Free Poisoned Tarts by G.A. McKevett Page B

when you called,” she said as she ground the cigarette out with the toe of her construction boot. “I’m sure glad you did, though. Did you get anything out of Dante or those brat girls?”
    Dirk shook his head as he and Savannah followed her into the house. “No, nothing worthwhile. But I’m not done with him or that bunch over there.”
    â€œDon’t worry,” Savannah said, “We’re just getting started with this investigation.”
    Pam led them through the living room with its threadbare plaid sofa, Mediterranean-style coffee table, and plastic, fake Tiffany lamp and on into the kitchen. She offered them a seat at a chrome and Formica dinette table that reminded Savannah of Gran’s old set.
    â€œWant some coffee?” Pam asked. “It’s fresh. I just made it.”
    â€œSure, thanks,” Dirk said.
    â€œNot for me,” Savannah said as she looked around the kitchen. Apparently, Pam was into chickens. The wallpaper was a blue and yellow print with chickens of every breed, size, and age doing chicken things: pecking at the ground, crowing from tops of fence posts, and emerging from cracked eggs.
    Even the dishtowels hanging on the rack and the canisters on the cupboard were spangled with chickens.
    Savannah resisted the urge to judge, remembering her own Unicorn Period. She was so glad she had resisted getting that tattoo on her right breast and spared herself the depressing spectacle of a less than perky unicorn.
    Pam slipped a cup of coffee onto the table in front of Dirk, along with a sugar bowl and creamer.
    Dirk took a notepad and pen from inside his leather jacket. “We just need to get a bit more information from you,” he said. “A description of the car your daughter’s driving, the plate number, what she was wearing the last time you saw her, just your standard stuff like that.”
    â€œOf course,” Pam said. “I want to help any way I can.”
    â€œWould you mind,” Savannah asked, “if I took a look in Daisy’s bedroom? I hate to poke around in your daughter’s things, but considering the circumstances…”
    â€œOh, sure. No problem. It’s right down the hall there, the door on the right. Help yourself.”
    â€œThank you.”
    Savannah walked down the short hallway to a closed door that had a plaque on it that said, “Daisy.” As might be expected, yellow daisies surrounded the name, and the “i” was dotted with a pink daisy.
    When she opened the door, Savannah expected to find a typical teenager’s room: posters of the latest rock heartthrobs, garish colors, and stuffed animals vying for space with more grown-up possessions like mountains of makeup, shoes, and purses.
    But not this room.
    One look told Savannah that Daisy O’Neil was no ordinary teenager.
    At first glance, Savannah thought she had stepped into some small tropical paradise. Someone had painted murals on all four walls, surprisingly good murals, of a lush jungle full of exotic palms and greenery, monkeys, parrots, and toucans.
    And most impressive of all were the cats. Spotted leopards, black panthers, and ocelots crouched in the trees, while tigers hid in the foliage, their stripes blending perfectly with the tangled vines and thick grasses.
    Apparently, Daisy was not only in love with the jungle and its big cats, but she was a talented artist, as well. On one wall, toward the bottom of the mural, Savannah saw the signature, “Daisy O.”
    The girl was also quite a gifted botanist. The room was filled with all sorts of palms and philodendrons, pothos and schefflera, Chinese evergreens and peace lilies.
    The furniture was sparse and inexpensive—a daybed, one chest, and a desk—but the wicker style fit the jungle theme perfectly. And the bed was neatly made with dark green linens.
    Savannah walked over to the desk and sat on the small stool. With practiced deliberation, she