Just Desserts by G. A. McKevett Read Free Book Online

can do for you?”
    Savannah didn’t reply for a moment, nonplussed by the woman’s contradictory behavior. She didn’t know what to make of her.
    “I’d like to ask you some questions, but I can take you home first if you—”
    “Home? Oh, no, I can’t go home at this hour of the day,” she said adamantly, shaking her head. “I have so much to do at the office. Could you drop me by City Hall? We could talk there.”
    “Are you sure?” Savannah searched the woman’s eyes, but her soul was shuttered. “I’m certain that the good citizens of San Carmelita could do without you for a day or so, considering ...”
    “Yes, I suppose they could,” Beverly said as she headed toward the double doors, high heels clicking as briskly as before. “But today, of all days, I need them.”
    Looking back at Dr. Liu, who was still standing by quietly, wearing a look that was as confused as Savannah felt, she said, “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll be in touch.”
    As the coroner watched Beverly’s hasty exit, she shook her head and mouthed the words, “Good luck.”
    “Thanks,” Savannah said, then added silently, I have a feeling I’m going to need it.
     
    Although Savannah had expected a flock of reporters to have descended on City Hall, she was surprised at the size of the crowd. She counted seven news vans—four from Los Angeles—and more than a dozen teams with videocams, microphones, and other complicated-looking equipment she didn’t recognize.
    Reconsidering, Savannah decided that it wasn’t strange at all for the press to be here in such impressive numbers. Beverly’s family, the Harringtons, had been pillars of the San Carmelita community for four generations. One of the major boulevards through town had been named after the original Harrington, one of the city’s settlers.
    The peaks of the family Tudor mansion could be seen rising above all others at the top of the hill. For nearly a century the sight had served to remind San Carmelita’s citizens that the Harringtons were, indeed, an extraordinary clan.
    The last surviving branch of the familial tree walked beside Savannah, chin high, back straight, a somber but dignified, politically correct expression painted across her pallid face.
    As the reporters descended on them, Savannah saw Beverly falter for only a moment, then recover and meet them head on at the bottom of the marble stairs.
    “There have been reports that your husband, Jonathan Winston, has been murdered. Is that true?” asked a broad-shouldered male reporter whom Savannah recognized by his profusion of perfect silver hair. He was one of the primary field reporters for a major network station in Los Angeles.
    Despite his size and intimidating manner, Savannah wedged herself between him and Mrs. Winston. Holding up her hand in traffic-cop fashion, she brought him to an abrupt halt. His cameraman nearly ran into him from behind.
    “We have no comment at this time,” she told him sternly. “The police department will be releasing a statement later today. But this is not the time.”
    Several others tried to elicit a response as well, only to be met with the same firm resistance. Savannah had no problem being tough with the press. While many of them conducted their business with dignity and compassion, she found others to be insensitive, obnoxious, and overbearing. More than once she had wanted to feed a reporter his camera, or maybe use it on him as a suppository.
    Beverly seemed to appreciate having someone run interference for her. Savannah figured that she was the kind of woman who took care of others more often than others cared for her. With her hand on the councilwoman’s elbow, Savannah deftly guided her through the crowd, up the marble stairs, and through the heavy wooden doors of the old Spanish-style building.
    In the entry a sentinel motioned them through a metal detector and nodded a greeting to both. “I’ll keep them outside as long as I can,” he said with a crooked but