by GA McKevett
Dirk stepped closer to the chief; his eyes were no friendlier than hers. And he wasn’t bothering with any sort of smile, warm and genial, or carnivorous. “The shoes and the purse are down the beach, that direction,” he said through a clenched jaw, “under some bushes. Back where your patrolmen are tromping through the trees, there are some spent cartridges. From what little we observed, the shots seemed to come from that direction. Beyond that, my wife and I have nothing more to say to you.”
He reached over, took Savannah’s hand, and tucked it tightly into the crook of his arm. “If you need anything else, we’ll be trying to enjoy what’s left of our honeymoon in the lighthouse keeper’s cottage. Good luck with your case. Something tells me you’re going to need it.”
“I hope you solve this murder,” Savannah added as they walked away, “for the victim’s sake, if not for yours. She died horribly. She deserves some justice.”
Savannah could feel La Cross watching them, until they had rounded the rocks and were beyond her sight.
For some reason that she couldn’t quite understand, but didn’t want to think too much about, her eyes filled with tears. She tried to blink them away, but Dirk saw them.
“If you want me to,” he said, “I’ll go back and stomp a mud hole in her, as you Confederates like to say.”
“Naw. Wouldn’t be very gentlemanly, you whompin’ a woman.”
“You sure she’s a woman? Something tells me that under that suit, she’s got bigger gonads than mine.”
She gouged him in the ribs with her elbow. “But not as big as mine!”
“Baby, nobody’s got a set like yours!”
“Don’t you forget it.” She leaned closer and rested her head on his shoulder. He kissed the top of her head.
“Thanks for the offer,” she said, “but I don’t want you to thump her on my behalf. If you did, I’d have to jump into the affray and, like she said, we’d be spending our honeymoon behind bars instead of making wild whoopee in a beautiful lighthouse.”
“We could find out which car is hers and put Limburger cheese on her manifold.”
“Now you’re talkin’.”
Chapter 5
Much later, Savannah and Dirk settled down for the evening in the living room of the lightkeeper’s cottage, having brought their luggage over from the motel. After searching through her suitcase, Savannah had donned the sleazy leopard-print negligee her sisters had given her as a bridal gift, thinking it might impress Dirk. When she’d appeared in all her glory, Dirk had given her a hearty wolf whistle and motioned her over onto the double chaise lounge where he was sprawled.
He’d dressed up special for her, too. He was wearing his briefs. As they snuggled on the chaise in front of the fireplace, a soft afghan across their laps, Savannah contemplated—not for the first time that hour—how to murder her new husband and get away with it.
Of course, she would never actually do such a thing. But she found that, as she listened to him bitch and moan about absolutely everything under the sun, fantasizing about husband-cide could relieve a lot of pent-up stress.
“This bathtub crap just doesn’t cut it. A man has to take a shower. Baths are for girls.”
That complaint had prompted her to wonder how long it would take for a man to drown if he was dangled upside down by his feet . . . out a two-story window . . . in a Category 17 hurricane.
“This refrigerator doesn’t get cold enough. My beer won’t get cold enough. You know I can’t stand it when my beer isn’t cold enough!”
How long, she had wondered, could a guy survive, folded into quarters and stuffed into that undersized, theoretically lukewarm refrigerator? Could you fold a fellow in eighths and shove him into that tiny freezer? Would he suffocate right away, or would the hypothermia get him first?
“That looks like a feather bed! I can’t sleep on a feather bed! They’re way too soft! I need a good, hard surface for my bad back! Call that Betty Sue gal and tell her to get me a plank of plywood to put on top of that thing. Otherwise, I’ll toss and turn all night, and you know how cranky I get when I don’t get a good night’s sleep.”
If you rolled a grumpy curmudgeon up in a feather bed mattress, she speculated, and dragged him to the edge of a cliff and pushed him over, would he bounce when he hit the bottom? How many times? Would he roll on into the water? If he did, would a shark be able to bite through the mattress or just get a big mouthful of feathers?
“That might be entertaining,” she mumbled to herself as they cuddled and stared into the fire, “a shark spitting out a mouthful of feathers.”
“What?” Dirk turned and looked at her as though she’d lost her mind. “What did you say?”
“Oh, nothing. Do you think sharks sneeze?”
He shook his head and sighed. “Savannah, you’re a very strange woman.”
“Yes, I am. Don’t ever forget that.”
“Not likely.” He reached down, took her hand, and folded it between his. “Since you’re asking silly questions, I’ve got one for you.”
“Shoot.”
He nodded toward the mantel. “How do they get a ship inside a bottle, like that one there? I checked and there’s no hole in the bottle or seam where they glued it or anything like that.”
“It’s a secret.”
“Well, yeah. I figured that. Do you know the secret?”
“Yes. Grandpa Reid was a merchant marine, years before he even met Granny. He built one of those one time. She still has it.”
“So, how did he do it?”
“I’m not gonna tell you. It’s a sacred secret.”
“Like magicians have?”
“Something like that.”
She glanced over at the grandfather clock in the corner. “The news will be on in a couple of minutes,” she said, her tone far heavier than a moment before. “Might as well turn it on.”
“You really want to?” he asked, reaching for the remote control, which was lying on the end table next to him. “We said we were going to try to put it out of our minds as much as we could, and—”
“Well, I tried. And I couldn’t. Could you?”
“No. I’ve been thinking about it all afternoon. How can you not? Something like that . . .”
He pointed the remote and punched a button. A moment later, a small television, which was mounted on the wall above a bookcase to their right, came alive.
“Might as well turn it to her station, I guess,” he said, flipping through the channels. “They’ll have the best coverage.”
Savannah steeled herself for the images that were sure to be splashed across the screen any moment now. She tried to brace herself for the emotions that would, undoubtedly, come flooding back the instant she saw them—not that she had been particularly successful in burying them.
She could even feel a sort of phantom pain in her own wounds, which, although mostly healed, would forever be a part of her. Some things—the memories, the scars, the horror that had been driven, DNA-deep, into every cell of her body—would never go away completely.
“And now . . . the Eyewitness News at six o’clock,” a male voice was saying as majestic scenes of Southern California beauty flashed across the screen, along with the program’s familiar logo and overly dramatic theme song, set to the rhythm of a clicking telegraph.
She felt Dirk’s hand tighten around hers, and she blessed him for imparting that bit of comfort, and even for sensing that she needed it.
Even when she wanted to murder him, she couldn’t help loving him to pieces.
She squeezed back. “Here we go,” she said.
“Yeah. Let’s see what they’ve got.”
“It is with great sadness,” said the handsome news anchor, with his perfect Ken doll hair and perfect, though slightly orange, tan, and his perfectly dazzling white smile, “that we report the passing of someone very close to us—a dear member of our Eyewitness News family.”
He paused, and the look of deep sadness that crossed his face touched Savannah’s heart, cau
sing her to put aside her shallow judgments about his appearance. Death has a way of putting such things into perspective, she thought.
“Our own Amelia Northrop lost her life today on Santa Tesla Island, where she and her husband, William Northrop, have made their home for the past five years.”
A picture of the beautiful blonde popped up on the screen, smiling her famous smile, her eyes alight with the intelligent curiosity that was her trademark.
Savannah couldn’t help comparing the vision on the television with the one in her memory—the dead woman, with lifeless eyes and seaweed in her hair.
In all Savannah’s years of dealing with life and death, she had never gotten over her amazement and bewilderment at the difference between the two states. It was a paradox of the darkest sort.
“Her body was discovered, floating facedown in the surf in one of Santa Tesla’s picturesque coves,” the announcer continued. “And while the investigation is in its preliminary stages, officials say her death appeared to have been the result of accidental drowning.”
“ ‘Accidental drowning’?” Savannah and Dirk shouted in unison as they bolted upright from their comfortable, reclining positions.
“What the hell?” Dirk said. “She drowned, my ass! What about the bullet wounds that were . . . ?”
“Two, at least,” Savannah said, jumping off the chaise. “The way she was bleeding, at least one of them got her right in the heart! I can’t remember when I saw that much blood!” She paced back and forth in front of the television. “Drowning? Drowning? How can they say that?”
She paused to listen as the anchor continued his speech. “We go to Santa Tesla Island, where our on-the-scene reporter, Lori Austin, has more details. Lori, this is a sad, sad day for us all here at Eyewitness News. Tell us what you’ve discovered there.”
The scene switched to a locale Savannah knew all too well—the beach where Amelia Northrop had died. A pretty brunette in a bright red dress stood with her back to the ocean. Her grief showed on her picture-perfect face as she gave her report.
“Earlier this morning, shortly after Amelia was found here on the beach, I had the opportunity to talk to Santa Tesla’s chief of police, Charlotte La Cross.”
Again the scene changed, and Lori was interviewing a woman with a face Savannah was beginning to loathe. Lori asked the chief, “What can you tell us about what happened here this morning?”
With the expected degree of grave concern, La Cross responded, “From what we understand at this time, this morning some tourists, who were enjoying our beautiful beaches, happened upon Ms. Northrop. She was lying, facedown, in the water right about there.”
She turned and pointed to an area of the beach that had been cordoned off with yellow tape. “They pulled her from the water and tried to administer lifesaving cardiopulmonary resuscitation to her. Unfortunately, she was already gone.”
“What!?” Savannah whipped around to Dirk to see if he was hearing what she was. “Administer CPR? Who administered CPR? What is all this crap?”
“Who said she was gone?” Dirk shouted back. “Nobody told her the gal was gone! The victim was alive when you pulled her outta the water. She talked to you, for Pete’s sake!”
“Yeah, but the chief there doesn’t know that,” Savannah reminded him, “because she didn’t bother to question us about diddly-squat!”
“I got the strong impression she didn’t want us to confuse her with any facts.”
“Exactly.”
“At this time,” the chief continued, “it appears she was taking a morning swim and may have been caught in a riptide. We did issue a riptide warning earlier in the morning. Here on Santa Tesla Island, our guests’ safety is always our foremost consideration. Unfortunately, not everyone heeds our advice in these matters. It’s sad that a young woman had to lose her life in this terrible accident.”
“ ‘Accident’!” Dirk yelled at the TV. “This is unbelievable! Savannah, what are we gonna do about this?”
“We’re going to do exactly what she warned us not to do,” Savannah replied, a wicked light in her eyes. “We’re going to talk about this to everybody we can, starting with that news channel right there. Something tells me they’d want to know what really happened to their fellow journalist.”
“And,” he said, “we’re going to go back home and get our weapons. I’m not going to be running around this island with an armed killer on the loose and crooked law enforcement in high places without proper protection.”
“And we’ll sic the Moonlight Magnolia gang on that police chief. They’ll find out why she’s lying like a no-legged dog. Something tells me this ain’t her first roll in the manure pile. She’s just gotta have some secrets to uncover.”
“We’ll put Tammy on her trail.”
Savannah shuddered. “Normally, I wouldn’t wish Tammy on my worst enemy. That gal’s ruthless when it comes to digging up a body’s dirt. But something about that La Cross makes my flesh crawl.”
“So we’ll catch a ferry back home first thing tomorrow morning,” Dirk said as he reached for the remote and switched off the TV.
Savannah just stood there, staring down at him, until he finally said, “Unless you want to go now.”
“Put your britches on, boy. We got tracks to make.”
Savannah turned to Dirk, who was driving, and noticed that the greenish tint to his face was fading a little. Just a little.
She reached over and patted his arm. “Sorry, sugar,” she said. “We’ll get you a big ol’ package of seasick medicine for the trip back.”
“Gee, thanks. Ain’t that sorta like closin’ the barn door after the horses—or my dinner, as the case might be—has already left?”
“You weren’t the only one. It can happen to anybody. I noticed a lady leaning over the back of the boat with you, keeping you company while you upchucked.”
“She was pregnant.”
“Oh. Sorry. Maybe the waters will be calmer on the way back.”
“If not, I’ll have my gun with me. I can always just shoot myself and get it over with.”
“Um . . . o-okay.”
After that uplifting exchange, they drove on in silence, from San Carmelita’s waterfront, up the hill, and through its charming downtown area. The tiny tourist town was best known for its antique stores, souvenir shops, and restaurants, all Spanish Mediter-ranean–style white stucco and red-tiled roofs, accented with stone or brightly colored tiles and wrought iron.
The first time Savannah had seen this town, more years ago than she wanted to count, she had thought she was in Shangri-la.
Although there were many beautiful areas of Georgia, Savannah hadn’t been raised in one of them. Poor people, living in shotgun shacks, scratching a meager living from red clay, barely able to put food on the table—that had been her childhood reality.
So, San Carmelita and its gleaming mission-inspired architecture, sparkling in the Southern California sun, its palm tree–lined streets, all cooled by constant, gentle breezes from the Pacific, had spoken to her. It had said, “You’re home, Savannah girl.” Having found her heart’s home, she knew she would never leave.
Dirk drove his battered old Buick past the commercial district and into the residential area, where Savannah and the majority of her fellow San Carmelitans lived. She couldn’t afford the mansions on the hillsides, with their panoramic ocean views. But in her part of town, the small, modest homes had a charm all their own. Like hers, most were also stucco with red-tiled roofs, and though the lots were small in this area, the yards were all well kept. Flowers of every bright color spilled in profusion from window boxes, draped over fences, and climbed over arbors and trellises.
When they arrived at her simple two-story cottage, she noticed that her own bougainvillea was glowing dark red in the light of the setting sun. She remembered the day she had planted those two small cuttings, one on each side of her doorway. Now they were massive splashes of color, running up the sides of the door and meeting ove
r it in a graceful arch, turning her plain little house into a thing of beauty.
“It’s kinda nice to be home,” she said. “I’ve only been gone a little over twenty-four hours, but I miss it.”
She turned in the seat and looked at him lovingly. “This’ll be your home from now on, too. Cool, huh?”
“Yeah. I’ve gotta get all my crap dragged over here, before it’s gonna feel much like home to me,” he grumbled. “I’ll have to rent a truck. Not looking forward to that.”
“All my crap”? she thought. Those three simple words filled her with unspeakable horror. “All”? Really?
She did a quick mental inventory of the contents of his house trailer. His bus seat “sofa.” His two rusty TV trays, which served as dining tables. His stacks of plastic crates filled with VHS tapes.
Then there was his Harley-Davidson collection. He didn’t actually own a Harley, but he had all the trappings: the ashtrays, the shot glasses, the figurines, the mugs, the old tin signs, the tee-shirts—framed, of course—collector plates galore, and last, but not least, an awe-inspiring collection of Harley-Davidson Christmas ornaments.
She thought of how lovely those ornaments would look next Christmas hanging on her tree among her carefully color-coordinated, lavender and rose Victorian vintage baubles.
Oh, dear Lord, she thought, what have I gotten myself into?
Dirk pulled into her driveway and parked next to her bright red ’65 Mustang. It was her baby, her pride and joy, the reason why she could almost understand why he loved his Harley stuff to distraction. An obsession was an obsession. As long as she talked lovingly and sang to her ’Stang every Saturday morning when she washed, vacuumed, dusted, and waxed it—stopping just short of flossing its teeth—she really couldn’t say much about his framed Harley tee-shirts.
“Who-all’s here?” he said as he cut the key and gave a wary glance toward the house.
“You mean, which of my zillion Georgia relatives are still using my house as a free motel while they prolong their California vacations?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
