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calls from somebody named Myrna, wanting to know why she
wasn’t at work this morning.”
    “I think Myrna is the
secretary or receptionist at Emerge. She’s called at my house and talked to
Abigail a couple of times to schedule things with her.”
    Savannah glanced around the
room, noting that, although it was a gorgeous, modern kitchen with lots of
architectural accents like beveled glass inserts in the cupboards, an ornate
wrought iron pot rack, a brick oven, and marble countertops, it was a mess.
    Dirty dishes sat in the
sink in a bath of scummy, greasy water. Pans half-filled with dried food
littered the stove top. With one finger Savannah opened the dishwasher and it,
too, was full of crusty dishes.
    “It’s a little hard to tell
if she ate here last night or this morning,” she said. “Most of these dishes
look pretty old.”
    “Eh, she’s a pig. She may
have a fancy joint here, but my trailer is cleaner than this mess.”
    While Savannah wouldn’t
label the woman quite so quickly or harshly, she had to agree that, even though
Dirk lived in an old, rusty mobile home in a trailer park on the bad side of
town and decorated it with plastic milk crates and rickety TV trays, his place
was basically sanitary at all times. And she, herself, had been raised by
Granny Reid to believe that a “filthy kitchen” was one where the dishcloth
hadn’t been thoroughly rinsed and neatly hung on the rack to dry.
    “There’s no excuse for
bein’ nasty,” Gran always said in her soft, Georgian drawl. “Maybe a body can’t
help being poor, but everybody can afford a bar of soap. There’s just no reason
for dirtiness, not a-tall.”
    “I’m going to go look for
her purse,” Savannah said.
    He nodded. “I’ll check out
the bedrooms.”
    Savannah found the
pocketbook quickly. It was on an accent table in the living room, next to the
door that led into the foyer. And beside the Louis Vuitton bag was a set of
keys and a cell phone.
    The living room resembled
the kitchen in that it was beautifully decorated with high-end mission style
furniture but was cluttered with magazines, newspapers, clothing, and a
plethora of used wine glasses. Savannah noticed that nearly all of the glasses
were smudged with the same shade of bright red lipstick. Apparently, Suzette Du
Bois drank alone... and a lot.
    But there was more than
just the usual disorder caused by messy housekeeping... or a lack thereof.
Books had been pulled off shelves and the drawers of an entertainment center
were open, their contents on the floor. A desk against the far wall had been
rifled through, as well.
    Suzette Du Bois’s home had
been searched.
    And Savannah had seen
enough houses that had been burgled by professionals to know that whoever had
searched this house was an amateur. Somebody had been looking for something,
but wasn’t very good at finding it. She wondered whether they had.
    On the floor near the sofa
sat a miniature bed, and at first glance, Savannah thought it was for a doll.
With a red velvet tufted headboard and a coverlet of the same fabric, it looked
like something out of a tiny boudoir. But when she walked over to it, bent
down, and examined it more closely, she saw the name “Sammy” embroidered on the
bedspread.
    Something told her that
Sammy was a pet of some sort. And the fact that there was no hair on the velvet
ruled out a cat. Probably a poodle , she thought. Or some other type
of pooch that doesn't shed.
    “There’s some kind of mutt
living here,” Dirk called from the bedroom. “The damned thing’s got a whole
wardrobe of ridiculous junk to wear in here.”
    “And a bed for it in here,”
she yelled back.
    “Somebody tossed this
room,” Dirk hollered. “All the drawers are open.”
    “In here, too.”
    On the coffee table, amid
the heap of magazines and next to a nail file and bottle of polish lay a small
leather dog collar. It was bright pink, studded with purple rhinestones. How
gaudy, she thought, fingering the