A Body To Die For. G. A. McKevett

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      “Ah, yes, Clarissa,” Dirk said. “Tell me a bit about your husband. His name, age, general description.”

      “Bill is forty-one, six feet tall. He used to be good-looking, but now he’s gained about eleven or twelve pounds.”

      Savannah said nothing but mentally gripped her sword a bit tighter. Heads could be reattached and removed over and over again if necessary.

      “His hair and eye color?” Dirk asked.

      “Blond and brown.”

      “Any identifying scars, tattoos?”

      “No tattoos. Bill was too conservative for anything like that.”

      Savannah couldn’t help noting that Bill Jardin’s wife had just referred to him in the past tense. That didn’t bode well for Bill.

      Dirk asked Bill’s birthday, and Savannah knew one of the first things he would do was run a background check on Bill to see if he had a criminal record. Experience had shown them both that a sizable bank account was no guarantee that someone was a law-abiding citizen.

      “What sort of vehicle does he drive?”

      “A new, red Jaguar XK. A convertible.”

      She even supplied the license plate number, which Savannah found mildly interesting. Most people didn’t know their license plate number unless it was a vanity plate.

      “And what was he wearing the last time you saw him?” Dirk asked.

      “Jeans and a turquoise polo.”

      She wondered how much Clarissa might have prepared for this moment. Her answers seemed rehearsed, her manner quite subdued for a woman with a long-absent spouse.

      “What does he do?” Dirk asked.

      “Do?” Clarissa thought about it a moment before answering with a totally straight face, “He drinks, gambles, and chases other women.”

      Dirk stopped scribbling for a moment, but continued to stare down at his pad. “Actually,” he said, “What I meant was, ‘How does he make a living?’”

      “Bill doesn’t make a living. I do.”

      For just a moment, Savannah saw it—the fleeting look of hurt in the other woman’s eyes. Not anger. Raw pain. And she couldn’t help but feel a twang of pity for her.

      Pain was pain. Even for rude people.

      In a gentle tone, with her heaviest Georgian accent, Savannah said, “Your Billy Boy sounds like a real peach.”

      Clarissa’s eyes searched Savannah’s, and Savannah could feel the moment when the other woman realized that she was offering genuine empathy.

      Clarissa’s expression softened, and it occurred to Savannah that maybe Clarissa Jardin wasn’t accustomed to kindness or sympathy.

      “Yes,” Clarissa said, sounding suddenly tired. “Bill’s a real catch. Lucky me.”

      “How long have you two been married?” Dirk asked.

      “Eighteen years. I married him right out of high school.”

      “That’s a long time to spend with a heavy-drinking, womanizing gambler,” Savannah said softly.

      “I love him.” Clarissa shrugged. “There are all kinds of love in this world. Not all of them are noble.”

      A heavy silence hung in the air until Dirk said, “When did you last see your husband, Clarissa?”

      “Five nights ago. He left the house about nine to run an errand, and he didn’t come back.”

      “Where did he go?”

      “He said he was driving to Twin Oaks, to the convenience store there, to get cigarettes.”

      She was lying; Savannah saw it in her eyes.

      Glancing sideways at Dirk, Savannah saw him squint ever so slightly and she knew that he had registered it, too.

      Being cops for years, having people lie to you at least twice every fifteen minutes—it tended to fine-tune one’s internal lie detector.

      “He said he was getting cigarettes,” Dirk repeated, “and he didn’t come back or contact you in any way since that night.”

      “That’s right.”

      “So, the question that I have to ask you, Clarissa,” he said, “is why didn’t you call us before now?”

      Again, she seemed to have her answer ready. “Because he’s done this before. He always came back after a couple of days, apologizing, promising to be a good husband from then on. And he’d be my good Bill, the one I fell in love with in high school. I just thought it was one of those times. But—”

      She choked, and her eyes filled with tears.

      “But?” Dirk prompted.

      “But he’s never been away this long. Three days was always his limit before.”

      “So, you two had some sort of argument or disagreement before he left to go get the cigarettes,” Savannah said.

      “Sure. We fought almost every night about something.”

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