Corpse Suzette

eyes narrowed. He
looked about as comforted as she had intended him to be. “But,” he said, “you
think she used the word ‘rosarita ’ as the password for the account where
she stuck my money?”
    “I reckon she did.” Again,
she couldn’t hide a smile. Suzette was a corker; Savannah’s kind of gal. “I
figure Miss Suzette chose that particular password to make a point.”
    “Yeah, she made her point
all right.” He sighed. For a moment Leonard/Sergio looked much older than his
age, in spite of all the plastic surgery. “I screwed Devon at ‘our’ hotel, and
now I’m screwed.”
    Savannah nodded. “That’s
about it... in a pe-can shell.”

Chapter

8
     
     
     
    A fter Savannah finished
speaking with Sergio D’Alessandro, she was more than eager to leave Emerge. As
lovely as the establishment might be, architecturally speaking, the place felt
creepy to her. A few too many dark secrets seemed to cast a gloom over even the
most beautifully decorated and sunlit interiors.
    She was walking across the
parking lot to her Mustang when she spotted Devon Wright, who was approaching
her Corvette. Before the younger woman climbed into the convertible, she
glanced around, as if to see whether anyone was watching her. Fortunately, she
didn’t look Savannah’s way, or she would have seen that, indeed, she was being
observed.
    What’s with the paranoia,
girlie? Savannah thought. What are you up to that you don’t want anyone to know
about?
    As Savannah got into her
own car and started the engine, she decided to follow the publicist and find
out.
    She would have to tail her
at a distance; the bright red Mustang wasn’t exactly a low-profile vehicle.
More than once Savannah had considered trading it in for something less
conspicuous. Something that got more than nine miles to a gallon of gasoline,
had air bags, and didn’t need a carburetor tune-up every month to run smoothly
Ah, the joys of owning a classic.
    But just thinking of
getting rid of the ’stang broke her heart. Years ago, she had made the mistake
of selling the Camaro she’d had since high school. The loss had plunged her
into a depression so deep that only those who owned a collectable muscle car
and were continually challenged to race while sitting at stoplights could possibly
understand.
    No, the Mustang was here to
stay. She’d just have to stay a couple of blocks behind anyone she wanted to
tail. And fortunately, she knew every street, alley, nook, and cranny of San
Carmelita, so it was fairly simple keeping track of her quarry.
    Devon drove along the edge
of the foothills, then headed toward the downtown area. Lined with palm trees,
mission-style boutiques, antique shops, and souvenir stores that sold what
Savannah affectionately called “that glued-together seashell crap” to the Los
Angeles tourists, Main Street was picturesque and quaint.
    But Devon Wright drove
right through the picturesque part, past the quaint section and into the grungy
side of town. Here the cute shops gave way to X-rated video stores, tattoo
parlors, strip clubs, and pawn establishments.
    It was in front of one of
those hock shops that Devon parked her convertible. Savannah was more than a
little surprised that she would leave such a nice vehicle in that sort of
neighborhood, especially with the top down.
    But there was no accounting
for naiveté.
    Savannah watched from a
block away as Devon and her black leather miniskirt disappeared into the store.
Fifteen minutes later, she emerged, a satisfied look on her face. Apparently,
her business had been accomplished.
    As Savannah watched her get
into the Corvette and drive away, she considered what she should do—continue to
follow her, or go into that store and find out what the publicist had been up
to.
    Fortunately, Savannah knew
the owner of the store, a sweet old Jewish fellow named Saul, who had helped
her and Dirk a number of times on other cases. Once he had even helped them
solve a murder, so he was high on her list of favorite citizens.
    She decided to scoot inside
and find out what Devon Wright had pawned. She could always tail that gal some
other time if she ran out of other leads and needed an excuse to stay away from
home and sweet Cousin Abigail.
    “Saulie,” she exclaimed as
she entered the front door, setting the string of silver bells hanging from the
ceiling tinkling. “What’s shakin’, sugar?”
    Saul rounded the corner,
his arms outstretched. “Savannah, my dear! How have you been?