A Body To Die For (11 page)

S
avannah and Dirk had just been admitted at the Rancho Rodriguez gate and were driving down the gravel road toward the fortified hacienda when Dirk received a call from the police station on his cell phone.

“Oh, yeah?” Dirk said when he heard the message on the other end. “Both of them? Okay.”

Savannah couldn’t help cringing slightly when he hung up without a “thanks” or “good-bye.” No wonder he was so dearly beloved by his fellow peacekeepers.

“Bill Jardin had a carry permit,” he told her, “for a Cobra two-shot .22 derringer.”

“Really? Hm-m-m…”

“And so does she.”

Savannah mentally slapped herself for the little happy dance she was doing in her head. How sick was it to hope that a woman was a murderer, just because she was a snippy, insulting, bitch on wheels?

Bad Savannah
, she told herself.
Ba-a-ad Savannah
.

“You’re really hoping she did it, aren’t you?” Dirk said.

“What?” She jerked herself out of her fantasy that featured Clarissa in a bright orange jumpsuit, standing in the cafeteria line with her lunch tray, waiting for her portion of prison slop. And, of course, Clarissa had gained sixty-plus pounds from the high-carb penitentiary menu.

“You’re really hoping that Clarissa killed her old man so that you can nail her, get back at her for the rotten things she’s said to you.”

“And millions of other people.”

“Yes,” he said softly, “and millions of others.”

Savannah thought it over as the adobe mansion came into view around the bend—an estate bought with money made by engendering self-hatred in the minds and hearts of countless people.

“I’d be a pretty rotten person if that were true,” she said. “I mean…to wish someone was a killer just because they try to make you feel bad about yourself. How lousy and petty is that?”

Dirk chuckled and gave her a quick, sweet smile. “I’d say you’re human. Hell, when she handed you that T-shirt that was too big for Kenny Bates, I thought you’d draw your Beretta and shoot her dead right then and there. As far as I’m concerned, you get major points for restraint.”

She laughed. “Thanks.”

He pulled up to the wall near the bell gate and parked between a pickup truck laden with gardening tools, and an ancient, maroon Volvo station wagon. As he cut the engine, he said, “Let me tell you something else, while we’re at it. It’s a little secret about guys.”

“O-o-okay,” she said, not expecting great gems of wisdom to tumble from his lips, but on the other hand, why not listen to some inside information from the opposing team?

“All that business about how a woman looks, whether she’s got big boobs, or a round ass, or long legs, or a flat stomach…sure, guys notice that stuff. It’s what gets our attention. But after the first two or three minutes, most of us get past that. And when it comes right down to it, we’d rather spend time with a nice woman who likes us, who thinks we’re decent and well-meaning. A gal who doesn’t act like we’re stupid or up to no good.”

“Even when you
are
up to no good?”

“Especially then. Being given the benefit of the doubt is a very sexy thing.”

Savannah thought of Clarissa Jardin’s promo poster. “Even sexier than a sleek, hard body?”

“That crap’s overrated. Call me old-fashioned, but I like my women soft.”

She smiled at him. “I love you.”

He grinned back. “All women do. Just ask that chick at the station, Kimeeka. She’s got it bad for me.”

“So I hear.”

As they got out of the car and passed through the bell gate, Savannah could hear Clarissa’s voice just inside the wall. She seemed to be arguing with someone.

But when they entered the courtyard, they realized it wasn’t an argument, because Clarissa was the only one talking. She was addressing a fellow in dirty work clothes, a straw hat on his head, and a rake in his hand.

“If you want to keep working for me,” she was telling him, “you’d better not ever let anything like that happen again. When I say I want purple asters, I mean
purple
, not
blue
. Are you people color-blind, deaf, or just plain stupid?”

Dirk nudged Savannah with his elbow and whispered, “See, not sexy.”

Savannah could understand his point all too clearly. Clarissa’s yellow halter top and tight terry-cloth shorts might have revealed her toned, tanned body, but the harsh, critical expression on her face said so much more.

The worker with the rake stared down at the freshly planted flowers that, to Savannah, looked more purple than blue. He mumbled something that sounded like an apology under his breath, but his eyes smoldered beneath the brim of his hat.

Savannah wondered if Clarissa had any idea how many enemies she made in the course of a day. Or if she cared.

Did she know how devastating an act of retaliation could be from someone who had been so deeply insulted?

Having a husband in the morgue with a bullet hole in his head might have been a clue.

When Clarissa saw Savannah and Dirk walking toward her, the already irritated look on her face turned even angrier. “You two? Again?” she said, leaving the gardener to his asters of dubious color. “Who let you in?”

Savannah saw Dirk open his mouth, then close it, thinking fast. She knew he was trying to avoid getting the maid in trouble for buzzing them in. Why should the gentle Maria suffer the same scolding as the gardener or worse?

As usual, when Dirk was asked an incriminating question, he skirted the issue by asking one of his own. “Do you own a gun, Ms. Jardin?”

So much for dillydallying and pleasantries
, Savannah thought. She had to admit, his style was improving.

“I do,” Clarissa replied, putting her hands on her hips. “And I have a license for it, too.”

“As a matter of fact,” Dirk said, “you have a carry permit. You and your husband both.”

“Well, if you knew that, why did you ask me?”

Savannah gave her a smile that wasn’t particularly warm. “Oh, Sergeant Coulter often asks questions that he knows the answer to. That’s what makes a conversation with him so all-fired fascinating.”

Dirk motioned toward the house. “Let’s go inside. I have a few other questions to ask you.”

Reluctantly, Clarissa led them into the house. This time, Savannah noticed that as Dirk walked along behind Clarissa and her yellow short shorts, he didn’t even appear to be aware that her butt was society’s definition of perfection. And even though she had a pretty wicked sashay to her walk, he didn’t give her hindquarters a second look.

Maybe there was something to that business of guys only noticing for the first few minutes, Savannah thought. And maybe ol’ Dirk was capable of spitting out the occasional gem of wisdom, after all. She’d have to pay more attention to what he said in the future.

Nah
, she decided.
One diamond in twenty years…hardly worth the hassle
.

Once they were inside the house, Clarissa turned on them, and without the previous courtesies of offering seats and refreshments, she demanded to know: “Why are you here, really? Do you have anything new on my husband’s case? Have you figured out who killed him yet?”

“It’s a bit early,” Dirk replied. “These things take time.”

“I watch television, all those cops and forensics shows,” she snapped back. “I know that you have to catch whoever does it in the first forty-eight hours or else you never will.”

“That’s television,” Savannah told her. “Sometimes it actually takes us forty-eight hours and ten minutes to nail the bad guy.”

“Don’t you get smart with me!” Clarissa shouted. “You don’t know who you’re talking to! Nobody talks to me like that!”

“Maybe more people should,” Savannah replied quietly, evenly.

Clarissa turned to Dirk. “Get her out of here. I’m a grieving widow, for God’s sake. I demand to be treated with some respect and this, this…” Her eyes ran up and down Savannah’s figure, and it was obvious she was considering whether or not to dare a weight-related insult.

Dirk stepped forward, once again interjecting himself between the two women. “Ms. Jardin,” he said, sounding exhausted and exasperated, “do you want to help us catch the person, or persons, who killed your husband? Or do you want to waste our time by trying to impress us with how important you are? It’s your choice. Make it. Now.”

Clarissa glared at Savannah for a long time, then said, “I don’t like her. I don’t want her coming around here with you any more.”

Savannah answered for Dirk, “If you don’t want me in your home, I won’t come here again,” she told her. “I’ll respect your wishes. I’m only here as a favor to Sergeant Coulter, to help him solve your case. But before you decide that for sure, I want you to know that I’m a pretty damned good investigator, if I do say so myself.”

Clarissa said nothing.

“She is.” Dirk nodded vigorously. “She really is.”

Savannah continued, “And if you don’t like me, believe you me, I can live with that, because I’m not particularly fond of you either. But we don’t have to like each other for us to work together. And if you work with me, and with Sergeant Coulter here, we might be able to get some justice for your husband. And I figure that’s what a grieving widow would want more than anything else right now…that and finding out what happened to her husband in his final moments on this earth.”

To Savannah’s surprise, Clarissa’s eyes welled up with tears. She walked over to the Victorian fainting couch and sat down. Putting her hands over her face, she began to cry.

Savannah reached into her purse and pulled out a couple of tissues. She walked over to the couch and offered them to Clarissa.

Surprised, Clarissa stared up at Savannah for a long moment, then took the tissues and wiped her face.

“I really am sorry for your loss,” Savannah told her. “I wish this awful thing hadn’t happened to your husband and to you. I wish we could just make it all go away, but we can’t. All we can do is find out the truth about what happened and hope that’ll give your heart some peace.”

Clarissa whispered a halfhearted, “Thank you,” and blew her nose.

“About the gun…” Dirk sat down on a chair near the couch, “the one you have a permit for…”

“It’s in my purse,” she said.

Dirk cleared his throat. “I’m going to have to see it.”

“Ma-a-ari-i-ia!” she screamed.

Both Savannah and Dirk jumped.

In an instant the maid appeared, looking nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. “Yes, Señora?”

“Get my purse for me.”

“Sí, Señora.”

The maid hurried across the living room to an armoire that was a mere six feet from where Clarissa was sitting. She yanked the mirrored door open and retrieved a purse from an inside shelf.

As she handed it to her mistress, Savannah recognized the bag as a designer purse that cost more than Savannah had paid for her ’65 Mustang—when it was new.

Maria left the room as quickly as she’d appeared.

Clarissa reached inside the purse and pulled out a derringer with a stainless finish and what Savannah guessed was a two-inch-long barrel.

With carelessness born of naïveté about firearms and their potential for destruction, she waved the weapon around. “Here it is,” she said. “Bill gave it to me for protection. You never know, with all the crazies in the world. And some people take my message about fitness personally. Some actually hate me. I’ve received death threats.”

Imagine that
, Savannah thought as she reached out and took the weapon from Clarissa’s hand.

Few things made her more nervous than a firearm in an untrained hand.

Pointing the gun away from all living beings in the room, Savannah lifted the weapon to her eye and sighted down the barrel.

At least, that’s what she was pretending to do. She was actually taking the opportunity to smell the weapon and determine if it had been recently fired.

While it might be a different caliber than the shell casing in the car, it never hurt to look…and smell.

One quick glance at Dirk told her that he knew what she was doing. He gave her a discreet questioning look. She shook her head just enough to send him a silent “no.”

Removing the two bullets from the pistol, she said, “So, you had her all loaded and ready to go.”

“No point in carrying an empty gun,” Clarissa answered matter-of-factly.

“That’s true,” Savannah replied, thinking of the Beretta in her shoulder holster with its full clip.

Handing the weapon and bullets to Dirk, Savannah sat down in a chair near Clarissa and asked her, “Do you think you could actually use that thing on another human being?”

Clarissa looked her square in the eye and said, “If I had to. To save my life or the life of an innocent person, you betcha.”

Savannah returned her look and for just a moment, the two women bonded.

“Some fat-ass guy grabs me, tries to rape me, I’d blow him away,” Clarissa added.

The bonding moment ended abruptly.

“Interesting how you assume the rapist would be fat,” Savannah said, “I’ve known quite a few scrawny-assed rapists in my day.”

“Ms. Jardin, I hate to have to even mention this,” Dirk interjected, “but when we were here before, you mentioned that your husband was a gambler. What sort of gambling did he do?”

“Bill would bet on which drop of rain would reach the bottom of a window first,” she said. “He loved it all. Private high-stakes poker games, the ponies, football, baseball, you name it. He even bet on dogfights, you know, those awful pit bull fights where they watch the dogs tear each other apart. I kicked him out of the house for a week when I found out about that.”

“Yes, I can imagine,” Savannah said, her skin crawling at the idea of those horrible blood sports.

“And do you have any idea how he placed those bets?” Dirk asked.

“Yeah, with a bookie named Pinky. He called here all the time, threatening Bill to pay his debts. In fact, Bill was supposed to meet with a district attorney named Walter Wilcox next week about testifying in some murder trial.”

Savannah had to mentally will her jaw not to hit the floor. “Oh, really,” she said. “This guy, Pinky, is going to be tried for murder?”