Killer Reunion (22 page)

“Eh, I don't care. I'm comin' into some big bucks any day now. I'm gonna be gettin' more than I can spend in years. My grandma's buying a big house that's got a five-car garage. I'm gonna fill it up with all kinds of cool cars and maybe even get myself a monster truck or two.”

He wiped his hands on the rag, then pitched it to the ground, where it lay among discarded beer cans, empty oil bottles, and old tires. “No more livin' out in a dang cotton patch for Hot Rod Ruskin. My ship's done come in, and she's a big 'un!”

“Which ship is that?” Dirk asked. “The USS
Barnsworth
?”

Rodney's broad smile lessened to half a grin. “Yeah. So?”

“Nothing. I just heard about your great-uncle's passing, and, well, sorry for your loss.”

Dirk didn't sound that sorry, and Rodney seemed to notice.

“Him and my grandma weren't all that close. I didn't really know the man.”

“And that would account for your lack of grief at his passing,” Savannah supplied.

“Yeah. I reckon it eases the pain a bit that I never laid eyes on 'im.”

“And how about his wife?” she asked. “Were you acquainted with her?”

Rodney's eyes were definitely guarded now. Savannah decided he might be a bit brighter than she'd thought at first glance.

“I think I saw her walking down the street a couple times,” he said. “She was pretty hard to miss, struttin' around in purple all the time.”

“Yes, Jeanette stood out in a crowd. That's for sure.” Savannah took a deep breath. “It's pretty awful what happened to her. I guess you heard.”

He thought it over for a moment, then said, “Yeah. I reckon it's bad, winding up in the lake like that. Figure she had too much to drink at that high school reunion or whatever.”

“No. They're saying she was murdered,” Savannah told him.

He didn't look at all surprised when he nodded and said, “I guess that was a stroke of luck for me and my grandma. Wasn't too lucky for Miss Jeanette, though.”

“Reckon not.” She searched his eyes for any compassion for his recently departed relatives and saw not a smidgen.

“Where were you Saturday night?” Dirk asked.

“Why don't you ask my grandma if you wanna know so bad?” he replied, suddenly looking confused and afraid.

“Because we'd rather hear it from you,” Savannah said. “Where did you and your grandma go after you picked her up there at the nursing home?”

“I think that's not any of your business. And I think it's about time for the two of you to be making some tracks off my property,” he said, walking away from them and heading toward the house trailer.

His stride was purposeful. And it occurred to her that he might be going to get a weapon.

Apparently, it occurred to Dirk, too, because he wasted no time in grabbing her by the arm and leading her back to their car. Once inside, he started it right up and sped away, kicking up an impressive dirt cloud behind them.

“Well, whatcha think?” he asked. “Time to go pay another visit to your old boyfriend?”

“Absolutely. And this time, if he doesn't listen, I'm gonna smack him upside the head.”

“You be sure to do that, Van. Hit him twice, in fact. It worked out so well last time.”

“Um, good point.”

S
avannah and Dirk made record time driving to the station house, only to be told by Deputy Jesse that Sheriff Stafford was “out in the field.” He was sitting behind the desk, his dirty boots propped on a stack of official-looking paperwork, sucking down a convenience store soda big enough for four people to take a Jacuzzi in.

“Where exactly ‘in the field' is he?” Savannah asked, trying to hide her annoyance with the lackadaisical lawman, who had enough manure on the bottoms of his boots to fertilize Granny's garden. She'd always had contempt for those who worked “the job” with no intention other than to collect a paycheck and a pension.

Apparently, Jesse was irritating Dirk, too, because Dirk's face was an unhealthy shade of reddish purple when he asked, “Why can't you say? Is it because you're clueless? Or because you'd rather bust our chops than help us find the sheriff when we need him?”

“What do you need 'im for? Maybe I can help you out.”

From the vacant, lazy look on Jesse's face, Savannah had the strong impression this man wouldn't fetch a garden hose if they were both on fire in a dynamite factory. So she wasn't hopeful.

“We need to talk to Tom directly,” Dirk said. “We wouldn't say it's important if it wasn't.”

“So, when we find him,” she added, “and we will find him sooner or later, we'll tell him that his deputy was sitting at his desk, polishing off a gallon of soda pop, his filthy boots propped on what looks to be like some pretty important paperwork. But Deputy Jesse was too all-fired busy to even tell us where to find the sheriff.”

That seemed to do the trick. Jesse shoved the beverage aside, set his feet on the floor, and adjusted his collar. “He went to see the undertaker.”

“Mr. Jameson?” Savannah asked, a bit surprised.

The deputy nodded.

“Why?” Dirk wanted to know.

“He didn't say.” With a sigh, he added, “Frankly, the sheriff ain't all that open about his business. Leastways, not with me, anyhow.”

“Gee. Imagine that,” Savannah replied evenly. “And you, so confidence inspiring and all.”

Jesse smiled and nodded, obviously deeply touched. “Why, thank you, ma'am.”

Savannah turned and headed back to the door. “Think nothing of it. I sure don't.”

 

Rather than go into the funeral home and interrupt whatever might be passing between Tom Stafford and Herb Jameson, Savannah and Dirk parked behind a large billboard where the mortuary's driveway met the highway. They could see the sheriff's big cruiser in front of the building and knew he'd have to pass by them to exit.

“What do you suppose he's doing here?” Dirk asked as he took out a cinnamon stick to “smoke” as they waited.

“I don't know. But I take it as a good sign. At least he's doing some sort of investigation.”

“But he's talking to Jameson. Jameson's the main one who's saying it was you who done it. Maybe the old guy's just convincing him all that much more.”

She fixed him with an evil eye. “You know, I can think of depressing crap like that all by myself, without any help from you.”

“Hey, I do what I can.”

At the same moment, they both spotted Tom coming out of the funeral home.

“Thank goodness,” Dirk said. “I was afraid we'd be sitting here for hours and I'd be starving to death. I need another of those Burger Igloo burgers. This time with extra cheese and chili.”

“You're gonna die.”

“With a full stomach and a song in my heart.”

Tom got into his car and headed toward them.

“Fingers crossed,” she said. “I want to do the talking.”

“If you're doing the yakking, I'll cross both of 'em on both hands.”

“And you be nice.”

“I'm always nice.”

“Be nicer than you always are.”

They could see inside Tom's car well enough to know the moment when he spotted them. He frowned and shook his head. And kept going, driving right past them.

“Honk,” Savannah said.

Dirk did. A long, long, long honk.

She groaned. “You don't even know how to honk nice.”

“Honk
nice
? How the hell do you honk
nice
?”

“A pleasant little beep, maybe? Never mind. He's stopped. Let's go before he changes his mind and takes off again. You and your rude, nasty honks. Sheez.”

They shot out of the car and scurried over to the cruiser, which was sitting on the side of the road. Savannah hurried around to the passenger's door and was happy to find it unlocked. She opened it and climbed in. Once inside, she could hear Dirk trying to open the back passenger's door—unsuccessfully.

Tom sat there, wearing his dark sunglasses, giving her an annoyingly smug look.

“For heaven's sake, Tommy. Let him in!” she said. “What are you? Five years old?”

He snickered, reached over, and flipped a switch. A moment later, Dirk was in the back, sitting in “the cage,” staring unhappily through the wire security mesh that separated the front of the car from the rear.

“How's Mr. Jameson?” Savannah asked.

“He's fine,” was the non-reply. “Peachy. Considering that he's dressing his girlfriend for her funeral tomorrow.”

Savannah gulped. “That's tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Don't go. You won't be welcome.”

“Well, yeah, I sorta figured that.”

“Good.” Tom took off his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. “What do you knot heads want with me?”

It occurred to Savannah that Tom looked exhausted, like a man who was running on fumes and was badly in need of a restful night's sleep.

She knew the look all too well. It was the appearance of a police officer who was working day and night on a difficult case. Was it possible that her ex-beau was expending far more energy on her behalf than he was willing to admit?

The thought warmed her toward him.

In spite of some ugly chapters, this story might have a happy ending, after all
, she told herself.

“Tom, we need you to listen with an open mind when we tell you something, okay?”

“No way. You're down South, Savannah,” Stafford said. “We figure if a person gets carried away with all that ‘open-minded' stuff, like you California folks do, our brains might just up and fall outta our heads.”

“Oo-kay. Then at least let us say our piece before you interrupt or tell us we're full of bull pucky.”

“All right. Shoot.”

She drew a deep breath and let it flow. “We're pretty sure we know who killed Jeanette.”

“Who?”

“Imogene Barnsworth and her grandson, Rodney Ruskin. I know you said she plays poker every Saturday night. And maybe she does. But this last Saturday night was different. She dressed up fancy, red high heels and everything, and Rodney picked her up in that General Lee Charger of his. Then he didn't bring her back until just before midnight. And Butch just sold him a new brake light for his General Lee.”

“That's right,” Dirk said, chiming in from the backseat. “And if you question those two, even a little bit, you'll see that they're lying. Both of them. Try to nail 'em down on where they were that night and what happened, and they snap shut tighter than a clam's ass.”

“A clam's ass? Really?” Tom gave Savannah a questioning look.

She shrugged. “He's been in Georgia too long. He's starting to say ‘ain't' a lot, too. We need to get this case solved and hightail it out of here before he starts whistling ‘Dixie' and putting peanuts in his Coca-Cola.”

“Lord forbid.”

“Exactly.”

“What do you think, Tom?” she asked in her most plaintive, wheedling voice. “Will you just go talk to them? Maybe check her closet and see if she's got a pair of red high heels with some sort of biological evidence on them. Maybe check the grandson's biker boots, too, while you're at it, and the trunk of that Charger.”

Tom took off his hat, ran his fingers through his hair, and put the hat back on again. “I don't need to interview them or check their closets or cars, Savannah.”

“Why not?”

“Because I know where they were.”

“I remember what you said. ‘Creatures of habit' and all that. But have you talked to them, just in case this Saturday was different? Did you question the regulars there at the card game?”

“Dadgummit, woman,” he said, losing his patience. “I didn't need to question the regulars at that card game. I
am
one of the damned regulars. I was there Saturday night. I went over right after I left the reunion. I was there, looking right at both Imogene, in her red dress and red high heels, and her idiot grandson at the exact time when you say you heard that big splash in the lake.”

“Oh.” It was all Savannah could manage to say with a lump in her throat the size of a fist, and about as comfortable.

“Yeah, ‘oh,'” he shot back. “She was dressed up because it was her birthday, and us boys had gone together and bought her a little cake and a bouquet of flowers. And that worthless grandson of hers hung around so he could get a piece of the cake.”

Savannah heard Dirk mutter, “Damn,” from the cage.

“Yeah,” she replied. “No kidding.”

Tom seemed to soften. To her surprise, he even reached over and briefly laid his hand on her forearm. “Look,” he said, “if you really didn't kill that gal, and you really wanna help me prove it, forget about Imogene and her grandson and help me figure out if Jeanette murdered old Barnsworth.”

Savannah's mind started whirring, but she felt like she was a gerbil on a wheel, getting nowhere. “Why?” she asked.

“Because I think the two deaths are tied. And you weren't even here when Barnsworth went toes up. So . . .”

“Gotcha.”

Savannah's hopes rose to the level of her ankles. It wasn't enough to make her shout, “Hallelujah,” but at least she wouldn't trip over them the next time she tried to walk.

“Thanks, Tom,” she said. “I appreciate the help. A point in the right direction can make all the difference.”

“Okay,” he answered. “But try to not make things worse, all right? People've been accusing me of draggin' my feet and showing you preferential treatment. With elections comin' up soon, I don't need that.”

“I understand. We'll tread lightly.”

“Like a couple of rodeo bulls in a china shop.”

“Ever so delicately. On our little tippy toes.”

He laughed in spite of himself. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Get outta my car.”