Poisoned Tarts (16 page)

For a moment, Savannah thought Robyn was going to deny it, but finally, she nodded. “A few times.”

“And?”

“He'd deleted everything.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah.”

“Anything else?”

Robyn sniffed and dabbed at her face with the tissue. “In the bedroom. There were changes in our love life. I could tell that he just didn't want me anymore. He'd lost interest.” She bit her lower lip and fought for composure. “We were so passionate at first, and even during our first year of marriage. He couldn't keep his hands off me. When he was out of town, he either took me along, or he called me ten times a day just to tell me he was thinking about me, wanting me. Andrew was a very romantic, loving man.”

“But not so much lately?”

“No. And it was really abrupt, too. He took a trip to Amsterdam, and when he came back, things were different. Very, very different. It all changed in just a few days.”

“When was this?”

“Four months ago. In the middle of June.”

Savannah mulled over what possible connection there might be to Andrew's trip to The Netherlands in June and the reference to Amsterdam she and Dirk had overheard earlier that day when they were eavesdropping outside this room.

What was it Tiffany had been complaining about? Her father giving somebody a luxury trip to Amsterdam?

“Were you planning any trips abroad yourself in the near future?” Savannah asked.

Robyn shook her head. “No, of course not. With the way Tiffany's been acting out lately, somebody had to stay home all the time. The last time Andrew and I left her and went to Copenhagen for three days, we came back to find that she'd had a wild party here, lots of guys, drugs, you name it. The police had been called, and the house was trashed—thousands of dollars of damage. After that, Andrew told me there had to be an adult at home at all times. And of course, that meant
me
, because he has…I mean, had…to travel for his work.”

“You must have resented that enormously.”

“Oh, you have no idea.” Robyn blew her nose and wadded the tissue into a tight ball in her clenched fist. “That brat has ruined our lives, destroyed our marriage. She thinks of absolutely no one but herself, her posh lifestyle. I wouldn't be surprised if she wasn't the one who killed Andrew. I wouldn't put it past her at all.”

“But why would she do that? He's the source of her income, the support for her lifestyle.”

Robyn shook her head. “That doesn't matter. Andrew has already made more money than even Tiffany could possibly spend in one lifetime. And now that he's gone, it's all hers. Every dime of it. She's going to be one of the wealthiest young women in the country, if not the world.”

“
Every
dime? But you're his wife.”

“I signed a prenup.” She shrugged. “I know, dumb. But I was in love and eager to prove to him that I wanted him, not his money.”

“Do you seriously think Tiffany could kill her father, especially like…that?”

“I wouldn't put anything past her. She's really a bad kid, growing up to be an awful woman.”

“Other than Tiffany, did Andrew have any enemies? Anybody who wished him ill?”

“Andrew was a very successful businessman, and he didn't get that way by being a softie. He's stepped on some people and made them mad over the years, sure.”

“But has anyone actually threatened his life?”

“Nobody but his ex-wife.”

“Where is she now?”

“She was in Switzerland, but I heard she'd moved to Argentina with some polo player.”

Savannah ticked off the possibilities on her mental checklist. “Any gambling? Possible drug problems?”

“No. Andrew wasn't into any of that. He led a pretty clean life, actually. Except for women.”

Savannah was at the bottom of her list, and she wasn't feeling particularly excited about anything she had heard from Andrew Dante's wife. Savannah had hoped for at least a red flag or two to show her where to start looking.

“I'm really sorry, Robyn,” she said. “I can't imagine how you feel right now. It's a terrible loss.”

The compassionate words seemed to lift the lid off the woman's emotions. She collapsed in wracking sobs and nearly fell out of her chair.

Savannah stood and hurried over to her, gathering her in her arms and rocking her, much as she had her younger brothers and sisters for as long as she could remember.

Big sisters got good at that sort of thing. Being oldest wasn't all just babysitting and being bossy about chores.

“There, there,” she murmured, holding the young widow's face to her shoulder and stroking her hair. “You're going to get through this, Robyn. I know it's awful, but you'll get through it. And we're going to find out who did this to Andrew. I promise.”

Abruptly, Robyn pulled away from her and stared at her blankly for a moment. Savannah wasn't sure how to read that reaction. Most victims' families welcomed a promise of justice for their loved one.

Savannah made a quick note to herself not to totally exclude this young woman from her list of suspects. After all, it had only been four months since her husband's affections toward her had changed, and she admitted that she believed he was being unfaithful.

Maybe it was more than a belief. Maybe she'd found proof.

She wouldn't be the first wife to put an end to a cheating husband's philandering in a violent way.

Although a stake through the heart was a pretty strong statement, even for a scorned woman. Savannah couldn't imagine a big, hunky guy like Dante just sitting calmly by and allowing a woman half his size to drive a wooden spike into his chest.

“There's just one more thing I need to ask you,” Savannah said. “Why did you think that Andrew was in London?”

“What?” She looked genuinely confused.

“Earlier, you told us that your husband was on his way to London, and obviously, he wasn't. What led you to think he was?”

“He told me. I mean…he left me a note.”

“A note? He leaves to go overseas, and all you get is a note?”

Robyn nodded. “Actually, I thought it was a little weird, too. But I told you, he's been a little strange lately, especially when it comes to his travel plans.”

“Does he often leave so abruptly like that?”

“Not often, but sometimes he does.”

“And he leaves you notes instead of telling you good-bye in person or on the phone?”

“No. That was the first time.”

“Where was the note?”

“It was on the refrigerator. That's where everybody leaves notes. Andrew, Tiffany, her friends, even the servants. We all stick them on the fridge.”

“What did it say?”

“I don't remember every word, but it was something like, ‘Babe, I'm off to London to meet with Peter. Last minute thing. I'll call you when I land.'”

“Where is the note now?”

“I threw it into the garbage.”

“In the kitchen?”

“Yes. Into the compactor.”

Oh, goody
, Savannah thought.
Is there anything less pleasant than going through garbage looking for evidence?

And of course, she knew the answer to that one. Looking for a decomposing body in a Dumpster or a landfill. At least there wouldn't be a zillion seagulls swarming over her head in the Dante kitchen.

Yes, it could be a lot worse.

“Let's go look for it,” she said.

Slowly, Robyn rose from her chair, but Savannah noticed that she was a little unsteady on her feet.

She walked over and slipped her arm around the woman's waist. “And while we're there,” she said, “we'll pour you a glass of something stronger than water.”

“I think there's some Johnny Walker Blue in there.”

“Yep. That should do it.”

R
obyn took Savannah to the kitchen where Savannah poured and served Robyn the promised shot of the expensive Scotch. And even though Savannah knew that her teetotaler grandmother would never approve, she had seen how the well-timed alcoholic beverage could calm down a distraught person…and occasionally, loosen a suspect's tongue.

Not that Robyn Dante was any higher on Savannah's suspect list than anybody else. But like Dirk, she always kept the spouse, the former spouse, or any love interest high on that list.

At the moment, Savannah had her solidly in the number two slot, right beneath her stepdaughter. Not that she had any particular evidence against Tiffany. But in any investigation, Savannah had her favorite, the one she hoped against hope was the perpetrator. And it was usually the person she disliked most as a human being.

It was so much easier to bust and send away someone you didn't like. In fact, she had found it to be one of life's most satisfying pleasures…along with dark chocolate and fine brandy.

In fact, she promised herself a square of a good 90% cacao bar and a snifter of a
nice VSOP
Cognac if she ever got to go home again and put her feet up. And, of course, if Gran was sound asleep in the guest room.

She kept reminding herself of that treat, holding the chocolate and brandy out in front of her mind's eye as she stood in the Dantes' kitchen and transferred every piece of trash, bit by bit, from their compactor to another garbage pail.

The latex gloves she was wearing helped to make the job a little less queasy. But the fact that someone had eaten salmon and some sort of chocolate mousse for dinner and thrown the leftovers into the trash didn't help at all.

Halfway through, she decided to pass on the chocolate once she was home.

“You say the note was written on yellow paper?” she asked for the third time. She was examining everything from lipstick-smeared napkins to used and wadded tissues, but she wanted to be sure.

“Yes,” Robyn said. “Pale yellow with a large D watermark on it.”

Robyn was far less distressed and more than a little tipsy, having downed the Scotch in only a couple of gulps and then consumed half of another just as quickly. But she strolled on unsteady feet over to the opposite side of the room, pulled open a cabinet drawer, and took out a tablet.

She plopped it down on the island where Savannah was working and pointed to it with the studied deliberation of someone who was totally soused.

“There,” she said. “It was written on a sheet of that. It's the house stationery. We all write our notes on that.”

“Okay. Thanks.” Savannah held up a coffee-sprinkled, salmon-enhanced banana peel. “It helps to know for sure what I'm looking for. Although I'm beginning to have my doubts that it's in here. When was the last time this thing was emptied?”

“Oh, the housekeeper takes it out at least once a day. Although today was her day off, so I guess the trash was taken out yesterday.”

Savannah had reached the bottom of the barrel, so to speak, and had decided that she might never eat again. Now would be the perfect time to start that diet she'd been threatening to go on for the past twenty years.

“Are you absolutely sure that you put it in here?” Savannah asked as she removed the last item, an empty yogurt container, and tossed it into the nearby garbage can.

“Yes, I'm sure,” Robyn said after giving it much consideration. “I'm absolutely sure. I took it off the refrigerator, read it, and then threw it in there. Yes. Positive.”

Her eyes were glazed, her speech slurred, but Savannah didn't doubt her honesty. At this stage of intoxication, she wouldn't have been capable of fabrication.

“And what time was that?”

Again, it took Robyn a few extra seconds to get the brain cells popping. “Um…it was when I came home from the spa. Let's see. About five forty-five or six.”

“So, when was the last time you saw Andrew?”

“This afternoon when I left for the spa. It must have been a little after one. My facial was at one-thirty, so…yes. About one or one-fifteen.”

“What spa was this?”

“Euro-Spa in Twin Oaks.”

That would easy enough to verify. So far, Suspect Numero Dos had an excellent alibi.

But where was this note she claimed to have found? And why wasn't it where she said she'd put it?

One of the crime scene techs passed by, and Savannah called out to her. “Melinda, would you please dust the outside of this compactor for latents?”

“Sure.” The tech hurried over with her kit and set about searching for fingerprints. Even though Savannah was no longer on the police force, she had made a lot of friends there, and many of them were still furious that she had been unfairly terminated all those years ago.

“We miss you, Savannah,” the woman said as she expertly swirled her brush. “It's just not the same, having to deal with Dirk and no Savannah around to dilute the acid, if you know what I mean.”

“He's not so bad,” she replied with a snicker, “if you box him upside the ears every Friday night and keep him in line.”

“You're the only one who's ever been able to do that and survive. He'll take it from you, not from the rest of us.”

“Dirk's crusty, but inside, he's a marshmallow.”

At that moment, Dirk's bass voice roared through the house. “Come on, people! We've got a lot of ground to cover here, and I don't want it to take all friggen night! Let's move!”

Melinda shot Savannah a look. “Oh yeah?” she said. “A real sweetie pie, that Dirk Coulter.”

“You just have to get to know him.”

“No, thanks. Not into rude dudes.”

Dirk paused as he passed the kitchen door, looked in, and saw Savannah taking off her rubber gloves. “Dr. Liu,” he said gruffly, “is getting ready to bag the body. You wanna watch her do it or keep playing with your garbage there?”

“You wanna watch your tone or become a suspicious smell in an attic?” Savannah tossed back.

He looked moderately surprised for a moment, then gave her a big grin and a wink and continued on his way.

“See there,” she said to Melinda. “Coulter's not so bad. You just have to smack him around once in a while.”

 

After helping Robyn Dante to her bedroom and tucking her into her four-poster bed, Savannah went back downstairs to watch the official bagging of the body.

When she stepped out the back door and onto the patio area, she was struck with how very different everything looked fully illuminated. The spooky, surreal red glow from the pool was lost in the harsh luminance from the CSI floodlights. Mounted on six-foot-tall telescoping poles, the portable units cast a bright, shadow-filled light over the whole scene, revealing the stark reality of the crime that had been committed.

Under the unforgiving white lights, the fake corpses looked fake, the faux blood and gore looked faux. And the very real body of Andrew Dante in his strange resting place looked depressingly real.

Savannah walked over to the area around the body that had been cordoned off with yellow tape in a ten-or twelve-foot circle around the coffin. She stopped at the tape and waited for Dirk and Dr. Jennifer Liu to look up from their task and acknowledge her.

Dr. Liu saw her first. The Asian beauty smiled the moment she spotted her, rose, and hurried over to embrace her as well as she could, considering she was wearing bloody gloves. “Savannah,” she said, “so good to see you.”

“You, too, Dr. Jen.”

Savannah glanced down at the sequined miniskirt that stuck out only a couple of inches below the coroner's white lab smock. And below that were black fishnet stockings and a serious pair of black stilettos with four-inch heels.

“Caught you out partying, did they?” Savannah asked with a grin.

“Don't they always?”

“Either you party a lot or they have lousy timing.”

Dr. Liu smiled a naughty, mischievous little smirk. “Or maybe a bit of both.” She nodded toward the body. “You want to see?”

“I already saw, but sure. Let's have another look now that we have lighting.”

Savannah ducked under the tape and walked over to the coffin and its unfortunate occupant. Dirk was squatting next to it, also wearing gloves. He was gingerly lifting the fabric that covered the body's blood-soaked chest with two fingers and looking beneath it.

“Get a load of this,” he told them.

Both women hurried over to him and knelt on either side of the coffin, Savannah next to Dirk.

“What is it?” she asked.

“These clothes…the vampire getup,” he said. “He's not actually wearing it. The stuff's lying on him.”

“What?” Savannah looked closer.

Dirk lifted the edge of the burgundy velvet vest that covered Dante's midriff area. “These weird Dracula clothes. Somebody must have laid them on top of the body. Look. Here are his regular clothes underneath.”

Sure enough. Beneath the costume was a simple, pale blue polo shirt. Under the black pants was a pair of jeans. And he had a pair of Nikes on his feet that were covered by a small piece of black velvet.

“That's weird,” Dr. Liu said as she bent over and began to peel the fabric back herself. “Charles,” she called out to one of the photographers, who was standing nearby taking pictures of the pool area. “Come here, and get some shots of this.”

The young man walked over to them and stepped inside the perimeter tape.

He shuddered when he saw the body. “Wow,” he said. “That's a pretty grisly one. Rough way to go.”

Dr. Liu crooked her finger, beckoning him. Reluctantly, he came closer.

“Zoom in tight on this,” she said as she pulled the vest and white shirt away from the blue polo shirt.

After he had taken several shots, she pulled it further away, and he took more.

Then she laid it back down. “I'll wait till I get him home to take it off. I don't want to lose anything in the way of hair or fiber that might be on it.” She looked around them at the palms, which were dancing in the night breeze. “It's a bit too windy out here tonight for my taste. Something good could blow away.”

Dirk didn't reply. He had stood and was staring down at the body, looking perplexed.

“What is it?” Savannah asked him.

“I'm still wondering…He's a big guy. Bigger than me. And he was in great shape, too. How do you figure he stood still for somebody to ram that thing into his chest? Anybody who would come at me with something like that, I'd go crazy on them. Why didn't he?”

Savannah knelt and looked at the body's hands. “Good point. No defense wounds that I can see. Not a single skinned knuckle, not even a tiny cut.” She turned it over in her mind for a moment or two, then said, “Postmortem, maybe?”

“Maybe,” Dirk said, nodding. “Which would mean that the stake may not even be our murder weapon.”

Dr. Liu had finished directing the photographer and was instructing some of her assistants to lay out the body bag next to the coffin. But she was eavesdropping on their conversation.

“That would make sense,” she said. “That wound just doesn't look right to me.”

“Well, no, a gruesome wound like that, what's right about it?” Savannah looked down at the sticky red gore in the middle of the victim's chest.

“Oh, it's gross all right,” the doctor agreed. “But what I mean is, the wound itself, at least what I can see of it here in this lighting with the body still dressed, it doesn't look right to me. The edges around the wound are very ragged. I'm thinking the stake might have been inserted postmortem. And I'm not totally convinced he was killed here. He may have been, but…”

“What do you mean?” Dirk asked her. “You don't think he was killed here?”

“I don't know, and I won't until I get him on my table. But I have my doubts.”

Dirk and Savannah watched as the coroner and her team unfolded a white sheet and laid it on top of the open, unzipped body bag. Then the four of them lifted the corpse from the coffin and laid it onto the sheet.

Dr. Liu filled out an evidence label and scribbled pertinent information on a toe tag, as well. She removed Dante's tennis shoe and slipped the tag onto his toe.

Savannah smiled—it was a pleasure watching her high level of professionalism. Some coroners waited until the body was in the morgue to put on the toe tag. But years ago, Dr. Liu's predecessor had temporarily mixed up a couple of bodies in the morgue. And since that was one of the main reasons he had lost his job and Dr. Liu had gotten hers, the good doctor was particularly cautious about that sort of thing.

The two men and two women were out of breath by the time they had the body moved, properly bundled in the sheet, and placed into the body transport bag.

Dirk turned to Savannah and said, “If this guy wasn't killed here and somebody moved him—”