07-Peaches And Screams

by G. A. McKevett

  “That’s what Dirk and I thought, too.”

  At the mention of Dirk, Tom’s upper lip curled, ever so slightly, but Savannah noticed, and it gave her a certain perverse satisfaction. After all, he was the one, all those years ago, who had decided that they were much too young to know what they wanted in life, in a mate.

  Savannah had known.

  He was the only one who was undecided.

  “Chicken shit” was more like it.

  So, if he suffered the occasional twinge of “what might have been,” he had only himself to blame.

  “Also,” he continued, “Macon’s story matched Kenny Jr.’s almost exactly. And they hadn’t had the chance to compare notes. We’ve kept them apart since we brought them in.”

  “Does Kenny have a bruise across his back, something like the one on Macon’s forearm?”

  “Yeah. Both look like they got whacked with a cane, just like Macon said.”

  Savannah nodded. “And?”

  “And the medals. You’re right; guys that age don’t give a hoot about something like that. They’d go after the guns. Both Macon and Kenny Jr. admit that’s what they were after, and it makes a lot more sense.”

  “So, whoever planted those medals under his bed probably did the killing, or at least knows who did.”

  “That’s right. We’ve got a gal checking them for fingerprints now. It’ll be interesting what we get.”

  Savannah swallowed hard. “Uh, yeah. Interesting.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t find those,” he said, watching her closely. “I figure you’d just been out there, poking around, when we came along.”

  She turned to face him squarely. “Are you surprised that I didn’t find them or that I’d leave them there for you to find?”

  “Either one. Both. You’re his sister.”

  “And I’m still a cop at heart.”

  They were both silent for a long moment as the engine hummed and the air conditioner blew.

  “Helluva spot to be in,” he said at last.

  “Yeah. It sucks.”

  She took another sip of his Coke, but the cola did nothing to quench her thirst. In fact, the sweetness made her a bit queasy. Suddenly, she was eager to get out of the car. Maybe to take a long walk, alone, down to the main road and back.

  “Then there’s the windowsill,” she said.

  “What?”

  “The fingerprints on the windowsill.”

  “I told you already—they’re your brother’s.”

  “The prints on the bottom of the sill are Macon’s . . . where he pushed it up when he broke into the house.”

  Tom was fully attentive. “Yes, and . . . ?”

  “And the only ones on the top of the sill, on the inside, were the judge’s.”

  “So?”

  “So, when you arrived on the scene, the window was down and locked. The judge closed the window. The boys opened it to get into the house, and he shut it after he chased them out the front door. He was still alive, Tom. Dead men don’t go around closing windows.”

  Tom sat quietly, mulling it over.

  “Think about it,” she continued. “Why would the boys lower it, when they might need to bail out that way? And what’s the first thing you’d do if you’d fought off some burglars and chased them out of your house?”

  “I’d lock the door, close the window they came in through, check the other doors and windows . . . and then I’d probably call somebody.”

  “Did the judge have a redial feature on his phone?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did y’all check it?”

  “Yep. He had dialed 1,2,3,4,5. We’re still trying to figure out why he would’ve done that. Makes no sense.”

  “Yes, it does.” Savannah drained the rest of his soda. She was starting to feel a little better. This was business . . . a business she knew well. The familiar territory settled her nerves and her stomach.

  “How? How does it make sense?”

  She could tell it cost him dearly to ask.

  “When the judge got rid of the boys, he may have called somebody, perhaps even the killer. It could have been somebody who already wanted to murder him. If he told them about the burglary, they might have seen their opportunity and took it, figuring it would be easy to pin the killing on Macon and Kenny Jr. And they had the presence of mind to pick up the phone and punch in some nonsense, so that you wouldn’t press redial and get their number.”

  Tom thought for a while, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. “It won’t do them any good,” he said. “We can still get hold of the phone records. It might take a little while, but . . .”

  “Perhaps they didn’t know that. A lot of people think that if it isn’t a long distance call, there’s no record. Were there any fingerprints on the phone?”

  “There weren’t any. I mean, none, smeared or otherwise. It’d been wiped clean.”

  “Like the gun.”

  He turned to Savannah, the light of challenge and intrigue in his eyes. “Yeah, just like the gun. Sorry to say so, Savannah, but Macon and Kenny Jr. just ain’t that smart.”

  She gave him a wry smile. “Apology accepted.”

  Chapter 12

  “I feel real bad,” Gran said as she and Savannah settled into the featherbed for another night’s tossing and turning, “that your friends have to go off to a motel like that. They come all the way across the country to help us out, and we can’t even offer ’em a decent bed to sleep in.”

  “It’s okay, Gran, really. Visitors in other parts of the world aren’t used to Southern hospitality. It never occurred to them, when they came out here, that they’d be sleeping here at the house.”

  Gran sniffed her disapproval as she adjusted her pillow. “Still, I hate the thought of it. They’ll probably get fleas at that run-down truckers’ motel on the highway.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine. As tired as they are, jet lag and all, they’ll be asleep when their heads hit the pillow.”

  Gran was still for a while, but Savannah felt a question coming. And she had a feeling what it might be.

  “Dirk and Tammy . . . they don’t . . . I mean, they’ll be sleeping in separate rooms, won’t they?”

  “I’m sure they will. But even if they didn’t, even if they slept in the same bed, there’d be nothing going on. They hate each other.”

  “Really?”

  “No, not really. But they’ll swear they do to their dying days. They squabble like a couple of kids and like to drive me crazy. Sometimes, I swear I’m going to put them on ‘time out’ just to get some peace.”

  “Actually, sweetie, I think Dirk’s carryin’ a torch for you.”

  “Dirk? Naw. We’re just buddies. We’ve been friends for so long, we wouldn’t know how to be anything else.”

  Gran gave her pillow a couple more thumps. “Nothing wrong with a man and a woman being friends. Your pa and I were best friends from the time we met when we were fifteen, till he died.”

  Savannah glanced over at the dresser, where a picture of her grandfather sat, barely visible in the moonlight. But she knew every line of his beloved face. A simple farmer, Pa was the gentlest, kindest man she had ever known. No wonder he and Gran had been happily married for more than fifty years.

  Everyone who knew him loved him, respected him . . . and missed him terribly.

  “That’s the trouble with young folks these days,” Gran said. “They just go straight from being strangers to being lovers. They don’t take their time, get to be good friends first. Then they wonder why, when they’ve been married a year or two, they run out o’ things to say to each other.”

  Savannah chuckled. “I remember, after we’d all gone to bed, I’d hear you and Pa talking about stuff here in your bed. You’d giggle like a teenage girl, and he’d laugh that deep laugh of his. Just the sound of you two talking, getting along so good, it made me feel safe.”

  “That was one thing your pa gave to all of us, that safe feeling. Without
him ever saying it in so many words, we knew that he’d die defending us if he had to. He’d never let anything bad happen to anyone he loved, anybody under his roof. You were just as safe as you felt back then, Savannah. We all were, thanks to him.”

  Savannah felt a breeze—hot and moist, but definitely a breeze—sweep the lace curtain aside and caress her cheek. She smelled the clean, fresh fragrance of the night air.

  It reminded her of summer nights when she had asked for permission to sleep on the back porch. How long ago had it been when the world was innocent, and a child could sleep outside on her own porch without fear?

  “Some men have that gift,” she said, reaching up and brushing her fingertips over the lace that floated on the night breeze. “They exude a male strength that makes those around them feel as though they can lean on them.”

  “Your Dirk is like that.”

  Savannah turned over to face her grandmother. “He isn’t exactly my Dirk.”

  “He is, if you want him to be.”

  “But . . . he’s never—”

  “And he won’t. Men may exude strength, but, bless their little hearts, for all their courage, they’re cowards when it comes to matters of romance. They won’t chase after a woman—at least the good ones with honorable intentions don’t. Most of them won’t even reach out to her . . . unless she puts her hand out first.”

  Savannah laughed. “Why, Gran, are you saying a woman should chase after a man?”

  “Of course not. That’d be unladylike. They just have to make darned sure the guy knows they’re not going to run very far or very fast if he decides to mosey over in their direction.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, Gran, if I ever decide I want male company on a permanent basis.”

  Both women sighed, settled in, and nearly drifted off to sleep.

  Then Gran added softly, “‘Course, there’s all that extra cooking and laundry . . . and when they get sick, they’re so whiny and cranky. They can just wear you to a frazzle . . . men.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m single.”

  When Tammy and Dirk reappeared the next morning, bearing two dozen assorted donuts and muffins from the local bakery, Gran was slightly less impressed than she had been with the pizzas—though, the quintessential Southern lady, she only mumbled under her breath rather than objecting aloud.

  “A body can’t run all morning on junk like that,” she muttered as she arranged the pastries on her Sunday pedestal cake plate. “Gotta have something that’ll stick to your ribs, like eggs and sausage.”

  In the end, the donuts were passed over in favor of steaming biscuits and peach preserves.

  Once everyone’s belly was properly distended, their bodies fortified for the rigors of the morning, Savannah, Dirk, Tammy, and Gran sat in the living room, sipping the final cup of strong coffee.

  “What’s on today’s agenda?” Dirk asked Savannah. “Assuming that I can move from this sofa. I don’t remember when I ate that much for breakfast.”

  “Yesterday morning, on the flight out here,” Tammy volunteered. “You should have seen him, asking the flight attendants for extras. He had three before they cut him off.”

  “Hey, they don’t charge any extra for that,” he said, as though the “free” factor explained everything.

  “Yes, about today,” Savannah interjected. “I think I’ll go see Herb Jameson, the mortician. He’s supposedly got the judge on ice over there at his funeral parlor. I’ll see if I can sweet-talk him into letting me have a look at the body.”

  “Sounds good.” Dirk slurped his coffee and licked his upper lip. “I’m going out to the Patterson place and poke around. There’s gotta be servants on a place that big. Maybe somebody saw something.”

  “Elsie Dingle is the housekeeper out there,” Gran said, “has been for the past twenty-five years. She’s always got her ears on the stretch for some good gossip. Talk to her and you’ll hear more than you wanna know.”

  “Elsie Dingle, okay. . . .” Dirk pulled a small notebook out of his shirt pocket and scribbled in it. “What does she look like?”

  “She’s a black lady with the prettiest head o’ silver hair you ever did see,” Gran said. “And she’s . . . a good, stout girl.”

  “Stout?”

  “Yes. I’d say that describes Elsie pretty good, don’t you, Savannah?”

  Savannah smiled. “That about sums her up. I didn’t see her around when Tom took me out there, but maybe you’ll luck out.”

  Tammy sighed and stretched her long arms and legs. She was wearing a tube top and shorts . . . her idea of a truck-stop cutie’s uniform. “You guys will have to drop me off at the café,” she said. “I’ve gotta help with the lunch crowd and keep my . . . how did you put it, Mrs. Reid? . . . my ears on the stretch.”

  “Yep, keep ’em all out there on stems, y’all. And you’ll be amazed what interesting things you’ll hear. We grow gossip around here that’s thicker than the cotton.”

  Savannah was glad that Herb Jameson, and those like him, wanted to be morticians. Like emergency room doctors, firemen, and plumbers, she was thankful that someone in society actually chose those occupations. Because if it were up to her to do the nitty-gritty work of an undertaker, a lot of dead people would still be above ground.

  She couldn’t imagine why, but Herb seemed to like his job. And his colonial-style funeral parlor on the north side of McGill clearly reflected that pride with its new white paint, crisp black shutters, and brightly planted flower beds.

  When she pulled Waycross’s pickup into the circular brick driveway, she noticed the hearse parked at the back of the building. Otherwise, there were no vehicles around.

  Good, she thought. She had hoped for some moments alone with Herb . . . and if Lady Luck was friendly, a few minutes with the remains of the recently departed judge.

  She parked the truck as far to the back of the lot as possible. There was no point in leaving it out front where Sheriff Mahoney or Tom might drive by and see it.

  Of course, she wasn’t exactly being sneaky. She much preferred to think of it as being sensible. Getting to be “sensible” for a living was one of her favorite parts of private detecting. How many people got to tell whopping fibs, hide in the back of parking lots, or pretend they were city inspectors or dog catchers, while checking out suspects’ basements and garages . . . all in a day’s work?

  She left the truck and entered the building through a side door. From sad personal experience, she knew what lay in the front. The dark, quiet, somber entry and the stately “showing rooms” were all too familiar to a girl who had grown up in a town with one funeral parlor.

  The last time she had visited this establishment, she had been saying good-bye to her beloved grandfather. To date, the most painful day of her life.

  There were many places she’d rather be. But . . . anything for a brother in trouble. Even if it meant a not-so-pleasant stroll down memory row.

  “You owe me, Macon,” she muttered as she entered the door and looked around. “And I don’t know how you’re ever going to repay me, unless you come to California and re-roof my house.”

  Once inside, Savannah found herself in a hallway that led from the front of the establishment to the back. The dark paneling and the navy blue carpeting gave her a twinge of claustrophobia. The cloying fragrance of flowers, mixed with the underlying smell of chemicals, didn’t help to alleviate the feeling that the walls were closing in on her.

  “Mr. Jameson,” she called. “Yoo-hoo, Mr. Jameson, are you here?”

  No reply.

  The term “deadly silence” floated through her head, but she pushed it aside. One ghoulish joke tended to lead to another, and she didn’t need to go down that mental road right now.

  “Mr. Jameson? Hey, is anybody here? Anybody at all?”

  The squeaking of a door at the back end of the hall set her nerves buzzing.

  “Hello?” she called.

  “Yes?” He appeared out of the dark, a figure dress
ed in white from head to toe, a shining metal instrument in his hand. An enormous knife.

  Actually, it could have been forceps or a simple flashlight. But in her over-stimulated imagination, it was a twelve-inch butcher knife.

  “I’m Herb Jameson. May I help you with something, dear?” he asked.

  The soft, almost effeminate voice sounded anything but sinister. Savannah cursed herself for her foolishness. In her scant memories of Herb Jameson, he had been kind, helpful, and courteous when making the arrangements for her grandfather. A silent, almost invisible presence, he had directed the funeral from behind the scenes with a high level of professionalism.

  “Mr. Jameson,” she said, heading down the hall toward him. As she drew closer she saw that he was holding not an implement of destruction, but an ordinary flashlight. “I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Granny Reid’s oldest granddaughter—”

  “Savannah! Why, of course I remember you, honey. You went to school with my middle girl, Amy. How have you been?”

  “Fine, Mr. Jameson . . . until lately, that is.”

  The smile faded from his deeply tanned face, a complexion more like that of a farmer than an undertaker. Then she remembered that Herb Jameson, like the departed judge, enjoyed his golf.

  “I know,” he said. “I heard your brother was picked up for the judge’s killing. That’s just so sad . . . the whole miserable story. I’m working on the judge right now, getting him ready for showing tonight.”

  “Tonight? So soon?”

  “Actually, it’s not that soon. If we’re going to have a nice presentation, we need to do it right away. I’ve waited about as long as I can . . . you know . . . sheriff’s orders.”

  “The sheriff has delayed the burial?”

  “Well, he hates to give up the body, just in case he needs to go over it one more time for some reason.”

  “He’s been ‘over it’ more than once?”

  Herb Jameson nodded, and Savannah noticed he had lost a lot of that wavy hair he had been so proud of. “Oh, yeah, with a fine-tooth comb. He doesn’t want to miss anything. Not too many homicides in his career, I don’t suppose.”