Peaches And Screams (A Savannah Reid Mystery) (21 page)

“You’re just in time,” Gran said. “Pull up a chair and have a slice. It’s still warm from the oven.”

“I think I’m too tired to eat,” Savannah said, lumbering over to the cats’ dishes. She lifted the bag of cat food off the top of the refrigerator and bent to fill them.

“I already fed those two panthers of yours,” Gran said. “They ate a big ol’ bowlful of that stuff an hour ago.”

“And I fed them earlier . . . around four,” Alma added. “They looked hungry.”

Savannah looked down at the cats, who were practically prancing on their tiptoes with anticipation. “Forget it, you gluttonous little liars. Now that I think of it, your stomachs are both pooching out somethin’ fierce. Shame on you.”

She returned the cat food to the top of the refrigerator, then walked back to the table. “And speaking of gluttons, I think I
will
have a slice of that cake. It smells heavenly.”

“Okay,” Gran said, reaching for a plate and the cake, “but before you get too comfortable . . . you should know that you got a couple of phone calls.”

“Oh? From whom?”

“From
whom?”
Cordele said, twitching her nostrils distastefully. “My, aren’t we hoity-toity now that we live up North.”

“For your information, she lives out West,” Alma retorted. “And just because a body talks right doesn’t make them hoity-toity.”

“Hush,” Gran said. “Ain’t nobody high and mighty in this household. Just regular folks tryin’ to make it through. Kind words make the path easier, girls—for the person who says them as much as for the person who hears them. Don’t be forgettin’ that.” She gave Cordele a pointed look.

“So, how did you get Marietta settled down?” Savannah asked. “Or did you have to check her into a mental-health clinic?”

“Gran talked her off the bridge . . . so to speak,” Jesup said. “I thought
I
was depressed, but . . .”

“She’ll be all right,” Gran added. “Mari’s always been a strong-minded girl. She’ll pull it together somehow.”

“Any progress on Macon?” Alma said, sliding a tall, cold glass of milk in front of Savannah.

“Maybe. Hard to tell yet. Have y’all heard anything?”

“Just that he’s sick of sitting there in that cell,” Alma said. “I took some of his comic books over there this afternoon and gave them to Tom. He said he’d let him have them. Said he’d have to check them first for files or machine guns.”

Savannah laughed. “That sounds like Tom.”

“I think he’s still sweet on you. He asked about you, and I could tell by the way he said your name.”

“You’ve been reading too many romance novels,” Cordele said, “and watching too many soap operas. You think
everybody’s
in love with somebody. It’s disgusting how much you think about that stuff.”

“Well, I think it’s a little weird that you
don’t
think about it, so there, Miss Prissy Pants,” Alma replied.

“Anyway,” Gran interjected, “as I was telling Savannah: Dirk called, wanted to tell you that he chased down Deputy Stafford and found out that Alvin didn’t have water in his lungs, so Herb Jameson figures he was dead before he hit the pool.”

Savannah nodded, self-satisfied. “That’s what we thought. Anything else?”

“Not from Dirk. But that gorgeous fella, Ryan Stone, called from California. He said that Tammy told him and his friend John all about Macon’s problems, and he wanted to know if there was anything they could do to help out. I told him you’d call him back.”

Savannah felt a new surge of energy, no matter how faint, shoot through her bloodstream. It was hope.

“That’s a good idea,” she said, thoughtfully chewing.

“What is?” Gran wanted to know.

“Calling Ryan and John. Those guys aren’t just gorgeous . . . they’re fantastic snoops, thorough and discreet. And right now, that’s exactly what I need.”

 

 

“Savannah, love, how are you? We’ve been so terribly worried about you, dear girl.”

Even the sound of John Gibson’s deliciously smooth British accent was enough to calm her jangled nerves. Although they were nearly three thousand miles apart, he still radiated strength along with concern and compassion.

She settled back in Gran’s recliner, clutching the phone as though it were his hand. “Oh, John . . .” It was all she could do not to start sobbing. “Things are a little rough around here.”

“So we heard. How perfectly dreadful for you, darling. Tell me how we can help.”

“Bless you, John. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t ask, but . . . since you offered . . .”

 

“M
ack Goodwin, county prosecutor, is a cold-blooded killer. Two first-degree homicides, no less.” Dirk shook his head as he turned his rental car down Main Street and headed for the sheriff’s station. “That’s going to be a tough sale, Van. You’d do better hawking ice cubes to Alaskans.”

Beside him, Savannah fidgeted in her seat. She didn’t need to hear her doubts spoken aloud by somebody who was supposed to be an ally. She, too, had to admit that by the light of a bright Sunday morning, the idea seemed far less plausible than when she was lying in bed in the moonlight, mulling it over.

“I guess it
is
going to be rough, if even
you
don’t buy it,” she said.

“I didn’t say I didn’t buy it. I said, I don’t think Tom’s gonna buy it. Personally, I think it’s absolutely, positively . . . well, a possibility.”

“Gee, a ringing endorsement if ever I heard one.”

He pulled the car into a spot directly in front of the station, as the street was practically empty. Most of McGill was attending church services, and the few who weren’t were home in bed, sleeping off Saturday night’s booze.

“Well, I’m sorry, Van,” he said, cutting the key, “but some things don’t track.”

“Like what?”

“Like if Mack was going to knock off the judge so that his little girl could get her inheritance, why would he do it a few days before the judge and Bonnie’s divorce was final? It would make more sense to sit tight a little longer, so that Bonnie couldn’t contest it.”

Savannah sighed. “Okay, I thought of that . . . about two o’clock this morning.”

“And?”

“And . . . nothing. I don’t know. Maybe there was some reason why he couldn’t wait. Or maybe he arrived at the mansion right after Macon and Kenny Jr. ran off and saw the perfect opportunity to kill the judge and blame it on them.”

“Okay. That’s . . . well . . . sorta possible.”

“Wow, and the crowd goes wild again!”

He sent her an irritated sidewise look. “I’m trying, okay? I’m listening. I’m workin’ with ya, but—”

“I know. We don’t have enough.”

“We don’t have
anything
. Savannah, you want to accuse a prosecuting attorney, a highly successful, dearly beloved pillar of the community, of murdering two people, and you don’t have jack shit.”

“We’ll get something. I’ll talk to Tom, and he’ll help us. You wait and see.”

 

 

“You’re nuts, Savannah. You’ve always been on the bright side of whacky, but you’ve crossed all the way over.” Tom rushed over to the door to look outside, leaving the two of them sitting on folding chairs next to his desk.

He hurried back. “Sheriff Mahoney’s late this morning, and you’d better thank your lucky stars, because if he heard you saying a blame-fool thing like that, he’d . . . Oh, Lord, I don’t even know what he’d do.”

“Tom, I—” Savannah ventured.

“And what’s worse . . . he’d do it to me, too, just for talking to you. He found out that I took you out to the Patterson place, and I’m still hearing about that. If he found out you were spreading crap like this all over . . . cheez.”

Savannah stood and walked over to him. She stepped close, deliberately invading his space, and fixed him with her blue lasers. “I am
not
spreading anything anywhere, Tommy Stafford. I’m interested in solving some murders, not being a gossipmonger. And if you’d just stick your fear in your back pocket and listen to me, you might find the killer, too.”

“Fear?”

“Yes, fear. You’re scared spitless of Mahoney and Goodwin.”

“I sure am, and you would be, too, if you had the sense God gave a cockroach.”

“Hey, watch it.” Dirk left his chair and strolled over to them in what Savannah could only describe as a John Wayne swagger. She could practically hear his spurs and pistols jangling. “You don’t go callin’ anybody a bug, hear?”

“It’s all right, Dirk. It’s just a quaint Southern term. He didn’t mean any disrespect.”

“I most certainly did. You’re an idiot if you think I’m going to investigate Mack Goodwin, the best prosecutor this county has ever had, the finest—”

“Oh, stop already!” Savannah held up both hands in surrender. “I can see now you’re ready to canonize the guy, and nothing I say is going to change your mind.”

She turned and grabbed Dirk’s arm. “Let’s get out of here. We’ve got a case to solve and boy, some people are sure gonna feel dumb when we wrap it up without any help from them!”

In a quiet, sane part of her brain, Savannah knew she had reverted to the emotional quotient of a ten-year-old. She knew because it was all she could do not to stick out her tongue and give Stupid Head Tommy a major raspberry.

She also didn’t care.

Okay, she cared a little.

At the door she paused and, summoning her last vestige of maturity, said, in what she hoped was a very adult voice, “Of course, you could quietly check Goodwin’s phone and bank records, compare them with the judge’s and Alvin’s. Goodwin would never know. No one would ever have to know. Hell, you wouldn’t even have to tell
me
if you’d done it or not.”

She sailed out the door, Dirk in tow.

When they were back in the car, Dirk turned to her, a wide smile splitting his face. “You’re an evil woman, Savannah Reid.”

She grinned back. “I am. And you love me anyway.”

“Anyway? Baby, I love you
because!”

 

 

Savannah stood in her grandmother’s kitchen and looked out on the vast ocean of food that constituted Sunday dinner. For as long as she could remember, the ritual had been the same: Sunday school and church, then home for the best that Gran could afford. During lean times, it had been only one piece of fried chicken apiece; they had taken turns having to eat the wings. And during better times, a roast or maybe even a ham had been proudly displayed on the big blue platter in the center of the table.

It might have been bologna sandwiches during the week, but Sunday dinner was always an event.

“Don’t you ever get tired of cooking?” Savannah asked, as her grandmother dumped an enormous bowl of milk into the browned flour and bacon drippings mixture that bubbled in a giant skillet.

“I like cooking,” Gran said with a big smile to prove it. “I’ve gotta admit, now that my rheumatism’s worse, I don’t like doin’ it as much as I do. But Sunday dinner’s fine. It’s family time.”

“Are they all coming?” Savannah looked down the endless streams of plates lining both sides of the table and the counter.

“Sure. What else would they do with themselves?”

Savannah grabbed the panful of mashed potatoes and began spooning them into a bowl. “How do you afford to pay for all this food, Gran?” she asked. “Do they chip in at all?”

“Sure they do. Well, Alma and Waycross do. Alma’s a darlin’. When she gets her check from Donut Heaven, she just signs it right over to me for food and the like. I have to make her take back some of it for the things she needs. Alma’s got ways a lot like yours, Savannah. She’s a real comfort to me. And Waycross, when he gets a big job there in the garage, like a motor overhaul, he slips me fifty dollars. Sometimes even a hundred.”

“And Vidalia and Butch? Marietta? Cordele or Jesup?”

“Vi and Butch have a hard time making ends meet.”

“They drive a brand-new car.”

Gran shrugged. “And Jesup can’t seem to keep a job.”

“I hear she lost the last one because she showed up late five days in a row and insulted the boss.”

“Jesup’s got a bit of a temper. It gets the best of her sometimes. And Cordele, she’s going to school. . . .”

“One class per semester. She’s been going to college for ages, and you’ve been paying for it. She could work part time, too.”

Gran poured in the milk and stirred vigorously. “You don’t understand, Savannah. Kids are different these days. They’ve got so many pressures on them that we didn’t have.”

“Like saying ‘no’ to sex and drugs?” Savannah cleared her throat. “Yes, I guess that’s harder than working in the cotton fields and taking in laundry from the country club and cleaning people’s houses in town. We just had to worry about how we were going to feed and clothe the younger ones, and how we were going to come up with the money for medicine when they got sick. They have to worry about getting AIDS and whether or not their tennis shoes light up when they walk. I don’t know how they stand all that pressure.”

Savannah put the bowl of mashed potatoes on the table and turned to see her grandmother staring at her, a startled and infinitely sad look on her face.

“I’m sorry, Gran.” She rushed over to put her arms around her. “I shouldn’t have said all that.”

She hugged her grandmother to her and was surprised at how frail she felt, how drained.

“That’s all right, Savannah girl,” she said. “You can speak your mind to me anytime. You know that.”

She pulled back and looked up at Savannah, tears in her eyes. “Seems you had something you needed to say.”

“Seems so.”

“And maybe I needed to hear it.”

“Maybe,” Savannah said softly. “I reckon you’d be the best judge of that.”

Outside, the sound of a car pulling into the driveway and the shouts and laughter of Vidalia’s energetic children broke the moment.

“Hail, hail, the gang’s all here,” Gran said. “And that gravy’s getting lumpy. You know I can’t abide lumpy gravy.”

 

Like a giant twister sweeping across a plain, leaving destruction in its path, the Reid clan descended on the tiny kitchen. And after a flurry of forks and spoons, plates and glasses, jokes and insults, laughter and a few tears—shed by the recently jilted bride-to-be—they left.

They took the bags of clean laundry from the porch and left mountains of dirty dishes, pots, and pans in the sink.

Even Cordele and Jesup found places they simply had to be and silently slipped away.

“How convenient,” Savannah said, standing in the kitchen, her hands on her hips. “Do they do this every week?”

“What?” Alma said as she began to scrape and stack the dishes on the table. “Oh, yeah. Usually. They all have busy social lives.”

“In McGill? What’s to do? Cruise up and down Main Street? That takes twenty seconds.”

Alma laughed. “That’s about all. But somehow they can make an afternoon of it.”

Savannah placed the stopper in the sink, squeezed in a generous portion of liquid soap, and turned on the hot water. “How about you, Alma? What do you do for fun?”

“Oh, I had a boyfriend last winter for a while. But we broke up. And since then, I pretty much just work at the donut shop and help Gran. I teach Sunday school, too. The four- to ten-year-olds. I like that a lot.”

“I’ll bet they like having you for a teacher.”

“I wish you’d gone to church with us this morning, but I know you were out helping Macon.”

“Yes. I know we’re not supposed to work on Sunday, but there’s a scripture somewhere that says something like: If your ox is in the ditch, you can pull him out.”

Alma carried a stack of the plates over and set them in the sudsy sink. “I guess having your jackass brother in jail is pretty much the same thing, huh? It’s a bit of an emergency either way.”

Savannah laughed, then leaned over and kissed her sister on the forehead. “You’re a sweet girl, Alma. I’d like to take you and Gran home with me.”

“Don’t say that twice. You’ll have one of us stuffed into each of your suitcases on that plane.”

The phone rang, and Alma hurried over to the phone on the wall. “Hello. Sure, just a minute.” She put her hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s for you, Van. Somebody named Ryan. He sounds really cute.”

Savannah dried her hands on a towel. “Oh, darlin’, you have no idea how cute.”

She took the phone, pulled up a chair, and sat down. “Hey, sugar, what’s shakin’?”

“We miss you,” Ryan said, his voice dark and silky.

“I miss the two of you, too. Tammy’s going through hunk withdrawal.”

“John’s got something for you on your county prosecutor.”

Savannah felt her heart leap. “Already? I just called him last night.”

“Yes, but it was for
you
. He was on the phone most of the night.”

“And?”

“I’m going to tell you something, but you’re going to have to substantiate it with other means.”

She nodded. “I’m hearing what I’m hearing, but I didn’t hear it from you.”

“Something like that.”

“Okay, shoot.”

“Mack Goodwin comes from the poor side of the tracks, but he’s smart.”

“Yeah, that’s the consensus around town. A bit of a self-made man.”

“Well, not completely. He had a lot of help along the way from your Judge Patterson. Even when he was a kid in law school.”

“Okay, I think I heard something about the judge helping with his tuition. The judge’s daughter, Katherine, and Mack were dating even back then, so the judge was probably just making sure he’d be a worthy son-in-law.”

“From what John heard, that’s exactly right. And Mack did well by the judge, good grades, kept his nose clean. Except . . .”

“Except?”

“Except for one rather nasty event that occurred during Mack’s last year of school.”

“Do tell!”

“I can’t give you all the details, because John could only find out so much. But, you see, John is close friends with Lt. Governor Hastings. And . . . well, this tragedy involved both Mack Goodwin and the lieutenant governor’s son. Some sort of awful accident with one of the boys in their frat club. A kid was killed in some kind of hazing ritual, though it was never proven that the club members were involved.”