Sour Grapes (A Savannah Reid Mystery #6) (31 page)

Tammy laughed. "You didn't! What did she say?" "Nothing. . . for two whole weeks. Absolutely not a

word. Clammed up tighter than Dirk's wallet." "Only two weeks?"

Savannah shrugged. "Hey, that's a record for a Reid gal. The only thing we like more than eating, is talking." "I wish I were coming with you," Tammy said as she set the suitcase on the floor at the end of the mile-long, twisting, turning, cordoned line. "All that family togetherness sounds like fun."

"It might be. . . for some other family." Savannah sighed, realizing that she didn't really mind the long, long line. It could even be longer, for all she cared. Although she hated to admit it, she was in no hurry at all to return to the bosom of her homeland. "For us," she said, "family togetherness tends to spell trouble." "With a capital ''?"

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"Oh, yes. Trouble . . . in all caps, bold, underlined, italicized. We Reids don't do anything halfway."

"If that Macon doesn't shape up real quick, I'm gonna slap him naked and hide his clothes," Waycross Reid said as he drove the old Ford pickup down the

pothole-ridden road. Savannah sat next to her brother and wondered, with every bounce of the shock-shot truck, if one of the exposed seat coils was going to take intimate liberties with her backside. She looked wistfully at the truck's dash, wishing there was some sign of an air conditioner vent; she had forgotten how humid the South could be in mid-August, and she was melting inside her cotton suit.

But, while Waycross had a state-of-the-art stereo system, there was no hint of a temperature control device. As a young man, his priorities were notably different than those of a perimenopausal female.

The saga of the Reid family "troubles" had begun the moment Waycross has picked her up at the Atlanta airport

two hours before. Twenty-nine years old, the only redhead in the batch, Waycross was the oldest of her two brothers. His relationship with his younger brother, Slacon, had always been rocky, at best. And Savannah usually agreed with Waycross, the more hardworking, i'ensible, and responsible of the two. If he said Macon ras being a pain, it was probably true.

"What's he doing?" she asked.

"I don't even know what he's doing. I'm afraid to isk," Waycross replied. "But I know who he's doing it with. Since he graduated from high school he's been uanging out with those Whitney boys, and you know that trailer trash they are . . . especially that Kenny jr.

ZitIll l7.11. 1 VIGIIZLIGI4

What a friggin' yahoo that one is. He's so lazy the dead lice wouldn't fall off him and stupider than a dirt clod."

"The Whitneys. Yeah, I remember their old man," Savannah said, searching her memory banks. "He drank like a skunk and practically lived in Sheriff

Mahoney's rear cell. It's no wonder the kids turned sour."

As they drove through Savannah's hometown of

McGill, she noted, with a twang of the heartstrings, some of her favorite haunts: the drugstore where she had enjoyed the occasional strawberry ice cream cone

on a hot, Saturday afternoon, the library where she had discovered the joy of Nancy Drew mysteries, the elementary school where she, her mother, and even her grandmother had attended. All three generations had played tag among the giant oaks and hopscotch on the

hard-packed earth, where the grass had been worn away by hundreds of small, energetic feet.

But the trip down memory lane didn't take long. When Savannah had been a child, McGill, Georgia had been only three blocks long.

Now it was four.

Urban sprawl

"Have you given Macon a talking-to?" Savannah asked him.

"I've preached whole sermons to him. . . so has Gran. . . but it just rolls off him like rain off a duck's back. You can't tell Macon Reid nothing; he knows all there is to know about everything. If you don't believe it, just ask him."

"How's everybody else doing?"

"Gran's good, full ' piss and vinegar, as always. Alma helps her out a lot."

Savannah smiled, reminding herself that there would be a few blessings to this visit. Seeing Gran and Alma

PEACHES AND SCREAMS 307

were two. Savannah liked to think she loved all her siblings equally, but she had to admit a favoritism toward Alma, who had always been the one to nurse a sick kitten, rescue a baby bird, or help Gran wax a kitchen floor or even scrub a toilet when necessary.

"Alma's a sweetheart," she said. "I wish she were the one getting married, instead of Marietta. She deserves to find a good husband."

"Yeah, but I don't see that happening any time soon. She's still pretty shy with the boys."

"And Cordele?"

"Still as uptight as ever. Goes around telling everybody what they oughta and oughtn't do. She reads those psychology books and has a label for everything

everybody does. I called her a busybody the other day, and she told me I'm a passive-aggressive with severe

parental abandonment issues. Whatever the hell that means."

Savannah chuckled. "That sounds like Cordele. And Vidalia?"

"Going crazy with those two sets of twins, and taking Butch along with her. He works with me at the service station about eighteen hours a day. Says it's to make ends meet, but I think he's just avoiding diaper duty."

Savannah felt another surge of mixed emotions as they left the asphalt highway at the edge of town and

turned left onto a dirt road. She wondered how many times she had walked this road from Gran's house to

the highway to catch a school bus, to check the mail box, or just to get away for a moment of blissful solitude, away from a house full of nine kids, perpetually runny noses, mountains of soiled laundry and dirty dishes.

With an absentee, truck-driving father, and a mother who spent more time in the local tavern than standing

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at a kitchen sink or in front of an ironing board, the duties of childrearing had fallen upon Granny Reid and

Savannah, the oldest of the brood. Other than producing a child every year or two and naming them after

Georgia towns, Shirley Reid had contributed little to her children's welfare.

Savannah and Gran hadn't complained, though. Not even in their most private moments. Watching the babies grow into children, and the children into adults, they had figured it was time and energy well spent.

Now, looking back on it with older, more experienced eyes, Savannah wondered that she hadn't been more resentful at the time. The injustice of the situation had been lost in the chaotic hustle of caring for the

babies that just kept coming. Savannah had been too busy to consider whether or not she was being used. And now, she couldn't honestly say she would change anything. All in all, it had been a good childhood. And what her parents hadn't, or couldn't, give to their children, Gran had more than provided.

"You did good, Savannah. Real good." Waycross gave her a sweet, loving look that went straight to her heart. It was as though he had read her thoughts. He reached over and patted her on the knee with his

work-roughened, grease-stained fingers. "You had your hands full back then, and don't think we don't appreciate what you did for us."

She placed her hand over his and squeezed. "I wouldn't have missed a minute of it."

He grinned. "Not even the afternoon I brought home that snake and . . . ?"

"Ah, yes. . . the snake in my lingerie drawer episode. That one I could have done without. The frog in the sugar bowl wasn't exactly a high point either, but all in all, it was pretty cool, raising you guys."

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Waycross rounded a corner and the house came into

view. As always, when she had been away for a long time, Savannah was shocked at how small and shabby it was. The simple wooden structure was commonly known as a "shotgun" house, the rooms lined up in a straight row, from the front of the house to the back--living room, dining room, kitchen, and bedrooms, one opening into the other. It was so named because if someone stood at the front of the house and shot a gun, the bullet could exit the back door without striking a wall.

The tiny house had probably been built for a family

of four, maybe five. With ten people, three bedrooms and one bath, it had been extremely cozy, to say the least.

Desperately in need of a coat of paint, it wasn't as white as she remembered, several of the tar-paper tiles were missing from the roof, and the porch sagged on the left.

But it was home.

More importantly, it was where Gran lived. Feisty and wise, Granny Reid had walked the earth for more than eighty years and generously shared her collected wisdom with Savannah and the rest of her grandchildren. Some had embraced her teachings more than others, but all had been given the benefit of her counsel . . .

whether they wanted it or not.

Suddenly, it was very important to Savannah to get out of the truck and into that house. As soon as the vehicle rolled to a stop, Savannah's door was open.

She was across the yard and onto the porch in a matter

of seconds, replaying in her mind the memories of coming home to Gran, whose hands were always busy peeling potatoes, folding laundry and bandaging skinned knees, but who always had time to listen, to hear how

310 G.A. McKeoett

someone's day had been, to enjoy the latest bit of gossip, or to help with an arithmetic problem.

Year after year, Gran had been waiting, a smile on her face when Savannah came through the door. But this time was different.

When Savannah barged inside, shouting, "Gran, it's me; I'm ho-o-me!" she found her grandmother sitting in her overstuffed armchair, quietly weeping. Savannah's sister, Alma, sat on the ottoman in front of her, holding a handful of tissues. She, too, was crying.

Savannah felt her heart do a few double beats, and time slowed, as it did in those fractions of a second just before you hear something you'll never forget. "Oh, no. . ." she said, "who died?"

"Ma-ma-con," Alma replied between sobs.

Waycross had come into the house behind Savannah

just in time to hear the news. "Macon's dead?" he said in a hoarse whisper.

'No, he's not dead," Gran said, wiping her eyes. Savannah was shocked to see that, for once, she actually looked her eighty-plus years. "But he might as well be. Deputy Stafford just came here and arrested him."

Savannah felt her knees go weak, from relief or fear she wasn't sure. Sinking onto the couch, she said, "What was he arrested for?"

Alma began to sob even harder, while Gran steeled herself to reply. 'They say he killed Judge Patterson."

"Killed . . . ? Macon? That's ridiculous!" Savannah said. "He wouldn't--"

"Yeah, he might have," Waycross replied, shaking his head as though suddenly weary. He sat on the sofa beside Savannah.

"No! I don't believe that for a minute. Gran, do you--?"

The look of misery in her grandmother's eyes

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chilled Savannah nearly as much as her words. "Well, Savannah," she said, "you see, Macon's changed. He ain't the boy we used to know no more. . . been into all sorts of meanness lately." She dabbed at her eyes, then wadded the tissue into a tight ball. "I'm sorry to say that Waycross is right. Macon just might have murdered that old geezer."

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the Savannah Reid mysteries

JUST DESSERTS

The first Savannah Reid mystery

Memphis-born Detective Savannah Reid is in her element

cruising for crime in one of southern California's

most exclusive enclaves . . . until a shocking murder

rouses San Carmefita from its star-studded stupor--and places Savannah in the center of a sensational case that

soon erupts into a media feeding frenzy

With suspects abounding--and a cast of characters that includes an ex-CIA agent and a computer genius

with the technology to take the case into the twenty-first

century--Savannah finds herself sifting through a nasty mess of sex, adultery, and down-and-dirty politics that could prove the creme de le crime of her detective career, if she can use her own appetite for justice to unmask a

cunning killer.

In Savannah Reid, GA. McKevett has created a vibrant new sleuth in a spicy, suspenseful mystery that's sure to keep readers devouring every page.

KILLER CALORIES

The third Savannah Reid mystery

Sexy private detective Savannah Reid may be built

for comfort and not for speed, but she likes herself just me as she is. So the only way she's likely to set foot in a health spa is over a dead body--somebody else's-- along with a hefty fee to sweeten the deal.

The irresistible combination of murder and money

brings Savannah to Royal Palms to investigate the death

of spa owner and former cult-flick actress Kat Vakntina. The medical examiner called it a fatal--but accidental--mixture of booze and a hot tub, but Savannah's anonymous client thinks otherwise. Savannah quickly learns there's no shortage of likely suspects, from ex-lovers and would-be lovers, to employees and prior costars with unsavory pasts. As for Savannah and her sweet tooth, this may prove to be a costly case. For if the strict regimen of exercise and nasty spa cuisine doesn't kill

her, there's a murderer close by who's prepared to finish the job. . . .

COOKED GOOSE

The fourth Savannah Reid mystery

It's hard to get into the Christmas spirit when the

Santa Ana winds are blowing at a balmy ninety degrees. It's also hard to live in a "Baywatch" world when you're an overly voluptuous size fourteen. But Savannah Reid has never been one to believe that good things only