Cooked Goose

by G. A. McKevett

  “I want a hot dog,” he said. “Where are your buns, Aunt S’vannah?”

  Every burner on her stove was blazing. Savannah hurried to turn them off, but slipped on something slick and had to grab the edge of the counter to keep from falling. “Who . . . what . . .?”

  “I turned the stove on all by myself,” Jack said proudly as he dragged a loaf of bread from the cupboard. “I want to make the hot dog hot.”

  “Hot? Hot!” Savannah said, her temper soaring along with the heat on the top of her stove. She grabbed the boy, hauled him off the counter and set him on the floor.

  Behind her, Savannah could hear Vidalia make a couple of whimpering noises that sounded like muffled protestations, but she ignored her. She also chose to disregard the giggling she heard coming from Margie’s general direction.

  She dropped to one knee, eye level with her nephew. “So, big boy, you want a hot dog. Is that right?” she asked him.

  He nodded.

  “Well, next time, you ask for one and some grown-up person will turn on the stove and make it hot for you. Do you understand?”

  Another nod.

  “Because if you ever touch my stove knobs again, young man, I’ll turn you over my knee and when I get finished with you, your hind end will be hotter than a pepper sprout. Got it?”

  “Got it, Aunt S’vannah.” He nodded again vigorously, blond curls bobbing, but the mischievous twinkle in his eyes didn’t quite portray the picture of the vanquished spirit she had hoped for.

  She turned her attention to her niece who was hanging, half in, half out of the open refrigerator. “And what are you doing there, young lady?”

  “Making grape juice.”

  “Making grape . . .?” Ah, the mystery of the slimy object—correction, objects—on the floor had been solved. Savannah watched, as though in slow motion, as her darling niece tossed yet another red grape onto the floor and stomped it with her shiny, black, patent leather shoe.

  “See?” the girl announced. “Grape juice. And we don’t have to go to the store!”

  Savannah turned to her younger sister. The cherubim were, after all, her offspring and theoretically her responsibility.

  “See why I’m so tired all the time?” Vidalia said wearily. “If you don’t mind watching them for a few hours, I’m going to go take a nice, long nap.”

  Savannah watched as her sister lumbered away into the living room and collapsed across the sofa. She did look exhausted, but . . .

  Looking back at the twins and their bright, beaming countenances, Savannah remembered hearing once in Sunday school that evil spirits sometimes disguise themselves as angels of light.

  Well, these two hellions weren’t demons, just undisciplined, lovable kids who had been allowed to get away with murder for the past five years. It shouldn’t be that hard to get them under control, right?

  She reached for the roll of paper towels on the counter and pulled off half a dozen. She handed several to Jillian and the rest to Jack. “Okay, you two,” she said. “On your hands and knees. You’re at Fort Reid now, and we’re gonna learn a little game called KP.”

  “I don’t think I’m going to like this game,” Jillian said, sticking out her lower lip in an adorable pout.

  “You don’t have to like it,” Savannah told her, ruffling her curls. “You just have to do it.”

  7:28 P.M.

  Dirk walked into Savannah’s kitchen, sniffed the sugar-cookie-scented air and walked over to the table where Savannah, Margie, the twins and a refreshed Vidalia were decorating the latest ones to come from the oven.

  “Well, if this isn’t cozy,” he said, eyeing the platter brimming with goodies. “The picture of holiday family bliss.”

  “Looks can be deceiving,” Savannah muttered. “Sit down and decorate with us.”

  After being introduced to Vidalia and the children, and giving Margie a high five, he pulled out a chair and reached for the platter. “I’ll eat ‘em, but I don’t want to decorate nothing’,” he said. “That decorating’s girl stuff.”

  “It ain’t neither girl stuff,” Jack said, looking as indignant as he could, considering the green frosting smeared across one cheek and the chocolate sprinkles stuck to his chin. “I’m doin’ it, and I ain’t no girl! And my cookie ain’t no girl neither!”

  He pointed to the cookie man in front of him who was sporting an icing penis of monumental proportions. Jack had recently reached the age where the anatomical differences between the genders was consuming most of his waking thoughts. A state of mind that would typically last for the next eighty-plus years of his life.

  Dirk chuckled. “You’re all boy, that’s for sure,” he told the child, tweaking some of the chocolate off his chin. “And so’s that cookie you’re working on. Hand me one of those and some frosting, and I’ll see what I can do with it.”

  “Nothing obscene,” Savannah whispered.

  “But he—”

  “He’s five years old. You know better. At least, you should.”

  “Hel- . . . heck. You take all the fun out of everything.”

  A few minutes later, Savannah leaned over his shoulder and studied his creation, a cookie man wearing a white beard and a red hat.

  “Mmmm . . .” she said softly, “. . . anybody we know?”

  “After the business with the rings, I’m beginning to wonder,” he replied.

  “What’s that?” Margie said, glancing up from her reindeer, who had a silver stud in his red nose and several others in his ears.

  “Nothing,” Savannah told her, “just shop talk.”

  “Speaking of shop talk,” Dirk said as he began to chew the legs off his Santa. “Do you mind if we take a walk around the block? I don’t want to bore these guys with the details, but I had something I wanted to run by you.”

  Savannah doubted that any “details” would be boring. Quite the contrary. She appreciated Dirk’s discretion; he could be sensitive when he had a mind to be.

  “Let’s go,” she said, grabbing a couple of bells and a star for herself. “Will you be okay, Vi, if I’m gone for a few minutes?”

  Vidalia instantly deflated. “Well . . . I was hoping you’d watch the kids while I take another nap, but I guess I don’t have to. It’s just that my back hurts so bad and . . .”

  Savannah glanced at Margie, whose eyes widened with horror at the very thought. And Savannah couldn’t really blame her.

  “I’m only going to be gone ten minutes, Vi,” she said in her most authoritative, but gentle, big sister voice. “I’m sure you can stay awake and watch your kids that long. When I get back, I’ll give them baths and put them to bed.”

  “Oh . . . all right . . . I guess . . .”

  As Savannah walked out the front door with Dirk she could almost hear the crackling of the flames around the stake where Saint Vidalia suffered. And her final words rang in her ears, “I just can’t get any help with my children . . . not from my sister . . . not from that sorry excuse of a husband of mine . . . not from . . .”

  Savannah and Dirk hit the sidewalk and turned north, taking their time as they strolled through the quaint neighborhood of tiny Spanish-style bungalows, palm trees and bougainvillea-covered fences. The smells of evening meals and the sounds of television, conversations and music drifted from her neighbors’ houses and filled the cool, moist air.

  Christmas decorations glistened on most houses. Some had only a simple strand of lights, hurriedly tacked to eaves. Other yards looked like miniature Las Vegas casinos with animated Santas, elves, reindeer and angels, flashing Nativity scenes, and myriad lights twinkling in every tree and bush.

  Dirk walked along, his face solemn and thoughtful, his hands shoved deep into his jeans pockets. Savannah slipped her arm through his, enjoying the peaceful, easy moment. One of the nicest things about Dirk was that he was as comfortable as an old slipper and required so little effort.

  It was one of the few times this holiday season that Savannah had taken a moment to feel the Chri
stmas spirit. But a sideways glance at Dirk told her that he wasn’t sharing the moment with her. His mind was elsewhere. She didn’t have to think hard or long to figure out where.

  “What did you want to talk to me about?” she asked. “Is there anything new on the case?”

  “Well, maybe. I just found out this evening, Edward Stipp was released from San Quentin a couple of months ago.”

  “He got paroled? What are those stupid boards thinking, letting a cop killer—”

  “He wasn’t paroled; he’d served his time. They had to let him out.”

  “I don’t remember hearing about this.”

  “And that ain’t just because you’re gettin’ senile. They kept it quiet, let him out and shipped him down to San Diego. Unfortunately, he didn’t stay there.”

  Savannah stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and stared at him. “Don’t tell me . . .”

  Dirk gave her a tired, grim smile. “We’ve got us a new neighbor. He’s living in one of those rundown shacks on the east end.”

  “By the oil fields?”

  “He’s been holed up there for the past six weeks. Prison officials knew he was here, knew we were missing cops, but do you think anybody bothered to drop a dime?”

  “Those stupid peckerheads!”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “How did you find out he’s here?”

  “Brenda Lally’s working traffic out on the east end now. He left this shit heap of a car parked right in the middle of the street while he ran into a liquor store for smokes and booze late this morning. She wrote him up, he threw a fit, and she recognized him. Of course, he’s twenty-some years older now, but he’s ugly as ever.”

  “You’ve seen him?”

  “Of course. She called me this afternoon and I was out there ten minutes later.”

  Impatient, she nudged his ribs. “And . . .?”

  “He wouldn’t talk to me.”

  “So you . . .?”

  “Hauled his ugly butt down to the station, hassled him for a couple of hours. Nothin’.”

  “The thumbscrews wouldn’t work?”

  “Nope, the bamboo skewers either.”

  “Maybe you weren’t shoving them in the right orifice.”

  They continued their walk, but the joy of the season was lost on Savannah, due to the bad taste in her mouth and the filthy, creeping sensation she felt when she thought of an animal like Edward Stipp, who never should have seen the light of day after killing a young cop, execution-style in a lettuce field. Stipp had the good fortune of committing his murder before the death penalty had been reinstated in California. He had been in his twenties at the time. Thirty years later, he was still plenty young enough to be dangerous.

  “Is he still spouting hatred for anybody with a badge?” Savannah asked.

  “He offered to shove mine up my ass for me.”

  Savannah did an instant replay on the dead cops and caught her breath. “I suppose that’s a commonly expressed sentiment. Probably doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Probably not.”

  They rounded the corner and headed back to Savannah’s house. She noticed how boring her home was, compared to her festive neighbors’ places. She decided she should at least string a few bulbs on Bogey the Bougainvillea . . . for the kids’ sake, if not for hers.

  “So, the ‘interview’ wasn’t particularly fruitful, huh? Did you get a search warrant for his dump?” she asked.

  “Nope. That bleedin’ heart liberal, Judge Burrell, said I didn’t have nothin’. Wouldn’t give me one.”

  “You want me to check it out? Us P.l.s aren’t that picky about the paperwork.”

  He laughed. “Naw, you’re gettin’ quite a rap sheet full of suspected B&E’s, thanks to me. Liberal-hearted Burrell might actually send you away next time.”

  “Mmmmm. Where does Stipp hang out these days?” she asked as a plan formed in her head.

  “Mostly at the Shoreline Club, late at night. Why?”

  She shrugged. “Just thinking that I haven’t breathed my quota of stale smoke and beer fumes this month. I’ve got a black leather skirt and some fishnet hose that are getting dusty in a bottom dresser drawer.”

  He gave her an amused, grateful look. “You’re a pisser, Van, you know that? You’d wear leather and fishnets for me?”

  “I’d do anything for you, big boy,” she said, giving him a quick peck on the cheek.

  “Anything?”

  She gouged him with her elbow. “Get real.”

  He sighed. “That’s what I thought. You’re just messin’ with me again.”

  As they sauntered up the sidewalk to her front door, Savannah savored her last few seconds of peace and quiet, while one part of her brain tried to recall if she had any Winnie the Pooh bubble bath stashed beneath her bathroom sink.

  “By the way,” she said, her hand on the doorknob. “Exactly what happened . . . the minute after Stipp told you to shove your badge where the sun don’t shine?”

  Dirk sniffed. “Funny thing. At that very moment, Stipp lost his balance and fell. Banged his right eye on a door frame. Got himself a nasty shiner.”

  “Really? Imagine that.” She reached down for his hand, held it up to the porch light, and studied his slightly skinned knuckles. “How did this happen? Did you, ah, hit the door frame, too?”

  “I was trying to grab him, keep him from fallin’.” He shrugged and shook his head sadly. “Damn . . . I guess I missed.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  8:01 P.M.

  Savannah picked up the phone in her bedroom and punched out Tammy’s number. Any young woman as attractive as Tam should be out at this time of night, sharing a meal . . . and maybe even dessert . . . with an equally attractive male.

  But Savannah knew she would be home.

  Long ago, Savannah had formulated the theory that the more attractive a woman was, the less likely she was to be asked out on a date. Super homely gals didn’t seem to receive a lot of invitations either. But those ladies in the middle, the girl-next-door types—they were scarfing up on the men.

  At least, that was the reason Savannah preferred to explain why she was seldom asked . . . unless you counted dinner with a couple of gay gentlemen or happy hour beer and pretzels with Dirk.

  She didn’t count those.

  “Hi, babycakes,” she said when Tammy picked up the phone. “What ‘cha doin’?”

  Tammy sounded so out of breath that, for a second, Savannah reconsidered. Maybe her assistant wasn’t that lonely after all.

  Then Tammy answered Savannah’s question with a panted, “Working out. Floor exercises. Sit-ups and—”

  “Never mind, you make me tired just thinking about it. Have you got a pair of five-inch heels?”

  Tammy was quiet for a moment, thinking. “I think so. Why? Do you want to borrow them?”

  “No, I want you to wear them. I’ll be wearing my own, five and a half inches, bright red.”

  “Me? Why? Are we going to play Hookers on the Stroll?”

  “No, just Loose Ladies on the Town.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “About four inches of leg and three inches of cleavage. We just want them to drool, not shove money in our garter belt. Get ready. I’ll pick you up around 2200 hours.”

  9:12 P.M.

  “Your sister doesn’t like me, and I have to tell you, I’m not too crazy about her either,” Margie said as she stood in the doorway of Savannah’s bedroom and watched her pulling her “fallen woman garb” from various dresser drawers.

  “Oh?” Savannah studied the small rip in the hem of her leather skirt—thanks to a tussle she had been in with a porn shop robber . . . another assignment of Dirk’s. It wasn’t that big a tear. She doubted that Edward Stipp, after all those years in San Quentin, would even notice, let alone give a hoot. “Did something happen between you two while I was walking with Dirk?” she asked.

  “Kinda.” Margie walked into the room, gave a furtive glance down
the hall, and quietly closed the door behind her.

  “You don’t have to sneak,” Savannah told her. “Vi once slept right through a Georgia twister. The tornado tore most of the roof off, but when it had moved on down the road, we found Vidalia still snoring away in her bed. So, tell me . . . what’s up?”

  Margie walked over to Savannah’s bed and plopped down on her tummy, her black-booted feet waving in the air. “She got mad because she said I hollered at her kids. That was the word she used, ‘hollered.’ ”

  “I see.” Savannah searched through her closet until she found the disco-era red satin blouse with the deep vee neckline. Then she took the assorted garments into the adjoining bathroom and went inside to dress. She left the door open while she changed so they could continue their conversation. “Well,” she said as she slipped off her sweater and slacks, “did you . . . holler, that is?”

  “Kinda. I told Jack he was a rotten little booger rat and I said it pretty loud. I guess that was hollering.”

  Savannah stuck her head out of the bathroom and gave Margie a curious grin. “Booger rat? Where did you get that?”

  Margie giggled. “I don’t know. Just sorta made it up on the spot.”

  “Mmmm . . . different.” Savannah ducked back inside and began to slip on the garters and fishnets. “And what had he done to earn such an auspicious title?”

  “He made some nasty comments about my hair and my nose ring. And I’d already told him two or three times to shut up . . . nicely, of course.”

  “Of course.” Savannah grunted, trying to contain her burgeoning bosom in a push-up bra. Might as well give ol’ Ed the cop killer an eyeful. If he was up to his nasty former habits, she would use any wiles, feminine or otherwise, to find him out.

  “And I waited for Vidalia to tell him to be nice,” Margie continued, “you know, like a mom’s supposed to do, but she didn’t. So I got mad and . . .”

  “And hollered, ‘Booger rat!’ ”

  “Something like that.”