerate the surgery well, they shed enormous amounts of weight, and they thrive afterward. I have friends in the entertainment industry who swear it saved their lives.”

  “Maybe they had better doctors.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe. Perhaps a doctor who’s willing to bend the rules like mine did shouldn’t have been trusted. And maybe it wasn’t even his fault. Everyone’s body is different. Maybe I’m just one of those who
didn’t do well for whatever reason. A certain percentage doesn’t.”

  They sat quietly for a few moments, saying nothing. Savannah could feel the waves of depression and despair radiating from the woman lying on her luxurious bed. She felt the cold perspiration on her hand and her trembling. She thought of the pictures of Dona taken just before the surgery. She had been heavy, yes, but beautiful and vibrant and bright-eyed. This woman was an empty, lifeless imitation of her former self.

  Well, Savannah thought, society demanded that she be thin. Okay, now she’s thin. And this is supposed to be, somehow, more beautiful?

  “Juanita said you wanted to see me,” Savannah said at last. “How can I help you?”

  Dona released her hand, fell back onto the cushions, and stared up at the canopy above her. “I was wondering how much longer you and your assistant intend to be here.”

  “You’re the boss. It’s your call. But I think it’s a good idea if at least one of us is here at all times until we solve this case and have Kim’s killer in custody. Don’t you?”

  “I suppose.” She took a deep breath of resignation. “Do you have any idea who it might be?”

  “Actually, we do have a possible lead. Do you know anything about Kim’s boyfriend?”

  “Kim had a boyfriend? Since when?”

  “We don’t know for sure, but there were men’s clothes and toiletries in her house. It appeared that a male at least visited and stayed overnight sometimes.”

  “Hmm. And she was always complaining that she wasn’t getting any. She was actually pretty obnoxious about it. I got tired of hearing it.”

  “So, you’d have no idea at all who he might be?”

  “No. Other than griping about her long bout of celibacy, Kim kept her private life to herself.”

  “Okay.” Savannah swallowed her disappointment and went on to her next question. “Would you mind if my assistant brought a computer here to your house? Juanita said you have an Internet connection in your downstairs office, as well as wireless access.”