Killer Gourmet (16 page)

Tammy uncovered the fraud when she found out that the real Manuel and Celia had been deceased for over a decade and were buried in a cemetery in Los Angeles.

Looking into the young woman's eyes, Savannah saw a depth of sadness and wisdom that was beyond her years. Savannah couldn't help wondering what her real name was and what stories she had to tell.

Experience had taught Savannah there was no point in asking.

For all practical purposes and as far as Savannah was concerned, this young woman standing in front of her was Celia and her husband was Manuel. Savannah would leave the rest up to the law enforcement agencies whose responsibility it was to deal with these situations.

For a long moment, Celia just stared at Savannah with fear-filled eyes. Then she said, “I am sorry. I cannot talk to you now. I have to work.”

“I understand,” Savannah told her. “I already spoke to your boss, and he said I could talk to you.”

Celia turned away and bowed her head. “He says that to you, but when you leave, he will say different to me.”

She pulled the bottom sheet off the bed, wadded it into a ball, and shoved it into a large, canvas laundry bag. “If I don't finish my work fast, he will find another woman to do it faster.”

Forgetting about her former resolutions, Savannah stepped into the room and made her way past the cheap chest of drawers with its much-ballyhooed television sitting on top, and around the foot of the bed to the other side.

She grabbed one edge of the sheet and began expertly tucking it under the mattress.

“What are you doing?” Celia asked her, an astonished look on her pretty face.

“Helping you do your work fast so that you don't get in trouble for talking to me.”

Celia watched as Savannah executed a perfect hospital corner in three seconds.

As Savannah reached for the top sheet and began to spread it, she said teasingly, “What? Do you think you're the only one who knows how to make a bed? The only one who's ever done this sort of thing for a living?”

Celia didn't reply, so Savannah continued to smooth and tuck sheets and talk. “When I was a girl, my grandmother and I cleaned people's houses, did their laundry—whatever they wanted us to do—just so we could make a little extra money and feed all my brothers and sisters. There were nine of us. Ten, counting Gran. So, I know how it's done. And if you need me to, I'll scrub down the bathroom for you, too.”

Celia said nothing as she put the finishing touches on her side of the bed. But when Savannah grabbed the pillows and began slipping on the cases with record speed, she could be quiet no longer. “I know who you are,” she said. “My husband told me about you. He said you are a big, tall lady,
muy bonita
, with blue eyes and dark hair. He said you are the policeman's wife.”

Savannah chuckled as she fluffed pillows and tossed them onto the bed. “I guess that about sums me up in a nutshell. Thank you for the
bonita
part.”

“Why do you help him?”

Savannah shrugged. “He's my husband. I help him. He helps me. But mostly, I just try to keep him out of trouble.
Comprende
?”

Flashing a beautiful smile, Celia laughed.
“Si.”
But just as quickly her smile faded, and she added, “My husband. I want to keep him out of trouble. But it is not easy.”

“I know. Chef Norwood wasn't an easy boss. I'm sorry that he was so rude to you and your husband. You didn't deserve to be treated like that.”

Instantly the young woman's eyes filled with tears. “I never told him I liked him. I did not like him. Why would I? I have a husband. A very handsome husband.”

“I'm sure you did nothing to encourage Norwood. Men like him don't need encouragement. They don't care if a woman wants them or not.”

“I don't understand. Why do they want someone who doesn't like them?”

Savannah sighed. “It isn't about attraction. It's about control. They don't care if someone likes them as long as that person does whatever they tell them to. He didn't want your love. He wanted your fear. It made him feel big and powerful.”

“But he
was
big and powerful. So why would he hurt me? Why would he hurt Manuel?”

Savannah thought back over every sociopath and narcissist that she ever had the misfortune of dealing with. They were her least favorite creatures on earth. But long ago she had uncovered their secret, and having done so, she would never fear them again.

“Deep inside,” she said, “they know that they're weak—weaker than most people. And the only time they feel strong is when they hurt and control someone else. They need other people's fear the way a vampire bat needs blood. They feed off fear. They don't worry about whether it's right or wrong. They do whatever they want to get whatever they want. And by doing so, they grow stronger, while their victims feel weaker and weaker.”

She could see a light of understanding ignite in the younger woman's eyes as she took in her words. “I think you are right,” she said. “I have known others like the chef. They like to hurt, to cause fear and pain. They are animals.”

Diamante and Cleo's sweet faces flashed across Savannah's mental vision. “Oh, they're worse than animals. Much worse.”

Grabbing a dusting cloth, Celia began to polish the top of the nightstand. Savannah took another rag from the supply cart parked beside the door and tackled the chest of drawers and the television.

“I was a police officer for a long time,” she told Celia as they dusted. “And I saw a lot of jerks like that. Some of them had done terrible, terrible things to innocent folks—children, old people, the sick, the poor—anyone smaller or unable to defend themselves.”

She took a moment and drew a deep breath before continuing. “Some of the things they did were so horrible that I actually wanted to kill them. I hate to admit such a thing, but it's true. Of course I never did. It's against the laws of God and mankind to take another's life. But I did think about it from time to time. And I can understand why someone else might be tempted to do the same.”

Her eyes searched Celia's to see if the subtext of her words was registering on the other woman.

It was. Celia Cervantes, or whatever her name was, was an intelligent, street-savvy woman. And she knew exactly where Savannah was headed with this line of conversation.

Turning her back to Savannah, she busied herself arranging and rearranging items on the supply cart.

“Celia, I know that Chef Norwood attacked you in his wine cellar. I know that he said terrible things to Manuel. I know how insults and machismo and all business are very important to a man like your husband, to men in his culture. The men I grew up with in Georgia, that sort of thing is very important to them, too. You don't insult them, and especially their family, without paying a price for it.”

Celia grabbed a squirt bottle of cleaner and a rag and rushed into the bathroom. She slammed the door behind her.

But Savannah had seen more than her share of closed doors in her day.

She wasn't about to let a little thing like having a door slammed in her face stop her.

Gently she pushed it open a few inches and shoved her foot into the crack. “What I'm trying to tell you, Celia,” she said, “is that I'm wondering if your husband—”

Celia jerked the door open and stood, her hands on her hips, staring defiantly up at Savannah. “I know what you are wondering. You are wondering if my husband killed the chef. You are wondering if he is a
matador—
a murderer. And I am telling you, he is not.”

A picture of indignation and rage, the young wife's eyes blazed as she defended her husband. Her courage and passion touched Savannah's heart
.

If all husbands and wives defended each other with this much zeal
, she thought,
there would be far more successful marriages in the world
.

“Celia,” she said, “I understand that you—”

“No,
senora
. You do
not
understand.” Celia began to cry. “I'm sorry. I know you have a good heart. I can tell. But you do not understand what it is to be me. You do not understand what it is to be my husband. You do not understand what it is to have no power, to have to do everything bad men—and women—tell you to do.”

The “Big Sister” in Savannah welled up, filling her with compassion for this woman and her situation. She tried to reach out to her, to hug her, but Celia stepped backward, avoiding any embrace.

“You must believe me,” the distraught young woman continued. “I know my husband. I know that, like you said, he wanted to kill the chef. But if he was going to do that, he would have done it the other night in the wine cellar, when he saw him hurting me. If he did not do it then, he did not do it later.”

Savannah considered her words for several moments. They had the ring of truth about them. And if ever she had believed someone was telling her the truth, as they knew it, it was this woman, who seemed to have no pretensions whatsoever about her.

“Okay,” Savannah said. “You're telling me that your husband is innocent, and I believe you. But somewhere there is someone—probably someone you know—who took another human being's life. And I can't stop until I find out who did it.”

Celia wiped her tears away with the back of her hand and nodded. “I understand. It is your work. Important work.” She gave Savannah a faint smile. “You helped me with my work. If I can, I will help you with yours.”

“Good. Thank you. I appreciate it, because I need all the help I can get right now.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to tell me who killed Chef Norwood.”

Celia gave her a small, bittersweet grin. “Is that all?”

Savannah chuckled. “Okay, I believe you when you say your husband didn't do it. But he has to have some idea about who did. And since the two of you are so close, I'm sure he must have shared his opinion with you. Would you share it with me?”

“I would if I could. But he doesn't know. He told me so.” Celia turned and began to squirt generous amounts of cleaner on the mirror, the toilet, the sink, and shower.

She continued, “My husband thinks the killer is someone who was there at the chef's house that night, the night he attacked me and insulted us. Everyone was there, and they saw what happened to me. They saw how angry my husband was.”

“I don't understand what you're saying, Celia,” Savannah said. “Do you think someone murdered the chef because he attacked you and insulted Manuel?”

“No. I think everyone there had a reason to kill him. And someone wanted to very badly. When they saw what happened—with the chef and me and my husband—they thought it would be a good time to do it.”

“Because it would be blamed on you or your husband.”

“Right.”

That, too, rang in Savannah's head like a church bell at noon. She had learned to always trust those “dings” in the back of her mind. They seldom proved to be wrong.

“Thank you, Celia,” she told her. “You've helped me a lot, and I sure appreciate it.”

Celia smiled brightly. “You're welcome. I'm glad.” Then she sobered and added, “Your work,
senora
, it is much harder than mine. All I have to do is clean this mirror, this sink, this toilet. But you . . . you have to find out who took a man's life from him. A man
everyone
wanted to kill.
Senora
, you have the hardest work of all.”

W
hen Savannah walked through the restaurant's front door to pick up Dirk, she felt as though she had stepped into some kind of macabre crime scene reunion.

A quick glance around the dining room told her that almost everyone who had been in attendance on the night of the murder had returned for some sort of meeting.

Ryan and Dirk sat at the bar on stools, facing the dining area. About a dozen chairs had been placed in front of them in a neat line. On those chairs sat the majority of Savannah's suspects: Francia Fortun, Carlos Ortez, Maria Ortez, Manuel Cervantes, and several of the servers, whom she recognized as waiters and waitresses from the fateful dinner.

She couldn't help thinking that it looked like the perfect lineup.

Unfortunately, they had no eyewitness to make an identification.

Ryan was speaking to his impromptu audience, and it sounded as though he were a coach giving them a locker room pep talk.

“I can't tell you how much John and I appreciate each and every one of you showing up like this at a moment's notice,” he was saying. “Frankly, after what happened here, we didn't know if we should open the restaurant even if we could. But then we talked to Francia and Manuel and Carlos, and they got in touch with the rest of you, and your enthusiastic response ignited a spark of hope in us that maybe, just maybe, we could do it.”

Savannah stood quietly off to the side, listening as her friend continued his speech. Her heart ached for him. She knew the anguish that he and John had been through, and yet they were lifting themselves up off the floor and preparing to battle again.

Knowing them as she did, she would have expected nothing less. But it was still satisfying and inspiring to watch it happen.

Once Ryan had finished speaking, John added his encouragement and praise for the staff's support. Then, speechmaking aside, the meeting became an informal question and answer as they discussed the practical matters of reopening.

Savannah couldn't help but notice that Francia appeared to be in fine form, enthusiastic—gleeful even—as she assumed the fallen king's crown. She was obviously the heir apparent and seemed to be having no trouble at all fulfilling the role of master chef.

Not seeing Dirk anywhere in the room, Savannah quietly made her way to the kitchen and slipped inside.

At first she didn't see him there either. But a rattling of pots and pans caused her to look down, and there he was on his hands and knees, head stuck inside a giant cabinet.

There was another volley of metal hitting metal, and she heard him curse under his breath.

For a moment she allowed herself to enjoy the view. Dirk's derrière in a pair of snug jeans had always been one of her favorite scenes. They might both be older than forty, but he still filled out his Levi's nicely, and she was still plenty young enough to enjoy the fact.

She did, however, resist the urge to give him a pinch or a pat. From the waves of blue language rolling out of the cabinet, she had the feeling he wasn't in a “friendly pinch” or “love pat” sort of mood.

“Hey, cutie, whatcha doing down there?” she asked, squatting beside him and peering into the cabinet.

“What do you suppose I'm doing?” he snapped. “I'm looking for a cylindrical rod.” He pulled his head out of the cupboard and looked up at her. His hair was messy, his face was red, and his brow deeply furrowed. “You know, in other words, a murder weapon.”

“You haven't found one yet?”

She grinned and gave him a wink. There was hardly anything he loved more than being asked a stupid question when he was in a bad mood. So she did it as frequently as possible.

After all, what was the point of having a mate if you couldn't annoy the daylights out of that person on a regular basis?

He snorted. “Of course I found it—a lead pipe with blood and hair and brain matter stuck on it. Somebody had pitched it behind the refrigerator. But just for fun I kept looking. You know how much I love standing on my head and poking around in dark places.”

“Did you check the ballroom for a wrench?”

“Yeah, smart aleck. And the conservatory for a rope.”

She reached down and ran her fingers through his hair, semi-straightening it. “Well, as long as you were thorough, we'll give you an A for effort.”

With a grunt of exertion, he rose and made an act of dusting off his knees. “An A, huh? And what does that get me?”

She raised one eyebrow and puckered her lips. “Oh, you might be surprised. I know how to reward a good boy with a good grade.”

He bent down and nuzzled her ear. “It might be more fun if we pretend I was a bad boy and you punish me.”

“I thought we saved stuff like that for Friday nights.”

He sighed. “We're going to have to change our naughtiness schedule around a little bit. I talked to your brother Waycross about an hour ago, and he says your grandma is on a plane headed here right now. We might have to postpone some of our more adventurous stuff until after she leaves.”

Savannah nodded thoughtfully. “That's true. We'll definitely have to reschedule Monkey Jungle Love Night.”

“Much, much too noisy, with her right down the hall.” For a second, he looked a bit pensive. “That
is
where she's staying, right? My man cave's gonna be a guest room for a while, I guess.”

“Yeah. Sorry, sugar.”

“Hey, anything for Granny. She is the best.”

“I thought she wasn't supposed to get here until tomorrow at the earliest.”

“Me too. But Waycross said she pulled one of her ‘Poor Ol' Widder Woman' routines at the standby counter, and they let her on board an earlier flight.”

Savannah laughed. “And knowing Gran, she probably got to sit in first class, too. When is her flight coming in? We'll have to go to LAX to pick her up.”

“She's getting in about seven.” He glanced at his watch. “About four hours from now. But Waycross and Tammy already volunteered to go get her.”

“More like they called dibs on the privilege.”

“Yes, Granny's a pretty popular gal in these parts.”

Savannah glanced around and saw several objects lying on the counter near the sink. “Are those the fruits of your murder weapon search? Your most likely suspects?”

“Not really. They're the right shape, but I've pretty much ruled them all out.”

Picking the items up, one by one, he explained his reasoning. “Here we've got a rolling pin, which would be perfect except that it's too wide.”

Savannah nodded. “Dr. Liu said it was probably an inch. That sucker's three inches, at least.”

He picked up a turkey baster. “Way too light.”

“You couldn't beat a housefly to death with that thing.”

He showed her a pepper mill and the soap dispenser. “Same with these gadgets. They're the right shape, but they're way too fragile to get the job done.”

He showed her another strange item that looked like an enormous screw of some sort. “And I don't even know what the hell this thing is.”

“A pineapple corer.”

“Seriously? And how do you know something like that?”

She shrugged. “I'm a woman. We know everything.”

“And if you don't, you just make it up on the spot.”

“We have been known to get creative from time to time—when the situation calls for it.”

She searched the kitchen for anything that he might have overlooked. But if there was something that Detective Dirk Coulter was good at, it was processing a crime scene.

And looking good in a pair of jeans.

And inventing new uses for Chantilly cream.

There was also his ability to surrender something as precious as his man cave for a beloved grandmother, without registering much of a complaint.

Savannah decided that maybe she'd keep him after all.

“Did you look outside yet?” she asked him.

He gave her a blank, brainwave-free stare, not unlike when he asked her where they kept the ice cubes. “Outside?”

“Yeah. You know, you walk over there, and you open the door, and you step out there, where there's no roof over your head—just sky and birds and trees. That's called ‘outside.' ”

His eyes narrowed as he gave her his best Clint Eastwood, gunfight-at-high-noon glower. “You know, Reid . . . you can be a real smart-ass sometimes.”

She turned and headed for the rear door, making sure to put a little extra Southern belle sashay in her step as she walked. “And I've heard that sometimes bad guys stash murder weapons and interesting stuff like that.... Are you ready for it? Here it comes.... That's right, boys and girls!
Outside!
”

She took one more sashay-enhanced step.

His hand connected with her backside.

“Ouch!”

 

Having spent a bit of time in alleys while a beat cop, Savannah had never failed to be amazed at how different they were from the heavily traveled streets and byways of an ordinary American town.

In tidy communities, heaven help you if you tossed a candy wrapper on the sidewalk. But only a few yards away, you could dump everything from decrepit mattresses to old Studebakers, to a dead body, in an alley, and it might go unnoticed for ages.

Except by the street people, who found and put society's castoffs to good use.

A discarded tee-shirt might double a homeless man's wardrobe. A worn chair gave a less fortunate person an alternative to sitting on cold cement. And a rusty length of pipe, left over from a plumbing project, could provide a modicum of self-protection to someone who had no walls and no locked doors or windows to keep them safe from the criminal element.

After half an hour or more of searching along rusty fences and in smelly garbage bins and behind rotten boards, Savannah decided that if a murder weapon had been stashed here in the alley, somebody had absconded with it.

So much for my “Let's Find It Outside” theory
, she thought, as her headache returned and her limbs started to tremble with fatigue.

“So much for your know-it-all idea about finding something out here,” Dirk told her as she tried to rub some evil-looking, green mystery stain off the palm of her left hand.

She groaned and resisted the nearly overpowering urge to smack him . . . with the stained palm, of course.

If there was anything more annoying than Dirk's occasional rude comment, it was when his words echoed her own self-incriminating thoughts.

“Yeah, well, I have to admit that we didn't come up with anything good out here, like that deadly turkey baster you found in the kitchen.”

“Do you guys mind if I ask what you're looking for?” said a male voice behind them.

Savannah turned around and saw the same homeless fellow they had encountered the night of the tasting. He was walking toward them, limping as he had been that evening.

By daylight, she could get a much better look at him. And she realized he was younger than she had thought when first meeting him. Before, she had judged him to be in his fifties, possibly even his early sixties. But now she could see that he was closer to forty. Though it was obvious that at least some of those forty years had been tough ones.

His skin was deeply lined and spotted from sun exposure, and his beard and hair were liberally sprinkled with gray. His pants were desert camouflage, not just dirty as she had originally thought. But it was difficult to tell the original color of his badly faded tee-shirt. On his feet he wore sneakers, the fronts of which were wrapped with duct tape.

Then she realized that he was scrutinizing her attire and Dirk's as closely as she was his.

He snickered behind his overgrown mustache and said, “You two clean up pretty good. And you look a lot younger in the daylight.”

Savannah laughed, remembering that the last time he had seen them they had been dressed in their undercover, senior citizen garb.

Dirk glanced down at the camouflage pants. “Marines? Afghanistan? Pre-2000?”

The man nodded.

“Is that where you got the limp?” Dirk asked.

Savannah cringed, but the guy didn't seem to take offense. He just gave another solemn nod.

“I'm Dirk Coulter.” Dirk extended his hand. “This is my wife, Savannah. It's nice to meet you.”

Shaking Dirk's hand, he said, “I'm Otis Emmett.”

“Thank you for your service, Mr. Emmett,” Savannah told him, offering her hand as well. “I appreciate what you did, and especially your sacrifice,” she added, nodding toward his lame leg.

“Thanks,” he replied, returning her handshake without enthusiasm. “It's nice to hear that somebody does.”

He was beginning to look uncomfortable with the topic of conversation, so she decided to change it. “You asked what we're searching for,” she said. “Frankly, we're trying to find the murder weapon. You must've heard what happened to the chef in that restaurant the other night.”

“Of course we did. That's all we've been talking about.”

“We?”
she asked.

He waved his arm wide, as though indicating the alley in both directions. “We who live back here. There're lots of us. But most stay hidden when people like you are out here.”

Feeling a bit uneasy, Savannah glanced around. She couldn't help wondering who was watching at that moment, who might've been watching for the past half hour as they made fools of themselves, searching and finding nothing.

“What kind of weapon are you looking for?” he asked. “Maybe I can help you find it. After all, this is my home—so to speak.”