Cereal Killer

tired and old. ‘Yeah... that we’ve got two plus-sized fashion models in the same town who died in less than twenty-four hours of each other under suspicious circumstances.”
    “In other words... who were deliberately croaked.” She gave him a long, hard look. “Dirk,” she finally said, “sometimes I wish you were more like your hero, John Wayne. You know... the strong, silent type.”
     

Chapter
    8
     
    W hen Savannah returned home late that afternoon, she nearly collided with her sister as she entered the house. Loaded down with a makeup case in one hand and an overnight bag in the other, Marietta was on her way out, a flushed look on her face.
    “I don’t have time to chew the fat with you,” she said as she jostled Savannah out of her path and barreled through the door. “See ya later.” From many years of “big-sister duty,” Savannah knew a guilty look when she saw one. And nothing piqued her curiosity more than thinly veiled avoidance.
    Miss Marietta Reid had “I’m up to no good” written across her forehead, and having been gifted with more than her fair share of pure nosiness, Savannah had to investigate.
    “Hold on a second,” she said, rushing to catch up with Marietta on the porch. “Where are you off to like a cat with its tail on fire?”
    “I don’t want to be late,” Marietta exclaimed as she tossed the makeup bag and small suitcase into the back seat of her rental car. “I’m nervous enough about tonight without worrying about whether I’m gonna hit heavy traffic on the highway.”
    “If you’re taking the P.C.H. at this time of day, you can be sure you’re going to get caught in some clogs.” She gave her younger sister a quick glance up and down, taking in the knee-high zebra print boots, the black satin miniskirt, and the sheer tiger-striped span-dex top that clearly displayed every bulge, nook, and cranny of the famous Reid-girl bustline.
    Yep, she thought, Marietta’s going trolling. Lord, please don’t let her catch something so big and nasty that she can’t throw it back if she needs to.
    “Have a good time,” she said, trying to sound more enthusiastic and less judgmental than she felt. “I’ll wait up for you, and when you get back we’ll have a nightcap and you can tell me all about him.”
    Again, Marietta shot one of those suspicious looks at her, and Savannah’s radar pinged.
    “No, don’t wait up for me.” Marietta jerked the driver’s side door open and tossed her purse to the passenger seat.
    Savannah pointed to the suitcase in the back. “I don’t mean to be nosy, but... you’re not really figuring on spending the night with this guy, are you?” she said.
    “Then don’t be,” Marietta snapped.
    “Be what?”
    “Nosy. Just mind your own business and don’t give me no lip about my social life. At least I’ve got one!” She got into the car and jammed the key into the ignition.
    Savannah stepped up to the car and put her face through the open window. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
    Marietta gave her a smirk that could only be classified as ugly. “Think about it, big sis.... I spent my day getting dolled up so that I can spend the evening in Malibu with the hunk of my dreams. You, on the other hand, spent yours looking at dead folks. Now, who do you figure’s got the big end of that turkey drumstick?” She started up the car, put it in gear, and backed up so fast that Savannah had to scramble to get out of her way. A second later Marietta had disappeared down the road on her way to Malibu... her Internet prince... and her cyberpalace in the clouds.
    “Eh, bite me,” Savannah mumbled as she watched the dust settle in her driveway. “The nice thing about dead people is that they don’t mug you, kill you, knock you up, or give you the creeping crud. And there’s a lot to be said for that.”
    She was still grumbling to herself when she reentered the house and found Tammy sitting at the desk, scribbling on a notepad. “Oh, there you are,” she said as Savannah tossed her purse and keys onto the table in the foyer. “Did you run into your sister?”
    “I sure did... hence the bright smile on my face.” She bared her teeth, and Tammy giggled.
    No sooner had she settled into her easy chair than the two cats left their sunlit window perches and ran to claim their favorite spots—Cleopatra across her thighs and Diamante on her chest.
    “You know,” she told them, “ just because Mom makes a lap doesn’t