Buried In Buttercream

replied. “I wouldn’t mind keeping a few spoiled starlets safe if it meant I could pay the mortgage and maintenance fees on a joint like this.”
    “Probably doesn’t hurt that they’ve got ‘former FBI agents’ on their resumes.”
    “Or that they look like movie stars themselves.”
    Dirk didn’t reply to that. Dudes like himself couldn’t afford to notice that another guy was attractive.
    It was a manly man sorta thing.
    When they reached the front door, with its sparkling beveled glass, Dirk rang the bell. It only took a few moments before John answered, wearing a dove gray, brocade smoking jacket and holding a briarwood pipe.
    Dirk looked down at his own faded Harley tee-shirt and his frayed jeans. “I see I’m underdressed, as usual.”
    John laughed and beckoned them inside. “Ryan’s pouring us a cognac. Would you like to join us?”
    “Naw,” Dirk said. “I never sip cognac without my fancy smoking jacket.”
    Inside the living room—which looked more like the library of a Tudor mansion, with its stone fireplace, heavy leather furniture, and bookshelves filled with antique leather-bound books—Ryan was pouring Remy Martin into a pair of snifters. He was still wearing the tux shirt and slacks he’d worn to their almost-wedding.
    Savannah tried not to sigh.
    It just wasn’t appropriate with your fiancé in tow.
    “I’ll have one,” she said. “I’m not driving, and I’ve had a rough day.”
    “No kidding.” Ryan placed the Waterford crystal snifter in her hand. “In fact, I think after a day like the one you just had, you deserve a little something to go with that... .”
    He walked to an intricately carved, drop-front desk, opened it, and took out a box of candy. “Here,” he said. “You have to try one of these with it. Dark chocolate pralines from Lyon.”
    “Lord bless your pea-pickin’ heart,” she said, taking one of the glistening delicacies from the box. “I’ve moved up in the world. When I was a kid in McGill, I bought Hershey bars from a guy named Leon. He worked the counter at the little grocery shop by the railroad tracks.”
    She decided not to mention that, as delicious as Ryan’s imported chocolates were, nothing surpassed the flavor or the joy of that rare candy treat she’d had as a girl.
    Early in life, Savannah had realized there was one major advantage to being poor: Everything was a treat ... be it a candy bar, a few hours with no backbreaking chores to do, a precious moment of solitude in a family of nine children, or a loving hug or a kind word from a grandmother, when none had been forthcoming from one’s parents.
    That hard-earned sense of gratitude had greatly enriched her years. And she would never take anything for granted.
    “Have a seat over here, love,” John said, ushering her to a soft, leather chair with a great view by the window. “Make yourself comfortable and relax.” He turned to Dirk and pointed to the sofa. “You, too, old man.”
    “Can I get you a beer?” Ryan asked Dirk.
    “No, thanks. I’m kinda working.” He walked over to the sofa and sat down. For just a second he looked at the marble-topped coffee table, and Savannah knew what he was thinking.
    Quickly, she shot him a don’t-even-think-about-it scowl.
    Since the day she’d met him, Savannah had been trying to teach him the difference between a coffee table and a footstool. Someday he’d learn. Probably about the same time as he got the hang of putting down the toilet seat and chewing potato chips more quietly.
    She wasn’t exactly holding her breath.
    Ryan took a seat on the other end of the sofa from Dirk, while John stepped through the sliding doors, out onto the balcony. He placed his pipe in an antique, brass filigree ashtray.
    John had always been conscientious about his tobacco smoke, but especially so since Dirk had given up cigarettes.
    Everyone had been forced to endure Dirk’s crankiness during his withdrawal stage—which had lasted about two years—and no one wanted to go through it again.
    When John returned, he sat in a matching chair next to Savannah’s.
    “I’m so sorry,” he said, “that our ‘gift’ to you has caused you far more stress than it relieved. Good intentions paving the road to hell and all that dreadful business.”
    “I’m sorry your friend is dead,” Savannah told them. “We informed the in-laws.”
    “And how did that go?” Ryan wanted to know.
    “They seemed surprised, but not particularly