Sour Grapes (A Savannah Reid Mystery #6) (23 page)

guard down. Remember what I said about always being in groups and keeping the door locked at all times."

Atlanta gave her an exasperated look. "Can't you stop being a big sister even for minute?"

"A whole minute? That's a lot to ask. I've been a big sister since I can remember."

Atlanta reached down and trailed her fingers over

the guitar's strings and mumbled something under her

breath.

"I didn't quite catch that," Savannah said.

'That's probably a good thing," Atlanta replied. "What did you come up here for anyway? To check and see if the door was locked?"

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Savannah drew a deep breath, knowing she was swimming into shark-infested waters. "Mrs. Lippincott and Catherine Villa have asked some counselors from

Mental Health Services to drop by this afternoon and

talk to anyone who might be upset about this thing with

Barbie and--"

"I'm not that upset."

"I know. You're handling it very well. But! was thinking that maybe you and I could speak to one of the

counselors about, you know, what I found under the bathroom sink."

The look on Atlanta's face was even worse than

Savannah had expected. Savannah had seen the same E..xpression on the mugs of guys who had just been

tapped with a stun-gun.

"Are you kidding?! You've got to be kidding! Like I'm going to discuss something like that with a complete

a:ranger! Forget about it. It ain't happening."

"'Lanta, I'm worried about you. Very worried. So, rm going to speak to a counselor about you."

"Not without me there, you aren't You're not going :o talk about me behind my back."

Savannah slipped her shoes back on, stood, and walked to the door. "I'm so glad you changed your nind. I'll make the appointment for later this after-loon."

She quickly stepped out of the room and closed the

ioor behind her. It was only a couple of seconds until he heard something hit the other side. Mum, she bought, too small to be a guitar. . . must have been a hair- 'mush or sneaker

It was definitely time to make tracks in the opposite

lirection.

SOUR GRAPES 227

* * *

A few minutes later, she was standing at the pay phone near the rest rooms downstairs, her calling card in her hand. After punching in the required 7,053 numbers she heard a soft voice on the other end.

"Hi, Gran," she said. "Have you got a minute for me?"

"For you, my darlin', I have two. And from the tone of your voice, I'd say you might need three or four."

Savannah glanced around, making sure she was alone, and then she leaned back against the wall, sighed, and began, "It's 'Lanta, Gran. I'm worried about her. I noticed that she's lost a lot of weight since I saw her last, and then I found these . . ."

C avannah had been told that Angela Herriot, one of Lithe counselors from Mental Health Services, was in the courtyard. So she was there, looking for her, when her purse buzzed. It was Dr. Liu, calling with her latest lab results.

`he fibers are from an automobile carpet," Jennifer said, "just as I thought. Sorry, I can't tell you the year and model of the car, but the carpet is black. . . and new. This type of nylon blend has only been in commercial use for the past two years."

"Okay, black and new. That should help."

"And the shampoo did have drain cleaner in it. A standard brand available in any grocery store. There were several prints on the bottle that were the victim's

and two that matched the sample Dirk sent over."

"Dirk sent you a print?"

"Yes, a thumbprint from a driver's license. . .just a minute and I'll tell you the name. . . ."

Savannah heard her shuffling papers. She adored Dr. Jen, such a fount of knowledge. What would they do without her?

"Desiree Porter."

Savannah grinned. 'That's what I was hoping to hear."

'Then you'll probably be delighted to hear that the

evening gown was cut."

"Cut? Not just torn?"

"Nope. Scissors were definitely used. It had to be deLiberate."

"Ah, ha! You're right; I'm delighted. Thank you, Sweet Stuff. I'm so-o-o grateful."

"Hey, that's Doctor Sweet Stuff to you!"

"Forgive me, oh Lettered One."

"You don't have to kiss up. Just bring chocolate. I'm having a vicious attack of PMS."

'Then I'll bring potato chips, too."

As Savannah replaced the phone in her purse, she taw a vision of color walking across the courtyard, a andsome black woman of generous proportions, iressed in a colorful caftan and head wrap. The garnent billowed around her as she moved among the pot

rd palms and patio furniture.

Savannah had dealt with Angela Herriot several

imes before and was impressed with her: a nolonsense, down-to-earth shrink who told it like it was. knd Savannah knew she was particularly adept at dealng

with young people, having served a three-year senence as a middle-school counselor.

She took off after her, feeling better already. With

Dr. Liu's latest report and professional help within reach for Atlanta, things were definitely looking up.

Things were in the crapper.

Although Atlanta was sitting across the room, officially attending the meeting that Savannah had arranged

between them and Angela Herriot, she hadn't spoken a single word. So, it had been a fairly tense and unproductive thirty-one minutes thus far.

Thirty-two.

Savannah watched the digital clock on Catherine

Villa's desk change. She was sure that if it had been a windup timepiece, she would have been able to hear it ticking.

Catherine had volunteered her office as a private

place for Angela to council the traumatized girls. With its picture window that looked directly into the winery's

massive fermentation room and its old gentleman's

club decor, the room was cozy enough.

But, so far, Savannah was the only one who had set an appointment. The girls had other, more important, things on their minds; the talent show and final judging were that evening.

So, they had Angela all to themselves.

The psychologist had pulled Catherine's chair out

from behind her desk and dragged it around so that

she could sit facing both sisters. She sat with one ankle propped on the opposite knee, the full skirt of her caftan flowing about her. Around her neck and dripping from her earlobes were ornate, handmade beads of the same brilliant reds, greens, and oranges as her dress and turban. Eight of her ten fingers were adorned with

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at least one ring; some had two or three. If nothing else, Angela was fun to look at.

"So, if you don't want to talk, Atlanta, why are we here?" she asked. There was nothing subtle--in dress or demeanor--about Angela Herriot.

Finally, the statue spoke. "I don't know why she's here." She jabbed a thumb in Savannah's direction. "I'm here so that she doesn't talk trash about me behind

my back."

"And what sort of trash do you think she's going to

say about you?" Angela asked.

Atlanta hummed and hawed for a moment, then shrugged. "I don't know. She's just making a big deal outta some stuff that's not a big deal. She's always done that, and I hate it."

"Making a big deal out of something . . . ," Angela

thought for a moment. "Do you mean the laxatives that you've been taking to lose weight?"

Atlanta shot Savannah a hateful look. "Yes. She was poking around in my stuff and then she started asking

questions that were very personal."

"And why do you suppose she did that?"

"Because she's a nosy, controlling busybody who doesn't trust me to run my own life."

Savannah bit her tongue and listened while Angela

continued. "Do you suppose your sister might have had any other reason for confronting you the way she did, for insisting that you talk to a professional?"

Atlanta shuffled her feet and stared down at the ornate

pattern of the Oriental rug on the floor. "I guess she's worried. But she doesn't need to be."

"Are you using laxatives to lose weight, Atlanta?" Atlanta gazed out the window for a long time before

giving a slight nod.

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"Do you induce vomiting?"

"No. I hate to puke."

Angela smiled. "I'm glad to hear that. Most of us do. And do you binge eat?"

"Sometimes. . . if I've been dieting for a long time really strict, I get hungry and I pig out, like a whole pint of ice cream and half a package of cookies."

Savannah gulped, thinking of her own extravagances. Bingeing? Wasn't a pint of Chunky Monkey and a package of Oreos just your run-of-the-mill dessert? An entire peanut butter chocolate-dipped cheesecake

along with the Chunky Monkey, the Oreos, and a dozen Wmchell's donuts. . . now that would be a binge.

Not that she had actually ever done that herself, of -course.

"Do you weigh yourself every day, Atlanta?" Angela asked.

She nodded.

"And if your weight is down, do you feel good about it all day? And if it's up, it bums you out?"

Another yes.

"Have you ever fasted to lose weight?"

"Yeah."

"And do you think about your weight a lot . . . like off

and on all day?"

"Yeah, it's important to me to look good."

Angela fingered the beads of her earring thoughtfully.

"And do you think you look good? Are you happy with the way you look?"

"I'm still heavy in my hips and right here." She grabbed half an inch of skin on her bare midriff and

pinched it distastefully. "No matter how much I diet, I can't get rid of that."

"Do you exercise a lot?"

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"I should do a lot more."

Angela said nothing for a long, tense few moments as she studied Atlanta, who sat, squirming, in her chair.

Finally, Angela spoke. "I want to thank you for talking to me about this, Atlanta," she said. "I know it wasn't easy for you. Your sister did the right thing, asking you to speak to a professional about your problem."

"I don't have a problem. That's what I'm trying to tell You."

"You do have a problem, potentially a very serious, possibly fatal eating disorder."

"No way! I've read the lists of symptoms on the Internet, and I'm not bulimic or anorexic. I'm not!"

"I didn't say that you are either of those things. I said that you have an eating disorder. Millions of people do. Thousands die from theirs. If you don't get some help, you might be one of them."

'That's so lame. No way."

"Atlanta, you don't have to have all the symptoms on those lists. Even a few of the signs are reason enough For concern."

Angela turned to Savannah. "I'm going to give you ;ome phone numbers of professionals in Atlanta's area

nTho specialize in eating disorders. It's very important hat she get help and that it be from someone who is ex3erienced

in this field."

"Thank you. I'll take care of it."

"No! I'm not going to see no shrink!" Atlanta began cry. "I'm not crazy, and I'm not helpless. I don't want fly big sister to do that; she's always taking care of me, Ind I hate that!"

"I don't believe you're crazy or helpless," Angela told ier as she reached over and placed her hand on the

;irl's arm. "But these first few steps are very difficult for

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a person to take on her own, and finding a professional and setting up appointments are actions that loved

ones can take for someone in your position. Let her do this for you, Atlanta. Savannah may be bossy sometimes, but I assure you that she loves you very much. Let her help."

Savannah rose from her chair, walked over to Atlanta, and knelt beside her. "Please, sweetie. . . trust me," she said. "I'll find someone who's good, someone you like and can relate to. The right person will make this situation better for you, not worse, I promise."

When Atlanta didn't answer, Savannah took her hands and folded them between her own. "Let me do this for you. Someday when I'm old and senile and can't remember where I left my dentures, I'll need you to make some calls and set up some appointments for

me. . . okay? We'll take turns taking care of each other."

When Atlanta gave a small, curt nod, Savannah felt better.

But when Atlanta threw her arms around Savannah's

neck, buried her face on her shoulder, and sobbed, Savannah found that her own tears were flowing as

freely as her little sister's.

Good tears.

Soul-cleansing tears.

A few minutes later, when Savannah and Atlanta came out of the office, bidding Angela a grateful goodbye, Dirk came rushing up to them, an excited look on his face.

"I've been looking for you all over the place," he told Savannah. "I . . ."

He looked from Savannah to Atlanta and back Both were wiping their eyes and noses with tissues and sniffing.

"I'm

sorry," he said. "Is everything all. . . are you gals all . . . are you okay?"

"We're fine," Savannah said, her arm around Atlanta's shoulders. "What's up, doc?"

"We've got the Gorton kid."

"Francie?" Atlanta asked.

"No, her brother, Trent."

"Where did you find him?" Savannah said.

"In the arcade at the mall. Figures, huh?" He chuckled. "In the old days, when we were looking for a local punk, we checked out the pool halls. Now it's the mall arcade. . . where all the mommies send their little kids when they're shopping. Scary, huh?"

"Very" Savannah tucked the tissue into her pocket. 'So what's next?"

"A lineup. I've got Mrs. Lippincott coming down to he station in an hour to see if he's the one who

hopped off those flowers. Wanna come and watch?" Savannah turned to Atlanta.