A Decadent Way to Die (9 page)

Visions swirled, unbidden, through Savannah’s head. Strange, awful images: Vern crawling into bed with a woman old enough to be his grandmother, Helene delivering a crushing blow to his nether regions, Vern clutching an ice pack to his—

She shook her head, trying to clear her brain. After watching Jesse Murphy dance around with a roll of toilet paper between his legs, she’d seen, and imagined, enough male groin injuries to last her for a while. She didn’t need Vern and his ice bag in her brain, too.

“So, are you disappointed in me?” Helene grinned, her eyes twinkling. “Kneeing a guy in the crotch like that … maybe I’m not the great lady you thought I was.”

Savannah returned the smile. “Quite the contrary. You’ve risen a few notches in my estimation. I’d have done the very same, and so would anybody I’m related to.”

“Sounds like you come from a family of great ladies yourself.”

“Well, feisty females, to be sure.” She laced her arm through Helene’s. “You see,” she said, “I’m from south of the Mason-Dixon Line. And down there, we handle things a mite different when a guy messes with one of our womenfolk.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, ma’am. We don’t abide such nonsense. If that polecat Vern ever tries anything ungentlemanly like that again with you, you just let me know, and I’ll shoot him between the eyes … or any other place of your choosing.”

“Can I watch?”

“You can hold him down while I do it.”

“That’s a deal.”

Chapter 8

H
elene led Savannah to the opposite end of the suite and a door that bore gold letters, identifying it as the office of “He-lene Strauss, CEO.”

When they went inside, Savannah’s spirit took a deep breath and her imagination took flight.

This was what a doll maker’s studio should look like … at least in her estimation.

Unlike Ada’s cold, sterile space with its bare, stark white walls and glass and steel furniture, this room had warm, creamy tones that complemented the wood furnishings. A large desk with ornately carved, filigree scrollwork dominated the center of the room. And, like the great room of the Strauss mansion, wooden shelves lined the walls, filled with beautiful dolls.

To the right, floor-to-ceiling windows provided a sweeping view of the City of Angels. But it wasn’t the panorama of Los Angeles that caught Savannah’s eye. It was the large picture on the back wall, behind the desk.

Unlike the black-and-white photos hanging in the reception area, this one had, obviously, not been taken by a professional. The others had been crisp, artistically shot pictures of children in contemporary clothing in modern settings. But the photograph that dominated the wall in Helene’s office was an enlargement of what must have been a very old snapshot, taken many, many years ago.

In the faded, grainy picture, a young girl, maybe six or seven years old, stood on the sidewalk of a quaint, European town. With its half-timbered buildings and steeply pitched roofs, the village reminded Savannah of the Strauss mansion. The child was dressed in a simple, plain dress that seemed a couple of sizes too big for her. A large hair ribbon did little to hold her long ringlets back. They spilled around her sweet, baby face, making her look like a cherub in a Victorian painting.

In her arms, she clutched a doll that bore a striking resemblance to Savannah’s Helene doll.

“Is that you?” Savannah asked Helene.

Helene glanced up at the picture for a moment. And in that instant, Savannah saw a look of deep pain and sadness cross her face.

“No,” she said simply.

Helene walked over to the desk and, as she sat down, tossed the doll she had brought from Ada’s office into a nearby waste can.

“That piece of garbage,” she mumbled. “I’d rather be dead than have my company supply something like that to children.” She grinned perversely. “Better yet, I’d rather see Ada dead.”

“Now, now …” Savannah shook her head. “Don’t go saying things you don’t mean.”

When Helene didn’t reply, but gave her an even, unblinking stare, Savannah added, “And if you
do
mean it, that’s all the more reason to keep it to yourself. I don’t want you confessing to any murders that haven’t been committed yet.”

“Speaking as a former police officer?” Helene said.

“Yes, but I’ll tell you a little secret: There’s no such thing as a
former
police officer. Once a cop, always a cop.”

Curious, Savannah walked over to the waste can and looked down at the doll inside. “May I?” she asked.

Helene shrugged. “Go ahead … as long as you put it back where you found it.”

Savannah leaned down and picked the doll out of the can and looked her over.

She was a fashion doll, about fourteen inches tall, with long blond hair, big brown eyes, and a mini-dress and strappy stilettos. While Savannah recognized the outfit as the sort that a lot of hookers wore on Sunset Boulevard, the doll wasn’t really any more objectionable than a lot of dolls she had seen recently on toy-store shelves. And even though she usually chose more innocent-looking baby dolls for her nieces, she didn’t quite understand Helene’s strong reaction to this prototype.

“It’s a disgusting piece of trash,” Helene said as she sat at her desk, thumbing through a stack of mail. “Ada knew I’d hate it; that’s why she didn’t show it to me until the last minute … thought I couldn’t stop it once she had it in production. Well, she’s in for a big surprise.”

Savannah turned the doll over and over in her hand. Other than the fact that its figure was unrealistically tall and thin, it was a pretty doll with a sweeter than usual face.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” she said, “why do you hate it so much? I mean, I know the thing about not setting an artificial standard for little girls, but …”

“Take off its clothes,” Helene told her.

Savannah sat in a side chair next to the desk and removed the doll’s dress. On the doll’s back, she saw two small buttons … one at its waist, another just above it.

“The doll’s name,” Helene said, “is Spa Helene. Instead of a house or a condo, she comes with a ‘spa,’ where a male doll, a plastic surgeon, can fix all her so-called imperfections.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Exactly.” Helene shook her head. “Push the top button on her back.”

“I’m afraid to.”

“You should be afraid. Do it.”

Savannah pushed the top button and felt a creepy movement inside the doll. A second later, the doll’s bust pushed forward, going from what might have been a B cup to proportions those hookers on Sunset Boulevard would have envied.

“Oh, my goodness,” she said.

“Push the bottom one.”

Reluctantly, Savannah did, and there was a similar vibration, which resulted in the doll’s somewhat flat buttocks transforming into a remarkably rounded rear.

“This is a joke, right?” Savannah said. “A toy to sell in an adult porn store, or—”

“I only wish it were. And that’s not all.” Helene left her desk and walked over to a carved wooden cupboard. She opened the door, revealing a small refrigerator filled with bottles of water, juices, and fresh fruit. She took out a water bottle and took it back to her desk.

“Give me that thing,” she said, pointing to the doll.

Savannah handed it to her.

Helene opened a desk drawer, rummaged around, and brought out a cotton swab.

“It comes with something Ada calls a beauty wand, made to look like some sort of surgical tool. The child wets the end of the tool”—she opened the bottle and dipped the cotton swab in-side—“and swipes it across the doll’s face like this.”

Savannah bent over the desk and watched closely.

As Helene wetted first one eye, then the other, the brown irises turned bright blue. She dampened the pink lips, and they instantly became bright red and at least twice as thick. The cheeks looked like someone had just applied a handful of blush with a trowel.

The transformation was complete. “Spa Helene” had gone from the girl next door to full-fledged tramp. What more could a child want?

“Does Ada really think a toy like this will sell?” Savannah asked. “What mother would buy such a thing for her daughter?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised. The kid throws a fit for it in the aisle of the toy store, and mommy caves. Happens every day.”

Helene tossed the doll back into the garbage can, along with the cotton swab. “My niece has some serious body-image issues, and it’s clouding—no, destroying—her business judgment. I made a terrible mistake, appointing her president of this company. She’s just so different from the person she used to be.”

“What changed her?” Savannah asked, settling back into her chair.

“Five years ago, out of the blue, her husband of twenty years ran off with a much younger woman. She loved him dearly. It was such a blow to her self-esteem, I don’t think she’ll ever get over it.”

“That’s why all the hair and makeup and clothes that aren’t—”

“Age appropriate?”

“Something like that.”

“Yes. When he left her, she lost weight, started working out compulsively at the gym, bleached her hair, and had a ton of plastic surgery to enhance this and take away that.” Helene sighed and shook her head. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for self-improvement, making the best of what you’ve got, all that. But Ada was a beautiful woman before … and now, I don’t even recognize the person she’s become, inside or out. She was truly dear to me. I miss her.”

In the heavy silence that followed, Savannah thought long and hard about what she was going to say. She didn’t want to alarm the woman, but …

“Helene,” she said, as gently as she could, “I know there’s been bad blood between you and Ada. I have to ask you: Do you think your niece could do you harm?”

“If you’d asked me that question five years ago, I would have thought you were crazy. I never believed that little girl I watched grow up, who loved me and I loved her, would ever be a threat to me. I’d have told you that I would die for her and her for me.”

Helene stood and walked over to the picture of the child with the doll on the wall. She looked up at it a long time.

Finally, she turned to Savannah with tears in her eyes. “Everything changes, Savannah,” she said. “People, places, circumstances … everything changes with time. Often in ways you can’t even imagine.”

She walked back to the desk and slumped into her chair, suddenly looking her age … and maybe a few years more.

She added, “I think the hardest thing in life is to acknowledge those changes and not become bitter when they happen.”

Savannah sensed Helene was speaking of more than a niece’s betrayal, but she decided not to pry.

“You ask me if my niece could do me harm, but what you mean is, do I think she’s capable of murdering me. Right?”

Savannah nodded.

Helene took a tissue from inside her desk, dabbed at her eyes, then tossed it in the trash with the discarded doll. “That’s another of life’s hard lessons I’ve learned, Savannah. Human beings are capable of anything.”

By the time Savannah had driven through the Los Angeles late-rush-hour traffic and arrived back in quiet, seaside San Carmelita, it was past dinner time, and her presupper dropsies were in full control. There was nothing quite like low blood sugar and drivers cutting you off, and then flipping you off, to make a girl want to draw her weapon and shoot out a few tires.

She debated about swinging into a fast-food joint, getting something from the window, and eating off her lap. But after a hard day, she had a yen for her own good home cooking.

Other than the problems in the Strauss family, there was nothing wrong with her world that some chicken and dumplings couldn’t fix.

If only she’d thought to poke a few of those chocolate chip cookies in her purse before setting out for the big city.

Another reason to head home and cook a meal was the prospect of luring Dirk to her house for the evening. Not that Dirk required “luring” by any stretch of the imagination. She was convinced he could smell her cooking anywhere in town, because he invariably showed up just as she was setting the table.

The first few years of their friendship, she had complained about that. But along the way, she had admitted—at least to her-self—that she would much prefer to sit down to a table with him than to eat in front of the TV with her two cats.

Diamante and Cleopatra were better conversationalists, but … being cats … they were finicky. And it was much more fun to cook for someone like Dirk, who was wildly in love with everything you put on his plate.

As she sat, waiting for a particularly slow light to cycle, she reached into her purse and pulled out her cell phone. She punched in his number and put it on speaker.

“Hey, you,” he said, sounding a bit more chipper than usual … or, at least, less grumpy.

“Hey, yourself. Wanna come over for dinner tonight?”

“Yeah, sure. But I’m hungry now.”

“So, come over now. I’m five minutes from the house.” Click.

He was on his way.

She grinned and hung up. That’s what she liked … a guy who played hard to get.

Savannah sat in her cozy chair, holding an equally cozy dish of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey ice cream with a hearty helping of hot fudge on top.

Her cats sat on either sides of her house slippers on the footstool, covetously eyeing every bite she took.

Sprawled on her sofa, his feet propped on her coffee table, Dirk had his own bowl. But his was Cherry Garcia—also with hot fudge. They could never agree on a single flavor, and that was a good thing, because neither was likely to share a pint without significant bloodshed.

“I appreciate you running those checks for me,” she said, digging out a particularly large chocolate chunk with her spoon.

“No problem.” He scooped up a ridiculously big spoonful, and she gave him the same sort of disapproving look as when he was eating ribs and got barbecue sauce on the backs of his fists.

He took a smaller portion and said, “Are you going to tell Waldo’s grandma on him?”

“She’s not his grandmother. She’s his great-aunt. And I have a feeling she already knows he has a record. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was the one who bailed him out and paid for his lawyers.”