G. A. MCKEVETT
COOKED GOOSE
KENSINGTON BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Also by
TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS
Dedication
Acknowledgments
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Teaser chapter
Copyright Page
Books by G.A. McKevett
JUST DESSERTS
BITTER SWEETS
KILLER CALORIES
COOKED GOOSE
SUGAR AND SPITE
SOUR GRAPES
PEACHES AND SCREAMS
DEATH BY CHOCOLATE
CEREAL KILLER
MURDER A’ LA MODE
CORPSE SUZETTE
FAT FREE AND FATAL
POISONED TARTS
A BODY TO DIE FOR
WICKED CRAVING
A DECADENT WAY TO DIE
BURIED IN BUTTERCREAM
KILLER HONEYMOON
KILLER PHYSIQUE
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS
No sooner had Savannah settled her weary body into the Victorian clawfoot tub full of fragrant bubbles than the phone rang.
“Someday I’ll learn not to bring you in here with me,” she told the cordless phone as she lifted it from the top of the hamper and pressed the ON button.
“Whoever this is, I’m not very happy with you,” she said into the receiver.
The rich, throaty chuckle at the other end made Savannah smile from ear to ear. “Gran! I take it back. You’re the only person on the planet who’s welcome to call me anytime, day or night.”
“Let me guess. You’re taking a bubble bath. And you probably have a few votive candles lit.”
Savannah laughed. “You know me too well.” She sank lower into the bubbles and felt the past week’s tension melt away, thanks to the silky warmth of the water and her grandmother’s soothing presence that could reach three thousand miles and rejuvenate her spirit.
“I taught you everything you know about being a woman. So, are you ready for Christmas? What would you like Santa to bring you?”
“A big handsome hunk, wearing a sprig of mistletoe for a mustache.” Just then there was a beep. “Excuse me, Gran. I’ve got another call.”
Savannah punched the FLASH button. “Hello.”
The instant she heard the sobbing on the other end, Savannah knew someone was in bad trouble.
A woman is fortunate if, sometime during her life, she finds
that one precious friend—another woman who celebrates the
good times with her and offers strong, quiet comfort through the
not-so-good.
A woman is especially fortunate if that other woman is her own
daughter.
This book is dedicated to you
Gwendolynn
For making me
the luckiest mom in the world.
Acknowledgments
Nobody can write a novel alone. Well, this author can’t. So I’d like to say a special thanks to some special people who have helped me “cook” this “goose.” Thanks, guys . . . and ladies. I appreciate you more than I can say.
Bruce Hald
Mary Phelan, C.N.M.
Officer Dave Birkenhead
and
Officer Bob Costello (ret.)
a great cop,
a wonderful husband and father,
and the best neighbor on Long Island
CHAPTER ONE
4:38 P.M.—December 10
“This is just too cool! I can’t believe I’m getting paid to shop!”
Savannah Reid stood inside the cramped cubicle, generously called a fitting room, and watched while her friend and fellow private detective, Tammy Hart, wriggled into a size zero pair of jeans. Being an overly voluptuous size fourteen herself, it was all Savannah could do not to urp the double chili-cheeseburger and triple thick chocolate malt she had consumed for lunch.
Jealousy was an ugly emotion.
“You aren’t getting paid to shop. You don’t get to keep any of the goodies,” she grumbled as Tammy admired her own teeny-tiny butt in the mirror. “You’re getting paid to catch a rapist . . . which we aren’t likely to do in the ladies’ dressing room, since his m.o. is to nab his victims in the parking lot.”
Tammy’s enthusiasm for life was only briefly dampened Bottom lip protruding, she slid out of the jeans and dumped them on the floor. Savannah tried not to notice that the younger, slimmer, disgustingly cellulite-free woman was “not quite” dressed in a purple paisley G-string.
“Have you ever tried wearing a thong?” Tammy asked brightly, pulling on a pair of leggings.
Savannah scowled and shook her head. “Nope. I can’t say that I have.”
In the mirror Savannah saw two women who couldn’t have been more different: an abundantly dimensioned brunette and a blonde with sadly diminishing assets. That was the way Savannah chose to classify them. Savannah was determined to embrace and adore her flesh—all of it—out of sheer rebellion toward an anorexic society that tried to make her feel less than gorgeous because she was thirty pounds over what their charts said she should weigh.
Screw ’em.
That was her motto, and she lived by it.
“Oh, Savannah, you should try wearing thongs. They’re wo-o-onderfully comfortable.”
“Thanks for the tip, but the idea of butt floss doesn’t appeal to me.” Savannah picked up the jeans and began to fold them while Tammy slipped into her blouse.
“No, really,” Tammy continued, undaunted by Savannah’s lack of enthusiasm for the subject. “They make your rear look so cute and—”
“They make your rear look cute, Tam. Buttocks the size of mine should not be allowed to flap freely in the breeze. It constitutes a public hazard.”
She shoved the jeans and Tammy’s purse at her. “Are we about ready to go, or what?”
“Sure. Let’s boogie out to the parking lot!”
Tammy “boogied” everywhere. And she never—well, almost never—took offense. Long ago, Savannah had decided those were Tammy’s two most endearing qualities . . . and her most infuriating ones. Sometimes Savannah genuinely wanted to offend this perky, effervescent assistant of hers. But no matter how dark the insult, Tammy Hart continued to shine. With her golden California tan, glossy blond hair, and Miss U.S.A. personality, the girl was the quintessential sunbeam that sometimes required U.V. protectant shades.
Rarely, but once in a while, Savannah hated “perky.” Especially when she was dead tired, like today. This gig was “wearing her to a frazzle” as her Georgian grandma would say.
“Did you buy enough loot to look like a serious shopper when you’re walking through the parking lot?” Savannah asked.
“Yeah, if I get these jeans, too. They fit really great, don’t you think?”
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Savannah searched Tammy’s face for some sign that she was operating in reality mode. No indication was immediately visible.
“Tammy, it doesn’t matter if the jeans fit or not. As soon as we catch this guy, the job’s over, and we have to return all this stuff to the mall. That’s why I told you to be sure and save all your receipts. We’re undercover here, trying to catch a rapist. It’s fake shopping. Got it?”
Tammy sighed and pulled back the cubicle’s curtain. “Of course I understand, Savannah. Do you think I’m a bimbo, or what?”
Following her out of the dressing room, Savannah chose her words carefully. “No. I don’t think you’re a bimbo. But I think that maybe you think you are, because sometimes you . . . well . . . you sorta act like one.”
Tammy stopped abruptly and Savannah nearly crashed into the back of her. “What kind of psycho-babble is that?”
“See. That’s what I mean. A real bimbo wouldn’t use the term psycho-babble.”
“Gee, thanks. I guess.”
At the door they were stopped by the fitting-room attendant, a bleary-eyed, middle-aged woman who appeared to be suffering from Holiday Overtime Meltdown Syndrome.
“Here you go.” Tammy shoved three shirts and a dress in the attendant’s direction along with the red, plastic tag bearing the number 5. “I’m keeping the jeans.”
The woman took the unwanted garments from Tammy and tossed them onto a heap behind her counter. “Merry Christmas,” she muttered in the same tone of voice usually reserved for bidding someone a speedy bon voyage to Hades.
Savannah was about to return the blessing, when a male voice began to speak . . . from the vicinity of Tammy’s chest.
“What are you broads doing in there . . . ” The words were gruff and static-fried. “. . . buying out the whole damned store while I’m roasting my chestnuts out here in the parking lot?”
“Oh, my God! What was that?” The attendant’s eyes bugged as though she had just witnessed irrefutable evidence of demon possession. Several plastic tags that she had been holding fluttered to the floor. “Did your . . . your bra just say something?”
“Naw,” Savannah told her in a lazy, Dixie drawl, “it’s just her right boob. Sometimes it has political arguments with the other one about being too far left.”
Tammy snickered, but the attendant gave Savannah the same animated look of a stale fish market trout.
“Cute,” Tammy whispered to Savannah as they walked away from the woman without further explanation. “But I don’t think she got your joke.”
“Nope. Sailed over her head like an origami airplane. But she did have a point. Why are we hearing Dirk? He’s only supposed to come through on the earpiece.”
Ducking behind a rack of coats, Tammy pulled back her shirt lapel and exposed the tiny communication unit taped to her breast. “Dirk’s police department reject equipment is fritzing out again . . . big surprise there.”
“It’s not my equipment’s fault,” said the voice that sounded like it was broadcasting from a pan of sizzling bacon. “It’s the ding-a-ling that’s using it. You probably pulled the earpiece out when you were trying on all those clothes.”
Tammy traced the thin wire from the plug in her ear, beneath her hair and to the disconnected jack in her bra.
“He’s right,” she said. Dropping her voice to a stage whisper, she added, “Dam . . . did he hear what I said about thongs.”
“Yeah, but he’s half deaf,” Savannah replied. “He probably thought you said songs.”
“I don’t care what songs you’re singing in there,” Dirk returned. “Get out here so you can be mugged, raped, abducted, or whatever. I ain’t got all day, you know.”
Tammy reached down and put her hand over the microphone. “I know he’s your best friend, but that guy really gets on my nerves sometimes.”
Savannah chuckled and guided Tammy toward the checkout stand. “He gets on everybody’s nerves sometimes. Let’s buy those jeans and get outta here. He sounds like he’s about at the end of his three-inch patience tether. Besides, we’ve got a rapist who’s not exactly spreading holiday cheer. And nabbing his mangy ass would really make my day.”
4:47 P.M.
Savannah and Tammy parted ways at the south end of the mall, near Burger King, with Savannah heading for the back parking lot, while Tammy and her carefully chosen purchases took the front.
They had been “mock shopping” all day, but now that the sun had set, Savannah insisted on patrolling the back where fewer shoppers, thick shrubbery and reduced lighting increased the likelihood of an attempted nabbing by the rapist. Tammy had made only a feeble objection; this gig was her first true decoy assignment and she, as well as Savannah, knew her limitations.
The moment Savannah opened the back door and stepped into the late afternoon winter darkness outside, she thought for half a second it was snowing. Then she caught a whiff of smoke and knew the flakes that were falling from the California December sky were ashes, the result of an out-of-control brush-fire on the hill. From where she stood she could see, several miles away, the eerie, bloodred line of glowing flames that lit the dark horizon on the east side of town. Like some sort of grotesque, luminous serpent, it wriggled its path up the black hill, consuming a decade’s growth of sage, marguerites, and miscellaneous scrub brush.
“It’s a little hard to get into the Christmas spirit,” she muttered to herself, “when it’s eighty degrees and the hills are aflame.”
She licked her forefinger and stuck it in the air. The breeze was coming from the ocean, an on-shore flow. That was a good thing, especially for the San Carmelita citizens who lived in the fancy houses with the best views in town—the ones at the top of the semi-charred hill. As long as the wind continued to blow east, they might sleep through the night without that knock at the front door, a fire department representative announcing an unscheduled, emergency evacuation.
Ah, the joys of being an upper-middle-class Californian, Savannah thought, congratulating herself on having the good fortune to be a lower-middle-class private detective. She lived smack in the middle of town, far away from the ocean view lots, with their fire hazards, or the seaside properties, with their potential for high-tide flooding.
Yep. Savannah was damned lucky to be poor. She wouldn’t have it any other way.
Switching into her professional “Come-And-Get-Me-You-Ugly-Sucker,” mode, she tucked her few packages under her arm and sauntered toward her car, which was parked in the far rear of the lot. She tried to look harried, absentminded, dog-tired and as wimpy as possible. A rapist’s idea of the perfect date.
In her peripheral vision she watched an elderly lady climbing into her Cadillac parked in the handicapped space, the young couple pushing a baby stroller with a screeching child inside, and her most likely suspect, a scruffy guy wearing a T-shirt upon which had been scrawled in black marker the warm sentiment, “Shoot ’em all and let God sort ’em out!”
The guy had his head stuck under the opened hood of an equally scruffy, long-past-its-prime Dodge Dart. As Savannah walked by on the way to her classic Camaro, he eyed her so lasciviously that she half expected him to start drooling down the front of his offensive shirt.
“White trash,” she muttered as she passed him, echoing her Granny Reid’s sentiments about men who couldn’t keep their eyes in their sockets when a pair of boobs bounced by.
“What did you say?” Dirk asked in her earpiece.
“Nothing,” she whispered. “Just talking to myself. Where are you?”
“By the food court.”
“Now, why doesn’t that surprise me? And how about you, Tammy? Is your unit working okay?”
“Yeah,” came the reply. “I can hear you in my ear instead of in my blouse.”
“That’s an improvement.”
“So, does anybody see our friend?” Dirk asked.
“I don’t,” Tammy answered. “The most suspicious character I see over here is a Girl Scout selling cookies and a Salv
ation Army lady ringing a bell.”
“Nobody here either,” Savannah replied, giving up on the yahoo with the brokendown Dart. Now that he had enjoyed his little “out of body experience” with her, he was back to scraping the corroded terminals of his battery.
“Wait a minute. I see somebody,” Tammy said. Savannah could hear the excitement mixed with fear in her voice. This might be for real.
“What is it?” she heard Dirk ask.
Instantly, Savannah whirled around and started back toward the mall. The jerk under the hood gave her an expectant look as she hurried by him, as though hopeful that she had changed her mind.
“A guy in a red and green plaid lumberjack’s shirt,” Tammy whispered. “With a long white beard!”
The Santa Rapist, as the newspapers were calling him, had abducted half a dozen women from this mall parking lot in the past month. The women had been driven to nearby orange groves, raped and badly beaten. All six victims had claimed the attacker wore a fake Santa’s beard as a disguise.
“He’s watching me,” Tammy said as Savannah rushed back into the mall, past Burger King and out the front door. “He’s coming this way.”
“Just be calm, sweetie,” Savannah told her. “We’re on our way. Head for your car, just like we talked about. Open the trunk and slowly, calmly put your bags inside. But don’t actually get into the car. Wait for us.”
Cooked Goose Page 1
