Death by Chocolate

Kaitlin’s pretty Irish face. It was gone when she turned
back to Savannah and said in a sweet, even tone, “Oh, yes. Eleanor prefers the
darkness to the light.”
    “And why do you suppose
that is?”
    Kaitlin shrugged. “So many,
many things become clear by day.”
    “Things she’d prefer not to
see?”
    Kaitlin’s eyes cut back to
Eleanor, who was shoving a crew member out of her way as she stomped off the
set, shouting, “Damned stupid idiots.... I oughta fire all of you! I’m gonna go
back to the house to take a break. And don’t call me until you get your shit
together!”
    “A break.” Kaitlin shook
her head wearily. “She’ll be drunk as a skunk by the time she gets done with
her ‘break.’” She left Savannah’s side and strolled to the center of the set,
where nobody seemed particularly surprised. “That’s it for tonight, ladies and
gentlemen. We’ll try again on Wednesday. Thanks.”
    In less than ten minutes,
Kaitlin and her crew had cleared out of the barn-converted studio, and Savannah
was left alone to wander down the cobblestone driveway back to the main house.
    Perhaps under different
circumstances she might have considered the moonlit walk romantic: the silver
light spilling over the lawns, the smell of the sea mingling with that of
nearby eucalyptus trees, the house’s stained-glass windows glowing in the jewel
colors of ruby, sapphire, and topaz, and the hypnotic, rhythmic sounds of the
waves washing onto the beach below.
    But there was another,
unsettling sound. The soft snuffling of someone crying. A child.
    Savannah saw her sitting in
the gazebo, a young girl of about six, with long, straight dark hair that covered
her downturned face like a privacy curtain. She had her knees drawn up under
her chin, her arms wrapped around her bare shins. She wore a bright pink
T-shirt and matching shorts, and in the moonlight Savannah could see sparkles,
like glitter, on her sneakers.
    Savannah walked across the
lawn to the gazebo and stepped into the white, ivy-draped structure. “Hi,” she
said softly.
    The child looked up her
with enormous eyes full of sadness that went straight to Savannah’s heart.
Being the oldest of nine siblings, Savannah had seen more than her share of
pouting and whining, but this youngster’s sorrow was obviously genuine and
deep.
    “What’s the matter,
sweetpea?” she asked in her best big-sister voice as she sat across from the
girl on the circular padded bench that surrounded the interior of the gazebo.
    Shrugging her shoulders,
the child sniffed and wiped her hand across her nose. Savannah reached into her
slacks pocket, pulled out a clean tissue, and offered it to her. The girl took
the tissue and blew heartily into it before tucking it into her own pocket.
    “What’s wrong?” she asked
again. “Did something bad or sad happen? Did one of those terrible terriers
down there take a bite out of your shorts?”
    The child shook her head, but
Savannah saw a trace of a smile cross her face. “Naw. Hitler’s the only one who
ever really bit me, and he doesn’t do it anymore, ‘cause I smacked him on the
butt with a flyswatter.” Savannah chuckled. “Well, I can’t say that I think
hitting innocent animals is a good idea, but”—she held up her bandaged
forefinger—“I do understand. I have to admit that if I’d been holding a
flyswatter or a rolled-up newspaper this afternoon when I met Hitler, I would
have whalloped him, too. Self-defense and all that.”
    “I know. They’re mean,
those little dogs. Mommy says that Grandma spoils them rotten and that’s why
they’re bad. Doggies are supposed to be nice, not going around biting people
for no reason at all. I told Mommy I wanted a good dog, like a golden retriever,
but she said that Satan and Hitler would eat another dog alive. So I can't have
one until all three of them die. Maybe a coyote will come down out of the hills
and eat them some night. I hope so.
     
    The wicked gleam in the little girl’s
eyes took Savannah aback for a moment. She had seen that particular light in
the eyes of criminals she had arrested on the force, and it seemed
inappropriate on one so young.
    “My name’s Savannah,” she told the
girl. “And you are...?”
    “Gilly. Gilly Sarah-Jane Maxwell.” The
child reached into her pocket, pulled out the tissue, and blew into it again.
    “And Lady Eleanor is your
grandmother?”
    “Yeah, but we don’t call her ‘lady.’
Just people who don’t know her