A Decadent Way to Die: A Savannah Reid Mystery Page 4

  “Waldo, my man,” she said, “you’ve got some mighty critical womenfolk in your inner family circle.”

  “No kidding.” He bobbed his blond head vigorously. “And Emma’s not nearly as bad as my mom. Man, she’s ragging on me day and night about getting a job or going to school or making something of myself.”

  “She hasn’t figured out how pointless that is, huh?”

  “Nope. I keep waiting for her to get it through her thick head, but …”

  “Moms.” Savannah gave him a sympathetic tsk-tsk and shook her head. “Always pushing their kids to succeed. Don’t they know the damage they do?”

  “Yeah.”

  Savannah guided him a few feet farther down the path and patted his arm companionably. He responded to the female attention with the shy grin of a guy who didn’t get much.

  “Do you normally sleep in,” she asked him, “like Emma said? Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Who wouldn’t if they could?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. But I stay up late at night. It’s not like I’m not doin’ nothin’ with my life.”

  “Of course not. And the morning your aunt had her accident, do you think you slept in then, too, or …”

  “I guess so. I don’t remember doing anything different.”

  “How did you find out about her mishap?”

  “The siren woke me up. I looked out the window of my house over there”—he pointed through the trees, and Savannah could just see the top of the roof of a tiny cottage that reminded her of a Goldilocks and the Three Bears book her granny had read to them—“and I saw the ambulance coming down the road. They stopped there by the cliff and then I saw her laying on the ground, with Tiago kneeling next to her. I knew it wasn’t good.”

  “That must have been a shock to the system, seeing that,” Savannah said, studying his face closely.

  “Oh, it was! I thought for sure she was a goner!”

  “You and your aunt pretty close, are you?”

  “She’s the only person in the world who loves me,” he said with a candor that took Savannah by surprise. “My mother hates me. Emma does, too. And I’ve sorta run out of friends the last few years.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Savannah looked into his green eyes and saw a lot of pain. “Any particular reason why your friends flew the coop?”

  “I only had two to start with. One of ’em got married and his new wife doesn’t want him hanging out with me anymore … says I’m a loser. The other friend OD’d.”

  “Waldo, that’s a hard-luck tale if ever I heard one,” Savannah said. But her tone lacked the ring of sincerity, because she was distracted.

  Looking down at the path, about three feet from where they stood, she had noticed something strange.

  Wanting to investigate without an audience, she took Waldo by the arm and led him back toward his aunt and Emma. “Thank you for that information,” she told him as she pulled a small notebook and pen from her purse. “If I have any other questions and need to call you, where can I reach you?”

  He gave her his email address and, at her prompting, supplied a phone number, as well. She jotted them down.

  Turning to Helene and Emma, she said, “I won’t keep y’all out here any longer. I reckon you’ve got things to do and places to be.”

  “I certainly do,” Helene said. She turned to Waldo, “I have to go see that mother of yours and give her a piece of my mind about that ridiculous new doll she’s planning. Go take a shower. I want you to drive me to the office.”

  He mumbled something that sounded like a halfhearted objection, then moped down the path toward the cottage among the trees.

  Helene extended her hand to Savannah. “I’m sorry I wasn’t very hospitable when you first got here. Next time we’ll skip the gun and go straight to the strudel.”

  Savannah gave the woman’s hand an affectionate squeeze and smiled. “That sounds like an excellent plan. And one of these days, you’ll have to come to my house and sample my apple pie and homemade ice cream.”

  Helene’s green eyes twinkled. “I’ve worked eighty years on my strudel recipe. Do you really think you can top it?”

  “Granny Reid’s older than you, and it’s her recipe. So, maybe …”

  “We shall see. We shall see.”

  “I get to judge that contest.” Emma nodded toward the main house. “So, Savannah, are you ready for me to take you home?”

  Savannah thought of what she’d seen on the path and shook her head. “Actually, I think I can arrange my own ride back home,” she told Emma. “And, if you don’t mind, Helene, I’d like to spend a little time here on your property, just looking around a bit. Would that be okay?”

  “Poking around is more like it,” Helene replied.

  Savannah grinned. “Looking, poking, nosing around … pretty much the same thing in my neck of the woods.”

  “Okay. Stay as long as you like.”

  Savannah decided to press her luck. “And is there any way that I could get back into the house … if you’re gone and there was something I really wanted to look at … say … in your kitchen.”

  Helene raised one eyebrow. “If you’re thinking of snooping around for my strudel recipe, don’t waste your time. The only copy of it is in my head.”

  “Actually,” Savannah replied, “I’m more interested in your cocoa tin … and sugar canister … and …”

  “I suppose. If you want to go into the house after I’m gone, ask Tiago, the gardener, to let you in. Tell him I said you are family now. His cottage is down the road, past Waldo’s.” Helene gave her a sly little grin. “I put vanilla in my hot chocolate, too,” she said. “And a pinch of salt.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. And milk and …”

  “Milk?” Helene sniffed. “Milk is for wimps. Half-and-half.”

  “Ahhh … a woman after my own heart.”

  Once Helene and Emma were gone, and Savannah was certain she was alone, she walked back down the path and knelt on one knee next to the suspicious area she had noticed before.

  She poked at the traffic-hardened dirt with one finger, then tested the section next to it.

  Slowly, she stood and dusted off her hand.

  She looked at the path … the cliff where Helene Strauss had nearly met her death.

  Savannah’s eyes went cold, her face hard, as she took her cell phone from her purse and called Dirk.

  “Hi,” she said. “I need you.”

  “And how many times a day do women tell me that?”

  He must be finished doing the paperwork on the Murphy brothers, she thought. Dirk never flirted—or even cracked a grin, for that matter—when he was at his desk.

  “I mean it,” she said. “I’m at a beachfront property about five miles north of town. It’s just past the Vista del Sol restaurant where I took you for your birthday. First drive on the left. I’ll meet you at the main house.”

  “Ooo-kaay,” he said. “You gonna tell me why?”

  “I’ll fill you in when you get here. Bring evidence bags, your camera, and a stiff ruler.”

  No sooner had she said it than she knew it was coming. He was, after all, male.

  “You might not need a stiff ruler if I’m there. Whatcha gonna measure?”

  “Something longer than three and a half inches, so bring the friggin’ ruler.”

  He chuckled.

  That was one thing she loved about Dirk—his tough hide. He took insults better than most.

  “You gonna buy me dinner again?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Really? Wow! I’ll be right out.”

  She clicked the phone closed. “Sure, I’ll buy you a dee-luxe cheeseburger, fries, and a beer … your very next birthday.”

  Chapter 4

  Half an hour later, Dirk was standing over Savannah, watching as she shoved the wooden yardstick into a strip of soft dirt that crossed the path, from one side to the other.

  “See how the straightedge slides right down, n
ice and easy like?” she said. “This section’s been dug out recently, then filled back in.”

  He kicked at the path with the toe of his sneaker. “Yeah. I see that. It’s hard as a rock here. You’d break that ruler if you tried to push it in here.” He moved to the other side of her and tested that soil, too. “And it’s just as hard over here.”

  He looked up and down the path. “This road’s old … beaten down over the years. I’ll bet there’s not another spot like that anywhere on it.”

  “Me, too.”

  She pushed the yardstick easily through the dirt until it met resistance. “Fourteen inches,” she said. “That’d be deep enough to do the trick for sure.”

  “What trick?” he asked.

  She pulled the ruler out and continued to poke around. “And about six inches across.”

  “What’s this all about?” he said.

  “But how would they know she wouldn’t see it and stop or go around it?” she muttered to herself as she stood, then walked several feet down the path, back toward the main road.

  “She, who?” Dirk wanted to know.

  “Helene Strauss, the wonderful elderly lady who owns this property. She reminds me of Gran. She was riding her motorbike from the main house to the mailbox out on the highway, like she did every morning. She hit that hole and went over the cliff right there.”

  “Your granny doesn’t ride a motorbike.”

  “She would if she had one. Hush up, boy … you’re interfer-rin’ with my concentration.”

  “God forbid.”

  “So, why dig the hole there?” she said. “The path runs close to the cliff for quite a stretch here.”

  Dirk walked over to Savannah and surveyed the area, up and down. After a few moments, he said matter-of-factly, “The view.”

  She looked up at him and couldn’t help noticing the moderately smug look on his face. “What?”

  “The view. It’s the best here. Back there and up ahead there’s more bushes and trees, blocking the view of the ocean.”

  “That’s true.” Savannah nodded, looking through the break in the foliage that afforded a breathtaking vista of sea, sand, and sky. “Even if I rode through here every day, I’d turn my head and soak in that gorgeous scenery every time. Look at how pretty it is.”

  She turned to Dirk. “Boy, I take back what I’ve said about you behind your back over the years. You do have the sense God gave a goose.”

  “Gee. Thanks. How often does a guy get a compliment like that?”

  “I want a house like that,” Savannah said as she and Dirk rounded a curve in the path and saw the first cottage.

  She had already fallen in love, having glimpsed bits of the roof and upper story through the trees. The mullioned windows with their dark red shutters, the steeply pitched roof, and lacy gingerbread woodwork seemed fit for a fairy-tale princess.

  Though the tie-dyed tee-shirt and tattered beach towel draped over the upstairs balcony railing, and the dried-up vines that trailed from the flower boxes suggested that someone other than Snow White or Cinderella lived there.

  “Call it a hunch,” she told Dirk, “that’s Waldo’s place.”

  “Who’s Waldo?”

  “Helene’s rare-do-well great-nephew, who lives here on the property.”

  “And sponges off the old biddy?”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “That he’s a sponge?”

  “That she’s old or a biddy. First time I saw her, she was toting a rifle, and I’ll betcha dollars to donuts she knows exactly how to use it.”

  “She’d shoot me for calling her a ‘biddy’?”

  “She’s a mite sensitive right now, and I don’t blame her one bit. Thinking that somebody’s been trying to kill you will do that to a gal.”

  They passed the house, with its unattractive laundry hanging out to dry, and walked on down the path toward another, slightly smaller, but equally charming cottage.

  This one, a miniature version of the mansion, had flower boxes brimming with healthy plants, immaculately trimmed shrubs, and a thriving herbal garden besides.

  The windows were open, and white, ruffled curtains danced lightly in the breeze.

  A pretty young Latino woman, wearing a simple white shirt and jeans, her flowing black hair tied back in a ponytail, had some garden shears in one hand and a cell phone in the other.

  She was speaking Spanish, and although Savannah’s Español was limited at best, she thought she heard her say something like, “Tener cuidado con lo que dices.” And she was pretty sure that meant, “Be careful what you say.”

  That alone would have been enough to pique Savannah’s extremely piqueable curiosity. But when the woman saw them, she jumped, snapped the phone closed, and shoved it into her jeans pocket.

  With a tense and guilty look on her face, she began to frantically harvest cilantro from among the herbs.

  “Hola,” Savannah said. “Buenas dias.”

  Yes, no doubt about it, Savannah thought. The young lady appeared nervous, upset that she had been overheard. And by a Spanish-speaking person at that.

  “Buenos dias,” Dirk whispered. “Buenos, not buenas.”

  Okay, Savannah admitted to herself, a semi-Spanish-speaking person.

  “Hello,” the woman responded, not quite meeting Savannah’s eyes.

  Savannah walked closer to her and stood, deliberately, a bit inside her personal space. From her worried expression and the way she kept shifting from one foot to the other, Savannah knew she had succeeded in making her even more uncomfortable.

  Savannah liked it when people were uncomfortable … at least when she was on the job. Whether they intended to or not, nervous people revealed more of themselves than relaxed folks ever would.

  “I’m Savannah Reid,” she said, putting out her hand to the woman. “And you are …?”

  She fumbled with her herbs and her shears for a moment, before freeing her right hand. Shaking Savannah’s, she mumbled, “I’m Blanca.”

  “I’m happy to meet you, Blanca. And this is my friend, Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter.”

  Dirk gave the young woman his most intimidating “cowboy gunfighter” scowl … the one that made Savannah feel the need to bop him and tell him to be nice.

  The look worked well on tough gangbangers, but when used on less hardcore citizens, it scared the daylights out of them and frequently caused them to withdraw.

  Blanca looked like a turtle pulling into her shell as she took a step backward, ducked her head, and crossed her arms over her chest.

  “Detective?” she whispered. “You are police?”

  “I’m not the police,” Savannah told her. “And he’s just my friend. We’re here to make sure that everything’s okay for Mrs. Strauss.”

  “Miss Helene,” Blanca corrected her. “You call her Mrs. Strauss, she gets very mad. She did not like her mother-in-law.”

  “Oh, right.” Savannah smiled. “I forgot. Miss Helene. We’re just checking a few things to make sure that she’s okay. You heard what happened to her … the accidents?”

  “Yes!” She nodded vigorously, her beautiful, dark brown eyes wide. “I heard! She fell off the mountain! My husband saved her.”

  “Then your husband is the gardener?” Savannah asked.

  “Yes. She was going to fall. He pulled her back.”

  “Were you there when it happened? Did you see it?”

  Blanca glanced right and left, then down at her sneakers. “No. I was not there.”

  “Where were you?” the still-scowling Dirk wanted to know.

  “In el castillo. I was cleaning. I clean for Miss Helene.”

  “El castillo? Oh, the castle … the big house?”

  “Yes. I clean the house and my husband is the gardener. And he takes care of the cars.”

  Savannah looked deep into the mahogany-colored eyes that seemed so reluctant to meet hers. “Blanca, do you know anyone who would want to hurt Miss Helene?”

  The young w
oman dropped her shears. She bent over and took her time picking them up. When she did, Savannah noticed that the handful of cilantro she was holding was shaking like a willow tree in a Georgia wind storm.

  “No,” Blanca said. “Miss Helene is like an angel. She gets mad sometimes, and she screams at people sometimes. But she isn’t bad. She’s good.”

  “Who does she scream at?” Dirk asked.

  Blanca shrugged. “Everyone, when they don’t do things right. She wants everyone to do their work right. But she’s good.”

  “And you can’t think of anyone who would want to hurt her?” Savannah asked again.

  Blanca hesitated just a bit too long, then shook her head. “No. I can think of no one.”

  Savannah lowered her voice to a soft whisper. “If you think of someone, would you tell me? You know … to help Miss He-lene?”

  Blanca looked up at Savannah with eyes filled with painful secrets. After several long, tense seconds, she finally nodded.

  “Thank you,” Savannah told her, reaching into her purse and pulling out a business card. She held it out to the woman. “My phone number is on there. You can call me any time at all, day or night. Okay?”

  Blanca mumbled a halfhearted, “Okay,” and shoved the card into her jeans pocket.

  Savannah glanced around. “Where is your husband, Blanca? We need to speak to him, too.”

  A look of fresh fear crossed the housekeeper’s face.

  “Just for a moment,” Savannah added. “There’s no problem. We just need to ask him about how he saved her. He’s a real hero, your husband.”

  Blanca gave her a weak smile and a slight nod. “Yes. A hero.” She pointed toward the back of the cottage. “He’s working on the chicken house.”

  Savannah heard Dirk groan, and she couldn’t help smiling just a little.

  Dirk liked cats and dogs, but he was no fan of livestock … beyond eating them.

  “Thank you, señora,” Savannah told Blanca. “Please call if me you think of anything.”

  “I will.”

  No, you won’t, Savannah thought.

  Her internal lie detector was pretty reliable, and even though she had sensed that Blanca harbored a certain degree of affection for her employer, she wasn’t expecting the phone to jingle any time soon with a call from the housekeeper.