Cereal Killer

companion myself this evening?”
    Sitting next to him, Tammy blushed nearly as red as the red satin sheath she was wearing. She did look especially lovely, Savannah thought, enjoying the look of pure pleasure on her young friend’s face. Tammy’s sun-bleached hair always glistened with health, as did her golden-tanned skin. But it was the kindness in her eyes that gave Tammy her greatest beauty, a warmth that enveloped and soothed everyone around her.
    Savannah was glad they had invited her along this evening to share in the fun—not to mention the espionage.
    “Here we are,” Ryan said as they approached the end of the road and a sumptuous French château. “This is the house that cereal built.”
    As they pulled into the long driveway and headed toward the front of the mansion and the circular motor court, Savannah stared up at the imposing limestone façade, the slate roof with its copper gutters, the mullioned windows sparkling in the golden light of early evening. “Wow,” she said. “They must have sold a heck of a lot of corn flakes.”
    “Not to mention puffed rice,” John added. “But even more importantly, Charles Wentworth and his son, Charles Wentworth II, were brilliant businessmen. They kept their company alive through the Great Depression and two World Wars, and not only survived, but flourished.”
    “The only thing Wentworth Industries can’t endure, it seems, is the reign of Charles III,” Ryan added, revealing a bit of sarcasm that was rare for him.
    “From what I hear,” John said, “the family business is in deep trouble due to some appalling mismanagement on the lad’s part. A dreadful shame, really.”
    They stopped in front of the house, where a queue consisting of a Mercedes, a BMW, a Porsche, and a Lamborghini waited while valets scrambled to greet the arriving guests and relieve them of their vehicles.
    “You should have seen old Dirko,” Tammy told John, sounding like a prissy five-year-old who was tattling on her older brother. “He dropped by Savannah’s just before you picked us up. Boy, he was livid that we were coming to this and he wasn’t.”
    Ryan laughed. “I can’t imagine that Dirk would enjoy himself at this sort of function,” he said. “It doesn’t seem like his cup of tea... or bottle of beer, as the case might be.”
    “It isn’t,” Savannah said. “It’s just that he’s afraid we’ll score something good on the case and he’ll miss it. Believe me, that’s the only reason he’s jealous. He couldn’t care less about the dining and dancing, let alone about fund-raising.”
    “Well, if we all keep sharp this evening,” John said, “we might learn something that will help you catch this brute. Jealous or not, I’m sure your Dirk would welcome any help we can give him.”
    “Absolutely,” Savannah said as a fresh-faced young valet hurried to open her door. “An evening in opulence and splendor doesn’t exactly bite, but let’s not forget why we’re here.”
    As she stepped out of the Bentley and onto the granite-block motor court, she thought of Cait Connor and Kameeka Wills, who were far past helping. But Tesla Montoya was still out there somewhere and maybe it wasn’t too late for her.
    A shiver ran over her that had nothing to do with the cool California breeze that was sweeping through the canyon, bringing the sea fog and a damp chill with it. She wrapped her lace shawl around her shoulders, clutched her Gucci-knockoff bag, and slipped her arm through Ryan’s.
     

Chapter
    17
     
    A long with a throng of other guests, the Moonlight Magnolia foursome moved through the château’s magnificent entryway, and like all the arrivals, they took their time, soaking in the ambience. A floor of white Carrera marble and a twenty-five-foot coffered ceiling with gold-leaf molding reflected the light from two magnificent crystal chandeliers. On either side, the maple walls had niches every few feet that contained antique statuary and bronzes, which Ryan whispered to her were French, nineteenth century.
    At the end of the hall, they were ushered into a great room that Savannah couldn’t help noticing was bigger than her entire house. The lofty ceiling here was also coffered, and thick, colorful tapestries hung on the walls, next to oil paintings that were everything from still lifes to portraits to European landscapes. Savannah didn’t have to ask if they had been purchased at the local poster shop, like much of her own art.