A Decadent Way to Die (10 page)

“I’ve known women like that. They overlook all sorts of things they shouldn’t when it comes to the men in their lives.”

“Like putting their feet on their coffee tables?”

“I took my shoes off first.”

“And leaving the toilet lid up?”

“I’m getting better at that.”

“After me yelling at you a hundred times.”

“It’s a long, slow learning curve.”

Savannah dipped her pinky into the melted ice cream and let Cleo lick it off her fingertip. She had to do the same with her ring finger immediately for Diamante or risk a fur-flying cat fight.

“Speaking of women who tolerate more than they should, can you believe Tammy and that new guy of hers?” she said.

“I didn’t like the way he was putting her down.”

“I didn’t like the way she was tolerating him putting her down.”

He shrugged. “Tammy’s a gentler soul than you are. You would have ripped his head off and handed it to him.”

“Actually, I had a fantasy along those lines, only involving a sword.”

“We’ll have to keep an eye on her.”

Savannah thought of the glow she’d seen in Tammy’s eyes as she’d gazed up at her new beau. She thought of other women—her friends, her sisters, herself—who had made bad purchases at the registers of the romance department.

“It won’t do any good,” she told him. “I know the look. No matter what we do or say, she’s a goner.”

“Guys aren’t the only ones with a long, slow learning curve?”

“Nope. Women, too. We all have to love one or two bad guys sometime during our lives so that we can appreciate that good one when he comes along.”

He gave her a quick, sideways glance, then concentrated on his ice cream. “And you’re still waiting, I guess? For that good one, I mean….”

“The one who looks like Tom Selleck, sings like Elvis, cooks like Emeril, and who can do body work on my Mustang and build an addition onto the back of my house?”

His smile sagged. “Yeah. That dude.”

“Naw. I’m not waiting for him. I’d settle for a guy who puts the toilet seat down and keeps his feet off my coffee table.”

He sighed, rolled his eyes, and lowered his feet to the floor. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic.”

Chapter 9

T
he next morning, Savannah decided to have a visit with Emma. The granddaughter was, after all, her client, not He-lene. And Savannah believed a good private investigator kept her employer well-informed. Well-informed, satisfied clients were more likely to write checks. Checks could be cashed. Electric bills could be paid.

It was a nice system.

So, when Tammy phoned and asked if she could take the morning off, Savannah did the daily paperwork herself and made a few calls, including one to Emma, asking if she could drop by for an investigator-to-client chat.

With any luck, she could pick up that all-important retainer check while she was at it.

Emma’s tiny beach cottage was three houses from the ocean on one of the many narrow streets in the area of San Carmelita called The Lanes.

Years ago, The Lanes had been plagued by criminal activity, mostly drug related, and as a cop, Savannah had chased many a fleet-footed perp between these tiny houses that sat only a few feet apart.

But now, the beach-front area had become gentrified. And the town’s miscreants could no longer afford to live in the tiny cracker-box houses with their nautical-themed decorations of boat oars, ships’ wheels, fishermen’s nets, and the occasional dinghy in the postage stamp–sized front yard.

Emma’s house was nicer than her neighbors’. Recently painted a cheerful, pale yellow with white trim, the place appeared well-loved. On either side of the door, container gardens bloomed with orange and red nasturtiums, reminding Savannah of He-lene’s estate.

Emma’s sporty little BMW was parked out front on a thin strip of sand between the street and the cottage. Next to the car sat an enormous black van that dwarfed the car and the bungalow. Without a doubt, it was the focal point of the entire block.

Its sides were painted with a giant logo of a skull with red, glowing eyes and nails protruding from it like the bristles of a highly annoyed porcupine. And above the skull, in ornate letters, dripping with blood, were the words, “Poison Nails.”

“Lovely,” Savannah muttered as she tried to squeeze her Mustang into a spot between the BMW and the van. “You must be the hit of the neighborhood with a monstrosity like that.”

As Savannah got out of her car and walked up to the cottage, she heard some frenetic, metallic screeching that, at first, she thought was some sort of machinery in its death throes.

The last time she had heard something like that, her Mustang’s engine had just thrown a rod on the Ventura Highway.

The racket seemed to be coming from a small shed beside the house.

Then she heard a man’s voice shrieking something that sounded like, “Death and blood! Thrash and die!” And she realized it was music. Sort of.

“Great,” she mumbled, walking up to the front door. “A catchy little tune like that … It’ll be stuck in my head all day long.”

She knocked on the door and, a moment later, it was opened by a far more casual version of Emma than Savannah had seen the day before.

Wearing a tank top, a pair of baggy men’s boxer shorts, and hot pink flip-flops, Emma looked like most of the other residents of The Lanes—relaxed and ready for a day of doing absolutely nothing.

Savannah decided she wanted to be a Lanes resident when she grew up someday.

“Good morning, Savannah,” Emma said, throwing the door wide open. “Come on in.”

“And a good morning to you, too.”

Savannah walked inside the tiny house with a living room that was approximately the size of her own bathroom.

One glance around told her that the place had once been decorated with careful consideration and good taste. Like the exterior, yellow and white were the principal tones on the walls and country cottage furniture. The sofa was upholstered in a cheerful lemon and cream French toile, accented by sapphire throw pillows.

A collection of antique cobalt blue bottles sat on shelves in the windows, sparkling in the morning light.

And several bright, colorful, abstract watercolors hung on the walls. Savannah recalled what Helene had said about Emma being a talented artist, and she suspected they were hers.

But like the space in front of Emma’s house, this area had also been invaded by an alien presence.

When Emma invited Savannah to take a seat on the sofa, she could hardly walk across the floor without tripping over the jumble of musical equipment. Black electronic boxes—small, large, and enormous—connected by what seemed like miles of tangled cords occupied nearly every inch of spare space in the small room.

“Sorry about the mess,” Emma said as Savannah nearly sat on a microphone shaped like a penis with pointed studs protruding from the top.

Gingerly holding it with two fingers, Savannah moved the mic to a nearby chair. “A girl wouldn’t wanna park herself on something like that,” she said. “She’d wind up sitting on a heating pad for the rest of the day.”

“Like I told you at Oma’s, my boyfriend, Kyd, is in a band,” Emma said, plopping down on the other end of the sofa. “You probably heard him practicing when you walked up.”

Savannah listened for a moment to the screeching and shouting, which could still be heard all too clearly. “Uh … yes. And I’m still enjoying it, even in here,” she said. “I saw his van outside. Poison Nails, huh? Creative name. Did he think of that himself?”

“Yes.” She shrugged and looked a little embarrassed. “It’s not everybody’s cup of tea, but …”

“Hey, art comes in all forms. Expression of the human spirit and all that.”

A particularly loud screech set Savannah’s teeth on edge and made her think of the time Dirk had accidentally stepped on Cleopatra’s tail, hard enough to warrant a visit to the vet.

She wondered what aspect of Kyd’s spirit that particular riff expressed. Would it qualify as pure demon possession or just a case of bad taste?

“I came to talk to you about your grandmother,” Savannah said. “And to tell you what I’ve uncovered so far.”

“Actually, Oma Helene called me this morning, right after you did. She told me that you found sleeping medication in her cocoa.”

“Yes, the police lab processed it yesterday and confirmed my worst suspicions.”

“The police are involved now?”

Savannah nodded. “I invited a friend of mine to your grandmother’s property to have a look and give me his impressions. He’s a detective in the San Carmelita Police Department. I was his partner for a long time, back when I was a cop. He’s a little rough around the edges, but he’s a gifted investigator.”

“And he thinks there’s foul play, too?”

“Absolutely. We also found an area of the road that had been dug out, right by where your grandmother lost control of her motorbike. We figure that’s at least two serious attempts on her life.”

Emma bit her lower lip and blinked her eyes several times. “Then it’s true. Someone’s trying to kill Oma. I can’t believe it. I knew it, but to hear you say it makes it so real, so horrible.”

“I’m sorry, Emma. It must be very upsetting. But at least you got help for your grandmother, and that’s what’s important right now. We have to do everything we can to keep her safe.”

Emma thought for a moment. “I’ll move out there with her, at least for now. If I’m there at the house, I can keep an eye on her, make sure no one gets to her … hurts her.”

“If you can do that, I think it’s a great idea. And I have an even better one, if you’d be willing to entertain it.”

“Sure. Anything for Oma.”

“I talked to her about this yesterday, when I saw her there at her offices in Los Angeles. But she pitched a fit—wouldn’t hear of it. Maybe you could persuade her….”

“If you think it’s a good idea, I’ll give it a try. What is it?”

“I know these two men—dear, dear friends of mine for years—who are professional bodyguards. They’re the best of the best … former FBI agents who’ve provided security for some of the—”

“No, no. Oma would
never
—”

“I know. She nearly threw me out of her office on my ear when I mentioned them to her. But if she could only meet them. They’ve got more charm than the law should allow. I promise you, she’d want to marry John and adopt Ryan on the spot.”

“I can’t imagine her agreeing to have bodyguards. My grandmother really values her privacy. That’s why she insists on having her staff live in separate quarters from the main house.”

“I understand. But for right now, until we can figure out what’s going on and who’s trying to hurt her …”

“I agree. It’s a good idea. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you.”

Hearing another particularly loud and unpleasant blast of noise from the shed, Savannah glanced over at the studded microphone and thought of the unpleasant men she had encountered in the past twenty-four hours.

“By the way,” she said, “I had the misfortune of literally bumping into Vern yesterday at your grandmother’s offices. What can you tell me about him?”

Emma’s big green eyes went cold at the mention of his name. She crossed her arms over the front of her tank top. “Vern is a slimy rat, pure vermin, who should have been exterminated long ago.”

“That was pretty much my take on him, too.”

“He should have been arrested for what he tried to do to my grandmother.”

“What she told me was true, then? He tried to seduce her?”

“
Seduce
her?
Rape
her is more like it. He snuck into her house at night and tried to climb into bed with her while she was sleeping.”

Emma smiled a nasty little smirk and nodded. “She hurt him really bad. It’s a wonder she didn’t shoot him. He’s lucky to have escaped with his life.”

Savannah chuckled. “I like your grandmother. I’m sure mine would have reacted the same way. We come from feisty stock, you and I.”

Emma laughed. “It’s true. We do.”

“And does Ada know about all this?”

“She does. Oma told her right away, but she refused to believe it. Called my grandmother a liar.”

“I’m sure that went over well with Helene.”

“I think Ada believed her more than she let on. Right after it happened, Ada took away Vern’s new Ferrari and his president’s Rolex. I’m sure there was some sort of connection.”

“Poor Vern.”

“Yeah. Life was hardly worth living for him without his new Ferrari and Rolex. He had to go back to his old Rolex and last year’s Ferrari.”

“Not to mention his flat, bruised equipment.”

At that moment, the back door opened and a guy with spiked black hair, heavy eye makeup, and at least half a dozen studs protruding from his face walked in. He carried a guitar decorated with a skull and crossbones. His bare chest bore the tattoo of a giant grim reaper.

Just the sort of guy you wanted to bring home to Mom.

Or maybe not
, Savannah decided.

Instantly, she could see that Kyd was as appealing as his music. And she could also understand why matriarch Helene wasn’t enamored with him.

“Hi,” he said when he saw her. “Who are you?”

“Savannah,” Emma said, “this is my boyfriend, Kyd. Baby, this is Savannah Reid, the lady I told you about. The one I hired to help Oma.”

“Oh, yeah. The private investigator.” He walked to Savannah and held out his hand. “That’s pretty cool, what you do. You find lost people and catch cheating husbands and cool stuff like that, right?”

“We pretty much leave the cheating husbands to their wives to catch, but we’ve found some lost people, yes.”

He pulled a large speaker monitor off a chair and onto the floor and took a seat.

Savannah noticed he had skulls and crossbones on his flannel pajama bottoms, too.
Definitely a case of fashion stagnation and death fixation,
she told herself.

As though reading her thoughts, he said, “You ever find dead people or catch murderers, cool stuff like that?”

She thought if he used the word “cool” one more time, she might smack him with his dick-shaped microphone.

“I’ve found a few dead people in my time,” she said in her most patient, long-suffering voice—the one she reserved for fools who deeply annoyed her. “It wasn’t cool at all. I’ve also brought some killers to justice. Now,
that
was cool. Extremely cool, in fact.”

He gave her a long, appraising look. “I guess you’d have to be pretty smart to do that.”

She shrugged. “Everybody’s smart in one way or another, about one thing or the other. I guess I’m smart in that way.”

“Kyd’s an amazing musician,” Emma piped up. “People don’t realize how hard it is to play death metal. It’s like jazz in a way … harder than you might think if you aren’t into it.”