Sour Grapes (A Savannah Reid Mystery #6) (25 page)

the girl. As she reached out her hand to touch the body, she knew that Mike Farnon was right. Francie

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Gorton was dead. But until Savannah actually touched her, she wouldn't allow herself to believe it.

Behind her, Dirk wasn't saying anything. He knew, too. But he asked anyway, and she understood why. Hope. Until you absolutely, positively knew for sure . . . there was always hope.

"She's gone," Savannah said. "No pulse, no breathing. No rigor yet. It hasn't been long." She reached down and stroked the long, glossy hair that spilled across the girl's face and onto the floor. "Poor baby, no wonder she stood me up. While I was there at her house, she was . .

Savannah felt Dirk's hand, big, warm and comforting on her shoulder. "Come on, Van. We'll call Dr. Liu. Why don't! walk you up and outta here."

The professional deep in Savannah's mind told her

that they should be searching the floor and every inch

of this stuffy, dark, spooky little room for evidence.

But a louder voice that was speaking from her heart

told her, `To hell with evidence. What does it matter now? You can catch and execute a dozen killers for this, and this sweet, young girl will still be dead."

"I'm sorry, Francie," she said. "I told you I'd look out for you, and . . . I'm so sorry"

Dirk's hands were under her arms, lifting her. 'That's enough. Let's go."

He pulled her to her feet and turned her back toward

the stairs. On rubber legs she climbed the steps into the sunlight. As if she were a feeble, newly released hospital patient, he guided her to the Buick, opened the door, and seated her inside.

After getting her settled, he walked over to the cruiser and shared a few words with Mike Farnon. Then he returned to the car and got in.

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He didn't say anything as they drove away, out of the parking lot and onto the highway, heading back toward Villa Rosa.

It was when they reached the citrus groves that

Savannah lost it. The grief came crashing in on her, so intense that she began to shake all over. Her hands covering her face, she leaned forward in her seat and began to sob.

Immediately, Dirk pulled the Buick off the road and parked it between two rows of lemon trees, where he cut the engine.

He reached over the back of the seat and fumbled

around in the rear floorboard.

"Here, Van," he said, shoving a handful of yellow Wendy's napkins at her. They smelled of ketchup and onions, but she took them anyway and continued to cry into them.

She felt his arms go around her, pulling her to him. Giving in to a rare and luxurious moment of complete

neediness, she sagged against him and buried her face in his warm, solid chest.

"It's okay, honey," he said. "Go ahead and bawl your face off if you wanna. I won't tell nobody." He patted her head like she was a distressed golden retriever. Then he began to slowly run his fingers through her

hair, from the nape of her neck and out. It was deliciously soothing.

"That's why I got you outta there right away," he said. "You looked like you were gonna start blubbering any

minute."

"Th-th-thanks," she said, hiccuping.

"No sweat. It ain't nothin' you wouldn't do for me. Except, of course, I wouldn't actually be cryin', but you being' a broad and all, you can do that sorta thing and--"

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"Dirk . . ."

"Yeah?"

"You're ruining the moment. Just shut up and hug ne."

"Oh . . . okay."

His arms tightened around her until she could

iardly breathe. But she liked it. She felt that same, lweet, protected feeling that she had experienced as a cid when Gran would allow her to crawl into bed beside

ter in the middle of a big, scary lightning storm.

She felt safe. She felt loved.

"I liked that thing you were doing. . . you know . . . with my hair," she said, her face still against his chest. He hesitated, then reached up, laced his fingers into ter curls and combed them through. "You mean this?" -Es voice sounded husky, a little breathless.

"Yeah, just like that. Thanks."

"You're welcome, honey." He pressed his lips to her 'orehead and gave her a long, sweet kiss, then put an)ther, quicker one, on her cheek. "Sh-h-h . . . be quiet tow." he said. "You're ruinin' the moment."

avannah could feel the electricity in the air. It was athe final night, talent contest, final judging, the warding of the Miss Gold Coast crown, and the girls sere almost hysterical with excitement.

But there wasn't enough energy in a nuclear power

31ant to recharge her depleted batteries. The only force lriving her was sheer anger. . . channeled into deternination to catch the son of a bitch that had turned a

ovely girl into a heap of garbage at the bottom of a

nusty, old stairwell.

Not that she knew for sure that anyone was responsi)le

for Francie's death. During Dr. Liu's initial examilation, the only injuries she found were consistent with airing an accidental tumble down a flight of stone

teps.

But Savannah knew she had been pushed. And she as going to find the person who did it and throw them

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off a cliff or out a window or whatever was handy at the

time. . . if she didn't fall down dead. in her tracks from sheer emotional exhaustion and sleep deprivation first.

The evening's festivities were being held, once again, in the tasting room. And Villa Rosa was living up to its name with multicolored bouquets of roses on every

table, roses that had been cut from bushes on the property. The heavenly scent filled the room and spilled out into the gallery, even to the courtyard.

Teenage girls, wearing every sort of garb imaginable, were scurrying about. Ten minutes 'til talent-show time.

Standing in the doorway separating the tasting room

and gallery, Savannah watched them and tried to guess what their talent might be. Some were obvious: the majorette with her baton, the one in the formal black gown carrying a flute, the cowgirl with a rope, another dressed in a tunic and tights, carrying a skull and reciting, "To be, or not to be. . ." under her breath.

She had left a tense Atlanta upstairs, strumming her guitar and making strange sounds that she called, "warming-up exercises." Savannah hoped that she would at least place somewhere in the top five. If she didn't, she was going to be difficult to get along with . . . even more difficult than usual. And if one of the Reid gals got to be cranky tonight and tomorrow, Savannah had already decided that she was the one. After the day she'd had, she deserved it.

On second thought . . . it had been a pretty rotten week The whole month hadn't been that great.

But before she plunged headfirst into the deep end

of the self-pity pool, she reminded herself of Francie's mother--her daughter in the morgue and her son in Juvenile Hall for malicious mischief, suspected of mur

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der. No matter what was going on, somebody else always had it worse.

"Is it true?"

Savannah turned around to see Marion Lippincott, her perpetual notebook in her hand, tier tortoiseshell glasses perched on the end of her nose, a worried look on her face.

"You mean about Francie?" Savannah asked. "Yes. I just heard that--"

"It's true. But it may have been an accident."

Marion's eyes searched hers, and Savannah knew she was taking into account her tear-swollen lids and red

nose that a generous dusting of powder hadn't remedied.

She

also knew that the All-Seeing Mrs. Lippincott didn't believe it had been an accident either.

Marion glanced around, then took Savannah's arm. "Come with me," she said.

She led her out into the courtyard where they found

a private spot beside the fountain, which was lit with pink floodlights in honor of the final night of competition.

"I

wasn't going to mention this," Marion said, "because I didn't think it was important. But this morning, when I was at breakfast, I left my notebook on the table and walked away for a few minutes to attend to something.

When I came back, it was open."

Savannah tried to think what value this information

might be. But it wasn't readily apparent.

"So?"

"It was open to a particular page."

Marion moved closer to a lantern that hung from an

ivy-entwined wrought-iron pole and held her notebook

up to the light for Savannah to see.

LA -14

ATI...AV./GOY

She looked over the page which had a list of names

with columns of numbers next to them. Other than recognizing some of the names as the contestants', it made

no sense to her.

"I'm sorry. I don't see your point," she told her.

"This is a summary of the judges' tally sheets. . . so far, that is. It shows how they scored the girls in their evening gowns."

Savannah was tempted to sneak a peek at Atlanta's

marks, but resisted. "Okay. And?"

"And, as of this morning, before she left, Frande was ahead. She was winning the Miss Gold Coast crown."

A lightbulb switched on in Savannah's tired brain. "I see. And whoever was looking at that page at breakfast, they would have known she was ahead."

'That's right. This was my first pageant with Francie, but she was a lovely, poised, inteffigent girl, and they say she played the violin beautifully. She had an excellent shot at winning this one, or any other pageant she chose to enter."

"Hmm." Savannah stood, thinking, watching the fountain for a moment, as its water tumbled from one tier to the next, sparkling like myriad tiny pink sapphires in the rosy light

She thought of the dark stairwell at the old mission. "This morning, according to your book, who was in second place?" she asked.

"Take a guess," Marion Lippincott replied. "Desiree Porter?"

"Desiree Porter."

Savannah was so proud that she was very simply

about to bust Rather than risk another bout of "You

SOUR GRAPES 253

Never Support Me in Anything I Do" with Atlanta, she had staked out a seat, front and center, for her sister's talent presentation. She had wanted to make sure that Atlanta couldn't miss her when she looked out over the

audience.

But now that she was sitting there, looking up at a talented young woman who also just happened to be her

sibling, Savannah was thrilled to her toes.

With all the confidence and talent of an experienced

professional, Atlanta was belting out an energetic version of the old country classic "Silver Threads

and Golden Needles," and her California audience was enthralled. Most were clapping and some were even singing along on the chorus. She was receiving a far more enthusiastic response than the flute player or

the baton twirler.

Savannah watched, mentally recording every detail to relate to Gran later on the phone. She knew that it was a memory she would replay herself many times, just for the sheer joy of it. This picture was one of those that would hang in her own special "Atlanta Gallery' for the

rest of her life.

When the song was finished and the applause roared

through the tasting room, Savannah felt her eyes fill with tears. Again. For the third time that day.

It had to be a record for a non-PMS week.

And, as usual, she had no tissues.

Since Dirk wasn't around with a handful of fast-food

joint napkins, she decided to run to the ladies' room and get something to wipe away the sniffles. As soon as Atlanta exited the stage, bowing all the while, Savannah left her seat and made her way through the side door

and into the hallway.

As she approached the rest rooms, she was surprised

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see Anthony Villa, who was coming out of the men's -00M.

Wasn't he supposed to be in there judging the corn)etition?

She hated to think he had missed that mar-rebus Reid performance.

He looked preoccupied, even worried, and didn't leem to notice her.

Just as he passed the pay phone on the wall, it rang. -le jumped as though the thing had shot a string of bulets

at him, and the color drained out of his face.

Savannah watched, fascinated, as he stood there, first -eaching out to touch the receiver, then pulling his land back--a man torn with indecision.

It's just a phone, she thought. Pick it up for heaven's

But he didn't. He stood there, hand outstretched, ingers trembling, but he didn't.

Instead, he began to walk away, so fast that he nearly an headlong into Savannah.

"Oh," he said. "Ms. Reid. I didn't know you were . . . didn't see you and . . ."

The phone rang again. And again.

Savannah stared at Anthony Villa, watching as his tnxiety seemed to grow by the second. "Are you going answer that?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No, it's probably nothing. And I lave to get in there for the judging."

"Okay. Then I'll answer it," she said. "It might be im)ortant."

Savannah strolled over to the telephone, feeling his !yes on her, feeling the tension radiate out of him in alnost palpable waves.

She picked up the receiver. "Hello?" She listened for moment, then said, "No, this isn't Henry's Pizza. I'm

SOUK liKAt'ES 255

afraid you have the wrong number. This is a pay phone."

Hanging up, she turned to Anthony, who looked like he was going to melt into a big puddle right there on

the floor. She had never seen anyone look so relieved.

What the hell had he been expecting? A call from the grave?

"I. . . I. . . really should get back now," he muttered. "Yes," she said smoothly. "You really should, you being a judge and all."