Killer Calories

least, it made things easier to rationalize.
    “She wasn’t everybody’s type,” Bernadette said. “She just thought she was. There were lots of guys who resisted her charms. Dion was one of them. He’s too classy for the likes of Kat Valentina.”
    “You think so?”
    “I know so. It was ridiculous how she used to chase him, when everybody knew he wasn’t the least bit interested in her.”
    “That must have been pretty humiliating for her.”
    “No kidding. I’m surprised it wasn’t her who killed him .”
    “You’re that sure he did it?”
    “I think she probably had an accident. But if anybody murdered her, I think it was Dion. Why don’t you check out his room tomorrow? He’s going into town to do some errands for Lou about nine o’clock. And he’ll be gone for at least two hours.”
    She fished around in her sweater pocket and pulled out a key. Dropping it into Savannah ’s hand, she said, “Nobody would bother you... if you wanted to take a look around, that is.”
    Savannah curled her fingers around the key and felt it, e small, cold, metal teeth against her palm.
    “How accommodating of you,” she said with a sarcastic edge to her voice.
    Bernadette didn’t seem to notice. “No problem,” she returned with a toss of coppery curls. “Just trying to help.”
    As the redhead turned and walked away, Savannah wondered at the ease and convenience of this new tip. Too easy. Too convenient. Information or evidence that was dumped into her lap was usually worthless.
    She tossed the key up, watched it flip and turn, reflecting the moonlight, then snatched it out of the air and held it tightly.
    But a tip was a tip. And she intended to follow through on this one. At nine o’clock—or a few minutes after, just to make sure he wasn’t coming back—she would be inside Dion Zeller’s bedroom.
    Oh, how she would have been the envy of thousands of females. Except, of course, they would never know, because she was a good girl. She didn’t break and enter... and tell.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

    “ I don’t wanna play lookout; it’s bo -o- oring ,” Tammy whined, as they stood near the door of Dion’s cottage.
    The bungalow occupied the most prestigious location of any of the others, at the end—offering more privacy—and conveniently situated between the pool and tennis courts. Apparently, Kat had provided her co-star with her best guest-house. Savannah thought that fact particularly poignant, considering that she was about to search that cottage for evidence at Dion might have murdered his benefactor.
    She glanced around, but the couple playing tennis nearby seemed totally absorbed, and the lone swimmer in the pool was intent on doing laps.
    “Stop your complaining,” she told Tammy. “Monopoly takes too long to set up, and I don’t play doctor with other girls. So, ’lookout’ it is .“
    “Okay, but don’t ask me to do that stupid detective knock thing. I mentioned it to Dirk yesterday on the phone, and he laughed himself stupid over it.”
    “With Dirk, that shouldn’t have taken very long.” Savannah hurried to the door, slipped the key into the lock, and turned it, thinking how much easier her job was when she had the appropriate provisions.
    “Be out in a few,” she said, then disappeared inside, leaving a pouting Tammy to keep watch.
    The first thing she noticed about the room was the strong smell of glue. The odor was all too familiar to her, as she had smelled it too often in the bedrooms of wigged-out teenagers and the living rooms of assorted “adults” who were old enough to know better.
    Dion Zeller is a sniffer? she thought, wondering how anyone as robust-looking as he could have a substance-abuse problem. But one glance around told her the reason for the smell, and it had nothing to do with addiction... except maybe to detail Everywhere she looked, she saw models, miniatures of every mode of transportation imaginable, meticulously crafted and displayed. From the ceiling hung a strange mixture of vintage WWI and WWII aircraft, the Starship Enterprise , and a flock of pterodactyls. The walnut bookshelves along one wall held no books, but tiny classic automobiles and truck8’ including her own 1968 SS/RS Camaro.
    Around the ceiling, making a complete circuit, was I railroad track with three trains, switching stations, and 3 matching same-scale Dickensian village.
    In the corner of the main living area sat a large table, racks of tiny paint jars, a can of brushes,