Corpse Suzette by G. A. McKevett Page B

D’Alessandro at—”
    “Savannah, like in
Georgia?” Myrna asked.
    “Yes. Exactly.”
    “How nice. What a lovely
name that is. A lot better than Myrna. Were you born in Savannah?”
    “No, but my mom had a thing
about Georgian names,” she replied. “My siblings are Atlanta, Marietta, Macon,
Waycross, Vidalia, and so forth.”
    “Cute.”
    “Yes, a little too cute, but Mom’s a little... well.... About that appointment with Mr. D’Alessandro...?”
    “Of course, I’ll let him
know you’re here.” She picked up the phone, punched a couple of numbers, and
said, “A lady named Savannah is here to see you. Okay, sure, I’ll tell her.”
    She hung up and looked a
bit apologetic. “Sorry, but Mr. D’Alessandro will be a few minutes. He’s on a
phone call to London. May I get you a bottle of spring water while you wait?”
    “No, I’m fine.” Savannah
leaned her elbows on the countertop and assumed what she hoped was a casual, conversational
pose. “I’m happy for the opportunity to visit with you, if you aren’t too
busy.”
    Myrna laid down her pen and
interlaced her fingers. “No, I’m not that busy at all. If you don’t mind me
saying so, I’m surprised you’re here today. There isn’t much going on,
unfortunately. You are a reporter, right?”
    Savannah nodded with only a
twinge of a conscience pang. Thanks to Granny Reid’s strict teaching against
the evils of lying—more than one trip behind the barn to dance to the tune of a
willow switch—Savannah had never gotten used to telling a bold-faced lie. And
in her line of work, that was a bit of a handicap.
    At least now, thanks to
Tammy’s creative ingenuity, she had several business cards in her purse to give
to anyone who demanded one.
    She figured that if you’re
going to sully your soul with lies, you might as well have good props to back
you up.
    “I’m here to talk to Mr.
D’Alessandro—and anyone else who will talk to me—about the disappearance of Dr.
Du Bois.”
    Instantly, a guarded look
came into Myrna’s hazel eyes. She glanced down at her desk, picked up her pen
and began scribbling on a piece of paper that looked to Savannah like some sort
of release form.
    “I don’t know anything
about that,” Myrna said. “We don’t even really know for sure that something’s
happened to her. Dr. Du Bois could just be... taking a few days off or...”
    “Was she in the habit of
doing that?” Savannah asked.
    “Well, no, but I guess a
person could get really tired of... you know... things... and need a break.”
    “Was she tired of...
things?”
    Myrna’s eyes wouldn’t meet
hers. “She might have been. She’d been working hard, and the last day we saw
her here, she was—”
    She stopped abruptly,
leaving Savannah dangling on that unfinished sentence.
    “She was...?” Savannah
prompted.
    “Well, she was a bit upset,
and sometimes people need some space for a little while when they’re upset.”
    “What was she upset about?”
    Myrna glanced warily down
the hallway. “I’m not sure exactly. She had just had a bad day, some arguments
and... I’d better not say any more. You should ask Mr. D’Alessandro about it.”
    “Oh, I will,” Savannah
said, “but you know how men are. They always give you the Readers’ Digest condensed version, and they leave out the really good, juicy stuff.”
    Myrna snickered, then
caught herself and went back to scribbling on her papers. “Yes, but I don’t
know if we really want Emerge’s ‘juicy stuff showing up in your magazine.”
    “That’s very discreet of
you. I’m sure that Dr. Du Bois and Mr. D’Alessandro appreciate that sort of
loyalty on your part.”
    For half a second, a look
crossed Myrna’s face—sour, angry, maybe a bit hurt—then disappeared. But it was
so intense that Savannah knew right away: all wasn’t well with Myrna and her
employers.
    There was definite
animosity there. But with whom? One or both?
    Savannah donned her most
sympathetic face. “I