Fat Free And Fatal. G. A. McKevett

yes. That was better than a bubble bath with a glass of champagne and a box of chocolate truffles.

      Wa-a-ay better.

      Chapter 5

      When Savannah arrived back home later in the evening, she found Tammy sitting at the rolltop desk in her living room, working away at the computer. Although exactly what Tammy found to do at the computer that was “work” related, hour after hour, day after day, Savannah could only guess. Being ignorant of even the most rudimentary workings of all machines—except her Beretta and her Mustang’s carburetor—Savannah didn’t surf, chat, send or receive e-mail, IM, blog, or even Google.

      And she was fine with that. Her ignorance was fully intentional. She had more than enough people to aggravate her in her everyday life. Why add a worldwide network of numbskulls to compound the problem? That was one of her favorite mottos, and she held it dear.

      Savannah had a lot of mottos. She lived by them…when it was convenient. And when it wasn’t, she revised or tossed them.

      Life is complicated enough without bogging yourself down with a bunch of stupid rules—especially those that are self-imposed. And most are.

      That was her main motto.

      Tammy looked up with a bright smile on her face when Savannah came into the room. “Did you get the job?”

      Savannah’s cats—miniature panthers named Diamante and Cleopatra—bounded off their window perch and ran to her. She nearly tripped over them as they rubbed against her ankles and meowed loudly.

      “Of course I got the job,” she said, bending down to stroke their silky black coats. Ah, unconditional kitty love made it worth coming home every time.

      Well, mostly unconditional.

      A never-ending flow of Kitty Vittles and a clean litter box. Constant petting and never being able to sit down without a cat on your lap. Black cat hair on every garment you owned, and never being able to leave a half-eaten tuna sandwich on your coffee table…or kitchen table either, for that matter.

      Okay. So kitty love wasn’t all that unconditional. In Savannah’s estimation, it was still good. There was something to be said for having someone to come home to—someone who didn’t leave the toilet seat up and still miss the bowl.

      Cleo let out a particularly plaintive yowl, and Tammy said, “Those beasts are lying to you. I fed them both half an hour ago.”

      “Celery stalks? Carrot sticks? Green tea?”

      Tammy made a face. “No, that foul-smelling, fishy crap that they like. The canned stuff, not the dry. I nearly gagged.”

      Savannah thought of the blood and gore on Dona Papalardo’s driveway and figured it was a good thing that Tammy hadn’t been along. Anybody who gagged at canned cat food might do a lot worse viewing the aftermath of a homicide. And Dr. Liu took a dim view of people adding their own DNA to her crime scene.

      “When does your gig start?” Tammy wanted to know.

      “Tomorrow morning. I just came home to tie up some loose ends here and get some things together to take over there.”

      “You get to stay there? At Dona Papalardo’s mansion?”

      Savannah grinned and chuckled. “I do! I do! And you should see the place. It’s gorgeous. Straight off the silver screen. Art deco glamour all the way.”

      Tammy’s lower lip protruded like that of a three-year-old being told that it’s still eleven and a half months to Christmas. “I wish I could see it. It’s not much fun being your assistant if I don’t get to assist you. Especially at cool places like Dona Papalardo’s mansion.”

      “I’ll see what I can do to get you inside as soon as possible.”

      The pout turned into a bright smile. “Really?”

      “Do I lie to you?”

      “Um…”

      “Without good reason?”

      “Uh…”

      Savannah sighed. “I’ll get you in. I’ll deliberately leave something behind that I really need, and you can bring it to me tomorrow. How’s that?”

      “Will I get to stay and play?”

      “We’ll see.”

      Again the pout. “I have a mother. I know what we’ll see means.”

      Savannah sat down in her favorite seat, an overstuffed, comfortable armchair that was covered with rose-print chintz. Propping her feet on an ottoman, she gathered the cats into her lap. They jostled each other, vying for the best spot. “But I’m not anybody’s mother,” Savannah said. “Unless you count these two varmints.”

      “No, but you’re the oldest of nine kids. And big sisters can be as bad or worse than moms.”

      Savannah laughed. “That’s true. And if you don’t believe it, ask any of my eight younger siblings.”

      “Oh! That reminds me.” She pulled a piece of paper from one of the desk’s cubbyholes. “A member of your Georgia brood called about an hour ago, asked to speak to you. I told her I wasn’t sure when you’d be back, just in case you didn’t want to talk to them tonight.”

      “Wouldn’t want to talk to my own flesh and blood?” Savannah said.

      “Well, I know that they can be…um…trying…sometimes.”

      “Trying? My family? Naw. I just love hearing about Vidalia’s most recent fight with Butch, and how the morning sickness has hit her and her ankles are swelling already, and Marietta’s latest fiancé—the guy she found on the Convict Penpal Web site—or Macon’s current brush with the law, having burgled some junkyard for car parts or—”

      “This time it’s Jesup.”

      “Ah, the Princess of Darkness. And that’s on a good day. How did she sound?”

      “Gloomy.”

      “That’s our Jessie. She can generate thunderheads on a cloudless day, just by crawling out of bed and looking out the window. What did she want?”

      “Didn’t say. Just asked to talk to you. She said she wasn’t at home, but didn’t want to leave a number.”

      Savannah felt a little guilty for the sense of relief she felt at not having to return the call. After all, Jesup was her sister, and who wouldn’t want to talk to her sister?

      A sister who harbored a morbid interest in murder, mayhem, and disease—the most exotic, gut-roiling ways that a human being could depart the earth.

      A sister who wore nothing but black, who wrote twenty-stanza poems about Jack the Ripper, the Spanish Inquisition, the Donner Party, and Ted Bundy.

      A sister who constantly asked Savannah if she had any new autopsy or crime-scene photos to share.

      Who could resist the charm and appeal of a sibling like that?

      Savannah decided that she could. And she could get rid of the guilt, too. She’d just toss it on the pile with all those pesky, outdated mottos.

      “How long do you figure this bodyguard job with Dona will last?” Tammy wanted to know.

      “Long enough for me to pay this month’s mortgage and last month’s utility bills,” Savannah replied. “And I—”

      The doorbell rang, followed by a loud pounding on the front door.

      Savannah glanced at her watch. It was after nine.

      Most of her friends were well-trained enough not to drop by without calling first, and certainly not after nine, which was usually her romance-novel reading/chocolate nibbling time.

      And while Dirk wasn’t particularly well-trained, she knew it wasn’t