Killer Calories (11 page)

“
C
ome on, Chicken Little, rise and shine,” Tammy demanded, standing beside Savannah's bed, hands on her hips. “You're going to be late for early-morning exercises.”

Savannah covered her head with a pillow and groaned. “Leave me alone. I didn't get to sleep until an hour ago.”

She didn't dare tell Tammy she had sneaked out to meet Dirk. That would have eventually led to a discussion about cherry pie à la mode. Some things were better left unsaid.

“But you have to get your juices flowing.”

“My juices are happy right where they are, thank you.”

Tammy's lower lip protruded in a self-righteous pout. “Now, Savannah, how are you going to lose any weight while you're here if you don't go with the program?”

“What makes you think I want to lose weight?” She uncovered her head and glared, bleary-eyed at her assistant. “Some of us actually like ourselves, whatever weight we are. And it isn't easy in a society that loves to make us feel as though our value as human beings in inversely proportional to our numbers on the scale.”

“Well, I ... I ...” Tammy sputtered. “I didn't mean to imply that ...”

“And you'd better not, either.” She sighed and shook her head sadly. “Really, Tammy, I thought better of you. I truly believed you were more open-minded, more liberal with your thinking than that. I mean ... to judge another human being on such a trivial, shallow, prejudicial—”

“No, please! I'm so, so sorry,” Tammy exclaimed, nearly in tears. “I'll never ... never ... I ...” She backed out of the room, her hands held high in surrender. Even after she closed the door behind her, Savannah could hear her apologizing on her way down the hall.

Savannah giggled and snuggled deeper between the sheets.
Ah, I'm good,
she thought. If there was anything Tammy was more proud of than her slender, fit body, it was her reputation as a bleeding-heart humanitarian.

The kid didn't have a prejudiced bone in her body. But, if making her think she did, bought Savannah some extra time in bed, it was all worthwhile.

Yes ... she could luxuriate between the sheets for another hour,
and
she had made a morning person feel bad about crawling out of bed to exercise!

A
skinny
morning person ... and that was the worst kind.

Yes, she
was
good. Very good, indeed.

 

An hour and a half later, a rare pang of conscience propelled Savannah out of bed and onto the hiking trails in the hills above the spa. It was still early morning, and she had plenty of time before her noon appointment to watch Dirk roast Josef Orlet's tri-tips on the station grill.

She figured if she took a little jaunt around the property, she could kill two birds with one jog: First, she could proudly announce to Tammy that she
had
gotten her exercise for the day. So there! And second, she might get another look at the neighboring estate. Anybody as nosy as Phoebe Chesterfield might have a few stories to tell.

As she neared the crest of the hill, Savannah saw a figure in a brightly colored, flowered dress moving along the wisteria-covered arbor. Although a large straw bonnet concealed the wearer's face, Savannah had a feeling she had found Miss Phoebe the Snoop.

Rather than alerting the old lady to her presence, Savannah waited until she was only a few yards away to hail her. No point in giving her getaway time.

“Hello, neighbor,” she called, jogging across the lawn to the arbor. “I just dropped in to get acquainted.”

Phoebe Chesterfield turned and stared at her, the look of shock as clear as the lines on her face. Apparently, she wasn't accustomed to being greeted in such an open, friendly manner.

“My name is Savannah Reid,” she told her. “I'm a guest at the spa for a week or so. I suppose that makes us neighbors. I was just admiring your lovely garden. Do you do much of it yourself?”

There. She had delivered that with just the right amount of casual flippancy. At least, she hoped so.

But Phoebe just continued to stare at her with pale blue eyes the color of the bachelor's buttons that bloomed in profusion on the hill nearby. She had a delicate beauty about her, suggesting that she had been a handsome woman in her day. Clouds of silver hair cascaded freely down her back and around her shoulders. Her straw bonnet was tied with blue ribbons, the same shade as her eyes, and she had stuck a fresh daisy in its band. Like a lady from the Victorian era, she wore white gloves, and a wicker basket hung from one arm.

But the moment she opened her mouth, the fragile picture of gentility and charm disappeared. Her voice was as harsh as her appearance was refined.

“What are you doing on our property?” she demanded. “Didn't you see the No Trespassing signs?”

“Well, yes ... I saw a couple. But I thought the spa had posted them. I thought I was still on Royal Palms property.”

“You aren't! You're on Chesterfield land, and I'll thank you to leave right away, before I have my servants shoot you.”

“That would be a bit drastic, don't you think? Isn't it enough that we've had one mysterious, violent death in the neighborhood this week?”

The pale blue eyes sparkled and her peaches-and-cream coloring heightened. One finely plucked eyebrow lifted a notch.

“Mysterious? Violent?”

Savannah laughed inwardly, congratulating herself on knowing how to bait a busybody.

“You mean you haven't heard what happened?”

Phoebe sniffed and tossed her head. “I heard that that good-for-nothing harlot, Kat Valentina, drowned herself in a tub of mud. A fitting end for the likes of her, I'd say, considering the filthy life she's led. But I didn't know there was anything mysterious about it ... or violent....”

She paused, and Savannah knew she was expected to fill in the blank. She didn't. Let the old biddy stew in her own curiosity for a while.

“Oh, well ...” Savannah said, turning as though to leave. “I don't want to bother you. I can see that you're busy and—”

“I'm not all that busy. I was just going to pick some roses for this evening's dinner table.” She hesitated, then added, “You can hold this for me, if you like.”

She held out her wicker basket, which was half-filled with cut flowers.

“I
would
like. Thank you.”

Phoebe Chesterfield led her through the backyard, past the flowing fountains, a bronze sundial, garden gargoyles, and colorful beds of pansies, impatiens, lobelia, and marigolds.

“Do you do all the gardening yourself?” Savannah asked.

“I have a fellow who weeds and waters for me. But I do the rest. It keeps me off the streets and out of pool halls.”

Savannah chuckled, but Phoebe kept a completely straight face. She had assumed the old lady was kidding.

What she wondered, but couldn't ask, was how Phoebe had time to tend the garden and still keep tabs on everyone from her telescope in the bell tower.

They passed an herb garden that scented the air with spearmint, lavender, and sage. “This reminds me of my granny Reid's yard,” Savannah told her, allowing the sweet memories to flood over her. “She had a spearmint bush, too. Told me it was a chewing gum tree. When I was about four, I found sticks of spearmint gum ‘growing ' from it.”

“bumph.”

From Phoebe's monosyllabic reply, Savannah didn't know if she appreciated the childhood tale or not. “Do you have grandchildren of your own?”

“No. Neither my brother nor I has ever married,” was the curt reply.

They entered the rose garden and Savannah was astonished at the beauty and variety of her collection. Against a backdrop of emerald rhododendron foliage Phoebe had a breathtaking display of deep scarlet blossoms mixed with equally elegant whites.

“Are those Mr. Lincolns and John F. Kennedys?” she asked, breathing in the honey-sweet fragrance of one full, snowy rose and its accompanying apple green buds.

“Yes, they are.”

“What a wonderful idea, displaying them together like that. The effect is quite dramatic.”

Phoebe smiled just enough for Savannah to know she had touched a chord with the woman through her garden.

“And is that a Fortune Teller?” she asked, pointing to a bush with unusual magenta flowers.

“Yes, it is.”

“I thought so. I love that distinctive, lemony fragrance. And your Roselina is lovely. I don't think I've ever seen one so full.” She waved a hand in the direction of a copper arbor laden with deep pink wild roses. “Do you use Epsom salts to balance the soil?”

“Yes, I do. And 1 feed each bush at least two banana peels, to enhance the mineral content.”

“With excellent results, if I do say so myself.”

Phoebe studied her quietly for a moment, and Savannah thought she saw a light of something that might be grudging respect in those pale blue eyes. “How do you know so much about roses?” she said, snipping a perfect Moon Shadow bud and laying the velvety lavender blossom carefully in the basket Savannah was holding.

“My granny Reid taught me. She says you can always tell a true lady by her love affair with roses.”

“Humph.” Phoebe gave Savannah a knowing sideways glance and lowered her voice to a whisper. “And you can tell a woman who isn't a lady by the other affairs she has ... if you know what I mean.”

“I don't know for sure,” Savannah said, adopting Phoebe's conspiratorial tone. “But I have heard rumors.”

“I've done more than heard. I've seen.” She pointed to the mission tower and its belfry.

“I'll bet you've seen a lot of things from up there,” Savannah said, winking at her. “In fact, you could probably write a book about what you've witnessed.”

Assuming a pained expression, Phoebe nodded emphatically. “It hasn't been easy, living next door to all that debauchery over the years. All the nakedness. The fornication. The various and sundry iniquities.”

“I can imagine.” Savannah shook her head and clucked her tongue.

“There have been times when I wondered why the earth didn't just open and swallow them whole, like with Sodom and Gomorrah.”

Harking back to her Sunday school days, Savannah was fairly certain that
hadn't
been the fate of Sodom or Gomorrah. But she didn't think it conducive to argue theology with Miss Chesterfield here in her rose garden. Instead, she decided to lead the conversation gently to a more specific topic: Kat Valentina.

“Well, it looks as though Justice had her way, after all,” Savannah said, keeping her voice low and secretive ... though from whom, she wasn't sure. They had only rosebushes for company. “Ms. Valentina
did
meet a pretty dreadful end.”

“Oh, I don't think it was all that bad. Got drunk and passed out in a mud bath... that's what the paper said.” Phoebe carefully chose and snipped another bud. “It was probably quick and painless.”

“But she was so young. And then, there are all the rumors.”

Again, the carefully plucked eyebrow twitched, registering the woman's interest, though Phoebe never took her eyes off her roses. “Oh, yes, you mentioned that before,” she said offhandedly. “Exactly which rumors do you mean?”

“That she might have committed suicide ... or that it might have even been murder.”

This time both of Phoebe's eyebrows flew up. She didn't even pretend to be nonchalant. “Really? They're saying that? Who's saying that?”

Savannah shrugged. “Oh, they ... a few people ... here and there.”

“What makes them think so?”

“I'm not sure. But they certainly have their suspicions. What do you think?”

“I think either suicide ... or worse, is entirely possible. Kat Valentina was, pardon my language, an absolute strumpet, a woman of the very worst character. She even came after my brother Ford, you know, and him old enough to be her grandfather.”

Savannah heard a sound, a rustling, behind her, and turned to see a dignified gentleman with the same thick, silver hair and pale blue eyes as Phoebe standing there. He wore a scowl on his handsome face as he walked closer to them. He was dressed in a gray sport shirt and charcoal slacks and looked remarkably fit for his sixty-plus or so years.

“Now Phoebe,” he said. “If you're going to gossip about me behind my back, at least be sure of your facts. I might have been old enough to be Miss Valentina's father, but certainly not her grandfather.”

Phoebe sniffed her disdain. “Grandfather, father ... you still made a fool of yourself over that girl.”

He gave his sister a sad, indulgent smile. “Maybe so, but I was in good company. I've been reading the articles about her in the paper since her death. It seems mine wasn't the only heart she snared.”

Holding out his hand to Savannah, he said, “By the way, I'm Ford Chesterfield, the fool in question. And you are?”

She shook it and was surprised at the firmness and vitality of his touch. “I'm Savannah Reid,” she replied. “A guest at the spa. I was out for a hike and saw your sister's beautiful garden.”

“Yes, Phoebe has many talents ... and far too many interests for her own good.”

He gave his sister a pointed look, but she chose to ignore him, concentrating on her rose cutting.

Savannah weighed the advantages of hanging around and trying to get anything else out of Phoebe Chesterfield. It wasn't too likely, with her brother standing there. Obviously, he didn't approve of her “many interests.” Their little gossip tête-à-tête seemed to have come to an abrupt ending.