Wicked Craving. G. A. McKevett

me for that stuff. I can’t afford to pay for it. You’d better find it!”

      “We’ll do what we can,” Dirk told him. “I’ll inform all the local pawnshops and jewelry stores to be on the lookout for it.”

      Savannah noted that Wellman seemed even more perturbed by the loss of the jewels than by the loss of his wife. But then, you could never really tell. Some people displayed their emotions quite differently from others.

      A lengthy, tense silence was broken by the jingling of a merry tune, coming from the vicinity of the front of Wellman’s slacks. He stiffened, started to reach into his pocket, then stopped himself.

      Again, he wouldn’t meet their eyes but fixated on the ocean view, as he shifted from one foot to the other.

      The song became louder and louder.

      “You can get that if you want,” Dirk said with a grin that was half a challenge. “We don’t mind waiting.”

      “It’s okay,” Wellman snapped.

      Discreetly, Savannah glanced down at her watch and noted the time: 5:46 P.M.

      No sooner had the phone stopped ringing than it started again, the same ringtone.

      “Somebody really wants to talk to you,” Dirk said. “You might want to pick it up. Could be important.”

      This time Wellman dug his hand into his pocket and took out the phone. But instead of answering it, he turned it off.

      “I’m a doctor,” he said, clearly annoyed and more than a little nervous. “I get nuisance calls all the time.”

      “And what sort of doctor are you?” Savannah asked. Of course, she knew, but she was hoping to irritate him further.

      One of her favorite theories was that an irritated person was more likely to show you who they really were. So, long ago, she had decided to irritate people as quickly and as often as possible.

      As Granny had frequently told her: “You don’t really know a person till you’ve had ‘em mad a a.”

      And the doctor was getting madder by the second. His already ruddy face flushed a few shades brighter. She could have sworn his mustache turned a bit redder. “I’m surprised you don’t know who I am,” he said, lifting his shoulders and puffing out his chest. “I’ve been on several national talk shows lately.”

      Savannah shrugged. “Sorry. I don’t watch a lot of daytime television. What’s your specialty?”

      He gave her a pointed and lingering look up and down her figure. Then, in a voice thick with contempt, he said, “I specialize in weight loss.”

      Giving him a bright smile, she quickly replied, “Ah, no wonder you can afford a house like this. The world’s just full of folks who worry themselves sick over nonsense like that.”

      “But apparently not all people,” he replied, again looking her up and down.

      She continued to give him a broad, wooden smile. But her blue eyes had a cold fire in them. “Some of us are just lucky that way, I suppose.”

      “Lucky?”

      “Yes. Lucky. Self love is a rare commodity in this day and age. What with everybody telling us we’re not worth a tinker’s dam unless we’re all a certain size, shape, or color.”

      “How about you?” Dirk said, stepping a little closer to Wellman. “You got any personal enemies who’d wish you harm? Anybody who might hurt your wife to get even with you?”

      “Yes.”

      Savannah’s eyebrows rose a notch. An investigator seldom got an affirmative to that question. Most people who had true honest-to-goodness enemies—not just your average pissed off relatives, friends, and neighbors—had done something to deserve them. And they usually didn’t welcome the chance to talk about it.

      “I have one guy in particular who’s been threatening me lately,” he continued.

      “And who is that?” Dirk got out his own notebook and started to scribble in it.

      “His name is Terry Somers. He was one of my patients.”

      “He bought some of your CDs online, or he actually came into your office?” Savannah asked.

      Wellman smiled … an unpleasant little smirk. “Ah, so you do know who I am.”

      Savannah returned the smile with an equal amount of unpleasantness. “Was he a patient or a customer?”

      “I treated him in my office.”

      “Did he lose a hundred pounds instantly after the first visit?”

      “I was treating him for a gambling problem. Addiction comes in all forms, you know.”

      “That’s so true. Some people are genuinely addicted to all sorts of stuff. And they suffer because of it. I feel for them something awful.” She stopped smiling. “Then there are some others who call their bad habits ‘addictions’ so that people won’t expect them to get rid of them.”

      “And which are you?” the doctor asked, his jaw clenching. “Are you addicted to food, or is overeating simply one of your bad habits?”

      “Neither. I just like food. And, apparently, it likes me, too, or it wouldn’t stick around like it does.” She tossed her head, stuck out her right hip in a Mae West pose, and gave it a pat.

      “So, Doctor,” Dirk said, a little too eagerly, “tell me more about this Somers. What’s he got against you?”

      “Well, I’m really not supposed to tell you … doctor-patient confidentiality and all that …”

      “Ah, spill it,” Savannah said. “It’s not like the people watching your infomercials are gonna lose faith in your integrity and stop buying your CDs or whatever.”

      Wellman’s eyes flashed with anger, but he turned to Dirk and said, “Terry Somers is a degenerate gambler who’s in debt to some really bad guys. He came to see me for treatment, but had a slip a week later and lost a fortune in a high-stakes poker game. He didn’t pay, they broke his leg, and he’s blaming me for it!”

      Savannah gave a little half-gasp. “How dare him!”

      “Yeah, well, you may think it’s funny, but when somebody’s telling you that he’s going to kill you because you ruined his life, it’s pretty scary stuff.”

      “And did Somers actually threaten to kill you?” Dirk asked. “Did he use those words?”

      “No, he was a little more graphic. Told me he’d blow my brains out of my head and stomp on them. That paints quite a picture … made a bit of an impression on me.”

      Dirk scribbled away. “When did he say that?”

      “Last Wednesday.”

      “Where?”

      “In my office … in front of my receptionist and three other patients who were sitting in my waiting room.”

      “And your receptionist’s name is … ?”

      “Um … her name is Roxanne Rosen.”

      “And the names of those other three patients?”

      “I can’t tell you. You know, doctor-patient—”

      “Yeah, yeah.” Dirk closed his book and tucked it back into his pocket. “Just so you know … the Crime Scene Unit is processing your wife’s body, the beach, your yard, and they may even want to do some work here inside the house.”

      “Inside my house? But why? She died out there and—”

      “I’m asking you to be as cooperative as possible, Dr. Wellman,” Dirk replied.

      Savannah