Sour Grapes (A Savannah Reid Mystery #6) (8 page)

mouth hanging open, so she snapped it shut. Barbie shot her a look that was so cold and full of hate it gave

Atlanta the shivers. Where did she get off being so angry?

"Plumbing problems at home," she said. "Damned basement's flooded."

SOUR GRAPES 75

Atlanta nodded. "Yeah, sure. Happens all the time. Ours floods every morning, at nine sharp, like clockwork."

Barbie mumbled a nonreply and returned to her toiletries.

As

appealing as the prospect was--of continuing to irritate the heck out of her roommate--Atlanta decided that she had enjoyed as much of Barbie's scintillating

company as she could stand. Besides, in spite of what she had said, Atlanta prided herself on usually being prompt, or at least, not scandalously late.

So she quickly wriggled into the simple, white-linen dress she had brought for the occasion, slipped on sandal, strap-around-the-ankle pumps, single-stud, rhinestone earrings, and a delicate tennis bracelet.

Barbie turned to give her a once-over. "Is that what you're wearing, Georgia?"

For half a second Atlanta felt a twinge of self-doubt. But just in time, the Reid Super Self-Confidence kicked in. She twisted slightly, until the side slit of her skirt showed a shapely expanse of thigh. "Yeah, eat your heart out, Miss Barbie." She sauntered over to the door and jerked it open. "Later," she said as stepped outside and slammed it closed behind her.

"Ah . . . a breath of fresh air. . . ," she said as she strolled down the hallway toward the gallery, with a distinct Reid sashay to her walk.

rrhe moment Savannah stepped into Villa Rosa's tasting

room, she looked around, caught her breath, and grabbed the sleeve of Ryan's tuxedo.

"Whoa! Get a load of this place!" she said, "I want a living room that looks exactly like this."

Ryan laughed. "I suppose you do."

Savannah gazed about, awestruck, taking in the enormous room with its twenty-five-foot-high, open-beamed ceiling, its old oak wainscoting, its mile-long, brightly polished, mahogany bar, and its massive stone fireplace. The carpeting beneath her feet was the deep, ruby shade of a fine Bordeaux, and when she stepped on it, she felt like she was sinking in to her ankles.

"Yeah, right," she said, giving Ryan a nudge with her elbow. "Easy for you to say. You have a living room like this. Just like this."

He grinned down at her. "Not just like this. You can't

stand up in my stone fireplace, and I don't have twenty dining tables, or forty beautiful girls and their friends and families sitting around them."

"You would, if you just crooked your finger. But then, what would you do with forty beautiful girls?"

"Precisely. And I couldn't stand to hear that much giggling. That's one thing I've always liked about John; he hardly ever giggles."

Savannah sniffed the air, fragrant with the aroma of roasted meat, herbs, and wine sauces. China, silver, and crystal gleamed in the candlelight, spread across snowy, linen-draped tables.

The "Welcome Dinner" was semiformal, and gentlemen, looking wonderfully elegant in their tuxedos, escorted the beauty contestants, their mothers, sisters, and friends, who were decked out in evening dresses made of luscious fabrics in every pastel and jewel tone

imaginable.

As usual, when hobnobbing with the rich and famous, Savannah felt a bit underdressed. Her "little black dress" was a good one, and the strand of pearls around her neck had been her Granny Reid's. But her one-and-a-half-inch, practical pumps were $15.99, and she had even waited to buy those until she'd found a 10

percent off coupon from Spend Less.

Savannah wasn't fooling anybody. . . least of all herself

She was hardy, peasant stock without a drop of aristocratic

blood in her veins. But, considering Granny

Reid was only two generations away, she considered herself

fortunate. Royalty or not, she was of noble blood.

"Mmm . . . that dinner sure smells good," she said. "I

wonder what it is." The ruined breakfast that she hadn't

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eaten had worn off long ago, leaving her weak with hunger.

"Whatever it is," Ryan said, "I'm sure that Mrs. Lippincott made certain it has no calories. She's scary, that one. Reminds me of a Marine drill sergeant I once knew."

Savannah looked around the room until she saw the

lady in question. A pale lavender, satin gown hadn't softened Marion Lippincott's stern appearance one bit. Although she had exchanged her sensible loafers for

two-inch heels, she still had a daunting, deliberate stride as she patrolled the room like a Coast Guard

cruiser--everyone snapping to attention in her wake.

"Eh, she's not so bad," Savannah said. "It takes a tough old bird like her to run a gig like this. And it looks like she's doing a good job. Everything's going smoothly."

"So far, so good," Ryan agreed. "Time to do the rounds?"

Savannah nodded. "I'll mill around the room here," she said. "Then I'll check the upstairs hall of the guesthouse."

"I'll go back to the gallery, make sure nobody's trying to crash the party, and then I'll walk the lower hall."

Ryan disappeared, and Savannah slowly circled the room, acquainting herself with all the new faces. And pretty faces they were, too.

She had to admit that the big sister in her was coming

to fore as she sized up each of the contestants. She couldn't help comparing them to her own baby sister. She also couldn't fight the abiding conviction that the

kid had them all beat--hands down.

The vast variety of pulchritude was interesting: fresh

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faced sweeties, model types with gaunt, chiseled features, and a few girls who appeared to have become women before their time, their eyes reflecting a bit too much worldly knowledge for their young ages.

Savannah recognized a few guests as socially prominent

San Carmelitans, whom she had dealt with on other occasions. Catherine WhitestoneVilla was sitting at the head table next to a handsome, silver-haired gentleman. From the way she was hanging on his arm and gazing at him adoringly, Savannah surmised this was Catherine's beloved husband, Anthony, the wannabe state senator. He appeared less comfortable with the social scene than his effervescent wife. He had a slightly "hunted" look, as though he would much prefer to be somewhere far away from the formal, stuffy crowd.

Strange, for someone seekingpublic office, Savannah mused. He'd better get used to it.

A number of people clustered around the head

table, clamoring for the Villas' attention, but they seemed more interested in the quiet conversation they

were sharing with each other.

It was only when Mrs. Lippincott strode over to their table that Anthony disengaged himself from Catherine

and stood, shaking Marion's hand vigorously.

She pointed to the podium on the slightly elevated, temporary stage that had been assembled at the far end

of the room. Anthony Villa nodded his approval and shook her hand again.

Savannah smiled to herself. Yes, she could definitely take some lessons on People Management and Manipulation

from the formidable Mrs. Lippincott. Even the seemingly shy Anthony Villa was eager to do her bidding.

As

an army of waiters and waitresses dressed in stiffly

kJ it Urn/1r r...0 01

starched black-and-white uniforms invaded the room, Savannah decided to take her leave. She hadn't been invited to join the guests for dinner, so what was the point of tormenting herself? She'd score something in the kitchen after hours. . . and what the heck, she'd get a double portion of dessert to reward herself for delayed

gratification.

When Savannah reached the top of the guesthouse

stairs and looked down the hallway, she was surprised the difference thirty minutes could make. Half an hour ago, on her last round, the floor had been teeming with tittering teenagers, racing up and down the corridor in all stages of dress and undress, rollers in their hair, curling irons in their hands.

Now the hall was empty--its silence almost eerie.

She strolled along the passageway, her pumps making no sound as she stepped on the carpet that was

nearly as plush as that of the tasting room, only this rug bore a classic pattern--a green trellis on a background of antique gold with grape leaves bordering both edges.

The walls were covered with the same wainscoting of

old oak, while the upper half was stucco-textured in old-world mission style. The ceilings here were also open-beamed, and at the end of the hail was a large window with leaded gla.s.s. An outside light cast its glow through the golden glass, giving the hallway a pleasant, Midas-touch ambience.

Savannah was more than halfway down the hall when

she noticed that one of the doors-2C--was ajar. She heard voices, females voices, coming from within the

TO0111.

Normally she wouldn't have bothered eavesdrop

t3Z Li.11. MC/Cellar

ping on what was probably a frivolous conversation. But something in the tone--an almost ominous, very serious note to the voices--caught her attention. Silently, she took a few steps closer and listened.

"Don't worry about it," one of the girls said. "Now I wish I'd never even told you about it."

"Well, you did tell me, and I am worried. I'm really worried. And if you were half as smart as you think you are, you'd be worried, too."

Savannah heard rustling in the room and got ready

to step away from the door if necessary, but the girls continued talking.

"I told you, I thought about it for a long time. It's gonna work out just the way I planned. Everything's set, you'll see."

"I don't know. I've got a bad feeling about this. I think you should tell your folks. That's what I'd do if I were you."

"My folks! You've gotta be kidding. They're the last people I want to know about this. . at least until it's all settled. Then I'll tell them, and they'll be cool about it."

"And if they aren't?"

"They won't have anything to say about it, will they?" "You'd better be careful. You could get hurt." "Naw, if anybody gets hurt, it isn't going to be me.

Guaranteed."

Again Savannah heard activity inside the room. "Come on," one of the girls said. "We've gotta get downstairs before Mrs. Lippincott misses us."

"You go ahead. I've got one more quick phone call to make, then I'll be down."

Savannah had time to take a couple of steps backward

before the girl emerged from the room and

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closed the door behind her. She was lovely, petite, with glossy black hair cascading in waves to her waist. She had big, golden-brown eyes that grew even wider when she saw Savannah standing there.

"Oh," she said. "Who. . . who are you?"

"My name is Savannah Reid. I'm working Security for the pageant. Just making my rounds. And you are. . . ?"

"Francie Gorton. I'm one of the contestants."

"Nice to meet you, Francie. Is everything all right?" The girl gave a furtive glance at the closed door. "An,

yeah. . . I. . . everything's fine, I guess."

Savannah put on her best soft, big-sister face. "You don't sound too sure to me."

"Yes, I'm sure. But I have to get down to dinner now. I'm late."

The girl started to pass Savannah in the hallway, but Savannah stepped in front of her, reached out, and laid her hand on her shoulder. "Is there anything I can do? If there's a problem, maybe I can help."

Francie glanced at the door again, and for a second Savannah thought she might be about to open up and

confide in her. She obviously needed to; her eyes were full of fear, and she was visibly shaking.

"No, really. You can't help. I mean.. . . it's not my thing."

Savannah pointed to the closed door. "Is it her thing? Does your friend need my help?"

The girl shook her head, and for a moment, sadness replaced the fear in her eyes. "No, Barbie knows everything. If you don't believe that, just ask her. She never needs anybody's help. Now, if you'll excuse me, I really have to go downstairs."

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Savannah released her. "Yes, of course you do. If you :flange your mind, and you want someone to talk to, I'll 3e around. Okay?"

"Yes, thank you very much. You're nice. . . for a 3ecurity person. No offense."

Savannah smiled. "Gee, thanks. I'll take that as high 3raise. Have a nice dinner, and good luck with the

3ageant."

As Savannah watched her hurry away, she could hear he low murmur of the other girl's voice on the oppoate

side of the door. When she had first heard the roice, she'd thought she recognized it Barbie Mathews, all right. That level of conceit and cockiness was listinctive, even in an adolescent.

She couldn't understand any of the specific words

he girl was saying, but she sounded angry, even furious. So, what else was new with Barbie Matthews? For a moment Savannah considered knocking on

he door and questioning the kid. But instinctively she mew that Ms. Barbie would be far less cooperative than uncooperative girlfriend had been, so it was pointess.

She walked away, easing the queasy feeling in her tomach by promising herself to keep a dose eye on

larbie Matthews for the rest of the pageant.

The problem was: She just wasn't sure exactly what to vatch for.

Was she protecting Barbie from someone who might

rant to hurt her? Or was she protecting someone in mrticular--or everyone at the pageant--from the tern)eramental Ms. Matthews?

B

the time Savannah returned to the gallery she

found it virtually empty, except for a few Villa Rosa staff members who were scurrying through, their arms laden with everything from trays of dishes, to flower arrangements and stacks of linens.