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  Savannah blinked and shook her head. Okay, so much for her little sister’s delicate psyche. Maybe there was something to this “desensitized new generation” thing after all. Too much television and not enough trips behind the woodshed . . . that was Granny Reid’s opinion on the matter.

  “Were the other girls as . . . traumatized . . . as you were over the news?” Savannah asked.

  “No, I was more upset than most of them, you know, since she was my roommate and all. One of the girls, Desiree Porter, was even jazzed about it. She said one of us had a chance now that the Barbie doll was out of the picture.”

  Savannah stood, ran her fingers through her hair, and slipped her aching feet back into her loafers. “Well,” she said, “if the rest of the girls are taking this as hard as you are, it’s a darn good thing we’ve got those counselors coming from Mental Health. We’d wanna head off any mass suicides.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind.” She strapped on her holster and gun, then went to her suitcase and got a fresh jacket. For some reason, the other one seemed to smell of death.

  “You’re right,” Savannah said. “It . . . sucks. And I’ve got to get back to work. Throw the dead bolt after me.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you don’t have to keep telling me. I—”

  “Dammit, ’Lanta, for once will you just do something I ask you to do and not give me any lip?”

  Savannah stomped out of the room and slammed the door behind her. Pausing, listening for the bolt to shoot home, she heard her sister say, “Boy, oh, boy . . . she’s such a grouch when she wakes up!”

  But there was someone who was upset about Barbie Matthews’s death. Terribly upset. And Savannah heard her crying, even before she saw her. On a patch of lawn behind the guest lodge, Francie Gorton was sitting beneath a trio of palm trees on a white, wrought-iron park bench that overlooked the sweeping vista of Villa Rosa’s oceans of vines. Her face was buried in a handful of tissues, and her shoulders were shaking with racking sobs.

  Savannah walked over to her and sat down on the bench beside her.

  The warm, late-summer sun was almost directly overhead, and the girl’s long, glossy black hair shone iridescent, like a raven’s wing.

  Savannah wasn’t sure Francie was even aware of her presence, until she heard her say, “It’s my fault Barbie’s dead. And I could have stopped it.”

  Trying to keep the eagerness out of her voice, Savannah said, “What do you mean, Francie? How could you have kept her from dying?”

  The girl wiped her eyes with the tissues and blew her nose. Then she turned to Savannah, her young face full of grief. “Last night, when you asked me what was going on, I should have told you about it. Or maybe I should have called her parents and talked to them. I don’t know if it would have done any good; and now I’ll never know.”

  Savannah reached over and pushed the girl’s tear-wet hair back from her face. “Francie, did you hurt Barbie?”

  “No, she was my friend. I know a lot of people didn’t like her, but she was pretty nice to me most of the time, and I liked her.”

  “Do you know who hurt her?”

  A look of raw fear flickered in the girl’s eyes, and she glanced away. “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Francie nodded, but continued to stare at the far horizon.

  “You have any idea who might have done it?”

  Francie twisted the tissues between her fingers. “No.”

  Having no luck opening the front door of the conversation, Savannah decided to try the back door. “Last night,” she said, “outside your room, I heard you warning Barbie to be careful. You told her that you were afraid she was going to get hurt. What was that about, Francie?”

  The girl began to cry again, and Savannah could almost feel her fear—suffocating, paralyzing, until she could hardly breathe.

  “I can’t tell you. Please don’t ask me.”

  “You can’t tell me because you don’t know, or because you’re afraid? Which is it, Francie?”

  “I’m . . . I’m afraid. If I tell you, if I tell anybody, I’ll be next.”

  Savannah’s heart ached for the girl; she was so like some of her sisters back in Georgia—old enough to get into trouble but too young to find her way out.

  She stroked the girl’s sun-warm hair, trying to comfort her. “Francie, sweetie, if you think your life is in danger, that makes it even more important that you talk to me about it. You can trust me. I’ll help you, if you’ll just let me.”

  Francie blew her nose again, then glanced at her watch. “I have to go and get ready for lunch. I have to act like everything is okay, you know what I mean?”

  “No, I don’t know what you mean. I wish I did. Is there anything I can do to help you, Francie?”

  The girl shook her head and stood. “I really need to go. But thank you, Ms. Reid. It was very nice of you to stop and talk with me. I’m sorry I . . .”

  When the rest of her words didn’t come, Savannah patted her shoulder. “That’s okay, dear. If you change your mind and want to talk, I’m in room 2G or you can call me. Here’s my cell-phone number and my beeper, too. Anytime, night or day. Okay?”

  She scribbled the numbers on a slip of paper and pressed it into the girl’s palm.

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “I’ll walk you back to your room, if you like.”

  Francie glanced around—the furtive, suspicious look of the hunted. “No, that’s all right. I think it would be better if nobody . . . you know, if I wasn’t seen talking to you.”

  “I understand.”

  But as she watched the girl walk away with the grace and bearing of a queen, Savannah cursed herself for not understanding. And for not knocking on that bedroom door last night and demanding answers. If she had, Barbie Matthews might be alive . . . and Francie Gorton might be thinking about winning beauty pageants instead of fearing for her life.

  Chapter 15

  “What is this crap?” Dirk pointed to the dish of food that had been set before him—half a pineapple, scooped out and filled with chicken salad, decorated with a sprig of mint and a paper umbrella.

  “It’s called lunch,” Savannah told him. “Stick a forkful into your mouth. It’ll keep you quiet . . . at least in theory.”

  “But it’s sissy food. I don’t eat girlie junk like this.”

  Savannah picked a walnut and a piece of fresh pineapple out of the salad, tasted it, and closed her eyes in ecstasy. “I realize,” she said, “that if your grub hasn’t moo-o-oed in the past twenty-four hours you don’t consider it food. But this really is good. Besides, it’s free.”

  Dirk reconsidered. “That’s true.”

  He picked up his fork and began to shovel it in. She didn’t understand why he made such an issue of what he was eating; he never took the time to taste it anyway.

  A soft breeze rippled the edges of the umbrella over their table, a blue-and-white-striped affair, like a dozen others that had been set around the Villa Rosa swimming pool. Luncheon was being served to the pageant judges, hostesses, sponsors, members of the local press, and a number of society mucky-mucks, who seldom missed the opportunity to make appearances at this sort of thing.

  The contestants were walking among the tables, modeling the latest swimwear fashions, furnished by a beachfront boutique. Savannah was relieved to see that her own sister was wearing a modest one-piece maillot instead of one of the skimpy bikinis that some of the other girls were wearing.

  She spotted Frank Addison sitting at the end of the judges’ table. His chicken salad was being badly neglected, as he ogled each young body that passed his way.

  However, when Atlanta walked by him, Savannah was gratified to see him avert his eyes, suddenly interested in the conversation at his table. Her talk with him had made an impression on him after all.

  “That Addison creep,” she said. “I’d like to nail him for Barbie’s murder. Just thinking about hearing you read him his rights does me a world of good.”<
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  Dirk shoved his mouthful of food to the side of his jaw, and said, “Yeah, I’ve been thinkin’ about him. I told Jake McMurtry to check ’im out. Wouldn’t it be fun if he had a rap sheet with some sexual assaults on it?”

  “Don’t toy with me. Only in my dreams.” She took a sip of the wine that had been served to the adults at the luncheon. One of Villa Rosa’s blush wines, it had a beautiful coral color and a surprisingly delicate, dry taste for a blush.

  “Since when are you drinking on the job, Van?” Dirk asked, reaching for his own glass of iced tea.

  “Yeah, right . . . like you wouldn’t be guzzling beer this minute if they’d offered it to you. Besides, I’m only having half a glass. If I drank the whole thing I’d go right to sleep, sitting here in my chair.”

  “By the way”—he stuffed another forkful into his mouth—“Dr. Liu told me she examined that muck that was on the Matthews kid’s bed. It was chicken guts, all right.”

  Savannah glanced down at her salad and silently cursed Dirk for his lack of timing. “Gee, thanks for letting me know.”

  “No problem.”

  “How did it go with informing the Matthews family?”

  “Rotten, just like always. Dad cried, Mom cussed me out, then she cried, too. There just ain’t no easy way to inform next of kin.”

  Savannah nodded. “It’s the worst. I don’t mind leaving that part of the job behind. Did they give you any ideas who might have had it in for her?”

  “Mom said she’s sure it’s the boyfriend, a kid from the east end. And Dad said, ‘No way. He’s a good boy . . . even if he is from the east end.’ ”

  “Yeah, when I interviewed them earlier, Mrs. Matthews didn’t strike me as very liberal when it comes to embracing those of another economic status.”

  “No joke. She’s ready to jab the needle in him herself, right now, trial be damned.”

  “Did you run the boy?”

  “Yeap, a couple of misdemeanors, nothing major. I dropped by his place, but his mom said he was gone for the day. I’ll try again tonight. It’s not exactly APB time . . . until Dr. Liu’s done with the autopsy and we know for sure she was murdered.”

  “When is she doing it?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon, I think.”

  “That’s quick.”

  “Yeah, only one other stiff in the morgue. Lucky for us, it’s a slow weekend.”

  “And even luckier for the would-be stiffs who ain’t.”

  “Huh?’

  “Never mind.”

  Dirk settled into serious eating, which meant he had no time for mundane conversation, as he polished off his first plate and sweet-talked a waitress out of a second.

  Savannah finished her lunch and used the remaining minutes of the meal to relax and watch the crowd. Catherine and Anthony Villa were moving among their guests, the perfect host and hostess, cool and calm, with no hint of trouble. No one would have guessed that only hours ago, someone had been murdered on their property.

  Savannah also kept an eye on the press members, who had been given a prominent table in the center of the room. While the pageant was hardly the most newsworthy event of the season, several of the local papers had sent reporters, and Savannah recognized the anchorwoman of the local cable channel.

  She wondered if any of them knew about Barbie Matthews. From their casual demeanor, she assumed not. But no sooner had she come to that conclusion than she saw Rosemary Hulse, a newspaper reporter for the San Carmelita Star, talking on her cell phone. She had listened to her caller only a few seconds when her expression changed from laid-back to serious. Rosemary’s forte was crime reporting, and she always seemed to show up when Savannah least wanted a public informer on the scene.

  The moment Rosemary put her phone away, she stood and excused herself.

  Elbowing Dirk, Savannah said, “Hey, buddy. Rosemary Hulse just got a phone call. She knows.”

  “Dandy.”

  “How long do you suppose it’ll take her to corner Catherine or Anthony Villa?”

  “About two seconds.”

  His prediction was dead center; Catherine had left her table and walked to the back of the room to speak to the headwaiter, and that was where Rosemary nailed her.

  Watching the two women converse, Savannah saw Catherine Villa’s struggle to remain the poised politician’s wife. And she had to give the lady major points for “cool.” As she answered Rosemary’s questions, she wore the appropriate, sad, terribly concerned expression, although Savannah could imagine her agitation.

  Rosemary had pulled a small tape recorder out of her purse and was holding it under Catherine’s nose, taking the “quote,” no doubt that would be on the headline of tomorrow morning’s edition of the Star. Any homicide was big news in the small, quiet community of San Carmelita. But one involving a beautiful young woman, on the posh estate of Villa Rosa, whose owner just happened to be running for senator? That was too juicy for second-page news.

  The conversation didn’t last long; Catherine Villa was pretty good at wriggling out of an unpleasant situation, Savannah observed. She seemed to notice some urgent situation on the opposite side of the room that demanded her immediate attention. In a wink, Rosemary was standing alone, recorder in her hand and a frustrated look on her face.

  The reporter glanced around the room, and her eyes met Savannah’s. “Uh-oh.” Savannah tossed her napkin onto the table and stood. “I’m outta here before she snags me, too.”

  “Me, three.” Dirk gulped down the last of his tea and followed Savannah as they made their escape from the pool area and through a door that led back into the courtyard.

  Catherine Villa was there, and so was Marion Lippincott. Savannah and Dirk could hear them arguing even before they saw them.

  “That’s it. This beauty contest is over. We can’t take responsibility for your young ladies’ safety,” Catherine was saying. “You have to send them all home immediately.”

  “But, Mrs. Villa, we mustn’t interrupt the pageant. The girls have been preparing for this for months. It’s very important to them . . . the scholarship and—”

  “We’ll set up some sort of scholarship, whatever you like, but we have to end this pageant and get the girls out of here before something else awful happens.”

  Catherine glanced over and saw Savannah and Dirk. “You! Come here!”

  “Us?” Dirk said.

  “Yes, you. Please tell Mrs. Lippincott how important it is that we send the young ladies home right away. You of all people should know that. You saw that poor girl and . . .”

  Catherine’s façade of composure cracked, and she began to cry. Savannah walked over to her and put her arm around her shoulders. “There, there. Do you have an office, Catherine?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does it have a lock on the door?”

  She sniffed and nodded.

  “Then I would suggest that we go there right away, because Rosemary Hulse is right on our heels, and I don’t want a picture of you in tears to appear in the paper . . . and I’m sure you don’t either.”

  Catherine wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, lifted her chin, and patted her French twist. “Follow me.”

  As Savannah, Dirk, and Marion Lippincott left Catherine Whitestone-Villa’s office, “The Lip” was having a difficult time hiding her glee. “I can’t believe you talked her into allowing us to continue!” she told them. “You were wonderful in there . . . both of you. Though I’m a little confused. To be honest, I’m surprised that you were on my side.”

  They paused at the end of the hallway, at the door leading to the gallery. “It isn’t a matter of taking sides,” Savannah told her. “It’s an issue of keeping the status quo.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Easy,” Dirk replied. “If we have everybody here in one place, it’s easier to keep an eye on them. And chances are, we’ll keep the murderer here, too.”

  The unflappable Mrs. Lippincott gave him a startled look. “Are you telling
me that you think the killer is here at the pageant?”

  “Better than even odds.”

  Mrs. Lippincott turned to Savannah. “Do you think so, too?”

  “Whatever he says. He’s the dude with the badge.”

  Marion thought that one over for a moment, then nodded. “I guess that makes sense. You will let me know as soon as you have a suspect, won’t you?”

  “Absolutely,” Dirk assured her.

  As she walked away, Savannah said, “You’re not going to tell her squat.”

  “I know.”

  “So, you shouldn’t lie to people. Your nose will grow longer.”

  “My nose? That’s not what I heard. I thought it was—”

  “Oh, shut up. What’d you do, rent one of those stupid, X-rated cartoons again?”

  “Lie to me, Blue Fairy . . . lie to me.”

  “Eh . . .”

  Chapter 16

  The girls were gorgeous; Savannah had to admit it as she watched them glide, as graceful as princesses at a coronation, past the judges’ table in their evening gowns.

  The lawns behind the Villa Rosa guest center had been converted into a fantasyland with a million white sparkling lights winking in the olive trees and rose topiaries lining the path where the contestants passed, while their admirers watched in rows of chairs that had been assembled for the event.

  A Maypole had been raised in the center of a makeshift stage, its ribbons stretching to the ground, the pole itself wreathed in garlands of roses and twining vines heavy with grapes.

  The girls were dressed in every hue, from the most delicate pastel to deep, intense jewel tones. And they all sparkled . . . with either rhinestones or sequins, as their budgets had allowed.

  Savannah was pleased to see that Atlanta had made a lovely selection, a simple but classy dress of dark blue satin, accented with rhinestones across the bodice. She had admitted to Savannah that she had stuck them on with a hot-glue gun herself the night before coming to California, but the effect was no less stunning in the subdued, romantic lighting.