Death by Chocolate

say to Sydney Linton, or how she
would say it. But she figured the words would come, as they usually did, when
she needed them.
    Before she reached the
pub’s entrance, the door opened and Sydney walked out with a friend. She
stopped where she was, standing in the shadows at the edge of the parking lot,
and watched.
    The two men chatted for a
moment, then the stranger walked to a nearby pickup and drove away.
    Savannah was about to
continue across the lot and call out his name when she realized he wasn’t
returning right away to the Jag. Instead, he stopped and looked around him in a
manner that she could only classify as “suspicious.”
    Stepping deeper into the
shadows, she watched and waited to see what he would do next.
    After seeing no one, he
walked quickly to the opposite side of the lot and toward the back of the
building, where a large Dumpster sat against a crooked wooden fence. Again, he
glanced around. Savannah held her breath, hoping he wouldn’t see or sense her
watching him there in the darkness.
    As though gathering his
resolve, he sprinted over to the Dumpster and lifted the lid. He looked inside
for only a split second, then closed it and strode back to the Jaguar.
    Savannah swallowed the
words she had been preparing for him. She wouldn’t need them. In the past
minute she had seen more than he would have ever told her, no matter what she
had said to him.
    She waited for him to pull
out of the parking lot and disappear down the highway before she left her
hiding place and walked over to the Dumpster. Opening the lid, she could see
that it was brimming with typical “bar” garbage.
    Mulling over the
implications, she left the container and walked across the lot and into the
bar. The smell of booze and stale smoke hit her as she walked through the
door—along with a belt of loud country music from the jukebox.
    Several interested male
eyes followed her as she made her way to the bar, where a round, red-faced
bartender was drawing draughts into mugs.
    “Whatcha drinking, ma’am?”
he asked.
    “Nothing, thanks,” she
replied, leaning over the bar, practically shouting to be heard above the
music. “I was just wondering—when is your garbage collected?”
    “What?” He looked at her as
if she were impaired. “First thing in the morning. Why?”
    “What day?” she asked.
    “Thursday. Tomorrow. Why?”
    “So, that Dumpster out
there in your parking lot hasn’t been dumped since last Thursday morning?”
    “Yeah. That’s right.
They’ll pick it up about six tomorrow morning. Why?”
    She shrugged and gave him a
dimpled smile. “Aw, nothing. I just keep track of stuff like that.”
    “O-o-okay. Whatever you
say.”
    She walked out of the bar
and back to her car. Getting into the Mustang, she took her phone out of her
purse and called Dirk.
    ”You gotta meet me at the
Lucky Shamrock tomorrow morning before six,” she said, suddenly feeling tired,
and old, and used up. This job would put her in her grave. She should have
followed her childhood dream and become a go-go dancer. “And bring some rubber
gloves, boots, and overalls. You’re gonna need ‘em.”
     
     
    Dawn’s early light found
Savannah, Dirk, and Tammy hip deep in garbage. Standing in the back of one of
San Carmelita’s finest refuse-collection trucks, they were sifting through the
Lucky Shamrock’s disposables. The truck’s three crewmen milled around in the
pub’s parking lot, sending poisoned glances their way, unhappy to have their
daily routine interrupted by a curt detective with a badge and a couple of
women in shapeless overalls and yellow slicker boots.
    “Could be worse,” Savannah
said as she shoved aside some lemon peels, shriveled lime slices, and soggy
napkins. “Could be hospital garbage. Remember when we had to look for
hypodermic needles in Community General’s trash?”
    “Now that was
scary,” Tammy agreed with a shudder. “Would you two broads can it?” Dirk
growled as he dug in with his yellow rubber gloves. “The last thing I need is a
couple of Pollyannas telling me that rummaging through a heap of stinkin’
garbage before I’ve even had my morning coffee is a good thing.”
    “In your ear sideways,
Coulter,” Savannah replied, tossing a wad of wet paper towels in the vicinity
of his head. “At least I was smart enough to wait until the truck got here and
dumped the load upside down. You were ready to go combing through the whole
mess.”
    “Yeah, and you’re just