Bitter Sweets (20 page)

To her knowledge, until today, when she had found it, no one investigating the crime knew that there was another way into the location, other than on foot.

Savannah paused and listened to a couple of doves cooing in an oak tree. The nearby stream burbled with a relaxing, peaceful sound that belied the violence done here.

But Savannah's thoughts couldn't be soothed by any of nature's gentle melodies. Because, until today, no one had considered that a seventy-year-old retired army colonel, an arthritis-plagued war hero, a grief-stricken father and worried-sick grandfather, could have made his way into this remote location.

Standing there, looking at the miserable little shed where the deed had been done, Savannah wondered if Colonel Neilson had killed Earl Mallock. She wondered if she would have done the same thing; she strongly suspected she might have.

Which left her with the most burning question of all: If she were able to prove that Colonel Neilson murdered his son-in-law, how could she bring herself to turn him in?

 

“Have a nice ride?” The young man's eyes flickered up and down Savannah's body as he spoke, taking in the dirt-streaked jeans, the mud-splattered blouse, her disheveled hair.

“Just friggin' ducky,” she replied as she returned the bike and retrieved her generous deposit. Fortunately, the machine had fared better than its rider.

“Find the trail okay?”

“It was right where you said it was. Just behind the ‘Absolutely No Trespassing' sign.”

“You gotta be careful going up there,” he told her, counting the bills onto her outstretched palm. “Some dude got himself murdered in a shack a few days ago.”

“I know. That's why I was up there. I'm investigating the homicide.”

“You're a cop?” he asked, his eyes wide with shock.

“Nope. A private investigator.”

She could tell by the enthusiasm meter on his face that he was far more impressed by the title of P.I. than law enforcement officer.

“Wow, cool.” He leaned across the counter toward her, his smile eager. “Can I help you with anything? I keep a close eye out all the time. I notice all kinds of stuff.”

“Can you tell me who else has rented this bike lately,” she asked, hopeful. “The one I was riding today.”

“Sure. Some crazy chick with purple hair. She loaded it down with groceries and camping stuff from her car, then took off. I figured she'd be up there for weeks, considering all the provisions she took. But she came right back that afternoon.”

“Which afternoon was that?”

Savannah couldn't help being hopeful. Maybe it was Vanessa, after all. She had to admit she would be relieved. She liked the colonel, Brian O'Donnell, and even Alan Logan. If it had to be someone . . . . and it did . . . . she hoped it was Vanessa, her least favorite.

“A gal with purple hair?” Savannah tried to sound surprised. “I guess you
would
notice something like that.”

“It looked like she was trying to hide it under a baseball cap. But it was sticking out on the sides.”

“What day, exactly, did she rent the bike?” Savannah was so excited, she could hardly feel the pain in her butt or the bruise on her thigh.

The kid hauled a stack of receipts in a binder out from under the counter. “Let's see now. It was about the fifth or the sixth. Yeah, here it is. It was the morning of the sixth.”

“Oh.” Her hopes fell. Suddenly, her injuries began to throb. “That was a week or so before the murder.”

“I guess it doesn't have anything to do with it, then, huh?” he said, looking equally disappointed to have let her down.

“Is that the last time you rented it out?”

“I'm not sure. Let me take a look at these and . . . .”

He thumbed through the pink sheets, then stopped, excited. “Wait a minute. Here's another one for that bike. It was rented on Thursday.”

“This last Thursday?”

“Yeah. Hey! Wasn't that the day that guy got blown away?”

“Yes, it was. Can you tell me the name of the party you rented it to?”

“Sure.” He consulted the ticket. “It was a guy named Charlie Delta.”

“Charlie Delta?” Bells went off in Savannah's head. “Do you recall what this ‘Mr. Delta' looked like?”

“Yeah, now that I think about it, I do. He was an older guy with gray hair. It was chopped off flat on top, one of those dumb-lookin' crew cuts, like the Beach Boys used to wear, you know, way back in . . . .”

S
avannah stood at Colonel Forrest Neilson's back door, her heart in her throat, and a slice of Gran's famous beef liver in her hand.

The colonel wasn't at home. Of that she was sure, because she had just seen him drive away in his Lincoln. But, unfortunately, he hadn't taken Beowulf along.

“It'll work, I tell you,” her grandmother had said as Savannah had left home fifteen minutes ago with two pieces of dinner leftovers zipped into a plastic bag. “Dogs love it. Just stick it under his nose and he'll be yours forever . . . . or at least until he finishes gobbling it down.”

“That's a good Beowulf,” Savannah told the dog as she presented her offering to him. “Come on, you handsome devil. Bite the liver, and not the leg.”

With incisors bared and eyes gleaming, the dog took one step closer to her. The growl that issued from him sounded as though it were rumbling out of a deep cavern. With a nerve-jangling revelation, Savannah realized this was probably the most dangerous animal she had ever encountered . . . . including that copperhead that she had nearly stepped on barefoot as a kid while picnicking beside the Mississippi River.

But just when she was sure the dog was going to chomp a plug out of her, his nostrils flared and began to twitch.

“Yeah . . . . that's it. Smells great, doesn't it?”

Beowulf seemed to agree. Gingerly, he put out his tongue and licked the edge of the meat.

The long, fringed black tail began to wave from side to side. A good sign, Savannah thought with a modicum of relief. Maybe she would have the opportunity, like every other “normal” person, to die of a terminal illness, in an automobile crash, or of old age.

That was comforting. She wasn't sure they let you into heaven if you expired from being eaten by an Akita who seemed to think he was a mountain grizzly.

Once she was sure she had the dog's full attention, she dropped the meat onto the porch and took a tentative step closer to the door. As Gran had predicted, the liver ploy had worked, and Beowulf paid her no mind as she proceeded to try to pick the colonel's lock.

“Dang it,” she muttered after the third attempt failed. Back in the olden days, when she had held a search warrant in one hand and her badge in the other, this sort of nonsense hadn't been necessary. It wasn't easy, being Jane Q. Citizen.

Click. She heard the tumbler move. “Bingo,” she said, twisting the knob. The door slid open.

She ventured another quick glance at Beowulf, but he was in doggy-ecstasy, licking every molecule of liver from the cement with his long, red tongue.

Quickly, she slipped inside the house, making sure the door was securely closed behind her. She couldn't afford to have the dog follow her, because she only had one more piece of liver left, and that was to help her make her escape.

First, she tiptoed through the house, checking to be certain that no one else was about. In every room, she felt watched by the dozens of clock faces and wondered what the lord of the manor would say if he could see her now.

Best not to think of that at the moment,
she told herself. She had always hated this part of the job. Even with a badge and a judge's authorization, she felt uncomfortable invading a person's home . . . . if that person was someone she liked.

And, whether she wanted to admit it or not, whether he had murdered his former son-in-law or not, she did like the colonel. She couldn't help it. The man radiated a quiet grace, strength and confidence of a bygone era. He was a hero, straight out of central casting, and she was in awe of him, no matter what he had done.

Besides the fact that she was violating Neilson's privacy, she didn't relish going on a search when she wasn't sure what she was looking for.

A cursory glance into each room told her nothing, except that the colonel was obsessively neat in his housekeeping habits.

In the guest room closet, Savannah found a collection of Barbie dolls and girls' clothing. But that was to be expected of a man who doted on his granddaughter.

“Christy, where are you, sweetie?” Savannah murmured as she touched one of the dolls, which had long red hair like its mistress. “Please be safe until we can find you.”

With a heightened sense of urgency, Savannah hurried into the living room, where the colonel had served them refreshments before. She didn't have time to dawdle. For all she knew, he had just slipped out to the local market for a quart of milk and was already on his way back.

The last thing she needed right now was to spend time in the county jail for breaking and entering. No . . . . that would make Captain Knothead Bloss far too happy.

Again, she was drawn to the medal, proudly displayed in its case. In all the years of dealing with the public, Savannah had never gotten over the dichotomy of the human spirit. It seemed even the best among us could commit the worst of sins.

Working her way around the room, she pulled out drawers, opened the closet, checked beneath furniture. But nothing seemed out of order.

As she approached the piano, she flashed back on her conversation with Dr. Liu over the body of Earl Mallock.

“Piano wire,” Jennifer had said. “His wrists and ankles were bound with piano wire.”

A buzz against her ribs made her jump. It was the cell phone in her jacket pocket . . . . as though her nerves weren't tight enough as it was. If she'd been smart, she would have left the damned thing in the car or fed it to Beowulf along with the liver.

She pulled out the phone and flipped it open. “Yeah?” she said irritably.

“Oops, I'm sorry, Savannah. Are you busy?” Tammy said, her Long Island twang more pronounced than usual. She always reverted when under stress.

“A little.”

“Where are you?”

“The colonel's. And let's just say . . . . I didn't receive an engraved invitation to be here . . . . if you know what I mean.”

“You broke in?”

Savannah sighed. “Tammy, this is a cell phone, remember?”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry again.”

Tucking the phone beneath her chin, Savannah began to set some of the pictures on top of the piano aside.

“Did you . . . . ah . . . . find anything yet?” Tammy asked.

“Nothing yet.” Carefully, Savannah lifted the shining ebony lid of the baby grand. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Not really. Why?”

“You called me. Remember?”

“Oh, right. Sorry. I just wanted you to know that Dirk is on his way over here. I told him I thought you'd be back by now. I guess I blew that, too.”

Savannah scanned the row of glistening wires, precision spaced, stretched taut and, no doubt, perfectly tuned. “It's okay, Tammy. I should be there soon. Just tell him to hang on. Wait a minute. . . .”

One wire was missing.

High up in the treble range, a gap, like that of an absent tooth, grinning at her. Savannah shivered with an awareness she didn't welcome.

“Shit,” she whispered. “Not exactly what I was hoping for, Colonel.”

“What?” Tammy sounded completely confused.

“Let's just say I may have found something. I've gotta go, and Tammy . . . .”

“Yes?”

“You say you're sorry all the time. It's driving me around the bend.”

“It is? Oh, I'm sor—”

“Stop it, or, every time you say it, I'm going to deduct a quarter from the generous salary that I'm not paying you. Understand?”

“Um . . . . I think so.”

“Good. See you soon.”

Savannah shoved the phone back into her pocket and carefully replaced the photographs atop the piano, knowing that a neatnik like Neilson would notice if anything were out of place. She didn't want anyone, except Tammy and Dirk, to know she had ever been here. Unless she had found something, she hadn't intended to tell anyone.

Was this something? She wondered. It certainly wasn't incriminating evidence. There had to be plenty of pianos in the town of San Carmelita with missing wires. But it was definitely something.

At the front window, she glanced outside and saw that the street was still empty. But the creepy feeling was even stronger than before. Like a disease-carrying insect, it crawled up her back and around her neck, making her feel the need to go home and take a long, hot shower with lots of soap.

Murder always made her feel that way.

It wasn't natural. No matter who committed it or why, it violated the laws of God and man. And her basic instinct was to stay as far away from it as possible.

Not feasible, considering her chosen line of work.

Just as the eerie feeling began to crescendo, the house exploded in a cacophony of bells, chimes, buzzes, and cuckoos. It was 6:00
P.M.
on the Pacific coast and in Colonel Forrest Neilson's house, there was no way to miss the event.

Savannah's pulse rate tripled and her knees felt like warm gelatin as she sagged against the windowsill and waited for the din to cease.

How could he stand living with this? she wondered, as the sounds went on and on. She and her two companions must have stayed less than fifteen minutes the other day, she decided. They must have just missed witnessing the phenomenon.

The ornately carved grandfather clock to her right was the loudest of all, tolling out the Westminster Chimes with bass notes that reverberated through her body.

She found herself humming the familiar tune, until it stopped, abruptly, in mid-chime.

Strange, she thought. In a house where everything appeared to work perfectly, this was an anomaly.

The clock had an open well, with no glass to shield the chains and etched brass weights. Two of the shining weights were barely visible, hanging in the space above the lower body of the clock. But the third one on the far right had dropped out of sight. The other chains were hanging straight, but the one to the third weight was loose, as though something were lifting it, rather than pulling it down.

More than any of the others in the house, this clock had to be the colonel's pride and joy. It was obviously older and more valuable than the rest. Savannah couldn't imagine him neglecting its service or allowing it to be in disrepair.

Kneeling in front of the clock, she lifted the shining brass latch and opened the lower casing.

Once she could see inside, she knew what had halted the downward progression of the weight. It was resting on a small, wooden case.

Instantly, she recognized the type of box, and her hopes for a happy solution to this puzzle fell, even as her investigator's excitement rose.

It was a gun case.

Carefully setting the box on the carpet, she opened the lid and looked inside.

Nestled in a sculpted bed of aged red velvet, was one of the most beautiful pistols she had ever seen. It was a chrome-plated, .45 caliber, four-inch-long reduced barrel, Colt Commander. A trophy gun, given to an officer by his men.

The engraving on the side confirmed her theory.

 

“TO CAPT. F.L. NEILSON WITH GRATITUDE AND DEVOTION, FROM THE MEN OF FOXFIRE COMPANY.”

 

“I knew I should throw it off the end of the pier,” said a deep male voice behind her. Savannah jumped to her feet and whirled around to see the colonel standing in the kitchen door, watching her with a sad, sick look on his face. “I even drove down there at midnight to toss it in . . . . but when it came right down to it, I just couldn't.”

“I understand,” Savannah said. “I don't think I could have either. It's a beautiful piece.”

“It means more to me than that medal over there.” He nodded toward the glass-topped wooden case. “The president who pinned that on me didn't even know who I was . . . . what I was all about. But the soldiers who gave me that pistol, they knew me better than any human being ever has, including my own wife. They fought with me, side by side. You can't get closer than that.”

For the first time since Savannah had met him, she thought he looked even older than his seventy years as he walked over to his easy chair and collapsed onto it.

“You might as well have a seat, Miss Reid,” he said, waving a hand toward the sofa. “It appears you and I have a lot to talk about.”

Savannah glanced down at the pistol. She hadn't taken it out of its box, and she had no idea if it was loaded or not.

But, loaded or empty she decided that, if she was going to sit on the sofa and have a chat with Colonel Forrest Neilson, it was a good idea to take his gun with her.

 

“Oh, Dirk. Come on in. I'm glad you're finally here,” Tammy said as she ushered Dirk across the bougainvillea-covered porch and into the house.

Dirk was surprised, almost shocked. Since when was Tammy Hart happy to see
him?

Her face was a bit red; maybe she had gotten too much sun.

“I'm really starting to worry about Savannah,” she said, gripping his arm.

“I'll tell you right now, that's a full-time job with no benefits. Believe me, I've done it for years. Don't even get started.”

“I talked to her about forty-five minutes ago on the phone, and she was at Colonel Neilson's home.”

“What's she doing there?”

“Snooping, I think. She said she didn't have an invitation.”

“Yeap, that's what she calls it, all right. She broke into a colonel's house . . . . a friend of the chief of police. I swear, I—”

“Dirk, she told me she had found something, but she didn't say what. And she said she was coming home soon. Where is she?”

“Knowing Savannah, there's no way to tell. But she's the only woman I've ever known who can wind up in hot water and deep shit at the same time.”