Killer Physique (A Savannah Reid Mystery) (19 page)

This time he sat straight up. The movement was so abrupt and violent that one of the cats bounded out of bed and ran from the room.

“You heard me, sweet cheeks,” she said in her softest, least confrontational, good ol’ girl voice. “You and I wil sleep in there, and they’l be in here.”

“But this is our bedroom! It’s like, sacred or something.”

Savannah resisted the urge to tel him that, until a few weeks ago, this had been her bedroom. And she certainly hadn’t kicked up this much of a fuss when she needed to share it with him.

“Dirk, listen to me. . . . They’l be our guests. And the rules of Southern hospitality are clear on this point. You give guests—especial y out-of-state guests who’ve driven the length of the West Coast to come see you—the best bed in the house. And that’s this one.”

“But my back! I just now got used to this bed change. If I have to adjust to another one this soon I’l . . . I’l . . .”

“You won’t die, you little hothouse orchid you.”

“What does that mean?”

“What does what mean?”

“That hothouse orchid thing you cal me sometimes. What do you mean by that?” Savannah felt like the frayed elastic in her favorite pair of panties was just about to snap.

“It means,” she said, “stop acting like such a tender buttercup and show me some of that Navy Seal, manly man stuff you claim to have.”

“I never claimed to be a Navy Seal.”

“No, but you’re always tel ing me that you’re pretty sure you could pass their training regimen. And you make me watch those stupid videos of them running on the beach, carrying that big log over their heads, crawling through the mud, and—”

“Stupid?! The Navy Seals aren’t stupid! Why, they’re the greatest fighting machines in the whole wide—”

“I didn’t say the Seals are stupid. They’re amazing, absolutely wonderful! But after watching al those videos of them with you a hundred times, I’ve practical y memorized them, and—”

“And now if I want to watch one of those great videos, maybe with my dad and do a little father-son bonding, we won’t even have a proper man cave to do it in!”

Savannah lay there on her back, staring up at the ceiling, doing the arithmetic in her head. Her parents-in-law were going to leave the Seattle area early tomorrow morning. And according to the latest message that Dirk’s dad, Richard, had left on their machine, they estimated they would arrive at their hotel in San Francisco tomorrow afternoon.

They intended to squeeze in a trip to Alcatraz before having a wonderful seafood dinner on Fisherman’s Wharf. The next morning they would get up early and, taking the scenic Pacific Coast Highway, arrive in San Carmelita about eight hours later.

Did that give her enough time to commit husband-cide and thoroughly dispose of the body?

That last part was most important, because if Dirk ever turned up dead in their county, his body would be taken to Dr. Liu’s morgue.

And since she had known him and Savannah so long and so wel , the coroner would instantly deduce—without even an autopsy or any investigation—that Savannah was the culprit.

Of course, Dr. Liu could be counted on to testify at her trial. She could probably convince the jury single-handedly that Savannah had been driven to utter insanity by Dirk’s eccentricities and was in no way responsible for her actions.

But there was one fatal flaw in Savannah’s master plan.

Dirk’s dad was a retired cop.

And if he’d been half as good at his job as his son was at his, he’d nail her for sure.

Putting her evil plans aside—at least for the moment—Savannah rol ed over toward her husband and slipped her arm around his waist. “It’l be okay, sugar,” she whispered into the darkness. “We’l get the most comfortable futon we can find. And I promise, I’l do my best to keep you happy on it. Let’s just say, we’l make sure it’s firm.” She giggled. “And I’m not even talking about the mattress.” She waited for his lusty response. Very early in their married life, she had learned that a simple reference to tomfoolery would lift his mood several notches instantly.

But when no response was forthcoming, she started to worry a little. Maybe he was madder than she’d thought.

“Dirk? Honey? Did you hear me?”

Final y, he responded. With a wal -shaking snore.

Chapter 17

As Savannah sat next to Dirk in one of the wooden pews of the Wee Kirk o’ the Heather, with Ryan and John to her left and Tammy and Waycross in the row behind her, she couldn’t help feeling a little guilty for several reasons.

First, she felt uneasy about the fact that she and her entourage had been al owed to attend the smal , private funeral when thousands of others had been turned away.

The tiny chapel—one of three lovely churches located inside the famous cemetery Forest Lawn—held less than a hundred visitors at a time. So she had been surprised when Ryan had told her that Jason’s manager had invited not only him and John, but the rest of Savannah’s Moonlight Magnolia Detective Agency as wel .

“He appreciates the work you’ve al done on Jason’s behalf,” Ryan had said. “And he wants you at the service, if you can make it.” If they could make it?

If they could attend an event in a venue as wonderful as this charming and famous little chapel? Of course they could. She would’ve been there with bel s on, if bel s were appropriate funeral attire.

Instead Savannah wore a somber black dress, and Dirk had dusted off his only suit, which was navy. And although they had discussed acceptable animal prints, Tammy had opted for an eggplant sheath. Waycross had borrowed Dirk’s old sports coat.

And now she sat here with her team, feeling guilty, because she couldn’t keep her mind on what the minister up front was saying. Her mind was even straying from the deceased, who lay in the closed coffin at the front of the church.

She couldn’t help thinking about this building and its luminous history.

Inside these stone wal s, beneath the dark, wooden ceiling with its heavy, arched beams, so many beloved celebrities had gathered to memorialize and celebrate each other.

Ronald Reagan had married Jane Wyman here, and Regis Philbin had taken Joy to be his wife only a few feet away from where Savannah was sitting. She couldn’t resist the thought that Clark Gable or Carol Lombard may have sat right here in this pew when they had attended Jean Harlow’s funeral. And what a unique experience it must have been when Chico Marx’s rabbi had delivered his eulogy here in this reproduction of a lovely, old Scottish church.

And outside the chapel, interred among a quarter of a mil ion lesser-known people, were the earthly remains of such beloved celebrities as James Stewart, Elizabeth Taylor, Walt Disney, Errol Flynn, Michael Jackson, Sam Cooke, Red Skelton, Louis L’Amour, and L. Frank Baum, as wel as George Burns and Gracie Al en.

It was nearly impossible for her to keep her mind trained on the business at hand when surrounded by so much history.

But she forced herself to do so. Anything less would have been disrespectful to Jason Tyrone.

And although she knew it was true, she couldn’t imagine that the coffin in the front of the room contained that beautiful, vibrant human being. Once again, she was reminded of the often-used phrase “earthly remains.”

Yes, those were merely the remains in that coffin. But Jason Tyrone deserved her respectful attention at his memorial service.

So she banished the ghosts of celebrities past from her mind and focused on the present.

Surprisingly, the chapel was less than half ful . And she recognized most of the mourners in attendance.

In the front row sat a nondescript, middle-aged, bald fel ow whom Ryan had introduced to the Magnolia team as Jason’s manager, Sid Greene.

They had thanked him profusely for the invitation and promised that they were stil investigating Jason’s passing. Sid had seemed grateful, expressing a mutual desire to keep Jason’s reputation as clean and untarnished as possible under the circumstances.

In the same pew, sitting next to Sid, was Vladik Zlotnik, who had played the vil ain so convincingly in Jason’s movie. But he was anything but ominous today, as he sat, head bowed and shoulders slumped, listening to al the accolades bestowed upon his costar.

On Sid’s other side was Alanna Cleary.

Savannah was more than a little surprised to see that Alanna’s beauty was as flawless at a funeral as at a movie premiere. Her beautiful hair glowed in the soft light of the chapel, like delicate spun copper spread across the black velvet of her dress.

She was crying softly into a white handkerchief. And when the minister began to list the many children’s charities that Jason had supported with his time, money, and endorsements, she began to sob.

From the other side of the chapel, also sitting in the front pew, Thomas Owen shot her an angry, disgusted look. Savannah had noticed that the two appeared to be avoiding each other before the service. She suspected it was deliberate that they had stayed on opposite sides of the room, avoiding eye contact.

That wasn’t so surprising, considering the fact that Thomas blamed her, at least in part, for the breakup of his and Jason’s relationship.

Savannah couldn’t help thinking that if she were sitting in a room with a woman who had ruined her marriage, she would probably be shooting more than dirty glances across the room. Why resort to nasty looks when you had a Beretta strapped to your ribs?

When the minister finished, the service ended with a soprano’s beautiful rendition of “Time to Say Good-bye.” As her lovely voice fil ed the chapel, touching every heart with the song’s haunting melody, Savannah glanced to her left and saw that tears were streaking down Ryan’s cheeks. She reached over and slipped her hand into his. He gave her a slight nod and a sad smile.

One look at John told her that he was having an equal y difficult time. She reminded herself to be especial y kind to them in the coming days.

Losing someone you loved took such a tol on the human spirit.

They would need some healthy doses of healing love.

Next came the closing prayer. Then everyone stood and watched reverently as six pal bearers—al robust, overly muscular men—carried the coffin from the front, down the center aisle, and out of the chapel.

As Savannah slowly turned, her eyes on the casket, an unexpected sight caught her eye. Among a few mourners who had opted to sit in the rear of the chapel was Leland Porter.

He wept openly as the coffin passed him, covering his face with his hands, and shaking his head—as though he could hardly stand to witness what he was seeing.

Savannah thought of al the kind things he had said about Jason. How he had described him as being a close friend for so many years. How a superstar, who could have afforded the luxury of any first-class limousine service in the world, had opted to help out an old friend in need of a dol ar.

Jason Tyrone might have been loved by the world. But the world didn’t know him the way these few people inside this tiny church knew him.

As Savannah’s throat tightened and her own vision became clouded, she glanced around the room and saw not a single dry eye. From those who were consumed with wracking sobs to those who were merely dabbing their eyes and noses with tissues, al were grieving their loss in their own private ways.

When she and Dirk, Ryan and John, Tammy and Waycross exited the church, they stepped into the bright sunlight and the seemingly endless lawn, which was covered with a seemingly endless crowd.

Those gathered to pay their respects from afar appeared to be as grief-stricken as those who had been inside the chapel. They cried, holding flowers, candles, and handmade signs that proclaimed, in the simplest words, their devotion to their hero.

Savannah decided, then and there, that if tears shed by mourners at one’s departure were any indication of a life wel lived and a person wel loved—then Jason Tyrone had lived the life he had been given wel .

She vowed she wasn’t going to stop until she made absolutely sure that no one had deliberately caused the pain she saw manifested here.

Jason deserved as much. And so did these people whose hearts were breaking because they had lost him.

Savannah was never happier than when her kitchen table was surrounded by the people she loved most. Feeding them, making them laugh, letting them know how much she loved them—those were her favorite pastimes.

When everyone within her immediate vicinity had eaten a bit too much and drunk a little more than they should have of beverages either intoxicating or simply delicious, she felt she had fulfil ed her mission in life.

Usual y. But not tonight.

Tonight the normal y boisterous mood at her table was subdued, at best.

Oh, the food had been good—the fried chicken crispy and seasoned just so, the mashed potatoes fluffy and buttery, the green beans crisp from her garden and flavored with just a bit of bacon left over from breakfast.

And of course, the pineapple upside down cake had been a thing of beauty. Granny Reid, who had won blue ribbons at the county fair for her pineapple upside down cake, had taught Savannah wel .

But even though she was sure that Ryan and John appreciated her hospitality, Savannah knew it was going to take more than a plate ful of good vittles to lift their spirits.

“It was lovely of you, dear, to have us this evening,” John told Savannah, as he took a sip of the vintage port they had contributed to the feast. “But I’m afraid we’ve been poor company, and I apologize.”

“I don’t want to hear you apologizing for anything,” she replied. “I’m just glad you came over. I was afraid the two of you wouldn’t be up to socializing tonight.”

She handed Ryan a smal wine glass, which he fil ed halfway with port.

“If it hadn’t been you who extended the invitation, we probably wouldn’t have come,” Ryan said. “Today turned out to be even harder than we’d thought it would be.”

“I understand,” Savannah said, as she set a fresh bottle of herbal tea in front of Tammy and refil ed Waycross’s root beer. “Funerals are never fun, but when it’s someone young like that . . .”

“And when it’s unexpected,” Dirk added, accepting the beer she was handing him, “that makes it even worse.”