Cereal Killer

A-negative,” he said, crossing his arms again. “Is that all?”
    “That’s all. Thank you.”
     
    Savannah was never happier to be outside in the fresh air and sunshine than when they exited the clinic. Once in the parking lot, she paused and took a deep breath.
    “I hear ya,” Dirk said. “That guy smells... and I’m not talkin’ about his onion breath either.”
    “Let’s keep an eye peeled on him.”
    “Man, I’m running out of eyes here. I had to cut Tumblety loose, and I’ve got Jake McMurtry tailing him. Then there’s Cait’s husband and that agent gal and those other models and the photographer and that ad agency dude. Cheez. Usually you can’t find a suspect in a case, and now we’re drowning in them.”
    Savannah reached into her purse, pulled out her notebook, and flipped it open to the page where she had jotted down the limo’s plate number. “Well, your life’s about to take a turn for the worse,” she told him, “because I have a sneaking suspicion that when you run this plate, you’re going to find out that it belongs to a guy named Charles Wentworth III.”
    “The cereal tycoon?”
    “None other.”
    Dirk winced as he wrote the number in his own notebook. “I hate dealing with those dudes with the numbers after their names.”
    Savannah laughed. “Oh, yeah? You oughta rub noses with the guys down South like Bubba Junior and Little Billy Ray. There’s just something about having to live up to the ‘seniors’ or numbers one, two, or three that makes a fella defensive.”
    Dirk glanced back at the clinic door. “Or having an MD after your name and something to hide.”
     
    Savannah was in the grocery store, picking up the makings of a fine pork chop and cornbread dressing dinner, when her cell phone rang. Stopping in the frozen section, she answered and was surprised to hear an unfamiliar voice on the other end.
    ‘Yes, hi,” he was saying, “I’m Officer Leo Kingston with the SCPD. I got your number from Dirk Coulter. I hope you don’t mind, but I thought I should call you.”
    “No problem,” she said, reaching for a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey. “What’s up?”
    “I mentioned to some of the guys here that I was going to have to go out and talk to somebody and one of them recognized your address.”
    “My address? Why are you going out to my address?” She pitched the ice cream into the cart and reached for a pint of Cherry Garcia, Marietta’s favorite.
    “We got a complaint about a Marietta Reid, who’s staying there. Dirk says she’s your sister.”
    Savannah froze, the ice cream in her hand. “Yes, I’m afraid she’s a close blood relation of mine. What was the nature of the complaint... as if I have to ask.”
    “Apparently she’s been harassing a certain William Donaldson, who lives in West Hollywood. He called us and asked us to speak to her about it, to tell her that he’s considering getting a restraining order against her. It seems she showed up today at his place of employment and had to be removed from the premises by the security there.”
    “Lord help us,” Savannah muttered. “That girl’s plumb lost her mind, and she didn’t have all that much to begin with.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Never mind. Thank you for calling me, Officer Kingston. I’ll speak to my sister, really, and I guarantee you that she won’t be bothering Mr. Donaldson again.”
    “Are you sure, because I really ought to follow up on this if—”
    “I’m sure. Thank you, Leo.”
    Savannah hung up and stood there, staring at the Cherry Garcia in her hand. Then, with a determination born of fury, she shoved the ice cream back into the freezer.
    “Screw you, Marietta Jane Reid,” she grumbled. “No ice cream for you. No pork chop dinner. No nothing. You can just get your butt with your purple, tiger-striped pants on the next plane to Georgia. It’s a transcontinental flight. If you’re lucky maybe they will feed you something!”
     
    “You can’t make me go home, Savannah! You can’t make me do nothin’ I don’t wanna do!” Marietta shouted as she paced the length of the living room, waving her arms and punctuating each statement with a stomp.
    In her wing-back chair, Savannah sat quietly, watching the tantrum and sipping her coffee that was liberally laced with Baileys Irish Cream. She wished it was Jack Daniels, but Baileys would have to do. She had to keep her wits about her. Assertiveness had never come easy for her when it