Death by Chocolate Read Online Free PDF Page A

the room, from the glass-front bookshelves filled with
leather-bound classics to the jeweled dragonfly Tiffany lamp in the corner. It
was nearly two o’clock when the maid appeared again and said with subdued
enthusiasm, “Lady Eleanor will see you now on the verandah.”
    Not particularly eager to
encounter the furry-faced fiends again, but anxious to get the bodyguard show
on the road, Savannah followed the maid through the parlor and a vast dining
room to the back side of the house, which faced the ocean.
    The San Carmelita beaches
and skies were in fine form, the morning fog having burned away and the golden afternoon
light glimmering on the waves. Swimmers in wetsuits rode the surf in the
distance, and a flock of pelicans, looking like a gaggle of prehistoric
pterodactyl, dipped and dove overhead.
    And off to the right,
sitting at a table beneath a giant umbrella, was.... a woman who bore
absolutely no resemblance whatsoever to Savannah’s Gourmet Network heroine.
Where was the auburn hair, piled in luxurious profusion on her regal head?
Where was the Victorian costume that bespoke of genteel aristocracy?
    The woman at the table wore
a gaudy tropical print caftan that was cut much too low and displayed an
unladylike amount of sagging, unattractive cleavage. On screen, Lady Eleanor
looked pleasingly plump, but without benefit of corset and costume, she
appeared seriously overweight. Her salt-and-pepper hair looked as though she
had cut it herself with scissors, leaving only a ragged inch-long bristle.
    On the table before her was
spread an enormous breakfast of everything from pancakes to bagels, cream
cheese, and lox.
    Lady Eleanor was shoveling
in the bounty as though she were expecting to be executed at sundown. She
barely looked up from her burdened plate to wave a hand at the empty chair on
the other side of the table.
    “Sit,” she commanded
through a mouthful of Danish pastry, which she washed down with a
celery-sprigged Bloody Mary.
    Savannah did as she was
told, feeling a bit like a cocker spaniel. Would she be expected to roll over
and play dead, too?
    “Want some?” Eleanor
pointed to a plateful of chocolate donuts.
    But Savannah was long past
any sign of an appetite. Eleanor’s openmouthed chewing and the syrup and butter
on her fingers and chin had worked better than any over-the-counter
suppressant.
    And Savannah had thought
Dirk had bad table manners. Next to Eleanor, Dirk was Cary Grant.
    “No, thank you,” Savannah
said. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a pen and a spiral notebook. “If
you don’t mind, I’d like to discuss business with you. Exactly what your needs
are and—”
    “My needs are simple. You
shouldn’t have any trouble understanding them.” A quick swig of Bloody Mary,
then she continued in that same, grating, nasal voice she had used earlier on
the telephone, the one that had nothing in common with the cultured British
accent heard by millions on television. “I need you to find out who’s writing
me nasty letters. Because once I find out who’s doing it, they’re dead.”
    “Oh, I see.”
    But Savannah didn’t see.
Looking into those narrow, squinty eyes with their wicked gleam, she wasn’t
sure if Lady Eleanor meant “dead” as in figuratively or literally. Maybe she
should find out before she took the job. The term “accomplice to murder”
floated across the movie screen of her imagination in flashing red neon
letters.
    “And,” Eleanor continued,
‘You have to keep them from killing me.... if that’s what they’ve got in mind.
I want to get them first.”
    “Ah, yes, of course. I—”
    “And most of all”—more food
cramming, more chomping—“you have to stay out of my hair, because I can’t stand
having anybody too close, breathing down my neck. Makes me nuts.”
    “Too close, hmmm.” Savannah
couldn’t imagine that anyone would want to be close to this person. Chocolate
fantasyland or no, Savannah wasn’t too hot on the idea herself