Fat Free And Fatal. G. A. McKevett

her. I guess she and her assistant were very close, and she watched her friend bleed to death right here in her driveway…died in her arms, quite literally.”

      “That’s rough.”

      “About as rough as it gets, next to losing a family member.”

      “I wonder if it’s occurred to Dona that whoever took the shot probably thought they were aiming at her.”

      Dr. Liu nodded, a solemn look on her pretty face. “Oh, I think it’s occurred to her, all right.”

      “How do you know?”

      “Because the last time I walked through the house for something, I heard her crying and telling Dirk, ‘They hate me. They always have. And they hate seeing me make a comeback. Some of them hate me enough to kill me.’”

      “Hmmm.” Savannah looked over at the mangled, bloody fox fur. The torn bits of finery left from the silver evening gown that the paramedics had cut off the victim’s body. The medical supplies that had done nothing to halt the flood of precious blood from her ruined body. “Yep. It sure looks like somebody hated somebody,” she said, “big time.”

      Chapter 4

      Savannah left Dr. Liu to her crime scene and walked past a couple of uniformed policemen through the half-open front door of the mansion.

      Even under the sad circumstances, Savannah couldn’t help noticing and being impressed by the grandeur of the house. It reminded her of some of the mansions she had seen while touring the stars’ homes in Hollywood. Although the mansions in Spirit Hills were less than three years old, this one had been built in a style reminiscent of the silver-screen era. The exterior was Spanish, like many of the homes in old, vintage Hollywood, the interior was markedly art deco.

      The front door held a glass insert that was delicately etched. The stylized lily design was repeated in matching panels on either side of the door and in a transom above.

      Savannah stepped into the cool, dim entry where a spiral staircase with a white wrought-iron banister curved gracefully from an expansive balcony to the pink marble floor at her feet.

      In the center of the circular room stood a bronze, life-size statue of the goddess Diana, holding a hunting bow in her right hand and a crescent moon in her left. It was a particularly beautiful piece, and Diana was one of Savannah’s favorite mythical characters, but she couldn’t take the time to stand and enjoy it, as she would have under different circumstances.

      To either side of her were two arched doorways, leading to opposite wings of the house. And through the one to her left she could see a dark, elegant library…and Dirk kneeling beside a wingback chair where a woman sat, sobbing, her hands over her face.

      But Savannah didn’t need to see the famous face to know it was Dona; her wavy, blond bob was her trademark, evoking memories of the classic silver-screen temptress. And even though her hair was mussed, her pale-green silk dressing gown smeared with blood, Dona Papalardo was the quintessential glamorous movie star.

      Dirk glanced up and saw Savannah standing in the doorway. A look of relief flooded his face. “Savannah,” he said, rising from his knee, “you’re here.” He turned to Dona. “Miss Papalardo, this is the gal I was telling you about. She can help you a lot more than I can, because she’s…she’s….”

      Not scared spitless of a crying female, like you are, Savannah thought.

      Dirk didn’t hold back even for a second when it came to charging through a door, knowing there might be an armed and dangerous criminal on the other side of it. But when a woman started weeping over anything from a deep family tragedy to a simple case of having her keys locked in her car, Dirk’s carefully constructed facade of “cool” melted like a popsicle on a Georgia sidewalk in August.

      Dona dropped her hands from her eyes and looked up at Savannah, her pretty face distorted by anger and bitterness. “You’re going to help me?” she said. “You’re going to tell me that you know how I feel, having someone I love die in my arms? You’re going to sympathize with me and make it all better?”

      “No,” Savannah said, her voice as soft as the other woman’s was harsh. “I’ve had the sad experience of holding people while they died, but never one of my loved ones, thank God. So, I’d never tell you that I know how you feel. I wouldn’t presume.”

      Dirk cleared his throat and crossed his arms over his chest. “Actually,” he said, giving Dona a quick sideways glance, “my ex-wife was murdered. And she died in my arms. So, I know enough about it to tell you that there ain’t nothing that’s gonna make you feel okay for a long time. That’s just the way it is. No getting around it.”

      Dona stopped crying and stared at him for several long, tense moments, then she gave him a small, sad smile. “Thank you for sharing that, Detective,” she said. “I’m sure it isn’t easy to think about it again.”

      Savannah herself was surprised at Dirk’s candor. He didn’t usually talk about Polly’s murder. It had been one of the most difficult chapters of his life, and Dirk tended to keep that book tightly shut. It occurred to Savannah that he must have been particularly touched by Dona’s sorrow to have been that open with her.

      Savannah sat down on a chair next to Dona’s and gave Dirk a subtle, dismissive nod. She could tell by the tight, pinched look on his face that, for right now, he’d had all he could take of this situation.

      Cops—even good cops—had their limits when it came to dealing with the brutality of human sorrow at its worst.

      And murder was always the worst.

      Accidents happened and could be chalked up to destiny—a sad part of some great, higher, universal plan. Illness and aging were part of life also, nature in action.

      But murder—there was just no way to reconcile it as “natural” or “meant to be.” It was always so terribly wrong and so painful. And Savannah couldn’t help hating the people who caused such unnatural sorrows in the world.

      Just as she couldn’t help the crushing sadness she felt when dealing with the families and friends left behind, the killer’s other victims. She had learned long ago that no one who lost a loved one to murder ever got over it.

      She knew that a part of Dona Papalardo had died in that driveway today, along with her friend. A part that she would never get back.

      “I’m going to go talk to the ME,” Dirk was saying to Dona, “the medical examiner. I’ll leave you here with Savannah, if that’s okay, Miss Papalardo.”

      Dona nodded, and he wasted no time making his exit through the arched doorway.

      Savannah reached into her purse and produced a handful of fresh tissues. She handed them to Dona, leaning close to her as she did. The scent of the movie star’s distinctive floral and spice perfume enveloped Savannah, reminding her of older, more gracious and elegant times.

      Dona Papalardo was the epitome of Hollywood glamour, even in a moment of personal tragedy.

      “Is there anything I can do for you?” Savannah asked, “Maybe get you a glass of water? Call someone for you?”

      Dona shook her head. “No. Kim had no family to speak of, so there’s no need to inform anybody. That pack of media jackals out there will make sure that her blood is splashed all over the evening news. This is what they live for. They feed off people’s pain and suffering. They lap it up, the filthy, soulless scavengers.”

      Savannah was taken aback by the venom in Dona’s words and the caustic tone of her voice. But only for a moment.

      She couldn’t really blame the woman for feeling that way toward the press. The media—especially the tabloids—had been ruthless and cruel to Dona Papalardo over the past few years, never giving her a moment’s peace or treating her with even a modicum of common decency.

      Savannah wasn’t surprised that the star would hate anyone with a camera