Killer Gourmet (22 page)

A
s Savannah sat in her comfortable chair, sipping a big mug of hot chocolate—which she had secretly laced with Baileys Irish Cream when Granny wasn't looking—she felt incredibly guilty.

Usually, when Dirk made an arrest and she had assisted him, she accompanied him to the station house. Once the prisoner was booked, she helped him with the copious, monotonous paperwork.

It was one of the worst parts of being a cop.

But tonight he had offered to do it himself and encouraged her to go home and rest. She had gratefully accepted, knowing what it cost him to suggest such a thing.

Not only would he be stuck at work for several hours longer, but he would miss the chance to have her alone in the car on the way home. And she knew he was dying for some one-on-one time so that he could ask her what had happened earlier.

Of course she was going to have to tell him before the day was done. But she still hadn't decided what to say. So she was putting it off for as long as possible.

“You're sure quiet this evening, sweet pea,” Granny said as she sipped from her own Baileys-free mug of hot chocolate.

“I'm okay,” Savannah said. “It was just a big day, all the way around.”

Granny's sharp eyes studied hers. “Hmmm. And here I thought it might've had something to do with that sale you went to this morning. Not finding what you're looking for, that can be pretty disappointing.”

It was Savannah's turn to search her grandmother's face. And yes, there it was, the sarcasm, that knowing look that said, “You're lying. Your pants are on fire. And I can smell them all the way over here.”

Granny cast a look across the room to the corner where Tammy and Waycross were, once again, sitting at the desk. Shoulder to shoulder, they were staring at the computer screen, researching something on the Internet.

She lowered her voice and said to Savannah, “If you wanna talk about that, you know, sale you went to—I'm all ears.”

Savannah could feel the terrible knot tightening in her throat again, and she didn't trust herself to speak. She just busied herself with sipping the chocolate.

They sat quietly, until Tammy and Waycross turned in their chairs to face them.

“Okay,” Tammy said, “we've got to talk.”

“About what?” Granny asked.

“About this case that we just supposedly solved,” Waycross said.

“What do you mean, ‘supposedly'?” Savannah asked. “Dirk took him in. By now Emmett's booked and Dirk's halfway through the fives. It's a done deal.”

“But we have our misgivings,” Tammy told them.

“What misgivings? He confessed. We all heard it loud and clear,” Savannah reminded her.

Waycross cleared his throat and shuffled uneasily on his chair. Like a good younger brother, he had always been uncomfortable when confronting his older sister. But he had been known to do so, from time to time, when he felt strongly enough about something. “We were as sure as you are that Otis killed the chef. We still are. But we were wondering why he stabbed and chopped him up so bad. I think you guys called it ‘overkill.' Is that really over a missed bowl of soup or piece of bread?”

“Hey, I've seen people do worse.” Savannah shook her head. “I had a case, years back, where one brother stabbed another one right through the heart with a steak knife. Turns out, he did it because the victim had nabbed the biggest porterhouse at a family barbecue. When you think about it, it's pretty stupid to kill another human being. There's hardly ever a justifiable reason for it. I guess a missed bowl of soup's as stupid a reason as any other.”

Waycross wasn't convinced. “But Otis was a soldier, trained to kill, and good at it. Dr. Liu said that Norwood was probably dead as soon as he got whacked over the head. And he sure as shootin' was after he got that stab to the aorta. So what was the meat cleaver to the head all about?”

Savannah shrugged. “Again, who knows why anybody does what they do? We've got his confession. He had the knife and the baton and some blood-smeared leather gloves right there in his backpack. You can be sure that Dr. Liu is going to be able to lift DNA off all those.”

Granny piped up, “I agree with Savannah. We got him dead to rights. I think you two are in a stew over nothin'.”

But Tammy wasn't ready to surrender yet either. “What if somebody hired him and told him to do it that way—all gruesome and bloody like?”

Savannah smiled. “You've been watching too many movies, Tamitha, my dear.”

“Yeah, I'll bet that's it! That's what it was, a murder for hire!” Waycross was suddenly so excited that he looked like he was about to burst. “Somebody paid him to do it, and they told him to mess Norwood up real bad.”

Tammy started wriggling and waving her arms around. “That's right! And his mom just bought a car. And a PT Cruiser at that! Those cars keep their resell value, even the old ones.”

“And that Chicago gal,” Waycross continued, “she said his mom was poor, and obviously Otis is poor. . . .”

“So where did Mom Emmett get the money to buy the Cruiser?” Tammy grabbed Waycross and they hugged each other in a wild, crazy way that made Savannah feel, frankly, a bit uneasy.

The kids had lost it.

Yes, no doubt about it, they had gone over Niagara Falls on a garbage can lid.

“How much does an old PT Cruiser cost these days?” Waycross wondered out loud. “Turn around there, sugar, and check it out on the Internet.”

Tammy spun around in her chair, and in no time her fingers were flying over the keyboard and websites were popping up right and left on the monitor.

Savannah looked over at Granny, who rolled her eyes and shook her head.

But something kept Savannah from rolling hers, too. She didn't know if she agreed with the kids about their “overkill” theory. But that business about Otis's mother buying a car when she was supposedly dirt poor—they might have something there.

“Five thousand dollars!” Tammy exclaimed. “That's how much she would've paid for it, more or less.”

Savannah decided to play along, for a moment, just to make them happy—and because five thousand dollars was quite a bit for a poor person to pay for a car. “Okay, so if it's the way you guys say, and somebody paid for a hit . . . who's the somebody?”

“Well, it certainly wouldn't be Francia,” Waycross reasoned, “or Carlos or Manuel. Maybe that Yale guy?”

“He had an airtight alibi,” Savannah reminded them. “Though he could have paid for it, so we'll keep him on the back burner.”

“Which takes us to the girlfriend, Perla Viola,” Tammy said.

Savannah licked some of the cream off the top of her drink. “She was at the theater with her daughter in Hollywood.”

“Says her, says the daughter,” Waycross interjected. “But who's to say they're telling the truth?”

“They had tickets to the show and the
Playbill
. Dirk saw them, verified them.”

“So what?” Tammy said. “You and I could get tickets to a play and the
Playbill
, too. That doesn't mean we stayed and watched it all the way through.”

Tired as she was, Savannah's wheels started whirring. Tammy was absolutely right. Perla Viola and her daughter could have bought the tickets and then come directly home without seeing the play. That would've put them back in San Carmelita in plenty of time for the murder.

“You aren't really saying that you think Perla was there when Otis killed him, are you?” Savannah asked them.

Tammy and Waycross looked at each other, then Tammy shrugged. “No, I guess not. But that doesn't mean she didn't pay Otis to do it.”

“And,” Waycross added, “if I was paying somebody to commit a murder for me, I'd be sure I was in another town and had proof of it. Wouldn't you?”

Granny turned to Savannah. “They might be onto something, sugar. Did you tell me that the chef had thrown his girlfriend out and taken a new gal to Santa Tesla Island for a long, romantic weekend? That he'd given the latest girl some kind of nice ring? Most women would take a mighty dim view of that.”

Suddenly, Savannah saw Umber Viola, sitting in her mother's living room, sunburned, toying nervously with her fingers.

One finger in particular.

The ring finger of her left hand.

The finger that had a white area that wasn't sunburned.

“Holy cow,” she whispered.

“What is it?” Tammy asked.

She and Waycross jumped up from their desk chairs and rushed over to Savannah. Tammy sat down on Savannah's footstool and Waycross plopped himself down on the floor beside her chair.

“You thought of somethin',” Waycross said. “Spit it out, Sis.”

“I'm afraid of what I'm thinking.” Savannah closed her eyes, as though it would somehow erase the vision of that young woman with the sad doe eyes in so much pain, touching the white band on her finger where a large ring had recently been but was there no longer.

“You're thinking that Perla gal hired that fella to do it, ain'tcha?” Granny said.

“I'm hoping Perla did,” Savannah replied. “Because I can't bear to consider the alternative.”

 

Once a plan had been put into place, which included Tammy and Waycross visiting every one of the half-dozen pawn shops in San Carmelita first thing in the morning, the young couple said good night, leaving Savannah and Granny alone.

Still waiting for Dirk to return, and for their inevitable heart-to-heart talk, Savannah sat quietly in her chair, petting the cats.

Granny watched her from the sofa, a look of loving concern on her face. Finally, when the silence grew too long for comfort, she said, “You know, puddin' cat, there's an old saying that goes somethin' like this: ‘A mother can only be as happy as her saddest child.' The same goes for grandmothers and grandchildren, too. And tonight I'm feelin' pretty poorly.”

“I'm so sorry, Gran. You know the last thing I'd want to do is bring you down. Please don't worry. Everything's all right.”

“Then how come your face is as long as a Kentucky fiddle?”

Savannah gulped. “I can't say, Granny. Please.”

Horrified, Savannah watched as tears filled her precious grandmother's eyes. “Then it must be somethin' plumb awful, because you and me, we could always talk about 'most anything.”

Savannah jumped up and ran to her grandma. She sat next to her on the sofa and gathered her into her arms. After kissing the top of her shining silver hair, she said, “No, Gran. It's not something awful. It's something that's perfectly natural. It's just . . . well . . . I figure I owe it to Dirk to tell him first—him being my husband and all. Once I've told him, you can ask me anything, and I'll tell you the straight-up truth. I promise.”

Granny placed her hands on either side of Savannah's face and looked deeply into her eyes. “Ah. Okay. I understand.”

“You do?”

“Yes, I reckon I do. But I'll wait for you to tell me yourself. You're right. You should tell Dirk first. I'm proud of you for honoring your husband in that way. You're a good wife, Savannah girl.”

As Savannah gazed at her grandmother's face, her expression so soft and loving in the rose-colored light of a nearby lamp, Savannah thought she was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen.

Her eyes were still the deepest, richest shade of blue, like fine sapphires—exactly like Savannah's. And her hair formed such a lovely, shimmering halo around her head. No doubt that had been part of why the young, childish Savannah had thought her some sort of secret angel.

Of course, being more than eighty years old, Gran had lines galore. But although society might condemn her for having them and try to sell her all sorts of products and procedures to get rid of those wrinkles, Savannah loved every one of them. Given the opportunity to erase them all, Savannah would have considered the idea preposterous, almost blasphemous. She would have kept her grandmother exactly as she looked right at that moment for all eternity, if she could.

You didn't mess with perfection. And her blessed grandmother was as close to perfect as Savannah ever expected to encounter here on earth.

Granny twined one of Savannah's dark curls around her forefinger and said, “You know, sweet girl . . . you're not only a wonderful wife, but in your lifetime you've been an amazing mother to a whole lot of God's creatures.”

Savannah wasn't sure she'd heard correctly. “What?”

“I said you're a fine mother, too.”

“But . . . I've never been—”

“Don't be silly. Of course you have. You've had a mother's heart almost from the very beginning of your years. Sadly, you had to. But it's done you good in the long run. And you've done a lot of good for others because of your early trials. You've played the motherhood role for so many orphaned souls who've crossed your path.”

Savannah considered her words, then said, “I guess I've always felt maternal toward my brothers and sisters, but . . .”

“And those two cats, which you rescued from the pound, and all the critters you had before them. And the thousands of people in need who you encountered when you were a police officer, and even now in the work you do. How many tears have you wiped away? How much good advice have you handed out? How much practical, everyday help did you offer to people? How many wounds have you bound and how many broken hearts have you ministered to? Thousands, Savannah. That's how many. And if that ain't bein' a mother, then I don't know what is.”