Cooked Goose

by G. A. McKevett

  “I wanted to.” Dirk popped an apple slice into his mouth along with a chocolate-dipped banana hunk. “But the captain told me not to. Says he wants to keep that particular element under wraps for the moment.”

  Gibson continued to study the ring, turning over and over in the light of Savannah’s Tiffany-style lamp. “This isn’t an especially good piece of jewelry. The workmanship is a bit amateurish. And there’s no stamp to indicate the gold content, although I’d say it’s low, probably about nine karat. It may have been cast by a local smith.”

  “I’ve already checked every jewelry shop in town,” Dirk said. “They’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “I’ll bet your captain is putting the pressure on,” Ryan said, giving Dirk a look of sympathy mixed with a bit of respect. Dirk seemed to respond with a modicum of gratitude. Savannah smiled inwardly; maybe her best friends would learn to tolerate each other, after all.

  “Pressure? Not really.” Dirk glanced into the living room and lowered his voice. “To be honest, the captain’s been a little weird about this, low key, like he doesn’t give a damn if I wrap it up or not.”

  “Mm-m-m-m.” Gibson handed back the ring. “That is rather strange. With his officers dropping like the proverbial flies, you’d think he’d have a burning desire to see this chap apprehended as soon as possible.”

  Savannah was about to ask every one if they were ready for coffee, when the doorbell rang. She glanced at the clock on her kitchen wall. “It’s after eight. I wonder who that is?”

  She stood and wiped the chocolate from her fingertips on her napkin. Quietly, she said, “Maybe it’s Bloss, come to acknowledge his daughter’s existence for a change. She’s only received a couple of one-minute phone calls from him since she got here. And it being Christmas.”

  But when Savannah opened the door, she saw—not the hated Bloss—but another male who wasn’t much higher on her list. “Butch!” she said. “What a shock . . . I mean, surprise!”

  Looking over his shoulder, Savannah could see an ancient battleship of some sort sitting at the curb. She couldn’t believe he had driven the thing all the way from Georgia without a breakdown.

  Her brother-in-law pushed past her and into the small foyer. He was skinny, dirty-haired, slovenly dressed and in need of a shave. In Savannah’s estimation, the epitome of “yahoo.” Weekly she watched more upstanding-looking citizens arrested on the television show, Cops.

  And he didn’t appear to be in a very good mood.

  “Where is she?” he demanded. She could smell the beer on his breath and the aroma of pot smoke on his clothes.

  “Who? Vidalia?”

  “Uh-huh. That so-called wife of mine. Took off with my kids and hauled ’em halfway to China. Where is she?”

  She grabbed the sleeve of his rumpled T-shirt. “She’s asleep. And your kids are having a story read to them, so why don’t you keep your voice down and—”

  “Who the hell are you to tell me to keep my voice down? You may be Vi’s big sis, but you ain’t mine.”

  “Listen, you,” she said. “This is my home, and while you’re in it you’ll keep your voice down and behave yourself like a gentleman. Because if you don’t, you’re leaving . . . before you even catch a glimpse of your family.”

  “And who’s gonna throw me out on my ear, you?”

  Savannah gave him her dirtiest look and shoved her face close to his. “Think about it, Butch. My right thigh weighs more than your scrawny ass, and the rest of you, too. Now, do you really want to wrestle?”

  He thought that one over for a moment and reconsidered. “I want to see my kids. I want to have a word . . . a nice, quiet, talkin’ to . . . with my wife. That’s all.”

  “Then you stay right here and I’ll send the kids out to you,” she told him, releasing his sleeve. “And I’ll ask Vidalia if she wants to receive a nice, quiet talkin’ from you.”

  Savannah walked into the living room and told the half-asleep children in Margie’s lap that someone wanted to see them in the hall. Then she walked over to her snoring sister, sprawled in her easy chair.

  “Vi,” she said, shaking her arm. “Vidalia, wake up.”

  “Huh? Wh- . . . what?” The dead stirred to life.

  “I’m sorry to wake you, but it seems your husband has driven all the way from Georgia, and he wants to talk to you.”

  She came wide awake. “Butch? Where?”

  “He’s in my front hall. I sent the kids out to him. But he wants to speak to you, swears he’ll be calm.”

  Vidalia sat up straight and wiped the sleep spittle from the corner of her mouth. “You tell that sonofabitch that he can go straight to hell. He and me ain’t talkin’.”

  Savannah stood there for a long moment, weighing the situation. She glanced at Margie and saw the sympathy in her eyes. Over the years, Savannah had done a lot for her siblings . . . probably way too much. They needed to be weaned and there was no time like the present.

  “Tell me something,” she said to her younger sister, who had already settled back down in the chair.

  “What?”

  “In all the time the two of you have been together, has Butch ever hit you?”

  “Hit me? No, of course not.”

  “Not even a little bitty smack on the jaws?”

  She laughed. “Are you crazy? He knows if he ever raised a hand to me, I’d stomp a mud hole in him.”

  “Okay, then that stuff about telling him to go to hell . . .”

  “What about it?”

  “You tell him yourself. I’m stayin’ out of it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  December 19—10:54 A.M.

  “I’m sure there must be a good reason why you would ask me to leave my loving home and spend my morning slumming with you,” Savannah told Dirk as he drove her into the valley at the east end of town . . . not by any means the high rent district.

  “I did it for you,” he said proudly. “I took one look at you last night, after your sister and her old man had their run-in and knew you needed to get out of there.”

  He turned the corner and headed into the worst of the worst section. Every wall was covered with graffiti, every yard was littered with brokendown vehicles. Sagging porches supported old sofas and chairs that were bristling with rusty springs.

  “Great neighborhood,” Savannah said. “A German Shepherd would be afraid to walk these streets after dark without a pit bull on a leash. Why are we here? Is there a new donut shop opening and they’re giving away samples?”

  Dirk shot her an indignant look. “You’re a bitter, cynical woman, Reid. And suspicious. Did I mention suspicious?”

  “Wherever we’re going, we’re probably just about there. Now why don’t you tell me what you want me to do?”

  “Will you do it?”

  “Don’t I always?”

  He laughed. “You can’t help yourself, Van. You’re just a sucker for my pretty face.”

  “There must be a reason, but I’m sure that ain’t it. What am I doing for you this time?”

  Pulling the Buick over to the side of the road near a transmission-repair garage, he said, “I’ve got a lead and I think—you bein’ a chick and all—that you’d be better at gettin’ the information outta her than me.”

  “It’s a ‘her.’ Ah, that says a lot.”

  “What do you mean? Are you sayin’ I’m not good with women?”

  Savannah raised one eyebrow and grinned at him. “Do you think you are?”

  He shrugged. “Not particularly. But then, I’m not all that good with guys either, so . . .”

  “Does this female lead of yours work at this transmission place?”

  “No. She lives up the street.” He pointed to some ramshackle apartments ahead on the corner. “She works at Ricky’s, that new topless joint in Two Trees. She’s a stripper, and from what I hear, DeCianni was seeing her for the past few months.”

  “He was seeing more of her than the average customer at Ricky’s got to see
?”

  “Apparently so. And I hear the two of them weren’t gettin’ along so good lately. Had a big fight a few days before he got it.”

  “You want me to just go in straight, as a P.I.?”

  He laughed. “Well, of course. I wouldn’t suggest you lie, or anything like that.”

  “Right. Or if she isn’t home, you wouldn’t want me to break in and check things out.”

  “Of course not. But if you get caught or killed, I’ll disavow any knowledge of your actions.”

  “Thanks. Drive.”

  Moon Shadow looked just flaky enough that Savannah decided her name might actually be Moon Shadow. What a ridiculous name for an exotic dancer. She just had to get a lot of teasing about that one.

  Moon stood in the doorway of her apartment, wearing a tube top and Daisy Mae shorts. Her body might once have been good, but it was long past its prime. The sad thing was, Moon wasn’t much over thirty and her prime shouldn’t have come and gone so quickly.

  The cigarette in one hand, the glass of booze in the other, and the track marks on her arm provided clues as to why she had lost her youth early.

  “Who are you?” she asked without preamble.

  “My name is Savannah Reid,” she told her. “I’m a private investigator and I’m looking into the Donald DeCianni homicide. I understand you and he were good friends.”

  “Then you understand wrong. I hated his guts, the lousy bastard.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  Long ago, Savannah had decided that the best way to find out something you wanted to know was just to ask. Of course, the replies were seldom truthful, but she could read the answers she needed in the person’s eyes and their body language.

  “No, I didn’t kill him,” Moon said. Her eyes said the same. “But I’m glad he’s dead. Real glad.”

  “Do you know who did?”

  “No, but I’d like to shake his hand. He did the world, and me, a big favor.”

  “Boy, you really are mad. Do you want to talk about it?”

  Savannah had learned that, often, if a person had no one to talk to, the thought of unburdening themselves to a stranger was a deep comfort. Everyone needed to talk to someone; it was a basic human necessity. Savannah was betting that Moon Shadow was as lonely and as in need of a listener as she looked.

  The bet paid off. She opened the rusty screen door and said, “Come on in, lady. I’ll give you an earful.”

  And she did. An hour later, Savannah walked out to the sidewalk, called Dirk on her cell phone, and told him to pick her up. She had more down and dirty gossip than she would have garnered if she had spent an entire Sunday afternoon sitting in the swing with Gran on her front porch in Georgia.

  Dirk must have been waiting around the corner, because he picked her up within a minute.

  “She’s pregnant,” Savannah announced the instant she climbed into the car. “Not as pregnant as Vidalia, but there’s definitely a cinnamon bun in the oven. Ask me who the baker was?”

  Dirk was as alert as Savannah’s cats when they heard the whir of an electric can opener. “DeCianni, right?”

  “Maybe. She doesn’t know for sure. But she swears it was either him or the other guy she was seeing.”

  “Who?”

  “Joe.”

  “McGivney? No way!”

  “Yep. Seems she was having deep, meaningful, soul-centered relationships with both guys until two months ago when McGivney found out. That was also about the time she figured out she was pregnant.”

  “So she’s about four months along?”

  “Just starting to show a little. I guess her days of shaking it at Ricky’s are numbered.”

  Dirk headed west, out of the valley and toward the ocean. In the distance they could see the white-capped waves glittering in the noon day sun. The temperature would probably reach eighty within the hour. A perfect Southern California day. Not very Christmas-like, but perfect.

  “How did she stand with these guys,” Dirk said, “once they found out they weren’t her one and only?”

  “They dumped her; she hated them. Pretty simple.”

  “Do you think she had anything to do with them being killed?”

  “I don’t think she did it herself. She mentioned an older brother. You might want to check him out. A guy named Star Shadow.”

  “You’re kidding. That Shadow crap is for real? I assumed it was her stage name.”

  “Hippie parents.”

  “Oh. Figures.”

  “And one other possibility. She says that fooling around on their women wasn’t their only vice. They were both in deep to Jorge Maldonado.”

  “The bookie out in Oak Creek?”

  “I understand Jorge’s special form of debt enforcement is kneecap displacement.”

  “Wonder how he feels about stuffing badges in dead cops’ mouths?”

  “Maybe you should pay him a visit and see if he strikes you as the creative type.”

  “First things first.”

  They had arrived at the beach, and he pulled the car into the parking lot beneath the pier. Seagulls swirled overhead. A couple of kids in bright pink and yellow bathing suits were playing on the swing set closer to the pier. An idyllic setting, but Savannah was suspicious.

  “Why are we here?” she asked. “Don’t tell me we’re going to be looking for bodies again.”

  “Nope.” He reached into the backseat and grabbed a couple of small white bags. “This visit is purely social. I’ve gotta pay you somehow for the good job you did for me just now, so . . .”

  He opened the first sack and pulled out a couple of Styrofoam cups filled with coffee, some sugar, creamer and stir sticks. The second bag held half a dozen donuts.

  “Coffee and donuts beside the bright, blue sea,” he said proudly. “Now don’t say I don’t take care of my women.”

  “Women?” She laughed. “Like you’ve got more than one. I’m it, buddy. I’m all you got.”

  “All right. I take care of you.” He handed her a Boston cream filled and took out a big bear claw for himself.

  “You do, indeed, big spender,” she said, giving him a smile before she bit into the gooey pastry.

  They munched and sipped in silence for a while. Then she said, “These taste like the ones we used to get on midnight patrol out at Miguel’s Quick Stop there in the valley.”

  He avoided her eyes, took another big bite and grunted.

  “So,” she said, “Miguel still gives you freebies, huh?”

  “Just shut up and eat.”

  5:02 P.M.

  Savannah and Margie stood at the kitchen sink, squeezing lemons for yet another gallon or so of lemonade. At the table, the twins were rolling Play-Doh into snakes and arguing whether theirs were girls or boys. Predictably, Jack had placed a penis and testicles on his.

  From the window where she stood, Savannah could see Vidalia and Butch sitting on lawn chairs beneath the arbor in her backyard. The occasional angry word drifted back to the house. They hadn’t stopped arguing since he had arrived last night.

  He had spent the night on her sofa and Margie had bunked with Savannah again.

  Ah . . . there was nothing like the bliss of having family home for the holidays.

  “You guys go through a lot of this stuff,” Margie said. “I’ve never squeezed so many lemons in my life.”

  “It’s cheaper than soft drinks,” Savannah replied, dumping an obscene amount of sugar into the pitcher. “And with this many mouths to feed, I have to cut corners wherever I can.”

  An expression crossed Margie’s face that looked a lot like guilt. “I’m sorry we’ve all barged in on you like this. You’re used to living alone, all peaceful and then here come the troops. You must feel like you’ve been invaded.”

  “It’s not that bad. And you don’t have to feel guilty about how much you eat or how much lemonade you drink. You’re the only paying guest in the house.”

  “You mean, my dad is paying you to let me stay here?”


  “Well, he brought over that batch of groceries and . . .”

  “And that’s the last we saw of him.” Her voice trailed away and Savannah could see the glint of tears in her eyes. Damn anyone who could bring a child into the world and then forget they exist.

  “I’m glad you’re here, kiddo,” Savannah told her as she shoved the lemon rinds into the garbage disposal and rinsed her hands. “Really glad.”

  A few choice phrases floated through the open window from the backyard; it sounded like the fight was heating up.

  A second later, Vidalia came storming through the house, muttering something about turning her husband into a gelding, and stomped upstairs. The bedroom door slammed so hard that the dishes in the kitchen cupboard rattled.

  “Would you mind keeping an eye on those two?” Savannah said, nodding toward the twins who had graduated to curling their snakes into snails. “I’m going to go have a word with my dear brother-in-law.”

  “Sure, no problem. I still like messing with Play-Doh.”

  Savannah grabbed a cold beer from the refrigerator, poured a glass of icy lemonade from the pitcher, and joined Butch beneath the arbor.

  It was a warm evening, and he had a glossy coat of sweat on his fotehead . . . although she guessed the perspiration might be due to arguing with Vidalia. From experience she knew it was hard work.

  “Your sister’s bananas,” he said, popping the top on the beer. “She’s gone off the deep end this time. She says she’s gonna divorce me, and I think she actually means it.”

  “I doubt she means it. It’s probably just the hormones talking.”

  “She can’t divorce me,” he said, looking genuinely distressed. “She can’t handle the twins by herself and with another one coming in a couple of months. She’s plum crazy. How’s she gonna feed herself and those kids if she throws me out?”

  Savannah quietly studied her brother-in-law and thought that, even though no one was particularly thrilled when he and Vidalia had gotten married, he wasn’t a bad sort. Okay, he was a bit of a yahoo, but—whether Savannah wanted to admit it or not—so was Vidalia.