Killer Gourmet

Books by G.A. McKevett

 

 

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

G.A. M
C
K
EVETT

Killer GOURMET

A SAVANNAH REID MYSTERY

KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

For Gwen and Jim

 

Amazing as individuals,
together you are synergy extraordinaire!

 

May you always be able to look
into each other's eyes and say,

 

Tá isteach Mo Chroi istigh ionat.
(My heart is in you.)

I want to thank Leslie Connell for her support and assistance, which she lovingly supplies, year after year. What would I do without you, dear Leslie?

 

I also wish to thank all the fans who write to me, sharing their thoughts and offering endless encouragement. Your stories touch my heart, and I enjoy your letters more than you know. I can be reached at:

“I
want you to know, boy . . . it's about all I can do to gag down this fine supper you bought me.”

Savannah Reid stared at the chili cheese dog in her hand, thought of the divine meal she was missing elsewhere, and momentarily wondered why she had married the guy sitting next to her on the bus bench.

The seat was liberally frosted with seagull poop, which added its own special charm to the dining ambiance. As did the X-rated language of the graffiti on the mud-streaked stucco wall next to them and the piles of rusty, mangled vehicles in the junkyard across the street.

He took her to all the best places.

She certainly hadn't married him for his “table” manners either, she decided as she gave him a sideways glance—just in time to see a blob of chili ooze from the end of his frankfurter and slide down the front of his orange-and-purple plaid thrift store shirt.

Nor for his fashion sense.

His mother had sent him the shirt as a Christmas present.

Not for his relatives either.

“Sorry, babe,” replied her beloved. Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter stuffed the other half of the hot dog into his face and talked around it. “I was looking forward to piggin' out on all that free gourmet crap, too. But a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.”

“Yeah, but a woman shouldn't have to do what a man's gotta do just because she's married to him.”

He wadded the soggy hot dog wrapper into a tight ball and, with his best NBA-wannabe shot, launched it toward a nearby open-topped trash can.

Michael Jordan himself couldn't have done better
, Savannah thought as she feigned keen, wifely interest. After all, she understood that this mini-display of manly prowess was for her benefit.

Dirk had always been a bit of a show-off. But she had noticed an uptick in these demonstrations since they'd said, “I do.” Apparently, Dirk thought it necessary to continually remind his bride that she had snagged herself a true hunk—a dude positively chockablock with testosterone.

The wrapper clipped the edge of the trash can, ricocheted, and landed on the sidewalk a few inches away.

Oh well
. She stifled a giggle.
Michael probably would've done a tad better
.

As Dirk got up, walked the three steps to the can, picked up his trash, and deposited it inside, she placed a couple of chalk marks on the positive side of her mental Husband Tally Board. The guy might be a slob at home, but when it came to public areas, he was no litterbug.

And he loved cats, dogs, children, and her. Unconditionally. So she cut him some slack in the table manners and fashion sense departments.

“I wonder what they're having,” she said, her mood sliding back down into the Culinary Valley of Despair.

He settled next to her on the bench and eyed the remains of her hot dog with poorly disguised greed spawned of unadulterated gluttony.

“Beef Wellington?” she wondered aloud. “Lobster thermidor? I'm pretty sure I heard John say something about raspberry tart drizzled with a sauce made of Chambord and Chantilly cream.”

“What the hell's that?”

“Glorified berry pie and whipped cream.” She sighed, chin dropping, shoulders sagging. “But it still sounds amazing.”

“Yeah, it does. Sorry, darlin'.” He slipped his arm around her and pulled her close to his side. He leaned his head down to hers, nuzzled her ear, and whispered, “How's about I make it up to you when we hit the hay tonight? Berry pie might be sorta messy in bed, but we can think of something to do with a can of whipped cream. We'll pretend it's Chantilly.”

She wriggled closer, enjoying his body warmth. The sun was setting, and even in sunny Southern California, that meant the chill of evening was upon them.

“Now I remember why I married you,” she said, laying her hand on his thigh, which even through his tattered jeans felt deliciously hard against her palm—in a manly man's thigh sort of way.

He grinned down at her and waggled one eyebrow. “Oh, I know why you married me. Free, uncomplicated, hot sex on demand.”

“And even more important . . . lawn maintenance.”

He laughed and tweaked a lock of the ratted, scraggly silver hair hanging down into her eyes. “You look pretty cute as an elderly broad. Makes me glad we're gonna grow old and decrepit together.”

“Aw. You sweet talker, you.”

“No, seriously. That gray wig looks kinda sexy on you. The extra padding, too.”

“I'm not wearing any extra padding tonight. Didn't have time to put it on.”

He gulped. “Oh.”

“And you were doing so well.”

“It's in all the right places.”

“A smart husband knows when to stop while he's ahead.”

“Gotcha.”

They sat silently for a while as she finished her hot dog and ignored his longing looks as the last bite went down the hatch.

Since the moment they had met—back when dinosaurs had frolicked in the La Brea Tar Pits—he had harbored the false notion that she might offer him the occasional, unwanted last bites of her meals and snacks. Apparently, some finicky-eating female in his past had left him with the mistaken notion this was standard, respectable lady behavior.

And maybe it was. But Savannah and her appetite could hardly be considered “standard.”

She was surprised he still held out hope.

Leaning her head on his shoulder, she closed her eyes, taking a break from her constant surveillance of the area. They'd been at it for three hours, and her eyes were nearly as tired as her buttocks were sore from sitting on the hard, wooden bench.

Playing the part of “sitting duck” to lure in a couple of cruel, idiotic criminals wasn't half as much fun as one might imagine, she had decided two hours and forty-five minutes ago. Especially when she and Dirk hadn't seen hide nor hair nor ugly mug of either one of the miscreants in all that time.

If that hot dog truck hadn't come along, the evening would have been a total bust—a nonevent on her social calendar.

Except for her husband's warm arm around her.

Eyes closed, Savannah savored the night air—the deliciously cool refreshment of it, its faint pungency—as it carried the sea-scented fog from the beach areas of the tiny town into the less picturesque areas. Like the neighborhood where they were playing “vulnerable, come-and-get-me decoys.”

Of Southern California's beach communities, San Carmelita was, without a doubt, one of the most beautiful. Known for its quaint Spanish-style architecture, ancient founding mission, perfect sands, and surfer-friendly beaches, as well as its Main Street lined with antique shops, boutiques, and fine restaurants, San Carmelita thrived on tourism.

Every weekend, tourists from the Los Angeles area flocked to the town to escape the city smog, heat, and most important the congestion—both vehicular and human. Local merchants—from the little souvenir kiosks near the beach to the luxury hotels and restaurants on the hillsides—depended upon that reliable influx of cash.

But lately, charming little San Carmelita had been making the evening news on the major Los Angeles stations almost every evening. And it was for yet another dark, sinister reason.

Mom and Pop Whops.

That was the cutesy name the media had coined to describe these random, cruel blitz attacks on unsuspecting senior citizens. In the past fifteen days, there had been six attacks on elderly couples. Although none of the victims had died, four of the six had been badly hurt, and one poor woman was still in a coma. Her prognosis: Grim.

For the past three nights, Savannah and Dirk had posed as an older twosome, positioning themselves in the areas where the majority of the attacks had occurred. Tonight they had staked out a city bus bench on the same block as a senior citizens center and a church known to be attended mostly by the over-sixty-five set.

The perpetrators had been described as a pair of wannabe gangbangers in their late teens—one tall and thin, the other short and squat. The tall one wore a distinctive black stocking cap with a red-and-white stripe across the top from front to back. He had delivered the sucker punches to their victims, while the other one—bald, short, and pudgy—filmed the assaults with his cell phone.

As a devoted and protective granddaughter of a southern octogenarian grandma, Savannah wanted nothing in the world more than to get her hands on these punks and show them the downside of attacking someone who could actually fight back.

Granny Reid had raised Savannah and her eight siblings to have respect for their elders and to protect those who couldn't defend themselves. Even if it meant missing a gourmet dinner, Savannah was determined to catch these guys and do Gran proud.

Savannah grinned just thinking of the can of “whoop ass” she'd like to open on those overgrown delinquents. When she was finished with them, every man, woman, and child in the greater Los Angeles area would have seen their nasty pusses on the six o'clock news and would know that they'd had their clock cleaned by an over-forty, abundantly curvaceous female.

Sweet.

Dirk nudged her. “Hey, look over there.”

She opened her eyes, expecting to maybe see a suspect. But when she spotted the couple he was referring to, she smiled. It was an elderly woman and man, walking down the steps of the nearby church, hand in hand, whispering sweet nothings to each other and giggling like a couple of teenagers in the throes of “cherry pink and apple blossom white” love.

The couple walked in their direction but didn't even seem to notice the younger twosome as they passed, focusing solely on each other. The woman wore a lavender floral print dress with white patent leather flats and carried a matching purse. Her long silver hair had been twisted into a bun at the nape of her neck, and she had fastened a sprig of fresh-cut lilac at the top of the twist.

Her gentleman escort was equally festive in a complementary purple shirt, an orchid paisley tie, and white slacks with creases ironed military sharp.

Once the couple had passed them, Savannah gave Dirk's thigh a squeeze and said, “I want to be just like them when we get that age.”

“Well dressed?”

“All lovey-dovey.”

“We will be.”

“Well dressed?”

“Naw, I'll still be in jeans and a Harley tee-shirt, but we'll still be all goo-goo for each other like that.”

“You figure?”

“Yeah.” He chuckled, breathing hot dog and onions on her. “We got a late start, you and me, not gettin' married till we were in our forties. We have a bunch of lost time to make up for.”

She smiled up at him. “I like the way you think.”

He grinned and winked at her, causing her to forget about his onion breath and the smear of chili on his chin. Nobody was perfect, and he didn't seem to mind, or even notice, when her mascara was smeared, giving her raccoon eyes, or when the hot, dry Santa Ana winds blew, causing her thick, dark curls to stand on end.

Years ago, for some reason that she couldn't imagine, he seemed to have decided that she was pretty much perfect in every way. And she had decided that was his most endearing virtue.

You could overlook a lot of nonsense in a guy who overlooked your faults or considered them “cute.”

In Savannah's estimation, unconditional love was, without a doubt, the sexiest personality trait any man could possess. Having a husband who was crazy about you and tried to impress you with slam-dunked hot dog wrappers made things like onion breath not such a big deal.

Though she did jot a mental note to herself:
The next time he orders onions on his hot dog or hamburger, make sure you do, too.

It was a simple matter of self-preservation.

In companionable silence, they watched as the older couple made their way down the block and turned at the corner to cross the street. The man stepped off the curb gingerly, and the woman cupped his elbow, offering a bit of gentle support.

“See there?” Dirk nodded in their direction. “When we get that age, if you need help gettin' around, I'll give you a hand like that.”

Savannah's mind replayed a succession of quick flashbacks from not so long ago. Scenes of Dirk offering her all forms of assistance. Some far more intimate than simply helping someone cross the street.

When she had been recuperating from grave injuries caused by multiple gunshot wounds, he had helped her with such pathetically simple things as rolling over in bed and making her way to the bathroom.

“You already did, darlin',” she said.

He turned his head and looked down at her as tears moistened their eyes.

“And I'll do it again if, God forbid, I ever need to,” he said, his voice husky. “You know that.”

“I do. I most surely do.”

She gulped and cleared her throat, then readjusted the wig that was feeling more scratchy and uncomfortable by the moment.

Glancing down at her watch, she said, “It's after eight. Reckon if we left now and hightailed it over to the restaurant, there'd be some of that good grub left?”

Dirk readjusted his position on the bench and reached back to rub a sore spot in the region of his tailbone. “Tempting, ain't it? Nothin' going on around here. I told you we should've staked out that bingo parlor.”

Looking up and down the dark street—deserted except for the couple that was now a block and a half away—Savannah had to admit that, perhaps, he was right.

Of course, she admitted it silently to herself.

Years ago, in a moment of foolish, ill-conceived generosity, she had uttered the ridiculous words, “You're right.”