“You don’t have anything on me,” Hillquist said. “I’m not involved in any way.”
“Maybe you weren’t directly involved in the murders, but you knew what was going on.”
“I did not. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Cooper says you know ... right here on the tape,” Savannah said, holding it, tantalizingly under his chin.
“Big deal. A crook says something about me. That’s not evidence.”
“No, but it’s gonna play well on the evening news. It may not put you in jail, but it’ll sure as hell keep you out of the mayor’s office.”
She took a step toward him and shoved her face close to his until they were almost nose to nose. “And because I know how very, very desperately you want to be mayor of our fair town ... that, dear Chief, is enough for me. I’m not a cop anymore because of you. And you’re never going to be mayor because of me and my agency. I gotcha back, you dirty rotten bastard, and it feels nice, like sugar and spite.”
Sticking her tape recorder back into her purse, she headed for the office door. “I’m off to buy a bottle of Dom Pérignon. Have fun arresting the lieutenant, Jake.”
She paused, her hand on the doorway. “Oh, yeah ... He looks like a pretty desperate criminal. Be sure to frisk him good before you cuff him.”
“Here’s to freedom,” Ryan said as he lifted his champagne flute to Dirk. “And to your continued career in law enforcement.”
John joined the toast. “May criminals everywhere quake in their boots. Once again, Detective Coulter patrols the streets.”
“The world’s a safer place,” Savannah added.
Tammy just giggled.
Dirk blushed. “Bunch of friggin’ smart alecks,” he said, but he grinned broadly in spite of himself. The Dom Pérignon bubbles had hit his bloodstream and lifted his spirits considerably. Savannah knew he would have choked on the champagne if he’d had any idea how much she had paid for it.
Oh well, this was a special occasion, and who needed to buy groceries or pay the electric bill?
They sat around the table, a much cozier, far less tense group than the last time they had assembled there. Half an hour before, they had all watched the evening news. And it had been spectacular! Quince Jeffries’s face, along with Norman Hillquist’s, had been on every station at eleven o’clock, and the headlines included a lot of tongue clucking that such promising careers were cut short in their prime. Along with the sordid and sensational details of the murders, it made great copy. Political intrigue with the Medieval Faire as a backdrop ... Savannah had heard that several of the TV magazine shows were picking it up.
Norman Hillquist’s career was dog poop! And she couldn’t be more overjoyed!
“Seriously,” Dirk said after they had clicked glasses all the way around the table. “If it hadn’t been for you guys, I’d be sitting in jail right now, feeling miserably sorry for myself. You saved my life, and I won’t forget it. I’d much rather be sitting here, feeling miserable with you guys for the rest of my days.”
“And making us miserable with all your complaining and pessimism,” Savannah added.
He shrugged. “Hey, it’s my gift. I have to use it. But I just wanted you to know that, when all this was happening, I didn’t feel alone. I felt like ... you know... like I had family. And it really helped. You all really helped.”
“Better watch it, Coulter,” Ryan said. “You’re starting to sound like a sensitive sorta guy. We can’t have that. Next thing we know, you’ll be asking to wear my blue tights.”
“Not on your life. The next time I’m going to one of those faire things, I’m wearing a corset. Why should Savannah get all the looks?”
Savannah refilled everyone’s glass and thought, as she passed from loved one to loved one, how very blessed she was. How many people in the world had this many friends they could truly count on? Wasn’t this what family was all about? Not only those who were related to you by birth, but those your heart chose to love and trust.
“Drink up,” she said, lifting her replenished glass. “Enjoy! Celebrate! Good friends, good drink! Life just doesn’t get any better than this!”
An hour later, everyone had left, except Dirk, who was fidgeting nervously, as though he had something on his mind. “Be back in a minute,” he said as he jumped up from the table and headed out her front door.
She heard his Buick door slam, and a moment later he returned, holding something behind his back and wearing a goofy sort of smile on his face.
“Come into the living room and sit down on the couch,” he said.
“Oka-a-a-ay. You wanna tell me why?” she asked, doing as he suggested.
“Nope. You’ll see in a minute. Close your eyes.”
“If I close my eyes, how am I going to see in a minute?”
She wanted to continue to tease him, just to watch the color mount in his face. He was genuinely embarrassed ... a rare state of mind for this street-worn, cynical thug. But she shut her eyes tightly and extended her hands, palms up.
“Don’t you dare put something gross, wet, or slimy in my hand,” she said.
“Would I do that?”
“In a heartbeat.”
She felt the weight as he laid his object across her palms. About two pounds, she’d say from the heft ... and from the mouthwatering, chocolate smell she’d conclude....
“Godiva! No way! I don’t believe it.” Her eyes snapped open. Yes! It was true! A gorgeous gold foil box with a dark red satin ribbon tied around it. Wonders never ceased.
“If you make one crack about me being cheap, I’m taking them back,” he said. “And I’m going to eat them, one by one, right in front of you.”
“No way. You’re not sinking your chompers into these beauties.” She untied the ribbon, opened the box and beheld culinary hedonism at its best. “These are mine ... all mine.”
He laughed and plopped down beside her on the sofa. “You deserve ’em, kiddo. You really bailed me out this time ... literally and figuratively.”
She fished out a truffle, bit into it and groaned with orgasmic delight. “Consider the score even. Mmmm, these are exquisite.”
“Ah, speaking of scores”—he reached for the TV remote control that was lying on the coffee table—“there’s a heavyweight fight on tonight ... on HBO. Would you mind if... ?”
Lost in the oblivion of taste bud heaven, she easily agreed. “Whatever you want—just let me savor this experience in peace.”
He flipped on the fight and settled back to enjoy, the picture of contentment. Kicking off his sneakers, he propped his feet on the coffee table.
She opened her eyes incrementally. “Get your clodhoppers off my furniture. I’m not that far gone.” She nudged the box a little closer to him. “Have one.”
“Really? Naw, they’re yours. I bought them for—”
“I’m not going to offer again.”
He nabbed three and munched along with her for several minutes, watching the prefight commentary.
She had just bitten into a mocha cream-filled when she felt his huge hand engulf hers and squeeze gently as he laced his fingers between hers. “Does this mean you’re my Valentine?” he said, as shyly as a first grader giving a handmade, lace doily heart. “I mean, you’re eating my chocolate and we’re sitting here on your couch, watching the fight together.”
“If that don’t make me your Valentine, boy, nothing will,” she said, returning his affectionate squeeze.
He looked pleased as strawberry punch, then seemed to reconsider. “Don’t tell anybody,” he said. “You know ... it ain’t none of their business that I bought you candy ... expensive candy. It’ll ruin my reputation as a cheapskate and then everybody will expect me to start paying for stuff.”
“Well, we certainly can’t have that. It’ll just be our little secret ... along with the fact that we’re going to eat this entire box of sinfully rich chocolate before the tenth round.”
He snagged another truffle. “M
um’s the word.”
Please turn the page for
an exciting sneak peek of
G.A. McKevett’s
SOUR GRAPES
SOUR GRAPES
Savannah Reid, transplanted Georgian belle, was never happier than when those she loved were seated around her kitchen table, and she was stuffing their faces with good, Southern home cooking. And at that moment, four of her favorite people were finishing off a platter of fried chicken, a bowl of mashed potatoes, and a boat of cream gravy.
Well ... three of them were eating the calorie-laden goodies. Savannah’s health-conscious assistant, Tammy Hart, was enjoying her usual salad. At least, she said she was enjoying it, though Savannah couldn’t grasp the concept of “savoring” lettuce.
“Tammy, you need to eat something,” she told her, passing a golden drumstick under her nose. “You’re so skinny now, you’d have to run around in a rainstorm just to get wet.”
The petite blonde reached down and patted her nonexistent fanny. “Actually, I’ve got to watch it. I’ve put on a couple of pounds lately.”
Savannah tossed the chicken leg onto Dirk’s plate and tried not to urp. A couple of pounds ... on that size zero butt. Please.
She had decided long ago to feel no envy, only deep sympathy, for this emaciated waif. Okay, so Tammy might look great in a bikini, but she would never know the deep, soulish thrill of eating a huge slice of cheesecake, double-dipped in chocolate and topped with raspberry liqueur.
The poor child wasn’t svelte; she was tragically deprived.
Savannah turned her attention to the opposite end of the table, where the object of most of her sexual fantasies sat ... Ryan Stone, tall, dark, gorgeous, suave, debonair, her dear friend and sometimes fellow private detector.
And next to Ryan sat the reason why those delicious fantasies would never become reality—John Gibson, Ryan’s life partner, an older, silver-haired, completely sophisticated and charming British fellow. She very simply adored them both. Sadly, so did Tammy and every other female who crossed their paths.
On the other hand, Dirk—being a red-blooded, all-American, highly heterosexual and not particularly tolerant male—had only recently learned to appreciate their unique skills. As retired FBI agents, they had used their expertise to help both Dirk and Savannah solve some difficult cases. Savannah had noticed that, after they had pulled Dirk’s butt out of the proverbial wringer a few times, he had dropped the “fairy” and “twinkle-toes” comments.
At the moment, he was making no comments at all, because he was quickly dispensing the chicken leg off to “drumstick heaven.” Dirk was never particularly conversational in the presence of food. Especially free food.
“This meal was absolutely delightful, my dear,” John said, dabbing at his silver mustache with his napkin. “I can’t believe I’ve lived my entire life thus far without the pleasure of Dixieland cooking.”
She walked over to the kitchen counter where she began to slice a fresh-from-the-oven apple pie. “Then you should come over more often and make up for lost time,” she said. “We can’t have you walking around with a cholesterol level less than three hundred.”
She slid a piece, dripping with French vanilla ice cream and caramel sauce, under Ryan’s nose and was rewarded with a breathtaking smile. “Savannah, you spoil us rotten. Please don’t ever stop.”
“Never. Besides, we’ve gotta celebrate Dirk’s big bust here.”
She saw him glance down at his chest, and she was thankful his mouth was too full for him to make the predictable, corny joke.
“Yes, congratulations, Sergeant Coulter,” John said, lifting his teacup, which was brimming with his own special blend of Earl Grey. “A most impressive showing on your part ... and Savannah’s as well.”
“Five wanted felons and nine guns’” Ryan added. “Good haul.”
Dirk grunted, and his face flushed slightly. He wasn’t particularly adept at accepting praise ... receiving so little of it.
“Mmm, yeah, thanks,” he muttered. “Those damned gangbangers ... bunch o’ punks. I’m tellin’ you, when I see the kids today, I just wanna get myself neutered, if you know what I mean.”
Savannah reached into a drawer and pulled out a can opener. “If you’re serious, I can take care of that right now for you.”
“Gimme some pie instead.”
“Say, ‘please.’ ”
“Oh, yeah... please.”
She gave him a double-sized piece. Might as well, she figured, and save herself a trip; he was sure to ask for seconds.
As she joined them at the table, her own generous serving in hand, Ryan asked her, “How is your schedule now, Savannah? Do you have time for a little extra work?”
She perked up instantly. As a private detective, she often found herself on the “famine” side of the “feast or famine” wheel of fortune.
“Work? Real work ... like for real money.” She gave Dirk a loaded, sideways glance, which he conveniently ignored.
“Well, I don’t know how much work will be involved,” Ryan said between sips of coffee. “It’s more like presenting a presence. I’ve been hired by a beauty-pageant promoter to ‘guard’ some lovelies who are competing for the ‘Miss Gold Coast’ crown.”
“Miss Gold Coast?” Tammy asked, nearly choking on her salad. “What a disgrace ... evaluating women on the basis of physical attributes like a herd of cattle.”
“Yeah,” Dirk agreed. “Disgusting. Do they need an off-duty cop as a chaperone for those chickie-poos?”
“I heard they have one more position to fill, and they specifically asked for a female,” Ryan said.
“Reverse sexual discrimination. That’s what it is. A middle-aged, white guy can’t get a break in this country anymore.”
“Hush and eat your pie, Dirk,” Savannah said, nudging him under the table with her foot. “Guarding a batch of beauties would be bad for your blood pressure.”
She turned back to Ryan. “Is the pay good?”
“Listen to her,” Tammy said, snickering. “Like she’s picky these days. I balance her books ... or try to. Believe me, if it pays minimum wage, she’ll jump on it like a hound on a T-bone.”
“A hound on a T-bone?” Savannah laughed. “You’ve been hanging out with me too long, New York girl. I’ll have you eating grits and gravy before you can shake a lamb’s tail.”
Tammy gagged. “No way. No grits, no gravy, and certainly nothing to do with a sheep’s back end.”
Savannah scooped up a big forkful of pie, dripping with the caramel and pecan sauce. “I’ll take it,” she told Ryan. “Looking out for some girlie-girl beauty queens, making sure they don’t stub their pretty toes and ruin their pedicures, maybe breaking up a few catfights over false eyelashes and hair mousse. How hard could it be? I mean ... what could happen at a beauty pageant?”
The beauty queen sat at her dressing table, wearing a pink chenille bathrobe and hair curlers, staring at her reflection in the brightly lit, Hollywood mirror. The dozen bulbs around the mirror’s edge illuminated every tiny blemish on her nearly perfect complexion, and she studied each one, frowning, as though it were a critical issue that demanded an immediate solution.
The walls and shelves of her bedroom were laden with the spoils of her victories in the pageant world. Trophies, some over three feet tall, cluttered every horizontal surface. Vertical surfaces were covered with photographs—beautiful pictures, professionally taken over the years—showing a little girl who had been groomed to look like a woman at the age of six.
The closet door stood open, and inside glimmered an array of sequined and rhinestone-studded evening gowns of every hue, jostling for space with feathered boas, a hundred pairs of glittering shoes, and miscellaneous faux fur accessories.
Having decided on a course of action, the girl at the dressing table chose a particular cream from the dozens of bottles before her and began to dab the lotion on her “trouble spots.” From time to time, she glanced to her right, at the lig
hted glass case that sat on its own special table and held her pride and joy ... the Miss California Sunshine crown ... in all of its cubic zirconia glory.
She was good at what she did.
Very good. And she knew it.
She looked across the room at the younger, far less attractive version of herself stretched out on the twin bed against the opposite wall.
“Go downstairs and get me a soda,” she told her sister. “And make sure it’s a cold one from the back of the fridge.”
“Get it yourself.”
“I said ... get me a soda, now!”
The well-trained younger sibling stirred from her bed, grumbling under her breath, but obeying nevertheless, trudging across the bedroom in penguin-spangled, flannel pajamas.
In their little sorority, hierarchy had been established long ago, and it was too late to challenge authority now.
“Diet! Make sure it’s diet!”
“Eh, screw you.” The objection was mumbled low enough that it didn’t constitute outright mutiny.
As soon as sister number two had left the room, the beauty queen picked up the telephone and punched in some numbers.
Her party answered almost immediately. Keeping her voice low, she said, “It’s me. Yeah. Did you think it over ... you know ... what we talked about?”
She frowned, not liking what she heard.
“That won’t do. That’s not what I want. I told you what I want.”
She listened again, but not for long. “No! I don’t care what you say; it’s gotta be the way I told you before.”
More objections on the other end.
She shook her head, sending curlers tumbling, and stomped her bare foot. “No, no, no, no! You better listen, or you’ll be sorry. A lot of people are gonna be sorry if you don’t listen to me.”
Sugar and Spite Page 22
