Cooked Goose (24 page)

Savannah glanced at Margie and saw the stud in her left nostril twitch with irritation. “Margie is more than welcome in my home, and so are you and the twins,” she added quickly. “The more the merrier, ho, ho, ho. Right?” She smiled weakly.

“I guess so.” Vidalia shoved one of her bags into Margie’s hands, and for a long, awful second, Savannah thought Margie might shove it back at her.

That was what she needed, a scene from a Jerry Springer show erupting right here on her front lawn.

“Let’s go inside and stir up a pitcher of lemonade,” Savannah offered. “Jillian was saying she wants grape juice, and maybe that would…. Oh, no, Vi.” She looked frantically around the deserted yard. “Where are those precious young’uns of yours?”

They found the dreadful duo in Savannah’s kitchen. Savannah stood, looking, but unable to believe her eyes. Jack was balanced precariously on her countertop, searching the cupboard.

“I want a hot dog,” he said. “Where are your buns, Aunt Savannah?”

Every burner on her stove was blazing. Savannah hurried to turn them off, but slipped on something slick and had to grab the edge of the counter to keep from falling. “What the…?”

“I turned the stove on all by myself,” Jack said proudly as he dragged a loaf of bread from the cupboard. “I want to make the hot dog hot.”

“Hot? Hot!” Savannah said, her temper soaring along with the heat on the top of her stove. She grabbed the boy, hauled him off the counter and set him on the floor.

Behind her, Savannah could hear Vidalia make a couple of whimpering noises that sounded like muffled protestations, but she ignored her. She also chose to disregard the giggling she heard coming from Margie’s general direction.

She dropped to one knee, eye level with her nephew. “So, big boy, you want a hot dog. Is that right?” she asked him.

He nodded.

“Well, next time, you ask for one and some grown-up person will turn on the stove and make it hot for you. Do you understand?”

Another nod.

“Because if you ever touch my stove knobs again, young man, I’ll turn you over my knee and when I get finished with you, your hind end will be hotter than a pepper sprout. Got it?”

“Got it, Aunt Savannah.” He nodded again vigorously, blond curls bobbing, but the mischievous twinkle in his eyes didn’t quite portray the picture of the vanquished spirit she had hoped for.

She turned her attention to her niece who was hanging, half in, half out of the open refrigerator. “And what are you doing there, young lady?”

“Making grape juice.”

“Making grape…?” Ah, the mystery of the slimy object—correction, objects—on the floor had been solved. Savannah watched, as though in slow motion, as her darling niece tossed yet another red grape onto the floor and stomped it with her shiny, black, patent leather shoe.

“See?” the girl announced. “Grape juice. And we don’t have to go to the store!”

Savannah turned to her younger sister. The cherubim were, after all, her offspring and theoretically her responsibility.

“See why I’m so tired all the time?” Vidalia said wearily. “If you don’t mind watching them for a few hours, I’m going to go take a nice, long nap.”

Savannah watched as her sister lumbered away into the living room and collapsed across the sofa. She did appear exhausted, but ...

Looking back at the twins and their bright, beaming countenances, Savannah remembered hearing once in Sunday school that evil spirits sometimes disguise themselves as angels of light.

Well, these two hellions weren’t demons. Just undisciplined, lovable kids who had been allowed to get away with murder for the past five years. It shouldn’t be that hard to get them under control, right?

She reached for the roll of paper towels on the counter and pulled off half a dozen. She handed several to Jillian and the rest to Jack. “Okay, you two,” she said. “On your hands and knees. You’re at Fort Reid now, and we’re gonna learn a little game called KP.”

“I don’t think I’m going to like this game,” Jillian said, sticking out her lower lip in an adorable pout.

“You don’t have to like it,” Savannah told her, ruffling her curls. “You just have to do it.”

* * *

Dirk walked into Savannah’s kitchen, sniffed the sugar cookie-scented air and walked over to the table where Savannah, Margie, the twins and a refreshed Vidalia were decorating the latest batch of goodies from the oven.

 
“Well, if this isn’t cozy,” he said, eyeing the platter brimming with delectables. “The picture of holiday family bliss.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” Savannah muttered. “Sit down and decorate with us.”

After being introduced to Vidalia and the children, and giving Margie a high five, he pulled out a chair and reached for the platter. “I’ll eat ’em, but I don’t want to decorate nothin’,” he said. “That decorating’s girl stuff.”

“It ain’t neither girl stuff,” Jack said, looking as indignant as he could, considering the green frosting smeared across one cheek and the chocolate sprinkles stuck to his chin. “I’m doin’ it, and I ain’t no girl! And my cookie ain’t no girl neither!”

He pointed to the cookie man in front of him who was sporting an icing penis of monumental proportions. Jack had recently reached the age where the anatomical differences between the genders were consuming most of his waking thoughts. A state of mind that would typically last for the next eighty-plus years of his male life.

Dirk chuckled. “You’re all boy, that’s for sure,” he told the child, tweaking some of the chocolate off his chin. “And so’s that cookie you’re working on. Hand me one of those and some frosting, and I’ll see what I can do with it.”

“Nothing obscene,” Savannah whispered.

“But he—”

“He’s five years old. You know better. At least, you should.”

“Hel—heck. You take all the fun out of everything.” A few minutes later, Savannah leaned over his shoulder and studied his creation, a cookie man wearing a white beard and a red hat.

“Mm-m,” she said softly. “Anybody we know?”

“After the business with the rings, I’m beginning to wonder,” he replied.

“What’s that?” Margie said, glancing up from her reindeer, who had a silver stud in his red nose and several others in his ears.

“Nothing,” Savannah told her, “just shop talk.”

“Speaking of shop talk,” Dirk said as he began to chew the legs off his Santa. “Do you mind if we take a walk around the block? I don’t want to bore these guys with the details, but I had something I wanted to run by you.”

Savannah doubted that any “details” would be boring. Quite the contrary. She appreciated Dirk’s discretion; he could be sensitive when he had a mind to be.

“Let’s go,” she said, grabbing a couple of bells and a star for herself. “Will you be okay, Vi, if I’m gone for a few minutes?”

Vidalia instantly deflated. “Well, I was hoping you’d watch the kids while I take another nap, but I guess I don’t have to. It’s just that my back hurts so bad and….”

Savannah glanced at Margie, whose eyes widened with horror at the very thought. And Savannah couldn’t really blame her.

“I’m only going to be gone ten minutes, Vi,” Savannah said in her most authoritative, but gentle, big sister voice. “I’m sure you can stay awake and watch your young’uns that long. When I get back, I’ll give them baths and put them to bed.”

“Oh, all right. I guess.”

As Savannah walked out the front door with Dirk she could almost hear the crackling of the flames around the stake where Saint Vidalia suffered. And her final words rang in her ears, “I just can’t get any help with my children. Not from my sister. Not from that sorry excuse of a husband of mine. Not from….

Savannah and Dirk hit the sidewalk and turned north, taking their time as they strolled through the quaint neighborhood of tiny Spanish-style bungalows, palm trees and bougainvillea-covered fences. The smells of evening meals and the sounds of television, conversations and music drifted from her neighbors’ houses and filled the cool, moist air.

Christmas decorations glistened on most houses. Some had only a simple strand of lights, hurriedly tacked to eaves. Other yards looked like miniature Las Vegas casinos with animated Santa’s, elves, reindeer and angels, flashing Nativity scenes, and myriad lights twinkling in every tree and bush.

Dirk walked along, his face solemn and thoughtful, his hands shoved deep into his jeans pockets. Savannah slipped her arm through his, enjoying the peaceful, easy moment. One of the nicest things about Dirk was that he was as comfortable as an old slipper and required so little effort.

It was one of the few times this holiday season that Savannah had taken a moment to feel the Christmas spirit. But a sideways glance at Dirk told her that he wasn’t sharing the moment with her. His mind was elsewhere. She didn’t have to think hard or long to figure out where.

“What did you want to talk to me about?” she asked. “Is there anything new on the case?”

“Well, maybe. I just found out this evening, Edward Stipp was released from San Quentin a couple of months ago.”

“He got paroled? What are those stupid boards thinking, letting a cop killer—”

“He wasn’t paroled; he’d served his time. They had to let him out.”

“I don’t remember hearing about this.”

“And that ain’t just because you’re gettin’ senile. They kept it quiet. They let him out and shipped him down to San Diego. Unfortunately, he didn’t stay there.”

Savannah stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and stared at him. “Don’t tell me—”

Dirk gave her a tired, grim smile. “We’ve got us a new neighbor. He’s living in one of those rundown shacks on the east end.”

“By the oil fields?”

“He’s been holed up there for the past six weeks. Prison officials knew he was here, knew we were missing cops, but do you think anybody bothered to drop a dime?”

“Those bloomin’ idiots!”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“How did you find out he’s here?”

“Brenda Lally’s working traffic out on the east end now. He left his piece of crap car parked right in the middle of the street while he ran into a liquor store for smokes and booze late this morning. She wrote him up, he threw a fit, and she recognized him. Of course, he’s twenty-some years older now, but he’s ugly as ever.”

“You’ve seen him?”

“Of course. She called me this afternoon and I was out there ten minutes later.”

Impatient, she nudged his ribs. “And?”

“He wouldn’t talk to me.”

“So, you…?”

“Hauled his ugly butt down to the station, hassled him for a couple of hours. Nothin’.”

“The thumbscrews wouldn’t work?”

“Nope, the bamboo skewers either.”

“Maybe you weren’t shoving them in the right orifice.”

They continued their walk, but the joy of the season was lost on Savannah, due to the bad taste in her mouth and the filthy, creeping sensation she felt when she thought of an animal like Edward Stipp, who never should have seen the light of day after killing a young cop, execution-style in a broccoli field.

“Is he still spouting hatred for anybody with a badge?” Savannah asked.

“He offered to shove mine up my ass for me.”

Savannah did an instant replay on the dead cops and caught her breath. “I suppose that’s a commonly expressed sentiment. Probably doesn’t mean anything.”

“Probably not.”

They rounded the corner and headed back to Savannah’s house. She noticed how boring her home was, compared to her festive neighbors’ places. She decided she should at least string a few bulbs on Bogey and Ilsa, the bougainvilleas. For the kids’ sake, if not for hers.

“So, the ‘interview’ wasn’t particularly fruitful, huh? Did you get a search warrant for his dump?” she asked.

“Nope. Judge Burrell said I didn’t have nothin’. Wouldn’t give me one.”

“You want me to check it out? Us P.I.s aren’t that picky about the paperwork.”

He laughed. “Naw, you’re gettin’ quite a rap sheet full of suspected B&E’s, thanks to me. Liberal-hearted Burrell might actually send you away next time.”

“Where does Stipp hang out these days?” she asked as a plan formed in her head.

“Mostly at the Shoreline Club, late at night. Why?”

She shrugged. “Just thinking that I haven’t breathed my quota of stale smoke and beer fumes this month. I’ve got a black leather skirt and some fishnet hose that are getting dusty in a bottom dresser drawer.”

He gave her an amused, grateful look. “You’re a pisser, Van, you know that? You’d wear leather and fishnets for me?”

“I’d do anything for you, big boy,” she said, giving him a quick peck on the cheek.

“Anything?”

She gouged him with her elbow. “Get real.”

He sighed. “That’s what I thought. You’re just messin’ with me again.”

* * *

As Savannah and Dirk sauntered up the sidewalk to her front door, Savannah savored her last few seconds of peace and quiet, while one part of her brain tried to recall if she had any Winnie the Pooh bubble bath stashed beneath her bathroom sink.