Peaches And Screams (A Savannah Reid Mystery) (10 page)

As though roused out of a thick mental fog, Shirley shook her head, turned, and stared blankly at Savannah.

Slowly recognition dawned on her face. “Van? Oh, hi, baby.” She waved her cigarette vaguely at the nearest stool. “Sit down. Let me buy you a drink.”

Somewhat relieved that the moment for the awkward, obligatory embrace had come and gone, Savannah sat down beside her mother and laid her purse on the bar in front of her.

“It’s a bit early for me,” she said. “How’s the coffee in here?”

“Fresh.” Shirley mashed the stub of her cigarette into the ashtray and, in one continuous motion, reached for the pack on the bar, shook out another, and lit up. “Fresh . . . every Saturday morning, that is.”

“Well, since it’s Wednesday afternoon, I guess I’ll pass,” Savannah said. “How have you been?”

Shirley shrugged and looked as though she were swimming inside her clothes. The denim shirt she wore was at least two sizes too large for her, and the front was stained with something that looked like spaghetti sauce.

But she was wearing her jewelry. All of it. Shirley never left the house without her silver and turquoise rings, bracelets, necklaces, and earrings. The bigger, the heavier, the better.

Savannah had once told her that she’d better never go swimming or she’d sink straight to the bottom with all that metal.

Her mom hadn’t been amused. Her jewelry was no laughing matter. Shirley had never owned much in the material world. And what little she’d had, she’d lost. Except her jewelry. Those bits and pieces of turquoise and silver were about all Shirley Reid had to show for sixty-one years of living.

“I heard you’d come home,” Shirley said. “I guess you’re here for Marietta’s wedding next Saturday.”

Savannah flashed back on the giant peach-tulip dress and gulped. “Yeah. What are you going to wear? Do you know yet?”

Shirley took a long drag on her cigarette and held it deep before releasing it through her nose. “Haven’t been invited. I thought my daughter might ask me to sing at her wedding . . . I used to sing in church all the time, you know . . . but no. She didn’t even invite me to come.”

“Oh.” Savannah could practically taste the rubber sole of her shoe. “Sorry. Maybe the invitation got lost in the mail or—”

“Or maybe Marietta decided not to invite her own mother because she’s ashamed of her.”

“I don’t think that’s why.”

“That’s why. I know. I called her and asked her point-blank.”

“And Marietta said she was ashamed of you? She actually told you that?”

Shirley’s hand shook as she knocked her ashes into the tray. “In so many words. She’s afraid I’ll show up drunk and embarrass her in front of her new in-laws.”

Suddenly, Savannah felt as though she were treading on quicksand. It was a feeling she often had when she tried to have a conversation with her mother. “Would you be willing to . . . you know . . . not drink that day? To show up completely sober?”

“Yeah, I could probably show up sober,” Shirley replied, her voice tight, her tone sarcastic. “ ’Course, we all know I wouldn’t stay that way at the reception.”

“So, get yourself a pretty suit and show up at the church. Skip the party.”

“No, thank you. I don’t want to be anywhere I’m not welcome. And that witch, your grandmother, she hates me. She won’t want me around.”

“Gran doesn’t hate you. She’s never said a bad thing about you, ever. She—”

“Yeah, yeah, she’s a friggin’ saint. I know. I should get down on my knees and kiss her damned feet. That’s what the family court judge told me when he took you kids away from me and gave you to her.”

Savannah felt the rage welling up again, the fury that she had to bury, over and over and over again, year after year. She choked it down and wondered briefly if it would turn into an ulcer or some sort of cancer someday.

“I’m
not
going to discuss Gran with you, Shirl,” she said. “Actually, I came by to talk to you about Macon.”

Shirley downed about half her glass of beer before answering. “Yeah, Macon. Goes to show you what a fine job the old witch did of raising you guys. He’s going to go away for murder! So much for the stable home life she—”

“Stop! I told you, I’m not going to listen to that crap. I want you to tell me anything you know about Macon, or Kenny Jr., or Judge Patterson.”

“Macon’s a pain in the ass, steals stuff around town with that no-good Kenny. And Judge Patterson . . . he had more enemies than you could shake a stick at. A zillion people in this county wanted to see him dead, and I don’t know anybody who’s crying about the fact that he’s passed on to his eternal reward. Most everybody I’ve talked to figures he’s roasting his hind quarters in hell right now. And in their opinions, he more than deserves it.”

“Really?”

Family politics instantly took a backseat in Savannah’s detective mind. This visit might be worth the heartache after all.

She leaned closer to her mother and lowered her voice, “Do tell,” she said, “and don’t spare any of the juicy details.”

 

“T
he Burger Igloo . . . what sort of a stupid name is that?” Dirk wanted to know as he, Savannah, and Tammy slid into the bright-red, leatherette-and-chrome booth. Ladies to the right, gent to the left. Like a petulant little sister, Tammy refused to sit next to “Fart-Face Dirko,” as she fondly called him during adolescent moments.

To Savannah’s dismay, there were many such moments in their relationship.

The jukebox boomed “Love Me Tender” while vintage posters of fifties movies decorated the wall and set the rock-and-roll theme. Other than the fact that the posters had yellowed and curled at the edges and that cracks crisscrossed the red seats, little had changed at the Burger Igloo in the past thirty years. And that was the way the citizens of McGill, Georgia, liked it.

As far as they were concerned, change was overrated.

“They serve ice cream here, too,” Savannah told him, glancing over the twenty-flavor list of shakes and sundaes that hung on the wall, between the
Rebel Without a Cause
and
Giant
posters. “I think the ‘igloo’ part refers to that side of the menu, not the burgers or fries.”

“I hope so. I hate cold fries. You know how picky I am about my food.”

“Yeah, right.” Tammy sniffed. “It has to be free—or at least cheap—and in front of your face. Those are your two basic requirements.”

Dirk scowled at her across the table. “You could be fired, bimbo-brain.”

“Not by
you
, pee-pee head. I work for—”

“Stop it, both of you!” Savannah shoved menus at them. “Or I’ll whack your heads together and send you to bed without your supper. And if you don’t think I’ll do it, you just try me. I’ve had a hard last twenty-four hours, and I’d love to take a chunk out of somebody.”

“Sorry, Savannah,” Tammy mumbled, opening the plastic menu and peering disapprovingly at the selections. “I don’t see any salads on here.”

“Get real. The closest thing to a salad that you’re gonna find on there is some extra lettuce on your burger.”

Savannah fanned herself with the menu. Ironically, the Igloo had never had air-conditioning, for as long as she could remember, but she didn’t recall it being so miserably stuffy before.

Funny, she thought, how summer heat was “sultry” when you were a teenager and “sticky” in your forties. So much for growing older and lowering testosterone levels.

She had deliberately avoided sitting in the booth in the corner, where she had received her first real, tongue-enhanced, makeout kiss from Tommy Stafford. Now another young couple occupied the booth, taking full advantage of the semiprivacy it afforded.

She decided not to glance in that direction a second time.

Some memories were better unstirred. Especially with “Eagle Eye Dirk” sitting across from her. He wasn’t a detective with a gold shield for nothing.

“I suppose it’s too much to hope that they might have veggie burgers in a place like this,” Tammy said.

Savannah sighed. “Look, do you want a hamburger, a cheeseburger, or a double chili-cheese burger? That’s it.”

“Are you buying?” Dirk wanted to know.

“I guess.”

“Then make mine a double chili cheese . . . with extra fries.”

Tammy gave him a sad, somewhat self-righteous shake of her head. “You’re going to die.”

“Yes . . . with a full belly and a smile on my face, God willing,” he replied.

A waitress in a pink-and-white striped uniform that looked like a Candy Striper cast-off strolled over to them, order pad in hand.

Savannah recognized her instantly. “Jeannie? Jean Marie Thompson, how are you, hon?”

She almost added, “Are you still working in this dump?” but decided to be kind.

Jeannie had once been the prettiest girl in school, but as some would say, the years hadn’t been kind to her. The last Savannah had heard, Jeannie had divorced her abusive, SOB husband and was supporting a bunch of kids on a waitress’s salary. Or at least trying to.

“Savannah?” She leaned over and gave her a brief hug. “You look great, darlin’. I heard you were coming to town, that you’re gonna stand up with Marietta at her wedding.”

“Seems so.”

Jeannie leaned closer. “I think her boyfriend’s a nice guy. He’ll make a good husband . . . if he can just get that divorce in time. The wedding’s supposed to be this coming Saturday, ain’t it?”

“That’s what we’re figuring on,” Savannah replied. “But now with the trouble with Macon and all . . .”

Jeannie clucked her tongue and shook her head. “That’s so sad. I liked to have cried when I heard. Not the judge getting killed, the old crab, but that Macon and Kenny Jr. did it . . . I mean, got arrested for it.”

“We don’t think he did it, Jeannie,” Savannah said. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d spread the word that it isn’t exactly a done deal. We’re checking into it, you know. Investigating the homicide.”

Jeannie nodded, her look somber, appropriately impressed.

Savannah introduced her to Tammy and Dirk. “They’ve come out here from California to help me find out who really killed the judge and get Macon back home with his family where he belongs. My poor gran is beside herself.”

“Oh, I’ll bet she is. I know how she’s always doted on you kids.”

Jeannie quickly scribbled down their orders, then patted Savannah on the shoulder. “Don’t you worry, Savannah. I see most everybody in town through here in a week’s time. I’m gonna talk it up for you, I promise. And I’ll keep my ears open too. Those truckers that sit at the counter . . . they got a lot to say about everything and everybody.”

“Thank you, Jeannie. I appreciate it. We all do.”

 

 

Ten minutes later, Savannah and Dirk had their faces buried in chili cheeseburgers. Tammy was sipping a milkshake and complaining that she could practically feel her arteries hardening, just watching them.

“We’ve gotta check out the judge’s most recent wife,” Savannah said. “She just moved out last March. My mom says that rumor has it, she caught him with one of his many mistresses and decided to divorce him and take him for all he was worth. The divorce was going to be final in another month or so.”

“How many wives did he have?” Tammy slurped an extra-thick chunk of strawberry through the straw.

“Four.”

Dirk practically choked on his chili. “Four! Good grief. You’d think he’d have figured he was ‘out’ after three.”

“The first two died years ago. The third one lives in England now, and the last one was forty-five years his junior,” Savannah said. “She works over at the country club now, in the sports shop.”

“Okay,” Dirk said. “We’ll put her at the top of our list.”

Savannah nudged Dirk with her shoe under the table. “What did you guys get while you were playing pool?”

“Ten bucks,” Tammy replied.

“What?” Savannah raised one eyebrow.

“She’s a hustler,” Dirk said. “Played those yokels like a fiddle and squeezed ten dollars out of them before I could put a stop to it.”

“Why would you want to stop her?”

“She wouldn’t cut me in.”

“Oh, right,” Savannah said. “Besides the big bucks, what did you get?”

“That a lot of people around here hated the judge’s guts,” Dirk said. “He was famous for loaning people money when they really needed it and then foreclosing on their land when they didn’t pay right up. That’s how he wound up owning so much of the county . . . other than the half he inherited, that is. He got his jollies by repossessing cars and furniture and stuff, evicting folks who were behind on their rent, junk like that.”

“And then there are the half-a-dozen bastard kids he’s got,” Tammy added. “The guys around the pool table say he had a little problem keeping his zipper closed. And some of those grown-up kids aren’t happy about the fact that they haven’t been officially acknowledged as his offspring.”

“Officially acknowledged . . . or financially acknowledged ?” Savannah mused.

“I’m sure that’s partly why they’re disgruntled.” Dirk dragged several fries through a puddle of ketchup and popped them into his mouth. “We gotta talk to them, too.”

“So, where do we start?” Tammy asked.

“Once we’ve fueled up here . . . ” Savannah drained her pineapple malt and waved to the waitress for a second. “. . . We’ll go over to the country club and see if anybody knows why the judge wasn’t there last night.”

“What do you mean?” Tammy said.

Dirk reached for the mustard and squirted a generous amount inside his second cheeseburger. “Macon told us that he and Kenny Jr. were expecting the judge to be gone when they broke into the house. He was supposed to be at the country club, like he always was.”

“But he wasn’t,” Savannah added. “And it might help to find out why . . . if anybody there knows. Also, it’ll give me a chance to talk to Mrs. Patterson Number Four. With any luck, she’ll have some dirt to dish on the old fella.”

Tammy glanced around the room at the line of truckers sitting at the counter, the locals hanging around the jukebox, the teenagers making out in the corner.

“You know,” she said, “I’ll bet there’s a lot of gossip dished in this place along with those greasy burgers. Maybe I should ask your girlfriend, Jeannie, if she needs some extra help.”

“You, bimbo-head, waiting on tables?” Dirk laughed. “Believe it or not, you gotta have a lot on the ball to be a waitress. It ain’t as easy as it looks.”

Tammy’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll have you know, smart aleck, that I waited tables for three summers in a row when I was in college. And I happen to know how hard it is. I also know that you can find out a lot from just keeping your ears open while you’re slingin’ hash.”

Savannah thought it over, but not for long. “I think it’s a great idea.” She slapped Tammy on the knee. “I’ll talk to Jeannie, and we’ll see if we can make a truck-stop cutie out of you, New York girl.”

 

Having left Tammy behind to coax whatever gossip she could from the Burger Igloo’s clientele, Savannah and Dirk headed for the McGill Hollow Country Club.

“Wow, this is nice,” Dirk commented as they drove past the meticulously groomed golf course, tennis courts, and an Olympic- sized pool. “To see this place, you’d think the South won the war.”

“Not everybody in this part of the world is poor by a long shot,” Savannah replied, directing him to the main complex and the sports shop. “There’s still plenty of old money in the South, as well as the
nouveau riche
. Just because folks say ‘ain’t’ and ‘cain’t’ doesn’t mean they’re hicks, you know. There’s a lot of sophistication and culture around here, if you travel in the right circles.”

“Spend a lot of time here when you were growing up?” Dirk pulled the car into an empty spot in the lot and cut the key.

“Oh, yeah.” Savannah chuckled. “For a while there I was dropping by twice a week.”

“For tennis lessons or swimming?”

“To pick up the dirty linens and to drop off the clean ones. Gran and I made extra money doing the club’s laundry.”

When Dirk didn’t reply, she turned to see him looking at her with a funny expression on his face, one she couldn’t quite read.

“What?” she said.

“Things were pretty tough for you, weren’t they, Van?”

She shrugged. “I didn’t think so at the time. I knew people who were a lot less fortunate. They didn’t have any sort of work to do and ate nothing but government rations.
Those folks
had it tough. We had food every night, each other, and Gran. We were blessed.”

“Blessed . . .yeah, right.” He shook his head. “Let’s get busy. You go talk to Mrs. Patterson IV, and I’ll see if I can find out why the judge was home instead of out here knocking around some balls.”

 

 

Bonnie Patterson looked more like somebody’s daughter or kid sister than a middle-aged judge’s wife. When the manager of the sports shop pointed her out, Savannah immediately decided to scratch her off the suspect list. She was too scrawny to commit murder.

Barely five feet tall, weighing next to nothing, too-frosted hair, turquoise eye shadow, and puffy pink lips, tight shorts, and a midriff-cropped stretch shirt that displayed suspiciously large breasts—Bonnie had probably been the judge’s idea of a trophy wife.

But now she was hawking golf balls.

Savannah wondered how the judge’s untimely death would affect his almost-ex wife’s personal economics. No doubt for the better. Much better than if he had died after the divorce were final.

On second thought, Savannah put her back at the top of the list. Even a big-breasted bantam chick could pull a trigger.

“Can I help you?” Bonnie asked, her accent as thick as cold sorghum. She sidled up to Savannah, a pseudo-seductive set to her hips, her shoulders back and chest out.

Savannah didn’t take it personally. Gals like Bonnie practiced that pose until using it was second nature, no matter whom they were addressing. She would have stood like that if she were talking to Gran.

“Hi. Can we have a minute for a private conversation?” Savannah asked, nodding toward the manager, who had retreated to the back of the shop and buried his head in some paperwork.

“Yeah, it’s time for my break anyway.” She shouted back to him, “I’m outta here, Henry, for a few minutes.”

“All right. But just a few. I got stuff to do here.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

Obviously eager to escape the drudgery of selling sportsware, Bonnie practically ran out of the shop, dragging Savannah with her. Once outside, she slowed to a casual saunter. They headed down a picturesque stone walkway toward the river. Weeping willows dipped their delicate branches into the water’s edge, and a flock of ducks paddled among the reeds, quacking contentedly.