“Don’t worry, Mother Hen.” Savannah wondered if Mrs. Villa could hear that faint, sarcastic note in her voice.
The green eyes flashed, ever so slightly. She had definitely picked it up, but had obviously chosen to ignore it. Yes, Anthony Villa had a valuable asset in his politic wife.
“You must excuse me while I play hostess.” Catherine shook hands with them both once again, and Savannah noticed that her palm was even colder and clammier than before.
A moment later, she was milling among the guests, whose numbers were swelling, filling the gallery and flowing over to the tasting room, where dinner was to be served.
Neither Savannah nor Ryan spoke for several moments after her departure, as they watched her in silence.
Finally, Savannah said, “Do you like her?”
“Not really.”
“Me either. She seemed a bit worried, don’t you think? As though she might be expecting some sort of trouble.”
“I thought so myself. Definitely concerned about something.”
Savannah crossed her arms over her chest and continued to watch the lady thoughtfully. “What sort of wine was she drinking?”
“I believe it was a Merlot.”
“You don’t chill Merlot, do you?”
He gave her a sly little grin. “Nope, you don’t.”
She nodded. “I didn’t think so.”
Atlanta sat on the bed, putting the finishing touches on her makeup, attempting to see what she was doing in the tiny, handheld mirror she had brought with her, while trying to ignore her roommate, who was hogging the well-lit dressing table. They had reached an uneasy truce. The only details of their unspoken agreement: Don’t look at each other, say a word to each other, or in any way acknowledge the other’s existence.
This was especially difficult for Atlanta, whose mouth seldom stopped running for any reason, even self-preservation.
The only sounds were the clatter of makeup paraphernalia, and Barbie’s frequent cell-phone conversations. It seemed her phone was constantly buzzing, or she was continually calling someone.
Atlanta eavesdropped with interest; Barbie had a fascinating social life. Better still, she seemed to be pissing a lot of people off. Every exchange appeared to be some sort of confrontation.
When the phone rang again, Barbie swore, threw down her mascara, and grabbed it, knocking over a bottle of foundation in the process. She ignored the “Tawny Taupe” puddle that spread across the dressing table’s marble top.
“How the hell am I supposed to get ready for dinner?” She stabbed at the “on” button and put the phone to her ear. “Yeah, who is it? I told you not to call me anymore! Are you stupid or what?!”
Atlanta continued to apply her blush, but her ears were practically standing out on stems.
“Big deal!” Barbie continued. “Some cheap flowers. What did you do, pick them out of your mother’s backyard? Geez, you’re such a freakin’ loser. I hate you, you know that? I freakin’ hate you.”
Atlanta glanced over at the flower arrangement that was obviously from a professional shop, and had set someone back a hundred dollars or more. Backyard flowers my eye, she thought. Some guy is treating her better than she deserves.
Barbie clicked off the phone and began dabbing at the spilled foundation with a handful of tissues.
Eagerly, Atlanta waited for the next scene of the Barbara Matthew’s soap opera to begin. It didn’t take long.
Barbie tossed the soiled tissues in the general direction of the garbage can, then whirled around on her seat. “Aren’t you about done with your face there, Georgia?”
“What’s it to you?” Atlanta replied. “I’m not escorting you to dinner, so why should you care when I’m ready?”
“I need a little private time in my room, if that’s okay with you. Or even if it’s not.”
Slowly, methodically, Atlanta began to replace her makeup items in her cosmetic bag. While she wouldn’t admit that she was deliberately irritating her roommate, the old metaphor, “As slow as molasses in January” did float through her mind.
“Sorry,” Atlanta said, sounding completely remorse-free. “I’m not even dressed yet. I’ll do well to make it to dinner on time; I’m almost always late for everything. It’s part of my charm.”
“What charm?” Barbie grumbled as she picked up the phone again and punched in some numbers.
As Atlanta casually strolled around the room, collecting her lingerie, dress, and shoes from her assorted suitcases, she didn’t even bother to pretend that she wasn’t listening.
Barbie’s party answered right away. “Yeah, it’s me,” she said. “What’s up?”
Atlanta sat back down on the bed and began to carefully check her stockings for runs. She could see Barbie’s reflection in the mirror, and one look was enough to see that Ms. Matthews was unhappy with what she heard on the other end.
“Well, did you . . . you know . . . have that little talk?” She paused, tapping her fingernails on the table impatiently. “Yeah, and so? That is not what I want to hear! That is so not what I want to hear!” She glanced at Atlanta in the mirror and lowered her voice a notch. “This . . . situation . . . is getting worse, not better. We know who’s going to be the sorriest in the end, and it ain’t gonna be me. Fix it, dammit! You caused it; you fix it!”
She clicked off the phone and hurled it across the room onto her bed.
Atlanta realized she was standing there with her mouth hanging open, so she snapped it shut. Barbie shot her a look that was so cold and full of hate it gave Atlanta the shivers. Where did she get off being so angry?
“Plumbing problems at home,” she said. “Damned basement’s flooded.”
Atlanta nodded. “Yeah, sure. Happens all the time. Ours floods every morning, at nine sharp, like clockwork.”
Barbie mumbled a nonreply and returned to her toiletries.
As appealing as the prospect was—of continuing to irritate the heck out of her roommate—Atlanta decided that she had enjoyed as much of Barbie’s scintillating company as she could stand. Besides, in spite of what she had said, Atlanta prided herself on usually being prompt, or at least, not scandalously late.
So she quickly wriggled into the simple, white-linen dress she had brought for the occasion, slipped on sandal, strap-around-the-ankle pumps, single-stud, rhinestone earrings, and a delicate tennis bracelet.
Barbie turned to give her a once-over. “Is that what you’re wearing, Geor-gia?”
For half a second Atlanta felt a twinge of self-doubt. But just in time, the Reid Super Self-Confidence kicked in. She twisted slightly, until the side slit of her skirt showed a shapely expanse of thigh. “Yeah, eat your heart out, Miss Barbie.” She sauntered over to the door and jerked it open. “Later,” she said as stepped outside and slammed it closed behind her.
“Ah . . . a breath of fresh air . . . ,” she said as she strolled down the hallway toward the gallery, with a distinct Reid sashay to her walk.
Chapter 6
The moment Savannah stepped into Villa Rosa’s tasting room, she looked around, caught her breath, and grabbed the sleeve of Ryan’s tuxedo.
“Whoa! Get a load of this place!” she said, “I want a living room that looks exactly like this.”
Ryan laughed. “I suppose you do.”
Savannah gazed about, awestruck, taking in the enormous room with its twenty-five-foot-high, open-beamed ceiling, its old oak wainscoting, its mile-long, brightly polished, mahogany bar, and its massive stone fireplace. The carpeting beneath her feet was the deep, ruby shade of a fine Bordeaux, and when she stepped on it, she felt like she was sinking in to her ankles.
“Yeah, right,” she said, giving Ryan a nudge with her elbow. “Easy for you to say. You have a living room like this. Just like this.”
He grinned down at her. “Not just like this. You can’t stand up in my stone fireplace, and I don’t have twenty dining tables, or forty beautiful girls and their friends and families sitting around them.”
“You would, if you just crooked your finger. But then, what would you do with forty beautiful girls?”
“Precisely. And I couldn’t stand to hear that much giggling. That’s one thing I’ve always liked about John; he hardly ever giggles.”
Savannah sniffed the air, fragrant with the aroma of roasted meat, herbs, and wine sauces. China, silver, and crystal gleamed in the candlelight, spread across snowy, linen-draped tables.
The “Welcome Dinner” was semiformal, and gentlemen, looking wonderfully elegant in their tuxedos, escorted the beauty contestants, their mothers, sisters, and friends, who were decked out in evening dresses made of luscious fabrics in every pastel and jewel tone imaginable.
As usual, when hobnobbing with the rich and famous, Savannah felt a bit underdressed. Her “little black dress” was a good one, and the strand of pearls around her neck had been her Granny Reid’s. But her one-and-a-half-inch, practical pumps were $15.99, and she had even waited to buy those until she’d found a 10 percent off coupon from Spend Less.
Savannah wasn’t fooling anybody . . . least of all herself. She was hardy, peasant stock without a drop of aristocratic blood in her veins. But, considering Granny Reid was only two generations away, she considered herself fortunate. Royalty or not, she was of noble blood.
“Mmm . . . that dinner sure smells good,” she said. “I wonder what it is.” The ruined breakfast that she hadn’t eaten had worn off long ago, leaving her weak with hunger.
“Whatever it is,” Ryan said, “I’m sure that Mrs. Lippincott made certain it has no calories. She’s scary, that one. Reminds me of a Marine drill sergeant I once knew.”
Savannah looked around the room until she saw the lady in question. A pale lavender, satin gown hadn’t softened Marion Lippincott’s stern appearance one bit. Although she had exchanged her sensible loafers for two-inch heels, she still had a daunting, deliberate stride as she patrolled the room like a Coast Guard cruiser—everyone snapping to attention in her wake.
“Eh, she’s not so bad,” Savannah said. “It takes a tough old bird like her to run a gig like this. And it looks like she’s doing a good job. Everything’s going smoothly.”
“So far, so good,” Ryan agreed. “Time to do the rounds?”
Savannah nodded. “I’ll mill around the room here,” she said. “Then I’ll check the upstairs hall of the guesthouse.”
“I’ll go back to the gallery, make sure nobody’s trying to crash the party, and then I’ll walk the lower hall.”
Ryan disappeared, and Savannah slowly circled the room, acquainting herself with all the new faces. And pretty faces they were, too.
She had to admit that the big sister in her was coming to fore as she sized up each of the contestants. She couldn’t help comparing them to her own baby sister. She also couldn’t fight the abiding conviction that the kid had them all beat—hands down.
The vast variety of pulchritude was interesting: fresh-faced sweeties, model types with gaunt, chiseled features, and a few girls who appeared to have become women before their time, their eyes reflecting a bit too much worldly knowledge for their young ages.
Savannah recognized a few guests as socially prominent San Carmelitans, whom she had dealt with on other occasions. Catherine Whitestone-Villa was sitting at the head table next to a handsome, silver-haired gentleman. From the way she was hanging on his arm and gazing at him adoringly, Savannah surmised this was Catherine’s beloved husband, Anthony, the wanna-be state senator. He appeared less comfortable with the social scene than his effervescent wife. He had a slightly “hunted” look, as though he would much prefer to be somewhere far away from the formal, stuffy crowd.
Strange, for someone seeking public office, Savannah mused. He’d better get used to it.
A number of people clustered around the head table, clamoring for the Villas’ attention, but they seemed more interested in the quiet conversation they were sharing with each other.
It was only when Mrs. Lippincott strode over to their table that Anthony disengaged himself from Catherine and stood, shaking Marion’s hand vigorously.
She pointed to the podium on the slightly elevated, temporary stage that had been assembled at the far end of the room. Anthony Villa nodded his approval and shook her hand again.
Savannah smiled to herself. Yes, she could definitely take some lessons on People Management and Manipulation from the formidable Mrs. Lippincott. Even the seemingly shy Anthony Villa was eager to do her bidding.
As an army of waiters and waitresses dressed in stiffly starched black-and-white uniforms invaded the room, Savannah decided to take her leave. She hadn’t been invited to join the guests for dinner, so what was the point of tormenting herself? She’d score something in the kitchen after hours . . . and what the heck, she’d get a double portion of dessert to reward herself for delayed gratification.
When Savannah reached the top of the guesthouse stairs and looked down the hallway, she was surprised the difference thirty minutes could make. Half an hour ago, on her last round, the floor had been teeming with tittering teenagers, racing up and down the corridor in all stages of dress and undress, rollers in their hair, curling irons in their hands.
Now the hall was empty—its silence almost eerie.
She strolled along the passageway, her pumps making no sound as she stepped on the carpet that was nearly as plush as that of the tasting room, only this rug bore a classic pattern—a green trellis on a background of antique gold with grape leaves bordering both edges.
The walls were covered with the same wainscoting of old oak, while the upper half was stucco-textured in old-world mission style. The ceilings here were also open-beamed, and at the end of the hall was a large window with leaded glass. An outside light cast its glow through the golden glass, giving the hallway a pleasant, Midas-touch ambience.
Savannah was more than halfway down the hall when she noticed that one of the doors—2C—was ajar. She heard voices, females voices, coming from within the room.
Normally she wouldn’t have bothered eavesdropping on what was probably a frivolous conversation. But something in the tone—an almost ominous, very serious note to the voices—caught her attention. Silently, she took a few steps closer and listened.
“Don’t worry about it,” one of the girls said. “Now I wish I’d never even told you about it.”
“Well, you did tell me, and I am worried. I’m really worried. And if you were half as smart as you think you are, you’d be worried, too.”
Savannah heard rustling in the room and got ready to step away from the door if necessary, but the girls continued talking.
“I told you, I thought about it for a long time. It’s gonna work out just the way I planned. Everything’s set, you’ll see.”
“I don’t know. I’ve got a bad feeling about this. I think you should tell your folks. That’s what I’d do if I were you.”
“My folks! You’ve gotta be kidding. They’re the last people I want to know about this . . . at least until it’s all settled. Then I’ll tell them, and they’ll be cool about it.”
“And if they aren’t?”
“They won’t have anything to say about it, will they?”
“You’d better be careful. You could get hurt.”
“Naw, if anybody gets hurt, it isn’t going to be me. Guaranteed.”
Again Savannah heard activity inside the room. “Come on,” one of the girls said. “We’ve gotta get downstairs before Mrs. Lippincott misses us.”
“You go ahead. I’ve got one more quick phone call to make, then I’ll be down.”
Savannah had time to take a couple of steps backward before the girl emerged from the room and closed the door behind her. She was lovely, petite, with glossy black hair cascading in waves to her waist. She had big, golden-brown eyes that grew even wider when she saw Savannah standing there.
“Oh,” she said. “Who . . . who are you?”
“My name is Savannah Reid. I’m working Secu
rity for the pageant. Just making my rounds. And you are . . . ?”
“Francie Gorton. I’m one of the contestants.”
“Nice to meet you, Francie. Is everything all right?”
The girl gave a furtive glance at the closed door. “Ah, yeah . . . I . . . everything’s fine, I guess.”
Savannah put on her best soft, big-sister face. “You don’t sound too sure to me.”
“Yes, I’m sure. But I have to get down to dinner now. I’m late.”
The girl started to pass Savannah in the hallway, but Savannah stepped in front of her, reached out, and laid her hand on her shoulder. “Is there anything I can do? If there’s a problem, maybe I can help.”
Francie glanced at the door again, and for a second Savannah thought she might be about to open up and confide in her. She obviously needed to; her eyes were full of fear, and she was visibly shaking.
“No, really. You can’t help. I mean . . . it’s not my thing.”
Savannah pointed to the closed door. “Is it her thing? Does your friend need my help?”
The girl shook her head, and for a moment, sadness replaced the fear in her eyes. “No, Barbie knows everything. If you don’t believe that, just ask her. She never needs anybody’s help. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really have to go downstairs.”
Savannah released her. “Yes, of course you do. If you change your mind, and you want someone to talk to, I’ll be around. Okay?”
“Yes, thank you very much. You’re nice . . . for a Security person. No offense.”
Savannah smiled. “Gee, thanks. I’ll take that as high praise. Have a nice dinner, and good luck with the pageant.”
As Savannah watched her hurry away, she could hear the low murmur of the other girl’s voice on the opposite side of the door. When she had first heard the voice, she’d thought she recognized it: Barbie Matthews, all right. That level of conceit and cockiness was distinctive, even in an adolescent.
She couldn’t understand any of the specific words the girl was saying, but she sounded angry, even furious.
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