Bitter Sweets (11 page)

“Of course I do. But then, I don't have any problem remembering things that happened forty years ago, just yesterday.”

“Gran, it wasn't forty years ago, for heaven's sake.”

Her grandmother laughed and tweaked her nose. “Of course not. It was only yesterday, right?”

“It seems like it.” Savannah closed her eyes and snuggled deeper into the sheets, savoring the memory. “You told me that, because I was turning thirteen, I was a young lady.”

“That's right. And we went shopping together, because I told you that a lady must always have two things—”

“Beautiful lingerie and her own special perfume.”

“It's true. You never know when you're going to be in a car wreck. . . . or something much nicer. . . . and you'll need to be looking your best, all the way down to your skin.”

To emphasize her point, Gran demurely lifted the hem of her caftan and revealed the exquisite bit of lace that edged her slip. “Besides, even if no one else ever sees what a person is wearing beneath her clothes, a lady knows, and it has a lot to do with how she feels about herself as a woman.”

“Thank you, Gran. . . . for the tea, for coming to see me. . . . for teaching me about the good things in life.”

“You were a delightful and eager student, Savannah. I learned a lot from you in the process.” Gran's eyes searched hers. “How are you, really, child? How is your life here in California?”

Savannah thought for a moment, deciding whether to give a pat answer or an honest one. With Granny Reid, there was only one choice. No matter what she said, her grandmother could always sense the truth.

“Most of the time, I love my life. I have good friends, a comfortable home, work that is fulfilling and worthwhile. But. . . .”

“There's always a ‘but.' That's the bitter and sweet of it.”

“It's just that right now, things are tough. I've had cases that disturbed me, angered me, frustrated me. But this one has to be the worst so far.”

“Even worse than when you lost your job?”

“Yes, much worse. There's much more at stake here. A woman's life has been lost. And a beautiful little girl—”

Savannah couldn't hold it in any longer. The emotions turned to hot liquid and spilled down her face. Her grandmother handed her a box of tissues from the nightstand.

“I'm sorry,” Savannah said between sniffles. “I don't want to ruin your visit by crying on your shoulder like this. It's just that so much has happened, and. . . .”

She hiccuped and sobbed harder. Gran climbed into bed beside her and gathered her in her arms as though she were still ten years old.

“And you know how I am just before my period,” Savannah continued, unable to stop the torrent. “Sometimes I cry over the darnedest things. . . . the national anthem. . . . an inspiring margarine commercial on TV. I mean, that crown appears on the kid's head and I . . . . I just lose it.”

“There, there. . . .” Granny Reid stroked her granddaughter's hair and kissed her forehead. “This time I think it's a lot more than a margarine commercial.”

“Of course it is. Oh, Gran, you should have seen what that son of a bitch did to her. And now he has Christy, and I have to find him. I have to undo what I've done.”

“Shhh-hhh, sweetheart. My dear, brave girl. You
will
find him. You'll do everything you need to do to set things right. Because that's the kind of person you've always been.”

Savannah could feel the words sinking into her heart like a healing balm. She snuggled closer into her grandmother's arms, allowing herself the rare and wonderful luxury of absorbing the other woman's strength.

“But the day is over and done,” Gran continued. “And you can't do a single thing tonight, except sleep, and gather strength for tomorrow.”

Gran wiped the tears from Savannah's cheeks with her fingertips, and Savannah wondered at how soft human skin was, at both the beginning and the end of life.

Granny Reid began to sing quietly. Her voice wasn't as strong as it had once been, and it quivered with an old lady's vibrato. But to Savannah, her grandmother's singing was, and always would be, a gift of love.

Savannah could feel herself drifting off into a sweet sleep. “Gran. . . .” she whispered, “why did you really come to California? Did you know I needed you?”

“Shush. Of course not. I told you, I want to go to Disneyland.”

“I
heard that yesterday was pretty awful for you, Savannah. I'd like to make it up to you with a champagne breakfast.”

Ryan Stone's deep bass voice was like velvet caressing her skin first thing in the morning. She wasn't even out of bed yet. All the better to lie here in her silk nightgown and imagine, just for a moment, that the big, gorgeous hunk was lying beside her, not just on the other end of the telephone.

“I'd love to, Ryan, believe me. I'm half-starved. But I have work to do.” She glanced at the clock and groaned. Eight-thirty.

“You don't have to feel lazy; this will be work. I've uncovered some very interesting facts for you. I can fill you in over strawberry cheese blintzes. How about it?”

“My grandmother is visiting me and. . . .”

“I know. How do you think I found out about your terrible day?”

Savannah sighed. “If I want something broadcast, I don't need to telegraph or telephone. Tell-a-Gran is much more efficient. When did she bore you with all the gory details?”

“When I called last night. But she didn't bore me at all. She kept me entertained for half an hour. What a colorful turn of phrase. . . . reminds me of a certain, charming relative of hers. Why don't you bring her along for breakfast, and I'll invite Gibson.”

Warning bells went off in Savannah's brain. “Ahhh. . . . I'm not sure that's such a good idea.”

“Why not? She and Gibson will get along famously.”

“Exactly. John Gibson is a very attractive older man, and Granny can be a bit of a vixen. She might even hit on him.”

“It's just as well. Then Gibson will understand the torment I've had to endure for his sake, resisting the allure of a beautiful, deliciously available Reid female.”

Savannah dared to hope. . . . but only for a couple of accelerated heartbeats. Then she came back to earth with a thud. “Why. . . . Mr. Ryan Stone, I do believe you're toyin' with my affections.”

“But you know that I love you, Savannah, and I do want to buy you breakfast. Fredrico's. Half an hour.”

“We'll be there.”

Savannah hung up the phone, sprang out of bed, and ran to her bedroom door.

“Rise and shine, Gran!” she called down the hallway. “We've got a double date for breakfast. . . . kinda sorta.”

Polished teak furnishings, classy maritime decor, a magnificent view of the harbor, and the best cheese blintzes in town. Ah. . . . Fredrico's was one of Savannah's favorite bits of real estate on earth.

As Ryan had predicted, John Gibson and Gran appeared to be extremely impressed with one another. Toasting with mimosa and nibbling each other's San Francisco Benedict and crêpes Suzette, they seemed a likely twosome. Except that Gran was probably twenty-five years his senior and, of course, John Gibson was already committed, life and heart, to Ryan.

And who wouldn't be? Savannah thought as she tried to ignore his thick dark hair, his green eyes with their long black lashes, and the strong jaw that would have been a perfect model for an electric shaver commercial.

“What is this?” she asked, when he passed her a manila envelope.

“Good stuff. But I can't take complete credit. Gibson came up with the information on Earl Mallock's court-martial.”

“Court-martial? You're kidding.”

“Not at all. Take a look.”

Savannah thumbed through the documents, which had apparently been faxed to Ryan from numerous government agencies during the past twenty-four hours.

“Earl Mallock was in the army. Dirk and I found evidence of that in his storage locker,” she said, staring down at his service photo. Young, dark hair cut short, looking heavier than when she had last seen him, Mallock was standing in front of an American flag, wearing a staff sergeant's uniform and a military police armband.

“That's a grim grimace,” she remarked.

“I think it's standard military issue.”

Her eyes scanned the first paper. “He served in Vietnam . . . . we knew that, too. He received a medical discharge.”

“Hospitalized. That was how he and Lisa Neilson met. She was a nurse on staff at the VA Hospital; Earl was a patient.”

“Physical injuries?”

“Psychological.”

Savannah glanced over at Gran, aware that a certain amount of discretion might be in order. But Gibson was keeping her occupied with some yarn about having served as a guard at Buckingham Palace. Or, at least, she assumed it was a yarn. With Gibson, one could never tell. He seemed to have lived at least a dozen lives already this time around.

Locating the documents concerning the court-martial, Savannah read, “Charged with. . . . using excessive force while performing his duties. . . . assigned to guard duty. . . . prisoners of war . . . . accused of. . . .” Savannah dropped the paper and stared at Ryan.

He nodded. “That's right. He bound some of his prisoners' wrists and ankles with piano wire, then tortured them by twisting it tighter and tighter.”

Crime scene photos that her eyes and brain had already processed flashed through Savannah's mind. Suddenly, she had no appetite, not even for Fredrico's cuisine.

“Dear God,” she whispered. “He's done it before.”

“And he got away with it.”

“How? The military tribunal didn't believe he did it?”

“Oh, they know he did it. He never denied that fact. They found him ‘not guilty' by reason of temporary insanity. It seems he snapped under the accumulated stress and strain of combat.”

“So, his atrocities were ‘justified'?”

“Supposedly, or at least understandable. In their opinion, that is.”

Savannah felt the old rage growing, the fury that those who had committed horrible crimes against their fellow human beings were set free to do it again and again. It was an old story, and she was sick to death of hearing the same, tired ending.

“How do you suppose he got away with it?” she mused.

Ryan reached across the table and handed her another document that was several pages thick. “Here is a segment of the trial transcript. The testimony of Earl Mallock's commanding officer. It's quite a moving account, a powerful argument on behalf of the accused. Besides, Mallock's advocate was a Congressional Medal of Honor recipient. I'd say it had a lot to do with Mallock's acquittal.”

“What kind of man would defend someone who had done something like that?”

“Someone with a code of honor that might be different from yours or mine. Someone who felt it was his duty to stand beside his men. . . . no matter what they had done.” Ryan lifted his glass, watched the tiny bubbles racing up the sides of the flute in iridescent threads, then took a sip. “That someone was a Captain Forrest Neilson.”

 

Savannah sat at her dining room table. Gran to her right, Dirk to her left, and Tammy at the other end, typing furiously into her laptop computer.

“I already knew about Mallock serving in 'Nam,” Dirk said, pouting as he wolfed down a plateful of tuna sandwiches which Savannah had thrown together for him.

“But you didn't know about the court-martial, or the fact that Mallock had served under Neilson.” Savannah never passed over an opportunity to humble Dirk. It was a rotten job, but she felt she was the only one who loved him enough to do it.

“So, no big deal.” He chomped off a quarter of a sandwich and chewed noisily. “Any moron could have come up with that.”

“You
didn't.” Tammy gave him a nasty look over the rim of her glassful of mineral water.

“You know, Dirk, I think you're jealous.” Savannah refreshed her grandmother's root beer float with another generous scoop of Dreyer's vanilla and then her own.

“You must admit,” Gran said, stirring the ice cream until it made caramel-colored swirls in the amber liquid, “those two are extremely handsome and charming fellows. And smart, too. That John Gibson used to guard the palace of the queen of England, you know. I feel so honored just to have met him.”

“I suppose they aren't too bad,” Dirk said sarcastically, “if you don't mind the fact that they are a couple of quee—”

“Gays,” Savannah interjected, giving Dirk a sound smack on the side of the head. “And very dear friends of mine, so watch your mouth.”

She jerked the plate of sandwiches out from under his nose. Leaning down to his ear, she lowered her voice and said, “Try not to make an ass of yourself, Coulter, if you can help it.”

“Gays?” Granny suddenly became all ears. “Are you telling me that John and Ryan are homosexuals?”

Savannah sighed and returned to her chair and her ice cream float. “Yes, Gran, they are. . . . among many other things. . . . qualities too numerous to mention. Now could we please—?”

“Well, I'll be.” Granny shook her head in amazement. “Who would have guessed it? They didn't
look
like homosexuals. I mean, they were so masculine and all.”

Savannah shot Dirk a look that told him how she felt about him having started all of this.

“Ah. . . . Gran. . . .” Savannah paused, choosing her words carefully, reminding herself that people could only be held accountable for the amount of enlightenment they had been given. Her grandmother's upbringing and social discipline hadn't exactly been progressive. Dirk, on the other hand, had no excuse.

“Gran. . . . not all gay men act effeminate. In fact, none that I've ever known. Just as not all elderly ladies are sticks in the mud, who sit around and knit all day.” She turned to Dirk. “And, thankfully, not all cops are homophobic jerks.”

Granny didn't seem to be offended by Savannah's observations, only fascinated, as she mulled over this new revelation.

“Could we get back to business now?” Savannah said, looking at Tammy, who nodded in agreement, and then at Dirk, who was still sulking.

“What's next?” Tammy asked, helping herself to one of Dirk's sandwiches.

“I think Ryan and I should go visit the colonel. At the station last night, he seemed far more likely to cooperate than before. And judging from what we know about his long-standing relationship with Earl, he might be able to point us in the right direction.”

“I'm going along,” Dirk said with an indignant sniff. “After all, I'm the only one around here who's got a badge.”

“Oooo, low blow.” Savannah winced.

“At least I didn't whack you on the head. That's the twenty-seventh time you've hit me. I know, I've been counting.”

“Only twenty-seven times in how many years?” Tammy asked. “That must be some sort of record for patience and fore-bearing, Savannah.”

“Tammy, call the colonel and tell him we want to drop over,” she said. “Ask him to feed Beowulf a big meal and put him on a sturdy leash. Then let Ryan know what's happening. Let's get going; time's a wastin'.”

Savannah gulped down the last of her float and grimaced as it froze her sinuses. “I'll see you later, Gran, just as soon as I can. You stay out of trouble now, hear?”

 

When Savannah, Ryan, and Dirk arrived at the colonel's home an hour later, Beowulf wasn't on a leash, but apparently he had been fed recently. He was lying peacefully on a rag rug beside the fireplace, asleep, his great muzzle tucked beneath his paws. He had opened one eye as they entered the room, dismissed them, and resumed his nap.

“Do you want some coffee?” the colonel asked, once he had them seated around the living room.

“I wouldn't want to put you out,” Savannah said. Judging from the black bags under his eyes and the sallow cast to his complexion, she thought he would be better off lying in a hospital bed, rather than serving guests.

“It's already made.” He left the room slowly, his arthritic shuffle far more pronounced than she remembered. Colonel Forrest Neilson seemed to have aged ten years in the past twelve hours.

While they waited for his return, the threesome took the opportunity to scrutinize the contents of the room. On a small, round table against the far wall was an ornately carved, ebony inlaid box, which was propped at a forty-five-degree angle to better display its contents.

Leaving her seat, Savannah studied the object through the glass top. “It's his Congressional Medal of Honor,” she told them, keeping her voice low. “Wonder what he did to get that?”

“Sacrificed a bit of his soul, I'd say,” was Ryan's quiet reply.

She continued to walk around the room, taking in the other interesting aspects. The most distinctive features were the clocks, dozens of exquisite antique clocks hanging on walls, cluttering every horizontal surface. Three towering grandfather clocks, glass-domed anniversary clocks, Bavarian cuckoo clocks, mantel clocks, music box clocks. All were running and all were set at the precise time.