Fat Free and Fatal Read online

  “An escape from what?”

  “Being Dona Papalardo.”

  Savannah watched the play of emotions that crossed Mary Jo’s face: sadness, pity, and maybe a hint of resentment?

  “What’s so bad about being a beloved actress?” She glanced around the opulent room. “And a rich one to boot?”

  “You’d think it would be enough, wouldn’t you?”

  Yes, Savannah was sure she detected some jealousy, maybe even some bitterness there.

  “But not everybody loves Dona,” Mary Jo continued.

  Savannah’s detective antenna rose. “Oh? Anyone in particular who doesn’t?”

  Mary Jo was on instant alert. “Not anybody who would want to kill her, if that’s what you mean,” she said.

  “So, what do you think that shooting was about yesterday?”

  Mary Jo shrugged, a blank mask firmly in place. “Who knows? Some kook probably. Or maybe somebody who had it in for Kim. Just because she looked a bit like Dona, who’s to say it was Dona they were trying to kill?”

  “Do you know anyone who would want Kim dead?”

  “I didn’t really know Kim that well.”

  “Even though she worked for your best friend’?”

  Mary Jo’s chin raised a notch and her eyes narrowed. “That’s right. I don’t get close to the help. I hardly knew Kim at all, and I have no idea why that happened yesterday. I’m as much in the dark as anybody about it.”

  Savannah didn’t believe her. After years of trying to squeeze information out of people, she was an excellent judge of which fruits had juice in them and which ones didn’t. She was sure that Mary Jo had a lot more to give than she was offering.

  And that’s just not smart, lady, Savannah thought. Hold out on me, and I’ll look at you that much closer to find out why.

  Savannah gave Mary Jo a long, searching look designed to make her squirm—if, indeed, she had anything to squirm about. But the woman returned the look with a dead-level stare that Savannah could only describe as bordering on defiant.

  Yes, she would definitely have to watch this one. It wouldn’t be the first time that a so-called “best friend” had stabbed somebody in the back. Or shot them, as the case might be.

  “It’s very kind and supportive of you,” Savannah said evenly, “to be here for your friend in her time of need.”

  “I live here,” Mary Jo snapped, again with a defiant, defensive manner that made Savannah’s right eyebrow rise a notch.

  “Oh? You said you’re staying here. I didn’t realize you actually live here.”

  “There’s probably quite a bit you don’t know about us. The tabloids don’t tell the whole story, you know.”

  The tabloids? Savannah wondered what the tabloids had to do with the price of pecans in Georgia. But she made a quick mental note to have Tammy get her hands on as many as she could that mentioned Dona Papalardo, and especially her good buddy, Mary Jo.

  “I’m sure they don’t,” Savannah said. “In fact, I’m sure they tell a lot of half-truths, and that’s on a good day when they aren’t just plain ol’ outright lying through their snaggled teeth.”

  For just a moment, Mary Jo’s expression softened, as though she appreciated the fact that Savannah and she were on the same side when it came to the politics of supermarket rags. But their “strange bedfellow” bond was short-lived.

  “I’ve been living here for a few months now, since I sold my house in Malibu,” Mary Jo said, her chin a couple of notches higher than normal. “And Dona is very nice to have me here. But it isn’t like the tabloids said. I wasn’t homeless, for heaven’s sake. She didn’t snatch me off the streets, bring me home and clean me up. It wasn’t like that at all.”

  “I’m sure they exaggerated it something awful.”

  “They did! They made it sound like she’s this successful, totally together diva who, out of the goodness of her heart, reached down to pull her poor, loser friend up out of the muck.”

  “They didn’t!”

  “They did! And it’s such a lie. Dona has plenty of problems of her own, I’ll tell you. Lots of problems. And I’ve helped her more than she’s helped me! I mean, not financially maybe, but there are other ways one friend helps another.”

  “Of course, there are umpteen dozen ways.”

  “I’ve helped her in ways that you wouldn’t believe since she had that gastric bypass surgery. She’s been sick as a dog. Throwing up…and other things I won’t even mention because it’s so gross and—”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

  “And only a friend, a real friend would stand by you at a time like that!”

  Savannah nodded solemnly. “How true. Bathroom duty elevates a casual acquaintance to soul-sister status every time.”

  Mary Jo waved an arm, indicating the room they were standing in. “With all of this, everyone assumes that Dona has it all, that she’s happy and fulfilled and doesn’t have a care in the world. Except maybe her weight. But I’ve known her since we were kids and neither one of us had anything. We were going to be a world-famous singing duo. When we were in high school we won every contest we entered. We were going to go all the way to the top together. But then Dona was ‘discovered’ and had her face on the cover of Teen Idol, and as they say, the rest is history. She turned her back on her true love, singing, and started acting just because of the money. And she hasn’t been happy since that day.”

  Savannah recalled the night when Dona Papalardo had won her Emmy, her tears of joy, her grateful and gracious acceptance speech. If she hadn’t been happy that night, she was a better actress than even Hollywood was giving her credit for.

  Savannah had a feeling that Mary Jo was rewriting history, coming up with a new version that she, herself, could live with. And this account played a bit better than: My best friend promised we’d make it to the top together, but she left me behind in her scramble to the summit. And here I sit in a mud puddle looking up at her, feeling bitter and sorry for myself.

  Yes, Savannah decided, the tabloids aren’t the only ones who can spin a yarn when it suits them to do so.

  She had to ask Mary Jo the question.

  She had to.

  The question was a necessary evil in each and every investigation. And no matter how many times you asked how many people, nobody ever took kindly to being asked.

  “Mary Jo,” she said, using her soft, lulling voice…the one she usually used for coaxing her cats out of trees. “If you don’t mind me asking, where were you yesterday when Kim was shot?”

  Mary Jo’s eyes opened wide. “Well, I do mind. I mind because the only reason you’d ask such a thing is because you suspect me of having something to do with it.”

  Savannah shrugged and gave her a half-smile. “Don’t take it personally. I suspect everybody of everything. That way I’m never disappointed…or surprised. In my line of work, you can’t afford to be surprised. It could be deadly.”

  Mary Jo seemed to consider Savannah’s words and decide, perhaps, they had some merit. She relaxed a little, her body less rigid and her expression less hostile. “Okay,” she said. “I guess that’s a fair question. I was out jogging.”

  “Where?”

  “In the hills behind the property. There’s a beautiful valley back there, and except for a few rattlesnakes, it’s a great place to run. I run every day.”

  “Did you see anything unusual while you were out there?”

  “Some stupid kids throwing rocks at a rattler they had cornered between some rocks. I told them they were idiots and made them quit. Other than that, no.”

  “And when you got back here? What was happening at that point?”

  Mary Jo looked down at the rug at her feet and a look of great sadness washed over her face. “Kim was dying,” she said simply. “There on the driveway. Dona was holding her in her arms. And she was dying. I’d never seen anyone die before. Not even of natural causes, let alone…like that…”

  She swallowed hard, then look
ed up at Savannah, her eyes filling with tears. “I didn’t particularly like or even know Kim, but that was really awful. I guess you’ve seen a lot of that sort of thing in your line of work. You’re probably used to it.”

  In her mind’s eye, Savannah saw a line of bodies, the dead and the dying, stretching back over the years—during both of her careers as a private investigator and as a police officer. By now, literally hundreds. And she could remember every single one of them vividly. Far too vividly, sometimes, in the middle of the night.

  “No,” she said. “I’m not used to it. And God forbid I ever will be.”

  Chapter 7

  Savannah found Dirk standing in the backyard next to an exquisite swimming pool shaped like an octagon. It was rimmed with pastel pink and aqua tiles with an Egyptian motif, and in the center, a fountain sprayed an iridescent jet of water into the air. The tiles were accented with flecks of gold and something told Savannah that in this case, if it looked like gold, it probably was.

  Elegant palms grew along the back side of the pool, partially shading it and providing bathers with a sense of jungle verdure.

  The yard was expansive with numerous areas that had been designed for gracious entertaining. A natural stone barbecue pit was surrounded by chaises with thick, inviting cushions. A garden filled with native wildflowers was dotted with wrought-iron benches where guests could sit and commune with each other and nature. And at the back of the property a delicate gazebo provided a private, romantic setting for viewing the sweeping, verdant valley and the tan, velveteen hills, lined with rows of dark, gray-green avocado trees in the distance.

  Dirk appeared less festive and a lot less elegant than his surroundings, but that was nothing unusual. What was unusual was the brown thing sticking out of his mouth.

  “What the heck is that you’re sucking on there, buddy?” Savannah asked as she walked up to him.

  It looked like a rough brown cigarette, but as she got closer, she caught the sweet, fresh scent of cinnamon. Dirk had never smelled so good.

  “It’s a cinnamon stick,” he said, shoving it to the side of his mouth and talking around it, “and I don’t want to hear a word about it,” he snapped. “Not one word, you hear?”

  She chuckled. “Oh yeah,” she said. “You’re going to walk around with spices sticking out of your face, and you and I aren’t going to have a conversation about it? That’s going to happen…sure.” Then it dawned on her and her face softened into a sweet smile. “Oh-h-h. This is a ‘quit smoking’ thing, right?”

  He looked embarrassed. “Can we just not talk about it?”

  “After I ask you one question.” She reached up and thumped the end of the stick with her finger. “What’s wrong with a chocolate lollipop?”

  He shrugged. “The guys at the station were calling me Kojak, and it was pissing me off.”

  “Why? Just because Telly Savalas was bald? I keep telling you, you aren’t bald. You’re just a wee bit follicularly disadvantaged…there on the top. But you comb it pretty good, so—.”

  “It’s not ’cause the dude was bald.”

  She didn’t believe him, but said nothing.

  “It’s not!” he protested. “It’s just because, well, ’cause you and I are old enough to even know who Telly Savalas was.”

  She nodded and smiled. “Right. Whatever.”

  “No! Don’t you go ‘whatevering’ me! I hate it when you do that.”

  She shrugged. “Okay. Whatever.” She looked around the empty yard. “I thought you were interviewing the gardener or somebody like that out here.”

  “I was. You missed out. He was…well…I didn’t exactly notice, being a guy and all, but you would have thought he was gorgeous.”

  “Really? I am sorry I missed him.” She waggled one eyebrow. “Maybe he’ll just have to be interviewed all over again.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ll work him over sooner or later.”

  “Anything out of him?”

  “Naw, says he hardly knew the vic. Hasn’t been working here long—just a couple of months.”

  “Did you get anything more from Dona this morning?”

  “Get anything? Hell, I didn’t even see her. She was gone before I even got here at eight o’clock, some sort of meeting in Hollywood.”

  “Yes, that’s what Mary Jo told me.”

  Dirk made a face. “There’s a whack-job for you. Have you read what they say about her?”

  “What who says?”

  “Magazines. You know…in the grocery store.”

  “You buy that junk? You actually subsidize an industry that destroys people’s lives by printing pure lies and—”

  “Eh, come on, Van. You know me better than that!” She was surprised that he looked so indignant, so genuinely offended. Until he added, “I don’t buy them. I pick them out of my neighbors’ garbage cans there at the trailer park.”

  “You take them out of the garbage? With garbage still on them? And handle them, and take them into your home?”

  He shrugged. “Hey, if you lay them out in the sun for a while, the wet coffee grounds dry and you can just brush them off. Good as new.”

  Savannah rolled her eyes. “Well, duh…of course. What was I thinking?” She glanced around to see if they were still alone, then leaned closer to him. “Well? What do they say?”

  “Oh! Now she wants to know! Now she wants to hear all the evil lies and gossip. Well, not from this guy! I don’t want to be accused of—”

  “Oh, shut up and dish the dirt.”

  “Okay. They say Mary Jo’s a no-talent loser who’s been riding Dona’s coattails for years, working her with a big guilt trip because Dona made it big and she didn’t.”

  Savannah sniffed. “Big deal. I figured that out after talking to her for two minutes.”

  “Well, so did I. Even airhead Tammy could see that one.”

  “Speaking of Tammy, and don’t call her names, I’ve got to think of an excuse to get her over here. She’s having a conniption sitting there at home, missing all the fun. Especially now that some of my relatives have arrived.”

  “Oh, no! Which ones?”

  “Jesup.”

  “The wannabe vampire queen, mistress of darkness?”

  “Yeah, and her husband of a few hours. A creepo named Milton Pillsbury, thirty-three years old, from Vegas, birth date one-thirteen. Run him for me, would you?”

  Dirk laughed. “Come on. How bad can a guy be who’s named Milton Pillsbury?”

  “Alias, Bleak Manifest.”

  He nodded. “Vegas, one-thirteen, you say. Got it.” He pulled a small notepad from the inside pocket of his bomber jacket and wrote it down. “By the way,” he said, “if you’re really serious about getting the squirt over here, do it right away. I think she could probably weasel more out of that gardener guy than you or I could. Especially if she’s wearing that cute little bluejean minskirt of hers.”

  Savannah grinned, making a mental note to tell Tammy that Dirk had noticed she looked cute in her denim skirt, whether he would ever deign to tell her so or not. “Oh, you think he’s the sort of guy who would enjoy the sight of Tammy in her mini?”

  “He’s breathin’, ain’t he?”

  Savannah had done a cursory exam of the house’s exterior, checking windows that were surrounded by thick shrubbery, which could provide coverage for an intruder, and upstairs windows that were easily accessed by climbing trees or lattice trellises. And before she went inside to continue the examination, she decided to give Tammy a call on her cell phone.

  She sat down on one of the cushioned chaises by the barbecue pit and punched in the number.

  Tammy answered after the first buzz and her “Moonlight Magnolia Detective Agency, may I help you?” greeting had a ring of panic in it.

  Savannah was afraid to ask. “How’s it going?”

  In a whisper, Tammy replied, “They’re awful! Bleak has already been into our office computer! I caught him going through our crime-scene photos, the ones I’
ve taken with my digital camera that Ryan and John got me for Christmas last year.”

  Savannah felt a need, a deep and passionate desire, growing in her loins and rising…rising—the desperate need to lop off somebody’s head, give it a kick and watch it roll, roll, roll into a ditch. Now that would be a picture ol’ Bleak would like!

  “Dirk is running a check on him right now,” she told Tammy. “I foresee a ray of sunshine in the kingdom of darkness. Other than that, what’s happening?”

  “Jesup is trying to get him to go to Disneyland, which he says is lame.”

  “Eh, they probably wouldn’t let him in anyway. His clothes are potentially lethal weapons. And besides, I think they have a ‘major weirdo detector’ there at the front gate.”

  “I suggested they go to the old mission and check out the mass graves of the native Indians buried there…you know, the ones that the missionaries forced into slavery to build the place? Bleak perked up at that idea. I think they’re going there after lunch.”

  “Yeah, that sounds more like his cup of tea. Or poison, as the case might be. So, why don’t you pack a bag and come over here ASAP? We need you.”

  There was a moment of stunned silence on the other end. Then, “Really? Really? I get to come there? You need me?”

  Savannah smiled. It was so fulfilling to give to those who really appreciated a bread crumb when it was thrown their way. “Desperately.”

  “Why?” Tammy asked. “What do you need me for?”

  “Tart bait.”

  “Yay-y-y!” Savannah could practically see her jumping up and down, ponytail bouncing. “Want me to bring a miniskirt and a tube top?”

  “The skirt’s a ‘yes.’ But this is a classy joint; the tube can stay home.”

  “High-heeled, strappy sandals?”

  “The four-inchers.” Hey, Savannah thought, somebody has to wear them and better her than me. One advantage of not being in your twenties and thirties anymore.

  “How many nights should I pack for?”

  She was giddy to the point of panting and breathless. Savannah was afraid she might hyperventilate and pass out while driving over. “Just for a couple of nights,” she said, reining her in just a little.