Death by Chocolate (3 page)

“Yes. I told her you were a
highly qualified professional, charming, and, above all, delightfully
articulate.”

“Not in front of
celebrities, she’s not,” Tammy said as she left the table, wandered into the
kitchen, and began searching in the refrigerator crisper. “She loses her cool
and starts babbling like an idiot. Say, don’t you have anything alive in here,
like an apple or a carrot?”

“There’re some golden delicious
in the basket on the counter, nature girl. I was saving them for dipping in a
chocolate fondue, but you go ahead and help yourself.” She turned to John. “Do
you think she’ll call? Did she act like she was interested or...”

Ryan chuckled, reached over
and squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry, Savannah. I was there, and after the sales
pitch John gave her, I’d bet that you’re in.”

“I’m in. I’m in.” Savannah
closed her eyes, savoring the possibilities. “To meet the great lady herself,
to walk, even for a moment, in her sweet, chocolate-dipped world. To taste
heaven on earth and not even have to go to the mall to buy Lady Eleanor’s
Confections. To see the place where the Raspberry Delight Truffle and the Lemon
Chiffon Kiss began...”

“To pig out on everything
chocolate you can get your mitts on,” Dirk added, “and then walk around here
griping because you gained ten pounds.”

Savannah sighed. “Oh, shut
up, Dirk,” she said with a kind of quiet resignation born of self-knowledge,
“before I smack you upside the head with my walker.”

Savannah’s candlelit bubble
bath in her Victorian claw-foot bathtub did the trick that night. Ah, she
thought, as she soaked in the iridescent, lavender-scented splendor of
mountainous bubbles, nothing like feeling a scumbag’s tendons snap as you twist
his arm out of socket to put everything right in your world.

To be the instrument of
justice, even for a moment, was a fine, fine thing. Almost as fine as the
Hazelnut Cocoa Cream in her right hand. Almost, but not quite.

Savannah, along with the
rest of the nation, had acquired yet another vice about two years ago, when the
self-tided Queen of Chocolate on the Gourmet Network had opened a chain of mall
stores known as Lady Eleanor’s Confection Shoppes. Like the lady herself— who
wore Victorian garb: long skirts and leg-o’-mutton-sleeved high-necked blouses,
button-up boots, and a Gibson girl updo with dainty curled tendrils about the
face—the clerks in the turn-of-the-century-decorated shops served up candy
morsels that sent the happy taster into fits of gastronomic ecstasy.

Since the opening of those
stores, Savannah could swear she had gained fifteen pounds. But what the heck,
it was all on her butt, which simply made her life that much more cushy.
Besides, she prided herself on wearing only the best on her heinie. And Lady
Eleanor’s confections produced, undoubtedly, the very best fat that money could
buy.

One candy at bathtime....
and another at bedtime, just to ward off any nasty midnight sugar lows.... and
life was good.

A little later, as she
snuggled between rose-spangled flannel sheets, a Double-Dipped Praline poised
in front of her mouth, the thought crossed her mind that her dentist certainly
wouldn’t approve of this nightly ritual. But he was all about teeth and gums
and warding off cavities; what did he know about feeding a famished soul? One
had to be well-rounded in this world.

At least, that was her
story and she was sticking with it.

“Thank you, Lord, for
chocolate,” she prayed as she slipped into a blissful sleep. “Thank you for
good friends like John, who recommend me to wonderful people like Lady Eleanor.
And most of all, thank you for helping Dirk and me end that robbery today
without getting our hides—or anybody else’s—perforated.”

Yes, Savannah had a lot to
be grateful for. Hers was a peaceful, sated soul.

Ring. Ring.

The shrill pealing of a
bell pierced her ears and ripped her out of that dark, safe cocoon of sleep.

Ring. Ring.

“What? What the hell?” She sat
up in bed and grabbed for the phone, missed it, and knocked her three-pound box
of “assorted nuts and creams” onto the floor.

The square red numbers on
her digital alarm clock told her it was 2:12 A.M.

“Damn it, this had better
be an emergency, ‘cause if you’re a wrong number, you’re dead,” she mumbled as
she flipped on the nightstand lamp and picked up the receiver. “Who is this and
what do you want?” she demanded, every trace of her sugar high and good mood
gone.

“This is Eleanor Maxwell,”
said a nasal, grating voice. “Is this Savannah Reid?”

Eleanor Maxwell? Eleanor
Maxwell?

She didn’t know any Eleanor
Maxwell. And the only Eleanor she knew... or knew of... had a delicately
modulated British accent that fell lightly on the ears of her television viewers
like a soft spring rain. This woman’s voice was more like the screeching of a
Styrofoam egg carton when you closed it.

And she was calling at 2:12
in the friggin’ morning!

“This is Savannah Reid. I was
sound asleep. Who are you and why are you calling me at this hour?”

“I need a bodyguard. Right
away. I spoke to a friend of yours, John Gibson, and—”

“Oh, yes! Of course!”
Instantly Savannah was wide awake, her emotions sunny-side up. “Lady Eleanor!
I’m such a fan of yours! You have no idea how many times I’ve watched your
show, how much of your candy I’ve bought, how...” She realized she was babbling
like a Rolling Stones groupie and reined in her enthusiasm. “I’d be glad to
help you anyway I can,” she added in her most professional tone. “If you need
me to come over right now, I—”

“Now? Hell no. I’m cooking.
Nobody is allowed in here when I’m cooking.”

“Oh, I just meant that
maybe... since you were calling in the middle of the night, there was some sort
of urgency or—”

“No. I’m calling now
because that’s when I’m awake.” And to heck with the rest of the sleeping
world? Savannah thought. But she quickly pushed the unworthy idea from her
mind. Lady Eleanor rude? Why, she was the epitome of—

“Come over tomorrow and
I’ll tell you what you’re going to do for me.”

“O... kay.” A few more
unworthy, downright nasty thoughts floated through Savannah’s head. John had
forgotten to mention that, just maybe, Lady Eleanor might be a bit of a bitch.
“Let’s see... it’s now two-fifteen on Tuesday morning, so you’d like me to come
over sometime on Wednesday?”

“No, I told you,
tomorrow—after I’ve slept.”

“Oh, I see.” The lady was
one of those people who divided their “days” into the periods after and before
sleep, having nothing to do with the clock or the rest of the world’s schedule.
“And when I shall I arrive? Say, around nine?”

“Nine? Are you nuts? I
won’t be awake, let alone ready to talk to anybody, before one.”

Savannah reinforced her
professional persona before opening her mouth again. “Would that be one in the
afternoon, then?”

“Yes. That’s what I said.”
A long, impatient sigh. “And John Gibson said you were the best he knew. Says a
lot about the circles he travels in.”

Savannah bit her tongue and
slowly counted to five before replying, “One o’clock sharp, at your home?”

“Of course at my home. I do
everything from here. You do know where I live, don’t you?”

“Certainly, Lady Eleanor.
Everyone knows your estate there on the beach. I’ve passed that gorgeous
Victorian home a hundred times and thought—”

Dial tone.

The gracious and genteel
Queen of Chocolate had hung up on her. What a miserable, rotten, lousy...

Savannah glanced down at
the box of chocolates on the floor and for one weird, perverted moment, she was
actually glad they had spilled. Who wanted candy that was probably now covered
with carpet fuzz? Especially if it came from a silver box with a cameo picture
of Eleanor on the cover.

But the moment passed. She
reached down and gathered the chocolates back into their box. No sign of carpet
residue.

The Lady might be an
inconsiderate, bossy old bitch who woke people up at two in the morning.... but
she still made a mean truffle.

Chapter

A
t five minutes to one, Savannah
pulled her 1965 Mustang onto the cobblestone driveway and stopped at the
wrought-iron gate with the ornate, scrolled “E” in its center. On an equally
elaborate pole to her left was the communications security box with its
assorted buttons and dials. She maneuvered the car close to it, leaned out the
window, and punched the button marked visitors.

A few moments later, a soft
female voice inquired from the speaker, “Yes? May I help you?”

“Savannah Reid, here to see
Lady Eleanor,” she replied. Within seconds, the gate swung open and she drove
inside, practically giddy with anticipation. She couldn’t have been more
excited if she had been holding a golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s Chocolate
Factory.

Hundreds of times she had
driven down Seaside Avenue and glimpsed the peaked tops of the Queen’s castle,
a Victorian-style mansion, one of the oldest and most prestigious homes in the
county—though few of the county’s residents had seen more than the gray roof
with its grand turrets and a bit of its white gingerbread trim.

As she drove along the
tree-lined road, past the gatekeeper’s cottage and through acres of beautifully
landscaped lawns and gardens, she felt as though she had stepped back in
history, to a more gentle, graceful time. She half expected to see women in
long skirts playing croquet while their girlfriends protected their ivory
complexions by sitting beneath fluttering white canvas pavilions to sip their
afternoon tea.

Halfway down the drive, she
had to stop the car and wait for a pair of peacocks to cross, their long
iridescent plumage sweeping behind them.

Ah, she thought. I have
stepped through the looking glass. This is wonderful!

So far Lady Eleanor’s
domain was everything she had ever dreamed and more. And if she got the job,
she might actually get to spend time here in this fairyland. The very thought
of anyone’s body needing to be guarded in this gentle world seemed
inconceivable. What bad thing could possibly happen amid such splendor?

She rounded a curve in the
road, and suddenly the house was before her. A dark, dusky rose beauty, trimmed
in white with balconies, stained-glass windows, and a wide porch that wrapped
all the way across the front of the house. White wicker furniture with thick
floral cushions invited the weary traveler to take a load off and enjoy the
ocean view beyond.

The estate canines were
less hospitable, Savannah realized the moment she opened her car door and set
foot on the cobblestone driveway. Three tiny, silky terriers bounded off the
chairs on the porch where they had been napping and raced toward her, fangs
bared, growling and yipping like a pack of starving mini-wolves.

“Well, hello there,” she
said in her best dog-wheedling tone as she knelt to hold out the back of her
hand for the first one to sniff. “Are you the welcoming committee? Ow! Damn it,
you little booger!”

She sprang to her feet and
grabbed her nipped finger, which was leaking drops of blood. The mangy pooch
had chomped her!

Looking down at the tiny
creatures who circled her feet, lips quivering, gaping jaws frothing, the pink
bows in their hair belying their ferocity, she wondered if someone had trained
them to go for the Achilles tendon.

She glanced up at the house
and thought she saw a movement of bright color, like a giant parrot, at an
upper window. Thinking better of retaliation, she decided not to kick the
fellow who had just sank his fangs into the toe of her new kidskin loafer.

His buddy jumped on her,
leaving muddy streaks from the knee to the hem of her taupe linen slacks.

“Back off, you flea-bitten
varmints,” she said in a low, but menacing tone, “or I’ll bring my two cats out
here next time, and they’ll eat you mutts for breakfast.”

“All right, all right, come
back here, boys,” said the same soft female voice Savannah had heard on the
speaker at the gate. “Hitler, Satan, Killer! That’s enough!” Instantly, the
terrible terriers tucked their tails and headed back to the porch and their
cushioned chairs as a tall, thin woman in full black-and-white maid’s garb
stepped out of the front door and onto the porch.

“Please, Ms. Reid, come
inside. Their bark is much worse than their bite,” she said, beckoning Savannah
with a dust cloth she held in one hand.

Savannah looked down at the
blood drops on her finger. ‘Their bite’s pretty good, too, for their size.” She
stepped up onto the porch and looked at the dogs, who were circling on the
cushions and settling down for naps. “What did you say their names were?” She
couldn’t believe she had heard correctly.

The maid’s pale cheeks
flushed, and she shrugged her thin shoulders. “I didn’t name them,” she said,
then lowered her voice and added, “I never would have named poor, innocent
animals such... but.... well.... Please, come inside.”

Savannah stepped through
the door, heavy with leaded beveled glass, and into a foyer with a
black-and-white marble-tiled floor. A mahogany staircase, ornately carved with
cupids, roses, and lilies, curved to her right, while an arched doorway to the
left opened into a formal parlor.

“If you’ll have a seat,”
the maid said, waving a hand toward the diamond-tucked, burgundy velvet settee,
“I’ll get you a cup of cappuccino. Mrs. Maxwell will be with you.... ah...
soon.”

But Mrs. Maxwell didn’t
join her soon. Savannah had plenty of time to cool her heels, sip two cups of
cappuccino from a delicate English porcelain cup, and memorize every piece of
antique furniture in the room, from the glass-front bookshelves filled with
leather-bound classics to the jeweled dragonfly Tiffany lamp in the corner. It
was nearly two o’clock when the maid appeared again and said with subdued
enthusiasm, “Lady Eleanor will see you now on the verandah.”

Not particularly eager to
encounter the furry-faced fiends again, but anxious to get the bodyguard show
on the road, Savannah followed the maid through the parlor and a vast dining
room to the back side of the house, which faced the ocean.

The San Carmelita beaches
and skies were in fine form, the morning fog having burned away and the golden afternoon
light glimmering on the waves. Swimmers in wetsuits rode the surf in the
distance, and a flock of pelicans, looking like a gaggle of prehistoric
pterodactyl, dipped and dove overhead.

And off to the right,
sitting at a table beneath a giant umbrella, was.... a woman who bore
absolutely no resemblance whatsoever to Savannah’s Gourmet Network heroine.
Where was the auburn hair, piled in luxurious profusion on her regal head?
Where was the Victorian costume that bespoke of genteel aristocracy?

The woman at the table wore
a gaudy tropical print caftan that was cut much too low and displayed an
unladylike amount of sagging, unattractive cleavage. On screen, Lady Eleanor
looked pleasingly plump, but without benefit of corset and costume, she
appeared seriously overweight. Her salt-and-pepper hair looked as though she
had cut it herself with scissors, leaving only a ragged inch-long bristle.

On the table before her was
spread an enormous breakfast of everything from pancakes to bagels, cream
cheese, and lox.

Lady Eleanor was shoveling
in the bounty as though she were expecting to be executed at sundown. She
barely looked up from her burdened plate to wave a hand at the empty chair on
the other side of the table.

“Sit,” she commanded
through a mouthful of Danish pastry, which she washed down with a
celery-sprigged Bloody Mary.

Savannah did as she was
told, feeling a bit like a cocker spaniel. Would she be expected to roll over
and play dead, too?

“Want some?” Eleanor
pointed to a plateful of chocolate donuts.

But Savannah was long past
any sign of an appetite. Eleanor’s openmouthed chewing and the syrup and butter
on her fingers and chin had worked better than any over-the-counter
suppressant.

And Savannah had thought
Dirk had bad table manners. Next to Eleanor, Dirk was Cary Grant.

“No, thank you,” Savannah
said. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a pen and a spiral notebook. “If
you don’t mind, I’d like to discuss business with you. Exactly what your needs
are and—”

“My needs are simple. You
shouldn’t have any trouble understanding them.” A quick swig of Bloody Mary,
then she continued in that same, grating, nasal voice she had used earlier on
the telephone, the one that had nothing in common with the cultured British
accent heard by millions on television. “I need you to find out who’s writing
me nasty letters. Because once I find out who’s doing it, they’re dead.”

“Oh, I see.”

But Savannah didn’t see.
Looking into those narrow, squinty eyes with their wicked gleam, she wasn’t
sure if Lady Eleanor meant “dead” as in figuratively or literally. Maybe she
should find out before she took the job. The term “accomplice to murder”
floated across the movie screen of her imagination in flashing red neon
letters.

“And,” Eleanor continued,
‘You have to keep them from killing me.... if that’s what they’ve got in mind.
I want to get them first.”

“Ah, yes, of course. I—”

“And most of all”—more food
cramming, more chomping—“you have to stay out of my hair, because I can’t stand
having anybody too close, breathing down my neck. Makes me nuts.”

“Too close, hmmm.” Savannah
couldn’t imagine that anyone would want to be close to this person. Chocolate
fantasyland or no, Savannah wasn’t too hot on the idea herself at that moment.

“Do you think you can
manage that?”

Savannah quirked one
eyebrow and gave Eleanor her most pointed, professional, semi-sarcastic look.
“Piece o’ cake, Lady Eleanor, if you’re willing to cooperate with me. If you’ll
behave yourself in a way that will enable me to guard you properly. Are you willing
to meet me halfway?” The Queen of Chocolate paused in half-chew, her mouth
hanging open, her eyes slightly bugged. Apparently she wasn’t accustomed to
having her subjects talk back to her.

She stared at Savannah for
several long seconds, then swallowed hard and reached for a cinnamon roll.
‘Yeah, I guess.” She shoved half the roll into her mouth at once and added,
“Get lost and let me finish my breakfast. Then I’ll show you those nasty
letters.”

Gee, Savannah thought. I
can hardly wait.

“How nasty were they?”
Tammy asked as she and Savannah sat at opposite ends of Savannah’s sofa and
compared notes on their day.

“Nasty enough,” Savannah
replied, lifting one of her two black cats, Diamante, onto her lap and stroking
her glossy coat. After spending the afternoon with the terrible threesome
silkies, it soothed her soul to be in the company of a peaceful, benign animal.
That, and the cup of coffee generously laced with Bailey’s.

“How many were there?”
Tammy curled her bare feet under her and nibbled the celery stick in her hand.
Tammy was always munching vegetables. “Live” food, she called it.

Savannah had decided long
ago to love her anyway. Nobody was perfect.

“Three,” Savannah replied. “All
mailed from Los Angeles. How’s that for narrowing down the possibilities?” She
sighed.

“What did they say?”

“In a nutshell? Basically,
‘Shape up and treat people better, or you’re going to die, you stinking bitch.’
”

“That blunt?”

“Oh, yeah. No frills around
the edges, just your generic death threat.”

“Handwritten?”

Savannah sniffed. ‘Yeah,
right. No such luck. Typed. A word processor. Arial font 14.”

“Fourteen? That’s bigger
than average. Maybe the typer has a vision problem.”

“That occurred to me, too.
Or maybe they just wanted to make sure Eleanor didn’t miss a word. The words
were in bold, too. Exclamation marks everywhere.”

“Sounds juvenile.”

“Maybe.”

Savannah’s second miniature
black leopard, known as Cleopatra, hopped onto her lap and jostled with
Diamante for the best petting position. Both had started off their lives as
ordinary housecats, but nobody starved in Savannah’s household. No one was even
allowed to feel a hunger pang. And after years of a never-ending flow of Kitty
Kiddles and assorted goodies from Savannah’s hand, the oversized twosome could
have easily felled a zebra in Africa.

Savannah offered them a sip
from her coffee/Bailey cup. Only Cleopatra accepted. Diamante preferred her
coffee black.

“I know,” Tammy said, “that
you think Lady Eleanor is the greatest, but—”

“
Thought
she was the
greatest. She’s a pig. And I say that with all due respect to the porcine
population. I wish I’d never met her in person. Boy, talk about a letdown.”

“When goddesses tumble from
their marble pedestals....”

“Something like that. I
gotta tell you, it’s a painful thing, losing one of your idols.”

“Anyway, I know you thought
a lot of her,” Tammy continued, “but this gig sounds like it’s more trouble
than it’s worth. Maybe you should pass on it.”