Savannah was already on her way to the stairwell at the back of the building. Going down those steps was the last thing on earth she wanted to do. But she had to have answers, and they lay down there in the darkness.
The moment she began to descend the stairs, she felt the coolness of the old adobe structure surround her, sheltering her from the afternoon sun. Her eyes took a while to adjust to the darkness and when they did, she saw a sharp turn halfway down the narrow staircase.
It was when she reached that landing and turned to the right that she saw her. A pitiful, crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs.
Savannah was only faintly aware that Dirk had caught up to her and was standing on the step above her.
“Shit,” she heard him say, quietly . . . a lot of pain expressed in one word.
“Yeah,” she replied. “Yeah.”
“Here,” he said, shoving a flashlight into her hand.
“Thanks.”
“Watch where you’re steppin’.”
“Okay.” Normally, she wouldn’t have needed to be reminded about crime-scene protection. But at the moment, she wasn’t thinking; she was feeling.
“Oh, sweetie,” she said, the words catching in her throat as she hurried on down the steps and knelt beside the girl. As she reached out her hand to touch the body, she knew that Mike Farnon was right. Francie Gorton was dead. But until Savannah actually touched her, she wouldn’t allow herself to believe it.
Behind her, Dirk wasn’t saying anything. He knew, too. But he asked anyway, and she understood why. Hope. Until you absolutely, positively knew for sure . . . there was always hope.
“She’s gone,” Savannah said. “No pulse, no breathing. No rigor yet. It hasn’t been long.” She reached down and stroked the long, glossy hair that spilled across the girl’s face and onto the floor. “Poor baby, no wonder she stood me up. While I was there at her house, she was . . .”
Savannah felt Dirk’s hand, big, warm and comforting on her shoulder. “Come on, Van. We’ll call Dr. Liu. Why don’t I walk you up and outta here.”
The professional deep in Savannah’s mind told her that they should be searching the floor and every inch of this stuffy, dark, spooky little room for evidence.
But a louder voice that was speaking from her heart told her, “To hell with evidence. What does it matter now? You can catch and execute a dozen killers for this, and this sweet, young girl will still be dead.”
“I’m sorry, Francie,” she said. “I told you I’d look out for you, and . . . I’m so sorry.”
Dirk’s hands were under her arms, lifting her. “That’s enough. Let’s go.”
He pulled her to her feet and turned her back toward the stairs. On rubber legs she climbed the steps into the sunlight. As if she were a feeble, newly released hospital patient, he guided her to the Buick, opened the door, and seated her inside.
After getting her settled, he walked over to the cruiser and shared a few words with Mike Farnon. Then he returned to the car and got in.
He didn’t say anything as they drove away, out of the parking lot and onto the highway, heading back toward Villa Rosa.
It was when they reached the citrus groves that Savannah lost it. The grief came crashing in on her, so intense that she began to shake all over. Her hands covering her face, she leaned forward in her seat and began to sob.
Immediately, Dirk pulled the Buick off the road and parked it between two rows of lemon trees, where he cut the engine.
He reached over the back of the seat and fumbled around in the rear floorboard.
“Here, Van,” he said, shoving a handful of yellow Wendy’s napkins at her. They smelled of ketchup and onions, but she took them anyway and continued to cry into them.
She felt his arms go around her, pulling her to him. Giving in to a rare and luxurious moment of complete neediness, she sagged against him and buried her face in his warm, solid chest.
“It’s okay, honey,” he said. “Go ahead and bawl your face off if you wanna. I won’t tell nobody.” He patted her head like she was a distressed golden retriever. Then he began to slowly run his fingers through her hair, from the nape of her neck and out. It was deliciously soothing.
“That’s why I got you outta there right away,” he said. “You looked like you were gonna start blubbering any minute.”
“Th-th-thanks,” she said, hiccuping.
“No sweat. It ain’t nothin’ you wouldn’t do for me. Except, of course, I wouldn’t actually be cryin’, but you bein’ a broad and all, you can do that sorta thing and—”
“Dirk . . .”
“Yeah?”
“You’re ruining the moment. Just shut up and hug me.”
“Oh . . . okay.”
His arms tightened around her until she could hardly breathe. But she liked it. She felt that same, sweet, protected feeling that she had experienced as a kid when Gran would allow her to crawl into bed beside her in the middle of a big, scary lightning storm.
She felt safe. She felt loved.
“I liked that thing you were doing . . . you know . . . with my hair,” she said, her face still against his chest.
He hesitated, then reached up, laced his fingers into her curls and combed them through. “You mean this?” His voice sounded husky, a little breathless.
“Yeah, just like that. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, honey.” He pressed his lips to her forehead and gave her a long, sweet kiss, then put another, quicker one, on her cheek. “Sh-h-h . . . be quiet now,” he said. “You’re ruinin’ the moment.”
Chapter 22
Savannah could feel the electricity in the air. It was the final night, talent contest, final judging, the awarding of the Miss Gold Coast crown, and the girls were almost hysterical with excitement.
But there wasn’t enough energy in a nuclear power plant to recharge her depleted batteries. The only force driving her was sheer anger . . . channeled into determination to catch the son of a bitch that had turned a lovely girl into a heap of garbage at the bottom of a musty, old stairwell.
Not that she knew for sure that anyone was responsible for Francie’s death. During Dr. Liu’s initial examination, the only injuries she found were consistent with taking an accidental tumble down a flight of stone steps.
But Savannah knew she had been pushed. And she was going to find the person who did it and throw them off a cliff or out a window or whatever was handy at the time . . . if she didn’t fall down dead in her tracks from sheer emotional exhaustion and sleep deprivation first.
The evening’s festivities were being held, once again, in the tasting room. And Villa Rosa was living up to its name with multicolored bouquets of roses on every table, roses that had been cut from bushes on the property. The heavenly scent filled the room and spilled out into the gallery, even to the courtyard.
Teenage girls, wearing every sort of garb imaginable, were scurrying about. Ten minutes ’til talent-show time.
Standing in the doorway separating the tasting room and gallery, Savannah watched them and tried to guess what their talent might be. Some were obvious: the majorette with her baton, the one in the formal black gown carrying a flute, the cowgirl with a rope, another dressed in a tunic and tights, carrying a skull and reciting, “To be, or not to be . . .” under her breath.
She had left a tense Atlanta upstairs, strumming her guitar and making strange sounds that she called, “warming-up exercises.” Savannah hoped that she would at least place somewhere in the top five. If she didn’t, she was going to be difficult to get along with . . . even more difficult than usual. And if one of the Reid gals got to be cranky tonight and tomorrow, Savannah had already decided that she was the one. After the day she’d had, she deserved it.
On second thought . . . it had been a pretty rotten week. The whole month hadn’t been that great.
But before she plunged headfirst into the deep end of the self-pity pool, she reminded herself of Francie’s mother—her daughter in the morgue
and her son in Juvenile Hall for malicious mischief, suspected of murder. No matter what was going on, somebody else always had it worse.
“Is it true?”
Savannah turned around to see Marion Lippincott, her perpetual notebook in her hand, her tortoiseshell glasses perched on the end of her nose, a worried look on her face.
“You mean about Francie?” Savannah asked.
“Yes. I just heard that—”
“It’s true. But it may have been an accident.”
Marion’s eyes searched hers, and Savannah knew she was taking into account her tear-swollen lids and red nose that a generous dusting of powder hadn’t remedied.
She also knew that the All-Seeing Mrs. Lippincott didn’t believe it had been an accident either.
Marion glanced around, then took Savannah’s arm. “Come with me,” she said.
She led her out into the courtyard where they found a private spot beside the fountain, which was lit with pink floodlights in honor of the final night of competition.
“I wasn’t going to mention this,” Marion said, “because I didn’t think it was important. But this morning, when I was at breakfast, I left my notebook on the table and walked away for a few minutes to attend to something. When I came back, it was open.”
Savannah tried to think what value this information might be. But it wasn’t readily apparent.
“So?”
“It was open to a particular page.”
Marion moved closer to a lantern that hung from an ivy-entwined wrought-iron pole and held her notebook up to the light for Savannah to see.
She looked over the page which had a list of names with columns of numbers next to them. Other than recognizing some of the names as the contestants’, it made no sense to her.
“I’m sorry. I don’t see your point,” she told her.
“This is a summary of the judges’ tally sheets . . . so far, that is. It shows how they scored the girls in their evening gowns.”
Savannah was tempted to sneak a peek at Atlanta’s marks, but resisted. “Okay. And?”
“And, as of this morning, before she left, Francie was ahead. She was winning the Miss Gold Coast crown.”
A lightbulb switched on in Savannah’s tired brain. “I see. And whoever was looking at that page at breakfast, they would have known she was ahead.”
“That’s right. This was my first pageant with Francie, but she was a lovely, poised, intelligent girl, and they say she played the violin beautifully. She had an excellent shot at winning this one, or any other pageant she chose to enter.”
“Hmm.” Savannah stood, thinking, watching the fountain for a moment, as its water tumbled from one tier to the next, sparkling like myriad tiny pink sapphires in the rosy light.
She thought of the dark stairwell at the old mission.
“This morning, according to your book, who was in second place?” she asked.
“Take a guess,” Marion Lippincott replied.
“Desiree Porter?”
“Desiree Porter.”
Savannah was so proud that she was very simply about to bust. Rather than risk another bout of “You Never Support Me in Anything I Do” with Atlanta, she had staked out a seat, front and center, for her sister’s talent presentation. She had wanted to make sure that Atlanta couldn’t miss her when she looked out over the audience.
But now that she was sitting there, looking up at a talented young woman who also just happened to be her sibling, Savannah was thrilled to her toes.
With all the confidence and talent of an experienced professional, Atlanta was belting out an energetic version of the old country classic “Silver Threads and Golden Needles,” and her California audience was enthralled. Most were clapping and some were even singing along on the chorus. She was receiving a far more enthusiastic response than the flute player or the baton twirler.
Savannah watched, mentally recording every detail to relate to Gran later on the phone. She knew that it was a memory she would replay herself many times, just for the sheer joy of it. This picture was one of those that would hang in her own special “Atlanta Gallery” for the rest of her life.
When the song was finished and the applause roared through the tasting room, Savannah felt her eyes fill with tears. Again. For the third time that day.
It had to be a record for a non-PMS week.
And, as usual, she had no tissues.
Since Dirk wasn’t around with a handful of fast-food-joint napkins, she decided to run to the ladies’ room and get something to wipe away the sniffles. As soon as Atlanta exited the stage, bowing all the while, Savannah left her seat and made her way through the side door and into the hallway.
As she approached the rest rooms, she was surprised to see Anthony Villa, who was coming out of the men’s room.
Wasn’t he supposed to be in there judging the competition? She hated to think he had missed that marvelous Reid performance.
He looked preoccupied, even worried, and didn’t seem to notice her.
Just as he passed the pay phone on the wall, it rang. He jumped as though the thing had shot a string of bullets at him, and the color drained out of his face.
Savannah watched, fascinated, as he stood there, first reaching out to touch the receiver, then pulling his hand back—a man torn with indecision.
It’s just a phone, she thought. Pick it up for heaven’s sake.
But he didn’t. He stood there, hand outstretched, fingers trembling, but he didn’t.
Instead, he began to walk away, so fast that he nearly ran headlong into Savannah.
“Oh,” he said. “Ms. Reid. I didn’t know you were . . . I didn’t see you and . . .”
The phone rang again. And again.
Savannah stared at Anthony Villa, watching as his anxiety seemed to grow by the second. “Are you going to answer that?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No, it’s probably nothing. And I have to get in there for the judging.”
“Okay. Then I’ll answer it,” she said. “It might be important.”
Savannah strolled over to the telephone, feeling his eyes on her, feeling the tension radiate out of him in almost palpable waves.
She picked up the receiver. “Hello?” She listened for a moment, then said, “No, this isn’t Henry’s Pizza. I’m afraid you have the wrong number. This is a pay phone.”
Hanging up, she turned to Anthony, who looked like he was going to melt into a big puddle right there on the floor. She had never seen anyone look so relieved.
What the hell had he been expecting? A call from the grave?
“I . . . I . . . really should get back now,” he muttered.
“Yes,” she said smoothly. “You really should, you being a judge and all.”
For a few seconds their eyes locked, and Savannah knew.
She saw his guilt, she saw his fear, and she knew.
And Anthony Villa knew that she knew.
Turning on his heel, he hurried to the door and disappeared into the tasting room.
Savannah glanced back at the phone. “Well, I’ll be damned,” she whispered.
“Now let me get this straight: You want me to lock up a guy who may be our next state senator because you say he looked at a phone funny. That is what you’re telling me, isn’t it?” Dirk was staring at Savannah as if she were one queen of hearts short of royal flush.
“I know it sounds stupid,” she said. “You had to have been there. Really. He looked like a ghost from the past was trying to reach through the phone and grab him around the throat. He was white, I mean, the guy turned blanc de blanc right there in front of me.”
She and Dirk were standing, nose to nose, in the middle of the room that Barbie and Atlanta had shared. Dirk had been searching it yet another time when Savannah had marched in to give him her news.
He was less than impressed.
Considerably less.
“Well, I think I’ve already got the guy who did it,” he said. “He’s locked up right
now in juvie, and it’s going to take a heck of a lot more to convince me that he ain’t the one than some nonsense about Villa lookin’ at a phone.”
“But that’s the phone she called him on. We know from the records that she called that particular pay phone right before she went out to the parking lot and got nabbed.”
Dirk shook his head. “We don’t know that he was the one who answered that night. We don’t even know if her making that phone call had anything to do with her getting killed. Besides, Villa’s got phones at his house, in his office, probably in his car. Why would she call him on a pay phone?”
“Because she had a cell phone, and there’s a record of every call she makes. And Anthony Villa is a married man.”
“So, what are you saying? That little Miss Barbie and future senator were doing the grizzly-bear hump?”
“Well, he wouldn’t be the first politician to screw up his life that way. Besides, he’s a judge here at the pageant. She’s been known to drop her knickers for judges before.”
Dirk thought that over for a moment, then shook his head. “Naw, it’s the kid. Don’t ask me how I know, but I know. That’s it.”
“Er-r-r-r. You’re as stubborn as a mule’s behind, you know that?”
He grinned. “You’ve mentioned that . . . several times in fact. I don’t know what it means, but . . . Now, if you don’t mind, I need to get to work here.”
He turned away from her, walked into the bathroom, and began searching under the sink.
Savannah left, grumbling beneath her breath, “. . . men . . . won’t listen . . . think they know everything . . . pee-pee heads . . . baboon butts.”
Surveying the acres of cars in the dark lot, Savannah had no idea which vehicle belonged to the Villas. She had searched the rows for the green Jeep that she had seen Catherine driving previously, but it wasn’t there. She had seen the height of Catherine’s heels tonight and she was sure that she had driven, not walked down from the house on the hill. Apparently, they had driven another car. But which one?
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