Death by Chocolate

she wasn’t Lady Eleanor.... queen of anything. She was
living in a world not of her own design. A lot of women do.”
    “What?”
    “Never mind. You get the
bathroom, and I’ll see what I can find in here.”
    Savannah rummaged through
the dresser drawers but found only the expected brightly colored, plus-sized
muumuus, housedresses, and nightgowns. Judging from the amount of loungewear,
Eleanor spent more time lolling around than dressing up.
    Not that Savannah would
judge her for that. Why not live in pj’s if you could? If you had to pour
yourself into one of those Victorian corsets and put on a heavy, hot wig every
evening... kick back the rest of the time.
    The miscellaneous candy
wrappers, empty cookie boxes, and potato chip bags scattered about revealed a
diet that was relatively nutrient-free. Not the ideal for anybody, let alone a
heart patient. And Savannah counted at least half a dozen empty fifths of hard
booze.
    She could hear Dirk
rummaging around in the adjoining bathroom. “What did you find?” she called out
to him.
    “All kinds of crap she was
taking,” he said. “I’ve got a dozen prescriptions here at least... from several
different doctors.”
    “Are you bringing them with
you?”
    “Oh, yeah. How about you?”
    “Nothing interesting.” She
walked over to the night-stand, which was covered with movie magazines and
romance novels as well as the ever present junk-food wrappers.
    Opening the top drawer of
the stand, she saw a clutter of reading glasses, old TV Guides, and more
gaudy costume jewelry. Her practiced eye scanned the mundane contents, looking
for the unusual or the informative.
    She found it: a journal,
leather-bound with loose-leaf pages. A purple felt-tipped pen was tucked
between the pages, and the writing throughout was in bold purple ink. The
handwriting was large with plenty of curly flourishes, and although the entire
book was obviously written by the same hand, the penmanship varied from neat
and formal to almost illegible.
    Savannah didn’t have to
read more than a page or two to realize it was Eleanor Maxwell’s.
    “Bingo,” she said. “Diary.”
    Dirk poked his head around
the corner. “Really? Hers?”
    “Yep. Could make
interesting reading, you know, if...” She didn’t want to speak the words aloud.
“If we find out she was murdered.”
    “Exactly,” he replied.
    He disappeared back into
the bathroom, and she continued to search the remaining drawers. But the journal
was the only thing of interest she uncovered.
    “Are you about done in
here?” Dirk asked as he exited the bathroom, a paper bag in his hand containing
the medications he had found.
    “Yes. I peaked with the
diary. Let’s go.”
    They were just leaving the master
suite and entering the upstairs hall when they heard a noise on the lower
level.
    “That’s too loud to be the
mutts,” Dirk whispered.
    Savannah listened to the
heavy footsteps. “Definitely a two-footed critter. Maybe Marie.”
    “Let’s see.”
    The thick Oriental rugs
cushioned their steps as they made their way quietly down the hall. When they
reached the top of the staircase, they could see down into the foyer. Savannah
recognized the thick white hair and the pinstriped suit. This time Martin
Streck was wearing a purple shirt with an olive tie. She decided he must be
color-blind and single. No wife would let her man leave the house dressed like
that.
    The accountant was holding
a large file box, and from the way he was carrying it, the thing was full and
heavy.
    “Hey,” Dirk called as he
passed Savannah on the stairs and hurried the rest of the way down. “Whatcha
got there, buddy?”
    Streck hugged the box
closer to his chest and lifted his nose a few notches. “Who are you, and what
are you doing here?”
    Dirk reached into his
pocket, pulled out his badge, and flipped it open, displaying the gold shield.
“Detective Sergeant Coulter. I’m conducting an investigation. So I’ll ask you
again: What have you got in the box?”
    One glance at Dirk’s face
told Savannah that he had exhausted his supply of “nice” and was entering
“cranky.” Dirk never bothered to stock a lot of “nice” on his personality
shelf, and he was frequently running out.
    “I’m Martin Streck, the
late Mrs. Maxwell’s accountant. I need these files to settle her estate.” He
turned to Savannah. “What have you got to do with this?”
    She smiled and shrugged.
“I’m just hanging out with what’s-his-face