A Body To Die For (7 page)

That always looked bad on camera.

“I’m sure the police will release a statement,” she told the woman, “once the next of kin is notified. Until then, ‘No comment.’”

When the reporter turned from Savannah to Tammy, pushing her microphone under her nose, Savannah brushed it aside and grabbed Tammy by the arm. “She’s not going to have any comment, either,” Savannah said as she propelled Tammy away from the crowd and toward the white van.

“Oh, wow!” Tammy said when she saw the station wagon. “Dr. Liu is here. Dirko’s gonna be in trouble.”

“Yeah, and we don’t want to miss a second of it.”

And by the time they got to the van, the hostilities had already begun.

In her four-inch heels, Dr. Liu was eye to eye with Dirk, her finger in his face. “How many times do I have to tell you that the body is mine, mine! It’s
mine
, damn it, Coulter! You are not to move it, touch it, or even breathe on it until I examine it and release it!”

Savannah cringed and felt a little sorry for Dirk. She knew he was secretly scared to death of Dr. Jennifer Liu.

Everybody was.

The county’s first female chief coroner, Dr. Liu had “aggression” down pat. There was just something strangely intimidating about a woman who spent most of her waking hours dissecting dead bodies while wearing a black leather miniskirt and stilettos.

But Dirk was exhausted, and that brought out the rottweiler in him. He leaned forward and shouted back, “That’s enough! Back off, woman!”

“Whoa,” Tammy whispered. “He’s dead now!”

Savannah held her breath.

So did Dr. Liu. She just stood there, staring at Dirk, breathing hard and seething.

“Before you go jumpin’ headfirst down my throat, screaming at me like that,” he continued, “you oughta find out what’s going on here. The body was out there, facedown, in the middle of that river. You’ve got a news chopper in the sky and an army of reporters blocking the road. What were you going to do…wade out there in your short skirt and your fancy hooker shoes, cut him open, and shove a temperature probe into his liver with everybody looking on?”

Dr. Liu lowered her voice, but her eyes flashed fire when she said, “Watch your tone with me, Coulter.”

“Then you watch yours with me,” he told her. “I’ve been up all friggen night and all I’ve had is one cup of coffee and an apple fritter to keep me going. I’m tired, and I’ve got a full day ahead of me, which includes having to…” he looked around and whispered, “…go tell Clarissa Jardin that somebody blew her husband’s brains out. So, cut me a little slack here, would ya, Doc?”

Savannah watched, amazed, as the anger faded from the coroner’s face. She said nothing for what seemed like a very long time, then she gave him something like an understanding semi-smile. “Go do your notification, Detective,” she said softly, “and get yourself a decent breakfast. Then drop by the morgue and maybe I’ll have something for you by then.”

Dirk nodded. “Thank you, Dr. Jen. I appreciate it.”

They watched as she spoke briefly to the CSU techs, then walked back to the station wagon and got inside, flashing an impressive length of leg as she did so.

The reporters on the scene were quick to get it all on camera…every sensuous move, every inch of well-rounded calf and thigh.

Savannah grinned. Yes, Dr. Liu always provided good film footage.

Its back doors closed, its grim cargo secured, the van left at the same time as the station wagon. Several of the reporters followed close behind.

Something…someone…caught Savannah’s eye.

A young red-haired woman, maybe in her mid-twenties, petite and attractive, was standing in the midst of the reporters, but she didn’t have a camera or a microphone in her hand, and she appeared quite distraught. Crying, she was trying to talk to first one person, then another, reporters, police officers, firemen, and even the CSU techs. And one by one, they dismissed her.

She appeared to be growing more frantic by the moment.

Dirk sidled up to Savannah. “You wanna go with me?” he asked.

“For breakfast?” she replied, keeping her eyes on the redhead.

“Yeah, and for…you know…”

“The notification?” Savannah didn’t even have to ask. Dirk hated notifying victims’ families more than anything in the world—especially when the next of kin was a female. Upset women were something Dirk Coulter just couldn’t handle.

Men, he didn’t mind upsetting. In fact, that was his favorite pastime. Cutting another guy off in traffic worked like a tonic for all that ailed him.

But crying women—that was a different story.

“Yeah, the notification,” he said.

“Gee,” Tammy mumbled under her breath, “lucky Savannah.”

“Oh, shut up, kid,” Dirk snapped.

“Don’t tell her to shut up,” Savannah leaned to the left, to see around Tammy. She was watching the redhead go up to yet another fireman, tug on his coat, and try to talk to him. He, too, ignored her.

“Come on,” Dirk said. “Please? I’ll buy breakfast.”

“Yeah, okay,” Savannah replied, barely hearing him as she watched the increasingly frantic woman.

“What do you want me to do?” Tammy asked. “Am I just supposed to go home and twiddle my thumbs while you two do all the investigating?”

Savannah had just decided to go grab the redhead and find out what was going on with her, when the young woman turned around abruptly and headed through the crowd, back to where a bunch of vehicles were parked along the roadside.

“Follow her,” she told Tammy. “That’s what you can do. Follow that redhead and get her license plate number. And when you get back home, look her up.”

Instantly, Tammy took off running—still barefoot, her espadrilles hanging around her neck, flopping all the way.

Dirk shook his head. “I wish I could get help like that. You tell her to do something, she’s on it. No lip, no hemming and hawing, no lame excuses. She just friggen does it.”

Savannah slapped him on the back as they strolled through the crowd, back toward the Buick. “It’s called ‘leadership quality,’ buddy boy,” she told him. “You have to learn how to inspire the masses.”

“I’ll inspire the masses,” he said with a sniff. “A swift kick to the masses’ asses, that gets ’em movin’.”

“Oh, yeah. A boot to the butt. That’s how to win friends and influence people.”

“Works for me.”

She sighed and shook her head.

Why did she even bother?

“I
t seems like a week ago that we were here,” Dirk told Savannah as they walked through the courtyard of Rancho Rodriguez.

“No kidding,” she replied. “Time drags when you’re working all night instead of snoozing, like nature intended. But it’s nothing that a big ol’ breakfast and a pot of strong coffee won’t fix.”

He brightened instantly. “You’re gonna cook me breakfast when we leave here? Will you make grits and some of those homemade biscuits, too? Your grandma’s peach preserves are great with those—”

“Eh, get over yourself,” she told him. “What do you think this is, your birthday? I was up all night, too, you know. And I’m not even getting paid for it.”

He grumbled, “Sorry,” and she got the distinct impression that he was expressing sorrow over the loss of biscuits and grits, not apologizing.

As they approached Clarissa Jardin’s door, he said, “Now remember. You promised to be good in here.”

“Oh, come on.” She punched the doorbell. “I told you on the way over here that I felt bad about last time. Do you really think I’m going to beat up on a woman during a notification?”

“Yeah, well…I think this sort of woman brings out the worst in you.”

She nodded solemnly. “That’s true. That’s absolutely true.”

The door opened and, again, they were greeted by the maid. Her manner was warm enough when she invited them inside, but she looked tired, maybe a bit worried.

It occurred to Savannah that Maria might be worth interviewing, if she could get some time alone with her, away from her mistress.

“I will tell Señora Jardin you are here,” she said before disappearing through a door to the right.

Savannah looked around the room with its beautiful antiques and thought how much more cheerful the house appeared with golden morning sunbeams streaming through the windows. Though it had been lovely at night, too, the daylight seemed to dispel the ghosts of inhabitants past that she had imagined by the light of the moon.

On a table beside the sofa, Savannah noticed a grouping of photographs in gilded frames. She walked over to the table and picked up a picture of Clarissa and the man they had seen only a short time before, facedown in the river. It was their wedding picture, and even though Savannah had no affection for Clarissa, she had to admit that the woman had been a gorgeous bride. And Bill Jardin had been a handsome man, especially with the light of happiness in his eyes. They had made a stunning couple.

When Savannah recalled the unkind things Clarissa had said about her husband only hours before, she wondered, as she often did, how a once-loving relationship could disintegrate and sink so deeply into a well of bitterness.

“He sure looked better in that picture,” Dirk whispered, leaning over her shoulder.

“Yeah, no kidding. It’s pretty grim, what a bullet to the head and getting dumped in a river can do to—”

She swallowed her words and quickly replaced the photo as Clarissa entered the room. Turning to greet the woman, she couldn’t help noticing that Clarissa looked surprisingly fresh, even chipper, in her bright yellow terry-cloth workout suit. Even her hair and makeup were freshly done.

Well, at least
somebody
slept last night
, Savannah couldn’t help thinking. She was sure that her own lipstick and mascara were long gone and, since her dark curls had a mind of their own even on a “good hair day,” she couldn’t imagine how bad it looked now.

But Clarissa let her know how bad.

With a look that all women know and despise, she quickly scanned Savannah from head to toe, smirked ever so slightly, lifted her nose a notch, and then glanced away.

At that moment, Savannah stopped fighting the thought that had been running through her head since she had left this place last night.

I hope it’s her
, she thought.
I hope to God it’s her, and we get to bust her ass for first-degree murder or
…

Now, Savannah, girl, don’t go wishin’ evil on another. It ain’t the Christian thing to do
, a sweeter, kinder voice whispered in the back of her mind, a voice that sounded a lot like her grandmother’s.
Not even if they got it comin’ to ’em. ’Cause if you do, that curse’ll come back ’round and bite you on the rear end ever’ dadgum time
.

Granny Reid was both kind
and
practical. Bless her heart.

“Mrs. Jardin, we need to speak to you about your husband,” Dirk said.

“Yes, I figured,” Clarissa replied. “More questions, I guess. But first, come in here. I want to show you both something.”

She turned around and walked out of the living room. When they followed, they found themselves in a quaint kitchen. The lemon yellow and cobalt blue tiles glowed in the morning sunlight, and decorative bunches of red chili peppers and dried herbs hung from the beamed ceiling, scenting the air with the aromas of Southwest cooking.

A heavy, rough-hewn table was covered with stacks of T-shirts, sweatshirts, and sports bottles. All had the House of Pain and Gain logo on it, Clarissa’s curvy silhouette with the slogan, “No Pain = No Gain” below.

“This is our new line,” Clarissa said proudly, indicating the piles of merchandise with a game show hostess’ wave. “Don’t you love it?”

They were camouflage fabric with a logo that reminded Savannah of semi-truck drivers’ obnoxious mud-flaps.
What’s to like?
she thought.

“Yeah, nice,” was Dirk’s subdued review.

“Here, have one—on the house.” Clarissa shoved a T-shirt at him. She turned to Savannah. “And for you…” She held out a woman’s shirt with spaghetti straps. Again, she scanned Savannah’s ample figure, top to bottom. With a nasty little, fake-apologetic chuckle, she said, “Oh, sorry. That won’t do for you at all.”

She searched the stack on the table, found what she was looking for, and held it out to Savannah. “Here you go. A man’s extra large. Do you think that would be big enough for you?”

Instantly, Dirk stepped between the two women. He moved so quickly that Savannah barely had time to form the mental image of leading Clarissa Jardin up the steps to the guillotine, fastening her head in the yoke, and releasing the blade.

“Really, Mrs. Jardin,” he said, sounding exasperated. “We don’t have time for this crap.”

“What? What crap?” Clarissa did her best to appear confused.

“You know exactly what I mean,” he snapped. “You should have other things on your mind right now than insulting my partner. You reported your husband missing. Has it even occurred to you that we might be here because there’s been a new development in his case?”

“A new development?” Abruptly, she sank down onto one of the chairs at the table. “No. Maria said you were here to ask me more questions.”

Before either Savannah or Dirk could answer, a door that led from the kitchen to the courtyard opened and a tall, thin, dark-haired man rushed in.

“Clarissa, are you all right? he said, hurrying to her side. He dropped onto his knees next to her chair and grabbed her hands. “I just heard, and I came right over. I’m so, so sorry!”

“What? What are you sorry about?” She snatched her hands out of his. “Theo, what did you hear?”

“Excuse me, sir,” Dirk said in an uncharacteristically soft tone of voice. “I’m Detective Dirk Coulter, from the SCPD. My partner and me, we just got here a few minutes ago. We came to talk to Mrs. Jardin about…her husband,” he added with emphasis.

Fortunately, the guy on his knees understood Dirk’s implication. He leaped to his feet, his fair complexion turning a pronounced shade of red.

“Oh, uh…right. I’m sorry,” he said. “I was watching TV and they came on with this, well…I…”

“What the hell is going on here?” Clarissa said, standing up. “Somebody had better tell me right now!”

Savannah couldn’t help feeling a rush of sympathy for the woman. Clarissa’s cockiness had disappeared, and she looked genuinely frightened. And although Savannah had been spared the personal experience of being notified of a loved one’s homicide, she believed it had to be the worst moment in someone’s lifetime.

If, indeed, Clarissa Jardin was innocent and ignorant of her husband’s murder, her nightmare was just beginning.

Savannah stepped forward and placed her hand on Clarissa’s shoulder. “Please, Mrs. Jardin, sit down,” she told her. When Clarissa resisted, Savannah repeated, “Please,” and gently nudged her toward the chair.

Once she was seated, Savannah sat on a chair next to her and turned to face her. “Clarissa,” she said, “there’s just no easy way to tell you this.”

Clarissa began to shake her head. “No,” she whispered. “Don’t tell me. Don’t say it. I don’t want to hear that he’s…”

“His car was found before dawn, abandoned on the side of the road,” Savannah told her.

Ever so slightly, Clarissa brightened. “His car? Oh. It was just his car that you found?”

“There was evidence inside the car…” Savannah continued. “…evidence that leads us to believe that your husband was the victim of foul play.”

“Foul play? Victim? What do you mean ‘he
was
?’”

“The area around his car was searched. And at daybreak, we found his body—”

“His body?” Clarissa gasped, then started to cry. “His body? Are you telling me Bill is gone? He’s dead?”

Savannah nodded. “We’re pretty sure. He still had his identification on him. He was dressed the way you said he was, and…well…we saw your pictures there in the living room.”

Dirk cleared his throat. “Yes, ma’am, it’s him. I mean, you’ll have to identify his bo…I mean…the remains, but we’re sure.”

“No, I can’t!” Clarissa buried her head on her arms on the table and began to sob into her stacks of T-shirts. “I can’t look at him! I don’t want to remember him that way!”

“I’ll do it,” the dark-haired man said. “Don’t worry, Clarissa. I’ll take care of that. And everything else. Don’t you worry about anything.”

“And just who are you?” Dirk asked him, sounding a bit irritated.

“I’m Theodore Gibby, a close friend of the family,” he snapped back.

“He’s my
manager
,” Clarissa said, shooting Theodore a look that Savannah would not have classified as warm or even particularly friendly.

Dirk looked uneasy as he weighed his decision. “Well,” he said, “the identification is usually done by a family member.”

But Clarissa had begun to cry into her T-shirts again.

Dirk turned to Savannah, a perfectly miserable look on his face. She knew he would rather be wrestling a naked, dirty, sweaty perp than dealing with a weeping female.

Savannah rose to the occasion, thinking:
Some things never change
.

She said to Theodore, “How well did you know Mr. Jardin?”

“
Very
well,” was his reply. “He’s my best friend. We’ve played golf together at least once a week for years. That’s how I met Clarissa.”

He reached down and patted her on the back.

She shrugged his hand away. Rising from her chair, she wiped her hands across her eyes. “I’m feeling sick. I’m going to go lie down for a while,” she said. “And as far as the identification…” She waved a hand in Theodore’s direction. “…Theo, you take care of it. You go
manage
. God knows, that’s what you do best.”

Turning abruptly, she left the room, disappearing through the door that led to the living room. Apparently, the bedrooms were on the other end of the house.

Dirk turned to Theodore Gibby. “Is there someone else you can think of who would qualify as next of kin to this guy? No offense, but I’d rather have a family member.”

“Not that I can think of,” Theodore told him. “They don’t have any relatives living around here that I know of.”

“Then it looks like you’re it, buddy,” Dirk said. “Do you know where the county morgue is?”

Theodore nodded. “A block from the police station, by the pier. Shall I meet you there?”

“No, you go on ahead. I’ve got another stop to make first. I’ll call and let ’em know you’re on your way.”

Savannah nodded toward the door. “Is she going to be okay?” she asked Theodore.

“Clarissa? Sure,” he said. “You don’t have to worry about her. She’s a survivor, that one—lands on her feet every time.”

“Somehow I knew that,” Savannah replied.

“Let’s go,” Dirk told her. “We’ve gotta get across town and do that interview right away.” He glanced at his watch, shook his head, and sighed. “We’re way late as it is.”

Theodore Gibby walked out with them, through the courtyard and to his own car, which was parked beside the Buick.

As they watched him drive away in his black Porsche, Dirk flipped open his cell phone and called the county morgue. “Yeah, Coulter here. You’ve got a guy named Theodore Gibby on his way there to identify Jardin.” He listened for a moment, then shook his head. “No. You don’t have to clean him up that much. This guy’s a golfing buddy. The wife wouldn’t come.”

Having said good-bye, he shoved the phone into his pocket and turned to Savannah. “There,” he said. “That’s done.”

She grinned. “So, exactly who do you reckon you’ll be interviewing…way across town? A waffle? A stack of pancakes? Or a Manly Man’s breakfast at Penny’s Café?”

He flexed a biceps for her. “I’m feeling particularly masculine today. A Manly Man’s Big Meat Combo Breakfast it is.”

Once they were in the car and he had the engine started, she saw him pass his hand across his eyes and shake his head, trying to stay alert.

Feeling masculine, my butt
, she thought. She could feel his fatigue.

“We’re getting too old for these all-nighters,” she said.

“Speak for yourself,” he replied. “I was too old for this crap when I was twenty-five. Old’s got nothin’ to do with it.”

An enormous breakfast of sausages, bacon, buttermilk pancakes, and sunny-side-up eggs improved Dirk’s mood a smidgen, but it put a big smile on Savannah’s—mostly because he had paid the tab. By the time they had walked out of Penny’s Café with nearly a pot of Pen’s famous, black-as-Mississippi-mud coffee surging through their bloodstreams, they were ready to take on the world, slay fire-breathing dragons, deliver marauding miscreants into the hands of Lady Justice.