Killer Calories (18 page)

S
avannah lay in bed, listening to Tammy's soft snoring, cradling the cell phone next to her side, waiting, waiting. The phosphorous green numbers on the digital clock on her nightstand said it was ten-thirty.

Any minute now. Any minute.

There. The telltale buzz against her ribs signaled the call she had been waiting for ... dying for. Finally, help was on the way.

“Hello,” she breathed into the phone, hardly daring to even whisper. “Yes ... yes ... oh, yes, yes, yes.... I'll meet you there in ten minutes. Thank you. Thank you
so-o-o-o
much.”

Turning off the phone, she buried it beneath her pillow, then slipped out of bed. Already fully dressed in her simple, basic black dress, she tiptoed over to the vanity, scooped up some accessories, tugged on a pair of sneakers ... and sneaked out of the room.

Tammy snored on, oblivious to her roommate's escape. It was all Savannah could do not to cackle with glee.

 

A few minutes later, she stood at the end of the gravel driveway, outside the wrought-iron gates for the third time that evening. Balancing herself with one hand on the mailbox, she slipped off the sneakers and replaced them with her black suede pumps.

She had fastened a string of pearls around her neck and was adjusting a pearl drop earring when the classic Bentley rounded the corner. Its graceful curves glistened like liquid silver in the light of the half-moon.

The elegant machine pulled to a stop beside her. The front door opened and John Gibson exited, dressed in formal chauffeur's livery. His thick, wavy hair glowed as silver as the car when he opened the back door for her and graciously ushered her inside.

“Good evening,
mademoiselle
,” he said, flashing her a debonair smile.

“And good evening to you, too, Gibson,” she replied in her best aristocratic voice—which sounded a bit like Julie Andrews, south of the Mason-Dixon line.

Once inside, she found herself seated on sumptuous leather next to Ryan Stone. He was dressed in a black tuxedo and was holding a flute of champagne and a lavender rose, both of which he gave to her, along with a kiss on her cheek.

“Bless you,” she said, breathing in the rose's delicate fragrance. John Gibson got into the driver's seat and the Bentley glided down the dark road like a silver cloud. “Bless you both. How ever did you know that I needed to get away from this place for a few hours? How did you know I had reached the point of desperation?”

Ryan chuckled, reached for her hand and folded it between his. “Maybe it was the message on our answering service ... the one you left this evening.”

Savannah nodded thoughtfully. “You mean the one saying, ‘Come and break me out of this place, before I cut my strings and go straight up'?”

“That is precisely the one that got our attention,” John said from the front seat. “Since we aren't intimately familiar with your Georgian vernacular, we weren't sure what ‘cutting one's strings' entailed. But it did sound a bit desperate.”

“Or maybe it was all the crying,” Ryan said. “The sniffling, the hysterical wailing there at the end. That was when we knew you were in a bad way.”

She took a sip of her champagne, sighed, and laid her head on his broad shoulder. “That's what I love about you gay guys ... you're so sensitive.”

Ryan laughed. “That's just a silly stereotype, Savannah. I'm surprised at you. The next thing you'll be accusing us of is dressing snazzy and being good decorators.”

“Have I ever told you how good you look in a tux and how much I
love
what you did with your apartment? I mean, the mahogany wainscoting, the dark green leather sofa, the diamond-tucked winged-back chair ... that whole Tudor look is just so—”

Ryan placed two fingers on her lips. “Savannah ...”

“Uh-huh?”

“Be quiet, enjoy your freedom, and drink your champagne so that I can refill your glass.”

“Okay.”

 

Savannah couldn't believe her good fortune. John and Ryan had actually convinced Antoine to reopen the restaurant and cook dinner for them at eleven o'clock at night. The twosome had an uncanny knack for talking anyone into anything. And Savannah had been the happy recipient of their talent on many occasions.

“For you,
mademoiselle,
I would never sleep again,” Antoine gushed as he placed a lingering kiss on the back of her hand. “It is a pleasure, as always, to serve you and your friends.”

Moments later, the dishes began to arrive, and Savannah was sure she had died and gone to a culinary paradise.

“So, tell me, Savannah, have you been having a wonderful time at your spa?” John Gibson asked, toasting her with a glass of Chardonnay. “Have they been properly pampering you, as you deserve?”

“Pampered? Not that I've noticed,” she said. “Mostly they feed us this green gruel and make us jump up and down and run through the hills like wild rabbits. I've been there nearly a week and I've only received one massage.”

“Green gruel, how revo-o-olting!” John shook his head. “And only one massage. What kind of spa is this?”

“I thought all spas were like that.”

Ryan handed her a tiny croissant, stuffed with succulent crabmeat. “I'm sorry your experience has been so unpleasant. John and I have visited some marvelous spas. Salt rubs, hot-oil massages, herbal wraps ... ah ... the pleasures never end. And the food is healthy and wholesome, but delectable.”

“Yeah, well, the Royal Palms is a no-frills sort of club. I don't know if it ever was legitimate, but it certainly isn't now. They're obviously operating on very limited resources. I think they're in serious financial trouble.”

“Yes, they are,” John said, scooping some pâté onto a bit of bread. “We've checked for you. The Internal Revenue Service has a lien on the property, and the bank is about to foreclose on their mortgage. Several of their creditors are bringing lawsuits against them. I'd say bankruptcy is on the near horizon.”

“Lou Hanks needs Kat's life insurance money,” Savannah said. “No doubt about it. But that's hardly proof of murder.”

“To be honest, Savannah, there's no evidence of homicide at all, is there?” Ryan asked.

She could see the doubt in his eyes, hear it in his voice. It seemed nearly everyone thought Kat's death had been accidental. Was she stupid for believing otherwise when there wasn't a shred of physical evidence to support her suspicions? She supposed time would tell.

“No,” she said, “none. The only reason why I've even questioned the circumstances is because of the notes and money I've received from my anonymous client.”

“But they won't even tell you who they are, let alone who murdered her ... or how the killer supposedly did it.”

“I know. I've been feeling my way around in the dark with this case, figuratively... and literally,” she added, remembering the night before in the avocado grove.

“Were there any signs of injury at all on the body?” John asked her. “Anything to indicate a struggle?”

“None. Not a scratch or a bruise.”

Ryan took a sip of his wine. “Ms. Valentina was relatively young. As a professional dancer, she must have been fairly strong. Besides, she was known for her fiery personality. I can't imagine her going down without a struggle.”

“Me either,” Savannah admitted.

John toyed with his bread and scowled, thinking. “Unless she was already unconscious when she slipped beneath the mud.”

“That's what Dr. Liu decided,” Savannah said. “Jennifer believes the heat from the mud bath, combined with the alcohol from the margaritas, caused her to faint. She passed out, slid deeper into the bath, and drowned.”

“Did the doctor find mud in her lungs?” Ryan asked.

“Yes. So she was alive and still breathing when she went down.”

“Such a sad business.” John shook his head. “And I'm sure Dr. Liu ran the standard toxicology tests....”

“She did,” Savannah said. “And the only thing amiss was Kat's extraordinarily high blood alcohol level. Although, from what I understand, a high alcohol content wasn't unusual for Kat Valentina.”

Ryan replenished her wineglass, then gave her a sympathetic smile. “I know you're working hard on this, Savannah, and I understand that you have a gut-level feeling about it. But, if she was murdered, how do you suppose they did it without leaving any signs of violence on the body?”

“I don't know. Maybe somebody slipped her a mickey in the margarita pitcher.”

John brightened. “Now, there's a thought. Did the doctor test the residue on the pitcher and glass?”

“Not to my knowledge. I don't think she would, unless something showed up in the toxicology screen. Why test the glassware if there's nothing in the body?”

“True.”

Both men looked as confused and discouraged as Savannah felt.

As though on cue, Antoine appeared, bearing another tray of canapés. Savannah's spirits immediately lifted.

“Enough shop talk about gruesome and ghoulish topics,” she said. “Why work when we can eat?
Bon appetit.”

 

An hour later, Savannah felt like Cinderella being driven home in her carriage after the ball. But she couldn't get her mind off the case. Settled in the backseat with Ryan, she recounted her misadventures, the frustrations she and Tammy had experienced, trying to be everywhere and watch everyone at once.

When she finished telling them about the avocado-grove attack and the mailbox fiasco, Ryan said, “That's it. I know you're an independent woman, Savannah, who likes to do everything herself. But I think it's time to pool our resources.”

Leaning forward, he tapped John on the shoulder. “What do you think, old chap?” he said. “Would you like to spend a little time with me at a wonderful spa? It comes highly recommended.”

“So I've heard,” John replied dryly. “It sounds perfectly splendid. I can scarcely control my enthusiasm.”

Ryan laughed, and said to Savannah, “That's what I've always loved about the British ... their unbridled apathy.”

 

Like Cinderella shedding her finery, Savannah propped herself against the mailbox, slipped off her suede pumps, and replaced them with her sneakers. Tucking the heels under her arm, she walked as quietly as possible along the gravel driveway. The last thing she needed was to get busted, creeping back into the Royal Palms with the smell of wine and French cuisine on her breath and a sated look on her face.

Avoiding the front entrance, she took a circuitous path around the main building to the dormitory. The night air was cool and sea-damp, chilling her through the light silk dress. As she hugged her arms across her chest for warmth, she wished she had accepted Ryan's offer of his evening jacket.

She had almost taken the coat, eager for the opportunity to feel his body warmth and breathe his cologne for a few minutes. But then she had realized it might be a bit difficult to explain the presence of a man's tuxedo jacket in her closet the next morning to the nosy, ever-vigilant Tammy.

Just when she thought she was home free, her hand on the doorknob, her foot poised to step across the threshold ... a door to one of the private cottages farther down the path opened. Out stepped Bernadette, moving with the same degree of stealth and guilt as she.

Savannah didn't have to do much high-level detecting to determine why Bernadette was slinking around at this late hour; she had just exited Louis Hanks's bungalow.

Most people wouldn't have broadcast the fact that they were sleeping with the boss, although Savannah surmised that the secret was being kept only in Bernadette's delusional fantasies. From the rumors and gossip flying around the place, everyone and their dog appeared to know the score.

For a moment, both women pretended not to see the other. Savannah had decided it would be easier, less complicated this way.

But Bernadette seemed to reconsider.

“Savannah, yoo-hoo,” she called softly, beckoning her. In the silent, still night, the half whisper seemed to boom along the dark passageway. Even the crickets hushed their chirping to listen.

“I was looking for you earlier,” the young redhead said, as Savannah reluctantly approached, “but I couldn't find you anywhere. Did you leave the grounds?”

“Leave? Why would I want to do a thing like that?”

“Everyone wants to leave. That's why it's so depressing to work here.”

“So, why do you ... ?” Savannah gave a slight nod toward Hanks's bungalow. “Work here, that is?”

“Lou's going to help me get into the movies. Just like he did for Kat. He made her everything she was, you know, and he never really got enough credit for it. But, when I get to the top, I won't forget who put me there. No, sirree. I'll owe it all to Lou.”

“Um ... I see.” Savannah shook her head, watching the stars sparkle in Bernadette's eyes. The girl was really out there if she thought she was going to be the next Kat Valentina. Even if Lou
had
been responsible for Kat's success, Bernadette wasn't a likely candidate to fill Kat's dancing slippers. That was painfully obvious to Savannah, just by looking at the young woman. Bernadette was one of those sad people with far more blind, misguided ambition than talent or wisdom.

“Did you get a chance to talk to Dion?” Bernadette asked, a tad too eagerly.

“About what?”

“About the fight he had with Kat right before she died. You know, when he said he would kill her.”