Wicked Craving. G. A. McKevett

feel at home.

      Besides, although Granny Reid was an immaculate housekeeper herself, she was far too kind a soul to notice anybody else’s dust. And if she did, being a genteel southern lady, she would never mention it.

      “I’m comin’ to see you, Savannah girl, not your dirt,” had been the mantra, years ago when apologies were made and housecleaning was higher on Savannah’s list of life priorities. Now “basically sanitary” and “moderately tidy” were her only standards.

      Savannah’s heart warmed at the thought of seeing her beloved Gran, the woman who had always been grandmother, mother, mentor, and best friend to her.

      And as Savannah drew herself a hot bath in the Victorian, clawfoot tub and added a generous amount of jasmine essential oil to it, she checked the rose bubble bath to make sure there was enough to last for Gran’s two-week visit.

      Floral scented baths were imprinted on the Reid girls’ DNA, along with a love of chocolate, romance novels, and silky, feminine undies.

      But no sooner had Savannah lit the votive candles, pulled the shade down on the window, and settled into the blissful, fragrant warmth of the bath than her cell phone rang.

      She glanced at the slacks she had left hanging on a hook on the back of the door and scowled. They continued to play an irritating, frenetic version of “La Cucharacha”—a tune she had chosen for Dirk.

      No particular reason. But the song annoyed her and so did he, so it had seemed appropriate.

      “Dadgummit!” she said, hauling herself out of the tub and splashing jasmine-scented water onto the floor as she slipped and slid her way on the wet tile over to the door.

      She snatched the phone out of her pants’ pocket, flipped it open, and said, “You know, I never really liked you all that much.”

      “You do, too.”

      “I’ll have you know I’d just gotten into a nice, hot bath and—”

      “So, you’re naked?”

      She snapped the cell phone closed and returned to the tub. But she kept the phone in her hand.

      Dirk never gave up that easily.

      The moment she was settled back in the tub, the phone rang again.

      “Would you leave me alone?” she said. “I have to drive to LAX and pick up Gran in a few hours, and this is the only time I can relax and—”

      “Then you don’t want a piece of this?”

      “A piece of what? You’ve got nothing good to offer me. You’re dieting, remember?”

      “A piece of a homicide case.”

      She sat up so abruptly that her bath water nearly splashed over the edge of the tub.

      “Really?”

      “Yeah, and not your usual gang or drug shooting, either. This one’s up on Lincoln Ridge.”

      “No way!”

      Savannah closed her eyes for a moment and mentally scanned the row of mansions that were perched atop the seaside cliff. Lincoln Ridge overlooked not only the ocean, but the picturesque Pacific coastline stretching for miles in both directions.

      At least three famous actors, one rock star, and a dot-com mogul lived there, along with other assorted celebrities and high-society darlings.

      “Who’s dead?” she asked.

      “Maria Wellman.”

      “That quack, diet-doctor dude’s wife?”

      “Who said he’s a quack?”

      “Anybody who says that all you have to do is listen to his CD one time and the fat will just melt right off you … that’s a quack.”

      There was a long silence on the other end. Then: “Well … he might not be a quack. It might work.”

      “Holy cow, you bought one of his CDs.”

      “Did not.”

      “Did, too. There’s no way you’d sound that disappointed unless you plunked down hard cash for that crap.”

      “You wanna go out to the scene with me? Or do you want to sit there, soaking in your bathtub, and feel superior to everybody else?”

      “Just the people who bought that stupid CD.” She chuckled. “All right. I’ll drive myself, in case I have to leave before you do and go pick up Gran.”

      He told her the address.

      “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” she said. “I have to get dressed.”

      “Don’t go to all that trouble just for me.”

      She snapped the phone closed.

      “I want to live on Lincoln Ridge,” Savannah muttered to herself as she guided her ‘65 Mustang up the steep, narrow road toward the top of the cliff. “I want a view like this, and a mansion like one of those, and plenty of staff to keep it clean. And I want to lie on a satin chaise longue in a peignoir and eat bon-bons all the live long day.”

      Although she wasn’t certain whether bon-bons were pieces of chocolate or ice cream, she was pretty sure she wouldn’t mind taking up bon-bon eating as an occupation.

      But then, she reconsidered and decided she liked her own little house and didn’t mind sitting in her comfy chair, wearing a T-shirt and jeans and eating Hershey Kisses, either.

      Life was pretty good, if you decided it was … even without a mansion and bon-bons.

      And when she rounded a curve and saw an array of police cruisers, their lights flashing, parked in front of the Wellmans’ mansion, she decided she didn’t envy everybody in this neighborhood. Not at all. Having eight cop cars and a dozen policemen outside your door was never a good thing.

      As she parked the Mustang and got out, several of the patrolmen gave her nods, waves, and other greetings. Savannah had always been well liked by her fellow law enforcement officers. The San Carmelita PD brass … not so much. Before they had fired her years ago, she’d had a love-hate relationship with them. After the canning, it was pure hate-hate.

      Solving a murder case, exposing the dark, dirty secrets of your town’s top officials, and ruining their lives—it could wreck your career every time.

      As she approached the imposing, contemporary house with its odd, sharp angles and strangely pitched roof, she squinted and wished she were wearing her sunglasses. The exterior of the mansion was a blinding white, reflecting the late afternoon sunlight. And, although many of the homes in this area were surrounded by mature, lush plantings, this house had hardly any foliage to soften its stark appearance.

      Savannah thought of her giant, twin bougainvil-leas that framed her doorway—named Bogey and Ilsa—and decided again that, humble as it might be, she did prefer her own home.

      Near the door, she spotted Dirk. He was haranguing a couple of subordinates and, therefore, never looked happier. When he glanced her way, she gave him a finger-waggling wave and a flirty grin, and in return she got a curt nod.

      Dirk wasn’t one to be mushy in front of the guys.

      As he turned his back on them and walked toward her, she saw the poisoned-dart looks they gave him and cringed. She would have been crestfallen to be on the receiving end of those looks.

      Dirk didn’t give a dang. He only needed to hold up two fingers to count the people he deigned to impress. No doubt, Granny Reid would be his pointing finger … Savannah the middle.

      And Savannah considered that most appropriate.

      Glancing at his watch, he said, “Hey, you really did make it in ten.” He looked her up and down with lasciviousness that was minimized due to the close proximity of other “manly men.” “Did you take time to dry