Peaches And Screams (A Savannah Reid Mystery) (22 page)

“Were Mack and the Hastings boy suspected?”

“Only for about two seconds . . . thanks to old man Hastings, who was a senator at the time, and Judge Patterson. They got it squelched before any harm was done to either young man’s promising future.”

“And the victim?”

“In the end, his death was ruled a suicide.”

“Suicide? What method did he use?”

“Hanging. He was found dangling from one of the giant oaks on the Hastings estate in Athens, just down the street from the capitol building. His neck wasn’t broken. They figure he strangled.”

“Yuck.”

“Yeah. A big old yuck.”

Savannah gazed up at the cat clock, its green eyes switching back and forth with each twitch of its tail. But her mind was far away, beneath a moss-draped oak tree in the shadow of the state’s capitol. And with a boy’s family, who would have been told that he hated his own life enough to end it.

And if that weren’t true, the lie was a terrible tragedy in itself.

“Savannah, you all right?” Ryan asked, drawing her back to the kitchen and the moment at hand.

“Yes. Just . . . thinking. Tell John I love him dearly, and I owe him a pecan pie.”

“Only if I get half.”

“Don’t you always?”

When Savannah hung up the phone, she walked over to the screen door and gazed outside at the serenity of her grandmother’s garden. Gran was walking among the tomato plants, her straw bonnet guarding her porcelain complexion—her only vanity—and a basket over her arm.

“Van?”

She jumped and turned to see Alma watching her. She had actually forgotten her sister was there.

“I couldn’t help overhearing your phone conversation,” she said. “Both this one and the one you made last night in the living room.” She shrugged. “Sorry, but it’s a small house.”

“Of course it is. No problem. But it’s important that you keep everything you heard to yourself. Really important. It could make all the difference for Macon.”

“I understand. I’m good about keeping my mouth shut when I need to.”

Savannah reached out and tucked one of her sister’s glossy dark curls behind her ear. “Thanks, hon. I appreciate that.”

“If you’re trying to find out stuff about Mr. Goodwin . . .” Alma said, tentatively.

“Yes?”

“I heard something this morning in Sunday school. And normally, I wouldn’t repeat gossip, but . . .”

“What did you hear, sweetie?”

“Little Caitlin, Mr. Goodwin’s girl—she’s in my class. And she was really sad about her grandpa dying. We talked a long time about how he was in heaven and she would get to see him again.”

“I’m sure you were a comfort to her.”

“Yes, but she’s also really disappointed, because she says her grandpa told her that she could come and live with him. He promised he’d buy her a pony of her own. She said her daddy got really mad and said she couldn’t, but that Grandpa told her not to worry about it. He was going to
make
her daddy agree.”

“He did, huh?”

“That’s what she said, and I believed her. Little kids, they don’t lie about important stuff like that.”

“No, they don’t,” Savannah said thoughtfully. “They leave the lying about important stuff to adults. Grown-ups are a lot better at it; they’ve had more practice.”

 

“W
hy do I feel like I’m never going to see my little house trailer in California again?” Dirk said as he held the flashlight for Savannah, while she picked the lock on Mack Goodwin’s office building.

“Sh-h-h. Hold that light steady,” she said. “I can’t see a thing I’m doing with you bobbing it all over the place like that.”

“It’s because I’m shaking. In my whole stinkin’ career, I’ve never broken into an officer of the court’s place. We’re going to wind up in a rotten little jail cell for the next fifty years with some of those snaggle-toothed yahoos from
Deliverance,
tellin’ me to squeal like a pig.”

She stopped what she was doing long enough to shoot him a dirty look. “As a Southerner, I find that comment highly offensive, just like that disgusting movie. Besides, you old fart, what makes you think you’re gonna live another fifty years? You’re already older than dirt.”

“Just get the damned door open, would you? This place gives me the willies, big time. I wanna get in and outta here in record time.”

“Then hold still and stop yapping for a minute and let me . . . there . . . got it.”

“We’re getting good at this,” Dirk said as they slipped inside the building that housed the prosecutor’s office, as well as those of other county officials.

“Don’t you
dare
say something like that. Those sound like famous last words if I ever heard any.”

They made their way down a short hallway until they found a door with Goodwin’s name on it. Savannah had better luck with that lock and had them inside within seconds.

“Do you suppose there’s a watchman for this building?” Dirk asked as they hurried in, guided by the beam of his flashlight.

“Naw. But Mahoney probably drives by once or twice a night, so keep that light away from the windows.”

Savannah took her own penlight from her pocket and began her search. With such minimal light, she was only vaguely aware of a well-organized office with contemporary furniture and modern art on the walls.

“It would help if we knew what we were looking for,” Dirk said as he opened first one drawer, then another.

“But how much fun would that be?”

“You call this
fun?”

She stopped her search long enough to look up and give him a mischievous smile. “Yeah, don’t you?”

He chuckled. “Yeah. We gotta get lives, Van.”

“Really. We’ll work on that when we get home. You can take me to Disneyland, and we’ll ride Splash Mountain.”

“This is the secretary’s desk,” he said, opening the last drawer. “Nothing hidden here but a box of chocolate-covered donuts.”

“My kind of woman. Don’t touch them! We don’t want anybody to know we were here.”

“What? You figure she counts her donuts?”

“Sure. Don’t you?”

“Well, yeah, but . . .”

“Check
his
desk. The big one over there.”

“How do you know it’s his?”

“It’s got his name on it.” She pointed her light at the brass plaque on the front of the desk.

“Oh, yeah.”

While he searched those drawers, she shuffled through several folders on top of the desk. She didn’t have to look long before she found her brother’s.

Opening it, she glanced over the various forms that had been filled out about his case.

“Damn,” she said softly. “Goodwin’s ready to go on Macon. He’s dotting all the i’s and crossing the t’s. And I have to admit, if I wasn’t Macon’s big sister, I’d say he had an airtight case.”

“All the more reason to nail the bastard, if he did it himself.”

“Anything in those drawers?”

“Nothing good. Not even any donuts.”

Carefully, she replaced the folders, then looked around the rest of the room. “I don’t know how much more we’re going to find in here,” she said. “Maybe we should’ve broken into his house.”

Dirk came to full attention. “No. Don’t even think about it. This is as far as I go.”

“Pansy.”

She walked over to a large trash can that sat beneath a table next to the computer. Beside a laser printer was a shredder. The can had been placed directly beneath to catch the narrow paper strips.

On an impulse she pointed her light into the can and saw that it had been recently emptied. Only a few pages’ worth of shreddings were lying in the bottom.

She had walked away when something rang a buzzer in the back of her brain. Returning to the can, she knelt beside it and looked again.

“Oh, howdy!” she said. “Dirk, get yourself over here, boy.”

He came at a fast trot. “Whatcha got?”

“Shredded paper strips.”

“Well, if it’s shredded, it’s worthless. You can’t read that stuff. I know, I’ve tried.”

“Look.” She held up a couple of strands that were dark green. “I’ve seen this paper before. The judge had folders made out of this in his desk. Very classy looking.”

“Oh, yeah?” Suddenly, Dirk was interested, too. “You figure this junk was the folder that somebody took outta there?”

“I sure do.”

“A lot of good it’ll do us. Like I said, you can’t read that stuff once it’s been through a shredder. No matter how hard you try, you can’t figure out how to put it back together again.”

“Maybe
you
can’t. Maybe
I
can’t. But I’ll bet I know somebody who can. . . .”

“Okay, but if I can’t even sneak a donut, you can’t take that trash either. He might notice it missing.”

“No way. He’s a man. He’ll just figure his secretary—a woman—cleaned up after him.”

 

 

“Do you think you can do it?” Savannah asked Alma after she had dumped the pile of shreddings in the middle of Gran’s kitchen table.

“Sure, I can. It’s just another puzzle,” Alma said, running a few of the strips through her fingers.

“I don’t think anybody can do it.” Dirk stood behind them, radiating gloom. “It’s impossible.”

“You, Mr. Sunshine, can just keep your negativity to yourself.” Savannah gouged him with her elbow. “Alma is the all-time puzzle-putter-together champion. She did one that had two thousand pieces and was nothing but M&M’s. I’m going to help her and we’ll do it, no matter how long it takes or how cross-eyed we get.”

“Speaking of M&M’s . . .” Alma grinned. “I could work a lot better if I had a plateful of your M&M cookies, Savannah.”

“M&M cookies?” Dirk’s ears perked up.

Savannah chuckled. “They’re like chocolate chip cookies only with M&M’s.”

“Sound great. I mean, I’d be willing to try too, if—”

“Okay, okay. Go get Tammy out of that burger joint and bring her over here, too. Alma might as well have a full crew to help her out here. And I’ll start baking right now.” She turned to Gran, who had just come in from the living room to see what all the fuss was about. “Gran, how about a pot of strong coffee? I figure four pots and about six dozen cookies should get us through the night.”

 

 

“I told you it was impossible. What do you think people shred stuff for? It works. You can’t read it once it’s been shredded.”

“Oh, shut up, Dirk, before I slap you with a frying pan.” Savannah pushed away from the table and ran her fingers through her hair. Since she had been doing that most of the night, her dark curls were practically standing on end. Along with her nerves.

“It’s not that bad,” Alma said, though her voice sounded as tired as Savannah felt. “It’s only four,” she added, looking at the cat clock, “and we’ve already got a few sections together.”

“Yeah,” said Tammy, who had actually broken one of her personal standards and consumed caffeine and sugar to stay awake, “but they don’t really say anything.”

“They say a lot,” Savannah said, bending over the few winning combinations they had found and cellophane-taped to a large piece of cardboard. “We just don’t know what it means yet.”

“Something about an expunged record,” Alma said.

“And we’ve decided that might be part of a coroner’s report with all the medical terms there.”

“This is promising,” Savannah said. “Really. It’s just a bitch to do.”

“Watch your language in there,” came a voice from the bedroom.

“Sorry, Gran. Are we keeping you awake?”

“Only when you cuss.”

Savannah sighed, stood, and stretched her knotted shoulder muscles. “More coffee, that’s what I need. And in a couple of hours, it’ll be officially breakfast time. We can switch from cookies to donuts.”

 

 

Six hours, two dozen donuts, and a full Gran breakfast later, the gang was still at it, although they had taken turns slipping away and catching a few winks on the living room sofa.

Every time someone suggested putting it away for a while and living life normally for a few hours, another section would come together and the accompanying adrenaline boost would keep them going.

And they were so absorbed that they didn’t know they had company until Deputy Tom Stafford knocked on the back door.

“Hey, y’all,” he said through the screen. “What are you up to there?”

They all jumped, and for half a second entertained the idea of sweeping the ill-gotten evidence under the table, but it was too late.

“Nothing much,” Savannah said, standing and hurrying over to the door. “How ’bout you?”

She looked down at Beauregard, who was coercing a pet from Tom by nudging his hand with his muzzle. So much for the vigilant watchdog routine. Savannah silently promised to withhold the mashed-potato leftovers from his supper dish.

Shifting first right, then left, she tried to block his line of vision. Behind her, she heard the flurry of shuffling papers and scooting chairs.

He stood on tiptoe and craned his neck to see over her shoulder. “Oh, just came out to shoot the breeze with you for a while. How about some coffee?”

“Sure!” She bombed out the door, moving faster than she thought she could after a night with no sleep. “Donut Heaven? The Burger Igloo? Anywhere you like! How sweet of you to buy me a cup of coffee, Tom.”

She grabbed his arm and hauled him off the porch. “Let’s take your car, okay?” she babbled on. “Gee, what a nice surprise. You’ve always been such a great guy with your . . .”

 

 

“When are you going to tell me what was on the kitchen table?” Tom asked her, once they had their coffee and were settled into a booth at Donut Heaven.

“When we get . . . uh . . . done with it,” she replied, locking eyes with him across the table.

“I see.”

“You do?”

“No, but I will, eventually.”

She smiled, thanking him for not pushing the issue. “You’ll be the first person we show it to.”

He stirred several tablespoons of sugar into his coffee and shook his head. “Why does that send a chill up my spine instead of warm the cockles of my heart?”

“Why did you come by the house, really?”

He looked around, but other than the clerk behind the glass cases filled with pastries, the shop was empty.

Pulling some papers from his pocket, he said, “I wanted to show you these. I mean . . . it’s not like I could show them to anybody else.”

“Anybody, like Sheriff Mahoney?”

“Yeah. Exactly like Mahoney.”

The first paper he showed her was a phone record. She didn’t recognize the number at the top.

“Alvin’s or Mack’s?” she said.

“That one’s Mack’s.” He gave her a second one. “This one’s Alvin’s.”

Her eye skimmed the columns. “Seems they’ve had quite a bit to say to each other.”

“Yeah. Considering that they didn’t call each other even once before the evening the judge died.”

“Tragedy’s a bonding thing,” she said with a grin.

“So’s collusion.”

Her mood rose several notches. Tom was coming around, and just in time.

“They’ve talked to each other several times a day,” she noted.

“Until Friday night.”

“When Alvin croaked.”

“Exactly.”

He pulled a third paper from his shirt pocket. “This is the judge’s record. The last call he made was to Mack. And if I’m to believe your brother’s version of what happened that night, the call would have been made right after the judge threw them out of his house.”

“So, after he killed the judge, Mack picked up the phone and punched in those nonsense numbers to throw y’all off if you checked the redial.”

“Yeah. It’s kind of insulting that he didn’t think we’d check the actual phone records.”

“Don’t take it personally. Even the smartest criminals don’t think of everything. That’s how we get ’em.”

Savannah curled her fingers around the coffee cup, enjoying its warmth and the small victory of the moment. They had an important ally. And he had crossed the line just when they needed him most.

“Then there’s these. . . .” He produced still more papers.

“Bank statements, too. You’ve been busy,” she said.

“The judge was killed last Monday night.” He leaned back in the booth and rubbed his fingers across his eyes as though he had a headache. “On Wednesday morning, Mack withdrew $35,000 from his accounts. On Thursday afternoon, Alvin deposited $28,000. I don’t know what he and Bonnie did with the other $7,000. Probably pissed it away. Friday night, Alvin’s dead.”

“So, was the money a payoff for a hit, or was Alvin blackmailing him?”

“I figured you could tell me. You guys seem to be about a million miles farther down that road than I am.”

“No, we’re not, Tom. Just a few steps. But they’re pretty big steps. Come back to the house with me, and we’ll get you up to speed.”