Killer Gourmet (23 page)

Savannah's heart filled to overflowing and tears spilled out of her eyes. But they were good tears. Healing tears.

Granny knew.

Of course she did. Gran always knew.

But she was respecting Savannah's right to share her news with Dirk first by not requiring any sort of answer.

Gran kissed away her granddaughter's tears and stood. “I just heard a car pull into your driveway,” she said. “Sounds like a big engine, so it's probably your husband in that borrowed policeman's car of his. I'm going to go on upstairs and go to bed now.”

Savannah stood with Gran and walked her to the foot of the stairs.

“Don't you worry about a thing,” Granny told her before ascending. “I'm going to say a big ol' prayer for you and your man tonight, and this is all going to work out just fine in the end. You'll see.”

As Savannah watched her grandmother climb the staircase to go to bed, she was even more sure than ever of one fact: Angels did, indeed, still walk the earth.

And sometimes, they wore floral print caftans.

A
s Savannah took Dirk's hand and led him out to the backyard and the wisteria arbor, it occurred to her that maybe this wasn't the best plan. The moonlight streaming through the beautiful lavender blossoms overhead, and the heady perfume of her rose garden, reminded her of that lovely night they had made love in this very spot.

The night when, for a little while today, she had thought that they might have conceived a child of their own.

She had thought, just in case things didn't go so well, that the backyard would provide more privacy than their bedroom—which was right down the hall from Gran's guest room.

However, now that she was here, in the moonlight, smelling the roses, remembering . . . she decided it hadn't been such a great plan.

But they were there, and judging from the anxiety bordering on agony that Dirk was radiating, she knew she couldn't wait any longer.

“Sit down over there, sweetheart,” she told him, leading him to a comfortable wicker chair.

As he did what she had asked, she pulled another chair around so that she could sit on it and face him directly.

He was terribly silent as she settled into her seat, leaned forward, and took his hands in hers.

“You know, of course, that I didn't go shopping today,” she began.

“I'm a police detective, Van. I know you went to the doctor. Now tell me what you found out.”

When she hesitated, he said, “Quick. Babe, I'm dyin' here.”

“Dr. Dalano ran some tests and . . .”

She stared down at his hands, unable to look him in the eyes.

When she finally did venture a glance, she was shocked to see that his eyes were already wet with tears. In all the years she had known him, she had never seen him looking so forlorn.

“Just tell me, darlin',” he said. “Whatever it is, we'll get through it. I promise you. I'm here for you. I always will be, no matter what.”

Okay
, she told herself.
Do it. Dive right in. It has to be done, so say it now and get it—

“I can't have babies.”

“What?”

The words she had been holding back all day began to tumble over themselves, fighting to come out. “These crazy symptoms I've been having . . . I thought I might be pregnant. Then I missed a period, but I always miss periods, so no big deal, but then the doctor ran some tests, and she says I'm in peri-menopause.”

“Perry Mena-who? Who's he?”

“Peri means ‘before' or ‘around,' or something like that. Anyway, it's not officially menopause until I've missed a whole year of periods, but she said my reproduction system has changed, and not only am I not pregnant, but I waited too long and now I can't ever have babies.”

Looking at his face, so blank, so empty, tore at her heart. He was obviously in shock. Terrible shock.

She began to cry, hard, as she had in the doctor's office. “Oh, Dirk, I can never give you children, and you're so sweet and good with kids. You deserve to be a father, but I can't have your babies, and I'm so, so sorry!”

Still he sat there, motionless, just staring at her.

She ached for him to say something, anything. Even if he told her that he wanted a divorce, it would be better than this awful silence.

“Dirk, I wish that—”

“Wait.” He placed his fingers over her lips. “The doctor said you're going through the change of life? That you're . . . past your childbearing years?”

His fingertips kept her from speaking, so she nodded.

“And that's why you've been so tired and dizzy and why you fell down?”

Another nod.

Suddenly, he grabbed her in a hug that was so tight, she could scarcely breathe. And he began crying, too, wracking sobs that shook them both as he crushed her to him.

Oh no
, she thought, panic and grief overwhelming her.

He was taking the news far worse than she'd thought he would. He must have really, really wanted kids.

She couldn't give her husband babies, and he was devastated.

She didn't know what to do. Certainly, she had seen Dirk tear up from time to time over the years. Though he would never admit it, he was a sentimental sort of guy, and even a sad or inspiring movie would cause him to pretend he'd gotten some of Cleo's fur in his eye.

But she had never seen him sob uncontrollably like this. And it broke her heart to think she was the cause of it.

“I'm so sorry, honey,” she said, holding him close and stroking his hair. “I didn't realize it meant so much to you to have children. If you want a divorce, I understand.”

Abruptly, he released her. “What?” he said, his deep voice tremulous.

“I told you that if you want a—”

“I heard you. Why would you say a dumb thing like that?”

“Because you're so upset. You're crying. Obviously, you really had your heart set on being a dad.”

He gave her a long, quizzical look, then he started to laugh.

At first she thought he had become hysterical, then she saw the broad smile on his face and the joy in his tear-wet eyes.

He took her face in both of his hands and kissed her forehead, each cheek, her chin, and then her lips—most tenderly.

“Oh, Van,” he said, his breath warm and moist on her cheek as he pulled her close. “I wasn't crying because you can't have babies, sweetheart. I was crying because I'm so relieved. The way you were acting, I was sure you had cancer or . . . or . . . a fatal case of creeping crud-itis or whatever. I thought my wife was gonna die on me. But you're okay, and that's all I care about, Van. That's all I ever cared about. You.”

A tsunami of relief, like she had never felt before, swept over her.

He was telling her the truth. He didn't care. Except about her.

“I love you,” she said, looking into her mate's eyes, seeing the love and devotion reflected there.

In all of her years, having said those three words countless times, Savannah had never meant them more.

“Menopause, hmm,” he said, nuzzling her neck. “Does that mean we won't have to use birth control anymore?”

“After twelve months of no-show from Aunt Flo.”

“And you've got a couple of those months out of the way already?”

She gave him a sexy grin. “Yep. Down the hatch. In the bank.”

“Then how's about you and I meet back here, ten months from tonight, and make wild, insane, mind-blowing love under this, this contraption. . . .”

“Arbor.”

“This arbor. Whatcha say, babycakes?”

“I say, we'll raise such a ruckus that the coyotes up on the hills will be howling at the moon!”

 

Over breakfast the next morning, Savannah tried to keep a straight face and not make goo-goo eyes at her husband too much, considering that Granny was sharing the same table.

But it wasn't easy. After the moonlight sweetness and the intimacy that had followed in their bedroom, she had started her day fully sated. All without eating a bite.

Certainly, Gran had picked up on the fact that all was peaceful on the western front, and the three of them enjoyed quite a pleasant meal—considering.

Considering that she had broached the topic with Dirk that maybe, just maybe, the suspect who he had arrested yesterday might not be the only offender in his murder case.

“Let me get this straight,” he said over a well-buttered biscuit, dripping with the peach preserves Gran had brought with her on the plane. “You want me to investigate Umber Viola for the capital crime of ‘murder by hire.' And you ask me to do this because Otis Emmett's mom bought a used car. One that, for all we know, she's making payments on.”

“And the sunburn,” Savannah reminded him.

“Yes, and because she had a sunburn, which you think she got on a trip to Santa Tesla with her mother's boyfriend—who just happens to have raised her since she was about five.”

“Which makes it all the more wicked and perverse, if it's true,” Granny chimed in.

“And the band of white skin on her ring finger.” Savannah nudged his leg under the table with her fuzzy house slipper.

“Yes,” he said, “because no one in the history of the world has ever worn a ring to the beach, gotten burned, taken the ring off, and had a white mark like that one!”

Savannah stuck out her lip in a pout. “Well, when you say it like
that
, Mr. Smarty-Pants, it sounds stupid.”

“That's because it
is
stupid, Van. Emmett confessed. We've got him. Case closed.”

“Not if Tammy and Waycross have anything to do with it,” Granny said with a smirk. “They're gonna be bargin' through that door any second now.”

Two heartbeats later, there was a brief knock at the kitchen door, then it opened and Tammy and Waycross sailed in.

Dirk froze in midchew, then said to Savannah, “How did she do that?”

“She's got great ears and can hear cars coming a mile off. She can even tell whose car it is.”

Gran blew on her nails and polished them on her chest. “Hey, you don't raise nine teenage grandkids without developing some special skills along the way.”

“Good morning, everyone,” chimed the sunshine girl as she danced over to the table and took a seat next to Granny.

Waycross sat beside her, an enormous grin on his adorable freckled face.

Savannah knew her baby brother, and she knew that look. They had something good.

“We've got something good,” he said.

“I knew that.” Savannah took a sip of her coffee. “Stop pussy-footin' around and cough it up.”

“First of all, Tammy was up most of the night doing research,” he began.

Savannah leaned over and whispered to Gran, “That means she hacked into somebody's account illegally, without a warrant, committing a felony. And because she's so smart, she can do that stuff and not get caught and thrown in jail. That's why she's an extremely valuable member of this team.”

Gran nodded. “Gotcha.”

“I found out something interesting,” Tammy said.

“More solid evidence that either Perla Viola or her daughter, Umber, had something to do with Baldwin Norwood's murder?” Dirk asked, grinning.

“You're on board with this? That's fantastic!” Tammy started to bounce up and down on her chair.

“Settle down, Tams,” Savannah told her. “You need to learn how to recognize sarcasm when you hear it.”

“We'll see what you think once you've heard this,” Waycross told Dirk. Turning to Tammy, he said, “Tell them about the phone calls, honey bun.”

Savannah paused, biscuit halfway to her mouth. Tammy was “honey bun” now? Interesting.

“I accessed Umber Viola's cell phone records—”

“You mean ‘hacked,' ” Savannah interjected.

“Whatever. And the night she was supposedly at the Pantages, watching
Phantom
with her mom—you know, like in the seat right next to her mom—she made six phone calls during those two hours.”

“That's horrible!” Dirk said. “I go crazy if somebody uses their phone in a movie theater. But in a joint like that, you pay a couple of hundred dollars per seat!”

“Make fun if you must, Pee Pee Head, but who do you think she was calling? Just guess. It's really cool.”

“Otis Emmett?” Dirk asked with a smirk.

“Well, no. That would have been really super cool, but still.... She was calling her mom! And talking to her for four, five, even seven minutes!”

“No way!” Dirk gasped. “That's positively criminal. I'll go pick her up right now and charge her with creating a nuisance in a fancy theater and disturbing the peace of everybody around her.” He shook his head. “What are people thinking these days? Using their cell phones to talk even when they're sitting right next to somebody.”

Tammy turned to Savannah. “I am not talking to him anymore.”

“I understand. And I, too, think that is extremely cool. Obviously, they lied about their whereabouts that evening, and that's quite suspicious.”

“Just wait'll you hear the cherry on the Dairy Queen Snickers Blizzard,” Waycross crowed.

Dirk turned to Savannah. “They put a cherry on those?”

“Hush.” She nodded to Waycross. “Go ahead, darlin'.”

Waycross slipped his arm around Tammy's waist and gave her a sideways hug. “Listen to this! We went out to the pawn shops this morning as soon as they opened. We downloaded a picture of that Umber gal that we found on the Internet and showed it to them. The third place we went to . . . bingo!”

Savannah perked up. “Bingo?”

“Bingo!” Tammy lifted her arms over her head and did a little boob jiggle dance that caused Gran's eyebrows to rise a notch and a half.

“Please translate ‘bingo,' bimbo,” Dirk grumbled.

“They knew her. The owner said she came in there the morning of the murder and sold him a three-carat canary yellow diamond ring. He paid her five thousand dollars for it, and she demanded to be paid in cash. He said he always pays in cash anyway, but she was making a big point about how that was the only way she'd sell it.”

Savannah looked at Dirk. He looked back, and she knew his wheels were turning right along with hers.

“Come on. We have to at least check it out,” she told him.

“I can't,” he replied. “Emmett's arraignment is today, and I have to be there.”

“Then you won't mind if I do it, right? I'll just drop by and have a little chat with Umber. See what I can drag outta her.”