They stared at each other several seconds, the only sounds in the room those of their breathing and the hum of the air conditioner. When he didn’t reply, she spun around and stomped across the room toward the staircase that led to the cells above.
When she was halfway up the stairs, she heard him say, “You may be lookin’ good, gal, but you’re just as contrary as you ever were. Maybe more.”
With every step she climbed, Savannah could feel the temperature rising by degrees. At the top of the stairs, she decided it must be one hundred and ten and ninety-eight percent humidity.
Apparently, the city fathers didn’t believe it necessary to provide their prisoners the luxury of air-conditioning. Their sense of thrift showed in the low-wattage bulbs hanging from bare sockets overhead.
The narrow, dim corridor that led between the two rows of cells, four on each side, gave Savannah an overwhelming case of claustrophobia. Graffiti-decorated, gray cement walls separated the cells with iron bars on the front. Rust had long ago eaten through the Army-green paint that had once been smeared on the bars and doors.
The smells of urine and unwashed bodies mingled with other odors she didn’t care to identify.
McGill’s jails were frequented more by drunks sleeping off a night of overindulgence than by desperate, hard-core criminals. In the past one hundred years, these cells hadn’t housed a single serial killer, jewel thief, or international spy.
The first cell on her left held an old fellow whom Savannah recognized as the town drunk. He had held that distinction as long as she could remember. The scraggly blond beard that hung to his waist had more silver hair than gold and his tanned face had a few more cracks, but otherwise he looked much the same as he had when she was a kid.
“Hey, Yukon Bill,” she said, nodding as she passed.
“Did you bring me a bologna sandwich?” he called.
“Nope.”
“How about a cold beer?”
“Maybe next time I’ll smuggle you in a Coke.”
“Eh, don’t bother. Coke don’t cut it.”
A pair of arms poked through the bars from the cell on the far right. “Savannah? Savannah? Is that you?”
Savannah’s heart jumped at the sound of the familiar, beloved voice, one she had only heard over the phone for a long time. Macon might be a pistol, sometimes a pain in the rump, but he was her baby brother.
Okay, so he’s not exactly a baby anymore, she thought when she walked up to the front of his cell and looked inside. Macon had always been a tall kid, well over six feet, but now he was wide as well. Since she had seen him last, about seven years ago, he had gained about a hundred pounds. And unlike Deputy Stafford downstairs, the bulk of the weight wasn’t muscle.
The smile he gave her was lukewarm, the soul light in his eyes dim, as he reached through the bars and gave her an awkward embrace.
“I wasn’t figuring it would be you who’d come,” he said. “But you might as well have saved yourself the effort. I’m in a hell of a mess, Sis. I mean, a big mess.”
She stood as close as she could to the bars, wishing she could somehow cuddle this mountain of human being and take away the frightened, empty look in his eyes. “So I heard,” she replied.
“They think I killed somebody.”
“Heard that, too.”
“Deputy Stafford says me and a buddy of mine robbed and murdered Judge Patterson. And he says he’s got the evidence to prove it, too.”
She glanced down at his stockinged feet. “Where are your shoes, sweetie?”
“They took ’em when they threw me in here.”
He shook his head, ran his fingers through his short brush of a crewcut, and walked over to the cot that was fastened with chains to the wall. Sinking onto it, he propped his elbows on his knees and put his face in his hands.
Savannah’s heart sank. The look, the posture, was a familiar one. She had seen that expression of utter defeat on many a prisoner’s face, and she knew what it meant.
It was the look of guilt.
She glanced down the corridor, but saw no one, not even Yukon Bill, who had returned to his bunk.
“Macon,” she whispered. “You’ve got to tell me . . . and I mean, the truth. Don’t you dare lie to me, boy, or I swear, as soon as I lay hands on you, I’ll clean your plow.”
He looked up at her, but his blank expression suggested he was already bored with the subject. “Yeah?”
“Did you do it?”
He sighed. “Did I do what?”
“Don’t screw around with me. This ain’t the time. Did you kill Judge Patterson . . . or anybody else?”
“Nope.”
She peered into his eyes with the intense scrutiny of one who had been lied to more times than she could remember. He quickly glanced away, then stared down at the cement floor.
Not a good sign, she thought. Momentarily she flashed back on the day he had come home from the local grocery store with his pockets stuffed with candy bars and bubble gum . . . far more than his twenty-five cent a week allowance would have bought.
“How was the judge killed?” she asked, clasping the cold bars with sweating fingers. The peeling paint rasped against her skin, but she was only vaguely aware of the sensation.
“Shot.”
Savannah heard a sound from the other end of the corridor and turned to see Tom Stafford walking toward her, a ring of keys jangling in his hand, a disgruntled, but resigned, look on his face.
Macon jumped to his feet and stepped up to the door.
Savannah waited for Tom to say something, but he didn’t. Instead he walked to the door of the cell, unlocked it, and swung it open. With a wave of his hand, he ushered her inside.
She wasn’t sure if he was inviting her to join her brother inside the cell for their conversation, or placing her under arrest, too.
Her answer came a moment later as he relocked the door. “Make the most of your time,” she heard him mutter under his breath. “I’ll be back in about fifteen minutes.”
“Thank you, Tommy,” she called after him. “I mean, Tom.”
He just grunted . . . and kept walking.
The moment the deputy disappeared through the far door, Savannah grabbed her brother in a rough hug, but he pulled away after only a couple of seconds.
Watching him shuffle away from her and stretch out on the cot, Savannah tried to remind herself that he had always been the distant brother. Unlike the more demonstrative Waycross, Macon had always kept his thoughts and emotions to himself. As a result, she and Gran had spent a lot of time and energy trying to figure out what was going on inside him.
But she didn’t have the patience for a game of “What’s Up With Macon?”, considering the high stakes.
“Sit up,” she said, punching him on the shoulder. “Tom said fifteen minutes and that’s not long. Start talking.”
Groaning, he shoved himself into a sitting position. “What’s there to talk about?”
She resisted the urge to slap him silly. “How do you know the judge was shot?”
“That’s what the deputy said.”
“Where?”
“In his car, when he was bringing me here to jail.”
“No, I mean, where was the judge shot?”
“There in that big house of his on the edge of town . . . the old mansion with the white pillar things out front and—”
“I know which one. When did it happen?”
“Last night.” He gave her a quick sideways glance and added, “I guess. I mean, that sort of thing usually happens at night . . . doesn’t it?”
“Did Deputy Stafford say that’s when it went down?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t remember.”
“What else did Tom say?”
“Mostly, he just told me that I didn’t have to talk to him if I didn’t want to and that I could have a lawyer.”
“Yes. He mentioned that he’d tried to get the public defender over here, but the guy’s gone for the weekend.�
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Macon crossed his arms over his ample belly, and Savannah saw the bruise on his forearm, just below the tattoo of a tiger that she didn’t remember him having. Dark and swollen, the bruise appeared fresh.
“How did you get that?” She pointed to the bruise. “Did Tom rough you up when he brought you in?”
He looked down and seemed surprised, as though seeing it for the first time.
“What? Oh, no . . . I don’t think Tom did it. The handcuffs were a little tight, me being so big and all, but . . .”
“Handcuffs wouldn’t pinch you there, darlin’,” Savannah said. She could hear the fear and worry in her own voice.
“What are you gettin’ at?” he replied, as irritated and guarded as she was concerned.
“Nothing, Macon . . . except that you’ve got a nasty bruise on your arm, the kind people get when they’ve been in some kind of a fight. So, if you don’t remember where you got it, you’d better start figuring it out. ’Cause Tom Stafford’s a good cop, and you can bet your bottom dollar he’s going to ask you about it.”
She reached over and laid her hand on his shoulder. She felt him flinch beneath her touch, before he pulled away.
“As soon as your attorney gets here, Tom’s going to ask you a lot of questions, little brother. And he ain’t gonna settle for the crap answers you’ve been giving me. With Tom Stafford, ‘I don’t know’ and ‘I don’t remember’ just ain’t gonna cut it.”
Chapter 4
By the time Deputy Tom Stafford returned, fifteen minutes later, to release Savannah from her brother’s cell, she was about as depressed as she had ever been in her life . . . a lifetime fraught with daily blood sugar dips, monthly PMS episodes, and weekly bouts of Monday-morning, step-on-the-bathroom-scale blues.
Every brain cell in her analytical mind told her that her little brother had been a bad boy, indeed. And this time, a simple trip to the principal’s office with one of Gran’s apple pies wouldn’t put things right.
At the top of the stairs leading to the first floor, Savannah paused. Tom, who had been walking a few steps behind, bumped into her. She grabbed him by the forearms and was only vaguely aware that he winced.
“I want to go out to the scene, Tom,” she told him. “Take me out there now, okay?”
Shaking his head, he pulled away. “No way. Don’t even start with that, Savannah, ’cause it won’t happen. In fact, if I even catch you within spitting distance of the old Patterson place, I swear I’ll haul your tail right back here and throw you in the cell with Yukon Bill.”
“I won’t touch anything, I swear. I won’t interfere and—”
“No! No! No! I know you heard me, girl, so don’t act like you didn’t.” He stomped past her and on down the steps. She could feel the stairs tremble with his weight. “Shit, you’ve always had a head as hard as bog oak, and a gift for being deaf when it suits you.”
Hurrying after him, she called, “You can run, but you can’t hide, Tommy Stafford. You’re going to drive me out there right now, and you know it.”
“No! I give you an inch, you think you’re a damned ruler. That fifteen-minute visit is all you’re getting outta me. Go home.”
By the time he reached the bottom step, she had caught him by the back of the shirt. He spun around, his face flushed, his breathing hard. Standing on the stair above him, she could look him straight in the eyes for a pleasant change.
“You have never, Tommy Stafford, never in the history of our relationship, won an argument with me. What makes you think today’s going to be any different? You just think about what’s at stake here, and how determined I can be.”
“Then you’d better think about something.” He shook his finger in her face. “That little brother of yours is a punk, a no-good piece of white trash that—”
The sharp crack of her palm across his cheek surprised her nearly as much as it did him. For only a second, she regretted the slap. Then her fury flared again.
“Don’t you ever say that about Macon or anyone else I love,” she said, choking on the words. “Not ever. You hear?”
She half expected him to hit her back, and she wouldn’t have blamed him if he had. One of her long-standing rules stated: If anyone, even a woman, strikes first, they deserve to get as good as they gave.
But Tom didn’t hit her. In fact, the anger in his eyes faded, and when he did reach for her, it was to gently stroke her cheek with his forefinger. The simple gesture touched her heart and brought tears to her eyes.
“Savannah, I’m so sorry,” he said. “I don’t want to be the one to say harsh things to you. But darlin’, it’s true. Macon’s different now. He’s fallen into some bad company lately, and it’s rubbed off on him.”
“He’s a good kid, with a good heart. I don’t care who he’s been hanging out with, that hasn’t changed.”
“It’s admirable—you being loyal to your loved ones and all—but you’ve got to be smart about where you invest yourself. Don’t spend on somebody who’s not worth the cost.”
“Thank you,” she said coolly, “but since he’s my family, I think it’s up to me to set the price, don’t you?”
“I reckon. But I’m your friend, and I’ve got a right to speak my mind on the subject.”
“Okay.” She drew a deep breath and added, “Once.”
“I hear you.”
He turned and headed toward his desk. “Now why don’t you do me a big favor and get the hell outta here before Sheriff Mahoney gets back. He’s out picking up Kenny Whitley, and he’ll be here any minute. I don’t want him to see you here and start asking whether I let you see Macon or not.”
“So take me out to the Patterson place and we’ll both be gone when he gets back.”
“Savannah, dad-gum-it, I—”
The sudden eruption of noise on the sidewalk outside made them both forget their conversation as something sounding like an angry mob charged the front of the building.
The door opened and what appeared to be the entire citizenry of McGill poured into the station.
Then Savannah realized: It was only her family.
Gran led the pack—Waycross and Alma, as well as two more of Savannah’s sisters, the bride-to-be Marietta and Vidalia, along with Vidalia’s husband, Butch, and their two sets of twins. Reids filled the room, wall to wall.
Alpha female Gran was in full howl. “Where is my grandson?” she demanded of Deputy Stafford. “Savannah left almost an hour ago and said she’d be bringing him home. But since she’s still here . . .” she punched a thumb in Savannah’s direction, “. . . it’s obvious that you’re being a mule’s hind end about this. I swear, I’m going to have to take this up with your granddaddy. Him and me go way back, you know.”
Tom held up both hands, as though fending off a disgruntled mob. “Now, Mrs. Reid, I know you’re riled up, and I understand you want to have Macon home with your family just as soon as possible. But it ain’t gonna happen, not any time soon. I’m sorry, but when you get that straight, you’ll feel a whole heap better.”
“Don’t you dare condescend to me, young man. I was an old lady when you were still in diapers. It’s not your place to tell me what I should think.”
“You’re right, and I apologize, ma’am. I meant no disrespect.” He shook his head, and Savannah couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for him. She had been in the same situation with families before. Relatives often held the idea that their loved one couldn’t possibly do anything wrong, and therefore, law enforcement had to be the enemy.
Butch stepped forward, his T-shirt grease-stained from a hard day’s work at the garage. He held his unruly seven-year-old son, Jack, by one hand and with the other he corralled Jack’s twin, Jillian.
He gave Savannah a brief nod. “Hi, Van.”
“Hey yourself,” she replied. She had last seen him and her sister Vidalia a couple of years ago, when Vidalia had left him after a matrimonial spat and shown up on Savannah’s doorstep. She’d had Jack and Jillian in tow and an en
ormously pregnant tummy. Savannah could see that the youngest set of twins were filling up and out in typical Reid style. Vidalia held one chubby cherub in each arm. She, too, gave Savannah a warm smile of welcome. But Savannah could see she had been crying.
They were all worried sick about Macon.
More worried than he seems to be about himself, Savannah thought, wishing she could give him a swift kick in the pants.
Butch turned to Deputy Stafford. “Is it a matter of bail?” he asked. “If it is, I’ll haul the banker outta bed and get him to give me a loan on the garage. We don’t want Macon sittin’ in a cell. It just ain’t right, when he didn’t do nothin’ wrong.”
“Yeah,” said Marietta, elbowing her way through the crowd until she stood front and center. “He’s going to be head usher in my wedding, and he’s got to go to the rehearsal and stuff like that. He doesn’t have time to be arrested right now.”
Dear Marietta, Savannah thought. Always practical. Always thinking of others.
“Marietta, don’t be a fool if you can help it,” Gran said, pushing her aside. “Deputy Stafford doesn’t give a rat’s rear end about your wedding. A man’s been killed, for heaven’s sake.”
“That’s right,” Tom Stafford interjected. “A judge has been murdered, and your Macon is our prime suspect. We can’t just let him—”
“Why?” Gran wanted to know. “Why do you think it’s him? What evidence do you have that makes you believe he did it?”
Savannah saw her opening and dove in, headfirst. “As a matter of fact, Gran,” she said, “Tom was just about to take me out to the scene of the crime. We were headed there when y’all came charging in here like General Sherman’s army.”
She gave Tom a quick, sideways grin. His eyes narrowed; his lips pulled tight and thin.
On a roll, she continued, “I told you, if everybody would just stay home and tend to business there, I’d take care of things down here.”
Gran’s sharp eyes peered at Savannah, and Savannah realized her grandmother wasn’t fooled a bit by this charade. But the old lady was keen enough to see that a game was afoot and to play along.
07-Peaches And Screams Page 4
