“Don’t you worry, Gran,” she whispered into the moonlit night as she increased her stride to a jog. “My tail is turned, and I’m a- runnin’.”
Chapter 17
Breakfast, in all of its fresh fruit, yogurt, and bran-muffin glory, was served on the poolside tables beneath the blue-and-white-striped umbrellas. The coffee wasn’t nearly strong enough to raise Savannah’s blood pressure to even minimal levels. But she downed it, uncertain of when she might ever see food or a caffeine source again.
Afterward, she chased Marion Lippincott around the complex for over half an hour, trying to get a private moment with her. This beauty-pageant business was a lot more work than private detecting, she decided. And, as far as she was concerned, “The Lip” was welcome to it. She would just stick with chasing down the perverts and the robbers, murderers and wayward husbands who fooled around with the gals who groomed their wives’ poodles. This pageant routine was far too stressful.
Finally, she nabbed Mrs. Lippincott inside the gift shop, buying a handful of 35mm film for one of the pageant photographers who was running low.
“You would think,” she was saying to the woman behind the counter, “that a professional photographer would bring enough film to do the job. I can guarantee you, he will never work one of my pageants again.”
The clerk didn’t seem to care that Mrs. Lippincott was upset . . . or about anything else for that matter. Perhaps the coffee hadn’t been strong enough for her, either, Savannah thought, as she watched her not even bother to stifle a leisurely yawn.
But it gave Savannah the opportunity to be sympathetic. She stepped up to the counter and plopped down a few dollars for some overpriced French crackers. “I can’t believe you have to take care of something as trivial as film,” she said.
“Oh, no. Film isn’t trivial,” she replied. “In this business, hairpins aren’t trivial. With teenage girls, absolutely everything is monumental . . . especially at a beauty pageant.”
Both women took their purchases, bagged in classy gold sacks with the Villa Rosa logo, and walked out of the shop.
“Before we go back into the center,” Savannah said, pausing outside the gallery, “I need to ask you a few questions about a couple of your girls.”
Marion hesitated, glancing over Savannah’s shoulder at the door. Duty was calling, but she acquiesced. “Okay, but—”
“I’ll make it brief. What can you tell me about a girl named Desiree who is staying in the room next to mine?”
“Desiree Porter is an odious child, who makes my life miserable anytime she shows up at one of my pageants. She’s spoiled, selfish, and not half as intelligent or attractive as her nitwit mother has led her to believe she is.”
“Oh.” Somehow, Savannah hadn’t expected such candor from a professional like Mrs. Lippincott. Desiree must have really made an impression. “Is she highly competitive?”
“She will do anything to win. I daresay, she has done everything she can think of . . . and although she isn’t at all wise, she’s quite cunning. I would imagine she’s thought of a lot of ways.”
“Have you ever known her to hurt another girl at a pageant?”
“Nothing I can prove, but I’ve had my suspicions.”
“How did she feel about Barbie Matthews?”
“More than once, they’ve been the winner and first runner-up for important crowns. Desiree hated her, and I’m sure the feeling was mutual.”
Savannah gave a quick look around, but—other than some people in the parking lot, who were well out of earshot—they were alone. “Do you think Desiree is capable of killing another girl . . . like Barbie?”
“I wouldn’t put anything past Desiree. Most of the girls I see in the pageants are delightful, lovely young women—the best of our society. But Desiree is the worst. I’ve only known one other girl who was more cruel, more manipulative and devious.”
Savannah had a feeling that she knew what she was going to hear. “Yes . . . ?”
“Barbara Matthews. She was the worst.” Marion Lippincott gave Savannah a little smile that sent a chill over her, in spite of the warm, morning sunshine that was chasing away the previous night’s fog. “But she’s dead now, isn’t she?” said Marion. “And whatever happened to her . . . I can honestly say, I believe it couldn’t have happened to a more deserving brat.”
“I see.”
“Now, I really must get this film back to the photographer. He’s taking pictures of the girls in their interview suits.”
She turned to leave, then reconsidered. “By the way . . . another one of the girls left today. She was afraid to stay after what happened yesterday, so she went back home.”
“Who was that?”
“Francie Gorton.”
Savannah sighed as she watched Marion Lippincott walk away with her determined stride, and she felt a bit relieved that the girl was no longer on the scene. It was probably better that way.
She’d feel much better once they were all home, safe and sound. And especially one little lady from Georgia.
Savannah found Dirk hanging around the now-empty breakfast tables. He was shoving a banana into his mouth with one hand and poking muffins inside his jacket with the other.
“You better watch that excess fiber, boy,” she told him. “You know what it does to your digestive system, and you’re going to be in the genteel company of ladies all day.”
“Oh, yeah, you know all about it.”
“Unfortunately, I do. I’ve sat on all-night stakeouts with you. I know you far too well.”
“And familiarity has bred contempt?”
She grinned at him. “Naw, not contempt . . . maybe momentary disgust, but—”
“What have you got for me? Have you been layin’ around in bed, eatin’ bonbons, or have you been workin’?”
“Bonbons, I wish. You’ll want to check out Barbie’s shampoo, the bottle there in her room. Word has it, it’s spiked with drain cleaner. The bottle probably has prints on it that belong to a sweet little darlin’ named Desiree Porter. And she may have slashed Barbie’s evening gown, too.”
“Mmm . . . do you suppose she did more than that?”
“It’s a possibility. But then, at this point, there are so many possibilities.”
“How’s that precious sister of yours this morning?”
“The one I’d like to hog-tie and send back to Georgia in a burlap bag?”
“That’s the one.”
“She’s getting her picture taken with the rest of the girls. They are getting ready for the interview judging this afternoon, and then the talent show and the awards tonight.”
“So you figure they’ll be heading out of here tomorrow morning?”
“There’s some sort of good-bye breakfast, and they’re supposed to be gone by noon.”
Savannah felt the cell phone in her purse buzz. She took it out, looked at the caller ID, but didn’t recognize the number.
“Hello. Yes, this is Savannah.”
She glanced over at Dirk, who was all ears.
“Yes, Francie, I’m glad you called. How can I help you?” She nodded. “Of course. I’d be glad to. I’ll be right there.”
Dirk tried to lean closer and listen, but Savannah nudged him away.
“All right. I understand. I’ll wait until after eleven. Yes, I’ll see you then, and thank you for calling.”
“Well? What did she want?” Dirk was practically dancing. “Did she say anything about her brother? Did she say he was there at the house?”
“No, she didn’t mention Trent, but she did say that she’s decided to talk to me, to tell me what was going on just before Barbie disappeared.”
“Hey, that’s great! But she doesn’t want you to show up until after eleven, huh?”
“That’s right. Her mom will be going to work then, and she said she wants to talk to me alone.”
Dirk’s face fell. “I guess that answers my next question.”
“That’s right, big boy. You don’
t get to go this time. It’s a girl thing.”
“After hanging around here, I’m gonna have to watch football games, chew tobacco, and belch for a week to get all this estrogen out of my system.”
Savannah patted him . . . hard . . . on the chest, right about where she figured one of his stashed muffins was. She felt it mash very nicely.
“I’m going to go tell Atlanta that I’m leaving the winery for a while. I’ll have Ryan keep an eye on her for me while I’m gone.”
“Yeah, and I will, too. Let me know right away if the Gorton gal tells you anything good.”
“I will, sugar. I surely will.”
As Savannah turned to leave, she thought she saw a movement among some oleander bushes only a few feet away. But the brush was extremely thick, and she couldn’t see if it was a person or maybe a bird or—
No, she knew it wasn’t a bird, or a gopher, or a stiff breeze; that was wishful thinking. It had been a person. Someone had been standing there. The question was: How much had they heard?
And the other question that nagged at Savannah long after she had left the pool area was: If they heard ever ything—would it matter?
She had an uneasy, almost sick feeling, deep in her guts that it would. She just wasn’t sure how.
Savannah didn’t need to see the graffiti on the walls of almost every building on Via Norte to know that she was in the bad end of town. The bars on every window and door were proof enough.
Having served her time on a beat in that neighborhood as an SCPD officer, she had memories . . . most of them unpleasant . . . of events that had gone down on nearly every street corner and in almost every alley. And the occupants of many of the houses were known to her, as she had seen some of them at the worst moments of their lives. She and Dirk had sometimes been the reason those were bad moments, as they had arrested them for everything from domestic abuse to public intoxication and sometimes much worse.
But she could also recall the good times, when she had returned a runaway five-year-old and his dog to his frantic mother, when she had arrived just in time to deliver a premature baby and managed to coax breath into the infant’s tiny lungs, when she had talked a young woman into leaving her violent boyfriend and starting a new life for herself and her children in a safe house.
She had made a difference on these streets and inside these houses that were miniature fortresses, although that might not be obvious, looking at the neighborhood now.
Turning the Mustang down the road where the Gorton family lived, she noticed that this street was better than some. The yards were small but well-kept, with the patches of grass watered and mowed, flower beds blooming with geraniums, nasturtiums, and marigolds.
Savannah parked in front of 337, noting that there were no cars sitting in the narrow, gravel driveway. Francie’s mother would have left by now, and although Savannah preferred to interview a minor with a parent’s permission, the girl had been adamant about waiting until they could be alone.
Savannah also kept her eyes open for any sign of Trent. The boy stood a good chance of becoming their number one suspect, and the sooner they located him and started keeping tabs on him, the better.
Dirk had told her that he drove an old, restored Dodge Charger, but there was no sign of either the boy or his car.
As Savannah walked up the sidewalk to the front door, she heard a whining, coming from the other side of the fence that bordered their property. It sounded like a dog in some sort of minor distress. She made a mental note to check on it later.
No one came to the door when she knocked the first time, or the second, third, or fourth.
That’s what I was afraid of, she thought. The kid got scared and decided not to talk after all.
She walked around the side of the house to the backyard and could hear the dog next door whimpering as he followed along the opposite side of the high, wooden fence.
To enter the rear of the property, she had to pass through a gate. The backyard had been enclosed with a hurricane fence, and she saw a small henhouse at the rear of the property. A dozen or so chickens pecked at some grain that had been strewn on the ground, and an enormous red rooster sat atop a fence post, proudly surveying his domain.
“Chickens . . . Hm-m-m,” Savannah said to herself. “Not a good sign for Master Trent.”
No one came to the back door either when she knocked. Double damn, she thought.
“Francie,” she called out. “Francie, it’s Savannah Reid. Are you inside, honey? If you are, open up.”
After another pounding on the door, and rapping on a couple of windows produced no response, Savannah had to admit she was licked. Either the girl had left the house, or she was inside and had no intention of showing her face.
The trip was a write-off.
The whining next door got even louder, and when Savannah turned around to look, she saw the source . . . and why he was upset.
A gorgeous animal stood on the other side of what was a wire fence farther back on the property, beyond the wooden planking. At first, she thought he was a purebred wolf, by his long, lean legs, big feet and lush fur. But as she walked closer to him, she saw that he had pale blue eyes and the markings of a husky.
“Well, hello, you handsome fella,” Savannah told him as she stepped up to the fence. “Aren’t you a beauty!”
The dog whimpered and shook his head, as though beckoning her to come over to his side of the fence.
“Yes, I would love to take you home with me,” she said, “but I’m pretty sure you would have Cleopatra and Diamante for lunch. Or, at least you’d try, and you’d wind up with scratches all over that pretty long muzzle of yours.”
She grimaced, looking at the mangled, half-chewed poultry carcass that someone had tied with pieces of rough twine around his neck. A sprinkling of white feathers littered the dog’s yard. “Looks like you’re already in trouble for trying to make lunch out of the neighbor’s chicken.”
Having been raised in the rural South, Savannah had heard of the practice of tying a dead bird around a dog’s neck and allowing it to stay on him until it literally rotted off. A disgusting method, but supposedly an effective one for putting the animal off the idea of chickens. And certainly, this fellow looked as though he hated his situation.
“Maybe you should just stick with phoning the Colonel the next time you get a hankerin’ for a drumstick, darlin’,” she told him.
He mumbled something in wolf-dog that sounded like a pathetic denial.
“What’s that?” she said, sticking her finger through the fence and stroking his moist black nose. “You say you didn’t do it? You were framed? That’s what all the bad guys say. Why should I believe you?”
The big eyes rolled, and he shook his head, fluffing out the magnificent ruff of fur around his neck where his gruesome burden was tied.
“Well, that’s true. You’ve never lied to me before, but . . .”
Savannah stood there, thinking, wondering, evaluating her options. “Hang in there, handsome,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”
And she was, a couple of minutes later with her Swiss Army knife in hand. “I’ll tell you what,” she said. “If you come back here to the gate . . . that’s it . . . right back here, where I can reach you.”
She leaned over the locked gate that connected the two yards. “Now don’t bite me, okay?” Stretching as far as she could, she could almost reach the animal, but not quite.
“If you want me to help you, you’ll have to stick those big clodhoppers of yours up here on the fence. That’s a good boy . . . wolf . . . dog . . . or whatever you are.”
He reared up and lifted his huge front feet onto the gate. She was shocked to see that he was nearly as tall as she was. Images from Jack London’s stories and the Grimm brothers’ fairy tales flashed through her mind.
“Hm-m-m . . . what big teeth you have, my dear,” she told him. “Ah, but you’re just a big baby, aren’t you?”
Again, more eye rolling and whining.
“Okay, okay. Hold still.” Reaching across the gate, she slid her knife blade beneath the twine and quickly sliced through it. She grabbed the end of the cut string and hauled the carcass over the gate to her side of the fence.
“But you can’t tell anyone that I cut this off,” she told him. “It’ll just be our little secret. And if anybody asks, it fell off of you and right here into this yard, which, by the way, I was invited to come into by one of the house’s occupants. Got that? I just found this foul fowl lyin’ back here on this side of the gate.”
Relieved of his albatross, the ancient mariner began to prance about, shaking himself, and grinning a big, toothy, wolfy grin.
“Feel better now?” she asked, as she leaned over and coaxed him back onto the gate so that she could pet him. Looking at the brass tag that dangled from his heavy leather collar, she said, “Nanook. That’s your name, huh? Well, I’ve done you a favor, which means you owe me. If I ever find myself plagued by a kid in a red cloak or a trio of bothersome pigs, I’m gonna call on you, okay?”
The blue eyes looked into hers with a depth of intelligence and understanding that took her aback, and the quiet dignity of the creature touched her heart.
“You’re welcome,” she said softly. “It was my pleasure.”
Moments later, as she was placing the dead chicken into a plastic bag she had dug out of her trunk, she heard Nanook pacing on the other side of the fence. At least he wasn’t whining anymore.
But as she drove away, an ambulance siren sounded a few blocks away, and she laughed to hear her new friend answer with a comical parody of the siren’s howl.
Now she had another memory for this neighborhood . . . the profound experience of looking into a wolf’s eyes and, for a moment, touching a far more noble soul than her own.
Chapter 18
Like many California coast towns, San Carmelita had begun its life as a mission, established by Franciscan fathers who had traveled from San Diego to the San Francisco Bay Area, building churches and converting the Native Americans along the way . . . whether they wanted to be or not.
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