Peaches And Screams (A Savannah Reid Mystery) (4 page)

“How was the judge killed?” she asked, clasping the cold bars with sweating fingers. The peeling paint rasped against her skin, but she was only vaguely aware of the sensation.

“Shot.”

Savannah heard a sound from the other end of the corridor and turned to see Tom Stafford walking toward her, a ring of keys jangling in his hand, a disgruntled, but resigned, look on his face.

Macon jumped to his feet and stepped up to the door.

Savannah waited for Tom to say something, but he didn’t. Instead he walked to the door of the cell, unlocked it, and swung it open. With a wave of his hand, he ushered her inside.

She wasn’t sure if he was inviting her to join her brother inside the cell for their conversation, or placing her under arrest, too.

Her answer came a moment later as he relocked the door. “Make the most of your time,” she heard him mutter under his breath. “I’ll be back in about fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you, Tommy,” she called after him. “I mean, Tom.”

He just grunted . . . and kept walking.

The moment the deputy disappeared through the far door, Savannah grabbed her brother in a rough hug, but he pulled away after only a couple of seconds.

Watching him shuffle away from her and stretch out on the cot, Savannah tried to remind herself that he had always been the distant brother. Unlike the more demonstrative Waycross, Macon had always kept his thoughts and emotions to himself. As a result, she and Gran had spent a lot of time and energy trying to figure out what was going on inside him.

But she didn’t have the patience for a game of “What’s Up With Macon?”, considering the high stakes.

“Sit up,” she said, punching him on the shoulder. “Tom said fifteen minutes and that’s not long. Start talking.”

Groaning, he shoved himself into a sitting position. “What’s there to talk about?”

She resisted the urge to slap him silly. “How do you know the judge was shot?”

“That’s what the deputy said.”

“Where?”

“In his car, when he was bringing me here to jail.”

“No, I mean, where was the judge shot?”

“There in that big house of his on the edge of town . . . the old mansion with the white pillar things out front and—”

“I know which one. When did it happen?”

“Last night.” He gave her a quick sideways glance and added, “I guess. I mean, that sort of thing usually happens at night . . . doesn’t it?”

“Did Deputy Stafford say that’s when it went down?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t remember.”

“What else did Tom say?”

“Mostly, he just told me that I didn’t have to talk to him if I didn’t want to and that I could have a lawyer.”

“Yes. He mentioned that he’d tried to get the public defender over here, but the guy’s gone for the weekend.”

Macon crossed his arms over his ample belly, and Savannah saw the bruise on his forearm, just below the tattoo of a tiger that she didn’t remember him having. Dark and swollen, the bruise appeared fresh.

“How did you get that?” She pointed to the bruise. “Did Tom rough you up when he brought you in?”

He looked down and seemed surprised, as though seeing it for the first time.

“What? Oh, no . . . I don’t think Tom did it. The handcuffs were a little tight, me being so big and all, but . . .”

“Handcuffs wouldn’t pinch you there, darlin’,” Savannah said. She could hear the fear and worry in her own voice.

“What are you gettin’ at?” he replied, as irritated and guarded as she was concerned.

“Nothing, Macon . . . except that you’ve got a nasty bruise on your arm, the kind people get when they’ve been in some kind of a fight. So, if you don’t remember where you got it, you’d better start figuring it out. ’Cause Tom Stafford’s a good cop, and you can bet your bottom dollar he’s going to ask you about it.”

She reached over and laid her hand on his shoulder. She felt him flinch beneath her touch, before he pulled away.

“As soon as your attorney gets here, Tom’s going to ask you a lot of questions, little brother. And he ain’t gonna settle for the crap answers you’ve been giving me. With Tom Stafford, ‘I don’t know’ and ‘I don’t remember’ just ain’t gonna cut it.”

 

B
y the time Deputy Tom Stafford returned, fifteen minutes later, to release Savannah from her brother’s cell, she was about as depressed as she had ever been in her life . . . a lifetime fraught with daily blood sugar dips, monthly PMS episodes, and weekly bouts of Monday-morning, step-on-the-bathroom-scale blues.

Every brain cell in her analytical mind told her that her little brother had been a bad boy, indeed. And this time, a simple trip to the principal’s office with one of Gran’s apple pies wouldn’t put things right.

At the top of the stairs leading to the first floor, Savannah paused. Tom, who had been walking a few steps behind, bumped into her. She grabbed him by the forearms and was only vaguely aware that he winced.

“I want to go out to the scene, Tom,” she told him. “Take me out there now, okay?”

Shaking his head, he pulled away. “No way. Don’t even start with that, Savannah, ’cause it won’t happen. In fact, if I even catch you within spitting distance of the old Patterson place, I swear I’ll haul your tail right back here and throw you in the cell with Yukon Bill.”

“I won’t touch anything, I swear. I won’t interfere and—”

“No! No! No! I know you heard me, girl, so don’t act like you didn’t.” He stomped past her and on down the steps. She could feel the stairs tremble with his weight. “Shit, you’ve always had a head as hard as bog oak, and a gift for being deaf when it suits you.”

Hurrying after him, she called, “You can run, but you can’t hide, Tommy Stafford. You’re going to drive me out there right now, and you know it.”

“No! I give you an inch, you think you’re a damned ruler. That fifteen-minute visit is all you’re getting outta me. Go home.”

By the time he reached the bottom step, she had caught him by the back of the shirt. He spun around, his face flushed, his breathing hard. Standing on the stair above him, she could look him straight in the eyes for a pleasant change.

“You have
never
, Tommy Stafford,
never
in the history of our relationship, won an argument with me. What makes you think today’s going to be any different? You just think about what’s at stake here, and how determined I can be.”

“Then
you’d
better think about something.” He shook his finger in her face. “That little brother of yours is a punk, a no-good piece of white trash that—”

The sharp crack of her palm across his cheek surprised her nearly as much as it did him. For only a second, she regretted the slap. Then her fury flared again.

“Don’t you
ever
say that about Macon or anyone else I love,” she said, choking on the words. “Not ever. You hear?”

She half expected him to hit her back, and she wouldn’t have blamed him if he had. One of her long-standing rules stated: If anyone, even a woman, strikes first, they deserve to get as good as they gave.

But Tom didn’t hit her. In fact, the anger in his eyes faded, and when he did reach for her, it was to gently stroke her cheek with his forefinger. The simple gesture touched her heart and brought tears to her eyes.

“Savannah, I’m so sorry,” he said. “I don’t want to be the one to say harsh things to you. But darlin’, it’s true. Macon’s different now. He’s fallen into some bad company lately, and it’s rubbed off on him.”

“He’s a good kid, with a good heart. I don’t care who he’s been hanging out with, that hasn’t changed.”

“It’s admirable—you being loyal to your loved ones and all—but you’ve got to be smart about where you invest yourself. Don’t spend on somebody who’s not worth the cost.”

“Thank you,” she said coolly, “but since he’s my family, I think it’s up to me to set the price, don’t you?”

“I reckon. But I’m your friend, and I’ve got a right to speak my mind on the subject.”

“Okay.” She drew a deep breath and added, “Once.”

“I hear you.”

He turned and headed toward his desk. “Now why don’t you do me a big favor and get the hell outta here before Sheriff Mahoney gets back. He’s out picking up Kenny Whitley, and he’ll be here any minute. I don’t want him to see you here and start asking whether I let you see Macon or not.”

“So take me out to the Patterson place and we’ll both be gone when he gets back.”

“Savannah, dad-gum-it, I—”

The sudden eruption of noise on the sidewalk outside made them both forget their conversation as something sounding like an angry mob charged the front of the building.

The door opened and what appeared to be the entire citizenry of McGill poured into the station.

Then Savannah realized: It was only her family.

Gran led the pack—Waycross and Alma, as well as two more of Savannah’s sisters, the bride-to-be Marietta and Vidalia, along with Vidalia’s husband, Butch, and their two sets of twins. Reids filled the room, wall to wall.

Alpha female Gran was in full howl. “Where is my grandson?” she demanded of Deputy Stafford. “Savannah left almost an hour ago and said she’d be bringing him home. But since she’s still here . . .” she punched a thumb in Savannah’s direction, “. . . it’s obvious that you’re being a mule’s hind end about this. I swear, I’m going to have to take this up with your granddaddy. Him and me go way back, you know.”

Tom held up both hands, as though fending off a disgruntled mob. “Now, Mrs. Reid, I know you’re riled up, and I understand you want to have Macon home with your family just as soon as possible. But it ain’t gonna happen, not any time soon. I’m sorry, but when you get that straight, you’ll feel a whole heap better.”

“Don’t you dare condescend to me, young man. I was an old lady when you were still in diapers. It’s not your place to tell me what I should think.”

“You’re right, and I apologize, ma’am. I meant no disrespect.” He shook his head, and Savannah couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for him. She had been in the same situation with families before. Relatives often held the idea that their loved one couldn’t possibly do anything wrong, and therefore, law enforcement had to be the enemy.

Butch stepped forward, his T-shirt grease-stained from a hard day’s work at the garage. He held his unruly seven-year-old son, Jack, by one hand and with the other he corralled Jack’s twin, Jillian.

He gave Savannah a brief nod. “Hi, Van.”

“Hey yourself,” she replied. She had last seen him and her sister Vidalia a couple of years ago, when Vidalia had left him after a matrimonial spat and shown up on Savannah’s doorstep. She’d had Jack and Jillian in tow and an enormously pregnant tummy. Savannah could see that the youngest set of twins were filling up and out in typical Reid style. Vidalia held one chubby cherub in each arm. She, too, gave Savannah a warm smile of welcome. But Savannah could see she had been crying.

They were all worried sick about Macon.

More worried than he seems to be about himself
, Savannah thought, wishing she could give him a swift kick in the pants.

Butch turned to Deputy Stafford. “Is it a matter of bail?” he asked. “If it is, I’ll haul the banker outta bed and get him to give me a loan on the garage. We don’t want Macon sittin’ in a cell. It just ain’t right, when he didn’t do nothin’ wrong.”

“Yeah,” said Marietta, elbowing her way through the crowd until she stood front and center. “He’s going to be head usher in my wedding, and he’s got to go to the rehearsal and stuff like that. He doesn’t have time to be arrested right now.”

Dear Marietta,
Savannah thought.
Always practical. Always thinking of others.

“Marietta, don’t be a fool if you can help it,” Gran said, pushing her aside. “Deputy Stafford doesn’t give a rat’s rear end about your wedding. A man’s been killed, for heaven’s sake.”

“That’s right,” Tom Stafford interjected. “A judge has been murdered, and your Macon is our prime suspect. We can’t just let him—”

“Why?” Gran wanted to know. “Why do you think it’s him? What evidence do you have that makes you believe he did it?”

Savannah saw her opening and dove in, headfirst. “As a matter of fact, Gran,” she said, “Tom was just about to take me out to the scene of the crime. We were headed there when y’all came charging in here like General Sherman’s army.”

She gave Tom a quick, sideways grin. His eyes narrowed; his lips pulled tight and thin.

On a roll, she continued, “I told you, if everybody would just stay home and tend to business there, I’d take care of things down here.”

Gran’s sharp eyes peered at Savannah, and Savannah realized her grandmother wasn’t fooled a bit by this charade. But the old lady was keen enough to see that a game was afoot and to play along.

“Oh,” she said, “well, that’s different. If you’ve got everything under control here . . .”

“Like I said,” Savannah added, “Tom was just getting ready to drive me to the Patterson place to check things out. Weren’t you, Tom?”

She turned to him, smiling brightly.

From the scowl on his face, she half expected him to growl and snap at her like an irritated Rottweiler. Instead, with a stony calm in his voice, he said, “Sorry, Savannah, but like I told you before, I can’t just walk out and lock the door behind me when I’ve got prisoners upstairs.”

She thought for a moment, then made her next move on the mental chessboard. “Isn’t that old fella . . . the pharmacist next door . . . let’s see, what was his name . . . Mr. Jeter . . . isn’t he a sworn, part-time, volunteer deputy? He could come over and watch things till Sheriff Mahoney gets back, right?”

Before Tom could reply, Butch piped up, “I’ll get him. Here, Marietta, hold on to these kids, and I’ll fetch him straightaway.”

Butch disappeared before Tom could utter a word, and only seconds later, a delighted, if rather frail and decrepit Mr. Jeter materialized. Excitement glittered in his eyes that were topped with bushy silver eyebrows. A neatly trimmed goatee sprouted from his chin, and in his white pharmacist’s smock, he looked like a mad scientist from a silent movie.

“Yes, sir,” he said, practically snapping to attention in front of Tom Stafford. “Butch says you need me to take charge for a few minutes?”

Tom looked down at the pharmacist, at Gran, whose stern expression dared him to do otherwise, then at Savannah. She gave him her best beguiling puppy-dog look and received a drop-dead one in return.

“You don’t exactly have to be in charge of nothin’,” he said, sounding like a defeated soldier at the end of a bloody battle. “Just watch the desk till the sheriff gets back.”

Savannah felt her heart leap with hope. Not a giant leap, but a definite, happy little skip in the right direction.

“Sure thing.” Mr. Jeter dug a badge out of his smock pocket and pinned it proudly on his lapel. “I’ll keep everything under control. Sure will.”

“Let’s go,” Savannah said, waving her family toward the door. “You guys get along home, and I’ll fill you in when I get back.”

“How long do you figure you’ll be?” Gran asked. “Should we expect you for supper?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Savannah gave Tom another look. Yes, thunderclouds had definitely gathered on his brow. She predicted the storm would break the moment he had her alone in his car. “If I’m not home once it’s on the table, go ahead and eat without me. Tom here said he’d show me everything at the scene, and that’s bound to take a while.”

As she watched her temporarily mollified family filing out the door, Savannah heard Tom say to Mr. Jeter, “By the way, Fred . . . when Sheriff Mahoney does get back, just tell him I had to run a couple of errands. And you don’t need to say nothing about . . . you know . . . all of these folks coming around. Mahoney would just get all riled up and we don’t need that, now do we?”

“No!” Fred Jeter shook his head vigorously. “We sure don’t need none of that.”

“Come along, Savannah.” Tom took her by the arm and propelled her toward the door.

Yes . . . judging by the way his fingers were digging into her biceps, she wasn’t at all eager to be alone with him. Those thunderbolts would be flying right and left, and she’d have to be quick on her feet to avoid getting struck.

 

 

“Let’s get one thing straight right from the get-go,” Tom said as he peeled out of the parking lot and headed his patrol car down Main Street. “I’m not doing this because you finagled me into it, though Lord knows, you tried hard enough. I’m taking you out here to make your grandma happy, ’cause she’s a fine person, and I think a lot of her.”

Savannah dug her fingers into the car seat as he rounded a few more corners at breakneck speed. She was happy to be wearing her seat belt as she entertained fantasies of being hurled headfirst through the windshield.

So much for dodging verbal lightning bolts. The Grim Reaper would more likely appear in the form of a fatal accident at the hands of a passive-aggressive male—one who expressed his anger by applying more pressure to the pedal.

“So,” she ventured, “does that mean you’re not too sweet on Gran’s offspring at the moment?”

“Let’s just say, I’ve been sweeter . . . like when her offspring wasn’t twistin’ my arm outta its damned socket.”

At the crossroads on the edge of town, they turned north onto a narrow, but smooth-surfaced asphalt road. Waves of shimmering heat rose from the black surface, and Savannah reached down to direct the air-conditioning vent onto her face.

On either side of the road, cotton fields stretched almost as far as the eye could see. Exploding from their dark husks, the white tufts looked like tiny snowballs that were somehow immune to the heat of the afternoon sun.

“How’s Mary Beth?” she said, cutting him a sideways look.

“My baby sister is just fine, thanks for asking,” he replied. “But then, she hasn’t killed nobody lately, so I don’t have to go around manipulating people into doing things that goes against their conscience.”