Killer Calories

a lighted magnifying glass on a swiveling arm, and an array of delicate knives, drills, saws, and tweezers.
    Apparently, Dion Zeller had more patience than she, maybe more than anyone she knew. And he was truly an artist, a master at creating this Lilliputian world of his.
    Savannah recalled the tanned, golden-haired demigod who had run beside her through the foothills, and tried to imagine him sitting at that table, painting details so tiny, so ornate.
    The two images simply wouldn’t merge in her mind. But she had learned long ago that human beings had many facets: hidden talents, secrets dreams, vices, and virtues. It took so long to truly get to know someone, and even then, there were always surprises.
    Once she got over her initial amazement at the models, she began to assess the rest of the room. Although, the only extraordinary feature was the miniature collection. Everything else was neat but bachelor generic.
    An oversize entertainment center held a large television, stereo system, and accompanying videos and CDs. The furniture was leather, chrome, and glass and recently dusted.
    The kitchenette was predictably austere for a guy who Probably ate most of his meals in the spa dining room. She found the bedroom equally utilitarian—hardly a sex symbol’s den of iniquity, as Dion’s female following would have liked to imagine.
    The one thing Savannah had been expecting to see was conspicuously absent in the cottage—any signs, posters, or memorabilia of the star’s “glory days.” There was no indication Dion had ever been one of the leading icons of the sexual revolution, the object of so many women’s fantasies and adoration.
    Somehow, the fact made Savannah like and respect him even more. Unlike Kat, he hadn’t lived in the past, feeding off old exploits and memories of bygone fame.
    But she couldn’t imagine that he hadn’t kept some tangible reminder of that pinnacle of his career. He must have stashed something, somewhere.
    But where?
    As she glanced around the apartment, she noticed one thing that seemed out of place with the rest of the modern decor—an old sea chest at the foot of his bed. The strongbox was a charming antique, made of teak with brass fittings with a faded painting of a clipper ship in full sail across the front.
    Savannah knelt in front of the chest and slid the bolt aside to open it. The hinges protested with a spine-shivering little groan as she lifted the lid and looked inside.
    “Oh, Georgia girl, your brilliance never fails to dazzle me,” she whispered to herself. “But then, I’m pretty easy to impress, so...”
    Yes, this was Dion Zeller’s sentimental stash, no doubt about it. She saw photo albums and loose snapshots, stacks of letters bundled with rubber bands, a lady’s lace handkerchief which looked at least fifty years old, a tassel from a graduation cap, a small, well-worn, well-loved teddy bear, a pair of champagne flutes, a New Year’s Eve party hat, and dozens of other items that symbolized the special moments of a man’s life.
    As always when searching the private things of someone she knew, especially someone she liked, Savannah felt a wave of guilt. At times like these, she sometimes asked herself if the business of detection was blackening her soul. As always, she told herself the end justified the means, the highest objective was to secure justice for injured parties.
    And, as always, it worked. Kind of.
    Rationalization aside, she still felt like a heel.
    But her pangs of conscience evaporated as her interest was piqued. She had picked up one of the bundles of letters.
    They had all been written on a distinctive , rose-tinted stationery with the same, sweeping, feminine hand.
    They were love letters. From Kat Valentina to her former co-star.
    Savannah scanned several of them and felt her cheeks flush a pleasant shade of peach at the florid, torrid phraseology.
    Kat had a real way with words, and she didn’t seem shy about using them... or shy about anything, for that matter.
    While Savannah liked to think she had been around the romance block a few times herself, she had to admit that Kat had her beat. Ms. Valentina seemed to have paved the very road, poured the sidewalk, and planted the decorative shrubbery.
    Whatever Kat might have been, she hadn’t been a prude.
    She had been madly, desperately in love with her longtime friend. And—as Savannah read the letters and marked the nonprogression of their relationship—she realized that