07-Peaches And Screams

by G. A. McKevett

  Chapter 10

  “The Burger Igloo . . . what sort of a stupid name is that?” Dirk wanted to know as he, Savannah, and Tammy slid into the bright-red, leatherette-and-chrome booth. Ladies to the right, gent to the left. Like a petulant little sister, Tammy refused to sit next to “Fart-Face Dirko,” as she fondly called him during adolescent moments.

  To Savannah’s dismay, there were many such moments in their relationship.

  The jukebox boomed “Love Me Tender” while vintage posters of fifties movies decorated the wall and set the rock-and-roll theme. Other than the fact that the posters had yellowed and curled at the edges and that cracks crisscrossed the red seats, little had changed at the Burger Igloo in the past thirty years. And that was the way the citizens of McGill, Georgia, liked it.

  As far as they were concerned, change was overrated.

  “They serve ice cream here, too,” Savannah told him, glancing over the twenty-flavor list of shakes and sundaes that hung on the wall, between the Rebel Without a Cause and Giant posters. “I think the ‘igloo’ part refers to that side of the menu, not the burgers or fries.”

  “I hope so. I hate cold fries. You know how picky I am about my food.”

  “Yeah, right.” Tammy sniffed. “It has to be free—or at least cheap—and in front of your face. Those are your two basic requirements.”

  Dirk scowled at her across the table. “You could be fired, bimbo-brain.”

  “Not by you, pee-pee head. I work for—”

  “Stop it, both of you!” Savannah shoved menus at them. “Or I’ll whack your heads together and send you to bed without your supper. And if you don’t think I’ll do it, you just try me. I’ve had a hard last twenty-four hours, and I’d love to take a chunk out of somebody.”

  “Sorry, Savannah,” Tammy mumbled, opening the plastic menu and peering disapprovingly at the selections. “I don’t see any salads on here.”

  “Get real. The closest thing to a salad that you’re gonna find on there is some extra lettuce on your burger.”

  Savannah fanned herself with the menu. Ironically, the Igloo had never had air-conditioning, for as long as she could remember, but she didn’t recall it being so miserably stuffy before.

  Funny, she thought, how summer heat was “sultry” when you were a teenager and “sticky” in your forties. So much for growing older and lowering testosterone levels.

  She had deliberately avoided sitting in the booth in the corner, where she had received her first real, tongue-enhanced, makeout kiss from Tommy Stafford. Now another young couple occupied the booth, taking full advantage of the semiprivacy it afforded.

  She decided not to glance in that direction a second time.

  Some memories were better unstirred. Especially with “Eagle Eye Dirk” sitting across from her. He wasn’t a detective with a gold shield for nothing.

  “I suppose it’s too much to hope that they might have veggie burgers in a place like this,” Tammy said.

  Savannah sighed. “Look, do you want a hamburger, a cheeseburger, or a double chili-cheese burger? That’s it.”

  “Are you buying?” Dirk wanted to know.

  “I guess.”

  “Then make mine a double chili cheese . . . with extra fries.”

  Tammy gave him a sad, somewhat self-righteous shake of her head. “You’re going to die.”

  “Yes . . . with a full belly and a smile on my face, God willing,” he replied.

  A waitress in a pink-and-white striped uniform that looked like a Candy Striper cast-off strolled over to them, order pad in hand.

  Savannah recognized her instantly. “Jeannie? Jean Marie Thompson, how are you, hon?”

  She almost added, “Are you still working in this dump?” but decided to be kind.

  Jeannie had once been the prettiest girl in school, but as some would say, the years hadn’t been kind to her. The last Savannah had heard, Jeannie had divorced her abusive, SOB husband and was supporting a bunch of kids on a waitress’s salary. Or at least trying to.

  “Savannah?” She leaned over and gave her a brief hug. “You look great, darlin’. I heard you were coming to town, that you’re gonna stand up with Marietta at her wedding.”

  “Seems so.”

  Jeannie leaned closer. “I think her boyfriend’s a nice guy. He’ll make a good husband . . . if he can just get that divorce in time. The wedding’s supposed to be this coming Saturday, ain’t it?”

  “That’s what we’re figuring on,” Savannah replied. “But now with the trouble with Macon and all . . .”

  Jeannie clucked her tongue and shook her head. “That’s so sad. I liked to have cried when I heard. Not the judge getting killed, the old crab, but that Macon and Kenny Jr. did it . . . I mean, got arrested for it.”

  “We don’t think he did it, Jeannie,” Savannah said. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d spread the word that it isn’t exactly a done deal. We’re checking into it, you know. Investigating the homicide.”

  Jeannie nodded, her look somber, appropriately impressed.

  Savannah introduced her to Tammy and Dirk. “They’ve come out here from California to help me find out who really killed the judge and get Macon back home with his family where he belongs. My poor gran is beside herself.”

  “Oh, I’ll bet she is. I know how she’s always doted on you kids.”

  Jeannie quickly scribbled down their orders, then patted Savannah on the shoulder. “Don’t you worry, Savannah. I see most everybody in town through here in a week’s time. I’m gonna talk it up for you, I promise. And I’ll keep my ears open too. Those truckers that sit at the counter . . . they got a lot to say about everything and everybody.”

  “Thank you, Jeannie. I appreciate it. We all do.”

  Ten minutes later, Savannah and Dirk had their faces buried in chili cheeseburgers. Tammy was sipping a milkshake and complaining that she could practically feel her arteries hardening, just watching them.

  “We’ve gotta check out the judge’s most recent wife,” Savannah said. “She just moved out last March. My mom says that rumor has it, she caught him with one of his many mistresses and decided to divorce him and take him for all he was worth. The divorce was going to be final in another month or so.”

  “How many wives did he have?” Tammy slurped an extra-thick chunk of strawberry through the straw.

  “Four.”

  Dirk practically choked on his chili. “Four! Good grief. You’d think he’d have figured he was ‘out’ after three.”

  “The first two died years ago. The third one lives in England now, and the last one was forty-five years his junior,” Savannah said. “She works over at the country club now, in the sports shop.”

  “Okay,” Dirk said. “We’ll put her at the top of our list.”

  Savannah nudged Dirk with her shoe under the table. “What did you guys get while you were playing pool?”

  “Ten bucks,” Tammy replied.

  “What?” Savannah raised one eyebrow.

  “She’s a hustler,” Dirk said. “Played those yokels like a fiddle and squeezed ten dollars out of them before I could put a stop to it.”

  “Why would you want to stop her?”

  “She wouldn’t cut me in.”

  “Oh, right,” Savannah said. “Besides the big bucks, what did you get?”

  “That a lot of people around here hated the judge’s guts,” Dirk said. “He was famous for loaning people money when they really needed it and then foreclosing on their land when they didn’t pay right up. That’s how he wound up owning so much of the county . . . other than the half he inherited, that is. He got his jollies by repossessing cars and furniture and stuff, evicting folks who were behind on their rent, junk like that.”

  “And then there are the half-a-dozen bastard kids he’s got,” Tammy added. “The guys around the pool table say he had a little problem keeping his zipper closed. And some of those grown-up kids aren’t happy about the fact that they haven’t been officially acknowledge
d as his offspring.”

  “Officially acknowledged . . . or financially acknowledged ?” Savannah mused.

  “I’m sure that’s partly why they’re disgruntled.” Dirk dragged several fries through a puddle of ketchup and popped them into his mouth. “We gotta talk to them, too.”

  “So, where do we start?” Tammy asked.

  “Once we’ve fueled up here . . . ” Savannah drained her pineapple malt and waved to the waitress for a second. “. . . We’ll go over to the country club and see if anybody knows why the judge wasn’t there last night.”

  “What do you mean?” Tammy said.

  Dirk reached for the mustard and squirted a generous amount inside his second cheeseburger. “Macon told us that he and Kenny Jr. were expecting the judge to be gone when they broke into the house. He was supposed to be at the country club, like he always was.”

  “But he wasn’t,” Savannah added. “And it might help to find out why . . . if anybody there knows. Also, it’ll give me a chance to talk to Mrs. Patterson Number Four. With any luck, she’ll have some dirt to dish on the old fella.”

  Tammy glanced around the room at the line of truckers sitting at the counter, the locals hanging around the jukebox, the teenagers making out in the corner.

  “You know,” she said, “I’ll bet there’s a lot of gossip dished in this place along with those greasy burgers. Maybe I should ask your girlfriend, Jeannie, if she needs some extra help.”

  “You, bimbo-head, waiting on tables?” Dirk laughed. “Believe it or not, you gotta have a lot on the ball to be a waitress. It ain’t as easy as it looks.”

  Tammy’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll have you know, smart aleck, that I waited tables for three summers in a row when I was in college. And I happen to know how hard it is. I also know that you can find out a lot from just keeping your ears open while you’re slingin’ hash.”

  Savannah thought it over, but not for long. “I think it’s a great idea.” She slapped Tammy on the knee. “I’ll talk to Jeannie, and we’ll see if we can make a truck-stop cutie out of you, New York girl.”

  Having left Tammy behind to coax whatever gossip she could from the Burger Igloo’s clientele, Savannah and Dirk headed for the McGill Hollow Country Club.

  “Wow, this is nice,” Dirk commented as they drove past the meticulously groomed golf course, tennis courts, and an Olympic- sized pool. “To see this place, you’d think the South won the war.”

  “Not everybody in this part of the world is poor by a long shot,” Savannah replied, directing him to the main complex and the sports shop. “There’s still plenty of old money in the South, as well as the nouveau riche. Just because folks say ‘ain’t’ and ‘cain’t’ doesn’t mean they’re hicks, you know. There’s a lot of sophistication and culture around here, if you travel in the right circles.”

  “Spend a lot of time here when you were growing up?” Dirk pulled the car into an empty spot in the lot and cut the key.

  “Oh, yeah.” Savannah chuckled. “For a while there I was dropping by twice a week.”

  “For tennis lessons or swimming?”

  “To pick up the dirty linens and to drop off the clean ones. Gran and I made extra money doing the club’s laundry.”

  When Dirk didn’t reply, she turned to see him looking at her with a funny expression on his face, one she couldn’t quite read.

  “What?” she said.

  “Things were pretty tough for you, weren’t they, Van?”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t think so at the time. I knew people who were a lot less fortunate. They didn’t have any sort of work to do and ate nothing but government rations. Those folks had it tough. We had food every night, each other, and Gran. We were blessed.”

  “Blessed . . .yeah, right.” He shook his head. “Let’s get busy. You go talk to Mrs. Patterson IV, and I’ll see if I can find out why the judge was home instead of out here knocking around some balls.”

  Bonnie Patterson looked more like somebody’s daughter or kid sister than a middle-aged judge’s wife. When the manager of the sports shop pointed her out, Savannah immediately decided to scratch her off the suspect list. She was too scrawny to commit murder.

  Barely five feet tall, weighing next to nothing, too-frosted hair, turquoise eye shadow, and puffy pink lips, tight shorts, and a midriff-cropped stretch shirt that displayed suspiciously large breasts—Bonnie had probably been the judge’s idea of a trophy wife.

  But now she was hawking golf balls.

  Savannah wondered how the judge’s untimely death would affect his almost-ex wife’s personal economics. No doubt for the better. Much better than if he had died after the divorce were final.

  On second thought, Savannah put her back at the top of the list. Even a big-breasted bantam chick could pull a trigger.

  “Can I help you?” Bonnie asked, her accent as thick as cold sorghum. She sidled up to Savannah, a pseudo-seductive set to her hips, her shoulders back and chest out.

  Savannah didn’t take it personally. Gals like Bonnie practiced that pose until using it was second nature, no matter whom they were addressing. She would have stood like that if she were talking to Gran.

  “Hi. Can we have a minute for a private conversation?” Savannah asked, nodding toward the manager, who had retreated to the back of the shop and buried his head in some paperwork.

  “Yeah, it’s time for my break anyway.” She shouted back to him, “I’m outta here, Henry, for a few minutes.”

  “All right. But just a few. I got stuff to do here.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

  Obviously eager to escape the drudgery of selling sportsware, Bonnie practically ran out of the shop, dragging Savannah with her. Once outside, she slowed to a casual saunter. They headed down a picturesque stone walkway toward the river. Weeping willows dipped their delicate branches into the water’s edge, and a flock of ducks paddled among the reeds, quacking contentedly.

  “I don’t think I’ve seen you around town,” Bonnie said. “Who are you, and what did you want to talk to me about?”

  “My name’s Savannah Reid. I was raised around here, but it’s my first time back in quite a while.”

  “Reid?” A light of recognition passed across Bonnie’s face, but she quickly squelched it.

  In that instant, Savannah decided that Bonnie Patterson would be a pretty darned good poker player. She must have heard about the judge’s murder and the subsequent arrests.

  “Yes, Reid,” she said evenly. “I’m Macon Reid’s oldest sister.”

  Both women paused in the middle of the walkway, facing each other. Savannah searched Bonnie’s eyes for the expected emotions: anger, resentment, maybe even fear.

  Nothing.

  Yep, she thought, Bonnie could play “blank” with the best of them.

  “What do you have to say to me?” Bonnie said, her voice as flat as her expression.

  There was no point in beating around the proverbial bush. Savannah let her have it: “I was wondering if you might have any idea who killed your husband.”

  “Talk to Sheriff Mahoney,” Bonnie suggested, as offhandedly as if she were recommending a hair salon. “I did, this morning, and he’s pretty darned sure it was your brother.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t know about that.”

  They faced off for several tense seconds as Savannah listened to the ducks quack and her own pulse thudding in her ears.

  “Somebody else did it, and they set up my brother,” Savannah said.

  “Like I said, I wouldn’t know.” Bonnie Patterson smiled. Hers was a dentist-perfect smile—straight, white, even teeth. But it wasn’t a warm smile, and it wasn’t pretty. In fact, it gave Savannah a slight chill. “For right now,” she continued, “I’m assuming that the sheriff’s doing his job, and the guilty parties are where they belong . . . behind bars.”

  No, Savannah decided, she didn’t like Bonnie Patterson and her perfect, chilly smile. Not a bit.

 
“Pretty lucky for you, huh?” Savannah said. “I mean, him dying right before your divorce is final. Damned fortunate timing, if you ask me.”

  “I don’t recall asking you anything, Miss Reid. And I’m finished answering your questions, too. I don’t think I want to talk to the sister of the man who murdered my husband in cold blood.”

  Bonnie turned her back on Savannah and returned to the shop at a much faster pace than she had strolled away.

  Savannah watched . . . and mentally highlighted Bonnie Patterson’s name at the top of that list. If for no other reason, because she really, really didn’t like her.

  Chapter 11

  Savannah found Dirk near the tennis courts, and from the look of disgust on his face, she easily determined that his interview had been about as fruitless as hers.

  “Well?” she asked as she met him on the stone walkway that wound from the pool to the courts.

  “Nothing, really,” he said. She noticed the beads of sweat trickling down his forehead and realized that he was suffering in the humidity as much as she. Only it wasn’t his brother who had been arrested, or his sister getting married for the third time.

  He really was a good guy. And she reminded herself to keep that uppermost in her mind the next time he bummed a quarter off her or a free burger.

  “I talked to a caddie who said that the judge had a standing tee-off time of three-thirty every afternoon. He’d play nine holes, then have a scotch and soda over at the bar. His son-in-law, Mack Goodwin, the county prosecutor, joined him a lot of the time.”

  “Did the caddie or anybody hear from the judge Monday night?”

  “No, but the caddie said he told him on Sunday that he wouldn’t be here Monday.”

  “So, whatever he was doing at home the night he was murdered, instead of playing golf, it was planned, not spur of the moment.” Savannah mulled that one over for a second. It had interesting implications.

  “Right. Wonder what it was?” Dirk said.

  “Something he had to do at home, or someone he was going to meet there.”