Killer Reunion (9 page)

They cast some furtive glances up and down the road and, seeing that all was clear, got out of the car.

As they walked to the edge of the pavement, which was, as he had predicted, clear of all mud, Savannah began mumbling under her breath.

“You told me to tell you when you're talking to yourself,” he said. “You're doing it again.”

“I'm not talking to myself. Not this time, anyway,” she told him.

“Practicing your defense speech?”

“No, Mr. Smarty-Pants. If you must know, I was praying.”

“Praying? It's not that desperate yet, is it?”

“Gran taught me that it's best to start praying before things turn desperate. You know, get a head start on it.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “That makes sense, I guess. Then if everything goes to hell in a handbasket, you've got some retroactive prayers already racked and loaded. Can't hurt.”

“I don't think Gran used those words exactly, but that was the gist.”

They stood at the pavement's edge and stared into the area beyond, between the road and the cliff's edge. Just off the road there was soft red mud galore. Other than a few tracks, which Savannah was pretty sure had been made by a rabbit, the surface was unmarked.

“There's no way we could walk on that and not leave our signatures,” Dirk observed.

“No kidding,” she replied. “We might as well write our names and leave our handprints, like the movie stars at Grauman's Theatre.”

Looking around at the lush green forest and through the break in the trees where the lake waters glittered in the sunlight, Dirk said, “It is kinda pretty up here. Smells nice, too. This is what pine trees
really
smell like. Not that junk in the spray cans that you use in the bathroom after you—”

“Do you mind? Can we discuss the finer points of room deodorizers
after
we find Marietta's stupid shoe?”

“Oh, yeah. Okay. Here, let's get some sticks to poke stuff with.”

After selecting a couple of small, straight branches from the other side of the road, they walked back and forth along the edge of the pavement. Every few feet or so they used the sticks to gently lift a pinecone, a clump of leaves, or a discarded beer can. After looking under and around the items, they carefully returned them to their resting places and continued their search.

When twenty minutes or so had passed, Savannah stopped to wipe the sweat off her face and catch her breath. She could feel that her bra cups were saturated and the freshness from last evening's shower was long gone. She'd need another one as soon as she got back to Gran's.

Then she considered the nonexistence of shower facilities at the city jail and renewed her search. She even “racked and loaded” a few more prayers in the process.

At the thirty-minute point, she was about to scream with frustration when she heard her husband say, “Hey, babe. I've got good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”

“The bad. I always want to get the worst out of the way.”

“Okay. It's at least ten feet away. Maybe twelve.”

“What? Oh! Oh! You see it?” She ran over to him, as excited as a kid on an Easter egg hunt, if finding the egg was a matter of life and death.

“Yeah. That was the good news.”

“Where is it?”

“Over there, by that broken log with the moss on it.”

After a few moments, she spotted the shoe—a bit of rhinestone sparkle in the greenery. “I see it,” she said, less enthusiastic than before. “It looks like the strap's tangled around the log.”

“That was my second bit of bad news. I didn't want to hit you with it all at once.”

“Thank you.”

“You get depressed easy.”

“Yeah, well . . .”

“Especially since you started this ‘change o' life' business.”

She turned to him, gave him a long, hard look, and said, “You know, statistics show that women commit more murders during menopause than at any other time in their lives.”

“Really? Is that true?”

“If you keep talking about how cranky I am now that I'm in it, you might just find out.”

He gave her a grin and a wink. “Let's see if we can find us a twelve-foot stick. Unless you wanna fool around again, and then we could use my—”

“You're gonna die, boy. You're tap-dancin' on a tightrope over a swamp with a hungry momma alligator right under you.”

“A menopausal alligator.”

“Those are the worst kind, and don't you forget it.”

 

After finding several long limbs, only to discover that their choices were mere inches too short, Dirk finally located one that would reach the sandal. But it took another twenty minutes of futile and frustrating attempts before Savannah was able to hook the end of it through the shoe and out its open toe.

Carefully and ever so slowly, scarcely daring to breathe, she pulled it free.

“Now, don't drop it,” he advised as she balanced it on the forked end of the stick and eased it toward them an inch at a time.

“Any more useful advice like that,” she said, “and you get this stick in your left ear.”

“Empty threat if ever I heard one.”

By the time several more stress-filled minutes had passed, she had the sandal more than halfway to the road. For the first time since Savannah had seen it, seemingly beyond their reach, she began to think their little foray into the dark world of crime-scene tampering might prove to be successful, after all.

Then she heard it.

And felt it.

A buzzing, like that of an angry bumblebee, in the back pocket of her jeans. Along with a cheerful little jingle that she had found particularly irritating, so she'd chosen it as Vidalia's ringtone. Overly excited, frenzied, and frenetic, it had seemed appropriate at the time. And even more so now.

“Shoot!” she said. “Dang Vidalia's mangy hide. That girl always did have lousy timing.”

“I'll answer it.” He reached toward her rear end.

“Don't you dare touch me! If that dingbat sister of mine makes me drop this thing . . .”

“You're right. Ignore it. Just keep doing what you're doing. You've almost got it.”

She turned slightly to her left, bringing the end of the branch and the dangling high heel toward him. He wasted no time getting into a squatting catcher's position, as though preparing to receive a third-strike fastball.

The second it was within his reach, he snatched it off the limb, clasped it to his chest, mud and all, and let out a series of deafening celebratory yelps, which he usually reserved for when his favorite team won the World Series or one of his least favorite boxers hit the mat.

Savannah tossed the branch back on the other side of the road, then yanked the phone out of her back pocket.

“Yeah, Vi. What's up?” she asked breathlessly, trying to sound casual and not like a woman whose bacon had just been pulled, sizzling, out of a smoking skillet.

“I thought you wuz never gonna answer,” Vidalia scolded. “It musta rang a dozen times or more.”

“I was a little busy.”

“Me too. But I still took the time to call you.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

Savannah had an awful thought. “Oh, no. You didn't let Gran's cake burn, did you? That was a scratch cake, girl, and if it's burnt, you're gonna be measuring all those teaspoons and quarter cups and stuff to make the next one.”

“No. The cake's fine. Alma looked after it.”

“Okay. Then what do you want?”

Savannah watched as Dirk opened the car's passenger door and tossed the muddy shoe onto the floorboard. Then he motioned for her to get inside. She did, and he closed the door behind her.

“What I want is to tell you some news that I just heard,” Vidalia was saying. “It's about your long-lost friend Jeanette.”

A thought, an evil thought, passed through Savannah's brain
. If that gal's not really dead, after all I just went through getting that damn shoe, I'm gonna kill her myself.

But she quickly discarded it and said as demurely as she could manage, “Really? Do tell.”

Vidalia happily obliged. “I just got a call from Butch. And he said that Tom called him a while ago there at the garage and told him to get hold of the biggest tow truck he could get his hands on, even if he had to go out of town to get it, and bring it up to Lookout Point.”

Dirk had started the car, and they were descending the hill. But Savannah felt as though her stomach had already hit the bottom.

“Lookout Point?” she said, shooting Dirk a look of alarm.

Instantly, he was all ears.

“Yep,” Vidalia continued. “Seems one of them Henderson boys, the least one, I think, was out there on the lake, fishing, first thing this mornin'. And he saw something in the water 'bout halfway up the hill there to the point. You know, where we all used to stop and smooch if somebody'd already claimed the spot at the—”

“Yes, yes, I know the place. What did the littlest Henderson boy see?”

“Something purple. There in the water. Well, actually, just below the surface of the water.”

Savannah gulped. “Purple? Like the dress Jeanette wore to the reunion last night?”

“Oh, no. Something way bigger than that. Something like that big purple Cadillac convertible of hers.”

It was only after she had hung up that Savannah realized she hadn't told her sister good-bye.

Like it mattered.

Like anything mattered right now. Anything that wasn't some gaudy, horrid shade of purple.

“What is it? What did she say?” she could hear Dirk asking as though from far away. “Come on, Van. Talk to me.”

“That was an even bigger splash than I thought,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.

“What the hell are you talking about, woman? Spit it out! I'm dyin' here!”

But she never answered him.

Because they had reached the bottom of the hill, and there, blocking their path, was a big black-and-white patrol car with its red and blue lights flashing. Two other similar units flanked it on either side.

And inside the center car, glaring at them thorough his dark wraparound sunglasses, sat one very angry Sheriff Thomas Stafford.

A
fter Savannah's initial thought, which included a string of colorful curse words, it occurred to her that they should have put the muddy high heel in the trunk. Or, at least, she should have shoved it under the seat beneath her.

But Sheriff Stafford's radio car was much too close to their own vehicle for her to perform any furtive movements. Especially the shoving of evidence under a seat. If there was a gesture that every street cop knew when they saw it, that was the one.

As if reading her mind, Dirk said, “Don't lean down. He'll see you.”

“I know. I won't.”

“What are we going to say if he asks about it?”

“If all else fails, we might have to tell them the truth.”

“Hell, I hope not. Surely, it won't come to
that
.”

With her foot, Savannah nudged her purse closer to the shoe, partially, but not completely, concealing its sparkly muddiness.

At that moment she felt the passing urge to snatch Marietta bald.

Her and her stupid shoes.

If only she'd been wearing her sensible black pumps, they never would've fallen off her feet, and she wouldn't be sitting here, doing the High Noon Gunslinger Stare Down with Tom Stafford.

Then things went from bad to worse.

“Driver and passenger,” Stafford shouted as he opened his door and stepped out of his unit. “Exit your vehicle. Slowly.”

Savannah saw to her shock and horror that he had drawn his weapon and was pointing it at them.

As he had directed, she and Dirk cautiously and calmly got out of their car.

“Raise your hands,” he demanded.

Savannah noticed that the other two deputies, who had also left their vehicles and were standing on either side of Stafford, had not drawn their weapons. She knew both of them and at one time had been their friends. Rather than meeting her eyes, they were staring down at ground in front of them and looking miserable.

She and Dirk followed Stafford's directions and raised their hands.

But one quick sideways look at Dirk told her that he was furious. As was she. Never in her wildest fantasies had she ever imagined that this moment would come, that her childhood sweetheart would be holding her and her husband at gunpoint.

“Oh, come on, Tommy,” she said, half joking, half pleading. “What's going on here? What's this all about?”

“Shut up and get down on your knees. Both of you. Right now.”

Savannah's temper soared. She dropped her hands down to her sides and started walking toward him. “I most certainly will
not
get down on my knees. What the hell's wrong with you, boy?”

She heard Dirk call her name and registered the alarm in his voice. But she ignored him. Walking up to Stafford, she pushed his pistol aside and stood so close that her chest brushed his.

“You oughta be ashamed of yourself, Tommy Lee Stafford,” she shouted up into his face. “How
dare
you draw a gun on me! Why, I should slap you upside the head for pullin' a stunt like that!”

To her surprise, and certainly to her relief, he reholstered his weapon. He even removed his sunglasses and stuck them in his shirt pocket.

Now that she could see his eyes, she knew that her words had had their intended effect. He
did
look ashamed.

She decided to press her point a bit further. “If you wanted to talk to me or my husband, you could've just walked over to our car and done so in a civil manner. You don't have to treat us like armed and dangerous felons.”

She realized she had gone a little too far when his face turned red again with anger.

“For all I know, the two of you
are
felons,” he yelled back. “Cold-blooded murderers, armed and dangerous. What the hell are you two doing up here at my crime scene?”

She shrugged and tried to look as innocent as a kindergartner with a candy-smeared face. “What crime? What scene?”

“I think you know. I think you knew this morning, when I was talking to you both there at your grandma's house. I think you were lying your asses off to me, and you both know how much we cops just
love
gettin' lied to.”

He pushed her an arm's length away from him and gave her a head-to-toe scan that was much more thorough than that given by any airport security apparatus. She felt naked and exposed—and not in any sexual sort of way.

It was far worse than that.

Then he turned to Dirk, who had walked up to join them, and gave him the same once-over.

“What's that mud on the front of your shirt?” he asked Dirk.

Dirk looked down and shrugged. “I don't know. Dirt, I guess. There seems to be a lot of it around here. Along with pine trees. You should probably check me for pine needles, too.”

“Don't get smart with me, Coulter. You know what I mean.”

Savannah tensed, expecting Dirk to flare up.

But he didn't. He gave Tom an even, calm look and said, “No, actually, I
don't
know what you mean, Sheriff Stafford. Maybe you should explain why you ordered my wife and me out of our car at gunpoint and are making a big deal about the fact that I have some mud on my shirt. I don't know about here in Georgia, but in California there's nothing illegal about driving down the road or getting dirty.”

Savannah took a step back from Tom and was trying to decide what to do next when they all heard the chugalugging of a large vehicle coming in their direction.

A moment later, it rounded the curve in the road, and an enormous tow truck appeared, with her brother-in-law at the wheel. Butch pulled up behind the parked cop cars and sat, looking at the assemblage, a worried expression on his usually placid face.

“All right,” Tom said, turning to his deputies. “We got our truck and work to do. Stick him in your car, Jesse. And, Martin, you put her in yours. Then let's get to it.”

Savannah's heart sank. The last thing she wanted to do was spend the next few hours caged in the back of a hot patrol car, separated from Dirk.

She reached over and poked Stafford in the ribs, what she hoped was a reasonably companionable gesture, but not overly familiar. “Come on, Tom. Seriously. We were just taking a little drive today. You know, checking out the local hot spots.”

“Yeah,” Dirk interjected. “We'd already taken in all the museums and the ballet and opera, and this make-out spot was the last on our to-see-and-do list. How were we supposed to know that you boys were coming up here to . . . well . . . do whatever it is that you've gotta do?”

When Tom didn't answer right away, Savannah could see that he was thinking it over. Perhaps even leaning toward leniency. She hoped that his former affection toward her would win out over his cop's instincts.

Apparently, it did, because he said, “We got a tip that there's a car, a purple car, in the water at the bottom of the cliff. A Cadillac convertible.”

“Do you reckon it's Jeanette?” Savannah asked.

Tom gave her a derisive sniff and said, “Well, now, you tell me, gal. How many purple Cadillac convertibles you figure we got in the fine metropolis of McGill? In this whole dadgum county, for that matter? Of course it's her car. Once we get it pulled to the top of the cliff, I reckon we'll find out if she's in it or not.” He looked back and forth between her and Dirk. “Unless the two of you wanna go ahead and tell me right now. I've got a feeling y'all have known since last night.”

Savannah locked eyes with him and said with all sincerity, “Tom, I swear to you, neither one of us has any idea whether or not Jeanette's in that car. I give you my solemn word on it.”

A sense of relief swept over her as she uttered the words. It felt good to be able to tell the truth for a change.

And Stafford seem to register her emotion, as well.

“All right,” he said. “I won't lock you up in the cages. But don't you leave, either one of you. And you stay out of our way. You hear?”

Savannah gave him the benefit of one of her dimpled smiles. She figured Dirk would be okay with it, under the circumstances. “We hear you, Sheriff,” she said. “Loud and clear. And if you need any help, we could always—”

“I won't. I done warned you. Stay out of my way, or by gum, you'll wish you had.”

 

Savannah sat on the hood of her rental car and thanked the heavens above that she wasn't stuck in the back of a hot, stuffy cop car. Two hours had passed, and absolutely nothing had been accomplished.

Dirk sat next to her, less patient, less grateful.

“If this is the way law enforcement operates around here,” he grumbled, “I'm surprised the crime rate is as low as they claim. These stooges couldn't catch a dog with one leg.”

“Maybe not, but these stooges, as you call them, have still got badges and guns with bullets. I'd keep my voice down if I were you.”

Sheriff Stafford and Butch were arguing, as they had been for hours, about the feasibility of pulling Jeanette's convertible out of the lake and up the cliff.

“Sheriff,” Butch was saying, “I know you want to get your hands on that car, but I'm telling you now, it ain't gonna happen.”

Tom Stafford was pacing back and forth at the edge of the pavement, his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets and an ugly scowl on his face.

Savannah knew the look. She knew the pacing. And she knew that this was Tom at his worst. She didn't envy her calm, peace-loving brother-in-law.

What Butch had been trying to explain to the sheriff for far too long would have made sense to anyone else. Anyone except a police officer who was determined to recover what might be the most important piece of evidence in a homicide investigation.

She understood Butch's misgivings about the recovery. But she totally related to Tom and his desire to have that car on dry ground.

“This here cliff ain't all that stable nohow,” Butch was telling him again. “And now that it's been rained on and all softened up, there's no way it'd support even the weight of this truck, let alone the strain from lifting that heavy car, too.”

“Then stay back here on the pavement,” Tom argued.

“I done told you, the cables ain't nearly long enough to reach all the way across here to that cliff and then way down to the water.”

“No, no, no. There has to be a way. We've got to get it up here,” Tom shot back. “If you don't know how to do it proper like, then just say so.”

Butch bristled, and Savannah saw he was clenching his fists.

That's not good
, she told herself
. Only one member of the family should be in trouble with the law at a time.

She slid off the hood and walked over to stand beside Butch, who was saying, “It ain't a matter of expertise, Sheriff. I know how to operate a tow truck and get most anything out of anywhere. But I'm telling you, unless you can work some miracle and get the National Guard or an army helicopter up here to lift it out or whatever, that car's stayin' put.”

With his piece said, Butch spun around on his cowboy boot heel and, with stiffer posture than she had ever seen on him, marched over to the tow truck and drove away.

Turning to Tom, she said, “I don't want to butt in here. However, I was thinking that—”

“Since when don't you wanna butt in?” Tom shot back. “‘Butt in' is your middle name, gal. Always has been.”

“Hey, watch it, buddy,” Dirk said, walking up behind Savannah. “That's my wife you're talking to. Keep it respectful.”

“Or what?” Tom demanded, seemingly eager to turn his anger and frustration elsewhere.

“Or you'll regret it,” Dirk replied, his tone more relaxed and less confrontational than his words.

Savannah took a deep breath and plunged, once again, into the deep end. “As I was going to say, why don't you send down a diver and see if there's even a body inside the car? If there's not, then maybe bringing the vehicle to the surface isn't as much of a priority as you think.”

Dirk considered her words and nodded. “She's got a point there, Stafford. You're all in a dither, thinking this is a homicide, and you don't even know yet if she's dead or not.”

The sheriff continued to pace for a while longer. Then he said, “That's easy for you to say. ‘Just send a diver down.' This ain't California. And we ain't just got a diver or two lollin' around on every street corner, at our beck and call.”

“Then why don't you send a couple of your deputies down?” Savannah suggested. “I don't know how far below the surface it is, 'cause you won't let us walk to the edge of the cliff and look. But from what you said, I gather it's not down very deep. You might not even need scuba gear. Maybe a couple of you guys could just hold your breath and take the plunge.”

Stafford perked up a bit and turned to his deputies. They both began to shake their heads as they took a couple of steps backward.

“No, no, sir,” Jesse said. “I can't swim worth nothin'.”

“I sink like a tombstone,” added Martin. “You might as well just take me out on a boat, tie an anchor around my neck, and sink me.”

Savannah listened and watched Tom's dismayed reaction. She knew that he, too, wasn't a particularly good swimmer. He was reluctant to venture outside of a private pool.

Dirk, on the other hand, was far more graceful in the water than he would ever be on land.

“Sounds like it's you and me, Sheriff,” he said, peeling off his Harley-Davidson T-shirt and handing it to Savannah. “Let's scramble down that cliff to the water and take ourselves a swim. Who knows what we'll find?”