Drew’s blue eyes went from Heather’s face to mine. “Am I missing something here?”
It wasn’t for me to say. Instead I glanced at Heather, who said abruptly, “She’s my mother, okay? Not yours. Deborah can explain. I’m going to go wash my face and when I come back, maybe you’ll tell me how I can find her.”
She got up and headed for a restroom down the hall.
By the time I finished explaining that Savannah was Heather’s birth mother, Drew looked even more stunned than I had felt a few minutes earlier. But then I knew her father’d had an affair with Savannah years ago and I rather doubted that it was something anyone had ever told her. Although how she could spend five minutes looking at a woman whose nose was slightly broader but otherwise identical to her own and not notice was beyond me.
“Savannah once had a real daughter?” she whispered.
“Evidently.”
“I thought it was part of her craziness. She talks so much rubbish. No one listens to the rantings of a mad person, do they?”
“She talked about having a baby?”
“Indirectly.” Drew twisted the end of one blonde tress and her blue eyes were worried. “She seems to think the reason I won’t admit that Lynnette’s my child is because I’m afraid of scandal. She keeps saying that it was shameful back in her day, not in mine. That she couldn’t keep me back then, but things are different now.”
“She thinks you’re that baby.”
“But she knows that Dad’s my—” Her eyes widened in sudden dismay. “Oh, my God! Is he—? He is, isn’t he? Oh, sweet Jesus! Does Heather know?”
I shook my head, “I don’t think she knows anything. And neither do you, if it comes right down to it. Look, forget about who her father might be. All Heather wants to do is find Savannah and talk to her. Savannah trusts you. Will you help? It’ll help Savannah, too. Heather seems to feel responsible. If she can establish a relationship, she can probably help Savannah get the mental treatment she so desperately needs.”
But I had overlooked how young Drew still was. As bright and poised as she may have been under normal circumstances, she was not handling this very well. “I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t.”
We both saw Elizabeth Patterson come to the front of their showroom and scan the passing crowds. She held two purses, one of them probably Drew’s.
Drew stood up abruptly. “I’m sorry. I wish I could, but don’t you see? How could I—? I have to—I promised Mother—”
She seemed to hear herself gibbering and somehow managed to get her tongue under control. “Give me some time to think about all this. I really do have to go. I’ll call you tonight at Dixie’s, okay?”
As Heather returned, I saw Elizabeth hand Drew her purse, then mother and daughter disappeared in the direction of the elevators. From behind they were almost indistinguishable, both tall and blonde, both in white silk slacks and navy blazers.
Golden.
“Did I shock the crap out of her?” asked Heather, who now had her Yankee tough-girl defenses back in place.
“You could say that.”
Her sturdy shoulders drooped for a moment. “Well, then, the hell with her. I’ll find Savannah myself and put her in a hammerlock.”
I had a feeling she probably could.
“Let me buy you another latte,” I said.
As I stood in line to give my order, I tried to decide whether or not it was all right to tell Heather about Savannah’s hiding place. Underwood had asked Dixie and Pell to keep it quiet, but he hadn’t exactly sworn me to secrecy.
“A technicality and you know it,” scolded my internal preacher.
“On the other hand,” argued the pragmatist, “think about it: Underwood’s gone out of his way to tell you things even Dwight might not have. What’s his game?”
And why didn’t he have an APB out on Savannah? Market was crowded, yes, but surely he could have reached out and touched her if he’d really wanted to. Especially if he thought she was a killer.
Ergo, he didn’t fully suspect her.
Why?
She was there with my tote bag, my penicillin tablets, my—
Well, damn!
After all the time I’ve listened to DEA agents testify as to distinguishing a yellow Dilaudid tablet from a yellow Elavil, the differences between a green-and-white Donnatal capsule from Robins and a green-and-white Librium capsule from Roche? Every capsule or tablet has a stamp or imprint, a color combination, shape or size that’s unique to the company that makes it.
That’s why they weren’t after Savannah: the fragments of the tablets they found in the baggie with my fingerprints weren’t the same kind listed on my prescription bottle.
Underwood must have been snickering up his sleeve when I blustered that every medicine cabinet in America probably had leftover penicillin tablets.
And what were the odds that, in that stash of pills he’d found by Savannah’s bed, four of them would be mine?
Neither preacher nor pragmatist wanted to bet against me.
In my mind’s eye, I could almost see it happen: Chan takes the elevator down to Dixie’s floor. He’s going to bum a ride home with her. She’s not there, but a note on her door says she’ll be back for me at ten. He sits down on the swing to wait, remembers he has chocolate brownies in his pocket and swallows one down in two bites.
Immediately, his throat starts to close up as his breathing passages react to the penicillin. He gags, vomits, tries to get up, but already his brain is screaming for oxygen. It screams once more and then cuts out and all further struggle for air is lost in merciful unconsciousness.
Along comes Savannah, intending to return my tote—minus its loose change and pills—and finds Chan already unconscious. She drops the tote behind one of the chairs and flees.
And who had been with him only minutes earlier and had the opportunity to slip some brownies into his jacket pocket? Who was known to have had penicillin tablets at hand just last summer?
And who had a good reason to want Chan dead?
Right.
I stepped away from the coffee line, took out my flip phone and dialed Underwood’s pager. At the beep, I said, “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I think I know whose tablets they were. I’m going to take Heather over to Mulholland to see if we can find Savannah and then I’ll swing by your office. We really need to talk.”
26
« ^ » “The improvement in the making of fire-arms is one of the most noticeable features of the modern era of industry.”The Great Industries of the United States, 1872
In stark contrast to the organized clutter that lay behind those double doors off to the left, the reception area of Mulholland Design Studio was clean-lined minimal, a high-tech setting for the large black-and-white photographs, each framed in chrome strips, that lined the walls. Each featured a single piece of furniture, photographed alone like a piece of jewelry or a work of art, and each carried a company logo. Widdicomb, Baker, Henredon, Fitch and Patterson, and Ethan Allen were there among other blue-chip names, but pieces of Benchcraft, This End Up and Hickory Hill showed the range of Mulholland’s clientele and of the freelance designers who used these facilities.
“I’m sorry,” said the receptionist, “but we’re closed now. All of our designers are gone for the day and I was just getting ready to lock up.”
Indeed, she had already switched off the main lights in the reception area.
“We’re here to see Pell Austin,” I said. “He’s still around, isn’t he? I’m a friend—Judge Deborah Knott.”
“Let me check.” She pushed a button on her console phone. “Pell? There’s a Judge Knott here to see you. Shall I send her up?… Okay, I’ll tell her. You’ve got a key, right? Because I’m going to lock up down here.”