Killer Honeymoon Part 4

And he certainly didn't like being ignored.

"Naw," he replied. "Let 'em contaminate the scene a little more. There might be some area of it that they haven't tromped on yet."

"Maybe they're waiting for the dogcatcher and the librarian to arrive and lay down a few more footprints here and there."

"Smash some more evidence down into the sand."

"Handle the body and see if they can drop a little more hair and fibers on it before they bag it."

They sighed and shook their heads in unison, as only a pair who had worked together far too many years and processed far too many crime scenes together would do.

"Somebody might've already took off with that purse back there," he grumbled.

"If any woman who wears that size shoe sees those pumps, she's gonna nab them and giggle all the way home, figuring she's. .h.i.t the jackpot."

Dirk watched the woman in the suit walk over to the body, once again, and stand there, staring off into the ocean, as though hoping the sea would offer clues as to what had happened on land. "Not our problem," he said.

"Apparently, not even our concern," she replied.

"If they ain't worried, why should we be?"

As they stood there in silence and watched one of the patrolmen pick up a small bit of seaweed, look it over, and then throw it down, Savannah felt her indignation rise to uncontrollable levels.

"If I don't do something, I'm gonna pop," she told him. "That woman layin' there has a right to a proper investigation. If these nincomp.o.o.ps aren't gonna give her one, we are. Come on."

"But-"

Before he could register any sort of complaint, Savannah was gone, striding across the sand toward the body and the gal in the black suit. She was a woman with a purpose. Following a few paces behind her, Dirk knew better than to try to stop her when her mind was set, her mission as clear as this one was.

By the time he caught up with her, she was already in the midst of her verbal tirade, giving the woman in black what-for.

As usual, when Savannah's ire was raised to dizzying heights, her Southern accent was as thick as Mississippi sorghum.

". . . nothing like this in all my ever-livin' days," she was saying, her hands on her hips, her face only inches from the woman's. "My partner . . . uh . . . husband and I told that young patrolman over there that we were eyewitnesses to the whole thing. And we've been standing over there by that rock, our teeth in our mouths, waiting for somebody to give a tinker's d.a.m.n and come question us about what we saw. But nooo. Y'all are too busy p.u.s.s.yfooting around here, accomplishing absolutely nothing to-"

"Excuse me?" the woman interjected. "Do you want to tell me who the h.e.l.l you are?"

"Savannah Reid . . . er, Coulter . . . um, Reid. I'm a private detective from the mainland and a former cop. This is my husband, Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter, of the San Carmelita Police Department. We saw this woman get shot and watched her die. So it might behoove you knuckleheads to have a word with us about what happened here, before you do much more muckin' around."

Savannah glanced down at Amelia Northrop's lifeless corpse, her sightless eyes, and a wave of sadness and pity swept through her. "Except maybe to cover up that poor woman's body," she said. "If you have something clean that won't contaminate it any more than y'all have already done."

The woman in black stood there quietly for a long moment, studying first Savannah, then Dirk, with eyes so dark they didn't seem to have pupils. Her black hair was short and lay in tight waves close to her scalp.

She was a large woman, as tall as Savannah and just as full-figured. Her rigid posture suggested a military background; the scowl on her face and the way her black eyes bored into both of them might have intimidated lesser souls.

"Yeah!" Dirk snapped. "You wanna hear what we got or not? We have better things to do than cool our heels at your crime scene. We're on our honeymoon, you know."

"No, I didn't know," she replied coolly. "In fact, no one even told me that we had eyewitnesses."

At that moment, a patrolman rushed up to them and tried to wedge himself between the woman and Savannah. Savannah gave him a look that caused him to think better of it. He moved aside just a little.

"Sorry, Chief," he said to the woman. "I don't know how they got out here." He turned to Savannah and Dirk. "You two can't be here. We've got a dead . . . I mean . . . we're conducting an investigation, and you don't belong on the beach."

"Actually, Franklin, it appears they do," the newly identified chief of police told him. "In fact, someone should have notified me of their presence long ago. It seems they're eyewitnesses to the killing."

"Oh," Franklin said sheepishly. "I didn't know. . . ."

"What's worse, I didn't know." The chief gave the young man a withering look, which made Savannah feel a little sorry for him.

After having been fired from the police force by a crooked chief, she wasn't fond of "the bra.s.s." And this woman in her austere black suit, with her piercing black eyes and her black mood, seemed to be a particular pain in the "bra.s.s."

Savannah didn't envy Franklin having to work for her.

"You and I will discuss this later," the chief told the patrolman.

He ducked his head and scurried away, reminding Savannah of Beauregard the bloodhound, after an especially harsh scolding from Granny Reid-usually regarding the evils of chicken chasing.

The woman held out her hand to Savannah. "I'm Chief Charlotte La Cross, of the Santa Tesla Police Department. I regret all the inconvenience your waiting must have caused you," she added with more than a touch of sarcasm in her voice.

Although she didn't look all that remorseful, Savannah shook her proffered hand anyway. After all, there was little advantage to offending the chief of police-any more than she already had.

Though Savannah figured any former rudeness on her part should be overlooked.

What? This gal never heard of wearing a uniform, or, at the very least, a badge? she thought. How was she supposed to know the woman was the frickin' chief of police before she ripped into her, verbal guns ablazin'?

Any decent person would have held up a warning hand and said something like, "Excuse me. Before you dig your grave any deeper, you should know you're addressing the head honcho here." Especially once an uninformed body started using words like "knuckleheads" and "muckin' around" to make their point.

Savannah swallowed a little lump in her throat, which tasted just a tad like crow, and said, "Nice to make your acquaintance, Chief La Cross. Or, at least, it would be, under pleasanter circ.u.mstances. You'll have to pardon me if my words had a bit of an edge to them earlier. You see, we've had a pretty rough last couple of hours."

"Yeah," Dirk said, accepting the lukewarm handshake that was offered to him as well. "When we set out this morning to have a nice, relaxing day here on your pretty little island, we weren't expecting to wind up in a situation like this."

"No. I don't suppose you were." Chief La Cross studied them for a long time before adding in a guarded tone, "Hardly any serious crimes occur on Santa Tesla. Certainly, no violent crimes. Why, this island is the closest thing you'll find to paradise anywhere on G.o.d's green earth."

Savannah couldn't help wondering what travel brochure she had taken that line from. It reminded her that tourism was everything to Santa Tesla and its permanent inhabitants. Without mainland dollars flowing through its stores, hotels, and eateries, the island's economy would collapse within weeks.

It also occurred to Savannah that if word got out that an innocent woman had been gunned down in cold blood on one of their beautiful, pristine beaches, that might not be good for Santa Tesla's bottom line.

Although, considering the ident.i.ty of the victim, it certainly wasn't a secret that could be kept. Short of a media blackout, this would be the lead story on the six o'clock news.

Amelia Northrop was as well known for her ferocious approach to expository journalism as she was for her exceptional beauty. More than one of her scathing, in-depth reports had brought people in high places, their companies and organizations, their extravagant lifestyles, crashing to the ground.

Savannah couldn't help thinking that if she were Chief La Cross, the first place she'd look would be that list of former demiG.o.ds and demiG.o.ddesses, now ruined and publicly disgraced.

The chief turned from Savannah and Dirk, long enough to wave over the second patrolman on the beach.

"How long until you'll be bagging this body for transport?" Chief La Cross asked him.

"Uh, well, Martin has to take some pictures of it before we-"

"Then tell him to get them taken, and then either remove it or cover it with a tarp. The press will be arriving any minute. If any unauthorized photos are taken, I'm holding you two responsible."

"Yes, Chief."

The patrolman hurried away and returned almost instantly with the man in the smock, who took out a camera and began taking shot after shot of the body.

Chief La Cross led Savannah and Dirk across the beach, back to where they had been standing beside the rocks. "So," she said, "what do you have to tell me about this? What exactly did you see?"

"We saw that woman run out of the woods toward the water," Dirk told her. "We heard the shots and saw her fall."

"If you want more detail than that," Savannah added, "we'd be glad to fill in all the blanks. But before we do that, you've got some evidence lying just around the corner and down the sh.o.r.e a piece."

"What evidence?" La Cross asked.

"Some discarded high heels and a purse."

A look pa.s.sed over the chief's face that Savannah recognized. It was one she'd seen many times. It was an expression that flashed across someone's features, right before they told a lie.

"That's good," the chief said evenly. "Maybe it's hers and will have her ID in it. Then we can find out who she is."

Savannah stared at her for a long time, searching her eyes. Finally she said, "Are you telling me that you don't know who that is, lying back there on the beach?"

"No. Why would I? Do you?"

It was another lie. Savannah could tell, and one quick glance at Dirk told her that he knew it, too.

"Of course I do," Savannah replied. "I'm surprised that you don't. It's the news reporter Amelia Northrop. One of your more prominent and famous residents, I should think."

For what seemed like a very long time, Savannah and Chief La Cross stood, staring into each other's eyes with the intensity of a couple of gunfighters. Finally it was the chief who broke the silence.

"You may be right. You may be wrong," she said. "But until we know for sure, I'm going to insist that you keep your opinion to yourself. You're to say nothing to anyone at all about what you think you saw here today. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

Savannah didn't like her tone. She didn't like the chief's black suit or the way her eyes bored into hers. She didn't like her ramrod posture that gave the impression Chief La Cross was constantly looking to fight with anyone over anything . . . and expected to win every fight she began.

Dirk took a step toward the chief, his own stiff body language telegraphing his fury. "Now see here," he began.

Savannah held up one hand, signaling him to let her have this one. It was a gesture she'd used many times over the years, and he knew better than to ignore it.

He backed off.

"Now, Chief Charlotte La Cross," she began, her accent thick and bittersweet, "you don't want to go threatenin' me like that. Last I checked, there was still freedom of speech in this country."

"If you mean by 'this country' the United States of America, let me remind you that Santa Tesla Island may be a territory of the U.S., but we are self-governing in every way. We have our own system of law enforcement, and I'm the head of that system, so you will do exactly as I say, or you'll find yourself spending your honeymoon in separate cells in our jail."

She smiled, but there was no warmth in it. In fact, it reminded Savannah of a great white shark. And there was a conviction in her dark eyes that convinced Savannah she meant every word she was saying.

Dirk stepped closer to the chief; his eyes were no friendlier than hers. And he wasn't bothering with any sort of smile, warm and genial, or carnivorous. "The shoes and the purse are down the beach, that direction," he said through a clenched jaw, "under some bushes. Back where your patrolmen are tromping through the trees, there are some spent cartridges. From what little we observed, the shots seemed to come from that direction. Beyond that, my wife and I have nothing more to say to you."

He reached over, took Savannah's hand, and tucked it tightly into the crook of his arm. "If you need anything else, we'll be trying to enjoy what's left of our honeymoon in the lighthouse keeper's cottage. Good luck with your case. Something tells me you're going to need it."

"I hope you solve this murder," Savannah added as they walked away, "for the victim's sake, if not for yours. She died horribly. She deserves some justice."

Savannah could feel La Cross watching them, until they had rounded the rocks and were beyond her sight.

For some reason that she couldn't quite understand, but didn't want to think too much about, her eyes filled with tears. She tried to blink them away, but Dirk saw them.

"If you want me to," he said, "I'll go back and stomp a mud hole in her, as you Confederates like to say."

"Naw. Wouldn't be very gentlemanly, you whompin' a woman."

"You sure she's a woman? Something tells me that under that suit, she's got bigger gonads than mine."

She gouged him in the ribs with her elbow. "But not as big as mine!"

"Baby, n.o.body's got a set like yours!"

"Don't you forget it." She leaned closer and rested her head on his shoulder. He kissed the top of her head.

"Thanks for the offer," she said, "but I don't want you to thump her on my behalf. If you did, I'd have to jump into the affray and, like she said, we'd be spending our honeymoon behind bars instead of making wild whoopee in a beautiful lighthouse."

"We could find out which car is hers and put Limburger cheese on her manifold."

"Now you're talkin'."

Chapter 5.

Much later, Savannah and Dirk settled down for the evening in the living room of the lightkeeper's cottage, having brought their luggage over from the motel. After searching through her suitcase, Savannah had donned the sleazy leopard-print negligee her sisters had given her as a bridal gift, thinking it might impress Dirk. When she'd appeared in all her glory, Dirk had given her a hearty wolf whistle and motioned her over onto the double chaise lounge where he was sprawled.

He'd dressed up special for her, too. He was wearing his briefs. As they snuggled on the chaise in front of the fireplace, a soft afghan across their laps, Savannah contemplated-not for the first time that hour-how to murder her new husband and get away with it.

Of course, she would never actually do such a thing. But she found that, as she listened to him b.i.t.c.h and moan about absolutely everything under the sun, fantasizing about husband-cide could relieve a lot of pent-up stress.

"This bathtub c.r.a.p just doesn't cut it. A man has to take a shower. Baths are for girls."

That complaint had prompted her to wonder how long it would take for a man to drown if he was dangled upside down by his feet . . . out a two-story window . . . in a Category 17 hurricane.

"This refrigerator doesn't get cold enough. My beer won't get cold enough. You know I can't stand it when my beer isn't cold enough!"

How long, she had wondered, could a guy survive, folded into quarters and stuffed into that undersized, theoretically lukewarm refrigerator? Could you fold a fellow in eighths and shove him into that tiny freezer? Would he suffocate right away, or would the hypothermia get him first?

"That looks like a feather bed! I can't sleep on a feather bed! They're way too soft! I need a good, hard surface for my bad back! Call that Betty Sue gal and tell her to get me a plank of plywood to put on top of that thing. Otherwise, I'll toss and turn all night, and you know how cranky I get when I don't get a good night's sleep."

If you rolled a grumpy curmudgeon up in a feather bed mattress, she speculated, and dragged him to the edge of a cliff and pushed him over, would he bounce when he hit the bottom? How many times? Would he roll on into the water? If he did, would a shark be able to bite through the mattress or just get a big mouthful of feathers?