Bitter Sweets

by G. A. McKevett

  Vanessa was making eloquent observations about someone or something’s family pedigree, Oedipal tendencies, and probable eternal destination.

  She walked through the open doors, just in time to see a wrench fly across the garage and smash into the far wall. It seemed Vanessa liked to throw her tools, too.

  “What the hell do you want?” Vanessa squatted on the floor, a mess of greasy components spread out before her. The smell of gasoline was strong, emanating from a washtub filled with gas and more oily engine pieces. Savannah recalled that this practice was what her brother Macon called “soaking parts.”

  “To talk a few minutes. You can keep working though, if you want,” she added, hoping to sound cordial.

  Standing, Vanessa tossed her dirty shop towel onto the cement floor. “I’m warning you, I just found out that my Harley’s engine has to be completely overhauled, so I’m not in a very good mood.”

  Mmmmm, Savannah thought. Cordial doesn’t seem to be working.

  She dropped the “nice” routine and allowed her expression to register her fatigue and annoyance. “My investigation isn’t going very well, either,” she said, “so that makes two of us.”

  “The cops say somebody blew Earl’s brains out.” Vanessa’s tone was flat, but challenging. Savannah could tell that the statement was intended to shock her. But she wasn’t easily shocked and didn’t like being worked.

  “Actually, when I saw the body, the brains were still inside. No exit wound,” she replied evenly. Two could play that game.

  “Did you kill him?”

  “No. Did you?”

  Both women stared at each other for a long, tense moment. In the end it was Vanessa who broke eye contact.

  “Okay,” Vanessa walked over to a cement block and sat down. She didn’t offer Savannah a seat, but Savannah didn’t want one. “What do you want to know?”

  With most people Savannah tried to exercise a degree of decorum and common civility. But, even though Vanessa appeared to be wonderful with kids, she seemed less socially adept with adults. Maybe she just didn’t like private detectives. Or perhaps it was more personal and she didn’t like blue-eyed women with Southern accents who asked her obnoxious questions.

  Whatever the case, Savannah decided to dive right in, head first.

  “Did you hate Lisa?” she asked.

  “She and I were best friends.”

  “Even after Earl Mallock married her instead of you?”

  Vanessa’s eyes blazed and she bit her lower lip hard enough to make it bleed as she struggled with her temper.

  Yes, Savannah thought, pay dirt.

  “Earl had to marry her. She was pregnant with his kid.”

  “So were you.” Savannah’s tone was gentle, but Vanessa looked as though she had been hit with a bull whip.

  “How the hell do you know that? Who told you that?”

  “I read it in some of Lisa’s letters. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to violate your privacy. I’m just trying to understand what—”

  “You don’t need to understand a damned thing about me or my past. It’s none of your fucking business. You get the hell off my property, bitch, before I knock your goddamned head off. Do you hear me? Do you?”

  Savannah assumed that everyone on the block could hear Vanessa; she was screaming the words. But tears were beginning to flow down the woman’s grease-smeared cheeks, and Savannah knew she had taken the situation as far as was wise at the moment.

  Quietly, she turned to leave, as Vanessa continued to hurl insults at her back.

  There was no reason to tarry. She had the information she had come for. The answer was: Yes, Vanessa was capable of violence. Anyone listening to her now, or who had seen the wrench sailing across the garage, would have no doubt about that.

  “Don’t you ever come back here again! Never! I mean it!”

  Savannah continued to walk without turning around. It was a dangerous gamble. She half expected to get a socket wrench thrown at her back.

  “If you want to find out who killed Lisa and Earl,” Vanessa shouted, “go after that child molester/pervert that Lisa was dating. She gave him the boot because of what he tried to do to Christy. He probably killed her . . . . and Earl, too. Hassle him for a change. Don’t go bothering people who didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Savannah could hear Vanessa’s voice breaking, and she knew that once she was gone, the hard-nosed motorcycle mama would fall to pieces.

  In spite of herself, Savannah couldn’t help feeling sorry for her and a bit guilty that she had caused her to be so upset.

  But, on the other hand, Savannah rationalized as she climbed into the car, if Vanessa Pearce had anything to do with the murders, she deserved to feel rotten. And if she was innocent, the cry would do her good.

  “Where is it?” Dirk asked, the moment Savannah got into his Buick.

  She shoved the sack with the Egg McMuffin at him. “Why am I giving you bribes when this is my lead?” she asked as he quickly unwrapped it and chomped off an enormous bite.

  “Because you love me?”

  “Guess again.”

  “Because I’m not so grouchy when I’ve been recently fed?”

  “That’s more like it.” She punched his shoulder and pointed to the ignition. “Let’s get rollin’, pal. We’ve got even more reason than ever to visit Mr. Ian ‘High Volt’ Warner.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ll tell you on the way. Drive.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “I just came from Vanessa Pearce’s garage, and she says Ian Warner is a child molester.” Savannah rolled down the Skylark’s window to escape some of Dirk’s secondhand smoke. For a refreshing change, he took the hint and hung his cigarette out his window as he drove. “But it might have just been a fanciful turn of phrase,” she added.

  “He is.” Dirk flipped the butt away.

  “He is?”

  “Yeap. I ran a check on him and he’s got a record. Three arrests, one conviction, ten-year sentence, six served.”

  “All molestation charges?”

  “All.”

  “The conviction?”

  “Forced oral copulation—an eight-year-old girl. One of his girlfriend’s daughters.”

  “Oh, man . . . . that fits what Vanessa told me. She said Lisa was dating the guy, but broke it off because of something he did, or tried to do, to Christy.”

  “Do you believe her?”

  Savannah thought for a moment. “She was pretty peeved at the time . . . . at me . . . . but she seemed sincere enough. And it goes along with what Mrs. Abernathy, the neighbor, said about Lisa having a fight with Warner and telling him not to come around anymore.”

  Dirk pulled the Buick into a dirt parking area beside a windowless, cement building with a bright red lightning bolt on the side and a sign that said: Warner Electric.

  Beside the building was parked the van which Lisa’s neighbor had mentioned. The white one with the red lettering and the vanity plate.

  Dirk turned to Savannah and smiled. “I’m gonna enjoy this,” he said. “Nothing quite makes my day like rousting a child molester.”

  The moment Dirk and Savannah walked through the front door of Warner Electric, a small, dark man in blue coveralls darted out from behind the counter and greeted them.

  “Hi, can I help you?”

  “Yeah,” Dirk said. “We need to have a word with Ian.”

  “He’s busy, can I—?”

  “So are we.” Dirk flipped open his badge. “And we have to talk to Ian. Right away.”

  Savannah walked on into the room, picking her way between reels of coaxial cable, bundles of conduit, and shelves, bristling with strange-looking metal boxes that sprouted wires and exotic connectors. At the other end, standing between a couple of heavily loaded pallets, was a tall, good-looking man with a leonine mane of golden curls that any woman would have envied.

  Savannah chuckled to herself. The hair was another reason why Dirk would enjoy hassling th
is guy. If there was anything on earth that Dirk hated more than a child molester, it was a child molester with more hair than he had. And that included a large slice of the pervert demagoguery.

  As Mrs. Abernathy had noted, Ian Warner wore his long sleeves rolled up to the elbow to reveal muscular forearms. He was, indeed, a handsome man. Long ago, Savannah had stopped trying to figure out why a man who could so easily find a willing woman to warm his bed would turn to a helpless child for gratification.

  Savannah turned back to Dirk and nodded in Warner’s direction. Dirk caught the look and walked past her toward the back. Toward Warner.

  When Dirk was only halfway across the room, Ian glanced his way and suddenly tensed. He seemed to lose all interest in the customer he had been speaking with. A knowing look crossed his face . . . . a look that Savannah knew well.

  Damn, he’s gonna run, she thought.

  A heartbeat later, he bolted for the back door.

  “Police! Freeze!” Dirk shouted, running after him.

  “Yeah, right.” Savannah whirled around and headed back out the front door. “The day one of them does what Dirk tells them, he’ll keel over with a heart attack.”

  She ran straight for the HI VOLT van in the parking lot, and her hunch had been right. Warner was running straight to her with Dirk in his dust.

  Holding her Beretta in both hands, she leaned over the hood of the van and braced her feet, pointing it straight at him.

  “Now you’re gonna freeze, Mr. Warner,” she said as she sighted down the barrel, “just like the nice policeman told you to. Because if you don’t, I’ll plug you one right between the eyes.”

  Ian nearly tripped over his own feet as he skidded to a stop on the other side of the hood. He glanced back at a fuming Dirk, who was closing the distance, then at Savannah. He looked genuinely confused.

  “Are you with him?” he asked her.

  “Yeap.”

  “Are you a cop, too?”

  “Not anymore,” she replied. “But I’m still a damned good shot.”

  It didn’t improve Savannah’s mood any to have to leave Ian Warner in Dirk’s hands and miss out on the questioning. But it was still business hours at the station, which upped her chances of running into Hillquist or Bloss. Besides, it would be stretching the rules considerably for Dirk to allow a civilian, such as herself, to hang around while he was conducting the interview.

  And, having recently pointed a gun at Warner’s head, she would be hard put to convince him she was a public defender.

  So, she headed home, to talk to Tammy and regroup. Maybe grab a bite to eat and see Gran. The poor ol’ dear was probably bored to death, sitting at home, waiting for her to show.

  “Your grandmother caught a cab and took off to the beach in her red swimsuit,” Tammy told her when she walked through the door. “Don’t worry, I loaned her one of your coverups, so she’s decent. Then she said she was going to check out the mall and some of the local Mexican food. Said she likes it spicy.”

  Savannah laughed. “I’m sure she does. Don’t be surprised if she comes back plowed. She likes margueritas, too.”

  “She’s so neat. I wish I had a grandmother like that,” Tammy said wistfully as she led Savannah into the office.

  “I just hope I’ll be a grandmother like that.”

  “Oh, you will be. You two are a lot alike.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. What have you got for me?”

  Savannah could tell Tammy was proud of herself as she presented her with a sheet of paper.

  “Another lead. Alan Logan’s ex-wife. I called and asked her if she would be willing to talk to you. She was thrilled at the thought. I think she wants to dump on you about Alan. She sounds like she’s still bitter.”

  “All right!” Savannah grabbed the paper. The address was nearby, only a few blocks away. “The more bitter the better, I always say.”

  “Do you always say that?”

  Tammy was so gullible, and Savannah loved her for it.

  “Naw. This was the first time. But I think it’s going to be my new motto.”

  At first glance, it wasn’t apparent that Jillian Logan had anything to be so bitter about. Alan hadn’t been kidding when he had said that his ex-wife had taken him for everything. With a Lexus and a Mercedes in the driveway of a rambling new ranch-style home, she didn’t appear to be hurting too badly. At least, not financially.

  But then, money wasn’t everything, Savannah told herself as she walked up the brick driveway to the stained glass French doors.

  “Hello, Ms. Reid, I’ve been expecting you,” said the perfectly tanned, perfectly manicured, perfectly frosted blond woman who ushered her into the spacious foyer.

  They passed the atrium full of expensive silk plants, and into a professionally decorated, chic, and overfurnished living room. Savannah was reminded of the covers of home decor magazines, where there was so much artistic clutter in the room that you couldn’t see a thing.

  But, beneath the jungle of knickknacks, Savannah saw a number of exquisite antiques . . . . probably the fruits of Alan’s labors in his business.

  “Do have a seat. May I serve you a glass of sparkling water?” Jillian asked with a wave of red-white-and-blue-striped acrylic nails.

  A rather patriotic gesture, Savannah thought. Worth remembering for the Fourth of July.

  “Sparkling water . . . . that would be very nice,” Savannah replied. “If you don’t have anything better,” she whispered as Jillian wriggled her teeny-tiny butt out of the living room and into the kitchen.

  “A private detective. How fascinating,” she cooed when she returned, carrying a wineglass filled with water, ice, and a slice of lemon.

  “Not really, but it pays the bills . . . . sometimes. What do you do, Mrs. Logan?”

  “At the moment I’m taking some classes at the community college. Home decorating, sculpture, flower arranging, and wok cooking. I’m still devastated over my divorce, you see, and I’m trying to find myself. I don’t know how I’m going to live on the piddly amount my ex-husband left to me. He really is a horrible man. What do you want to know about him?”

  Boy, howdy. . . . she is eager. Too eager.

  Savannah hauled out the mental bullshit shovel and slipped on her fantasy hip boots.

  “Whatever you would like to tell me, Mrs. Logan,” she replied, playing it safe.

  “Well . . . . I understand you’re investigating the murder of my ex’s business partner and his wife.”

  Savannah wondered who had told her. But she would get to that later. “That’s right; I am,” she said. “Is there anything you can tell me that might have to do with their deaths?”

  “You mean like . . . . that Alan wanted to have an affair with Lisa, and she turned him down and Alan was furious, and he never really got over it, and that he hated Earl because Alan blamed Earl for them losing their business, and then I left Alan, and Alan said that was Earl’s fault, too, but it was really Alan’s fault, not Earl’s because Alan was never home and didn’t pay me any attention at all, and that was why I left him, because I just couldn’t—”

  “Wait! Please!” Savannah held up one hand in surrender. “There isn’t, like, a quiz on all this later, is there?”

  Jillian Logan looked at her blankly. A couple of “blonde” jokes floated through Savannah’s head, but she quickly dismissed them as being unworthy of a such a mature and sophisticated brunette as herself.

  “A quiz? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jillian continued. “I was just wondering if that was the sort of thing you wanted to know.”

  Savannah considered sticking her head in the wineglass of sparkling water . . . . just drowning herself . . . . ending it all. But the glass was too small, and her head too big. So, instead, she reached into her purse and pulled out her pad and paper.

  “Certainly, Mrs. Logan,” she said, trying her best to sound patient. “Now, if you could just start at the beginning.”

  “Oh, ok
ay. No problem. It all began back in 1973. Alan—that rotten creep—and I met at a. . . .”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Savannah was getting ready to dash out of her house and hit the road again, when she opened her front door and nearly ran into Brian O’Donnell. He was standing on her doorstep, his fist raised, ready to knock.

  “Oh, hi . . . .” She wasn’t exactly prepared to speak to him again so soon. She had hoped to have something more concrete to tell him the next time she needed to give a report.

  After delivering so much bad news to the poor man, she was hoping to have something optimistic to relate.

  Oh, well . . . . so much for thinking positive. Usually, when she tried the upbeat, pull-only-good-things-to-you routine, things got worse. Or, maybe she had just been hanging around Dirk too long and had caught his infectious pessimism.

  “Hello, Savannah,” O’Donnell said. “I don’t mean to be a pest, but I’m sitting there, hour after hour, in my hotel room, worrying until I’m almost sick.”

  “I’m sure you are. I’m sorry.”

  “I feel so damned helpless. I had to do something, even if it was just to come over here and bug you.”

  “You aren’t bugging me, Mr. O’Donnell. Why don’t you come in for a minute, and I’ll fill you in on what we have so far.”

  “Is that it?” Brian O’Donnell asked Savannah, after she had spent nearly half an hour trying to make their lack of progress sound like a pep squad rally. But she decided she was losing her touch; he hadn’t bought it.

  He hadn’t even drunk the freshly brewed Mocha Java or eaten any of the cookies, which she had spread invitingly across the tray on the coffee table.

  “Ah . . . . yes, but this one lead, the one about the guy with the criminal record may pan out,” she told him. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he doesn’t turn out to be our killer. And, of course, now that Detective Coulter has him in custody, we’ll soon find out if . . . . we’ll find out where he’s been keeping Christy all this time, and we’ll be able to get her back.”