Killer Calories

investigator anonymously, he could find out for certain, without actually turning her in.”
    Still no reply.
    “Phoebe, did your brother know for sure that you killed Kat Valentina?”
    Phoebe’s eyes narrowed. “Who says I killed her?”
    “You poisoned her marguerita . I’m not sure how you got hold of her glass or which you used, extract from oleander or azalea. But as soon as they run the special toxicology screens in the San Francisco lab, I’m sure they’ll find one or the other. My grandmother says you probably used the oleander, and she’s usually right when it comes to her flowers.”
    “So, you broke your promise to me? You’ve already talked to the police?”
    “No. I told you I wouldn’t. And I haven’t.”
    “But you said... the toxicology screens....”
    “I’ll tell them tomorrow morning. That’s what we agreed, tomorrow morning, right?”
    “Right.” Phoebe was visibly relieved. “But even when you do talk to them, these are only suspicions of yours. You don’t have any real proof against me or my brother, or anyone else, for that matter.”
    “I’m still gathering evidence,” Savannah said. “That’s what I’m doing now, even as we speak.”
    Savannah saw the split second of panic cross Phoebe’s face before she wiped it clean.
    Yes, she thought, not knowing is definitely better, especially when you like the person.
    The two women sat in silence for a long time. Finally, Phoebe said, “Aren’t you going to drink your coffee?”
    Savannah searched the tired, lined face. “Do you really want me to drink it, Phoebe ?“
    The facade of bravado slid off the old woman’s face as clearly as one of her African tribal masks falling off the wall. She began to cry—deep, wracking sobs that shook her entire body.
    “No,” she said. “I don’t want you to drink it, Savannah . With Kat Valentina, it seemed like the right thing to do. But with you... you’re a good person. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I... ”
    “You thought you were protecting your brother,” Savannah offered, knowing it was a feeble excuse at best.
    “And myself.” Phoebe sobbed even harder. “I just couldn’t imagine myself in jail for the rest of my life. Without my flowers, without the sun and the smell of the soil.”
    Perhaps it was cruel, but Savannah felt compelled to state the obvious. “Kat Valentina can’t feel the sun on her face either, Phoebe. You took that away from her forever. And, even if you didn’t approve of the way she led her life, she had the right to live it.”
    Phoebe pulled a lace-trimmed handkerchief from her pocket and blew into it. “It doesn’t matter if I did it or not. I’ll deny it,” she said. “It will be my word against yours.”
    “I’ll have them run the contents of this cup through the San Francisco lab, along with Kat’s blood sample. I’ll bet they find the same toxin in both. Besides, I have the tape .“
    “What tape?”
    Savannah pulled back the collar of her sweater, exposing the tiny microphone clipped to her blouse. “Did you get all that, Dirk?” she said.
    The gruff, gravelly voice responded in the earpiece hidden in her hair. “Got it all.”
    Phoebe’s tear-wet eyes widened. “You said you didn’t call the police.”
    “I didn’t. My assistant, Tammy, did. She’s a little ditzy from time to time, but she tries, and she has her moments of efficiency.”
    “You must be pretty proud of yourself right now,” Phoebe said. “You must be feeling pretty smart, tricking a nice old lady like that.”
    Savannah leaned across the table and fixed her with a level, pointed look. “You killed someone, Phoebe. It was premeditated, cold-blooded murder. If I had been dumb enough to drink your chicory coffee, you would have killed me, too. That’s not the sort of thing a nice old lady does to another woman. Especially one who helped her plant flowers in her garden.”
    She had touched a chord. Phoebe’s face crumpled again, and this time her tears seemed to be flowing from genuine remorse.
    “Will you check on my Mr. Lincolns and John F. Kennedys from time to time?” she asked, as Dirk walked through the kitchen door, holding a pair of handcuffs. “Even if Ford recovers from his stroke, he doesn’t know spit about roses.”
    “It would be my honor ,” Savannah replied.
    And as she watched Dirk lead Phoebe Chesterfield away, Savannah didn’t feel particularly proud or especially smart. More than anything, she just felt tired and