A Body To Die For (4 page)

“What do you think about this house we’re going to?” she asked.

“It’s not a house; it’s a hacienda,” he snapped.

Still pissy about the car comment, I see
, she thought. Someday she’d learn not to bait him. He pouted for so long afterward that it was hardly worth it.

“I know it’s a hacienda, as in, big fancy Spanish house. I meant, what do you think about the stories about it being haunted?”

“I think it’s bullshit. And anybody stupid enough to believe in that kind of crap is nuts.”

Boy, still
really
pissy
, she thought.

She cleared her throat. “Okay. Next time I talk to Granny Reid, I’ll be sure to tell her that you think she’s nuts.”

“
She
believes in ghosts?”

“Big time. Calls ’em ‘haunts.’ Don’t ever get her started about the time Great-Granny Robinson came to visit her from the other side of the grave. That story will stand your hairs on end.”

He didn’t reply right away, but she could tell he was dying to ask.

Finally, he gave a little. “Wasn’t your great-grandma an Indian or something?”

“Full-blooded Cherokee.”

Again, a long silence.

“Okay!” he snapped. “What happened?”

“Well, one night, about a month after she died, Great-Grandma came to Gran in a dream. She warned her about a giant black cat that was stalking the—”

He snorted. “Probably one of those fleabags of yours, Di or Cleo. The way you feed those things, they’re the size of lions.”

Savannah shot him a deadly look. “Do you want to hear this story or not? It’s my family folklore. This is deep, serious, spiritual stuff that I’m sharing with you here.”

“Yeah, okay. In a dream, a giant pussycat. Go—”

“Great-Grandma Robinson told Gran, ‘Beware the Spirit of the Black Leopard who roams the woods here ’bouts and—’”

“Hair boats? What’s that?”

Savannah bristled. “Once more, buddy, and you ain’t hearing the end of this story.” She drew a deep breath and dropped her voice an octave before continuing. “Grandma Robinson told Granny that under no circumstances was she to wander near the woods after sundown for the next ten days…until the moon had reached full and then waned. Because if she did the demon spirit that was inhabitin’ that black leopard would not only rip her throat out but also steal the soul clean outta her.”

“Yeah. Right. I hate it when that happens.”

“Laugh it up, fuzz ball. But even though Granny Reid warned everybody in town about her dream, old Angus Carmody went out drinking that next Friday night and got lost on his way home. And when they found him, two days later, he was in the woods, facedown, all scratched to kingdom come, deader than an aged side o’ beef.”

“Throat ripped out, I suppose?”

“Naw, his throat was all right. But still, all those scratches. Deep, ugly, nasty gashes and tears. Hundreds of them. All over his body. What a sight! Folks in them parts still talk about it.”

They rounded several more curves before Savannah added, “’Course, the scratches might have come from that patch of blackberry briars they found him in.”

Dirk gave her one quick, sideways look and a slap on the thigh.

They both laughed.

“And,” he said, “I suppose ol’ Angus Carmody had the soul sucked clean outta him, too.”

“Well, let’s just say nobody’s expecting to meet up with him on heaven’s golden streets after Judgment Day.”

Dirk rounded a curve and slowed the car as they approached a gated driveway on the right side of the road.

“You know,” he said, “one of these days you’re going to pull my leg one time too many, and you’re going to be a very sorry lady.”

“I’m worried plum sick to death.”

“Live in fear, woman. Live in fear.”

“Yeah, yeah. I sleep with my eyes open all night long and a butcher knife under my pillow.”

“You’d better. I could come for you any time.”

“I’d turn Diamante and Cleopatra loose on you, boy. They’d scratch and bite the tar outta you.”

“And suck my soul out?”

“Damn tootin’.”

“Eh, those two would never attack me. I’m the guy who gives them belly rubs and tuna treats.”

“True. They’ve got you well-trained.”

As they turned onto the gravel road, she saw an ornately painted sign above the gate that identified the property as “Rancho Rodriguez.”

“This is it, huh?” she said. “I’ve heard a lot about this place, but I’ve never been here.”

“Me neither. I make a habit of staying away from weird, haunted places. It’s a personal standard I have.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts.”

“Doesn’t mean I’d go out of my way to run into one.”

Savannah recalled the television interviews with the snooty blonde who called anyone with even a few extra pounds a lazy “tub-o.” She thought of the shrill, demanding and demeaning voice she had listened to far too long at the gym.

Clarissa Jardin was the personification of every kid’s nightmare PE teacher from hell.

“I think,” she said, “I’d rather run into a nice friendly ghost than this gal we’re going to interview.”

He gave her a warning look. “You be nice now. You hear me?”

“Su-u-re,” she said with a nasty little grin. “Aren’t I always?”

D
irk drove along the gravel road and stopped just before the gate. He rolled down his window and pushed the call button on the security box.

Moments later, a female voice with a distinct Spanish accent answered. “Hardin residence. May I help you?”

“Hardin?” Dirk said.

“I think that’s the español pronunciation of Jardin,” Savannah whispered.

“May I help you?” the speaker box asked again.

“Yeah. Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter with the San Carmelita Police Department here. Ms. Jardin is expecting me. Let me in.”

It was a while longer—quite a while longer—before the gate finally swung open.

“That was deliberate,” Dirk grumbled as he spun gravel, shooting through. “Keeping me waiting like that…just out of spite…yanking my chain…messin’ with me.”

“You were snippy with her. I keep telling you,” she said, “you’ll catch more flies with sugar then vinegar.”

“Yeah, well, who needs more friggen flies?”

“Good point.”

The Buick’s tires crunched through the gravel as they drove down the long road, through dark clusters of oaks, past groves of avocado, orange, and lemon trees. On either side of the road stood ancient barns, dilapidated outbuildings, and rusting, abandoned farm equipment—all somehow picturesque in their decay, reminding visitors that this had once been a thriving, working ranch.

Ahead, they could see a long, white wall, glowing in the moonlight. And as they drove nearer, they could tell that it was a walled-in enclosure, like a small fortress. The tiled roof of the hacienda was just visible on the far side.

In the center of the wall was an arched entry with a wrought-iron gate and above the gate hung a large bell.

“Wow,” Savannah said. “This is the real thing. You can just tell by looking at that wall it’s been here forever. Back before California was even a state. It’s probably not that different from when this was a great rancho and Don Rodriguez was the lord of it all.”

“Eh, so what. The chain-link fence around my trailer park’s been there since Eisenhower.”

“Gee, I didn’t know that,” Savannah replied dryly, her bubble popped. “I’ll have to look at it with renewed respect the next time you invite me over for a hot dog and a beer.”

Several vehicles were parked near the gate, so Dirk pulled the Buick beside them and killed the engine.

“Are you ready to meet the Queen of Physical Fitness?” he asked as they got out of the car.

“More like the Mistress of Meanness. I’m not going to pretend that I like her, you know. Southern belle or not, I’m getting too old for that crap.”

“The crap of acting civil to jerks?”

“Exactly.”

“Hell, I stopped doing that years ago. In fact, I don’t think I ever did it.”

“Yeah, well, men are smarter than women in that way.”

He stopped in mid-stride and stared at her. “I never thought I’d hear you admit that men are superior to women.”

She sniffed. “Get real, buddy, and clean out your ears. That ain’t even close to what I said. Men…they’re deafer than fence posts.”

Dirk tested the bell gate and found it open. He pushed it and stood aside for Savannah to enter first.

As she brushed by him, felt his body warmth, and smelled his predictable Old Spice shave lotion, she couldn’t help feeling a surge of affection for him. You had to love a guy who always opened every door and let you go through first—unless there was a possible perp with a gun on the other side. And, in that case, he insisted on being first.

You just had to love him…faded Harley-Davidson T-shirt, battered bomber jacket, and all.

But she forgot about Dirk’s attire and gallant ways the moment she stepped through the gate and into the courtyard.

She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting here on Clarissa Jardin’s property. Maybe exercise equipment? Implements of torture? At least, beds of prickly cacti and roses with all thorns and no blossoms?

But the moonlight and a few carefully placed blue accent lights illuminated a virtual fairyland. It was a lush garden, planted with every romantic flower, shrub, and herb imaginable. Hollyhocks, delphinium, foxglove, and rosebushes lined the whitewashed walls of the enclosure. Carnations, asters, peonies, nasturtiums, and geraniums grew in profusion along a rock walkway that wove through the courtyard, toward the house at the far end.

The place looked more like an English garden than a California yard. Lemon blossoms and star jasmine scented the moist night air.

Savannah could easily picture Don Rodriguez with his wife, children, and servants, living a gracious life in a simpler time here in this place. And with the help of the silvery moonlight, she could easily imagine that their ghosts remained, reluctant to leave this tranquil setting.

In the center of it all stood a giant pavilion with elegant, comfortable wicker furniture that provided a seating area fit for any rancho lord and lady and their fortunate guests.

Savannah couldn’t help envying anyone who could bring a morning cup of coffee or an evening glass of wine out to this paradise and spend an hour soaking in the solace of it all, relaxing with their thoughts or a good book.

“Nice,” she said. “Very nice.”

“Eh, your backyard is just as good,” he replied.

“Yeah, sure. How can you even say that? My folding lawn chairs compared to that gorgeous wicker?”

“Your yard has your lemonade. Your yard has you in it.”

She gave Dirk a sideways glance, a bit surprised. Dirk was getting mushy in his old age.

“And your beer is the coldest in town…and free.”

Okay, some things never change
, she thought.

Ahead of them, at the end of the rock walkway, on the side of the courtyard opposite the bell gate, was the house. Savannah had been expecting something larger, having heard all about the land baron who had built it.

It was a long building, two stories high, built in the Monterey style with a Spanish tiled roof, white adobe walls, and a railed balcony that stretched across the upper level, from one end to the other.

The windows glowed with golden light that spilled out in patches onto the garden flowers. And through one of the windows, they saw a couple of figures moving, walking back and forth, in what looked like a dining room.

Both the upper and lower stories of the house had several doors each, as though the rooms were situated end to end and each had its own outside door.

“Looks sorta like the Blue Moon,” Dirk said, referring to San Carmelita’s most notorious no-tell motel.

“I guess architecture is a little different now than it was back when guys rode horses and ladies wore corsets and petticoats.”

He shot her a mischievous look. “What? You don’t wear corsets?”

“Only in your dreams.”

They walked up to the door in the center of the house, the one that seemed most likely to be the main door. Dirk knocked on it, using his officious SCPD knock that was just short of pounding.

In less than a minute, a short, robust, Latina lady answered. She was wearing a bright red shirt and simple navy slacks. She had an ageless quality about her—flawless, golden skin with glossy black hair—and could have been anywhere from forty to sixty years old.

She gave them a gracious, though somewhat guarded, “Hello? May I help you?”

Dirk presented his badge. “I’m Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter with the San Carmelita Police Department.” He nodded toward Savannah. “And this is Savannah Reid. We need to talk to Clarissa Jardin.”

Before the woman could reply or invite them inside, a woman appeared behind her. And even though Savannah had seen Clarissa Jardin’s face in the media often enough to recognize her instantly, she was shocked at the difference between the public and private Clarissa.

Gone was the hardcore, militaristic, overbearing despot of the gym scene.

Dressed in a white Victorian style nightgown and a flowing robe of peacock-blue satin paisley, she was the quintessential demure lady. Even her signature blond mane was tied back with a blue ribbon.

“Detective,” she said, as she hurried forward to greet them, “please come in. Thank you for responding so quickly. I’m so relieved you’re here.”

She reached around the other woman and pulled the door open wider. “Maria, please get our guests something to drink. What will you have, Detective Coulter, and…is it…
Detective
Reid?”

“No, just ‘Savannah’ will do,” Savannah replied warily. “And I don’t need any refreshments, thank you.”

“Me either,” Dirk added. “We should probably get down to business, you know…the business that you called the station house about.”

Clarissa turned to Maria. “If our guests don’t need anything to eat or drink, you may be excused. Good night.”

“Good night, Señora.”

With a slight nod of her head, the maid left. And Savannah couldn’t help but feel that, in spite of Clarissa Jardin’s gentle demeanor, Maria seemed all too happy to leave her mistress’s presence.

Savannah and Dirk stepped through the small doorway and into the living room.

Again, Savannah was struck by the fact that this house, although it had been owned by a wealthy, powerful landowner, was quite modest, by today’s standards.

The room wasn’t much larger than Savannah’s, but much more expensively furnished, she had to admit.

The items that Clarissa or her decorator had chosen were a strange combination. From the enormous tapestry that nearly covered the far wall, to the dark, hand-carved, Victorian furniture and the stained glass and wrought-iron sconces, to the leather mission-style sofa, it was a strange mishmash of styles and periods.

Even with her own limited knowledge of décor, Savannah was pretty sure that Don Rodriguez had never planted his tushy on anything as fancy as that dainty, diamond-tufted, velvet chair in the corner.

“This is a neat place you got here,” Dirk said. “Cool what you did with it.”

Savannah nearly gagged. She knew he didn’t give a hoot about decorating, and that he was only kissing up to get the interview off to a good start. Either that, or he was remembering how good Clarissa looked on that gym poster…her and her perky hind end.

Savannah put that notion out of her mind immediately. It wasn’t professional to smack your partner in front of others, and thought control was the first step to avoiding violence.

“Come, have a seat,” Clarissa said, indicated the sofa with a queenly wave. “Make yourselves comfortable.”

Dirk sat down first. He moved his hand over the leather, and said, “Ah-h-h, very, very nice. Soft as a baby’s bottom,” in a voice that Savannah could only describe as “gooshey.”

She plopped down next to him and shot him a withering look. Like he would know, Mr. Never-Changed-A-Diaper-In-His-Life. She knew the ins and outs of his love life, or lack thereof, as well as her own. And she was pretty darned sure that the only butt he’d had his hand on in a long time was his own…which was probably part of the problem.

“Yeah, well, all that crap aside,” Savannah said, turning to Clarissa, “tell me something, Ms. Jardin. Your husband has been missing for five days. Why are you just now calling the cops?”

She certainly had their attention now. Both of them stared at her with open mouths.

Clarissa’s astonishment quickly turned to indignation. “I’m sure,” she said, “that Detective Coulter here was just making a bit of small talk before approaching more…difficult…topics.”

“That’s right,” Dirk added. “I was gonna lead up to it, a little more subtle-like.”

Subtle?
Savannah thought.
Since when?
Dirk was as skilled at “subtle” as he was at diaper changing.

“I don’t mean to be blunt, Ms. Jardin,” Savannah said, “but I’d think if you’re so all-fired worried about your husband, we probably don’t need to be wasting time, chatting about refreshments, or decorating, or which is softer…your couch or a baby’s butt.”

Dirk reached over, placed his hand on Savannah’s thigh, and gave it a little squeeze. “What Savannah is trying to say is that we need to get going on this investigation as soon as possible. Five days is a long time for a person to be unaccounted for.”

Savannah put her own hand around Dirk’s wrist and squeezed so hard that she felt him flinch. He quickly removed it.

“That’s okay,” Clarissa said as she and her nightgown and her satin robe floated over to a Victorian fainting couch, where she sat down. She folded her hands in her lap. “I’m accustomed to being treated rudely,” she said. “It’s just part of being a celebrity.”

“Really? Hm-m-m,” Savannah replied. “I’ve never been rude to Julia Roberts or Halle Berry.”

Dirk gave her another warning look.

Clarissa glanced quickly over Savannah’s figure and smiled ever so slightly. Her eyes were cold when she said, “But then, Julia Roberts or Halle Berry don’t take a public stand against obesity the way I do. That makes me unpopular with…” She gave Savannah another quick visual sweep. “…with some people.”

A fantasy flashed across the screen of Savannah’s imagination. A delicious fantasy that involved an enormous sword and Clarissa Jardin’s suddenly disembodied head flying through the air, landing on a Georgia dirt road, and getting kicked into a ditch. The whole daydream took less than two seconds and ended with Savannah standing by that roadside, bloodied sword in hand, grinning down at the ditch.

It was a well-worn fantasy that had worked for her since seventh grade, when she had first thought of it—when Kathy Murdock had called her and her family “white trash” because she wore hand-me-downs.

The classics held up.

“Oh, a lot of people, celebrities and regular folks, take a public stand against obesity, for health purposes and all,” Savannah replied evenly. “But they don’t make a living from wounding people’s spirits and encouraging them to despise themselves and their own bodies.”

Dirk cleared his throat loudly, reached into his jacket pocket and produced a pad and pen. “Let me see now, Ms. Jardin—”

She batted her eyelashes at him. “Please, call me Clarissa. Everyone does.”

That’s not what I call you
, Savannah thought, but she decided to be professional and keep it to herself.
It’s a bit late now for “professional,” Savannah
, the inner critic suggested. It also whispered that perhaps she hadn’t accompanied Dirk on this little jaunt for the altruistic reason of helping her old friend solve his case. She might have tagged along because she was hoping for a chance to take a swipe at Clarissa Jardin—a woman who was in trouble, whose husband was missing.