Peaches And Screams (A Savannah Reid Mystery) (11 page)

“I don’t think I’ve seen you around town,” Bonnie said. “Who are you, and what did you want to talk to me about?”

“My name’s Savannah Reid. I was raised around here, but it’s my first time back in quite a while.”

“Reid?” A light of recognition passed across Bonnie’s face, but she quickly squelched it.

In that instant, Savannah decided that Bonnie Patterson would be a pretty darned good poker player. She must have heard about the judge’s murder and the subsequent arrests.

“Yes, Reid,” she said evenly. “I’m Macon Reid’s oldest sister.”

Both women paused in the middle of the walkway, facing each other. Savannah searched Bonnie’s eyes for the expected emotions: anger, resentment, maybe even fear.

Nothing.

Yep, she thought, Bonnie could play “blank” with the best of them.

“What do you have to say to me?” Bonnie said, her voice as flat as her expression.

There was no point in beating around the proverbial bush. Savannah let her have it: “I was wondering if you might have any idea who killed your husband.”

“Talk to Sheriff Mahoney,” Bonnie suggested, as offhandedly as if she were recommending a hair salon. “I did, this morning, and he’s pretty darned sure it was your brother.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know about that.”

They faced off for several tense seconds as Savannah listened to the ducks quack and her own pulse thudding in her ears.

“Somebody else did it, and they set up my brother,” Savannah said.

“Like I said, I wouldn’t know.” Bonnie Patterson smiled. Hers was a dentist-perfect smile—straight, white, even teeth. But it wasn’t a warm smile, and it wasn’t pretty. In fact, it gave Savannah a slight chill. “For right now,” she continued, “I’m assuming that the sheriff’s doing his job, and the guilty parties are where they belong . . . behind bars.”

No, Savannah decided, she didn’t like Bonnie Patterson and her perfect, chilly smile. Not a bit.

“Pretty lucky for you, huh?” Savannah said. “I mean, him dying right before your divorce is final. Damned fortunate timing, if you ask me.”

“I don’t recall asking you anything, Miss Reid. And I’m finished answering your questions, too. I don’t think I want to talk to the sister of the man who murdered my husband in cold blood.”

Bonnie turned her back on Savannah and returned to the shop at a much faster pace than she had strolled away.

Savannah watched . . . and mentally highlighted Bonnie Patterson’s name at the top of that list. If for no other reason, because she really,
really
didn’t like her.

 

S
avannah found Dirk near the tennis courts, and from the look of disgust on his face, she easily determined that his interview had been about as fruitless as hers.

“Well?” she asked as she met him on the stone walkway that wound from the pool to the courts.

“Nothing, really,” he said. She noticed the beads of sweat trickling down his forehead and realized that he was suffering in the humidity as much as she. Only it wasn’t his brother who had been arrested, or his sister getting married for the third time.

He really was a good guy. And she reminded herself to keep that uppermost in her mind the next time he bummed a quarter off her or a free burger.

“I talked to a caddie who said that the judge had a standing tee-off time of three-thirty every afternoon. He’d play nine holes, then have a scotch and soda over at the bar. His son-in-law, Mack Goodwin, the county prosecutor, joined him a lot of the time.”

“Did the caddie or anybody hear from the judge Monday night?”

“No, but the caddie said he told him on Sunday that he wouldn’t be here Monday.”

“So, whatever he was doing at home the night he was murdered, instead of playing golf, it was planned, not spur of the moment.” Savannah mulled that one over for a second. It had interesting implications.

“Right. Wonder what it was?” Dirk said.

“Something he had to do at home, or someone he was going to meet there.”

“We’ve gotta fill in that blank before we get much further.”

Savannah glanced around and saw a young man walking along a path that crossed theirs, dressed in tennis shorts and a polo shirt, swinging a racket. His clothes were startlingly white against his dark tan; even Gran, laundry queen, would have been impressed. His hair and eyes were the same shade of brown as his skin, and his GQ good looks rang a bell in her memory banks.

“That’s Goodwin,” she told Dirk. “I recognize him. It’s Mack Goodwin, the prosecutor son-in-law.”

Dirk grunted under his breath. He made it a practice to be unimpressed with any guy who dressed better than he did. And that constituted a high percentage of the male population. “I guess he’s working out his grief on the tennis court,” he said. “Looks all broken up about the old man’s passing.”

“Ah, you never know,” Savannah said, playing devil’s advocate. Not because she particularly disagreed with Dirk, but just on principle.
Somebody
had to counteract his negativity and maintain the cosmic balance.

They were both surprised when Goodwin changed his direction and came their way.

When he reached them, he flashed them a broad smile that was as bright as his outfit. But the smile didn’t make it to his eyes.

Goodwin shifted the racket to his left hand and held out his right to Savannah. “You’re Macon Reid’s sister. I heard you were in town.”

She shook his hand, but released it quickly. This man would probably be the one to try her little brother in a court of law. She had no intention of becoming a pal of his. Besides, she didn’t trust anyone who smiled with their mouth, but not their eyes.

Goodwin turned to Dirk. “And you’re a friend of hers from California. A detective with the Los Angeles PD, I believe.”

Dirk gave him a firm handshake that made him wince ever so slightly. Savannah secretly smiled to herself. Men and their games. They were so much more overt and entertaining than women’s.

“I’m not from L.A.,” Dirk corrected him with obvious satisfaction. “San Carmelita. It’s on the coast north of L.A.”

“And you came all the way out here to help your friend’s brother. How
nice
of you.” Goodwin’s emphasis on the word “nice” and the coldness in his eyes made the pineapple malted in Savannah’s stomach do a little shiver.

But Dirk gave him look for icy look and said evenly, “What can I say, I’m just a swell guy. Besides, we wanna make sure that nobody gets a murder pinned on them that they didn’t do.”

“We
all
want to make sure of that,” Goodwin replied. “That’s why I haven’t charged Macon yet . . . and won’t, until I have all the facts.”

“And, of course,” Savannah added, “you wouldn’t want to do anything until he’s
at least
had a chance to talk to a lawyer, huh? I mean, it’s pretty awful that he’s gotta sit there, cooling his heels in jail without benefit of counsel.” She turned to Dirk. “I’ll bet that’s against the law . . . him sitting there, unrepresented . . . even here. Don’t you?”

Dirk nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, yeah. If that happened where we come from, a suspect would have all kinds of grounds to—”

“We’ve contacted Claude Wilkins,” Goodwin interjected, “and he’s cutting his fishing trip in the Ozarks short. He’ll be back by tomorrow morning. That’s soon enough.”

“Well, not really,” Savannah said. “But I guess it’ll do.”

“And meanwhile”—Goodwin propped his racket on his shoulder and spun it around a few times—“You two had better watch where you’re stepping around here, and who you’re talking to. I wouldn’t want the whole lot of you up on charges for interfering with an investigation.”

“That’s fine . . .” Savannah stepped closer to him, until they were eye to eye. “. . . As long as there’s an investigation going on. I mean, I’d hate to think that y’all are sitting around on your fists, like you’ve got everything figured out. My brother’s a young man, a good kid, and we’re talking about his life here.”

“Actually, I’ve heard that your little brother is a bit of a punk.” Goodwin held his ground as Savannah took another step closer, her fists clenched. “And my father-in-law was a good person. You ought to have seen him, Ms. Reid, laying there dead on his rug. I’ll never get over coming upon a scene like that. It’ll haunt me till my dying day. And if your brother did it . . . and I think he did . . . I’m going to see him strapped to a table with a needle in his arm. It’s the least I can do for a man who gave me everything I’ve got.”

Savannah could feel her pulse, pounding hot and red in her face. Her vision started to blur, and for a moment she thought she might even pass out.

With an effort, she gathered her mental and emotional reserves and resisted the urge to crumple. The last thing she wanted was to faint dead away at Mack Goodwin’s feet.

She felt Dirk’s hand close around her upper arm. “Come on, Van,” he said, giving her a slight tug. “There’s no point in standing around here, talking to this guy. His mind’s already made up, and we’ve got work to do.”

Reluctantly, she allowed Dirk to lead her away. But as they left, she heard Goodwin call after them, “You two watch yourselves. I mean it. I won’t tolerate the relatives of the accused obstructing justice. You hear me?”

 

 

While Dirk filled the car’s tank at the service station on Main Street, Savannah used the phone booth to call Gran.

“Don’t cook supper tonight, Gran. Dirk and I are going to take care of it.”

“What do you mean, don’t cook?” Gran sounded as though Savannah were speaking some incomprehensible foreign tongue. “I’ll probably have the whole crew over here again, and they’re ugly when they’re hungry. I’ve already laid out the hamburger to thaw for meatloaf.”

“Well, stick it in the refrigerator and use it tomorrow night, or the next. At least for tonight, you’re off duty.”

“But . . . but . . .” Gran sputtered on the other end. “Whatever will I do with myself?”

“Why don’t you sit in the swing on the front porch and watch your flowers grow? Better yet, sing to them, and they’ll grow even faster.”

Gran chuckled. “Not the way I sing, sugar. You forgot; I got a voice that can curdle buttermilk.”

It was Savannah’s turn to laugh. Gran did have a bit of a reputation in church for singing loudly and a tad off key.

“So do I,” Savannah said. “But you always told me it didn’t matter, as long as you ‘make a joyful noise unto the Lord.’ You said the Almighty ain’t picky about such things.”

“That’s true. But I just can’t imagine not making supper, I mean . . .”

“Imagine it, Gran. It’s time.
High
time somebody started taking care of
you
, instead of the other way around. Go. Sit. Swing. Sing.”

 

 

An hour later, Savannah, Tammy, and Dirk arrived at the old farmhouse, bearing nine large pizzas from the Pizza Palace in Brownsville. Sure enough, the house looked as though Sherman’s army had invaded and set up camp.

Besides their threesome and Gran, the dinner crowd included Alma, Waycross, Cordele, Jesup, Vidalia and Butch and their two sets of twins, and Marietta, her two boys, and her fiancé. Just your usual dinner for eighteen, sitting around a table made for eight . . . tops.

Once again, the children stood at the counter, but they complained less. After all, there was pizza to munch.

The level of conversational buzz was deafening. Savannah glanced to either side of her and saw that Dirk and Tammy were positively stunned.

Ha, wimps
, she thought with an inward giggle. So-called “normal” families had no idea what true togetherness was all about. You couldn’t get much more “together” than having your sibling’s elbow in your face during a meal or getting your shins kicked continually under the supper table.

“Anybody hear anything new on Macon and his predicament?” Butch asked as he shoved half a slice of pepperoni and mushroom pie into his face.

“We had ourselves a busy afternoon,” Savannah said, “talking to several folks, but I wouldn’t say we turned up anything worthwhile. Anybody else?”

Waycross reached for a slice of the sausage and onion pizza. “Some guys were talkin’ at the garage today. They said it was Mack Goodwin found the judge dead. Said he was all shook up about it, was practically cryin’ when he called the sheriff and reported it.”

“Well, I guess he made a pretty fast recovery,” Savannah said, dabbing at her mouth with a paper napkin. “We talked to him this afternoon at the country club, and he didn’t look particularly distraught when he told us to mind our own business or get locked up.”

Gran offered her a refill of iced tea. “Y’all had better watch yourself. That Mack Goodwin’s known around here for comin’ down hard on criminals. And we don’t need the three of you in jail along with Macon.”

“That’s right!” Marietta agreed. “Why, our wedding rehearsal is tomorrow night! If you get locked up, Savannah, we’ll be short a girl on the bridesmaids’ side of the line-up. It’ll look lopsided.”

Her fiancé, a quiet, timid little guy with curly brown hair and big hazel eyes, squirmed a bit in his chair. Savannah guessed why, but restrained herself from asking.

Cordele, on the other hand, didn’t feel the need. “Is your divorce through yet, Lester? Did your old lady sign the papers?”

Lester choked on his pizza. Marietta slapped him on the back, far harder than necessary.

“Lester’s working on it,” Marietta snapped at her younger sister. “He’s about got the battle-ax where he wants her. They’re just arguing about who’s gonna get the new pickup. We’ve got till Saturday.”

“That’s only three days from now,” seven-year-old Jillian added, smiling a big, red pizza-sauce grin.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Gran said, giving Cordele a warning look. “Eat your supper before it’s ice cold.”

Marietta’s two boys, Steve and Paulie, stood at the counter with the other kids, chowing down on the pizza. Both were in their early teens, the products of Marietta’s former marriages, one from each ex-husband.

Savannah saw a couple of sly smirks pass between them, and she wondered what they thought of Lester. Both were taller than their prospective stepfather, and beefier. Lester was going to have his hands full, trying to assert himself as alpha male in that household. She also wondered, not for the first time, if Marietta had thought this one through. She doubted it.

Marietta was famous in McGill for her ability to create the “biggest” hairdos for proms and weddings at her salon and for the fancy designs she airbrushed on acrylic nails.

But she wasn’t so well known for her common sense.

“Boy, those pizzas weren’t long for this world,” Dirk whispered in her ear. He had nearly fainted when he realized how much it cost to feed the crew for only one meal.

“Yeah, there’s a certain wolfpack efficiency to the way food disappears around here,” Savannah replied.

“I made a carrot cake this mornin’,” Gran said, pushing back her chair. “Who wants a piece?”

“You sit down, Gran,” Savannah said quickly. “If you made it, somebody else can serve it.”

Everyone at the table . . . and the counter . . . stared at Savannah as though she had lost her mind. Apparently, the concept of self-sufficiency was foreign around here.

“I’ll get it.” She stood and walked over to the refrigerator, where the cake with its thick cream-cheese frosting awaited the same fate as the pizzas. Setting it in the center of the table, in front of Marietta, she said, “Mari, would you cut Gran a piece first, and then serve our company?”

“Well, I worked all day, but I reckon I could . . .”

“Everybody at this table worked today. So, yes, I reckon you could.” Savannah shoved the handle of a knife into her hand, then pushed a stack of plates at her.

Savannah turned to the youngsters. “If y’all want some cake, you clear these dishes off the table and take out the trash. Take those pizza boxes out to the burning barrel.”

After a stunned moment of silence, a whirlwind of activity erupted, and in no time, the mess was cleared and the cake served.

The crowd was munching cheerfully when Beauregard scrambled off the back porch and ran, baying, around to the front of the house.