LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

      She decided to shut up.

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