Killer Calories (19 page)

“Yes, actually, we did discuss that briefly and—”

“And?”

Yes, Savannah decided, Bernadette was much too eager. The urgency on her face was more than just a mere appetite for gossip.

“And he said he would never hurt Kat, that she was one of his dearest friends.”

“Yeah, yeah, everybody says that. So what? It doesn't mean he didn't do it.”

“That's true. But all we had was a short conversation on the topic. I didn't expect him to break down and confess murder to me, then and there.”

“But I'm sure he did it.”

“You may be sure. I might suspect. But the authorities are going to need a lot more ... like some physical evidence, for instance.”

Bernadette glanced up and down the empty passageway and lowered her voice. “I know where you could find some.”

“Really? Where?”

“In his room.”

“What do you think I would find in his room?”

“Maybe some love letters or something like that.”

“From him to Kat?”

“More like, from Kat to him. Everybody knew she had the hots for him ... ever since they made that movie together.”

“Did they have an affair?”

“I don't know. Don't think so. But if they didn't, it's more because Kat wasn't Dion's type.”

“I thought Kat was everybody's type.”

Bernadette donned an unattractive, contemptuous sneer. It occurred to Savannah that it was easy to have contempt for the “other woman.” At least, it made things easier to rationalize.

“She wasn't
everybody's
type,” Bernadette said. “She just thought she was. There were lots of guys who resisted her charms. Dion was one of them. He's too classy for the likes of Kat Valentina.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. It was ridiculous how she used to chase him, when everybody knew he wasn't the least bit interested in her.”

“That must have been pretty humiliating for her.”

“No kidding. I'm surprised it wasn't
her
who killed him.”

“You're that sure he did it?”

“I think she probably had an accident. But if anybody murdered her, I think it was Dion. Why don't you check out his room tomorrow? He's going into town to do some errands for Lou about nine o'clock. And he'll be gone for at least two hours.”

She fished around in her sweater pocket and pulled out a key. Dropping it into Savannah's hand, she said, “Nobody would bother you ... if you wanted to take a look around, that is.”

Savannah curled her fingers around the key and felt it, like small, cold, metal teeth against her palm.

“How accommodating of you,” she said with a sarcastic edge to her voice.

Bernadette didn't seem to notice. “No problem,” she returned with a toss of coppery curls. “Just trying to help.”

As the redhead turned and walked away, Savannah wondered at the ease and convenience of this new tip. Too easy. Too convenient. Information or evidence that was dumped into her lap was usually worthless.

She tossed the key up, watched it flip and turn, reflecting the moonlight, then snatched it out of the air and held it tightly.

But a tip was a tip. And she intended to follow through on this one. At nine o'clock—or a few minutes after, just to make sure he wasn't coming back—she would be inside Dion Zeller's bedroom.

Oh, how she would have been the envy of thousands of females. Except, of course, they would never know, because she was a good girl. She didn't break and enter ... and tell.

“
I
don't wanna play lookout; it's bo-o-oring,” Tammy whined, as they stood near the door of Dion's cottage.

The bungalow occupied the most prestigious location of any of the others, at the end—offering more privacy—and conveniently situated between the pool and tennis courts. Apparently, Kat had provided her co-star with her best guesthouse. Savannah thought that fact particularly poignant, considering that she was about to search that cottage for evidence that Dion might have murdered his benefactor.

She glanced around, but the couple playing tennis nearby seemed totally absorbed, and the lone swimmer in the pool was intent on doing laps.

“Stop your complaining,” she told Tammy. “Monopoly takes too long to set up, and I don't play doctor with other girls. So, ‘lookout' it is.”

“Okay, but don't ask me to do that stupid detective knock thing. I mentioned it to Dirk yesterday on the phone, and he laughed himself stupid over it.”

“With Dirk, that shouldn't have taken very long.”

Savannah hurried to the door, slipped the key into the lock, and turned it, thinking how much easier her job was when she had the appropriate provisions.

“Be out in a few,” she said, then disappeared inside, leaving a pouting Tammy to keep watch.

The first thing she noticed about the room was the strong smell of glue. The odor was all too familiar to her, as she had smelled it too often in the bedrooms of wigged-out teenagers and the living rooms of assorted “adults” who were old enough to know better.

Dion Zeller is a sniffer?
she thought, wondering how anyone as robust-looking as he could have a substance-abuse problem. But one glance around told her the reason for the smell, and it had nothing to do with addiction ... except maybe to detail.

Everywhere she looked, she saw models, miniatures of every mode of transportation imaginable, meticulously crafted and displayed. From the ceiling hung a strange mixture of vintage WWI and WWII aircraft, the Starship
Enterprise,
and a flock of pterodactyls. The walnut bookshelves along one wall held no books, but tiny classic automobiles and trucks, including her own 1968 SS/RS Camaro.

Around the ceiling, making a complete circuit, was a railroad track with three trains, switching stations, and a matching same-scale Dickensian village.

In the corner of the main living area sat a large table, racks of tiny paint jars, a can of brushes, a lighted magnifying glass on a swiveling arm, and an array of delicate knives, drills, saws, and tweezers.

Apparently, Dion Zeller had more patience than she, maybe more than anyone she knew. And he was truly an artist, a master at creating this Lilliputian world of his.

Savannah recalled the tanned, golden-haired demigod who had run beside her through the foothills, and tried to imagine him sitting at that table, painting details so tiny, so ornate.

The two images simply wouldn't merge in her mind. But she had learned long ago that human beings had many facets: hidden talents, secrets dreams, vices, and virtues. It took so long to truly get to know someone, and even then, there were always surprises.

Once she got over her initial amazement at the models, she began to assess the rest of the room. Although, the only extraordinary feature was the miniature collection. Everything else was neat but bachelor generic.

An oversize entertainment center held a large television, stereo system, and accompanying videos and CDs. The furniture was leather, chrome, and glass and recently dusted.

The kitchenette was predictably austere for a guy who probably ate most of his meals in the spa dining room. She found the bedroom equally utilitarian—hardly a sex symbol's den of iniquity, as Dion's female following would have liked to imagine.

The one thing Savannah had been expecting to see was conspicuously absent in the cottage—any signs, posters, or memorabilia of the star's “glory days.” There was no indication Dion had ever been one of the leading icons of the sexual revolution, the object of so many women's fantasies and adoration.

Somehow, the fact made Savannah like and respect him even more. Unlike Kat, he hadn't lived in the past, feeding off old exploits and memories of bygone fame.

But she couldn't imagine that he hadn't kept some tangible reminder of that pinnacle of his career. He must have stashed something, somewhere.

But where?

As she glanced around the apartment, she noticed one thing that seemed out of place with the rest of the modern decor—an old sea chest at the foot of his bed. The strongbox was a charming antique, made of teak with brass fittings with a faded painting of a clipper ship in full sail across the front.

Savannah knelt in front of the chest and slid the bolt aside to open it. The hinges protested with a spine-shivering little groan as she lifted the lid and looked inside.

“Oh, Georgia girl, your brilliance never fails to dazzle me,” she whispered to herself. “But then, I'm pretty easy to impress, so ...”

Yes, this was Dion Zeller's sentimental stash, no doubt about it. She saw photo albums and loose snapshots, stacks of letters bundled with rubber bands, a lady's lace handkerchief which looked at least fifty years old, a tassel from a graduation cap, a small, well-worn, well-loved teddy bear, a pair of champagne flutes, a New Year's Eve party hat, and dozens of other items that symbolized the special moments of a man's life.

As always when searching the private things of someone she knew, especially someone she liked, Savannah felt a wave of guilt. At times like these, she sometimes asked herself if the business of detection was blackening her soul. As always, she told herself the end justified the means, the highest objective was to secure justice for injured parties.

And, as always, it worked. Kind of.

Rationalization aside, she still felt like a heel.

But her pangs of conscience evaporated as her interest was piqued. She had picked up one of the bundles of letters. They had all been written on a distinctive, rose-tinted stationery with the same, sweeping, feminine hand.

They were love letters. From Kat Valentina to her former co-star.

Savannah scanned several of them and felt her cheeks flush a pleasant shade of peach at the florid, torrid phraseology. Kat had a real way with words, and she didn't seem shy about using them ... or shy about anything, for that matter.

While Savannah liked to think she had been around the romance block a few times herself, she had to admit that Kat had her beat. Ms. Valentina seemed to have paved the very road, poured the sidewalk, and planted the decorative shrubbery.

Whatever Kat might have been, she hadn't been a prude. She had been madly, desperately in love with her longtime friend. And—as Savannah read the letters and marked the nonprogression of their relationship—she realized that Kat's amorous feelings had not been returned. At all.

If the tide had run the other way, Savannah might have suspected Dion of killing a woman who wouldn't return his affection, but how could the contents of these letters have led to Kat's own demise? Something seemed askew, and Savannah couldn't quite figure out what.

Savannah took more time than she had intended to read all the letters. But other than an ever-heightening level of agitation, the theme seemed consistent, month after month. Kat wanted Dion; Dion didn't want Kat.

When Savannah checked the dates in the upper right hand corner, she realized that Kat had been pursuing him for the past four years, at least. That was a long time for a woman to be scorned.

So, why hadn't Dion been the one lying, lifeless, in the mud bath, staring into eternity?

Still looking for answers, Savannah began to flip through one of the photograph albums. The pictures were pretty standard fare: vacation shots, assorted pets, a few cars, and family holiday get-togethers.

Then she came to a series of other photos, taken on a tropical island somewhere, on what must have been a romantic getaway with a lover.

A much younger Dion looked happy, relaxed and completely infatuated by the sweetheart at his side. Apparently, those had been happy times for the two of them, and Savannah found herself wondering what had happened to end the relationship.

She wondered if Dion still grieved for his lost love. Did his mate on the tropical island know that he still had these photos, that he obviously treasured them and kept them with those few items that were dearest to his heart?

Savannah couldn't help wondering.

Because she knew that smiling face, the one next to Dion's in the pictures. She knew it all too well. And she never ceased to be amazed that, no matter how completely you thought you knew a person, they always, always had more secrets. You never knew it all.

“I'm so glad you got my message,” Savannah said as Ryan stepped into the gazebo and sat beside her on the cushioned bench. “And thanks for coming alone.”

“No problem.” He gave her an affectionate peck on her cheek. “Your note made it clear you wanted it that way. I always aim to please a pretty lady.”

Briefly, Savannah wondered if she would ever get over this silly, futile crush she had on Ryan Stone. His very nearness set her pantaloons aquiver, and the effect didn't appear to be lessening over time.

“Did John see my note?” she asked.

“Yes, the young redhaired receptionist gave it to us right after we registered.”

“Was he upset that I didn't invite him, too?”

“Upset?” Ryan thought for a moment. “No, I wouldn't say he was upset. Maybe a bit curious. For that matter, so am I.”

Savannah turned and looked across the landscape, drawing from the tranquility the view offered. Golden, late-afternoon sunlight gilded the tawny foothills, causing even the ragged scrub brush to look like royal velvet, gracefully draped to display its luxurious pile to the greatest advantage.

In the distance, she could see a sparkling, blue strip of ocean that disappeared into sea haze and the purple islands at the farthest edge of the horizon.

“I'm sorry to be so mysterious,” she said. “I just thought it would be better if you and I talked privately first.” She turned to him and gave him a searching look. “You see, it's about Dion Zeller.”

He nodded knowingly. “I had a feeling you'd be asking me about Dion, sooner or later. You're a good detective, Savannah. I knew it was just a matter of time before you and I were going to be strolling down memory lane together. My memories, that is, and my lane.”

“Do you mind talking about him?”

“Not at all. Dion was an important part of my life, a very nice part. But that was a long time ago.”

“Then you knew him ... before John?”

“Yes. Right before. I met John a few months after Dion and I parted ways.”

Savannah was relieved, though she chided herself for worrying in the first place. From what she knew of Ryan, he was an honorable man, a gentleman whose word was sacred. She would have been surprised if he had been unfaithful to his partner.

“I searched Dion's room today, and I found some pictures of the two of you, vacationing, I think.”

A shy smile crossed Ryan's face, and he said, “Hmmm ... so, he kept them. That's sort of nice to know, I guess.”

“Were you together for long?”

“A little over a year.”

“He seems like a nice man. Did you care a lot for him?”

It was Ryan's turn to stare off into the distant ocean haze, remembering. “Yes. A lot. Dion is ... well, at least he was ... a very kind, intelligent, funny, caring person. Quite the opposite of the mindless hunk in his movies. Although, I don't know what he's like now. It's been a long time since we saw each other or even spoke.”

“What happened?” she asked. “Why did you go your separate ways?”

Ryan sighed, and she could see in his eyes how the memories still caused him pain. “Dion lived his life in secrecy, hiding who he was from those he loved most: immediate family, close friends, business associates. I couldn't do that. I came out young, in my early twenties. And I hated the lying, the sneaking around, the facade that he insisted we wear. I couldn't. I cared for him, but I couldn't, wouldn't live the lie.”

“I understand. Do you think he stayed in the closet because of his career?”

Ryan shook his head. “No, definitely not. Dion's fame and momentary fortune never meant that much to him. It was his family's and friends' disapproval that he couldn't risk. He couldn't bear the thought of being rejected by them if they found out.”

Flashing back on her conversation with Bernadette, Savannah said, “I heard via the grapevine that Kat had the hots for him.”