Death by Chocolate

usual
uniform of a white cotton shirt, black skirt, and black penny loafers. In honor
of the occasion, she had pinned a black onyx brooch under her chin. Her hair
was slicked straight back.
    She didn’t look like a
hick, but she certainly could have passed herself off as an undertaker.
    “Come in my room, sweetie,
and let’s see what I can dig up for you.”
    “Are you kidding?” she
said, following her down the hall. “I could never wear your clothes. They’d
hang on me. I’m much smaller through the hips than—”
    “Can it, Cordele, before I
smack you upside the head.” Savannah walked into her bedroom and opened the
closet door. She dug around in the back and came out with one of her “hooker
stroll” outfits that she had used for vice undercover work.
    Cordele’s eyes bugged at
the black leather miniskirt and the red sequined sweater with its
ostrich-feather trim. “I’m not wearing that getup! What have you even got
clothes like that for? Never mind, I don’t even want to know, but I ain’t
wearing it.”
    “I wouldn’t let you
wear it, turkey butt. But it does have some accessories that we could use.”
    She peeled off a few items
and laid them on the dresser. Then she turned to Cordele. “Come here, punkin’,
and let’s spruce you up a bit.”
    “Oh, first I’m a turkey
butt and now I’m punkin’,” she grumbled as she walked over to Savannah and
submitted herself.
    “They’re all terms of
endearment. Be still.”
    Savannah removed the
brooch, set it aside, and unfastened Cordele’s top three buttons. She spread
the collar apart and clasped an antique necklace of tarnished silver and pale
blue stones around her neck. “I have earrings to match this over there in the
jewelry box,” she said. ‘They’ll show up pretty with your short hair.”
    She took a belt made of
black satin with plaited cording and tied it around Cordele’s waist, which she
had to admit was considerably smaller than hers.
    “We still wear the same
size shoe, don’t we?” Savannah asked, turning to her closet.
    “I guess so. What’s the
matter with my shoes?”
    “Nothing’s the matter with
anything. But it’s fun to dress up sometimes. Remember when we used to get into
Gran’s old trunks and play with her.... never mind.” She had learned the hard
way not to stroll down memory’s long and winding road with Miss Cordele.
    “Slip off those loafers and
try these on,” she said, holding out a pair of high-heeled sandals with a sexy
ankle strap.
    “Oh, I couldn’t.” But
Cordele’s eyes were gleaming with anticipation.
    “Sure you could. Slap some
red polish on those toenails—there’s a bottle in the bathroom medicine chest—
and put those heels on. You’ll be the original glamorpuss.”
    She giggled. “Do you really
think I have time? Ryan and John could be here any minute.”
    “Eh, if they arrive, I’ll
keep ‘em occupied downstairs. It’ll be worth the wait.”
     
     
    Savannah could tell, just by
looking at her sister across the table, that Cordele was having the time of her
life. But she wasn’t surprised. Ryan and John had a way of creating magic for
anyone they entertained.
    And they were an
entertaining pair.
    They had driven the ladies
to Chez Antoine in their classic Bentley; Cordele had been ecstatic. They had
given Savannah a perfect lavender rose, Cordele a white one. Again, she had
been agog. Ryan had noticed the sexy sandals and red toenails—after Savannah
had given him a discreet wink and nod toward Cordele’s feet—and he had
complimented her profusely. That was, undoubtedly, the point when Cordele had
fallen hopelessly in love.
    Upon arriving at the
restaurant, Antoine himself, a slick little Frenchman in a tuxedo, had gushed
over them, kissing their hands and commenting on the high-heeled sandals
without any prompting from Savannah. His high level of enthusiasm about those
shoes caused Savannah to conclude that he must have a foot fetish.
    He ushered them to their
favorite booth, which was wonderfully private, surrounded by palms and
partitioned off with dividers made of sparkling beveled glass framed in brass.
    Between their before-dinner
cocktails and appetizers, John had regaled them with tales of his interactions
with British nobility while still a “lad” in England. Ryan added his own bit of
blarney, relating some of his adventures while guarding the bodies of the rich
and famous in Hollywood.
    But sooner or later, the
conversation had to turn to