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Authors: G. A. McKevett

Tags: #Mystery

Killer Calories (22 page)

BOOK: Killer Calories
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CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
S
avannah stood outside Room 4E and allowed the feelings of sympathy to wash over her. The emotions quickly turned to liquid and clouded her vision of Phoebe sitting on the edge of her brother's hospital bed, stroking his forehead and weeping softly. As in the garden, Phoebe's hair spilled, unbound, over her shoulders in thick, silver waves. As always, she wore a bright floral-print dress.
But, unlike the dress, the wearer was far from festive.
Savannah knew exactly how Phoebe felt. A few years ago, her own younger brother, Macon, had taken a headfirst tumble off his motorcycle and had ended up in the hospital with a ruptured spleen. And, like any good big sister, Savannah had sat on the side of
his
bed and stroked
his
forehead ... and, of course, she had wept, too. It was part of the Big-Sister job description.
She knocked softly on the open door. Phoebe jumped, startled, then nodded a curt acknowledgment.
“May I come in?” Savannah asked.
“Ah ... yes, I suppose so.”
Taking note of the fact that Phoebe didn't seem overjoyed to see her, Savannah decided to make her visit short and sweet. Well, at least short. Ford didn't look so good ... certainly not prepared to receive guests.
He was lying still, eyes open and staring at his sister. The right side of his face drooped like a tragedy mask. The hand Phoebe was holding lay limp and unresponsive in hers.
Savannah thought of the urbane gentleman she had met in the rose garden and wished there were no such things as debilitating strokes that robbed people of their dignity.
“I heard you were here,” she said, speaking directly to Ford, though she wasn't sure he understood her. “I wanted to drop by just for a moment and wish you well.”
He turned from his sister and fixed his pale blue eyes on her. In spite of the paralytic disfiguration, he seemed moderately alert and aware.
“He can't talk,” Phoebe said with a sniff. Savannah reached for a box of tissues on the nightstand and set it on the bed beside her. “And he can't use his right side at all.”
“But your condition may well improve,” Savannah said, speaking directly to Ford. If she were ever unfortunate enough to be in a similar situation, she hoped people wouldn't speak about her as though she weren't even in the room.
“But what if it doesn't? What if he winds up a vegetable for the rest of his life?” Phoebe wailed. Savannah considered the wisdom of reaching over and slapping some sense into her. Didn't she have any conception of how frightened her brother was already? She didn't need to add to it by having hysterics.
“Physical therapy is extremely helpful,” Savannah said. “I've seen people recuperate from strokes worse than this.”
She could have sworn that Ford silently blessed her with his eyes. Yes, he definitely looked grateful.
He opened his mouth and mumbled a few syllables that were severely garbled and unintelligible.
“I think you're upsetting him,” Phoebe said. “Maybe you had better leave.”
“Do you want me to leave, Mr. Chesterfield?”
He shook his head “no.” The movement was feeble, but definite.
“It's almost as though he wants to speak to me,” Savannah said.
This time the head nodded vigorously.
Savannah took a step closer to the bed. “Is there something you need to tell me, Mr. Chesterfield?”
Again he nodded. This time he lifted his left hand and made scrawling movements in the air.
“Writing,” Savannah said, thinking aloud. “He wants to write something to me.”
“You're getting him all upset,” Phoebe protested. And Savannah had to agree; she was right. Ford Chesterfield was obviously agitated. And for someone who had just suffered a stroke, that couldn't be a good idea.
Yet, it seemed so important to him that he communicate with her.
“Maybe if we get a pen and paper,” she suggested.
But he shook his head again. No, that wasn't what he wanted.
More scrawling in the air. Then he pointed emphatically to himself.
“You want to write something?” Savannah asked, trying to understand. He jabbed a finger in her direction. “You want
me
to write something for you?”
No, that still wasn't it.
Savannah's frustration barometer was rising by the moment.
One more time, he pointed to himself, wrote with his invisible pen, then pointed at her.
“You write me,” she said. “You write me ... oh ... you
wrote
me. You wrote me already.” His head bobbed in assent. “You were the one who wrote me those two notes. You're the one who hired me.”
Vigorous nods.
“Okay.” Savannah took a deep breath and rearranged her mental notes on this case with her new perspective. “That solves one mystery. But why did you hire me? Why did you think Kat was murdered?”
Even as she spoke, she knew it was ridiculous to expect him to communicate a difficult answer to a complex question. But her curiosity propelled her to ask anyway.
Ford looked at his sister, an expression of helplessness on his face. He muttered some words that Savannah couldn't possibly understand.
“I'm sorry, Ford,” Phoebe said. “This must be so difficult for you.” To Savannah, she added, “I really wish you wouldn't upset him like this. He has high blood pressure, you know, and the doctor says he has to remain calm.”
Savannah understood Phoebe's concern for her younger brother, and it was obvious he was becoming more agitated by the second.
“Your sister's right,” she told him. “I really should go. Maybe if you're feeling better later, I could—”
“Nooo!”
Even though the word was slurred, there was no mistaking the meaning of it. Ford Chesterfield did not want her to leave yet. He still had something to say.
With an effort, he lifted his left hand to his own throat and made a movement as though squeezing it.
“Do you need a drink of water, Ford?” Phoebe asked, scrambling for a nearby pitcher on the nightstand.
“No,” Savannah said, “that isn't what he means. I think he's talking about Kat.”
He nodded.
“Kat's murder?”
Yes.
“Do you know that she was murdered by someone?”
Yes.
“Do you know how she was killed?”
Yes. He made a movement as though drinking from a glass.
“See,” Phoebe said, “he does want some water. He's thirsty.”
“No, he means she drank something. Is that what you mean, Mr. Chesterfield?”
Yes.
“Did she drink something that killed her? Something besides the alcohol, that is?”
Yes. Yes. Yes.
“Was it some sort of poison?”
He nodded.
“Do you know who did it?”
“Savannah, stop this immediately!” Phoebe said, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her away from the bed. “Can't you see how red his face is? He's going to have another stroke, and it will be all your fault.”
When Savannah turned to look at Phoebe, she saw that Ford wasn't the only one in the room with a flushed face. “What's the matter, Phoebe?” she said evenly. “Are you afraid of what your brother is about to tell me?”
“No, of course not. Why would I be afraid?”
“Then let him tell me what he wants to say. It's obviously very important to him.”
She turned back to Ford. “Do you know who killed Kat Valentina, Mr. Chesterfield?”
His head bobbed up and down. Then his finger pointed ... at himself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“
S
o, now that you know, what are you going to do about it?” Phoebe said, when she and Savannah had exited Ford's hospital room.
“I'm not sure,” Savannah replied, glancing up and down the empty hallway. “Did you know all along that your brother killed Kat?”
Phoebe said nothing, but stared down at the tiled floor and shrugged her shoulders.
“I understand about protecting those you love,” Savannah said, “about loyalty and standing up for friends and family, but murder ... ”
“I don't want to discuss Ford with you,” Phoebe told her. “I just want to know if you're going to go to the police with what you've found out.”
“I'll have to, sooner or later.”
Phoebe sighed and, for the first time since Savannah had met her, she looked old. “Then could you make it later? The doctor said Ford may not even pull through. What's the point of causing more problems for him now? It's not as though he's going anywhere.”
Savannah gave her what she hoped was a compassionate smile and placed her hand on the older woman's shoulder. “I understand how you feel about your brother, Phoebe. Really, I do. But we're talking about murder here. Someone's life has been taken from her; it doesn't get more serious than that. I have to do something.”
“Can you wait until tomorrow morning? Give him a chance to get stronger, please.”
Savannah thought of Kat Valentina's body lying beside the mud bath, limp and lifeless. She thought of how Ford had looked when pointing to himself, confessing that he had poisoned her. His eyes had been full of regret and pain. Not that it mattered; Kat Valentina was dead ... forever.
Part of why Savannah had been a police officer for so many years was because she had a strong sense of justice. If one of society's citizens crossed the legal line and caused someone irreparable harm, they had to pay the price. Retribution was only fair. And having seen so much injustice in the world, Savannah was big on “fair.”
But Phoebe was right. Ford Chesterfield wasn't going anywhere until morning. Twenty-four hours wouldn't make that much difference in the end.
Dirk would probably be hightailing it over to the hospital as soon as he got wind of Dion Zeller's overdose. But she wouldn't absolutely, positively
have
to tell him anything ... at least, not right away.
It didn't seem that much to ask.
“All right,” she said. “I'll wait until tomorrow morning. Then I'll need to talk to the police. I'm sure they'll be sensitive in the way they deal with your brother, considering his circumstances. Meanwhile, maybe you should hire a lawyer on his behalf. If he makes it through this present health crisis of his, he's going to need one.”
 
After she left the hospital, Savannah decided to stop by her house before returning to the Royal Palms. In spite of Mrs. Normandy's surrogate care, Diamante and Cleopatra needed a pet from their mistress. And if she were honest, Savannah would have to admit she needed to pet them. It had been the day from hell, and she was looking forward to it ending.
Besides, she had some thoughts churning in the back of her mind, and she thought better at home than anywhere else.
Once inside her house, sitting in her favorite chintz, overstuffed chair, her cats—like sleek, ebony bookends—snuggled on each side of her, Savannah felt a deep sadness steal over her.
Sometimes, there was something worse than not knowing. Knowing could be worse. Much worse.
She needed to talk to her grandmother. She needed to talk about roses and gardens and about what it meant to be the oldest child in a family ... especially if you were a woman.
Yes, she definitely needed to talk to Gran.
 
Later, Savannah was filling Tammy in on the details about Dion's condition when Bernadette knocked on their dorm-room door.
“Here it is,” Savannah told Tammy. “Just about on time.”
Savannah opened the door to find Bernadette standing there, a pink message pad slip in her hand.
She gave it to Savannah. “Phoebe Chesterfield called,” she told her. “She wants you to come up there to the house right away, says she has something important to tell you.”
“I'm sure she does. Thank you, Bernadette.”
“I heard her brother had a stroke,” Bernadette said, fishing. “I hope he's all right.”
“Me too.”
“The hospital called and Dion's doing a little better. They think he's going to be all right.”
“That's great. Thanks.”
Savannah closed the door and handed Tammy the note.
“How did you know Mrs. Chesterfield would call and invite you up there?” Tammy asked.
Savannah gave a wry chuckle. “Because that's probably what I would do ... at least, I would want to. People are pretty predictable, if you just put yourself in their place.”
“Have you got what you need?” Tammy asked as Savannah picked up her purse and sweater.
“Yep. All set.” She headed for the door. “Make that phone call for me, okay?”
“You got it,” Tammy replied with an eager-to-please smile. “That's why I get paid the big bucks that I don't get paid ... right?”
“You're absolutely right.”
 
Phoebe Chesterfield met Savannah at the door wearing a long, flowered housedress and a worried look on her face. “They made me go home,” she said. “The nurses and doctors wouldn't let me stay with him through the night. Otherwise, I never would have left.”
“I know,” Savannah said, as Phoebe ushered her inside. “They probably felt you needed your rest. It won't help Ford if you make yourself sick, sitting up with him.”
Savannah looked around the house, which was a cluttered, eclectic mix of knickknacks and memorabilia, collected over a lifetime. African tribal masks, china plates, racks of tiny silver spoons, and cases of porcelain dolls lined the walls.
Every era of furniture manufacturing was represented, some Italian tum-of-the-century, early-American, French Provincial, was scattered among some gray, pearlescent and chrome stuff that looked like the Eisenhower administration period.
Phoebe led her through room after room of colorful clutter, until they entered a large, homey kitchen that smelled of freshly baked bread and newly brewed coffee.
“Sit over there,” Phoebe said, directing Savannah toward a long, formal table with ladder-back chairs. “I'll get you a cup of coffee. How do you drink it?”
“Black,” Savannah said as Phoebe poured.
“It has chicory in it.”
“I like chicory ... reminds me of New Orleans.”
“You like New Orleans?”
“I like all the beautiful gardens and flowers.”
“Me too.” Phoebe shoved the cup under her nose and took a seat across the table, her own cup in her hand. “I'm glad you came,” she said. “I wasn't sure if you would or not.”
Savannah thought how tired she looked, not at all like the vibrant lady who spent so much time puttering among her roses.
“Your message said it was important,” Savannah replied. “Besides, I have some things to tell you, too.”
Phoebe's blue eyes glittered briefly in her wan face. “Oh, really? What do you have to say to me?”
“You first.”
“Okay.” She took a long drink of the coffee. “I want you to know, I don't believe my brother really killed anybody. I don't know what possessed him to do what he did today. But all I can figure is that the stroke messed up his brain, and he isn't thinking right.”
“It looked like a confession to me. He seemed in complete control of his faculties.”
“Oh, pooh. Ford is male; he's never in full control of his facilities.”
Savannah gave her a searching look. “You were there today, and you saw what he did. How can you be so sure he didn't kill her?”
“Because I know my brother. He doesn't have the courage to do something like that. For all of his confident, sophisticated bearing, he's actually quite weak.”
“Is that what it takes to commit murder?” Savannah asked. “Courage? I would have thought it took a lack of morality and a disregard for the sanctity of life.”
“I think that depends on the circumstances.”
“Are you saying some people deserve to be killed?”
Phoebe's right cheek twitched, just a tad. Then she shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Maybe ... under some circumstances ... murder might be justified. Say, if an adulteress, a woman of ill repute, tried to take advantage of a good man. If she used her feminine wiles to lure him, to make him fall in love with her. And if the man was too foolish to understand that he was being used. After all, he's a man, and we all know how weak and foolish they are.”
Savannah waited, and Phoebe said nothing, but her hands began to shake, and her blue eyes filled with tears.
“Men are so stupid about these things,” Savannah continued. “They need their women to take care of them. And we older sisters, we're so good at it. After all, we've done it all their lives.”
Phoebe's lower lip trembled and a tear rolled down her left cheek as she stared down into her coffee. “I used to change his diapers,” she said. “I read him bedtime stories and put iodine on all his cuts and scrapes.”
“I'm sure you did.”
“And there was that time when he was in college, he got a girl pregnant. She was a piece of trash, that one ... said she loved him, couldn't live without him. But I paid her off. With her purse full of money, she decided that maybe she could live without him after all.”
“Did Ford ever know about that?”
Phoebe sniffed. “He didn't need to know. I took care of it, and that's all that mattered.”
“I'm sure Ford loves you very much,” Savannah said. “I'm sure he's very grateful to you. He would probably even confess to a murder he didn't commit to save you.”
Phoebe didn't reply.
“But then,” Savannah continued, “he seems to have strong principles. It must have been terribly hard, suspecting his own sister, but not being sure. I suppose, if he hired a private investigator anonymously, he could find out for certain, without actually turning her in.”
Still no reply.
“Phoebe, did your brother know for sure that you killed Kat Valentina?”
Phoebe's eyes narrowed. “Who says I killed her?”
“You poisoned her marguerita. I'm not sure how you got hold of her glass or which you used, extract from oleander or azalea. But as soon as they run the special toxicology screens in the San Francisco lab, I'm sure they'll find one or the other. My grandmother says you probably used the oleander, and she's usually right when it comes to her flowers.”
“So, you broke your promise to me? You've already talked to the police?”
“No. I told you I wouldn't. And I haven't.”
“But you said ... the toxicology screens.... ”
“I'll tell them tomorrow morning. That's what we agreed, tomorrow morning, right?”
“Right.” Phoebe was visibly relieved. “But even when you do talk to them, these are only suspicions of yours. You don't have any real proof against me or my brother, or anyone else, for that matter.”
“I'm still gathering evidence,” Savannah said. “That's what I'm doing now, even as we speak.”
Savannah saw the split second of panic cross Phoebe's face before she wiped it clean.
Yes, she thought,
not knowing is definitely better, especially when you like the person.
The two women sat in silence for a long time. Finally, Phoebe said, “Aren't you going to drink your coffee?”
Savannah searched the tired, lined face. “Do you really want me to drink it, Phoebe?”
The facade of bravado slid off the old woman's face as clearly as one of her African tribal masks falling off the wall. She began to cry—deep, wracking sobs that shook her entire body.
“No,” she said. “I don't want you to drink it, Savannah. With Kat Valentina, it seemed like the right thing to do. But with you ... you're a good person. I'm sorry. I don't know why I...”
“You thought you were protecting your brother,” Savannah offered, knowing it was a feeble excuse at best.
“And myself.” Phoebe sobbed even harder. “I just couldn't imagine myself in jail for the rest of my life. Without my flowers, without the sun and the smell of the soil.”
Perhaps it was cruel, but Savannah felt compelled to state the obvious. “Kat Valentina can't feel the sun on her face either, Phoebe. You took that away from her forever. And, even if you didn't approve of the way she led her life, she had the right to live it.”
Phoebe pulled a lace-trimmed handkerchief from her pocket and blew into it. “It doesn't matter if I did it or not. I'll deny it,” she said. “It will be my word against yours.”
“I'll have them run the contents of this cup through the San Francisco lab, along with Kat's blood sample. I'll bet they find the same toxin in both. Besides, I have the tape.”
“What tape?”
Savannah pulled back the collar of her sweater, exposing the tiny microphone clipped to her blouse. “Did you get all that, Dirk?” she said.
The gruff, gravelly voice responded in the earpiece hidden in her hair. “Got it all.”
Phoebe's tear-wet eyes widened. “You said you didn't call the police.”
“I didn't. My assistant, Tammy, did. She's a little ditzy from time to time, but she tries, and she has her moments of efficiency.”
BOOK: Killer Calories
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