But, while Waycross had a state-of-the-art stereo system, there was no hint of a temperature-control device. As a young man, his priorities were notably different than those of a perimenopausal female.
The saga of the Reid family “troubles” had begun the moment Waycross had picked her up at the Atlanta airport two hours before. Twenty-nine years old, the only redhead in the batch, Waycross was the oldest of her two brothers. His relationship with his younger brother, Macon, had always been rocky, at best. And Savannah usually agreed with Waycross, the more hardworking, sensible, and responsible of the two. If he said Macon was being a pain, it was probably true.
“What’s he doing?” she asked.
“I don’t even know what he’s doing. I’m afraid to ask,” Waycross replied. “But I know who he’s doing it with. Since he graduated from high school he’s been hanging out with those Whitney boys, and you know what trailer trash they are . . . especially that Kenny Jr. What a friggin’ yahoo that one is. He’s so lazy the dead lice wouldn’t fall off him and stupider than a dirt clod.”
“The Whitneys. Yeah, I remember their old man,” Savannah said, searching her memory banks. “He drank like a skunk and practically lived in Sheriff Mahoney’s rear cell. It’s no wonder the kids turned sour.”
As they drove through Savannah’s hometown of McGill, she noted with a twang of the heartstrings some of her favorite haunts: the drugstore where she had enjoyed the occasional strawberry ice cream cone on a hot Saturday afternoon, the library where she had discovered the joy of Nancy Drew mysteries, the elementary school where she, her mother, and even her grandmother had attended. All three generations had played tag among the giant oaks and hopscotch on the hard-packed earth, where the grass had been worn away by hundreds of small, energetic feet.
But the trip down memory lane didn’t take long. When Savannah was a child, McGill, Georgia, had been only three blocks long.
Now it was four.
Urban sprawl.
“Have you given Macon a talking-to?” Savannah asked him.
“I’ve preached whole sermons to him . . . so has Gran . . . but it just rolls off him like rain off a duck’s back. You can’t tell Macon Reid nothing; he knows all there is to know about everything. If you don’t believe it, just ask him.”
“How’s everybody else doing?”
“Gran’s good, full o’ piss and vinegar, as always. Alma helps her out a lot.”
Savannah smiled, reminding herself that there would be a few blessings to this visit. Seeing Gran and Alma were two. Savannah liked to think she loved all her siblings equally, but she had to admit a favoritism toward Alma, who had always been the one to nurse a sick kitten, rescue a baby bird, or help Gran wax a kitchen floor or even scrub a toilet when necessary.
“Alma’s a sweetheart,” she said. “I wish she were the one getting married, instead of Marietta. She deserves to find a good husband.”
“Yeah, but I don’t see that happening any time soon. She’s still pretty shy with the boys.”
“And Cordele?”
“Still as uptight as ever. Goes around telling everybody what they oughta and oughtn’t do. She reads those psychology books and has a label for everything everybody does. I called her a busybody the other day, and she told me I’m a passive-aggressive with severe parental abandonment issues. Whatever the hell that means.”
Savannah chuckled. “That sounds like Cordele. And Vidalia?”
“Going crazy with those two sets of twins, and taking Butch along with her. He works with me at the service station about eighteen hours a day. Says it’s to make ends meet, but I think he’s just avoiding diaper duty.”
Savannah felt another surge of mixed emotions as they left the asphalt highway at the edge of town and turned left onto a dirt road. She wondered how many times she had walked this road from Gran’s house to the highway to catch a school bus, to check the mailbox, or just to get away for a moment of blissful solitude, away from a house full of nine kids, perpetually runny noses, mountains of soiled laundry and dirty dishes.
With an absentee, truck-driving father, and a mother who spent more time in the local tavern than standing at a kitchen sink or in front of an ironing board, the duties of child-rearing had fallen upon Granny Reid and Savannah, the oldest of the brood. Other than producing a child every year or two and naming them after Georgia towns, Shirley Reid had contributed little to her children’s welfare.
Savannah and Gran hadn’t complained, though. Not even in their most private moments. Watching the babies grow into children, and the children into adults, they had figured it was time and energy well spent.
Now, looking back on it with older, more experienced eyes, Savannah wondered that she hadn’t been more resentful at the time. The injustice of the situation had been lost in the chaotic hustle of caring for the babies that just kept coming. Savannah had been too busy to consider whether or not she was being used. And now, she couldn’t honestly say she would have changed anything. All in all, it had been a good childhood. And what her parents hadn’t, or couldn’t, give to their children, Gran had more than provided.
“You did good, Savannah. Real good.” Waycross gave her a sweet, loving look that went straight to her heart. It was as though he had read her thoughts. He reached over and patted her on the knee with his work-roughened, grease-stained fingers. “You had your hands full back then, and don’t think we don’t appreciate what you did for us.”
She placed her hand over his and squeezed. “I wouldn’t have missed a minute of it.”
He grinned. “Not even the afternoon I brought home that snake?”
“Ah, yes . . . the snake in my lingerie drawer episode. That one I could have done without. The frog in the sugar bowl wasn’t exactly a high point either, but all in all, it was pretty cool, raising you guys.”
Waycross rounded a corner and the house came into view. As always, when she had been away for a long time, Savannah was shocked at how small and shabby it was. The simple wooden structure was commonly known as a “shotgun” house, the rooms lined up in a straight row, from the front of the house to the back—living room, dining room, kitchen, and bedrooms, one opening into the other. It was so named because, if someone stood at the front of the house and shot a gun, the bullet could exit the back door without striking a wall.
The tiny house had probably been built for a family of four, maybe five. With ten people, three bedrooms, and one bath, it had been extremely cozy, to say the least.
Desperately in need of a coat of paint, it wasn’t as white as she remembered, several of the tar-paper tiles were missing from the roof, and the porch sagged on the left.
But it was home.
More importantly, it was where Gran lived. Feisty, wise Granny Reid had walked the earth for more than eighty years and generously shared her collected wisdom with Savannah and the rest of her grandchildren. Some had embraced her teachings more than others, but all had been given the benefit of her counsel . . . whether they wanted it or not.
Suddenly, it was very important to Savannah to get out of the truck and into that house. As soon as the vehicle rolled to a stop, Savannah’s door was open.
She was across the yard and onto the porch in a matter of seconds, replaying in her mind the memories of coming home to Gran, whose hands were always busy—peeling potatoes, folding laundry, bandaging skinned knees—but she always had time to listen, to hear how someone’s day had been, to enjoy the latest bit of gossip, or to help with an arithmetic problem.
Year after year, Gran had been waiting, a smile on her face when Savannah came through the door.
But this time was different.
When Savannah barged inside, shouting, “Gran, it’s me; I’m ho-o-ome!” she found her grandmother sitting in her overstuffed armchair, quietly weeping. Savannah’s sister, Alma, sat on the ottoman in front of her, holding a handful of tissues. She, too, was crying.
Savannah felt her heart do a few double beats, and time slowed, as it di
d in those fractions of a second just before you hear something you’ll never forget.
“Oh, no . . .” she said, “who died?”
“Ma-ma-con,” Alma replied between sobs.
Waycross had come into the house behind Savannah just in time to hear the news. “Macon’s dead?” he said in a hoarse whisper.
“No, he’s not dead,” Gran said, wiping her eyes. Savannah was shocked to see that, for once, she actually looked her eighty-plus years. “But he might as well be. Deputy Stafford just came here and arrested him.”
Savannah felt her knees go weak, from relief or fear she wasn’t sure. Sinking onto the couch, she said, “What was he arrested for?”
Alma began to sob even harder, while Gran steeled herself to reply. “They say he killed Judge Patterson.”
“Killed? Macon? That’s ridiculous!” Savannah said. “He wouldn’t—”
“Yeah, he might have,” Waycross replied, shaking his head as though suddenly weary. He sat on the sofa beside Savannah.
“No! I don’t believe that for a minute. Gran, do you—?”
The look of misery in her grandmother’s eyes chilled Savannah nearly as much as her words. “Well, Savannah,” she said, “you see, Macon’s changed. He ain’t the boy we used to know no more . . . been into all sorts of meanness lately.” She dabbed at her eyes, then wadded the tissue into a tight ball. “I’m sorry to say that Waycross is right. Macon just might have murdered that old geezer.”
Chapter 3
As Savannah hurried up to the square, two-story brick building that housed the McGill sheriff’s station and city jail—as evidenced by the bars on the upper windows—the thought occurred that she hadn’t been here to bail out a relative for a long time. About twelve years. The last time it had been her mother, incarcerated for lawless activity. But the offense had been something simple, and customary for Shirley Reid . . . public drunkenness, creating a public nuisance, or, at worst, cracking a beer bottle over an equally intoxicated companion’s head.
After raiding the coffee can full of nickels, pennies, and dimes hidden beneath the kitchen sink, Savannah and Gran had managed to scrounge together the twenty-five dollars to spring her.
Savannah had the sinking feeling that this problem wouldn’t be so easily solved. No pillowcase full of loose change was going to buy her little brother’s freedom.
She yanked open the rusty screen door, its holes bandaged with crisscrosses of cellophane tape to keep the blood-hungry Georgia mosquitoes at bay. A blast of frigid air hit her the moment she opened the wooden door and stepped inside. Apparently, City Hall had finally let go of some funds to air-condition their deputies. And the law enforcers were taking full advantage of the luxury.
But that was the only immediately discernible difference. Otherwise, the office looked just the way she remembered it: dark, dingy, dusty, and positively reeking of intrigue. It had always been one of her favorite places. Within these walls she had first been infected with the virus—the law enforcement bug.
On the way over from Gran’s, having ordered everyone else to stay at home, Savannah had a few moments of solitude to consider how she was going to handle this situation. One element of the equation was bound to be Deputy Thomas Stafford. So much for her decision to avoid him.
She wasn’t sure how she would feel, seeing him again after so long. And with Macon’s bacon sizzling in the frying pan, she hadn’t given it a lot of thought.
So she was startled by the sensation that swept over her the moment she saw him, standing in the corner of the room beside the gun rack. He was replacing a shotgun, locking it into place, intent on what he was doing and unaware of her presence.
She had secretly hoped that the years might have robbed him of some hair, thickened his middle, etched a few lines around his eyes . . . made him a little less desirable. And he had, indeed, filled out a bit. But it was all in the form of shoulders, biceps, thighs, and calves, judging from the strategically placed bulges in his khaki uniform. He wore his blond, curly hair in a shorter style than when she had last seen him, but he didn’t appear to have lost any of it.
When he turned to face her, she saw that even the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes looked good on him, giving a rugged edge to his otherwise boyish attractiveness.
He froze when he saw her, his green eyes registering first a trace of confused semirecognition, then delight.
“Savannah! I don’t believe it!” In three long-legged paces he closed the distance between them and grabbed her around the waist. “Hot damn, gal! It’s good to see you.”
He gave her a hug that nearly lifted her off her feet and took her breath away . . . both from its vigor and from the rush of familiar sexual heat that, surprisingly, hadn’t cooled one degree over the years.
Holding her at arm’s length, he looked her up and down. And just for a moment, she wished she had eaten more of Tammy’s salads and less of Dirk’s candy bars.
But nothing except pure admiration registered in his eyes as he took in every detail of her figure. “Shit, you look great!” he said, shaking his head. “I mean fan-friggin’-tastic!”
“And you always were a silken-tongued lad,” she replied.
The lascivious grin he gave her made her knees even weaker. His hands tightened around her waist, pulling her closer. “You oughta remember,” he said, dropping his voice to a throaty whisper. “We taught each other how to kiss behind the bleachers.”
“Yeah, and a few other things that my granny would have skinned you alive for, if she’d found out.”
At the mention of Gran, both of their moods deflated. “I guess I don’t have to ask why you’re here,” he said, releasing her and walking over to a desk littered with wire baskets full of papers. The green, goose-necked lamp was vintage Americana, as was the leather-edged blotter. The only signs of technological advancement were a laptop computer and a fax machine.
He sat down behind the desk and waved her toward a metal folding chair beside it.
“We just picked your brother up, less than an hour ago,” he said with a sigh as he aimlessly shuffled some of the papers. “You must have made record time getting here from California.”
She heard the investigatory tone in his question and reminded herself that this hunk sitting before her might be an ex-boyfriend, but he was, number one, a cop. A damned good one, too, as she recalled. She felt a bit strange, being on the other side and having to watch every word she said.
“I was already on my way here,” she said. “Marietta’s wedding. . . .”
“Oh, yeah. I remember hearing she was going to give it another go. Some people never learn, huh?”
Her blue eyes hardened, and she didn’t bother to keep the sarcasm out of her voice when she replied evenly, “And some don’t have the courage to take the chance in the first place.”
He stared at her for a long moment, then glanced away. “Yeah, well.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry you’ve got trouble in your family, Savannah. It like to broke my heart, bringing Macon in. I’ve always loved your grandma, and I don’t want to be causing her grief. But what are ya gonna do?”
“Find out who really did it,” she suggested, reaching for the can of soda that was sitting, unopened, on his desk.
She popped the top and took a long drink, but it wasn’t enough to get rid of the dryness in her mouth. Her hand shook slightly as she set the can down. She hoped he wouldn’t notice.
He did.
Good cops notice everything, she reminded herself.
He reached over and covered her hand with his. For some reason, tears sprang to her eyes, and she silently cursed him for seeing them . . . for causing them. And even though she knew he wasn’t personally responsible for whatever had happened to Macon, he was the readily available target.
“Savannah, I wouldn’t have just snatched your brother up like that without good, solid evidence. You know me better than that. I don’t arrest nobody for murder, let alone a member of your family, unless I�
��m damned sure.”
From a drawer in his desk, he pulled a box of tissues and offered her one. She sniffed and shook her head. “So, what’s this solid evidence you’ve got on him?”
Replacing the box, he said, “You’re a cop yourself, Savannah. You know I can’t be telling a member of the family stuff like that.”
“You’re behind in your news. I’m off the force. Now I’m a private investigator, so whatever you don’t tell me, I’ll just have to find out on my own.”
He grinned at her and, in spite of herself, she had to admit he had a nice smile, friendly, laced with mischief. “Don’t you go picking no locks or climbing through no windows, young lady, or you’ll be in that cell with your brother.”
“Speaking of... I want to see him.”
“Sorry, can’t do that either.”
She stood up so abruptly that the chair nearly toppled over backward. “Don’t get smart with me, Tommy Stafford! You may not be keen on telling me the ins and outs of your investigation, but you’re not going to keep me from talking to my baby brother.”
“Listen to me, Savannah. Macon clammed up, asked for an attorney, and the public defender’s away on a fishing trip. So your baby brother’s just gonna have to cool his heels there in the cell a few days till he gets back. And he ain’t having company . . . you or nobody else.”
Standing, he took a couple of steps toward her and they were nose to nose . . . or as close as possible, considering that he was about six inches taller.
Unintimidated, Savannah glared up at him, eyes blazing. “Now you listen to me, Tommy Stafford. I—”
“Tom! It’s Tom now! Not Tommy!”
She shrugged. “Whatever. I’m going upstairs right this minute, and I’m going to talk to my little brother. I’m going to find out if he’s all right, and ask him what this mess is all about. And you and I both know that you’re not going to try to physically restrain me.”
He pushed his face another inch closer to hers. “I could, you know.”
“You could try. But we’d both wind up bruised and bloody, and in the end, I’d still make it up those stairs. So why don’t you just be sensible and save us the grief?”
07-Peaches And Screams Page 3
