Killer Calories

by at least fifty pounds, a man in excellent shape, who might be a killer. On the other hand, this was the perfect opportunity, the only one she might have.
    Besides, she figured the Beretta tucked into her waistband gave her an edge. So, she decided to go for it.
    “Do you think Kat meant it when she threatened to tell on you?” she asked him, quietly, smoothly delivering the verbal punch to his diaphragm.
    The real thing couldn’t have had a more dramatic effect. He gasped, and, for a moment, she actually thought he might pass out on her.
    She saw a wild, desperate look in his eyes as he stared at her, trying to look through her, to see how much she knew. But Savannah was an excellent poker player, and she knew she wasn’t giving anything away.
    When he recovered his breath and some of his composure, he said, “Kat was a kid at heart. That was both her charm and her downfall. She made a lot of threats she never intended to carry out. I knew that about her, so I just ignored anything she said that I didn’t like.”
    “Then the rumors I’ve heard... they must be a lot of hogwash, huh?”
    “I don’t know what you’ve heard and how much of this you’re making up, Savannah . You strike me as a person who might spin a yam or two if it suited your purpose.”
    She laughed. “That’s true. I’ve been known to embroider the truth from time to time. It’s my Southern heritage.” Her smile melted. “But rumors about murder are serious stuff. They don’t need embellishing to get my attention.”
    He shoved the water bottle back into his fanny pack and zipped it closed with a flourish. “Well, before you pay too much attention to any rumors you hear, you might consider the source. Whoever is spreading this crap ... I’ll bet you could trace it directly back to Lou.”
    “Why would he spread gossip about you?”
    “He wouldn’t. He’d get somebody else to do it for him. God knows, he’s got enough lame brains at his beck and call. And he’s the one who wants Kat’s death to be an accident or murder. Anything but a suicide.”
    So, Dion knew about the insurance policy, too. Was it public knowledge?
    “Lou hasn’t paid any of us our salaries for the past month,” he continued, “because he’s flat broke. If that insurance money doesn’t come through, this place is going to be closing... soon, too.”
    “It’s that bad? He told you that himself?”
    “You’re damned right. So take those rumors you’ve heard with a grain of salt, Savannah . Like I said, consider the source.” Without another word, he took off down the trail, heading back toward the spa and leaving her alone with the avocado trees.
    But the last thing on her mind was guacamole. As he had requested, she was considering the source.
    Bernadette.
    If there was anyone at the spa who was firmly ensconced in Lou’s back pocket, it was Bernadette. In fact, it was safe to say, she was right there in the front... of his Jockeys.

    A sudden yearning for the perfume of roses and the company of an older woman led Savannah to Phoebe Chesterfield’s garden again. As she had hoped, she found the lady there, tending her botanical paradise.
    This time, Miss Chesterfield had abandoned the flouncy skirt in favor of slacks. But her blouse bore the same splash of bright color in the form of scarlet tulips and yellow daffodils. Her flowing waves of silver hair were, once again, covered with the straw bonnet decorated with a sprig of freshly picked lavender.
    Instead of cutting roses, she was in a less delicate position—on her hands and knees digging in a flower bed.
    “Ah, you caught me in my dungarees,” she said, as she dusted the dirt from her leather gloves, squinting up at Savannah . The late- aftemoon sun shone in her eyes and gave her fair skin a rosy glow.
    For a moment, Savannah felt a pang of nostalgia, remembering her granny Reid and the wonderful bonding moments the two of them had shared while planting seeds, separating bulbs, or even spreading manure.
    Gran had glowed with the same health and vitality that radiated from Phoebe Chesterfield. Long ago, Savannah had formulated the theory that gardening kept a woman young— not to mention beautiful—if she only used enough sunscreen and wore a wide-brimmed bonnet.
    “I had intended to get my landscaper to do this job for me,” Phoebe said, pointing to the hole she had just dug and the bareroot bush beside it. “But he won’t be by until Tuesday, and that azalea was going