Sugar and Spite

by G. A. McKevett

  “Well,” he said, “if you’re sure it wouldn’t be too much to do, I’d appreciate it.”

  “No problem,” she replied, releasing his arm and turning back to her desk. “Besides, I’m going to be doing it on Savannah’s time, so you’d better thank her.”

  “Don’t tell me that,” he grumbled. “She’ll probably send me a bill.”

  Savannah chuckled. “I only pay her a nickel an hour, so the grand total won’t be more than a dollar. Even a tightwad skinflint like you can afford that.”

  As Savannah watched Dirk disappear up the stairs, she walked over and put her hands on Tammy’s shoulders. “Thanks, sweetie,” she told her. “That was really nice of you, especially considering how you feel about the old fart.”

  “He’s your friend,” Tammy said matter-of-factly. “And he’s not so bad. We’re sorta like a family around here. A highly dysfunctional family, but ...”

  Savannah fingered the piece of paper in her skirt pocket. Speaking of dysfunctional families, she needed to decide what she was going to do about hers.

  “I’m going to change out of this outfit. Unlike Dirk, I’m not getting used to the comfort of being laced up like a Thanksgiving turkey. Then I’m going to fall onto some horizontal surface and faint dead away, like the delicate buttercup that I am.”

  “Shall I call you if I need you?” Tammy shouted up to her as she climbed the stairs.

  “Only if the extinguisher won’t put out the fire and the tourniquet won’t stop the bleeding.”

  Hours later, when Savannah had finished her nap and changed into modern attire—a sweatshirt and jeans—she came back downstairs to find that Tammy had left for the day. She stood beside the desk a long time before finally sitting down and turning on the computer.

  Feeling a strange mixture of pain and numbness, she accessed her e-mail and began to compose the short note:

  Macon,

  Received your message. If it’s really important, I suppose we could meet. When? Where?

  Savannah

  She typed in the e-mail address he had given and pressed SEND with a note of finality. The instant she saw the message YOUR MAIL HAS BEEN SENT splayed across the screen, she wanted to take it back. Why open a door left closed for so long? Let sleeping dogs lie and all that.

  After all this time, she had nothing to say to this man who had been her father, biologically and in name only. It had been years since she had cursed him mentally and rehearsed the hard words she would use to express her hurt. It had also been years since she had wanted to express any kind of affection.

  No, she had nothing to say to Macon. No words of love or hate.

  What could he possibly have to say to her? Whatever it was, she was pretty sure she didn’t want to hear it.

  Yes, she definitely wished she could “unsend” that message. But like most things between her and Macon Reid, it was too late.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Savannah and Dirk waylaid Jake McMurtry the moment he stepped out of his apartment door the next morning. Neither really wanted to show their mug at the police station, but they wanted to know what, if anything, was happening with the investigation.

  “Get in,” Jake said, motioning to his new Mitsubishi. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair uncombed, his clothes rumpled, his face still sheet-creased. He looked better than they felt.

  “You two look like hell,” he told them.

  “Yeah, and your mother wears combat boots, and she dresses you funny,” Savannah replied as she slid into the passenger seat. “But we love you anyway. What have you got?”

  Dirk climbed into the back. “Yeah. Who was this Snake dude and who killed him?”

  “Hell, you don’t ask for much,” Jake said. “I’m supposed to have it sewn up already?”

  “Damned right.” Dirk told him. “It’s my butt in the wringer here; you’d better wrap it up quick. I’ve got the DA breathing down my neck. Indictment’s right around the corner, staring me in the face.”

  Savannah nudged Jake in the ribs with her elbow. “Dirk frequently mixes his metaphors, but you can’t blame him for being upset ... considering the circumstances.”

  “Hey, I understand, but I’m only one guy.”

  Dirk leaned over the console, his nose almost in Jake’s right ear. “Yeah exactly why is that? Why doesn’t my case rate more than one detective, and—no offense—but a rookie detective at that?”

  Jake gave Savannah a wry smile. “Ever notice how people always say, ‘no offense’ just before they say something really offensive?”

  She nodded. “True. I’ve noticed that myself. And when they say, ‘I like you, or whatever, but ...’ you can just forget everything they said before the ‘but’. It’s what they say after the ‘but’ ... that’s what’s really on their mind.”

  Dirk sighed and fidgeted like a kindergartner who needed to visit the little boy’s room. “When you two get done blabbering about worthless shit, could we get back to my case?”

  “Sorry,” Savannah said, turning suddenly businesslike. “Exactly who is this Snake dude and who killed him?”

  “I got the first part,” Jake replied. “I’m working on the second.”

  He leaned across Savannah, opened his glove box, and took out a pack of cigarettes. Before he even had one out, in his mouth, and lit, Dirk was puffing away in the backseat. Savannah quickly rolled down her window. Normally, she would have complained, but considering the stressful circumstances, she decided to let it slide.

  “So, give us what you’ve got,” Dirk said, blowing smoke out his nose and settling back in the seat.

  “Snake was a charming nickname—”

  “Well, I figured Mama Snake didn’t name her sweet newborn baby something like that,” Dirk said.

  “No, she didn’t,” Jake agreed. “She named him Maximillian. Maximillian Fernando Schneider.”

  Savannah sniffed. “No wonder he changed his name to Snake. Imagine how the other kids would beat the crap out of you at recess with a name like Maximillian Fernando Schneider.”

  “Yeah,” said Dirk, “but Snake Schneider ain’t all that easy to wrap your tongue around either. Did he have a record?”

  Jake nodded and took a deep drag. “Yep. Long one. Grand theft auto when he was a juvenile and several break-ins. Drug charges. Aggravated assault on a convenience-store clerk who wouldn’t sell him booze. Domestic violence with girlfriends.”

  “Nice guy,” Savannah said. “But it’s not too surprising. Most people don’t begin their criminal careers with first-degree murder. Usually they sorta work up to it.”

  “How much time had he served?” Dirk asked.

  “Six years total. That’s quite a bit, since he was only twenty-eight. He spent more of his adult years inside the system than out.”

  “A local boy?” Savannah asked.

  “Born and bred San Carmelitan. Mostly worked construction jobs, here and there, nonunion, under the table.”

  “Any obvious connection to me?” Dirk said, flicking ash out the window.

  “I was hoping you’d tell me. Did you ever bust him or—?”

  “Hell no. If I’d busted him, I would have remembered him, and I would have known who he was all along.”

  “Hey, don’t jump down my throat.” Jake held up one hand like a school traffic monitor. “You’ve busted a lot of people; I figured you might have forgotten a face or—”

  “I never forget a face, and I’d never seen that guy’s ugly mug before ... except the night he murdered my ex-wife. I’m asking you if there’s any other connection to me, something you might have uncovered yourself, razor-sharp detective that you are.”

  Savannah discreetly reached back, laid a hand on Dirk’s knee, and gave it a cautionary squeeze. It wouldn’t help his situation any to piss off the only detective working the case.

  “What Dirk means is ...” she quickly inserted, “... did you check this Schneider’s locations—work, home, spare-time activities—against Dirk’s places, like his
home, the police station, etc.”

  “Yeah. I did.” Jake sounded slightly wounded. “Nothing that I could see.”

  “And connections to Polly?” Savannah asked.

  “No.” Jake shook his head. “Nothing there either. I don’t know what he would have had against either of you.”

  “And how about his killer?” Savannah asked. “Have you got any leads on who shot that arrow?”

  “Not really. Dr. Liu wrote up a description of the arrow for me and gave me a snapshot of it. I’m heading out to the faire this afternoon to show it around. Whoever it was, he was a pretty good shot. The doctor said it got Snake right in the heart. Just like he got Polly.”

  Savannah grimaced. “He died so quick, I figured it was through the heart.”

  “I understand,” Dirk interjected, “that it’s not that hard to be accurate with a crossbow. They’re almost as deadly as a gun. Even more if you consider how quiet they are.” He looked at Savannah and grinned. “Maybe I’ll start packing a crossbow and a quiverful of arrows until they give me my Smith & Wesson back.”

  A buzzing sound startled all three of them until Savannah reached into her purse and pulled out her cell phone. “No rest for the weary,” she said as she punched the appropriate button and put it to her ear. “Yep, I’m here.”

  The caller was Tammy, and she sounded excited. But then, Tammy was usually thrilled about something. It was her charm ... and her downfall.

  “Somebody called you,” she said. “I think it’s a lead. A cool lead!”

  “Great. Who was it?” Savannah asked.

  “Who? Oh, yeah ... well, he didn’t give me his name.”

  Savannah sighed, momentarily deflated. “Tam, most really cool leads generally leave a name.”

  “He didn’t say who he was, said you gave him your card at the faire and told him to call if he heard anything. He acted like you’d know who he was.”

  “I gave about twenty people my card,” Savannah said... wanting, hoping, but doubting. “Did he leave a phone number?”

  “No, but he wants to meet with you. He says his crossbow is missing ... or at least it was for a while ... and he knows who took it.”

  Savannah smiled and gave the acutely interested, eavesdropping Dirk and Jake the thumbs-up. “You’re absolutely right as rain, Tammy, my darlin’, that is a cool lead. Tell me all-l-l-l about it. Where and when? We’ll be there with bells on.”

  “Are you sure this was the third dirt road on the left after we crossed the bridge after the sulfur started stinking?” Savannah asked as the three of them trudged down a dusty path that wound through a woods and eventually led—at least in theory—to some water holes, where—or so they had been told and were fervently hoping—their cool lead would be waiting for them.

  The directions had been: Take Santa Lucia highway into the Los Lobos National Park, turn left on Sulfur Hill Road, and wind around the base of the minimountain until the stench of the sulfur-rich, natural springs was strong enough to gag you, cross the stone bridge, and hang a left ... or was it a right... at the third dirt road and hike back to water holes. The disgruntled owner of the missing crossbow was supposed to be there, waiting for them.

  “He’d better be there,” Savannah said, as the path narrowed and dry, brittle bushes scratched her legs, even through the linen of her slacks. She was wearing loafers, not boots, as the path might have dictated. Of course, she’d had no inkling when she’d dressed that morning that she’d be marching to Tipperary before the day was over.

  “This is probably a setup,” Dirk said, huffing and puffing along behind her as the Southern California winter temperatures took a nosedive to a bone-chilling seventy-nine degrees. “We’re probably going to get an arrow through the back any minute now.”

  Savannah stopped so abruptly that he ran into her. “Do you mind? I’ve got other things to think about right now, like dying of thirst, hunger, rattlesnake bite or grizzly bear attack. I’m so hungry right now that an arrow through the back would be a mercy killing. I should be home right now, sitting in my easy chair with my cats at my feet and a red heart-shaped box of chocolates on my lap.”

  “Eating and sitting ...” Dirk muttered, “... that’s your calling.”

  She glared at him. “And this from a guy whose greatest talents are lying on my sofa, swigging my beer and watching the fights on my HBO.”

  Dirk shrugged, mumbling something about “the price is right” and continued to drudge down the path. Savannah followed suit.

  At the head of their short, motley column of foot soldiers was their ranking officer, Jake, looking as out of sorts as they did. “Why couldn’t this dude just meet us at Mama’s Cafe on Lester Street for breakfast, like any other snitch?” he said. “What’s with the Nature Boy routine, setting up a meet out here in the sticks?”

  “I told you,” Dirk said. “He’s gonna kill us.”

  Savannah sighed. The hike wasn’t bad enough; she had to put up with Tweedledee and Tweedledum. “And since we have no idea who he is,” she said, “and therefore, couldn’t bust him if we had to, he has absolutely no motive whatsoever to kill us.”

  “For all we know, Snake didn’t have a motive to kill Polly, either,” Dirk said dryly, “but, even as we speak, she’s probably getting baked to a crispy critter.”

  Savannah winced and looked over her shoulder at him. Even for Dirk, that was a pretty dark joke. Having one’s former spouse cremated wasn’t a laughing matter for almost anyone.

  But his face was stoic, telling her nothing.

  Dirk was a weird duck, no doubt about it. And he was probably her best friend in the world. She didn’t really want to think what that meant about her.

  “Hey, I think I hear a creek,” Savannah said, identifying the charming, burbling sound in the distance.

  Jake pointed to a spot farther ahead where the path seemed to dip and disappear. “There it is,” he said. “Not much water in it.”

  “Good,” Savannah replied, “because we’re going to have to cross it, and I didn’t bring my snorkeling gear.”

  As they drew closer, they saw that others before them had utilized a large tree trunk, cut in half lengthwise, as a makeshift bridge. They did the same, and around the next bend, found that they had arrived at their destination. Three water holes—not that deep, muddy, and stinking of sulfur—were nestled at the base of a thirty-foot cliff. A small waterfall trickled down the moss-covered drop, feeding the holes. It would be larger when the March rains came and would probably disappear completely in the late-summer months.

  Water beetles and mosquitoes buzzed across the surface of the miniature pond, along with a couple of dragonflies, shimmering, iridescent in the sunlight. Savannah made a mental note to maybe come back here sometime for a roughing-it type of picnic ... with plenty of mosquito repellent and sunscreen in the picnic basket along with the fried chicken, potato salad, and a bottle of wine.

  At the moment, not knowing who might be sitting on an overhanging oak limb, a crossbow aimed at them, it was a bit difficult to enjoy the ambience.

  “Look sharp, you two,” Dirk said as he glanced around, apparently thinking the same thing. “Anybody who’d want to meet out here is missing a few nuts and bolts.”

  “Or maybe he just wants to make sure nobody sees him talking to you,” said a voice behind them. They spun around to see a skinny kid, not more than sixteen or seventeen years old. He was dressed in an enormous black Metallica T-shirt that hung like a limp tent around his thin frame. Knobby knees and bony legs protruded from equally oversize shorts.

  “I remember you,” Savannah said, talking a few steps toward him. “I talked to you at the faire, only you were a juggler then, in a jester’s Harlequin outfit.”

  But at the moment, he didn’t seem to be in a jesting mood. In fact, he looked downright scared to death. His blue eyes were large in his gaunt face, looking through a mop of dirty blond hair, but now they were enormous. His skin was so pale that his freckles seemed to stand out
in bas-relief.

  “I wondered if you’d remember,” he said. “You said that guy at faire was killed with a crossbow. You were wondering who had one and all that.”

  “Have you got something for us or not?” Dirk asked, far too aggressively. Desperation was going to be his undoing.

  The kid winced, and for a moment, Savannah thought the frightened kid was going to pull his head into his T-shirt shell like a turtle and disappear.

  Jake stepped forward and flashed his badge at the boy. ‘I’m Detective McMurtry, son,” he said in what sounded like a lousy John Wayne impression. “And if you’ve got information that would help me with this case, you should volunteer it now.”

  Savannah was afraid the teenager would react badly to Jake’s clumsy approach, but he seemed comforted by the sight of the badge. “You’re really a cop?” he said. “Like you could arrest somebody and make sure they stayed locked up?”

  “Well, I can take somebody into custody,” he replied. “It’s up to the courts to say whether they stay in jail.”

  The boy looked disappointed. “Oh, yeah. Well, if you had good enough evidence you could make it stick, huh? I mean, if I helped you as much as I could, you’d make sure the guy didn’t come after me, right?”

  Savannah saw the trust in the kid’s eyes and wished that she could be more certain of the law’s ability to protect the innocent. So many times she had seen it fail in that regard; she was reluctant to make any promises.

  But Jake was new to the game. And he had no problem giving reassurances. “Sure, I will. No problem. You tell me what you’ve got, and we’ll go get the guy. Nothing bad will happen to you if you just tell the truth.”

  Savannah walked over to the boy, took his arm, and led him over to a large, smooth boulder. “Here,” she told him, “take a load off. Have a seat and tell us all about it ... starting with your name.”