Bitter Sweets

here.”

    “A ham sandwich.”

    He considered, then shook his head. “I don’t think so. It’s the leg of lamb and mint jelly or nothin’.”

    “With cheese ...” she bargained. He didn’t budge. “And a smear of dijon.”

    “Deal.”

    In a car parked in the shadows half a block away, a silent figure sat and watched as, one by one, Savannah’s guests filed out the door. For the past hour, the spy had been observing their shadows on the dining room curtains; a meeting had been in progress. It didn’t require a vivid imagination to guess who and what had been the subject of the conversation.

    Having recorded the “comings” and “goings” of the household for the past four hours, the person in the shadows was well satisfied.

    So far, so good. Everything appeared to be going as planned.

    Scribbling on a note pad, aided by the dim glow of a penlight, the voyeur paid special attention to the dynamics between each departing attendee and their hostess as they wished her good-bye. The tall guy and the older man left together, each giving her an affectionate kiss on the cheek. The young blonde hugged her, then puttered away in a hot pink, perfectly renovated, Volkswagen bug.

    A more colorful character, the fellow who looked like a bedraggled cop, had merely socked her on the shoulder before climbing into a battered 1962 Buick Skylark. Unlike the Volkswagen, the Skylark could be described by a tactful phrase commonly used in classified ads-”restorable.” But barely.

    This surprised the note-taker, who had pegged the guy in the Buick as Savannah’s lover and had expected him to stay the night.

    So, Savannah Reid didn’t live with a man; she was alone.

    Good, that might make things easier later.

    As the last of the cars drove away, Savannah disappeared inside the quaint, Spanish-style cottage, and turned out the porch light. Moments later, a series of shadows on blinds and the dousing of more lights signaled that she was retiring. Finally, only one window glowed-upstairs on the left. Her bedroom. That’s all for tonight, folks, the individual thought, turning the key in the ignition and firing up the engine. The wheels are turning now. It won’t be long.

    So far, things were going much better than hoped. Who said the game of murder was complicated?

    CHAPTER TWO

    On a morning like this, it wasn’t difficult for Savannah to remember why she had relocated fifteen years ago from Georgia to Southern California. As she guided her red Camaro northward around the twisting turns of Buena Vista Road, she could see the Pacific Ocean glittering, diamond-dusted turquoise, to her far left.

    Along the shore lay San Carmelita, the small, quaint village where she had finally settled after a brief and somewhat unpleasant stint as a rookie on the Hollywood Police Force. It was a tough beat to lose your virginity.

    On the other hand, San Carmelita was small and personal. Savannah knew the owners of the shops and restaurants she frequented, and occasionally met a friend on the streets.

    All in all, Savannah liked San Carmelita. Except for the occasional pang of homesickness, the periodic longing for the smell of a Georgia pine, and the PMS craving for a couple of airy-light Southern biscuits smeared with sorghum and fresh butter, San Carmelita felt like home.

    The golden, morning sun shone on the foothills that rose to her right, gentle slopes which, from a distance, looked as though they were covered with soft, tan suede.

    Heavier than usual spring rains had kept the hills green for months, but the recent Santa Ana winds had dried the new brush to fire-crisp tinder.

    Not for the first time, Savannah marveled at the logic which drove people to build the most expensive homes in town there on the crest of the hills. Sure, the view was terrific, but when the seasonal brushfires started in the fall, they would be on the front line of the assault. Not to mention the prospects of instantaneous relocation downward in event of a major earthquake.

    As she drove higher into the exclusive neighborhood, Savannah assured herself that her opinions were solid and had nothing to do with the fact that she couldn’t afford to live in one of these fine, custom homes with the breathtaking view. Certainly not on a recently-fired-police-detective’s nonsalary, or on a recently-established-private-detective’s income.

    Referring to her notebook, which lay open on the passenger’s seat next to her, she checked the