Death by Chocolate

Kaitlin,
an agent/promoter kid he’d met in L.A. She added the whole Victorian image bit,
and I’ve been wearing those damned wigs and corsets ever since.”
    “And the candy stores? Were
those her idea, too?”
    “No. Burt pushed for that.
Personally, I don’t give a hoot about having stores in every mall on the West Coast,
but... nobody thought to ask me whether I wanted them.”
    Savannah watched as yet
another wall of her fantasy casde in the clouds crumbled before her eyes. Lady
Eleanor didn’t care about her own shops? The ladies in their long dresses,
serving bits of heaven in tiny pink bags or shiny silver and gold boxes?
    “What about the Raspberry
Delights or the Lemon Crème Parfaits?” Savannah said, trying to keep her voice
from trembling. “Aren’t those, you know, your own creations?”
    “Oh, please. Burt hired
some pipsqueak kid from a New York City gourmet cooking school to come up with
that crap. But, of course, if you repeat any of what I’m saying, I’ll deny it
and sue you.”
    “Of course. Don’t worry;
I’m discreet.” Devastated, she thought, but discreet. “How about the recipes on
your cooking show?” She was almost afraid to ask.
    “Naw, those are mine. The
only thing that’s mine anymore. That and my granddaughter, Gilly. But it’s just
a matter of time until that rotten mother of hers turns her against me, too.”
    Eleanor sighed and closed
her eyes for a moment. In the dim light of the lanterns, Savannah wasn’t sure,
but she thought she saw a tear sparkling on the woman’s cheek.
    “Those times in my
kitchen,” she continued, “when I can just cook, and Gilly’s sitting there on her
stool, tasting the things I make, telling me all about her school friends and
chattering on about silliness.... those are the only good times I have anymore.
They’re all that makes it worth... going on.”
    Yes, there were definitely
tears on Lady Eleanor’s cheeks. Savannah wasn’t sure how seriously to take this
mood downturn. Was it deep, heartfelt sorrow, or was the woman simply entering
the crying-jag period of her drinking routine?
    Either way, Savannah didn’t
like what she was hearing. It had been her personal experience that when people
grew genuinely, truly tired of living, they were in danger of checking out—one
way or the other.
    “Maybe you should talk to
somebody, Eleanor,” she suggested as gently as possible. Such suggestions were
seldom met with enthusiastic agreement.
    “To hell with you. I don’t
need a shrink.”
    “O-kay. How about a
spiritual counselor, a minister or rabbi or—”
    “I don’t need God, either.
He turned his back on me a long, long time ago.”
    At least half a dozen of Savannah’s
grandmother’s admonitions about the Almighty’s abiding love came to her mind,
but she decided not to share those words of wisdom. Lady Eleanor didn’t appear
to be in a receptive mood.
    Another one of Granny
Reid’s observations rang a mental bell as well: “If somebody’s done made up
„their mind to be ornery, ain’t much you can say to talk ‘em outta it. lust
save your breath and steer clear of ’em.”
    Savannah decided maybe it
was time to steer clear of Eleanor Maxwell. At least until she was a bit more
sober.
    “I’m concerned about your
lack of security measures ‘around here,” Savannah said. “Your back door was
unlocked. If I could just walk in, so could anybody else. You need to—”
    “Nobody’s coming into this
house without me knowing it. That’s what the dogs are for.”
    “Those dogs, noisy as they
are, won’t stop an intruder who’s intent on doing you harm.”
    “That’s what the shotgun’s
for.”
    “What shotgun?”
    “The one in the broom
closet right beside the pantry door, loaded and ready to rock and roll.”
    Savannah shuddered. “We
should talk about that,too. Tomorrow afternoon, I need some time to
discuss all these matters with you and—”
    “I’m busy tomorrow. We’re
going to be shooting a commercial for the shops in the afternoon.”
    “Eleanor, I know you’re a
busy lady, but if I’m going to provide you with any kind of effective
protection, I have to be here. I’m going to pack a bag and stay here with you,
at least for a few days until I can assess your—”
    “What you have to do is
find out who’s writing me those stinking letters. That’s all you’ve got to do.
That, and stay out of my hair. You’re not here to tell me what to do. I tell
you what’s what, not the