Buried In Buttercream (15 page)

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Authors: G. A. McKevett

BOOK: Buried In Buttercream
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She shrugged. “Hell, I don't even own a gun.”
Savannah and Dirk exchanged glances.
“Shoot her in the back in a dark alley. Hmm,” Savannah said. “How do you feel about well-lit bridal suite terraces?”
“What?” Francie looked genuinely confused, but Savannah wasn't sure.
“And how about ice picks?” Dirk asked. “Where do you stand on those?”
“I don't know what you're talking about. Yeah, I have an ice pick. But I hardly ever use it. Once in a while I do, when I have girlfriends over for margaritas. I have to break up the ice that comes in those plastic bags that you get at the liquor store. Why?”
Dirk stood there, looking at her, studying her face closely for a long time. Then he said, “Do you know why we're here, Ms. Di Napoli?”
“I figure it's because she called you and complained about me calling her, telling her I'd hurt her if she didn't leave my man alone.” She reached back and nervously twisted her long hair into the facsimile of a ponytail. “You're here to tell me not to have any contact with her, or I'll get in trouble. Right?”
“No,” Savannah said. “We didn't drive all the way out to a dive like Willy's—vacation hotspot that it is—just to soak in the atmosphere and referee a fight between an ex-wife and the ‘other woman.'”
“Then why did you come?” Francie had been sprawled on the sofa, but she snapped to attention ... even moved to the edge of the cushion. “What's up? Nothing's wrong with Arlo, right?”
“To the best of our knowledge, Arlo's okay,” Dirk told her. “Madeline Aberson isn't.”
“What's wrong with her ... besides being a witch on wheels, that is?”
“If she's a witch, she's a dead one,” Savannah said.
Francie gasped and clapped her hand over her mouth. Her eyes nearly bugged out of her head, reminding Savannah of a cartoon critter. “Are you kidding me?” she finally squeaked out.
“I wouldn't kid about a thing like murder,” Savannah replied.
“Murder? Murder? Are you telling me that somebody actually killed that stupid bitch ... someone besides me, that is?”
“Actually, that's what we're trying to figure out right now,” Dirk said.
She jumped up from the sofa so fast that she nearly lost her apron. “Hey, wait a damned minute here. I didn't kill anybody! Not even
her
!”
“Sounds like you had a better reason than most,” Dirk returned. “And you just admitted that you threatened to.”
“Threatening to and doing it are two
way
different things! I'll admit that if I was gonna kill somebody, it would've been her, but it wasn't me!”
“Then do you have any idea who it might have been?” Savannah asked. “Give us somebody else to look at, and we might not look at you so hard.”
“Yeah,” Dirk added, “at the moment you're number one on our suspect list.”
Francie appeared to be thinking hard, her forehead scrunched up, her eyes narrowed. Finally, she shrugged and said, “I don't know, but if I had to guess, I'd say her husband. He was even madder than I was when he found out what her and Arlo had been up to.”
“It wasn't her husband,” Dirk said.
“Then it must be Arlo.” Francie nodded vigorously and looked momentarily relieved. “Yeah, he probably had it done. He knows a lot of people who'd do it for a six-pack of beer. And before he went to jail, she was driving him crazy with all the phone calls, trying to get back together with him. Arlo's got a temper on him. If she rubbed him the wrong way one too many times ... Pow! He'd either do it or have it done.”
“Pow?” Savannah raised one eyebrow. “Does Arlo have a habit of going ... pow?”
“Oh, yeah. He beat the crap out of me at least once a week.”
Savannah looked at the woman and shook her head. “He beat you once a week, fooled around on you, and you think he's capable of murdering another woman ... but you want him back as soon as he gets out of jail?”
Francie got a sappy look on her face that made Savannah want to go ... pow ... herself, to try and knock some sense into her.
“You don't know what he's like when he's in a good mood and everything's going right. He can be so sweet, too.”
“Uh-huh.”
“No, he can! And he's sooo good in bed, too. Way better than even Willy is.”
Suddenly, Savannah's ankles started to itch. And then her shins, and on up to her knees. The sensation wormed its way up her body, until she had a sneaking suspicion she was going to have to refill that cream prescription again.
An old proverb about “going to bed with dogs and getting up with fleas” ran through her mind.
Fortunately, Dirk was fishing a business card out of his pocket and handing it to Francie.
“If you think of anything that might help us, please give me a call at that number,” he said.
She shot him a flirty grin as she tucked the card safely between her generous breasts.
“Maybe I'll give you a call whether I can think of anything helpful or not,” she breathed up at him, batting her spidery eyelashes.
“No,” he said. “Don't do that. Business calls only.”
She giggled. “Sure. Whatever you say.”
 
“You know she's gonna call you,” Savannah told him as they walked out of Willy's and across the parking lot to his car. “And it's gonna be a booty call, for sure.”
“I know,” he said with a sigh.
They reached the Buick, and he opened the door for her. “Maybe she'll lose the card.”
“Naw. That's just wishful thinking. She's got it tucked nice and safe, right next to her heart. Sooo sweet.”
He snorted. “Hell, she could shove a typewriter in there and not be able to find it later.”
Chapter 13
W
hen Savannah and Dirk dropped by her house an hour later to refuel on whatever the invading hoards might have left unmolested in her refrigerator, they apparently didn't make enough noise coming through the front door. Because Savannah hadn't had time to put her purse on the foyer table before they overheard a lively conversation going on in the living room.
And it was all about them.
“I don't think they're even going to get married,” said a voice that sounded a lot like Marietta's to Savannah's trained ear. “That Savannah's gonna mess this up and wind up an old maid, you mark my words.”
Another voice—Savannah was pretty sure it was Cordele—replied, “If you'd ever picked up a psychology book instead of that crap you're always reading, you'd know that Savannah has major abandonment issues, brought on by an absentee father figure and an alcoholic mother.”
“Naw, she's just too set in her ways to ever be able to live with anybody. You wait and see. She's gonna die alone here in this house with nothing but her cats, like those old cat ladies you read about in the papers. They might even eat 'er dead body if she's not careful.”
“That ain't gonna happen!” someone shouted from the kitchen. “You gossiping hens stop your cackling in there and mind what you say about my big sister! I won't abide anybody talking dirt about her!”
“We're your big sisters, too,” was the yelled reply. “You get your bloomers all up your crack over somethin' that's said about your precious Savannah. But you don't care what people say about
us
! I've never heard you utter one single solitary cotton-pickin' word in
our
defense!”
“That's because the two of you have mostly done whatever you're being accused of ... usually worse. Savannah's never done a mean thing to anybody in her life!”
Dirk grinned at Savannah and nudged her with his elbow. “Is that Alma defending your case in there?”
“Yeah. She loves me.”
“And obviously doesn't know you.”
She elbowed him back.
As they walked into the living room, which was littered with her sunburned relatives and Disneyland memorabilia galore, she heard another voice join the argument, one without the thick-as-molasses Southern accent. “I agree with Alma. Savannah is a wonderful person, and I think she and Dirk are very brave to keep trying like this. If at first you don't succeed, try, try again.”
Marietta gave a derisive sniff. “If you don't succeed, try, try again. And if you still can't pull it off, just give up. There's no point in being a damned fool about it. That's what I always say.”
“I suppose you read that bit of wisdom on a fortune cookie at the Chinese joint back home, huh?” Macon said.
As usual, Marietta and Macon were parked in front of the television set. Marietta was wearing a Tigger and Pooh tee-shirt that was a couple of sizes too small. Tigger had never looked more obscene.
Macon had a pair of Mickey Mouse ears on his head, which looked a bit odd on a man of his considerable height and girth. But Savannah reminded herself that Mickey wouldn't mind. He loved all his fans, whatever their size.
Vidalia was stretched out on the sofa, one leg thrown up on the back of it. On her feet was a pair of bright green ballet slippers with large, fluffy pom-poms on the toes. Savannah wondered if she'd actually had to mug Tinkerbell to get those off the pixie's feet.
This time Vidalia's literature selection was a movie world tell-all. According to the cover, the number-one male box office draw had sired a child with a female alien.
Jesup was reading, too. Hers was a Goth magazine that promised to reveal the best-kept makeup secrets from classic horror movies. She was wearing a black hoodie with a pirate logo, enhanced with a skull and crossbones ... of course.
Savannah sighed.
They were a most literate and well-dressed family.
“All right, stop talking about me,” Savannah said. “My ears are already burning like somebody poured Tabasco sauce in them.”
Instantly, everyone became fascinated by their reading materials and the television show. A heavy, awkward silence reigned.
Savannah was thankful for the peace and quiet, even if it was guilt induced.
In the corner of the room at the rolltop desk, which constituted the office of the Moonlight Magnolia Detective Agency, sat Tammy. She was the only one not wearing an embarrassed look on her face ... or fantasy-resort wear.
But she did look guilty.
To Savannah's deep sorrow, Tammy always looked guilt-ridden these days.
If Savannah had the choice, she would have kept her scars forever if she could only remove that look from her dear friend's face. In some ways, Tammy's wounds seemed to be more grievous than her own.
She walked over to the desk, tripping over some half-deflated balloons, a fairy wand, and a pirate's sword on the way. She leaned down and kissed the top of her friend's glossy, blond hair. “Hey, darlin',” she said. “Good to see you with your nose back to the grindstone.”
Tammy gave her a half smile. “I just thought I should come in and pay some bills. I know you feel strongly about having electricity and water.”
“It comes in handy from time to time.” She lowered her voice. “Especially when you've been invaded by Sherman's army. Can you imagine these troops without television?”
Dirk joined them and gave Tammy the closest thing to a physical display of affection that they ever exchanged. He put a hand on her shoulder and shook her like a bulldog would maul its favorite toy.
“We haven't seen enough of your mug around here,” he told her. “And we've got a case to work now, too.”
“Yeah,” Savannah said. “Are you trying to avoid work or what?”
Tammy looked up, her eyes gleaming with rabid interest.
And seeing that light brought sunshine to Savannah's heart, too. Tammy was the most devout detective Savannah had ever known. She absolutely lived to “sleuth,” as she called it.
“No!” Tammy said, jumping to her feet. “I mean ... I'm not trying to avoid work. Is there something I can do to help you? I've got the bills paid and there's nothing else going on so—”
Savannah took her arm and pulled her toward the kitchen. “You can start by helping me scare us up some bologna sandwiches and potato chips. Then you can go out back and have a late lunch with us while we fill you in on the gory details.”
Tammy hesitated. “Um ... I've already eaten, and ... uh ... bologna, I couldn't... .”
“Oh, I know. We'll make you a refreshing drink. Organic water with a sprig of hydroponically grown celery.”
“Hydroponic celery? Really?” Her eyes were so wide and filled with innocence.
It made Savannah want to lift the top of that pretty head and pour in a healthy dose of cynicism mixed with pessimism and a portion of old-fashioned meanness. It was a cocktail that every woman needed to avoid predators and to enhance self-preservation in general.
But those were gifts that Life itself bestowed on her daughters, and even though Tammy had recently experienced a pretty hard knock, it seemed she had more to learn.
“You're kidding me about the celery, right?” she said.
“Well, yeah. Duh.”
Okay, maybe there's hope for her after all,
Savannah thought.
Trusting one's natural instincts had to start somewhere.
 
Half an hour later, Savannah and Dirk were sitting on Savannah's chaise lounges with their extra-thick cushions, stuffing their faces with peanut butter and peach preserve sandwiches.
The bologna had been previously devoured by her houseguests, along with the grape jelly and strawberry jam.
The hoped-for potato chips were history, as well. The only thing left in the way of munchies was some nacho cheese chip dust.
It didn't go particularly well with peanut butter and peach preserves.
“Next time we eat at my place,” Dirk said, licking his finger and trying to mop up the last bit of crumbs from the bottom of the bag. “At least until all your company goes home. You haven't had anything good around here to eat since they arrived.”
“Eat at your house? Really?” Savannah was surprised. It was so unlike Dirk to offer to cook. “You're gonna cook for me? Maybe breakfast for dinner ... some of those amazing mandarin orange pancakes, you made for me that time?”
“Get real. I was gonna order a pizza. Wednesday nights you get two for the price of one, if you don't order any toppings.”
Savannah stared at him. “Oh, of course not. I mean ... who'd want those pesky toppings?”
“Exactly.” He licked the orange chip powder off the end of his finger. “I just get a couple of regular cheese pies and throw some sliced lunch meat on it. Whatever I've got in the fridge ... ham ... turkey ... liverwurst.”
“Liverwurst?” Tammy nearly gagged on her organic water.
“Yeah.” He gave her a blank look. Then he turned to Savannah, who was also staring at him in horror. He shrugged. “What?”
Tammy turned to Savannah. “I've got to ask: Are you seriously going to marry this guy?”
“That's the plan ... eventually,” Savannah said with a sigh. “It's been a little hard to fit it in, between the mournful notifications and the trips to flea-infested strip clubs.”
“Fleas?” Tammy asked.
Savannah reached down and scratched her ankle. “For my own peace of mind, that's what I've decided it was. It's better than the alternatives.”
“Yuck.”
“Yes. Very.”
“Hey,” Dirk said, nodding toward the back door. “Get a load of them.”
Savannah turned and saw Waycross coming out the back door, Jack and Jillian in tow. He was wearing a new, bright red Space Mountain tee-shirt. Jack was dressed in a pirate hat with an eye patch and a plastic hook over his hand. Jillian was in a long, pink Sleeping Beauty dress.
Waycross was carrying Savannah's mop bucket, a couple of washcloths, a bottle of car wash detergent, and a couple of her oldest towels.
“We're going to wash your 'Stang for you, Auntie!” Jack called across the yard as they headed for Savannah's Mustang, which was sitting in her driveway next to the garage.
“Yeah,” Jillian piped up. “Uncle Waycross is going to pay us five dollars each if we help him.”
“Well, that's mighty generous of Uncle Waycross, now, ain't it?” Savannah said, smiling at this obvious ploy.
Not that Waycross wasn't a sweetie who would have gladly washed her car for her anyway. He was a hardworking guy, and he loved the Mustang obsessively. But Savannah felt this strategic move had more to do with his attraction to a pretty blonde than a red, vintage Mustang.
“I don't think I've ever seen a princess or a pirate wash a car before,” Tammy said, keeping an eye on Waycross as he unwound the garden hose from its hook on the side of the house and pulled it toward the car.
“First you gotta get it all nice and wet,” he was telling the children. “Who wants to squirt it first?”
“I do! I do!” Both kids screamed, dancing in place, their hands in the air.
“Ladies first,” he said, handing the nozzle to Princess Jillian.
She gave the trigger a test squeeze, and a moment later, the front of Waycross's shirt was soaking wet.
“Whoa, Bessie!” Waycross yelled. “You ain't nearly as accurate with a pistol as your Aunt Savannah. Hand that weapon to your brother before you put out an eye with it.”
Jack wasn't much better, especially considering the challenge of a hooked hand. But at least he aimed the jet of water in the general vicinity of the car.
“Not too bad,” Dirk commented, “for a one-handed guy wearing an eye patch.”
Savannah couldn't help noticing that Waycross kept cutting glances their way—more specifically,
Tammy's
way—as he instructed the children on the proper way to scrub the rear chrome bumper.
And to Savannah's surprise and delight, she noticed that Tammy was sending just as many looks his way.
“He's really good with those kids,” Tammy said, watching him squat by one wheel and show Jack how to scrub the whitewall.
“Waycross is a treasure,” Savannah replied. “Always has been one of the best in the batch.”
“He's tall, too,” Tammy observed.
“Six-three, last time we measured.” Savannah caught Dirk's eye and gave him a wink. But he had already tuned in to the situation and was wearing a little grin of his own.

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