Wicked Craving (4 page)

“I know this is a difficult question,” Savannah said, “but, to your knowledge, was anyone upset with your wife? Did she have any enemies that might wish her harm?”

He hesitated and glanced away, looking through the house to the rear windows and beyond that, to the cliff edge. “No, not really. Maria had a temper and spoke her mind, and that didn't exactly endear her to some people. But nobody hated her enough to do something like that.”

“I beg to differ with you,” Dirk said, watching the man closely, studying every nuance of the doctor's facial expression, tone of voice, and body language. “It takes a lot of hate to push somebody off a cliff to their death.”

Dr. Wellman stared at Dirk for a long moment, then at Savannah, his eyes searching theirs. And Savannah could feel a deep, gut-shaking fear radiating out of him.

“And that's what you think happened?” he asked.

Savannah nodded. “Yes. I'm sorry.”

“It couldn't have been an accident?”

“We don't think so.”

Savannah waited for him to adjust to the news before she asked, “Dr. Wellman, your wife was dressed beautifully for the party. Can you tell me if she was wearing any jewelry?”

“Yes! She was wearing a sapphire and diamond necklace and earrings that she'd rented from a jewelry shop on Rodeo Drive. Don't tell me they're gone!”

“I'm afraid so.”

“And her wedding ring? She had a beautiful princess cut stone. I paid a fortune for it.”

Savannah shook her head. “I'm sorry, but she wasn't wearing any jewelry at all.”

“Oh, man, that store's going to come after me for that stuff. I can't afford to pay for it. You'd better find it!”

“We'll do what we can,” Dirk told him. “I'll inform all the local pawn shops and jewelry stores to be on the lookout for it.”

Savannah noted that Wellman seemed even more perturbed by the loss of the jewels than by the loss of his wife. But then, you could never really tell. Some people displayed their emotions quite differently from others.

A lengthy, tense silence was broken by the jingling of a merry tune, coming from the vicinity of the front of Wellman's slacks. He stiffened, started to reach into his pocket, then stopped himself.

Again, he wouldn't meet their eyes but fixated on the ocean view, as he shifted from one foot to the other.

The song became louder and louder.

“You can get that if you want,” Dirk said with a grin that was half a challenge. “We don't mind waiting.”

“It's okay,” Wellman snapped.

Discreetly, Savannah glanced down at her watch and noted the time: 5:46
P.M
.

No sooner had the phone stopped ringing than it started again, the same ringtone.

“Somebody really wants to talk to you,” Dirk said. “You might want to pick it up. Could be important.”

This time Wellman dug his hand into his pocket and took out the phone. But instead of answering it, he turned it off.

“I'm a doctor,” he said, clearly annoyed and more than a little nervous. “I get nuisance calls all the time.”

“And what sort of doctor are you?” Savannah asked. Of course, she knew, but she was hoping to irritate him further.

One of her favorite theories was that an irritated person was more likely to show you who they really were. So, long ago, she had decided to irritate people as quickly and as often as possible.

As Granny had frequently told her: “You don't really know a person till you've had 'em mad at ya.”

And the doctor was getting madder by the second. His already ruddy face flushed a few shades brighter. She could have sworn his mustache turned a bit redder. “I'm surprised you don't know who I am,” he said, lifting his shoulders and puffing out his chest. “I've been on several national talk shows lately.”

Savannah shrugged. “Sorry. I don't watch a lot of daytime television. What's your specialty?”

He gave her a pointed and lingering look up and down her figure. Then, in a voice thick with contempt, he said, “I specialize in weight loss.”

Giving him a bright smile, she quickly replied, “Ah, no wonder you can afford a house like this. The world's just full of folks who worry themselves sick over nonsense like that.”

“But apparently not
all
people,” he replied, again looking her up and down.

She continued to give him a broad, wooden smile. But her blue eyes had a cold fire in them. “Some of us are just lucky that way, I suppose.”

“Lucky?”

“Yes. Lucky. Self love is a rare commodity in this day and age. What with everybody telling us we're not worth a tinker's dam unless we're all a certain size, shape, or color.”

“How about you?” Dirk said, stepping a little closer to Wellman. “You got any personal enemies who'd wish you harm? Anybody who might hurt your wife to get even with you?”

“Yes.”

Savannah's eyebrows rose a notch. An investigator seldom got an affirmative to that question. Most people who had true honest-to-goodness enemies—not just your average pissed off relatives, friends, and neighbors—had done something to deserve them. And they usually didn't welcome the chance to talk about it.

“I have one guy in particular who's been threatening me lately,” he continued.

“And who is that?” Dirk got out his own notebook and started to scribble in it.

“His name is Terry Somers. He was one of my patients.”

“He bought some of your CDs online, or he actually came into your office?” Savannah asked.

Wellman smiled…an unpleasant little smirk. “Ah, so you
do
know who I am.”

Savannah returned the smile with an equal amount of unpleasantness. “Was he a patient or a customer?”

“I treated him in my office.”

“Did he lose a hundred pounds instantly after the first visit?”

“I was treating him for a gambling problem. Addiction comes in all forms, you know.”

“That's so true. Some people are genuinely addicted to all sorts of stuff. And they suffer because of it. I feel for them something awful.” She stopped smiling. “Then there are some others who call their bad habits ‘addictions' so that people won't expect them to get rid of them.”

“And which are you?” the doctor asked, his jaw clenching. “Are you addicted to food, or is overeating simply one of your bad habits?”

“Neither. I just like food. And, apparently, it likes me, too, or it wouldn't stick around like it does.” She tossed her head, stuck out her right hip in a Mae West pose, and gave it a pat.

“So, Doctor,” Dirk said, a little too eagerly, “tell me more about this Somers. What's he got against you?”

“Well, I'm really not supposed to tell you…doctor-patient confidentiality and all that…”

“Ah, spill it,” Savannah said. “It's not like the people watching your infomercials are gonna lose faith in your integrity and stop buying your CDs or whatever.”

Wellman's eyes flashed with anger, but he turned to Dirk and said, “Terry Somers is a degenerate gambler who's in debt to some really bad guys. He came to see me for treatment, but had a slip a week later and lost a fortune in a high-stakes poker game. He didn't pay, they broke his leg, and he's blaming
me
for it!”

Savannah gave a little half-gasp. “How
dare
him!”

“Yeah, well, you may think it's funny, but when somebody's telling you that he's going to kill you because you ruined his life, it's pretty scary stuff.”

“And did Somers actually threaten to kill you?” Dirk asked. “Did he use those words?”

“No, he was a little more graphic. Told me he'd blow my brains out of my head and stomp on them. That paints quite a picture…made a bit of an impression on me.”

Dirk scribbled away. “When did he say that?”

“Last Wednesday.”

“Where?”

“In my office…in front of my receptionist and three other patients who were sitting in my waiting room.”

“And your receptionist's name is…?”

“Um…her name is Roxanne Rosen.”

“And the names of those other three patients?”

“I can't tell you. You know, doctor-patient—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dirk closed his book and tucked it back into his pocket. “Just so you know…the Crime Scene Unit is processing your wife's body, the beach, your yard, and they may even want to do some work here inside the house.”

“Inside my house? But why? She died out there and—”

“I'm asking you to be as cooperative as possible, Dr. Wellman,” Dirk replied.

Savannah could tell he was trying not to sound irked. But Dirk would never win an Oscar…unless it was for playing the role of a curmudgeon.

She said, “All we want is to find out what happened to your wife and who's responsible. I'm sure that's what you want, too.”

“Yeah, well, you check out Terry Somers…find out where he was last night…and then you'll have her killer.”

Wellman sounded so sure that Savannah nearly believed him. Nearly, but not completely.

As she and Dirk ended the interview, said good-bye to Wellman, and left the house, she decided that—degenerate, broken-legged gambler or not—the doctor was still her number one suspect. At least for the moment.

As they walked to their cars, she glanced down at her watch. “I have to go get Granny from the airport,” she told him. “Her plane was late, but even at that, I have to allow for Santa Monica traffic.”

“Yeah, sure. Get going. You can't keep my favorite lady waiting,” he said with a sweet smile that warmed her heart.

Dirk truly loved her grandmother, and Savannah considered that one of his greatest virtues. On a bad day, it was his only virtue.

“I thought
I
was your favorite lady,” she said.

“Nope.” He gave her a slap on the back as he opened her car door and pushed her inside. “But you're a solid runner-up.”

B
y the time Savannah battled the aggressive, harried drivers who navigated the maze that was Los Angeles International Airport, she was cranky. And by the time she fought her way through the frenetic crowds inside the terminal—getting smacked on the knee by a guitar case, wielded by a multi-tattooed, heavily pierced musician, who was running for a plane—she was crankier…and limping.

But the moment she saw her grandmother coming down the hallway toward her, all traces of irritation vanished.

Savannah loved her brothers and sisters, Dirk, Tammy, and her friends, Ryan and John. But she adored Gran.

And the sight of that shining bouffant of silver hair, the bright, colorful muumuu, and big, garish, matching earrings, always lifted her spirits to heaven and back.

She had no qualms about pushing businessmen aside, along with women and children, to get to her favorite person on earth.

Savannah grabbed the carry-on from Granny's hand, slung the strap over her shoulder, and then gathered her grandmother into her arms.

They hugged, laughed, and kissed as tears welled up in both women's eyes.

Savannah savored the warmth of the embrace, breathing in Granny's unique scent, a fragrance Savannah had cherished since childhood. It was a blend of a rose-based perfume, Ivory soap, and talcum powder. And for a little girl who, along with eight younger siblings, had been abandoned by her father and abused by her mother, Granny's sweet fragrance had always represented love, safety, and stability.

“Now, don't go squeezing me too tight, Savannah girl,” Gran said, pulling back slightly to look up into her granddaughter's eyes—deep blue and so like her own. “I ate a big bowl of fruit salad before I got on that plane this morning, and I'll never do that again.”

“What?” Savannah searched her mind but didn't get the reference.

“Let's just say…when you're in your eighties, you shouldn't overdo the roughage when you're gonna be sittin' in close quarters with a bunch of strangers for hours.”

“Ah, gotcha.” Savannah laughed. “I'll roll the Mustang's windows down on the way home.” She put her arm around her grandmother's shoulders and walked her slowly through the terminal, following the
BAGGAGE CLAIM
signs. “How was your flight?”

“I was jammed between two fellas in suits who weren't the least bit interested in making conversation.”

Savannah grinned. She wasn't at all surprised. Gran could talk the hind leg off a donkey, and most airline passengers weren't fascinated by her tips on growing prize-winning roses or her life philosophy.

“Their loss,” Savannah said with heartfelt sincerity.

“They was both messin' with their computers. One was playing solitaire and the other was watchin' a dirty movie. My neck's plum sore from having to turn my head for two hours.”

“Didn't want to miss a minute of it, huh?” Savannah nudged her.

She poked back. “Darn tootin'.”

They walked a little farther.

Savannah cleared her throat. “So…learn any new tricks, watching that movie?”

“Nope. Pretty much same-ol', same-ol'.”

 

“Savannah, sugar, this dinner of yours was well worth the wait. If it was any tastier, I don't think I could stand it,” Granny said as she popped another dumpling into her mouth, closed her eyes, and chewed, savoring the moment.

Looking around her table, Savannah counted her own blessings in the form of family and friends who had become family.

To her right was Dirk—a blessing most of the time. Or, at least, enough of the time for her not to murder him in cold blood and dispose of his body in a landfill.

Next to Dirk was Tammy, the sunlight in Savannah's life, bosom friend, and office assistant who answered her phone and paid her bills—without whom she would have no electricity or running water.

On the other side of the table sat Ryan Stone and his life partner, John Gibson.

Whenever Savannah needed a little something to “make her eyes happy,” she would just look at either of them and bask in their magnificence. Ryan was the epitome of tall, suave, and handsome, with thick dark hair, muscles that showed even through his stylish clothes, and a wicked twinkle in his eyes.

A bit older, but no less gorgeous, John had hair as lush and silver as Gran's, a rich British accent, a debonair mustache, and the manner of a country gentleman. He would have looked perfectly at home riding the moors of Cornwall on a white stallion in a tweed jacket with a brace of hunting hounds.

At the other end of the table was Granny, happy and contented with her lot in life, as always—even more so, considering the chicken, dumplings, gravy, and biscuits.

And making figure eights between Savannah's ankles were Diamante and Cleopatra, purring in anticipation that someone would either drop a bite of something tasty on the floor or maybe even pass some tidbit down to them.

When Savannah's dining room was filled with her favorite people and critters, and their bellies were full of her good Southern cooking, she was a happy gal.

“Pass me that bowl of pickled cucumbers and onions,” she told Dirk, “and help yourself to some more mashed potatoes and cream gravy.”

He handed her the bowl, brimming with its vinegar brine and sliced cucumbers fresh from her garden, but he shook his head slightly when she offered him the gravy boat.

“No, thanks,” he mumbled. “I've had enough.”

“What?” Tammy nearly dropped her celery stick.

Tammy sat at the table with them frequently, but she always brought along her own stash of “real food,” as she called it. She wouldn't be caught dead eating a dumpling or Savannah's chocolate-dipped, peanut butter cheesecake.

Savannah loved her dearly but would never understand her ways. The girl was just…well…strange.

“
You
have had
enough
?” Tammy said, incredulous, staring at Dirk. “You aren't groaning about how miserable you are! You haven't unsnapped your jeans yet! How can you say you've had enough?”

“Just drop it, okay?” Dirk grumbled, avoiding everybody's eyes as he gazed unhappily down at his barely used plate.

“Are you sick?” Savannah said, waving a basket of biscuits under his nose.

“I'm just trying to…you know…watch what I eat these days.”

“Watch what you eat?” Savannah was as bewildered as Tammy. “You still on this diet kick? Since when do you watch what you eat? Watch it disappear off your plate maybe…”

“Leave the man alone,” Granny said, “and if he's foolhardy enough to turn down those biscuits, sail one down the table to me! I ain't bashful.”

The biscuit basket was passed down to Granny, getting lighter and lighter as it made its way from person to person along the way.

Peach preserves and butter followed in its wake.

Soon the conversation drifted toward everyone's favorite topic. And that included Gran.

As she frequently reminded them, being over eighty didn't mean a lady lost her ghoulishness.

“I can't believe Maria Wellman is dead,” Ryan said. “We just saw her the other night at the ball, and she was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”

“Bushy-eyed and bright-tailed would be more like it,” John replied with a grin. “She was a lass in her cups if ever I saw one.”

“Hm-m-m.” Dirk thought that one over. “Wellman told us today that she hadn't drank that much.”

“He let her drive home,” Savannah said. “Probably didn't want you to know that she was DUI.”

Dirk shrugged. “It doesn't matter now. It's not like I'm going to arrest her.”

“Still,” Ryan said, “he has a bit of a reputation to uphold in the community, a medical professional and all.”

“His reputation isn't all that sterling.” John took a sip of his Earl Grey tea. “I met that man a year ago at the playhouse fundraiser, and I thought something was amiss with him then.”

“In what way?” Dirk wanted to know.

“First of all, he was quite evasive about where he received his schooling. I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if his doctorate is in a field completely unrelated to medicine…assuming he has one.”

“Plus,” Ryan said, “his whole schtick is highly suspect, to say the least.”

“Absolutely,” John agreed. “He was chattering away about this spectacular weight loss program of his, telling a group of us about how listening to his CD and engaging in some sort of self-hypnosis could enable one to drop all excess weight in a matter of days.”

“Without following a nutritious diet and strength-training exercise?” Tammy was scandalized.

Savannah sniffed. “The only way to lose a bunch of unwanted, excess weight without starving to death is to get a divorce. And even that takes six months here in California.”

“People worry far too much about a number on a scale,” John said.

Granny nodded, buttering her biscuit. “You'd think that one number was all there was to 'em. There's a gal there in McGill who's got a voice like an angel…fills up the church every Sunday with the pure beauty of it. But boy, she gains a pound, she's miserable. Loses a pound, she's shoutin' ‘glory!' Up and down, all the time.”

“And, lucky for Wellman,” Dirk said, “there are lots of people out there willing to plunk down a couple hundred dollars for a quick fix. You oughta see that joint of his on the beach.”

Savannah nodded. “Beautiful place. Spacious, nicely decorated, chic but comfortable. A gorgeous view.” She sighed and put down her fork, suddenly a little less hungry. “All except for the dead body on the beach.”

“Yeap,” Granny said. “A corpse in front of your house, that'll put a damper on a party ever' last time.”

 

After everyone had finished eating, Savannah and her guests retired to the living room for coffee and Death by Chocolate cake. It took nearly two hours for Granny to get them caught up on McGill gossip. The rural, north Georgia community had surprisingly juicy scandals for such a tiny town.

Granny was in fine form, regaling them with tales of how the mayor had been caught sneaking out the back door of the mortician's house at daybreak, when the undertaker was out of town. The librarian had been accused of dipping into the moneys collected from the annual book drive. And the chief of police had run his cruiser into a tree and totaled it—his second major accident in six months. “Hear tell he had something he shouldn't have in his coffee thermos…somethin' a mite stronger than coffee, if you know what I mean,” Granny had said in a conspiratorial tone that made Savannah stifle a snicker.

But once the tales were told, and the coffee and cake devoured, Savannah noticed that Gran's eyelids were getting a bit heavy.

Ryan and John noticed, too.

Standing and smoothing his cream-colored wool slacks, Ryan smiled at Savannah—causing her pulse rate to go up at least twenty-five percent—and said, “We have to get going. Thank you for a lovely evening, as always.”

John rose and picked up his cashmere sweater from a nearby chair. “Yes, this was positively delightful.” He gave Gran a courtly kiss on the back of her hand. “As always, beautiful lady, it was a pure joy to see you.”

Granny giggled, blushed, and ducked her head. “Ah, stop messin' with my heart, boy. I'm old enough to be your mother.”

He leaned over and gave her a mustache-tickling peck on her cheek. “Perhaps,” he said, his voice velvety, his eyes twinkling, “but you
aren't
my mother.”

“Take him and those blue eyes of his home,” she said to Ryan, “before I forget I'm a lady.”

“Yeah,” Savannah said, “this ain't McGill, Georgia. We've got ourselves moral standards here in Southern California!”

As Savannah was walking them to the front door, Dirk jumped up from his chair and followed close behind.

After she had kissed them both good-bye on the front porch and thanked them for coming, she watched as Dirk walked with them out to their car.

Nosy, as always, she watched and listened closely as he asked Ryan something. And the fact that he glanced her way and then lowered his voice made her all the more curious.

She heard something about “hair” and “ocean,” but beyond that, she drew a blank.

And when he walked back to the house, a half-sheepish look on his face, she knew she had to pry it out of him or burst.

Waving good-bye to Ryan and John as they drove away, she asked, “So, what was all that rigmarole about?”

With exaggerated pseudo-innocence, he said, “What? What are you talking about? I was just asking them something about the case.”

She studied his face by the light of the porch light—the too-wide eyes, the fake half smile, the tight jaw.

“Were not! Don't you lie to me, boy.”

He bristled. “Hey, can't a guy have a little privacy? Do I have to tell you every damned thought I have? You have to hear every word I say?”

“No, just the ones you don't want me to hear, because there's no good reason for you to hide something from me. And that means you're up to no good.” She took a deep breath and fixed him with her best indignant glare. “Now, what was that about?”

He stared at her, breathing hard, leaning forward until they were almost nose-to-nose. “I am
not
going to tell you. It's none of your business.”

He started to walk around her to go back inside the house, but she stepped between him and the door.

“I don't want to hurt you,” she said. “Not with Gran and Tammy here as witnesses. But I will.”

There were a few more moments of tense silence; then he sighed, shoulders slumped—a defeated man. “All right. If you must know…I asked Ryan where he gets his hair cut. And he told me it's a place on Ocean Avenue, down by the marina. There. You happy now?”

“Why would you give a hoot where Ryan gets his hair cut? Like the day's ever gonna dawn that you pay more than ten bucks for a haircut.”