Peaches And Screams (A Savannah Reid Mystery) (15 page)

Standing behind her, Paulie and Steve seemed to shrink three sizes in their jeans and T-shirts. They were both white and trembling, obviously traumatized, and now horribly emasculated.

Savannah’s self-restraint snapped. “No, Marietta,
you
shut up!” she told her. “Don’t say another word. You made this mess and you dragged the rest of us, including your two boys, into it.”

“Don’t you talk to me like that, Savannah Reid!” She took a step forward and shoved her face into Savannah’s. “Who do you think you are, Miss High-and-Mighty, telling me what I—”

“Marietta, stop that!” Gran said, trying to step between them.

Savannah reached out with one finger, placed it on Marietta’s chest, and pushed her sister back to a comfortable distance. In a soft, but deadly tone, she said, “Go . . . home . . . now. And give this whole situation some serious thought. For once in your life, be smart, Mari. If not for yourself and your own future, for your boys.”

Marietta whirled around so fast that Savannah thought she might do a complete 360-degree turn, but she caught herself and stomped out the back door of the church.

Gran walked over to her great-grandsons and placed a hand on each of their shoulders. “You boys did just fine,” she told them. “Your mama’s just upset and scared. She didn’t mean what she said.”

“Sure she did,” Steve replied, his lower lip trembling. “I guess she would’ve been happier if we’d gotten killed, as long as we were protecting her like she deserves, right?”

“You did exactly what you should have done,” Savannah told him. “Everything turned out okay in the end and that’s all that matters.”

“Yeah,” Paulie said. “Everything’s just jim-dandy.”

Lester stood, head down, hands deep in his slacks pockets. “What a mess,” he mumbled. “What a freakin’ mess. I better go talk to Lucy. She’s gotta be real upset to have done a fool thing like this.”

Without another word he shuffled over to the pastor’s door, knocked softly, and disappeared inside.

One by one, everybody filed out of the sanctuary, until only Savannah and Gran remained.

“I know you meant well,” Gran said, lacing her arm through Savannah’s, “with what you told the boys. But everything didn’t turn out okay tonight.”

“Yeah, I know.” Savannah sighed, her knees turning to warm jelly from the adrenaline still coursing through her bloodstream. “No trigger was pulled and nobody’s hide got perforated, but things aren’t all right by a long shot.”

 

S
avannah was still wearing her pajamas and Gran’s chenille robe when Tammy and Dirk knocked on the front door. From the excited look on Tammy’s face, Savannah knew, even before she let them in, that she had news.

“Okay, I heard something!” Tammy said as they entered the house, ignoring the baying Beauregard, who nipped at their heels as they passed him on the porch. “All that hash-slinging finally paid off, last night about midnight.”

Balancing what was only her second cup of coffee in one hand, Savannah pushed them in the general direction of the sofa. “Sit,” she said. “Do you want a cup of java?”

“No,” they both said in unison.

“Well, I do . . . while it’s still hot.” She eased herself into Gran’s comfortable recliner. Her grandmother was out back, tying up tomato vines in the garden, and wouldn’t be in until the heat and humidity became unbearable. “Okay,” she said to Tammy, once she was settled. “Spill everything you’ve got.”

“Bonnie Patterson and Alvin Barnes have been fooling around since—”

“I told you that yesterday afternoon at the hotel,” Savannah said, blowing the steam that was rising from the lip of the cup. “I already—”

“Oh, hush,” Tammy snapped. “You don’t know
everything
I know, so be quiet and let me tell you something for a change.”

Savannah stared at her assistant, mouth open, then turned to an equally shocked Dirk. “The kid’s getting feisty in her old age.”

“Yeah, wonder where she’s getting it?” Dirk said with a grin.

“Sorry, Tam,” Savannah said, “the floor is yours.”

“Thanks. Bonnie and Alvin have been a hot commodity since long before she married the judge. And according to a couple of his honor’s former caretakers, who were having a Lumberjack’s Deluxe Breakfast this morning at the counter, they never stopped seeing each other. Every day when the judge was off playing golf, and Elsie Dingle was taking a nap, Alvin snuck in the back door and . . . hokey-pokey.”

Savannah thought of Elsie, her bright eyes and sharp curiosity. Alvin must have been a pretty good sneak to get past her on a regular basis.

Tammy continued, “These two guys were talking about how Bonnie and Alvin had set the whole thing up, from the very beginning, to take advantage of the old man. The judge had a bypass years ago, and they counted on him kicking off pretty soon.”

“That was pretty dumb on their account,” Savannah said. “Most people who’ve had a bypass can live a long, normal life if they take care of themselves.”

“And the judge did.” Tammy sat on the edge of the sofa, still wearing her uniform of short shorts and a tube top. Savannah was surprised those gardeners had been able to converse at all in the presence of such blatantly displayed female pulchritude. “Except for his evening scotch and soda, he did everything the doctor told him, low-fat diet, nine holes of golf every day.”

“And Bonnie and Alvin got impatient,” Dirk added, stealing her thunder. “They got to thinking the old fart never was gonna kick. So they helped him along.”

Tammy gouged him in the ribs with her elbow. “Hey, I’m the one who served greasy eggs and bacon and toast slathered with butter, yuck, to get this. Have some respect.”

Savannah cleared her throat. “These two caretaker guys, they said all this while they were downing their Lumberjack Break-fast?”

Tammy nodded. “That’s the sum of bits and pieces that I overheard in the course of half an hour.”

“Okay, that’s all very interesting,” Savannah said. “It may even be true. But the bottom line is: It’s just gossip. And if we’re going to get Macon out of the slammer, we’re going to have to take Sheriff Mahoney more than that.”

“Yeah, I told her that,” Dirk said, “but she’s got some more. Go on, kiddo,” he told Tammy. “Tell her about the Navigator.”

Wriggling like a kindergartner who needed to visit the little girls’ room, Tammy said, “Alvin’s put money down at the local Ford dealership for a brand-new Lincoln Navigator with all the options. The salesman was having a Spanish omelet with his wife, but hers was a Denver skillet scramble, no cheese.”

Savannah lifted one eyebrow. “We’ve gotta get you out of there, Tam. I’m starting to worry.”

“Forget about me. Don’t you see the significance of him ordering a new black Navigator when, until now, he’s been driving a bomb of an old Pontiac that’s missing a fender?”

“As I said before,” Savannah replied, “it’s interesting, but hardly incriminating.”

Tammy shook her head in exasperation. “Don’t you see? He’s profiting from the judge’s death!”

“Honey, often, when people die, other folks profit. It’s the way of the world. But it doesn’t mean that everybody who receives an inheritance is a murderer.”

“Bonnie’s buying a matching Navigator, fully loaded, all in white. And the local furniture dealer was in, too . . . plain toast, hold the butter and black coffee. And she’s ordered a lot of new furniture . . . a bunch of contemporary, ultra-modern stuff . . . for the mansion.”

“Now
that’s
a crime.”

“And she’s talking all over town about how she’s going to send Elsie Dingle packing when she takes over the house. Says she never did like the old lady and won’t put up with her sass.”

Savannah’s eyes narrowed; her lips thinned. “That does it. Miss Priss Bonnie Patterson and her no-good boyfriend Alvin are going do-o-own.”

 

 

For some reason, which she couldn’t explain, Savannah hadn’t expected someone named Alvin Barnes to look like a Greek god.

So much for expectations.

Stretched out on his back on a chaise beside the pool, his golden skin gleaming in the sunlight, Alvin B could have been Mr. July in any beefcake calendar. The red thong-style swimsuit barely did the job of containing his assets.

The spitting image of his father, the judge?
Savannah thought as she approached him, trying to remember who had said that.

Thinking of the thin, wizened man on Herb Jameson’s embalming table, Savannah couldn’t see even a remote resemblance.

As she walked around the end of the pool and up to his chaise, Savannah smelled the strong scent of coconut oil, mixed with a musky cologne or aftershave lotion, and saw that Alvin was thoroughly greased, from his thick, dark hair to his bare toes. Reflector sunglasses hid his eyes, so she couldn’t tell if he was awake or sleeping.

“Hi,” he said, answering that question as she sat on a deck chair next to his chaise.

She was glad she had told Dirk to take Tammy back to the café while she did this interview. She would have freaked, being this close to so many bulging muscles. While she, on the other hand, was perfectly cool and collected. “Hi. I’m Sa—” Her voice broke like a pubescent teenager’s, but she quickly recovered.“—vannah Reid.”

“Yes, I recognize you.” He sat up halfway, leaning on his elbows, accenting marvelous pecs. On his wrist he wore a sports watch that Savannah instantly recognized as one of Tag Heuer’s nicer models. Apparently tennis instructing paid a heck of a lot more than private detecting.

“You recognize me?” Savannah asked. “Have we met?”

“No. But Bonnie described you . . .” He reached up and lowered his sunglasses just long enough to peer at her over the top of the frames. After a leisurely look up and down her figure, he replaced them. “. . . Described you to a tee.”

Not being blind, Savannah couldn’t help but see the disgust in his eyes. And not being deaf, she couldn’t miss the nasty note of sarcasm in his voice.

Mr. Perfect Body had apparently been told by Miss Priss that Savannah was no hardbody.

Several searing obscenities raced across her mind in mile-high, flashing, red-neon letters. But, professional that she was, she swallowed the words and imagined, instead, several excruciating forms of physical torture she could easily inflict on him. And would, if given the chance.

Better yet, she’d just nail him for first-degree murder.

“Then you know why I’m here,” she said. “I’m investigating the judge’s murder to find out who really did it.”

Even from behind the silver lenses, Savannah could see his surprise. Apparently, ol’ Alvin wasn’t accustomed to such candor.

“I’m trying to figure out who actually pulled the trigger,” she continued, “you or Bonnie.”

He bolted upright on the chaise and ripped off his glasses. She saw the anger in his eyes. And now that they were uncovered, she saw that his eyes did, indeed, look exactly like his departed father’s. She also saw the fear, and she felt a thrill of success.

Bingo! Bull’s eye! Gin! All in one!

“Had to do it now, huh?” she said. “I mean, if the old man wouldn’t roll over and play dead, like he was supposed to from his heart trouble, you’d just have to help him along. And you couldn’t wait . . . what with the divorce becoming final.”

As Savannah saw the anger on his face quickly escalate to pure rage, she mentally checked the location of the Beretta in her purse. Her vivid imagination also ran through a few judo moves, flipping him headfirst into the pool.

“This club is private property,” he said. “And you aren’t a member. You’d better leave.”

“Oh, I’m the guest of a member.”

“Who?”

She said the first name that came to mind. “Mack Goodwin. He’s a good friend of mine.”

“Well, Mack’s my friend, too. And I don’t remember him having anything good to say about you or your brother. In fact, he said he was going to see the little punk strapped to a gurney, getting put down like a dog before this is all over. And he said you’d better not get in his way.”

Savannah knew her own limitations. And she was just about to do serious harm to Alvin Barnes.

So she stood and turned her back on him. But before she walked away, she shot one more verbal dart over her shoulder.

“I’ll be watching you. Bonnie, too,” she said. “And you won’t even know I’m there. Count on it, you sonofabitch.”

 

 

By the time Savannah drove to the sheriff’s office, she had two speeches memorized. One if Mahoney was there and a second if she were lucky enough to catch Tom alone.

When she charged through the door and saw her former boyfriend sitting at his desk, filling out a stack of papers . . . all by himself, she launched into monologue number two.

“Tom, I need your help, and please just keep an open mind, okay?”

He stared up at her blankly, and she hurried on before he could say no.

“You may think I’m nuts, but I’m telling you, Bonnie Patterson and Alvin Barnes are in cahoots somehow in the judge’s homicide. And I think if you go out to the Patterson place and dust for fingerprints on the left drawer of the judge’s rolltop desk, you’ll find one of their fingerprints. Now if it’s Bonnie’s, I realize that won’t prove anything, but if it’s Alvin’s . . .” She took a deep breath. “Well, that won’t really prove anything either, but I’m telling you that they’re in on this. I know it! Macon didn’t do it.”

“I know.”

It took her a second to apply the mental brakes. “What? You know what? That Bonnie and Alvin—”

“That Macon didn’t do it. That’s what this is, right here.” He pointed to several papers spread across his desk.

She leaned over and peered at them. “Release forms?”

“Yeah, I’m letting him out as soon as I’m done here.”

“Oh, my, I . . .”

Suddenly, she found it difficult to stand, so she sank onto the folding metal chair next to his desk. Time seemed to slow as she sat there, holding on to the cold steel of the seat with her hands, listening to the air conditioner crank away.

He smiled at her, and it occurred to her, not for the first time, that Tom Stafford really did have a gorgeous smile. No wonder she had loved him for all of her adolescence and a good part of her adulthood.

For all the good it had done her.

“You’re releasing him. Oh, Tommy that’s wonderful! I can’t tell you how much this means to me, how much it’ll mean to Gran. She’s been so worried and—”

“Aren’t you going to ask me why?” he said, leaning back in his chair and putting his hands behind his head.

“No. I learned a long time ago: If it’s good news, just take it and run! I don’t care why.”

He kept grinning at her.

“Okay,” she finally said. “Why? Did you figure out, too, that it was Bonnie and Alvin?”

“No. It wasn’t those two. They’re worthless and they’re not above it, but it wasn’t them.”

“Then who?”

“Clifton Oprey.”

“Clifton? That old guy who farms down there by the river?”

“Did
farm. Thanks to the judge, Cliff lost his place about six months ago. His wife, Sally, took sick . . . cancer or something . . . and Cliff ran up a bunch of hospital bills. She died anyway, and after working like a dog all his life, Cliff was deep in debt. The judge took a second mortgage on his land, then worked behind the scenes to get Cliff’s credit cut off, so that he couldn’t plant this spring. The judge foreclosed on the farm and threw Cliff off the land that had been in his family four generations.”

“How nice of his honor. No wonder people are happy he’s gone. I hear he’s done that sort of thing plenty of times over the years.”

“Cliff hasn’t been the first. That’s for sure. But thanks to Cliff, he’ll be the last.”

“Have you picked him up yet?”

Tom pointed his thumb toward the ceiling. “He’s right upstairs in the cell next to Yukon Bill.”

“You must have some pretty good evidence against him, I mean . . . if you’re releasing Macon and . . .”

“And considering all we’ve got on Macon. Is that what you mean?”

“Something like that.”

“I got a confession.” He reached across the desk and picked up a yellow legal pad. “Signed and dated,” he added, shoving the notepad into her hands.