Buried In Buttercream

“There’s scraping there, too, consistent with that on the hands.”
    “She wouldn’t have gotten those by falling inside the hotel room,” Savannah said. “It has thick, plush carpeting. And the bathroom has smooth tile.”
    “The patio tiles are rough,” Dirk added. “She might have been stabbed right where you found her, Savannah.”
    “And shoved right into the water.” Savannah shuddered, thinking of how Madeline had looked when she discovered her. “Her feet were out of the water. She could have skinned her shins on the rock edge of the pool when she went in.”
    “Was she dead before or after she hit the water?” Dirk asked.
    As Dr. Liu peeled off her surgical gloves and tossed them into a nearby waste can, she said, “She had some water in her lungs. Not as much as you would expect if the cause of death were simply drowning. I think she died quickly from the stab wounds, and the water was incidental.”
    “No defensive wounds?” Savannah asked.
    “None.” Dr. Liu removed her surgical cap and jacket and tossed them into a hamper. She looked tired, as she always did when she had finished an autopsy and ruled it a homicide.
    Murder was hard on the spirit. Anyone’s. Even a spirit as stalwart as Dr. Jennifer Liu’s.
    “Your lady there didn’t fight back,” she said. “Sadly, I don’t think she got the chance to.”
    Savannah sighed and looked at Dirk. He seemed as tired and weighed down as the doctor. “And now it’s up to us,” she said, “to make sure that her killer doesn’t have a fighting chance either.”

Chapter 11
    S avannah never passed up an opportunity to take a little sightseeing trip into Spirit Hills, one of her favorite areas of San Carmelita.
    Only rich people lived in Spirit Hills. Or, at least, people who had enough money to “put on the dog,” as they said in McGill, Georgia.
    Savannah had never figured out the logic behind that little Southernism, but as a daughter of Dixie, she knew that it had nothing to do with wearing anything canine related. It had to do with showing the rest of the world that you had more than they did ... and, therefore, were a far more valuable human being than their sorry ass.
    And Savannah would be the first to admit that anybody who could afford to live inside this gated, exclusive community in one of its Tudor mansions, Italian villas, contemporary wonders, or French chateaus, had to be better than she was.
    They probably never had mussed-up hair, a bad night’s sleep, a pimple on their nose, or a fight with their spouse.
    Mundane problems like that simply wouldn’t be allowed inside those giant wrought iron gates with the twenty-four-hour guard.
    Of course, she knew better, because she had investigated murders and other horrors behind these gates, and knew firsthand that tragedy could strike anywhere. Life had an unpleasant and often unexpected way of circumventing the protective walls that wealth erected ... twenty-four-hour guard or no.
    “Who’d a’thunk that planning shindigs for rich folks would make enough money to buy a place in here?” Dirk said as they drove through the gates and into the community of enormous estates, sprawling grounds, gatehouses, and guest cottages.
    “I guess it pays well if you’re good enough at it,” she replied. “And to hear Ryan and John tell it, Madeline and Odelle were the best at one time.”
    They turned onto a street called Whispering Wind Song, and Savannah thought how lovely that would look on one’s stationery. She noticed that the numbers on the houses were single digits, too. Nice.
    Ah, yes, Lady Savannah Reid at number seven Whispering Wind Song in Spirit Hills, she thought . Has a nice ring to it.
    “I guess the people in here wouldn’t be caught dead in my trailer court,” Dirk said.
    “You never know. There’re plenty of rich folks who’re down to earth and don’t mind mingling with the riffraff.”
    Dirk chuckled. “That’s me all right.” Then he gave her an affectionate smile that went right to her heart. “I’m glad you don’t mind mingling with the down-and-dirty ... classy gal that you are.”
    “Yeah, I don’t mind fraternizing with the rabble when it suits me. Adds color to life.”
    “Some say you’re marrying beneath you. Quite a few say that, in fact.”
    She shrugged. “All women do.”
    They laughed together.
    She reached over and placed her hand on his thigh. She could feel the well-rounded muscle, firm and warm, just beneath the denim,