A Decadent Way to Die (5 page)

“I mean it,” she said. “I’m at a beachfront property about five miles north of town. It’s just past the Vista del Sol restaurant where I took you for your birthday. First drive on the left. I’ll meet you at the main house.”

“Ooo-kaay,” he said. “You gonna tell me why?”

“I’ll fill you in when you get here. Bring evidence bags, your camera, and a stiff ruler.”

No sooner had she said it than she knew it was coming. He was, after all, male.

“You might not need a stiff ruler if
I’m
there. Whatcha gonna measure?”

“Something longer than three and a half inches, so bring the friggin’ ruler.”

He chuckled.

That was one thing she loved about Dirk—his tough hide. He took insults better than most.

“You gonna buy me dinner again?” he asked.

“Sure.”

“Really? Wow! I’ll be right out.”

She clicked the phone closed. “Sure, I’ll buy you a dee-luxe cheeseburger, fries, and a beer … your very next birthday.”

Chapter 4

H
alf an hour later, Dirk was standing over Savannah, watching as she shoved the wooden yardstick into a strip of soft dirt that crossed the path, from one side to the other.

“See how the straightedge slides right down, nice and easy like?” she said. “This section’s been dug out recently, then filled back in.”

He kicked at the path with the toe of his sneaker. “Yeah. I see that. It’s hard as a rock here. You’d break that ruler if you tried to push it in here.” He moved to the other side of her and tested that soil, too. “And it’s just as hard over here.”

He looked up and down the path. “This road’s old … beaten down over the years. I’ll bet there’s not another spot like that anywhere on it.”

“Me, too.”

She pushed the yardstick easily through the dirt until it met resistance. “Fourteen inches,” she said. “That’d be deep enough to do the trick for sure.”

“What trick?” he asked.

She pulled the ruler out and continued to poke around. “And about six inches across.”

“What’s this all about?” he said.

“But how would they know she wouldn’t see it and stop or go around it?” she muttered to herself as she stood, then walked several feet down the path, back toward the main road.

“She, who?” Dirk wanted to know.

“Helene Strauss, the wonderful elderly lady who owns this property. She reminds me of Gran. She was riding her motorbike from the main house to the mailbox out on the highway, like she did every morning. She hit that hole and went over the cliff right there.”

“Your granny doesn’t ride a motorbike.”

“She would if she had one. Hush up, boy … you’re interfer-rin’ with my concentration.”

“God forbid.”

“So, why dig the hole
there
?” she said. “The path runs close to the cliff for quite a stretch here.”

Dirk walked over to Savannah and surveyed the area, up and down. After a few moments, he said matter-of-factly, “The view.”

She looked up at him and couldn’t help noticing the moderately smug look on his face. “What?”

“The view. It’s the best here. Back there and up ahead there’s more bushes and trees, blocking the view of the ocean.”

“That’s true.” Savannah nodded, looking through the break in the foliage that afforded a breathtaking vista of sea, sand, and sky. “Even if I rode through here every day, I’d turn my head and soak in that gorgeous scenery every time. Look at how pretty it is.”

She turned to Dirk. “Boy, I take back what I’ve said about you behind your back over the years. You
do
have the sense God gave a goose.”

“Gee. Thanks. How often does a guy get a compliment like that?”

“I want a house like that,” Savannah said as she and Dirk rounded a curve in the path and saw the first cottage.

She had already fallen in love, having glimpsed bits of the roof and upper story through the trees. The mullioned windows with their dark red shutters, the steeply pitched roof, and lacy gingerbread woodwork seemed fit for a fairy-tale princess.

Though the tie-dyed tee-shirt and tattered beach towel draped over the upstairs balcony railing, and the dried-up vines that trailed from the flower boxes suggested that someone other than Snow White or Cinderella lived there.

“Call it a hunch,” she told Dirk, “that’s Waldo’s place.”

“Who’s Waldo?”

“Helene’s rare-do-well great-nephew, who lives here on the property.”

“And sponges off the old biddy?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“That he’s a sponge?”

“That she’s old or a biddy. First time I saw her, she was toting a rifle, and I’ll betcha dollars to donuts she knows exactly how to use it.”

“She’d shoot me for calling her a ‘biddy’?”

“She’s a mite sensitive right now, and I don’t blame her one bit. Thinking that somebody’s been trying to kill you will do that to a gal.”

They passed the house, with its unattractive laundry hanging out to dry, and walked on down the path toward another, slightly smaller, but equally charming cottage.

This one, a miniature version of the mansion, had flower boxes brimming with healthy plants, immaculately trimmed shrubs, and a thriving herbal garden besides.

The windows were open, and white, ruffled curtains danced lightly in the breeze.

A pretty young Latino woman, wearing a simple white shirt and jeans, her flowing black hair tied back in a ponytail, had some garden shears in one hand and a cell phone in the other.

She was speaking Spanish, and although Savannah’s Español was limited at best, she thought she heard her say something like, “
Tener cuidado con lo que dices.
” And she was pretty sure that meant, “Be careful what you say.”

That alone would have been enough to pique Savannah’s extremely piqueable curiosity. But when the woman saw them, she jumped, snapped the phone closed, and shoved it into her jeans pocket.

With a tense and guilty look on her face, she began to frantically harvest cilantro from among the herbs.

“
Hola,
” Savannah said. “
Buenas dias.
”

Yes, no doubt about it,
Savannah thought. The young lady appeared nervous, upset that she had been overheard. And by a Spanish-speaking person at that.

“
Bue
nos
dias,
” Dirk whispered. “
Bue
nos, not
bue
nas.”

Okay
, Savannah admitted to herself,
a semi-Spanish-speaking person.

“Hello,” the woman responded, not quite meeting Savannah’s eyes.

Savannah walked closer to her and stood, deliberately, a bit inside her personal space. From her worried expression and the way she kept shifting from one foot to the other, Savannah knew she had succeeded in making her even more uncomfortable.

Savannah liked it when people were uncomfortable … at least when she was on the job. Whether they intended to or not, nervous people revealed more of themselves than relaxed folks ever would.

“I’m Savannah Reid,” she said, putting out her hand to the woman. “And you are …?”

She fumbled with her herbs and her shears for a moment, before freeing her right hand. Shaking Savannah’s, she mumbled, “I’m Blanca.”

“I’m happy to meet you, Blanca. And this is my friend, Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter.”

Dirk gave the young woman his most intimidating “cowboy gunfighter” scowl … the one that made Savannah feel the need to bop him and tell him to be nice.

The look worked well on tough gangbangers, but when used on less hardcore citizens, it scared the daylights out of them and frequently caused them to withdraw.

Blanca looked like a turtle pulling into her shell as she took a step backward, ducked her head, and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Detective?” she whispered. “You are police?”

“I’m not the police,” Savannah told her. “And he’s just my friend. We’re here to make sure that everything’s okay for Mrs. Strauss.”

“Miss Helene,” Blanca corrected her. “You call her Mrs. Strauss, she gets very mad. She did not like her mother-in-law.”

“Oh, right.” Savannah smiled. “I forgot. Miss Helene. We’re just checking a few things to make sure that she’s okay. You heard what happened to her … the accidents?”

“Yes!” She nodded vigorously, her beautiful, dark brown eyes wide. “I heard! She fell off the mountain! My husband saved her.”

“Then your husband is the gardener?” Savannah asked.

“Yes. She was going to fall. He pulled her back.”

“Were you there when it happened? Did you see it?”

Blanca glanced right and left, then down at her sneakers. “No. I was not there.”

“Where were you?” the still-scowling Dirk wanted to know.

“In
el castillo.
I was cleaning. I clean for Miss Helene.”

“
El castillo
? Oh, the castle … the big house?”

“Yes. I clean the house and my husband is the gardener. And he takes care of the cars.”

Savannah looked deep into the mahogany-colored eyes that seemed so reluctant to meet hers. “Blanca, do you know anyone who would want to hurt Miss Helene?”

The young woman dropped her shears. She bent over and took her time picking them up. When she did, Savannah noticed that the handful of cilantro she was holding was shaking like a willow tree in a Georgia wind storm.

“No,” Blanca said. “Miss Helene is like an angel. She gets mad sometimes, and she screams at people sometimes. But she isn’t bad. She’s good.”

“Who does she scream at?” Dirk asked.

Blanca shrugged. “Everyone, when they don’t do things right. She wants everyone to do their work right. But she’s good.”

“And you can’t think of anyone who would want to hurt her?” Savannah asked again.

Blanca hesitated just a bit too long, then shook her head. “No. I can think of no one.”

Savannah lowered her voice to a soft whisper. “If you think of someone, would you tell me? You know … to help Miss He-lene?”

Blanca looked up at Savannah with eyes filled with painful secrets. After several long, tense seconds, she finally nodded.

“Thank you,” Savannah told her, reaching into her purse and pulling out a business card. She held it out to the woman. “My phone number is on there. You can call me any time at all, day or night. Okay?”

Blanca mumbled a halfhearted, “Okay,” and shoved the card into her jeans pocket.

Savannah glanced around. “Where is your husband, Blanca? We need to speak to him, too.”

A look of fresh fear crossed the housekeeper’s face.

“Just for a moment,” Savannah added. “There’s no problem. We just need to ask him about how he saved her. He’s a real hero, your husband.”

Blanca gave her a weak smile and a slight nod. “Yes. A hero.” She pointed toward the back of the cottage. “He’s working on the chicken house.”

Savannah heard Dirk groan, and she couldn’t help smiling just a little.

Dirk liked cats and dogs, but he was no fan of livestock … beyond eating them.

“Thank you,
señora
,” Savannah told Blanca. “Please call if me you think of anything.”

“I will.”

No, you won’t
, Savannah thought.

Her internal lie detector was pretty reliable, and even though she had sensed that Blanca harbored a certain degree of affection for her employer, she wasn’t expecting the phone to jingle any time soon with a call from the housekeeper.

Savannah reached for Dirk’s arm and gave him a little tug. “Let’s get going, big boy,” she whispered to him.

“Chickens,” he said, resisting.

She pulled harder. “I don’t see you turning your nose up at the fried chicken I serve on my granny’s blue china platter every Sunday afternoon.”

He acquiesced and fell into step beside her. “Southern fried drumsticks don’t bite.”

“Neither do nice little hens. They just lay eggs and—”

“Roosters bite … and claw … and scratch … and jump up on your shoulder and flap their wings all over your head and scare the crap outta you!”

She gave him a quick, sideways glance and saw the unadulterated terror in his eyes. “Wow,” she said. “That sort of heartfelt conviction comes from personal experience, I’d say.”

“Damn right, it does, and I don’t want to talk about it.”

“When did it happen? Were you a little kid? Wow … that must have been traumatic for a youngster to—”

“I said, I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“That kind of thing can be so awful for a youngun. Did you have nightmares about it for years?”

“Still do.”

“That’s plum awful. I’m so sorry. I feel so bad when things like that happen to helpless, little, impressionable children.”

“Yeah, well … whatever.” He shuddered. “How was I supposed to know that perp would have a rooster the size of a school bus for a guard dog when I chased him into the backyard?”

“Perp?”

He shot her a wary look. “I told you, I don’t wanna talk about it. Just drop it, okay?”

“You were on the job? You were a grown up?”

“It was a really, really big frickin’ chicken! Just shut up about it.”

She swallowed a snicker. “Okay.”

They walked along in silence a little way.

Finally, he said, “That’s part of why I really like to eat your Southern fried chicken legs on Sunday afternoons.”