That was all it was. One night. End of story.”
“Who was the guy?”
“It doesn’t matter. Some guy, that’s all.”
“You had a fling. You ended it. Maybe the guy gets jealous. Decides he wants you all to himself. Next thing you know, Arlo’s in an urn on your mantle.”
“It wasn’t like that, Logan. It wasn’t anything other than what it was. Which was nothing.”
“Who was he, Savannah?”
“I told you! Some guy. It had nothing to do with what happened to Arlo.”
“Since when did you become a homicide detective?”
Savannah’s mouth parted as she looked at me, like she’d finally figured something out.
“You want to know who I slept with because deep down, it bothers you, knowing the train left the station and you weren’t the last stop. Admit it, Logan. You’re getting some sort of perverse pleasure out of this.”
Perverse pleasure? More like masochistic torture. I dabbed my mouth with my napkin that matched my place mat.
“Thanks for the chow,” I said. “I’m going for a swim.”
E IGHT
I hadn’t thought to bring trunks, so I swam in my boxers. The water in Savannah’s lagoon was wet, warm sunshine. I could see her watching me through the kitchen window.
Some people swim because they like the exercise. Me? I swim, on those rare occasions when I do swim, because it makes me feel like Flipper. Granted, nobody really knows how a dolphin genuinely feels except, perhaps, another dolphin. But I never saw Flipper when he wasn’t smiling. Jumping through flaming hoops, head-butting SCUBA-diving criminals. Saving Ranger Ricks from peril. Always with a smile. We should all be so perpetually cheery. At some point, as I worked on my porpoise kick, Savannah left a couple of plush white bath towels on a chaise lounge poolside.
I was taking a hot shower an hour later when she came storming into the guest bathroom.
“You want to know who he was? Miles Zambelli. That was his name. The guy I slept with. Like it really matters. There. You satisfied now? You expect me to act like I have something to be ashamed of, and I don’t.”
The shower doors were fogged with steam. I said, “Try knocking next time.”
“He didn’t mean anything to me, Logan. And I didn’t mean anything to him. And I resent the hell out of you demanding that I somehow have to account to you for my personal life!”
“Your father’s legal advisor. That Miles Zambelli? That’s who your ‘mistake’ was?”
Savannah blinked, stunned that I would know.
“Thirty. Dark hair. John Lennon glasses. Reeks of Ivy League.” I slid open the shower door wide enough as modesty would allow—no sense in showing her all the splendor she’d been missing—and grabbed a towel off a wall hook. “The age difference there is what, fifteen years? Rather cougar-ish, wouldn’t you say, Savannah?”
“How do you know Zambelli?”
“I met him yesterday.”
“You met him yesterday ? You want to tell me how that happened?”
“Not especially, no.”
I wrapped the towel around my waist and crossed to the vanity, a converted antique sideboard, French mahogany, with double porcelain sinks and a beveled mirror. I wiped the steam off the glass and combed my hair. Savannah stood behind me, her expression one of incredulity.
“My father came to see you. That’s why you talked to the police, isn’t it?”
I should have said that it’s a small world, and that I just happened to have met Zambelli on the street, or in some restaurant somewhere. Better yet, I should’ve just kept my mouth shut. But I didn’t.
“Your father didn’t come to see me, Savannah. I went to see him.”
She planted her hands on her hips and glared. “I don’t believe this! I ask you to talk to the police and you tell me to kiss off. But my father asks and it’s, ‘Yessir, Mr. Carlisle. Whatever I can do for you, sir!’”
“He wants to know who killed Arlo as much as you do. He asked me to talk briefly to the police. I did.”
I walked into
“Who was the guy?”
“It doesn’t matter. Some guy, that’s all.”
“You had a fling. You ended it. Maybe the guy gets jealous. Decides he wants you all to himself. Next thing you know, Arlo’s in an urn on your mantle.”
“It wasn’t like that, Logan. It wasn’t anything other than what it was. Which was nothing.”
“Who was he, Savannah?”
“I told you! Some guy. It had nothing to do with what happened to Arlo.”
“Since when did you become a homicide detective?”
Savannah’s mouth parted as she looked at me, like she’d finally figured something out.
“You want to know who I slept with because deep down, it bothers you, knowing the train left the station and you weren’t the last stop. Admit it, Logan. You’re getting some sort of perverse pleasure out of this.”
Perverse pleasure? More like masochistic torture. I dabbed my mouth with my napkin that matched my place mat.
“Thanks for the chow,” I said. “I’m going for a swim.”
E IGHT
I hadn’t thought to bring trunks, so I swam in my boxers. The water in Savannah’s lagoon was wet, warm sunshine. I could see her watching me through the kitchen window.
Some people swim because they like the exercise. Me? I swim, on those rare occasions when I do swim, because it makes me feel like Flipper. Granted, nobody really knows how a dolphin genuinely feels except, perhaps, another dolphin. But I never saw Flipper when he wasn’t smiling. Jumping through flaming hoops, head-butting SCUBA-diving criminals. Saving Ranger Ricks from peril. Always with a smile. We should all be so perpetually cheery. At some point, as I worked on my porpoise kick, Savannah left a couple of plush white bath towels on a chaise lounge poolside.
I was taking a hot shower an hour later when she came storming into the guest bathroom.
“You want to know who he was? Miles Zambelli. That was his name. The guy I slept with. Like it really matters. There. You satisfied now? You expect me to act like I have something to be ashamed of, and I don’t.”
The shower doors were fogged with steam. I said, “Try knocking next time.”
“He didn’t mean anything to me, Logan. And I didn’t mean anything to him. And I resent the hell out of you demanding that I somehow have to account to you for my personal life!”
“Your father’s legal advisor. That Miles Zambelli? That’s who your ‘mistake’ was?”
Savannah blinked, stunned that I would know.
“Thirty. Dark hair. John Lennon glasses. Reeks of Ivy League.” I slid open the shower door wide enough as modesty would allow—no sense in showing her all the splendor she’d been missing—and grabbed a towel off a wall hook. “The age difference there is what, fifteen years? Rather cougar-ish, wouldn’t you say, Savannah?”
“How do you know Zambelli?”
“I met him yesterday.”
“You met him yesterday ? You want to tell me how that happened?”
“Not especially, no.”
I wrapped the towel around my waist and crossed to the vanity, a converted antique sideboard, French mahogany, with double porcelain sinks and a beveled mirror. I wiped the steam off the glass and combed my hair. Savannah stood behind me, her expression one of incredulity.
“My father came to see you. That’s why you talked to the police, isn’t it?”
I should have said that it’s a small world, and that I just happened to have met Zambelli on the street, or in some restaurant somewhere. Better yet, I should’ve just kept my mouth shut. But I didn’t.
“Your father didn’t come to see me, Savannah. I went to see him.”
She planted her hands on her hips and glared. “I don’t believe this! I ask you to talk to the police and you tell me to kiss off. But my father asks and it’s, ‘Yessir, Mr. Carlisle. Whatever I can do for you, sir!’”
“He wants to know who killed Arlo as much as you do. He asked me to talk briefly to the police. I did.”
I walked into
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