Death by Chocolate

was there.
    Although Arroyo Verde was
inland and had no ocean front like San Carmelita, the area had an appeal all
its own, surrounded by hills that looked as though they had been covered with a
tawny suede. Somebody had gone crazy in the Parks Department and planted a
zillion palm trees within the city limits. There seemed to be a playground or
picnic area on every other block.
    Kaitlin Dover’s subdivision
was a maze of streets lined by large Spanish-style homes with plenty of
red-tiled roofs, gleaming white stucco, wrought iron, and bougainvillea
climbing everywhere. Any one of the massive houses set alone on a hill would
have been impressive. But crammed so closely together, each one looking almost
identical to the rest, they seemed to lack character.
    Savannah found the street
named La Rosa and Kaitlin’s house number. Like the others, it looked new and even
though the lawn was fairly brown from the restrictions on watering, the yard
was well-tended.
    Apparently, producing
gourmet TV shows paid some bucks—more than private detecting, for sure.
    One door of the two-car
garage was open, and inside Savannah could see a red Lexus SC430. She
recognized it as the one that had been parked at the Maxwells’ during the
tapings.
    Maybe she had lucked out
and found the lady of the house at home.
    She walked up the perfectly
edged sidewalk to the front door and rang the bell. Moments later, Kaitlin
Dover opened the door, and Savannah thought maybe she should buy some Lotto
tickets on her way home. This seemed to be her day.
    The producer was wearing
jeans and a faded Hard Rock Café T-shirt. She wasn’t wearing makeup, and her red
hair was practically standing on end. Savannah guessed by her drowsy eyes that
she had been napping. “Hi,” Savannah said, “remember me?”
    Kaitlin’s face fell the
moment she recognized Savannah. “How could I forget?” she said. ‘You were part
of the worst day of my life.”
    Savannah knew what she was
referring to, but she couldn’t resist needling her just a little. “And that
would have been....?”
    Kaitlin’s eyes widened.
“When Eleanor died, of course.”
    “Oh, that day.”
    “Well... it... it was awful....
seeing my friend die in front of me like that,” she stammered. “I’m surprised
you don’t understand.”
    “Oh, I understand. It was
pretty damned awful for me, having a client die in my arms.”
    Suddenly, Kaitlin seemed
less traumatized and more suspicious. She glanced out at Savannah’s car parked
in front of her house and then looked Savannah up and down. “What do you want?”
she said.
    “To talk to you, if you
don’t mind. I’m investigating Eleanor’s murder. You do know by now that it’s
been determined to be a homicide?”
    “Ah, yes.... I heard. It’s
just terrible. But what do you want with me?”
    “Just to talk.”
    “About what?”
    “Burton Maxwell.”
    Savannah had learned long
ago that a sharp verbal jab to the diaphragm could have highly entertaining and
informative results.
    And Kaitlin Dover looked as
if she had just taken a roundhouse kick to the solar plexus. “What? Why Burt?
What are you insinuating?”
    “Me? Insinuating? Nothing
at all.” Savannah gave her a smile— a grin, actually, similar to what a cat
might wear just before attacking a chipmunk. “I was just wondering if maybe you
could think of any reason why he might want his ex-wife dead?”
    Kaitlin’s mouth opened and
closed several times, but nothing came out.
    “Maybe if he had a
girlfriend, or—”
    The door slammed shut in
her face.
    Oh well, she thought. It
certainly isn’t the first time. Finding oneself suddenly staring at a closed
door and having one’s ears ringing from the concussion of the slam was a
necessary evil in her business.
    As she walked back to her
car, Savannah wondered if, indeed, she should pick up those Lotto tickets. The
visit, although short, had been quite effective. She enjoyed shaking suspects
up a bit in a murder investigation. It made them nervous, and nervous people
made mistakes.
    Sometimes it worked.
    She wondered if Kaitlin was
dialing Burt Maxwell at that very moment. Gleefully, she imagined what the
producer would tell her lover, and his reaction.
    Yes, Savannah thought as
she drove away. She had accomplished exactly what she’d wanted. She would buy
those tickets after all.
     
     
    For lunch, Savannah drove
up to a Burger Haven window and ordered a chicken sandwich, fries, and an iced
tea. Since she had a