Bitter Sweets (2 page)

O'Donnell's face eased into a tired, sad smile. “But he wouldn't have had to ask,” he added. “I would have looked for her again anyway. I don't think I'll ever give up . . . . not until I find her. She's the only family my boys and I have anymore. Other than my wife, of course.”

“Of course.” Savannah studied the pile of papers in her lap. Work. Finally, a job to sink her teeth into. It had been too long. “One more thing, Mr. O'Donnell. Why did you choose our agency?”

He smiled and for a moment he didn't look quite so tired. “Like I said, I traced Lisa to San Carmelita. I know she was living here three months ago, but now I've lost her trail. While I was in the library, trying to find some records, I came across an old newspaper article and . . . .”

He paused and looked slightly embarrassed.

Savannah decided to let him off the hook and supply the rest. “You read about my little ruckus with the police chief and the city council.”

“Ah . . . . yeah.”

“And about me getting kicked off the force.”

“Yes, but you solved your case anyway. That's what counted. I figured if you could whip City Hall, you could solve a little problem like mine.”

Savannah leaned over and offered him her hand. “Thank you. I hope I can live up to your high expectations.”

“I'm sure you will.” He took her hand and they shook solemnly.

“Mr. O'Donnell, you've hired yourself a detective agency,” she said. “And we're going to do everything we can to find your sister for you.”
Hot damn,
she thought as she watched the stress melt from his face. It sure felt good to be back to work, to be doing something useful in the world.

She reached for his mug. “Now, how about another cup of coffee? This time let's do it right. We'll dose it with a slug of Bailey's and slap some whipped cream on it.”

 

Although Savannah had migrated to the Southern California seaside years before, she prided herself on the fact that you could never quite squeeze the last drop of juice out of a true Georgia peach. Southern California or southern Dixie, it didn't matter when it came to entertaining friends and family.

Like her Granny Reid and generations of ladies before her, Savannah lived in mortal fear that someone, somewhere, might suffer a pang of hunger while in her presence. It simply wasn't allowed.

Except, maybe, for Dirk.

Facing him across her dining room table at this, the first official personnel meeting of the Moonlight Magnolia Detective Agency, Savannah was beginning to get a bit peeved as she watched him reach for his sixteenth chocolate chip and macadamia nut cookie. She had baked a plateful. There were two left.

After having served as his partner on the San Carmelita Police Force, and having been his closest personal friend for years, Savannah had to admit, she loved the guy. But she harbored no illusions about him. Dirk was a real pig, in more ways than one.

“Would you like me to put this meeting on hold for half an hour or so and go fix you a meal, Dirk?” she asked. “I could whip up a leg of lamb with mint jelly, prime rib and a creamy horseradish sauce, or maybe Chateaubriand?”

He lit up like the Rockefeller Plaza Christmas tree during a power surge. “Would you? That'd be great!”

Shaking her head and sighing, Savannah shoved the plate down the table and out of his reach.

“Have a cookie, Ryan,” she said to the previously expired corpse. She turned to his companion. “You, too, Gibson, while there's still some left.”

Savannah knew better than to offer anything with a calorie in it to Tammy, who sat there, demurely sipping her cup of decaffeinated coffee, flavored with sugarless sweetener, nonfat creamer, and carob powder. Okay, Savannah admitted that the younger woman did wear a petite size three and would probably live forever without one cell of plaque to block her arteries.

But she had no boobs.

Savannah took a small measure of consolation in this fact: Tammy Hart would live long and die without ever knowing the hedonistic pleasure of savoring a sip of pure cholesterol-laden sin, or experiencing the womanly thrill of overflowing her bra cups. Both of which Savannah enjoyed every morning of her life.

Finally, Savannah had convinced herself that she felt sorry for Tammy and her sleek, slender figure. So terribly sorry.

But it hadn't been easy.

“Tell me, dear,” said John Gibson, the elegant, silver-haired British gentleman sitting at the end of the table beside Ryan, “Exactly how can Ryan and I assist you with this new case of yours? We are, as always, at your disposal.” In a knightly gesture, he waved a hand toward his younger friend.

Dirk made an unpleasant snort which, Savannah surmised, had nothing to do with his sinus infection and more to do with his acute case of homophobia. She shot him a warning glance.

“Nothing at the moment, Gibson, thank you,” she replied as she rose to add hot water and another tea bag to the older man's individual pot of Earl Grey. “This will be a pretty cut-and-dried search. I don't think we'll be needing your special surveillance skills or equipment.”

“If you do, you'll let us know?” Ryan said, smiling up at Savannah with a face that still took her breath away. Tall, dark, and outrageously handsome, Ryan Stone had provided the inspiration for many of Savannah's midnight fantasies. If he had not been so happily involved with Gibson for so many years, she would have employed every one of her considerably feminine wiles to try to reorient his sexual preference.

Fat chance.

Seeing the way that Tammy was gazing at him like a lust-besotted cocker spaniel, Savannah guessed that the same thoughts had crossed her mind. Oh, well . . . .

“Tammy and I can handle this one . . . . at least for the time being,” she said as she returned to her seat and plopped a dollop of chocolate-flavored whipped cream into her coffee. From the corner of her eye, she saw Tammy cringe. “Starting tomorrow morning, you can begin checking on Brian O'Donnell,” she told her. “Just the usual stuff to see that all his ID is legit, that he's who he says he is. He seems sincere and all that, but we want to make sure before we go searching for someone on his behalf.”

Tammy's prissiness disappeared and her expression turned businesslike as she flipped open a notebook and began to scribble furiously. “Got it, boss,” she said with an eager, if a bit naive, enthusiasm that went straight to Savannah's heart.
Tammy is a good kid,
she reminded herself.
A little young, a little skinny, a tad self-righteous, perhaps. But a good kid.

“And what about me?” Dirk said, still wearing a pout that looked ridiculous on a forty-plus man's face. A face that was endearing for its character, but had that street-worn look, as though he had been dragged around the block a time or two on his overly robust belly. “Why did you haul me over here if you don't need me?”

“Because, darlin' . . . .” Savannah blew him a sexy kiss across the table. “. . . . we love you and we wanted you here to celebrate our first case with us.”

He blushed all the way up to his receding hairline. It occurred to Savannah that Dirk needed to get a life if something like a little Southern flirtation gave him a hot flush.

“Besides,” she added in a quiet monotone, “I want you to run some DMV plates and do a couple of record checks.”

“I knew there was a catch,” he growled, fighting back a grudging grin. Dirk was never more happy than when he could complain of being used. “What's in it for me? I mean, I'm not exactly on your payroll here.”

“A ham sandwich.”

He considered, then shook his head. “I don't think so. It's the leg of lamb and mint jelly or nothin'.”

“With cheese . . . .” she bargained. He didn't budge. “And a smear of dijon.”

“Deal.”

 

In a car parked in the shadows half a block away, a silent figure sat and watched as, one by one, Savannah's guests filed out the door. For the past hour, the spy had been observing their shadows on the dining room curtains; a meeting had been in progress. It didn't require a vivid imagination to guess who and what had been the subject of the conversation.

Having recorded the “comings” and “goings” of the household for the past four hours, the person in the shadows was well satisfied.

So far, so good. Everything appeared to be going as planned.

Scribbling on a note pad, aided by the dim glow of a penlight, the voyeur paid special attention to the dynamics between each departing attendee and their hostess as they wished her good-bye. The tall guy and the older man left together, each giving her an affectionate kiss on the cheek. The young blonde hugged her, then puttered away in a hot pink, perfectly renovated, Volkswagen bug.

A more colorful character, the fellow who looked like a bedraggled cop, had merely socked her on the shoulder before climbing into a battered 1962 Buick Skylark. Unlike the Volkswagen, the Skylark could be described by a tactful phrase commonly used in classified ads—“restorable.” But barely.

This surprised the note-taker, who had pegged the guy in the Buick as Savannah's lover and had expected him to stay the night.

So, Savannah Reid didn't live with a man; she was alone.

Good, that might make things easier later.

As the last of the cars drove away, Savannah disappeared inside the quaint, Spanish-style cottage, and turned out the porch light. Moments later, a series of shadows on blinds and the dousing of more lights signaled that she was retiring. Finally, only one window glowed—upstairs on the left. Her bedroom.

That's all for tonight, folks,
the individual thought, turning the key in the ignition and firing up the engine.
The wheels are turning now. It won't be long.

So far, things were going much better than hoped. Who said the game of murder was complicated?

O
n a morning like this, it wasn't difficult for Savannah to remember why she had relocated fifteen years ago from Georgia to Southern California. As she guided her red Camaro northward around the twisting turns of Buena Vista Road, she could see the Pacific Ocean glittering, diamond-dusted turquoise, to her far left.

Along the shore lay San Carmelita, the small, quaint village where she had finally settled after a brief and somewhat unpleasant stint as a rookie on the Hollywood Police Force. It was a tough beat to lose your virginity.

On the other hand, San Carmelita was small and personal. Savannah knew the owners of the shops and restaurants she frequented, and occasionally met a friend on the streets.

All in all, Savannah liked San Carmelita. Except for the occasional pang of homesickness, the periodic longing for the smell of a Georgia pine, and the PMS craving for a couple of airy-light Southern biscuits smeared with sorghum and fresh butter, San Carmelita felt like home.

The golden, morning sun shone on the foothills that rose to her right, gentle slopes which, from a distance, looked as though they were covered with soft, tan suede.

Heavier than usual spring rains had kept the hills green for months, but the recent Santa Ana winds had dried the new brush to fire-crisp tinder.

Not for the first time, Savannah marveled at the logic which drove people to build the most expensive homes in town there on the crest of the hills. Sure, the view was terrific, but when the seasonal brushfires started in the fall, they would be on the front line of the assault. Not to mention the prospects of instantaneous relocation downward in event of a major earthquake.

As she drove higher into the exclusive neighborhood, Savannah assured herself that her opinions were solid and had nothing to do with the fact that she couldn't afford to live in one of these fine, custom homes with the breathtaking view. Certainly not on a recently-fired-police-detective's nonsalary, or on a recently-established-private-detective's income.

Referring to her notebook, which lay open on the passenger's seat next to her, she checked the address—1513 N. Lotus. The last known residence of one Lisa Mallock, formerly known as “Susie” O'Donnell.

Brother Brian had given Savannah this information, his final lead in his search for his sister. He had told her that, when he had knocked on this door, he had been informed that Lisa was no longer living there. The door had been slammed in his face by a somewhat austere, elderly gentleman with an enormous dog.

A cheery prospect to look forward to.

But not one that bothered Savannah. Hell, in her line of work a slammed door was nothing. If they didn't shoot, stab, punch you, or insult your genealogy, it was usually considered a satisfactory interview.

“Hmm-mmm . . . . not bad,” she mumbled as she pulled in front of the pseudo-Swiss chalet, trilevel home. The design might have been a tad outdated, but the home was well kept, freshly painted, the yard immaculate, with flowers blooming in orderly profusion.

She decided not to park the Camaro on the spotless driveway; it had an embarrassing habit of dripping oil.

The moment she rang the doorbell, she heard a dog begin to bark. Considering the bass tone and deep resonance, she decided that Brian hadn't exaggerated. It was a very large dog, who obviously took his job seriously.

When the door opened, a bundle of bristling, black fur burst through and charged toward her. Bared teeth glistened in a face that looked like a cross between an Akita and a grizzly bear.

Instinctively, Savannah slipped her hand inside her jacket to her shoulder holster and the handle of her Beretta. But she resisted the compulsion to draw. Shooting the family beast on the porch was hardly a way to get on anyone's good side.

“Beowulf, sit!” growled the equally determined, male voice of a human as the door swung wider.

“Yes, please, do have a seat, Beowulf,” she whispered, feeling the dog's hot breath on her calf through the thin linen of her slacks.

Obedient, he stopped barking but continued to growl, his teeth inches from her leg, his lips fluttering like a window shade in a stiff breeze.

“Beowulf, that's enough. Knock it off,” said the handsome, elderly man whose broad—if slightly stooped—shoulders nearly filled the doorway. For his age, which was probably around seventy, he was an exceptional physical specimen. He was tall, well over six feet, steel gray hair cut in a short buzz, and pale blue eyes that were unnerving in their intensity.

Only the arthritic swelling and distortion of his finger joints gave any hint of disability or special challenge.

But, apparently, his problems didn't prevent him from pursuing his interests. Judging from the soil on his jeans and tee shirt, and the smudge of peat moss on his right cheek, she had interrupted his gardening.

He reached down, grabbed the dog by the abundant scruff of the neck, and gave him a gentle shake. “Don't worry, ma'am,” he told her with a slight Southern accent, reminiscent of her own. “The old fellow is just trying to earn extra doggie treats by acting like a tough guy. His bark is worse than his bite.”

Doubtfully, she looked down at the gleaming incisors. “Really?”

The man chuckled. “No, not really. But he doesn't eat anyone without my permission.”

“I'm so pleased to hear that.” She extended her hand to him. He took it and gave her a firm shake. “My name is Savannah Reid. I'm trying to get in touch with Lisa Mallock. Is she at home?”

Instantly, he dropped her hand. “No.”

The open, friendly expression slid off his face as he crossed his arms over his broad chest and scowled down at her.

“I see.” She hesitated, then plunged ahead. “When do you expect her to return?”

“Who's asking?”

Shrugging her shoulders, she gave him her most winning smile, the one that deepened her already-charming dimples, and she turned up the Southern Comfort in her voice. “Why, just me.”

He wasn't impressed. In fact, he was beginning to look as irritable as his dog. “What do you want with her?”

Savannah dropped the Georgia peach routine and fixed him with her most official eyeball lock. He wasn't the only one on the porch with intense blue eyes. And hers were a few shades darker. “I'd rather not say, sir, but it's regarding some very important family business.”

“Yeah, I'll just bet it is.” He took a step back, dragging the dog with him. “Lady, you can go to hell!”

A split second later, she was staring at the slammed door, four inches from her nose, and her ears were ringing from the concussion.

So much for
that
interview and whatever it might have revealed.

She supposed she was lucky.

At least he hadn't given Beowulf permission to eat her.

 

As Savannah walked through the front door of the San Carmelita Main Street Police Station, she wondered if she would ever enter this building again without feeling queasy and more than a little sick at heart.

Probably not.

She had enjoyed being a cop.
Well
. . . .
maybe “enjoyed” wasn't the word,
she thought, reconsidering. There had been plenty of nightmare experiences, too. Dark, painful, infinitely sad and downright terrifying times. But she
had
thrived on the stress and reveled in the satisfaction that she had been good at her job.

Too good.

She had solved the wrong homicide case, exposed the wrong individuals, and gotten her butt canned. When the “truth” involved the chief of police and a prominent councilwoman . . . . one's investigatory skills could prove detrimental to one's career advancement.

Since she had been unceremoniously dismissed from the force, she had limited her trips to the station to after hours. This way, she could be assured of avoiding Chief Hillquist and Captain Bloss, her two least-favorite people in the world.

She nodded to Denise Harmon, who held down the fort—or more specifically, the front desk—during the night shift. Like most of the department personnel Savannah met from time to time, Denise greeted her warmly. It was a commonly held opinion among the rank and file that Savannah had been badly mistreated and unfairly dismissed.

“Hey, Savannah. How are you doing?” she said with a bright, open smile that was her most attractive feature. Maybe it was Denise's only attractive feature—she was a bit streetworn and rough around the edges—but Savannah had stopped noticing that a long time ago. Some people were just so nice and good-hearted that such things didn't matter.

“How am
I
doing?” Savannah responded, donning her thickest Southern accent. “Thanks for asking. As a matter of fact, I'm just sweeter than peee-can pie, darlin'.”

“And nuttier, too,” said an underly enthusiastic male voice.

Savannah turned to see Dirk standing in the squad room doorway, a goofy grin on his face. He spotted the brown bag in her hand and the smirk widened.

“You brought it!” he exclaimed.

“Of course.” She held out the bag to him. “I know better than to appear around here without a sacrificial offering of burnt flesh for the beast.”

“Burnt flesh?” He crinkled his nose.

“Honey baked ham and smoked turkey. I realize it's a departure from your usual three-pounds-for-a-dollar bologna, but—”

“I'll take it.”

“Somehow I thought you would.”

He ushered her into the squad room with more aplomb and respect than usual. Much more.

Long ago Savannah had discovered that food was the most tried-and-true way to any human being's heart. There was hardly any soul so hardened that it couldn't be softened with a Black Forest cake or a piece of apple pie.

Besides, the more generous individuals sometimes shared the gift with the giver.

That wasn't going to happen, she realized as she watched Dirk walk over to his desk, unwrap the sandwich, and bury his face in it. When it came to food, Dirk never shared.

“So, what do I have to do for this?” he asked around the mouthful of ham and turkey.

“Run a name for me.”

“Only one?”

“To start with.”

Having consumed half of the sandwich in three bites, he laid the rest aside and rolled his chair in front of the computer. She grabbed a nearby chair and sat beside him.

“Who?” he asked, trying to sound gruff. Early in their relationship, Savannah had figured out the rather simple psychic puzzle that was “Dirk Coulter.” Dirk would do anything in the world for anyone, but he wanted them to feel at least a wee bit guilty for squandering his precious time and interfering with his life.

As though he
had
a life.

“Lisa Mallock,” she replied, then spelled the last name. “Date of birth: June 13, 1951.”

He accessed the Department of Motor Vehicles records first. Peering anxiously at the screen, Savannah was disappointed to see the same address as she had just visited, 1513 N. Lotus. But at least she had a physical description and picture—her first look at the lady in question.

Lisa Mallock was an attractive redhead, with hair that was the same rich auburn as her brother's. Like Brian O'Donnell, she had dark brown eyes. That was where the family resemblance ended. Her features were far more delicate, though she had the appearance of a woman who was growing old faster than her forty-five years suggested.

Height: Five feet, six inches

Weight: 130 pounds

“Any previous convictions or outstanding warrants?” she asked.

He punched some keys, brought up a new screen. “Nope.”

“None?”

“Notta single one. A very good girl.”

“Yeah.” Savannah scowled and tapped her “Flaming Desire” crimson fingertips on the desk top.

“Something wrong with that? You
want
her to have a record?”

“Not really. But she does move around a lot. According to my client, her brother, he's traced her to five addresses in the last year, this one being the last. Either she's extremely unstable, or she's running from something. I was thinking maybe it was the law.”

“Bill collectors?”

She nodded. “That would be my second guess. I'll have Tammy run a credit check on her.”

“Anything else?” Dirk's eyes glowed, and not just from the sickly green light of the computer screen. He really did enjoy being a cop; it was something Savannah had always loved about him. It was what she missed most about no longer being his partner. They had shared the same obsessions—food, and solving whatever crime they were working on at the moment.

“Yeah . . . . one more thing.” She pulled a slip of paper from her purse. On it, she had scribbled the license plate number from the late model Lincoln Continental that had been parked in front of Beowulf's master's house.

“Run this plate for me?”

“You got another ham sandwich in your purse?”

With a sigh, she reached into her bag again and, this time, pulled out one of her favorite things in the world, a dark Swiss chocolate bar with hazelnut and maraschino cherry cream filling. She bought them by the dozen at Trader Joe's; one never knew when one might be seized with a chocolate fit, and they were the only known cure.

This was her last bar, which made it precious, indeed.

She thrust it toward him, and he happily snatched it from her hand. “Now, give,” she muttered.

More punching on the keyboard, two-finger typing. The computer clicked, beeped, and displayed a new screen.

“Forrest Neilson,” Dirk announced.