Savannah Reid 06 - Sour Grapes

by Mckevett, G A

hair, from the nape of her neck and out. It was deliciously soothing.

  "That's why I got you outta there right away," he said. "You looked like you were gonna start blubbering any

  minute."

  "Th-th-thanks," she said, hiccuping.

  "No sweat. It ain't nothin' you wouldn't do for me. Except, of course, I wouldn't actually be cryin', but you being' a broad and all, you can do that sorta thing and--"

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  Mc.Kevett

  1

  "Dirk . . ."

  "Yeah?"

  "You're ruining the moment. Just shut up and hug ne."

  "Oh . . . okay."

  His arms tightened around her until she could

  iardly breathe. But she liked it. She felt that same, lweet, protected feeling that she had experienced as a cid when Gran would allow her to crawl into bed beside

  ter in the middle of a big, scary lightning storm.

  She felt safe. She felt loved.

  "I liked that thing you were doing. . . you know . . . with my hair," she said, her face still against his chest. He hesitated, then reached up, laced his fingers into ter curls and combed them through. "You mean this?" -Es voice sounded husky, a little breathless.

  "Yeah, just like that. Thanks."

  "You're welcome, honey." He pressed his lips to her 'orehead and gave her a long, sweet kiss, then put an)ther, quicker one, on her cheek. "Sh-h-h . . . be quiet tow." he said. "You're ruinin' the moment."

  Chapter

  22

  avannah could feel the electricity in the air. It was athe final night, talent contest, final judging, the warding of the Miss Gold Coast crown, and the girls sere almost hysterical with excitement.

  But there wasn't enough energy in a nuclear power

  31ant to recharge her depleted batteries. The only force lriving her was sheer anger. . . channeled into deternination to catch the son of a bitch that had turned a

  ovely girl into a heap of garbage at the bottom of a

  nusty, old stairwell.

  Not that she knew for sure that anyone was responsi)le

  for Francie's death. During Dr. Liu's initial examilation, the only injuries she found were consistent with airing an accidental tumble down a flight of stone

  teps.

  But Savannah knew she had been pushed. And she as going to find the person who did it and throw them

  4:01.1 UJi. inUllffilett

  off a cliff or out a window or whatever was handy at the

  time. . . if she didn't fall down dead. in her tracks from sheer emotional exhaustion and sleep deprivation first.

  The evening's festivities were being held, once again, in the tasting room. And Villa Rosa was living up to its name with multicolored bouquets of roses on every

  table, roses that had been cut from bushes on the property. The heavenly scent filled the room and spilled out into the gallery, even to the courtyard.

  Teenage girls, wearing every sort of garb imaginable, were scurrying about. Ten minutes 'til talent-show time.

  Standing in the doorway separating the tasting room

  and gallery, Savannah watched them and tried to guess what their talent might be. Some were obvious: the majorette with her baton, the one in the formal black gown carrying a flute, the cowgirl with a rope, another dressed in a tunic and tights, carrying a skull and reciting, "To be, or not to be. . ." under her breath.

  She had left a tense Atlanta upstairs, strumming her guitar and making strange sounds that she called, "warming-up exercises." Savannah hoped that she would at least place somewhere in the top five. If she didn't, she was going to be difficult to get along with . . . even more difficult than usual. And if one of the Reid gals got to be cranky tonight and tomorrow, Savannah had already decided that she was the one. After the day she'd had, she deserved it.

  On second thought . . . it had been a pretty rotten week The whole month hadn't been that great.

  But before she plunged headfirst into the deep end

  of the self-pity pool, she reminded herself of Francie's mother--her daughter in the morgue and her son in Juvenile Hall for malicious mischief, suspected of mur

  .1: 0 .L

  der. No matter what was going on, somebody else always had it worse.

  "Is it true?"

  Savannah turned around to see Marion Lippincott, her perpetual notebook in her hand, tier tortoiseshell glasses perched on the end of her nose, a worried look on her face.

  "You mean about Francie?" Savannah asked. "Yes. I just heard that--"

  "It's true. But it may have been an accident."

  Marion's eyes searched hers, and Savannah knew she was taking into account her tear-swollen lids and red

  nose that a generous dusting of powder hadn't remedied.

  She

  also knew that the All-Seeing Mrs. Lippincott didn't believe it had been an accident either.

  Marion glanced around, then took Savannah's arm. "Come with me," she said.

  She led her out into the courtyard where they found

  a private spot beside the fountain, which was lit with pink floodlights in honor of the final night of competition.

  "I

  wasn't going to mention this," Marion said, "because I didn't think it was important. But this morning, when I was at breakfast, I left my notebook on the table and walked away for a few minutes to attend to something.

  When I came back, it was open."

  Savannah tried to think what value this information

  might be. But it wasn't readily apparent.

  "So?"

  "It was open to a particular page."

  Marion moved closer to a lantern that hung from an

  ivy-entwined wrought-iron pole and held her notebook

  up to the light for Savannah to see.

  LA -14

  ATI...AV./GOY

  She looked over the page which had a list of names

  with columns of numbers next to them. Other than recognizing some of the names as the contestants', it made

  no sense to her.

  "I'm sorry. I don't see your point," she told her.

  "This is a summary of the judges' tally sheets. . . so far, that is. It shows how they scored the girls in their evening gowns."

  Savannah was tempted to sneak a peek at Atlanta's

  marks, but resisted. "Okay. And?"

  "And, as of this morning, before she left, Frande was ahead. She was winning the Miss Gold Coast crown."

  A lightbulb switched on in Savannah's tired brain. "I see. And whoever was looking at that page at breakfast, they would have known she was ahead."

  'That's right. This was my first pageant with Francie, but she was a lovely, poised, inteffigent girl, and they say she played the violin beautifully. She had an excellent shot at winning this one, or any other pageant she chose to enter."

  "Hmm." Savannah stood, thinking, watching the fountain for a moment, as its water tumbled from one tier to the next, sparkling like myriad tiny pink sapphires in the rosy light

  She thought of the dark stairwell at the old mission. "This morning, according to your book, who was in second place?" she asked.

  "Take a guess," Marion Lippincott replied. "Desiree Porter?"

  "Desiree Porter."

  Savannah was so proud that she was very simply

  about to bust Rather than risk another bout of "You

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  Never Support Me in Anything I Do" with Atlanta, she had staked out a seat, front and center, for her sister's talent presentation. She had wanted to make sure that Atlanta couldn't miss her when she looked out over the

  audience.

  But now that she was sitting there, looking up at a talented young woman who also just happened to be her

  sibling, Savannah was thrilled to her toes.

  With all the confidence and talent of an experienced

  professional, Atlanta was belting out an energetic version of the old country classic "Silver Threads

  and
Golden Needles," and her California audience was enthralled. Most were clapping and some were even singing along on the chorus. She was receiving a far more enthusiastic response than the flute player or

  the baton twirler.

  Savannah watched, mentally recording every detail to relate to Gran later on the phone. She knew that it was a memory she would replay herself many times, just for the sheer joy of it. This picture was one of those that would hang in her own special "Atlanta Gallery' for the

  rest of her life.

  When the song was finished and the applause roared

  through the tasting room, Savannah felt her eyes fill with tears. Again. For the third time that day.

  It had to be a record for a non-PMS week.

  And, as usual, she had no tissues.

  Since Dirk wasn't around with a handful of fast-food

  joint napkins, she decided to run to the ladies' room and get something to wipe away the sniffles. As soon as Atlanta exited the stage, bowing all the while, Savannah left her seat and made her way through the side door

  and into the hallway.

  As she approached the rest rooms, she was surprised

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  54 G.A. McKevett

  see Anthony Villa, who was coming out of the men's -00M.

  Wasn't he supposed to be in there judging the corn)etition?

  She hated to think he had missed that mar-rebus Reid performance.

  He looked preoccupied, even worried, and didn't leem to notice her.

  Just as he passed the pay phone on the wall, it rang. -le jumped as though the thing had shot a string of bulets

  at him, and the color drained out of his face.

  Savannah watched, fascinated, as he stood there, first -eaching out to touch the receiver, then pulling his land back--a man torn with indecision.

  It's just a phone, she thought. Pick it up for heaven's

  But he didn't. He stood there, hand outstretched, ingers trembling, but he didn't.

  Instead, he began to walk away, so fast that he nearly an headlong into Savannah.

  "Oh," he said. "Ms. Reid. I didn't know you were . . . didn't see you and . . ."

  The phone rang again. And again.

  Savannah stared at Anthony Villa, watching as his tnxiety seemed to grow by the second. "Are you going answer that?" she asked.

  He shook his head. "No, it's probably nothing. And I lave to get in there for the judging."

  "Okay. Then I'll answer it," she said. "It might be im)ortant."

  Savannah strolled over to the telephone, feeling his !yes on her, feeling the tension radiate out of him in alnost palpable waves.

  She picked up the receiver. "Hello?" She listened for moment, then said, "No, this isn't Henry's Pizza. I'm

  SOUK liKAt'ES 255

  afraid you have the wrong number. This is a pay phone."

  Hanging up, she turned to Anthony, who looked like he was going to melt into a big puddle right there on

  the floor. She had never seen anyone look so relieved.

  What the hell had he been expecting? A call from the grave?

  "I. . . I. . . really should get back now," he muttered. "Yes," she said smoothly. "You really should, you being a judge and all."

  For a few seconds their eyes locked, and Savannah knew.

  She saw his guilt, she saw his fear, and she knew. And Anthony Villa knew that she knew.

  Turning on his heel, he hurried to the door and disappeared into the tasting room.

  Savannah glanced back at the phone. "Well, I'll be damned," she whispered.

  "Now let me get this straight: You want me to lock up a guy who may be our next state senator because you say

  he looked at a phone funny. That is what you're telling me, isn't it?" Dirk was staring at Savannah as if she were one queen of hearts short of royal flush.

  "I know it sounds stupid," she said. "You had to have been there. Really. He looked like a ghost from the past was trying to reach through the phone and grab him

  around the throat. He was white, I mean, the guy turned blanc de blanc right there in front of me."

  She and Dirk were standing, nose to nose, in the middle of the room that Barbie and Atlanta had shared. Dirk had been searching it yet another time when

  Savannah had marched in to give him her news.

  256 G.A. McKevett

  He was less than impressed. Considerably less.

  "Well, I think I've already got the guy who did it," he said. "He's locked up right now in juvie, and it's going to take a heck of a lot more to convince me that he ain't

  the one than some nonsense about Villa looldn' at a

  phone."

  "But that's the phone she called him on. We know from the records that she called that particular pay

  phone right before she went out to the parking lot and

  got nabbed."

  Dirk shook his head. "We don't know that he was the one who answered that night. We don't even know if her making that phone call had anything to do with her

  getting killed. Besides, Villa's got phones at his house, in his office, probably in his car. Why would she call him on a pay phone?"

  "Because she had a cell phone, and there's a record of every call she makes. And Anthony Villa is a married man."

  "So, what are you saying? That little Miss Barbie and future senator were doing the grizzly-bear hump?"

  "Well, he wouldn't be the first politician to screw up his life that way. Besides, he's a judge here at the pageant. She's been known to drop her knickers for judges before."

  Dirk thought that over for a moment, then shook his head. "Now, it's the kid. Don't ask me how I know, but! know. That's it."

  "Er-r-r-r. You're as stubborn as a mule's behind, you know that?"

  He grinned. "You've mentioned that. . . several times in fact. I don't know what it means, but. . . Now, if you don't mind, I need to get to work here."

  blJUK LiKAITZ ZD7

  He turned away from her, walked into the bathroom and began searching under the sink.

  Savannah left, grumbling beneath her breath, ". mer . won't listen . . . think they know everything. . . pee pee heads. . . baboon butts."

  Surveying the acres of cars in the dark lot, Savannah had no idea which vehicle belonged to the Villas. She had searched the rows for the green Jeep that she had

  seen Catherine driving previously, but it wasn't there. She had seen the height of Catherine's heels tonight

  and she was sure that she had driven, not walked down from the house on the hill. Apparently, they had driven another car. But which one?

  Savannah stepped back into the center and grabbed

  the first waitress she could find.

  "Hi, would you do me a big favor?"

  The waitress smiled, eager to please. "Sure, if I can."

  "Please tell Mr. or Mrs. Villa that the left front tire of their car is flat. They might want to have it taken care of now, rather than later this evening when they're ready to leave."

  "Of course. I'll let them know right now."

  The waitress hurried away, and Savannah returned to the parking lot, where she found a nice dark place to hide in the shadow of some tall oleanders. She grinned, savoring the anticipation.

  It didn't take long. In less than three minutes, Catherine rushed out the front door and made a beeline

  for the back of the lot and a BMW that was approximately

  the same size as Savannah's house.

  In her ankle-length evening dress and her high, high heels, she tiptoed around the car. . once. . . then

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  58 G.A. McKevett

  igain . and a third time. Finally, shaking her head, the walked back to the center and through the front

  loot:

  From her hiding place Savannah could see the con

  used look on her face. She felt only the slightest bit of ;at Just as food--when eaten standing or off some-me else's plate--didn't contain calories, lies tol
d on :he job didn't exactly blacken your soul. Catching one -early bad guy would provide absolution for at least one

  iundred fibs. She was sure it was a rule that was written iomewhere in the cosmos.

  Once she was fairly sure that the Villas weren't cornng

  back out, and that no one was around to observe , she headed straight for the BMW.

  It was black, she noted with a sad kind of satisfaction. knd it was a pretty good bet that the carpeting inside would be black, too.

  Standing beside the driver's door, she looked inside or any tiny red light that might indicate an alarm was

  .ilnployed. But she didn't see anything.

  After glancing around once more and affirming that

  he was alone, she tried the door handle. But no such uck; it was locked. Even out here in the country, the Villas had secured their Beamer.

  She flashed her penlight through the back window

  md verified that yes, indeed, the carpeting was black. From her purse she took her handy-dandy, allmrpose lockpick and stuck it into the door. But once 'gain, she was up the proverbial creek paddleless. The iewer locks were more advanced than the old ones, Ind it was getting harder and harder to break into

  hings these days. No amount of jiggling and twisting would do the trick.

  She walked around to the back of the car and re

  SOUR GRAPES 259

  peated the process with the trunk lock. Just when she was about to give up. . . bingo! It snapped open. So, the old girl hadn't lost her touch after all, she noted with satisfaction.

  One more look around, then she raised the lid and looked inside.

  Other than the black carpeting . . . which as Dr. Liu had said, would be less than two years old in the trunk of a late-model car, she didn't see anything particularly incriminating. It was just your standard, spotless, yuppie family trunk with tennis rackets, a kid's skateboard, a roadside emergency kit, and an empty bag with a designer label on it.

  And it smelled good. In fact, it smelled great. springtime fresh like clothesline-dried laundry. Several detergent commercials and their catchy jingles