Death by Chocolate

Eleanor’s voice. She had been recently betrayed, and
judging from the tears that sprang to her eyes, deeply hurt.
    Savannah reminded herself
to check out the circumstances of Eleanor’s divorce. Another woman, maybe? A
woman who, even though she had won the first round of the matrimonial battle,
might have chosen to send a few death threats to the ex-wife?
    “Come have a glass of wine
with me,” Eleanor said, turning around and walking back into the kitchen
without waiting for an answer.
    Savannah glanced down at
the dogs and thought, You guys aren’t the only ones around here who are
accustomed to having the upper hand.
    She followed Eleanor
through the kitchen and out to the patio on the sea side of the house. Two
chaise lounges had been pulled out to the edge of the patio, overlooking the
moonlit ocean. The area was dimly lit by the glow of several ship’s lanterns
that hung from the branches of a nearby olive tree.
    On a small wrought-iron
table sat a bottle of wine that was more than half empty. Beside the bottle was
a second glass. Apparently, Lady Eleanor had been expecting company. Savannah
wondered if the anticipated arrival was her.
    Eleanor sat on one of the
chaises, uncorked the bottle, and began to fill the other glass.
    “I don’t drink when I’m
working,” Savannah said. “But I’ll be happy to sit with you for a spell.”
    As she lowered herself on the
other lounge chair, she saw that Eleanor was still pouring.
    “I don’t want somebody to
sit with,” she said, holding the glass out to Savannah. “I want somebody to
drink with.”
    Savannah gave her a cool
half-smile. ‘Then you’d better offer me an iced tea or a Pepsi,” she said
softly but firmly.
    Eleanor Maxwell returned
the chilly smile without blinking. “I’m not as easily intimidated as Killer
is,” she said. ‘You’ll have to do a lot more than pick me up and shake me to
get the best of this old girl.”
    “I wouldn’t dream of trying
to best you, Lady Eleanor. That’s not my job. I’m here to protect you,
remember?”
    “Yeah, right. Protect me.
It’s a sorry day when somebody’s got to seek protection from their so-called
loved ones.” She drained the last swig from her own wineglass, set it on the
table, and settled back with the one she had poured for Savannah.
    “So, you think it’s one of
your friends or family who sent you the letters?”
    “Probably. Who else would
want to upset me? They love to torment me, the whole bunch of them. They’re
jealous, you know, because I’m trailer trash who’s made good.”
    Savannah blinked, taken
aback by her candor. Few people she knew—or had ever known—would have given
themselves such a distasteful label.
    “People don’t mind so much
if you’re born with money,” Eleanor continued, “but it really irks them when
you rise above your circumstances.”
    Stretching her legs out in
front of her, Savannah felt a wave of fatigue roll through her from head to
toe. It had been a long, stressful day... though, come to think of it, not that
long, and she had certainly experienced worse days. Again, she wondered if she
was somehow past her prime. Or maybe she was coming down with something.
    “On your list of jealous
loved ones,” she said, pulling herself back to the duties at hand, “who would
you put at the top of the page under ‘Irked’?”
    Eleanor took another long
drink from her glass and gazed out at the dark sea a few moments before
answering. “There are at least three people who all have to share the number
one spot on the list,” she finally said. “My daughter... who blames me for
every damned thing that’s ever gone wrong in her empty, ridiculous life; my
ex-husband... who’s bitter that I dumped him after he ‘made me the success I am
today’; and Kaitlin.... for the same reason. To hear them tell it, she and
Maxwell are responsible for all of this.” She waved her hand, indicating the
house and gardens.
    Savannah wondered if their
claims might have a basis in fact, but decided that Eleanor wasn’t the one to
objectively answer that question. So she swallowed her curiosity and allowed
her to continue.
    “When I met Burt, he was a
traveling insurance salesman and I was a short-order cook at a truckstop. He
stopped in one day when I was making my Christmas fudge for my favorite
customers and—well, as they say, the rest is history. Burt could sell anything
to anybody. He sold the idea of ‘Lady Eleanor, Queen of Chocolate’ to