Poisoned Tarts. G. A. McKevett
“You say they make fun of her. What exactly do they say when they do that?”
Pam twisted the tissue in her hand and fought back more tears. “Oh, the usual stuff that teenagers ridicule each other about, I guess—her clothes, her hair. Of course, none of that is up to their standards. But mostly they harass her about her weight.”
Savannah nodded. “Yes, sadly, that’s an easy target today, what with all the emphasis on being abnormally thin.”
“Oh, and with these girls, it’s an obsession. They’re always dieting and purging to stay super thin, but my Daisy won’t do that. I’ve raised her to love herself as she is. You know…a…a…”
“A well-rounded young lady,” Savannah supplied.
“Yes. Well-rounded. And she’s very pretty just as she is.”
“I’m sure that’s true. Do you have a picture of her with you?”
Pam reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out what appeared to be a man’s wallet. She flipped it open and took out a much handled creased and faded picture.
Savannah took the photo and looked into the face that was so much like the woman before her. Daisy was just a softer, prettier version of her mom.
“You’re right. She is pretty. A lovely girl. And she has very intelligent eyes. Smart and strong.”
Pam nodded. “She is smart. I mean, she’s a little dumb where these girls here are concerned because she wants so much to be a part of their little club. But she’s no fool. If they wanted to hurt her, they’d have to be very quick about it, plan it all out and surprise her. Otherwise she’d get the jump on them, not the other way around.”
“May I keep this picture? I promise I’ll get it back to you later.”
The mother hesitated, then said, “Sure, if it’ll help. I want to do anything that might help.”
“Can you tell me what she was wearing yesterday the last time you saw her?”
“The uniform,” she said with a sarcastic tone. “The stupid Skeleton Key Three uniform.”
“And that is?”
“Designer jeans and a pink T-shirt with a skeleton key in rhinestones on the front. Tiffy’s favorite color is pink, so everything has to be pink. Daisy hated pink.”
Savannah never got used to asking the hard questions, but they had to be asked. “Pam, do you really feel that those girls would seriously harm your daughter? Deep down in your gut, do you believe they would?”
Pam gave it a few moments’ thought, then she looked straight into Savannah’s eyes, and Savannah could see her fear, raw, potent, and painful. She nodded. “Yes. Tiffy was so upset that Daisy got that part. I mean, really furious about it! And she isn’t the kind of kid who takes disappointment well. I truly do think she might have hurt my daughter…or talked the other girls into harming her.”
Savannah put her hand on the woman’s shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze, then a comforting pat. “We’re going to do everything we can to find your Daisy,” she told her. “Detective Coulter is excellent at what he does, and I’m pretty good, too, if I do say so myself. We’ll find her.”
“But when you do find her, do you think she’ll be okay?”
Pam’s eyes searched hers, and Savannah knew she was trying to read the future on her face. Victims’ families always did that, and Savannah was miserably uncomfortable when they did it. She felt like a crystal ball that was trying to hide its dark, ugly mysteries.
Savannah fought the urge to look away. She also pushed down her thoughts: The girl went missing yesterday afternoon. That was over twenty-four hours ago. And when we don’t find them in the first twenty-four hours, it’s not good. Sometimes, it’s really not good.
“I think you’re a strong woman, Pam O’Neil,” she said. “And from this picture, I can see that you and your daughter are very much alike. Not just your red hair, but the strength and courage I see in your eyes. As my Granny Reid would say, ‘Twasn’t a very windy day when that apple fell from the tree.’”
“What?”
“Never mind. Granny has a lot of sayings. Anyway, if Daisy is anything like her mom, and I suspect she is, I’d say that she’ll take care of herself, do whatever she needs to do to protect herself, her life, until we can find her. Try hard not to worry yourself sick.”
Pam sighed. “Easier said than done.”
“Oh, I’m sure it is. But meanwhile, let’s go get you something to eat.”
“Where? Here?”
“A place this big has to have a kitchen somewhere—or even two or three kitchens—and plenty of food. At least a fruit bowl that we can raid.”
“Andrew Dante isn’t going to give me permission to eat anything of his. He’s always looked down on me, and after what I just said to him, I’m sure he hates me.”
“Nope. He probably wouldn’t offer you even an apple or a banana. And that’s exactly why we’re not going to ask him. We’re just going to nab you something and run.”
“Grab food and run with it?”
“Sure. Hey, I was one of nine kids, raised in a house where there was never an overabundance of anything but love. Believe you me…I know how it’s done!”
Chapter 3
After Savannah had raided Andrew Dante’s kitchen counter fruit bowl and had refueled Pam O’Neil and sent her on her way, she decided to take an unauthorized tour of the mansion’s ground floor.
Somewhere off to her left, perhaps in a library or study, she could hear Dirk still questioning Dante, and judging by both men’s tones, the interview wasn’t going well. Dirk sounded cranky, and Dante testy. She decided that since the conversation could come to an abrupt end at any moment, she’d better get her snooping done ASAP.
From the kitchen, she passed through an arched doorway and into a delightful breakfast area. The room was octagonal, with windows reaching from waist high to the conical ceiling. Green plants of all types hung in long, twisting vines from baskets suspended from the ceiling, and Savannah couldn’t help but pause for a moment and think how lovely it would be to sip a morning cup of coffee and read the paper in a room like this.
From the windows, she could see a lush tropical garden that, like the front of the mansion, was artistically illuminated with architectural lights of gold, blue, and green.
And in the midst of that garden, she saw movement among the palmettos, banana trees, bird-of-paradise, and bougainvillea. Somebody—or several somebodies—was out there milling about.
After one quick glance over her shoulder, Savannah opened a small door that led from the breakfast room to a patio and walked outside.
The moment she did, she heard raucous laughter coming from the garden and recognized the sound instantly—it was a gaggle of female teenagers.
Having been raised in a family with two boys and seven girls, Savannah was all too familiar with the sound of adolescent females who were up to no good.
Quietly, on rubber-soled loafers, she crept toward the center of the garden, closer to the voices. In her mind, she wasn’t exactly sneaking up on them; she just wasn’t going to announce her presence right away.
She knew there was a fine line between being plain old nosy and possessing a healthy curiosity. And it didn’t bother her one bit to skip back and forth from one side of that line to the other.
She believed that a private investigator who wasn’t gifted with an inquisitive nose wasn’t worth taking behind the barn and shooting.
That was one of her most cherished