Cereal Killer (8 page)

“Got that?” she asked them. “Good. You girls discuss it between yourselves. I want an answer by morning.”

By the time Savannah trudged downstairs in her bathrobe the next morning, she had no more information about Cait Connor’s death than she had upon retiring.

Not surprisingly, neither the cats nor her subconscious had formulated any more theories during the night.

She found her sister stretched out on the sofa in the living room, a sheer wrap of black chiffon over her purple leopard nightgown. She lay on her side, lounging on some throw pillows, watching an old black-and-white romance movie on the television.

As always, every hair on her head was teased on end, smoothed, and sprayed stiff. And every layer of makeup had been carefully troweled on.

Marietta might have her cleavage bared for almost every occasion, including funerals, baptisms, and PTA meetings, but her naked face was only a distant memory to her friends and loved ones.

All she needs is a glass of champagne and a box of bonbons to make the picture complete
, Savannah thought. She mumbled a feeble, “Good morning,” in her direction as she passed through on her way to the kitchen.

“It’s about time you woke up,” Marietta returned. “I thought I was going to plumb starve to death before you finally showed your face. Do you always sleep this late?”

Savannah glanced up at the clock on her kitchen wall. “It’s eight o’clock,” she said. “Not exactly dawn-thirty, but it ain’t noon either.”

“Yes, but it’s eleven at home, and my stomach’s operating on Georgia time,” came the answer from the living room.

“Too bad your butt doesn’t shift into gear on Georgia time,” Savannah grumbled as she poured a rich blend of chicory and French roast into the coffeemaker.

“What?”

“I said, what do you want for breakfast? Cereal? Fruit? I’ve got some bear claws and...”

“No, I want the works—eggs, sausage, biscuits. Grits, if you’ve got ’em. I believe that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. And I’ve got a lot to do today so I need my energy.”

Savannah shuffled over to the refrigerator and rummaged through it, gathering the eggs, sausage, butter, and peach preserves. “Just for the record,” she shouted, “my home is your home and that includes the kitchen. You don’t need to wait for me. Next time, don’t sit around hungry. Just jump right in and help yourself to anything you want.”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that. That would be presumptuous.”

Savannah paused, egg in hand, and considered walking into the living room and cracking it on her sister’s perfectly coifed head. “No,” she muttered, “we wouldn’t want to be presumptuous, heaven forbid.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, do you mind then? I’m trying to watch this movie, and you keep interrupting. It’s at my favorite part where they kiss and make up.”

“Gr-r-r-r.”

By the time Savannah and Marietta had finished eating breakfast, Savannah was considering the pros and cons of skipping the country and not mentioning to her family where she had gone.

Brazil was nice this time of year, but not nearly far enough away. She had heard that the air was thin in the Himalayas, but she couldn’t see any of her siblings climbing the slopes after her, and she had recently bought a red ski parka from L.L. Bean, so...

“I’d help you with the dishes,” Marietta was saying as she sipped the last drop from her coffee cup, “but I have to get ready. I’m meeting my boyfriend at six o’clock at a fancy-dantly restaurant in Malibu, and I have to get all dolled up.”

Savannah tried to erase the scowl off her face, along with any other “disapproving, judgmental” expressions. Having been severely scolded yesterday for being controlling and condescending toward her younger sister, she was determined that today she would refrain from using such words as
less than cautious, perhaps somewhat naive,
or
a tad too trusting.
That also left out other prime choices like
pee-pee head
and
shit-for-brains.

Today she would be the epitome of tact, trusting that her forty-one-year-old sister actually had good instincts when it came to evaluating people’s characters and intentions and used common sense in such matters.

“The restaurant is right on the water in Malibu, overlooking the ocean,” Marietta was saying. “I figure we’ll have a few drinks.”

“That’s nice.”

“And then dinner.”

“Hmmm…”

“And if he’s even half as cute in real life as he is in his picture, I’ll probably go ahead and spend the night at his place, so don’t expect me back here tonight. I’ll pack a little overnight bag and—”

“Are you crazy?” Savannah groaned, covered her face with her hands, and shook her head. “Have you even got the sense that the good God gave a goose?”

“Don’t you start that crap with me, Savannah Reid! Why, I oughta—”

Marietta jumped up from the table, but Savannah reached over and grabbed her arm, forcing her back down into her seat.

“Mari, I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have made the goose comment. But you’ve gotta be smart, girl, or it could wind up costing you, big time. Really, you don’t know this guy from Adam. I wasn’t kidding when I said he could be a criminal. The Internet is a major hunting ground for sex offenders. This meeting of yours could be a setup.”

Marietta sniffed and stuck out her chin. “My Bill is
not
a criminal. He’s a Sunday school teacher for Pete’s sake.”

“Says who?”

“He told me so himself. And he volunteers his spare time to Big Brothers and his local Boys & Girls Club, and he even works for Toys for Tots at Christmastime.”

“Well, you might be safe then,” Savannah mumbled into her coffee cup. “He’s probably a pedophile.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

The back door opened, and Savannah was relieved to see Tammy walk in. Her sunny disposition was even more welcome than usual in the midst of a family thunderstorm.

“Hi!” Tammy said, radiating cheer and goodwill. Savannah silently blessed her.

Seeing Marietta at the table, Tammy looked confused for a moment, then beamed. “Marietta! How nice to see you again.”

Marietta said nothing, just stared at her blankly. Quickly, Tammy crossed the room, holding out her hand. “We met in Georgia, remember?” she said. “When you were going to get married and... Well, it didn’t work out that time, but... Anyway, it’s good to see you. I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Neither did I,” Savannah said under her breath.

“I got in last night,” Marietta said. “And my sister and I are already getting into it.”

“Getting into what?” Tammy asked.

“Tammy doesn’t speak Southern,” Savannah explained. “She’s a Yankee.” Turning to Tammy, she said, “Marietta means that she and I are having a disagreement about the wisdom of flying across the country to date somebody you met in an Internet chatroom.”

Savannah watched Tammy’s face as her fleeting expression of alarm was displaced by a poker smile. “I see,” she said evenly. “And when are you meeting this... gentleman, Marietta?”

“At six o’clock tonight in Malibu on the Pacific Coast Highway. Isn’t that romantic? We have a date for drinks and dinner and .. —she smiled coyly—“whatever.”

“It’s that ‘whatever’ crap that’s troubling me,” Savannah said.

Marietta tossed her head. “My big sister doesn’t trust my judgment. She’s afraid that I’m going to get myself raped.”

“Or murdered, or infected or impregnated or robbed or swindled....” Savannah sighed. “Gee, the possibilities just abound.”

Tammy glanced from sister to sister, then nodded. “Ah. Okay.”

Silence reigned for several long, long seconds.

“I have an idea,” Tammy volunteered.

Savannah jumped, like reaching for a lifeline. “What? What’s your idea?”

Tammy turned to Marietta. “You aren’t meeting your friend until six o’clock. So you’ll be here until five or so, right?”

‘Yeah.” Marietta looked suspicious.

“And it’s only about nine,” Tammy said, looking at her watch. “So that gives me eight hours to check him out for you. If you want me to, that is.”

Marietta shook her head and crossed her arms over her mostly exposed chest. “No way. Love means trust. How could I face my soul mate this evening, knowing that I’d had a private investigator probing into his private affairs all day long?”

“Tammy is very good at this,” Savannah said. “She’s discreet. She can do most of it over the Internet. He’ll never even know.”

“But
I
would know,” Marietta argued. “And I have to live with myself. My relationship with Bill is the real thing, and when it’s real, you don’t have to invade somebody’s privacy like that. It’s a violation, plain and simple, and I won’t stand for it.”

Savannah studied her sister thoughtfully across the table for a few moments, then she said, “Tammy can find out if he’s really single, like he says he is, and not married with five kids.”

Marietta’s face registered the struggle between good and evil... for less than three heartbeats. She turned to Tammy and said, “William Albert Donaldson. Born 5-27-61. Check ’im out. And while you’re at it, find out if he’s got a pot to piss in.”

Savannah met Dirk in the parking lot and walked with him up the sidewalk toward the county medical examiner’s center. In keeping with the rest of the city’s government structures, the ME’s buildings were pseudo-Spanish style with beige stucco walls and red tile roofing. Ice plants filled the flower beds along the walkway... drought-resistant plantings only, of course. The occasional dry spell, complete with water restrictions, was just one of the unpleasant realities of Southern California living, along with earthquakes, brush fires, and Santa Ana winds.

“Thanks for inviting me along,” Savannah told him, as he opened the door for her. “I needed to get away before I did Mari some serious harm.”

‘Yes, you sounded pretty stressed out when I called,” he said with a chuckle. “I don’t know why you try to keep your dingbat sisters out of trouble all the time. It’s a waste of energy.”

“Ain’t it, though? As soon as anybody fishes them out of trouble and gets them hosed off, they find another dirty puddle to flounce around in. Sometimes I think they like the mud.”

“Now you’re figuring it out. What’s that your grandma says about singing pigs?”

“Don’t try to teach a pig to sing. It’s a waste of your time, and it irritates the pig.”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“Easier said than done when it’s your family.”

“I know. That’s why I don’t have one. Too much trouble.”

They approached the desk where they would have to sign in before proceeding to Dr. Liu’s autopsy suite in the rear of the building.

As a slovenly clerk in a badly fitting, wrinkled uniform sauntered around the partition, Savannah could feel her toes curl inside her loafers. Officer Kenny Bates. Her least favorite person on the planet.

“Hey, Savannah!” His pudgy face split with a wide, lecherous grin as he hurried over to her. “Long time no see. You’re lookin’ good, girl!”

Savannah ignored him and reached for the sign-in pad. With the pen that was attached to the clipboard by a piece of dirty twine, she wrote the name “Wilma Flint-stone” and shoved it over to Dirk. She had been using cartoon pseudonyms for years, and old Kenny had been too busy panting over her bustline to even notice.

“Back off, Bates,” Dirk growled as he scribbled his name. ‘You’re pollutin’ the air over here. Cheez, use some mouthwash, would ya?”

But Kenny didn’t even flinch. He leaned across the counter until his face was only inches from Savannah’s.

He smelled of something like egg salad and garlic, with the lingering note of eau de b.o.

“You never got back to me about when you’re coming over to my place,” he said in what he no doubt considered to be a deep, sexy voice.

She had received obscene phone calls with more appeal.

He glanced over at the glowering Dirk and whispered, “I just got some new black satin sheets. You oughta come check them out.”

“Trust me, Bates,” she said, fixing him with blue lasers. “I ain’t your type. I’m not inflatable.”

As she and Dirk walked away, Bates called after them, “One of these days, girl, I’m gonna tell the captain that you come in here with Coulter. He’d take exception to that, I bet. You and him never did get along. People around here say that’s why you got fired.”

Dirk spun on his heel and in less than a heartbeat had reached across the divider and grabbed Bates by the front of his too-tight shirt. He yanked him halfway over the counter, where he held him until Bates’s face went from red to purple.

“The day”—Dirk began with deadly emphasis on each word—“the day that you cause any trouble for Savannah or for me is the day that you suffer, Bates. You got that? And we’re talking more hurt than you’ve ever felt in your long, miserable life. Do you understand me?”