Reaching for Dirk, she grabbed his sleeve and prevented him from stepping from the carpet of the dining area onto the kitchen floor.
“Wait a minute,” she said.
“What?” He froze, recognizing her tone as all business.
“The floor,” she said, pointing down.
“Yeah. It’s clean. Really clean. You said that’s floor wax you smell, so—”
“So somebody just mopped and waxed it.”
“Okay. That’s unusual at my house, but..
Savannah sank to one knee at the edge of the carpet and studied the dies before her. “And they did a lousy job.”
Dirk squatted beside her and looked from one side of the floor to the other. “Looks pretty good to me.”
“That’s ’cause you’re a guy. You figure if there’s no ketchup smears, coffee grounds, or beer puddles, it’s clean.”
He nodded soberly. “That’s true.”
“This house is perfect. Like I said, either Kameeka’s a neatnik or she’s got professional help.”
“But...?”
“But there are streaks all over this floor where the person who was spreading the wax missed spots. Look over there by the stove.” She pointed to a somewhat dull area that even looked a bit cloudy, as though it had a white film of some sort of chemical residue.
She nodded toward the refrigerator. “And over there in front of the icebox. There’s a big patch that they missed.”
“And your point is?”
“My point is that any woman who would make sure that her windows were spotless, that the mirrors didn’t have a smudge, and that every speck of dust was off the furniture, wouldn’t have done such a slap-happy job of mopping. No way.”
Dirk gave her a hard, sideways look. “So, are you saying something completely sexist, like—a
man
must have mopped this floor because they did a lousy job?”
“Of course not. I’m saying it was either a guy who didn’t know any better or a woman who didn’t give a darn about housekeeping. Or maybe a woman who was in a big hurry.”
“Like Kameeka?”
“Nope. Even in a hurry, she would have done it right or not at all.”
“What do you figure that white stuff is?” He pointed to the filmy area near the stove.
“Some sort of disinfectant or detergent that wasn’t meant for floors.”
They both studied the tiles for several long moments, thinking, evaluating.
“Maybe we ought to get the crime scene investigators to Luminol the surface,” Savannah said.
“That’s just what I was thinking.” Dirk’s lips tightened. “You figure it’ll fluoresce?”
Savannah thought back on a number of crime scenes she had investigated where the CSU had sprayed sup-posedly clean surfaces with Luminol. The chemical reacted with blood, causing it to give off an eerie glow. Seeing clear evidence of blood spatter, where a moment before nothing had been visible, was startling.
“Maybe we shouldn’t walk on it. They might be able to find a shoe print, too,” Dirk added, putting his face low to the carpet and peering across the surface.
“Might could,” Savannah replied, doing the same, “although I don’t see anything.”
“Yeah, but you never know what those guys can find when they set their minds to it.” Dirk rose, groaning a little. “Let’s check the rest of the house.”
Savannah stood, stifling her own small moan as her joints complained. They might be getting a bit older, but she was determined not to broadcast the fact.
It didn’t take long to investigate the rest of the one bedroom/one bath cottage. And, once again, they found nothing extraordinary in the clean, neat rooms.
In the bathroom, Savannah glanced into a white wicker wastebasket next to the sink and saw only one item—a large cotton ball. Gingerly, she picked it up, sniffed it, and touched it with one fingertip.
“What is it?” Dirk asked her.
“Skin toner,” she replied. “Still a little damp.”
“What’s skin toner? Something like aftershave?” Savannah smiled. If all consumers were like Dirk, Procter & Gamble would be out of business. A tube of toothpaste, a bar of soap, and a spray can of deodorant were his only toiletries.
“Ladies put it on their faces first thing in the morning when they wake up. It tightens the skin, minimizes pores, refines and tones...”
His eyes were starting to glaze over, so she stopped. Like most members of his gender, Dirk had a low overload threshold when it came to “girl” topics. Or pretty much any other topic that didn’t directly pertain to him.
But he quickly recovered and switched back into “investigator mode.” Running his thumb lightly over the toothbrush in the stand beside the sink, he said, “It’s dry.”
“Hmmm,” she said.
“Definitely a hmmm,” he replied.
In the bedroom, they found the only sign of anything out of order—an unmade bed. The snowy white quilt was bunched at the foot of the bed, the pillows tossed against the headboard, and the pale blue sheets rumpled.
“Well,” he said. “She was human after all. Look at that bed. I would have figured she was the type to turn around and make it the minute she got up.”
Savannah lifted one eyebrow. “No way,” she told him. “You’re supposed to let it air at least a few minutes before you make it.”
His chin dropped. “Are you kidding me? Let it ‘air’? You mean, like opening the bathroom window after you take a—”
“Yeah. That’s the idea.”
He shook his head. “Boy, you gals have a lot of stupid rules about stuff. I never thought I needed to air out my bed before I make it.”
‘You actually
make
your bed?”
He grinned. “Once in awhile.”
She snickered. “Like maybe on a Friday morning when you’ve got a date that night and are hoping you’ll get lucky.”
Laughing, he said, “I’m glad you think I still get lucky sometimes.”
“Well, don’t you?”
He shrugged. ‘Yeah, maybe once in a blue moon. And you?”
She decided to ignore that one. Instead of answering him and admitting a depressingly long spell of celibacy, she walked over to the dresser and opened a couple of drawers, searching until she found Kameeka’s stash of bras.
“That’s what I figured,” she said.
“What did you figure?”
“She’s got a whole set of athletic bras in here. Not surprising for a woman who has her own line of lingerie.”
“And your point is?”
“Kameeka’s a full-figured lady.” She looked at the size tag on one of the bras. “A 42DD.”
His eyes lit up with predictable male appreciation. “Yep, that’s a big girl, all right.”
“And she was out jogging.”
“So...?”
“In a flimsy, lacy little Saturday night date bra. That’s a good way for a full-figured lady to cause herself some major pain. A jogger with big boobs knows that you wear a substantial athletic bra when you’re running.” He grinned knowingly. “Or you bounce too much and give yourself black eyes?”
She wrinkled her nose and gave him a piggy snort. “Don’t be such a guy if you can help it, Coulter. Let’s just say that I went horseback riding once wearing a ‘come hither’ bra instead of a ‘granny full-support’ type and I was in pain for a week.”
Again, his eyes were starting to glaze over, and she realized that even female topics relating to breasts had their limitations.
“Then you don’t think she was out there jogging?” he said.
“No, I don’t. I think she got out of bed, went into the bathroom and slapped on some toner, walked to the kitchen where her coffee was already brewed...”
“And somebody got her in the kitchen.”
She nodded. ‘“Got her,’ as you put it, badly enough that they had to clean the floor afterward.”
“Then they dressed her in shorts and a T-shirt and running shoes to make it look like she was jogging...”
“And took her up to Citrus Road and dumped her.”
“And ran over her to make it look good.”
Inwardly, Savannah shuddered, remembering the tire marks on the woman’s thigh. “Yeah. And ran over her like she was some sort of roadkill.”
They both stood there in the bedroom, looking at the rumpled bed where the beautiful model—the one who had stood on that windswept cliff overlooking the ocean—had spent her last night. Probably never realizing that it was to be her last night.
“We’ll have to wait and see what Dr. Liu finds out,” Dirk said softly, a rare note of reverence and sadness in his voice.
“Yes,” Savannah replied. “And the crime scene techs need to Luminol that kitchen floor.”
“So that they can tell us what we already know.” Savannah took a deep breath and suddenly felt tired and old. ‘Yeah... that we’ve got two plus-sized fashion models in the same town who died in less than twenty-four hours of each other under suspicious circumstances.”
“In other words... who were deliberately croaked.” She gave him a long, hard look. “Dirk,” she finally said, “sometimes I wish you were more like your hero, John Wayne. You know... the strong,
silent
type.”
Chapter
8
W
hen Savannah returned home late that afternoon, she nearly collided with her sister as she entered the house. Loaded down with a makeup case in one hand and an overnight bag in the other, Marietta was on her way out, a flushed look on her face.
“I don’t have time to chew the fat with you,” she said as she jostled Savannah out of her path and barreled through the door. “See ya later.” From many years of “big-sister duty,” Savannah knew a guilty look when she saw one. And nothing piqued her curiosity more than thinly veiled avoidance.
Miss Marietta Reid had “I’m up to no good” written across her forehead, and having been gifted with more than her fair share of pure nosiness, Savannah had to investigate.
“Hold on a second,” she said, rushing to catch up with Marietta on the porch. “Where are you off to like a cat with its tail on fire?”
“I don’t want to be late,” Marietta exclaimed as she tossed the makeup bag and small suitcase into the back seat of her rental car. “I’m nervous enough about tonight without worrying about whether I’m gonna hit heavy traffic on the highway.”
“If you’re taking the P.C.H. at this time of day, you can be sure you’re going to get caught in some clogs.” She gave her younger sister a quick glance up and down, taking in the knee-high zebra print boots, the black satin miniskirt, and the sheer tiger-striped span-dex top that clearly displayed every bulge, nook, and cranny of the famous Reid-girl bustline.
Yep,
she thought,
Marietta’s going trolling. Lord, please don’t let her catch something so big and nasty that she can’t throw it back if she needs to.
“Have a good time,” she said, trying to sound more enthusiastic and less judgmental than she felt. “I’ll wait up for you, and when you get back we’ll have a nightcap and you can tell me all about him.”
Again, Marietta shot one of those suspicious looks at her, and Savannah’s radar pinged.
“No, don’t wait up for me.” Marietta jerked the driver’s side door open and tossed her purse to the passenger seat.
Savannah pointed to the suitcase in the back. “I don’t mean to be nosy, but... you’re not really figuring on spending the night with this guy, are you?” she said.
“Then don’t be,” Marietta snapped.
“Be what?”
“Nosy. Just mind your own business and don’t give me no lip about my social life. At least I’ve got one!” She got into the car and jammed the key into the ignition.
Savannah stepped up to the car and put her face through the open window. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
Marietta gave her a smirk that could only be classified as ugly. “Think about it, big sis.... I spent my day getting dolled up so that I can spend the evening in Malibu with the hunk of my dreams. You, on the other hand, spent yours looking at dead folks. Now, who do you figure’s got the big end of that turkey drumstick?” She started up the car, put it in gear, and backed up so fast that Savannah had to scramble to get out of her way. A second later Marietta had disappeared down the road on her way to Malibu... her Internet prince... and her cyberpalace in the clouds.
“Eh, bite me,” Savannah mumbled as she watched the dust settle in her driveway. “The nice thing about dead people is that they don’t mug you, kill you, knock you up, or give you the creeping crud. And there’s a lot to be said for that.”
She was still grumbling to herself when she reentered the house and found Tammy sitting at the desk, scribbling on a notepad. “Oh, there you are,” she said as Savannah tossed her purse and keys onto the table in the foyer. “Did you run into your sister?”
“I sure did... hence the bright smile on my face.” She bared her teeth, and Tammy giggled.
No sooner had she settled into her easy chair than the two cats left their sunlit window perches and ran to claim their favorite spots—Cleopatra across her thighs and Diamante on her chest.
“You know,” she told them, “ just because Mom makes a lap doesn’t mean you necessarily have to use it.”