11-Corpse Suzette Read online

  Then Cleo yowled, bit Tammy on the thumb, jumped out of her lap and ran away.

  Abigail sat there, smoldering for another eternity before she said in a quiet, deadly tone, “Let me get this straight. You ‘won’ me a chance to have some butcher carve up my body and—”

  “And liposuction!” Tammy offered feebly. “Don’t forget the liposuction! That’s not cutting anything, it’s...” Her voice faded away as she watched her cousin’s face grow purple.

  “Carved up and vacuumed away. My body hacked up and parts of it thrown away as biohazard material just because you and society think there’s too much of me! And that’s why you invited me to come visit you here in sunny California? Is that what you’re saying to me, dear cousin of mine?”

  Tammy sat there on the footstool, holding her bleeding thumb, opening and closing her mouth like a goldfish who had just jumped out of his bowl, and staring at Abigail. “I... I... well... I...”

  Savannah couldn’t take anymore. “I’m sure it seemed like a good idea at the time,” she said in her most conciliatory tone, “but knowing now how you feel about it, Tammy can just contact the people there at Emerge tomorrow morning and gracefully decline on your behalf. And you, Miss Abigail”—she fixed her with the no-nonsense, big-sister glare that she had perfected over the years when dealing with eight younger siblings—“can assume that your cousin had nothing but your best interests at heart. You can say a simple, ‘No, thank you,’ and spend the rest of your vacation lying on the beach, soaking up some of our golden California sunshine and thanking Tammy that you’re not back there in New York City, enjoying that foot and a half of snow the weather man says they just got.”

  Abigail glared back and said, “Oh, yes, that’s just what I want to do... go lie on a beach with all the skinny California girls in their bikinis, who look like heroin addicts or escapees from a concentration camp, who starve themselves to conform to society’s standard of...”

  Savannah sighed and shook her head. Some days it just didn’t pay to gnaw through the restraints.

  The next morning, Savannah, Tammy, and Dirk were sitting at the picnic table in Savannah’s backyard, eating a lunch of fried bologna sandwiches and potato salad that Savannah had fixed for them. At least, Savannah and Dirk were eating it. As usual, Tammy had brought a healthier selection of her own, a Tupper-ware container full of salad.

  “I swear, I never saw a body do a turnaround like that so fast in all my life,” Savannah said, spreading mustard thickly on a slice of bread. “Last night Abigail was madder than a wet hen, squawking about how degrading the very idea of a makeover was. And today, she comes downstairs to the breakfast table, sunshine and light, and says she’s rarin’ to go!”

  Tammy beamed. “I know! I can’t believe it myself, but she couldn’t wait for me to take her over to Emerge and get her started. You should have seen the fuss the staff was making over her, TV cameras and news crews everywhere. Abby was eating up all the attention.”

  Dirk took a swig of lemonade and cleared his throat. “Sounds suspicious to me. She’s up to something.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I think, too,” Savannah added. “I saw a gleam in her eye that my nephew gets right before he pulls the tail off a lizard.”

  “Don’t say that.” Tammy winced.

  “Sorry, but I think that kid’s a budding serial killer. Vidalia had better get her bluff in on him before he gets much older or—”

  “No,” Tammy said, “I mean don’t say that about Abigail. Have a little faith, will you two?”

  “In what?” Dirk wanted to know.

  “Humanity.”

  He grunted. “That’ll be the day. I’m a cop, remember? I see every day what ‘humanity’ is up to. And it ain’t pretty.”

  Tammy Sunshine shook her head in disgust. “Not everybody is up to something. Some people are good and kind and—”

  “Only the ones who are afraid of getting caught and punished.” He gave her a nasty little smirk. “That’s where I come in. I keep the regular folks honest.”

  Savannah chuckled. “Oh, yes, Dirk. That’s it. Everybody in society is law-abiding because Dirk Coulter is on duty. We live in fear. We tremble in—”

  “Yeah, yeah, enough already.” He held out his glass. “Gimme some more of that lemonade and mark my words: She’s up to something. It’s just a matter of time until we find out what.”

  In less than forty-eight hours, around nine in the evening, Savannah got the phone call. She was sitting in her favorite chair, her feet on the ottoman, a cup of double-fudge hot chocolate on her side table, a romance novel open on her lap, and a cat on either side of her feet—kitty foot warmers, she liked to call them.

  Dirk’s surly voice barked at her through the phone. “Where is that houseguest of yours?” he asked without preamble.

  “She went to bed an hour ago. Why?”

  “How did she seem?”

  “Seem?”

  “Yeah, you know, her mood. Was she grouchy, grumpy?”

  “Not particularly. Not Sneezy or Bashful, either. She spent the day there at Emerge, getting her blood work done and other things to get ready for her surgeries. They’ve scheduled her liposuction for the day after tomorrow. She seemed a little tired... wanted to go to bed early. What’s this about?”

  “I just caught a case.”

  “What is it?”

  “Missing person.”

  “What’s this got to do with me?” she said, glancing down at her half-read romance novel. In the last chapter, the virgin heroine had finally trusted the swashbuckling hero enough to take a moonlight sail on his ship. He had “trusted” her right back... very nicely, and in graphic, steamy detail. So well, in fact, that Savannah suspected the newly deflowered lady would allow him to trust her in the next chapter, too.

  Something to look forward to.

  Dirk’s timing had always left a lot to be desired.

  “It’s Suzette Du Bois who’s gone missing,” he said. “The plastic surgeon who’s supposed to operate on your girl there. The one who owns the joint where she’s—”

  “You’re kidding! When?”

  “Last night was the last time anybody saw her. She didn’t show up at the clinic this morning. Didn’t Abigail mention it to you? Apparently, everybody there was talking about it.”

  Savannah glanced at the staircase and wondered about her houseguest upstairs. Now that she thought about it, maybe Abigail had seemed a little weird tonight. But then, with Abigail, who could really tell?

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “On my way to Du Bois’s house, down by the marina. Her business partner has a key to the place. He’s going to meet me there and let me in.”

  “Want some help?”

  “I don’t need help.”

  Savannah rolled her eyes. “Of course not. What was I thinking?”

  “But I’d like to have your company. Got any more of those chocolate chip cookies... the ones with the nuts in them?”

  Chapter

  3

  Like many Southern California coastal towns, San Carmelita was longer than it was wide, with the ocean forming its western border and the eastern edge a row of sage-covered foothills.

  Spring rainstorms would temporarily green the hills until they looked like the mountains of Killarney, but the rest of the year they were a relatively boring tawny beige. Their only adornment: sprinklings of prickly pear cactus and the occasional gnarled oak tree.

  When those spring rains were generous, it was easy to forget that Southern California was basically a desert, each community a man-made oasis. But when spring came and went with only minimal rainfall, it became all too apparent to the residents that they were desert dwellers and that every drop of water counted.

  As Savannah left her home in the middle of town, halfway between the beach and the foothills, and drove toward the waterfront area and the marina, she noticed that her neighbors’ yards, like hers, were extra crispy this year. Watering lawns—like wash-m
g cars, rinsing down sidewalks, showering alone, and flushing a number one”—was temporarily outlawed.

  But if March brought its usual tropical storms, Savannah and her fellow Californians would be building sandbag dams around their houses to prevent the rivers of water that coursed down the streets from rushing through their front doors. The mansions, perched on the hillsides for the optimal ocean view, would be sliding down onto their neighbor’s mansions, mountains of mud and rock would be cascading onto the Pacific Coast Highway, traffic would be backed up from Santa Monica to Santa Barbara, and Southern California would be back to “normal.”

  Sometimes Savannah missed the relatively uneventful weather of the small, rural Georgia town where she had been born and raised. She missed it most during earthquakes. But about the time she waxed too nostalgic, she would round a corner and see the sparkling Pacific spread out before her, lined with golden beaches and majestic rows of graceful palms, and she forgot all about peach orchards and pecan groves.

  Tonight the ocean was particularly beautiful, sparkling in the silver light of a full moon. On the distant Santa Tesla Island she could see the occasional wink of the lighthouse’s beam as it made its rounds.

  Yes, this Georgia peach was usually quite contented and happy to be transplanted.

  As always when she entered the waterfront areas of town, she noticed that they had more than their share of stately palm trees. Apparently palms grew best in soil enriched with beaucoup de bucks.

  Luxury cars did, too. Everywhere she looked she saw some version of Mercedes, Jaguar, or BMW, along with the perfectly restored classic Chevrolets, Fords, and Rolls Royces.

  Savannah felt right at home in her own ’65 Mustang, except for the black smoke coming out of her exhaust pipe—another issue she would have to address if she ever got another client. At the moment they weren’t exactly knocking down her door.

  She found the address quickly, an elegant Spanish-style home that backed up onto one of the many channels that interlaced this area. Around the rear corner of the house she could see what appeared to be at least forty feet of dock and an ocean-worthy sailboat.

  Not bad, she thought, looking over the multilevel dwelling with its glistening white stucco walls and red-tiled roof. That's what my little house is going to be when it grows up someday.

  But, ever-practical, she reminded herself that she didn’t want a spread like this. The taxes alone would be more than her mortgage, utilities, and Victoria’s Secret bill combined. There’d be no money left over for bubble bath or Godiva chocolates. And a lady had to keep her financial priorities in order.

  She considered pulling into the driveway next to Dirk’s Buick, but decided instead to park on the street and drip oil on public property.

  A late-model Mercedes sat next to the Buick, and she saw no radio cars, ambulances, or medical examiner’s wagon. No yellow tape across the door. Apparently Dirk hadn’t found anything too alarming. Yet.

  Most likely, there was a perfectly good reason that the doctor was missing. Most people disappeared, temporarily or permanently, of their own accord. Although, not usually wealthy, successful, well-rooted types like Dr. Du Bois. From the look of her real estate, Suzette Du Bois had spent a lot of time and money establishing herself in this community. She wasn’t likely to just walk away from it all.

  As Savannah left her car and walked up to the front door of the house, she couldn’t help noticing the landscaping. Although the Yards in this part of town were miniscule—with every inch of waterfront property a precious commodity—Suzette Du Bois or her groundskeepers had made the most of the tiny lot. Strategically placed lights illuminated the terraced flower beds, which brimmed with Martha Washington geraniums, glistening white alyssum, and deep blue lobelia. Ivy climbed the stucco walls and intertwined with equally hearty bougainvillea, adding an old-world charm to the house that was obviously new.

  When she approached the front door she saw that it was ajar, and she could hear male voices coming from inside the house. One of them was Dirk’s.

  Through the sparkling beveled glass sidelight next to the door, she could see him standing in the well-lit foyer with a tall, dark-haired fellow who appeared to be in his late forties or early fifties.

  Pushing the door open, she stuck her head inside. “May I come in?” she asked.

  Dirk gave her a curt nod, then turned his attention back to the man. “And that was the last you or anyone you know saw her?”

  “Yes. She was leaving the office.”

  “You saw her drive away?”

  He nodded. “In her BMW, which is in the garage. I checked. So, at least, she made it home,” he said with what sounded to Savannah like a less-than-genuine Italian accent. A number of things looked less than natural about the guy, from his heavily-gelled hair, which was a suspiciously intense shade of blue-black, to the eyebrows perched halfway up his forehead and the perpetually surprised look on his face. Apparently, he had had a few too many face-lifts in the losing battle against looking his age.

  He also looked worried. Worried and tired... as if he hadn’t slept for days.

  Savannah wondered why he would be so tired. Suzette had only gone missing today.

  She walked over to them and stood next to Dirk. When he said nothing, but continued to scribble on his notepad, she held out her hand to the man. “I’m Savannah Reid, a friend of Sergeant Coulter here.”

  Dirk glanced up and grunted. “Oh, sorry. Yes, she was my partner on the force for years. Now she’s a private investigator. I ask her to hang out with me once in a while. You mind?”

  The man didn’t seem to mind at all. In fact, he visually perked-up at the mention of her being a P.I. “I’m Sergio D’Alessandro,” he said as he took her hand and gave it a hearty shake. At the same time, his eyes traveled up and down her body, giving her what she called, the “elevator look,” stopping at several floors along the way to window-shop.

  Apparently, he liked what he saw, because he flashed her a dazzling smile. A bit too dazzling. Savannah suspected he was one of those males who hadn’t met a female he didn’t like since hitting puberty.

  She pulled her hand out of his and resisted the urge to wipe her palm on her pants.

  “Nice to meet you,” she said through only slightly gritted teeth. “And you are...?”

  He visibly swelled with indignation. “7 own the Mystic Twilight Club, an exclusive spa that caters to only those of the most refined taste and—”

  “I know the place,” she said. “I meant, who are you in relationship to the missing pers—”

  “I’m Dr. Du Bois’s business partner. Have been for years. And she was also my ex-wife.”

  Savannah lifted one eyebrow ever so slightly. “Was? I should think she still is and always will be your ex-wife.”

  He shrugged. “You know what I meant. I mean she’s missing now and...”

  And you’re already referring to her in the past tense, she thought, but she kept any further comment to herself. There was little to he gained by letting a potential suspect know how suspicious they appeared.

  And if, indeed, Suzette Du Bois was a missing person or a victim of foul play, ex-husbands and current boyfriends were always at the top of the suspect list.

  She could feel Dirk tense slightly beside her, and she knew he had picked up on it, too.

  He cleared his throat and took on an even more officious tone. “Is Dr. Du Bois in the habit of missing work?”

  “Never. Never, never. She was a workaholic and she knew more than anybody how important it was for her to show up today to start this new Emerge campaign.”

  Again with the past tense.

  Savannah decided something then and there. For all of his high-falutin’ name, Brioni suit, and Tutima watch, Sergio D’Alessandro wasn’t that sharp. Obviously, he knew or strongly suspected his former wife was dead, and he was too dumb to realize he was exposing that fact.

  And while most people might fear that possibility if an otherwise responsible,
predictable person went missing for twenty-four hours, experience had taught her that most innocent folks continued to speak of their loved ones in the present tense, even after they were confirmed dead. It was only natural.

  “All right,” Dirk said, flipping his notebook closed. “I’m gonna have a look around. You can get back to whatever you were doing before you drove over here.”

  Sergio shifted from one Bruno Magli to the other. “Don’t you want me to stay... in case you need something or . .

  “Nope. You let me into the house. That’s all I need or want from you right now,” Dirk replied with his usual lack of charm. “Don’t call me. I’ll call you. And stay in town. Don’t go takin’ no unscheduled vacations to Tijuana or Vancouver, if you know what I mean.”

  He turned and walked away, leaving D’Alessandro standing there with an aggravated look on his face.

  When Dirk was out of earshot, Savannah sidled up to him. “There’s something you should know,” she said. “Sergeant Coulter’s bite is a lot worse than his bark.”

  “Huh? Don’t you mean...?”

  “Nope. I meant what I said. You should probably leave now.”

  The next thing she saw was the back of Sergio D’Alessandro’s fancy suit, walking briskly out the door. She couldn’t help but think that the atmosphere improved with his absence. There was something about the man she didn’t like... beyond his basic smarminess. And her instincts seldom led her astray in that regard.

  Yes, if anything had actually happened to Dr. Suzette Du Bois, she would give ol’ Sergio a second look. Maybe a third and a fourth.

  She found Dirk in the kitchen, listening to the messages on an answering machine on the counter.

  “Anything good?” she asked.

  “Just the usual crap,” he replied. “A couple of calls from somebody named Myrna, wanting to know why she wasn’t at work this morning.”

  “I think Myrna is the secretary or receptionist at Emerge. She’s called at my house and talked to Abigail a couple of times to schedule things with her.”