Cooked Goose

by G. A. McKevett

  Weak. Stable. Still unconscious.

  So, other than making sure that Officer Morton O’Leary was stationed at the door of the I.C.U., Dirk couldn’t do much about arresting him yet.

  As he was leaving through the emergency entrance, he heard the news . . . and promptly headed for the maternity ward on the third floor.

  That was where he found Savannah, sprawled across five seats in the waiting room, looking like a semi truck had run over her.

  “Hey, Auntie!” he said, “I hear congratulations are in order.”

  “Uh, huh,” she mumbled without moving or even turning her head to look at him. She was staring at the ceiling, for all practical appearances, brain dead.

  “I hear it’s twins, a boy and a girl, and you delivered them.”

  “Uh, huh.”

  “So, are they checking mom and the kids in? They’ll be here for a few days, I guess.”

  “Huh, uh.”

  He leaned closer. “Was that a no?”

  “The babies were born outside the sterile environment of the hospital,” she said, so low he could hardly hear her. “They’re contaminated. They can’t stay in the nursery with the other newborns.”

  “And?”

  “And Vidalia won’t stay in the hospital without her babies. So, they’re all coming home with me. All. Home. My home. With me.”

  “Oh, Van . . . I’m so sorry,” he said.

  “Me, too. So, so sorry.”

  December 25—2:15 P.M.

  Eighty degrees. Not a cloud in the sky. Just your typical Christmas Day, Savannah thought as she watched her friends and family celebrating the holiday in her backyard. The twins were running around in bathing suits, squirting each other with the garden hose, screaming like miniature banshees.

  Tammy was catching some rays in her polka-dotted bikini, stretched out on a Betty Boop beach towel. Why, Savannah wasn’t sure, because she’d seen her slathering on a heavy-duty sunscreen just before lying down. Go figure.

  Maybe it was because Ryan Stone was sitting beneath the arbor, sipping a champagne cocktail, looking incredible in charcoal slacks and a navy blue shirt. Tammy had never fully surrendered the fantasy of catching Ryan’s attention.

  Dirk sat in a chaise longue beneath the magnolia tree, holding one of the newest arrivals, Noel. Dirk didn’t look especially at ease with his paternal role, but they were all taking turns keeping the newborns occupied, and it was his shift, so he wasn’t complaining.

  Butch sat next to him on another longue, jostling Noel’s sister, Merry, who wasn’t happy and was intent upon the entire neighborhood knowing it. Like a typical Reid girl, she was cute beyond words, ate constantly, and was quite mouthy when things didn’t go her way.

  Vidalia was asleep in the hammock next to the house, Cleopatra curled into a ball on her now fairly flat tummy. She looked great in the dressy slacks set Savannah had bought for her. As one of her Christmas gifts, Savannah had treated her to a “Day of Beauty” at a local salon. The hair and facial makeover, along with massages and herbal steams had brought back her usual, lovely, vain self.

  Yes, Savannah thought, just a typical California Christmas.

  She walked back into the house where it was ninety-three degrees, thanks to the turkey roasting in the oven. The kitchen smelled of pumpkin and mince pies, mashed potatoes and gravy, freshly baked rolls, and the fragrance of sage, thanks to Savannah’s aunt’s wonderful dressing recipe. Aunt Gondi made the best dressing south of the Mason-Dixon line, and Savannah had been able to get it only by exchanging her own famous onion roll recipe.

  She found Margie arranging pickles, olives, radish roses, and cherry tomatoes in decorative patterns on a platter.

  “That looked great, kiddo,” she told her as she stole an olive and popped it into her mouth. “How are you doing?”

  A look of sadness crossed the girl’s face, then she smiled. “Okay. The hospital says my dad’s doing fine. He’ll be able to leave tomorrow. Not that it makes much difference. He’ll be going right to jail.”

  “I’m really sorry things turned out this way for you.” Standing beside her, Savannah gave her a hug around the waist. She returned the embrace.

  “It’s all right. When I talked to my mom on the phone today, she says she thinks it’ll work out for me to stay at home with them. She says if I’ll behave myself, she’ll tell her old man to lighten up on me.”

  “Are you going to, behave that is?”

  “I guess. Mostly, he just didn’t like the hair. He shouldn’t mind this, huh?”

  She pointed to her new do, which was now red, a red that a few women in the world might actually have naturally. Also, she had removed the ring from her eyebrow, the studs from her nose and tongue, and had exchanged her black and blue makeup for shades of dark red.

  “You look beautiful,” Savannah told her. “You were beautiful before, but I was so busy looking at all the ‘stuff’ that I didn’t notice you as much.”

  “Thanks.” She blushed and, for a moment, looked incredibly sweet and vulnerable.

  “Are you about ready to eat?”

  “I’ve been ready for hours. The smell of that turkey is making me crazy. But I think we’re going to have a visitor first.”

  “A visitor? Who?” Savannah said.

  “Just don’t be scared when you see him,” Margie replied. “Gibson asked me if I thought it was okay, under the circumstances, and I said, sure, because it’s for the kids, you know?”

  “No, I don’t know. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “She’s talking about a visit from old Father Christmas . . . or Saint Nicholas, as you Yanks call him,” said a deep, deliciously refined, British voice behind her.

  Savannah turned and got the start of her life. There was Santa, standing in her living room, a large bag of loot slung over his shoulder, a broad smile between his mustache and beard.

  A few dozen images flooded her mind. All of them frightening and sad.

  That was yet another evil Titus Dunn had committed. An entire community had lost its innocence, had lost a beloved icon and symbol of love and generosity.

  But there was no time like the present to reclaim it.

  Savannah strolled over to Santa, tweaked his rosy cheek and said, “Mr. Claus, I want you to know I’ve been far more nice than naughty this year. Not that I wouldn’t have welcomed the opportunity to be naughty, but my social life being what it is . . .”

  He threw back his head and gave a rather theatrical, “Ho, ho, ho . . . I understand completely. That’s why Santa has brought you something special.”

  Reaching into his pack, he pulled out a bright red envelope with her name written on it.

  She tore it open and found airline tickets and prepaid vouchers for a deluxe, two-week vacation at a singles club in the Bahamas.

  “Oh, Gibs- . . . I mean, Santa, you shouldn’t have,” she said, “But I’m so glad you did!”

  Santa tossed his bag over his shoulder once again and gave Margie a nod. “Come along with me, young lady,” he told her. “I’ve given my elves the afternoon off and I find myself in desperate need of a Santa’s helper.”

  Savannah followed the two of them into the backyard and watched the twins go crazy with delight at the sight of him.

  She looked over at Dirk and Tammy and saw that their reactions were similar to hers. They would all need some time to heal.

  But as she watched Jillian and Jack scampering around “Father Christmas”—opening their own gifts and joyfully distributing more to the adults, and their new brother and sister beneath the magnolia tree—she knew that the children were the balm that would aid in that healing.

  Once again, she felt seven years old, and Christmas was the happiest, most magical, time of the year. At least for the moment, there was peace on this little bit of earth that was her backyard. And there was goodwill galore.

  Down south, many people consider the dressing (stuffing) to be the best part of a holiday dinner. Tradition
ally, many Southern cooks don’t stuff the turkey or goose, but bake the dressing separately in its own pan. Savannah’s Aunt Gondi is known, far and wide, for her incredible dressing. We are proud to share it with you.

  Aunt Gondi’s Dressing

  1 cup chopped onion

  1 cup chopped celery

  2 tablespoons butter

  Lightly saute onions and celery in butter.

  Place onion/celery mixture in large bowl along with:

  4 slices toasted, crumbled bread

  4 cups crumbled cornbread (see recipe below)

  1 teaspoon salt or to taste

  ¼ teaspoon pepper

  2 tablespoons sage (more if you like)

  2 eggs lightly beaten

  Add:

  3 – 4 cans chicken broth heated

  1 stick of butter, melted in broth

  You will want the mixture to be very moist, almost soupy, as it will dry out while baking.

  Put mixture into a greased (or sprayed) 9” × 13” pan, and bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes.

  The basis of any great Southern dressing is great cornbread. No one has ever made better cornbread than Ma Johnson. Her cornbread was wonderful in dressing or straight from the oven, served with a pat of butter. If you want an unusual, but distinctly Southern treat, crumble some cornbread into a glass of cold buttermilk, add a sprinkle of salt and pepper to taste.

  Ma Johnson’s Cornbread

  In large bowl mix:

  2 cups white, self-rising cornmeal

  cup flour

  cup sugar

  ¾ teaspoon salt

  To dry ingredients add:

  2 eggs

  1¾ cups milk

  ¼ cup bacon grease, melted

  Mix just enough to moisten all dry ingredients. Overmixing will make the bread hard.

  Pour into greased, 10” round pan and bake at 425 degrees for 20 – 25 minutes.

  Ma Johnson’s secret: Fry a few pieces of bacon in a heavy, cast iron skillet, remove the bacon, measure the grease and add it, hot, as the last ingredient. This greases and preheats your pan and gives the bread a wonderful, crispy edge. And most old-fashioned, Southern cooks swear by their cast iron skillets for flavorful cornbread.

  Plus-sized P.I. Savannah Reid gets a taste of the high life when she attends a Hollywood premiere on the arm of husband Dirk Coulter. Savannah may be a newlywed, but even she gets weak in the knees when she meets celebrity athlete-turned-movie-star Jason Tyrone. So imagine how she feels when the star’s rock-hard body is found rock-hard dead...

  Some guys have everything. With his stunning looks and dazzling charm, former heavyweight champ Jason Tyrone is America’s favorite new action hero. Make that was. Once so spectacular in action, the blockbuster idol was found dead in his hotel room after his latest premiere. Despite his chiseled physique, Jason is never getting up again...

  Though the autopsy reveals Jason may have gotten his killer body through doping, no one wants to believe the beloved athlete is a fraud, least of all Savannah. Soon she’s deeply immersed in the dark world of body enhancing drugs, and wondering if the world-class gym where Jason worked out is really just a front for a lucrative drug ring. Was Jason’s death the price he paid for threatening to expose other celebrities caught in the clutch of keeping a flawless image? Or was everyone’s favorite hero a victim of his own desire to always be at the top of his game? No stranger to society’s obsession with image, Savannah is determined to get to the truth. And for the voluptuous investigator, this time it’s personal....

  Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of

  G.A. McKevett’s next Savannah Reid mystery

  KILLER PHYSIQUE

  coming in April 2014!

  Chapter One

  Standing at her bathroom sink, staring at the disgruntled, newly-married woman in the mirror, Savannah Reid rehearsed the speech she intended to give the jury at her murder trial. It would be during the sentencing phase, no doubt, because she fully intended to plead “Guilty.”

  She was certain that if there was even one semi-persnickety female on the jury, she’d escape the needle.

  “You have to understand, ladies and gentlemen, that I spent three and a half long weeks redecorating that bathroom – all in anticipation of his parents’ visit. I’m pretty sure I messed up my back permanently by hanging those fancy ceiling tiles . . . the ones that used to be white, but are now all globbed up with dribs and drabs of blue shaving foam. How in heaven’s name does a grown man get shaving foam on the ceiling?”

  She glanced around at the carnage of her freshly-renovated bathroom and added in her thick, Georgia drawl, “I reckon the same way he got it all over the sink, the faucet handle, the light switch, and the mirror. My dear jury members, you haven’t lived ‘til you’ve tried to scrub that stuff off a mirror. It’s blue cement. You can take a razor blade and fingernail polish remover to it, and it won’t budge.”

  A brisk knock on the door interrupted her plea for mercy.

  “You in there?” inquired a deep, annoyed, male voice.

  “Yeah,” she barked back.

  “You comin’ out soon? Or am I gonna have to go downstairs again to do my business?”

  She jerked the door open and stood, nose-to-nose, with her beloved new husband – give or take a few inches. “Boy, you and your thimble-sized bladder are irritatin’ the daylights outta me.”

  He shrugged and grinned down at her with a sexy smirk that would have set her bloomers atwitter, were it not for the devastation behind her.

  “Hey,” he said, “when the dragon needs drainin’, what’s a guy to do?”

  He waited, giving her plenty of time to chuckle, or at least grin. But all he got was an icy blue stare. It was the glacial glare that had made former cop, now private detective, Savannah Reid, infamous among suspected murderers, robbers, embezzlers, and jaywalkers. Evildoers of all shapes and sizes, including husbands who left the toilet seat up and burped loudly in fancy restaurants, had been on the receiving end of those cobalt lasers.

  Rolling his eyes, Dirk moaned and said, “Oh, man. I’m always in trouble. What did I do this time?”

  Stepping to one side, so that he would have a clear, unobstructed view of the crime scene, she waved an arm to indicate the extent of the damages. “That,” she said. “That’s what you did. Again.”

  He gave the room a cursory glance and frowned, obviously confused. “What? What’s the matter? Did I fold the towel in half instead of perfect thirds? Did I leave the cap off the toothpaste? Am I gonna get shot at sunrise or hanged from the neck until dead?”

  She decided not to tell him that she had, indeed, been fantasizing about an execution only moments before. Her own. Society’s recompense for premeditated, first degree homicide.

  As she watched his eyes dart around the room, registering absolutely nothing amiss, by his own lax non-standards, her ire rose. “Does this room look neat and tidy to you?” she asked.

  “I’ve seen worse,” he replied.

  “Yes, I’m sure you have. But not in my house. Look at those toothpaste spit specks all over the mirror.”

  “Hey, happens when I floss. You don’t want a husband with lousy dental hygiene, do you?”

  “And why did you leave your deodorant, shave cream can, and jock itch powder there on the sink again? I asked you to put them back in the medicine cabinet when you’re done with them.”

  He looked genuinely perplexed. “But why should I go to all that work when tomorrow I’m just gonna have to drag ’em out so’s I can use ’em again?”

  “AI-I-I that work? Dra-a-ag ‘em out? You act like I’m asking you to pick a bale o’ cotton in the hot, Georgia sun.”

  He gave her a sappy, condescending smile that was, no doubt, intended to smooth her ruffled feathers, but in fact, accomplished exactly the opposite. “If I put those three tiny little things away,” he said, “will that make my beautiful, new bride happy?”

  “I reckon,” she grumbled. “And m
aybe you could wipe off the mirror once in a month of Sundays, since it’s you who gunks it all up four times a day.”

  Sighing deeply, he trudged past her into the room, picked up his offending toiletries and with great ceremony, placed them in the medicine chest. He fussed with the containers for what seemed like forever to Savannah, making quite a show of spacing them perfectly, evenly, among their neighbors, turning the labels straight outward, then re-adjusting ad nauseum.

  With that delicate mission accomplished, he strode to the toilet, unrolled a giant handful of tissue, and returned to the sink. Still grinning like a goat munching sand burrs, he flipped on the sink faucet and wetted the paper.

  As Savannah’s blood pressure soared, he calmly, casually, smeared the sodden wad all over the mirror, leaving bits of soggy mess behind. Unfortunately, the blue blobs of shaving cream remained undisturbed.

  Standing behind him, her face turning redder by the moment, Savannah looked around the room for potential murder weapons and wondered if it were possible to inflict a fatal wound with a Lady Gillette aloe-moisturizing bikini line shaver.

  “There,” he exclaimed, proudly displaying his handiwork. “Happy now?”

  “Plum ecstatic,” she muttered.

  “Good. And now that I’m in here, I’m gonna choke the chicken. So, unless you’ve got some picky-ass directions about how I oughta do that, too, you might wanna skedaddle.”

  With her chin a few notches higher than usual, a grim look on her face, Savannah marched stiffly to the door. She paused there for a moment as a hundred or so of Granny Reid’s admonitions about “living in harmony with the man the good God gave ya” and “overlookin’ the better part of a husband’s transgressions bein’ the path to domestic tranquility” danced through her head.