A Decadent Way to Die

by G. A. McKevett

  “I’ll tell ’em your pit bull bit me.”

  “I don’t got no pit bull.”

  “Well, I ain’t gonna tell ’em your stupid cat scratched me. How wussy would that sound?”

  When Josh reached the window, he handed Jesse one of the bags and then started to bang on the windowsill with his flashlight, clearing the remaining shards of glass.

  “Get it all,” Jesse said. “I ain’t climbin’ back through there unless you’ve got it all outta there.”

  Savannah leaned her head out from behind the shelves, just enough to see Dirk. He saw her, gave her a nod, and they both jumped out of their hiding places.

  “Police!” Dirk yelled. “Freeze!”

  The brothers jumped and spun around to face them.

  “I said ‘freeze!’” Dirk repeated, stepping closer to them.

  Savannah moved into the light, so they could see her … and more importantly, her Beretta pointed at them.

  “What the hell?” Jesse dropped his bag and his roll of toilet paper and backed up against the wall, hands raised.

  Josh lowered his bag, too, but he locked eyes with Savannah. And even in the dim light, she could see the hatred on his face and a rage that showed no sign of surrender.

  He raised the flashlight in his other hand ever so slightly.

  His eyes narrowed.

  “No!” she shouted, sighting down the barrel of the raised gun that was aimed at his head. “Don’t even think about it! Drop the flashlight!”

  “Drop it!” Dirk said. “Now!”

  Instead of lowering the torch, he raised it a bit higher.

  “You’re gonna die, Josh,” Savannah said. “Drop that weapon, or in about two seconds, we’re gonna blow your brains all over your brother.”

  She took a step closer to him and her eyes went arctic cold. “Is that what you want?” she asked, her tone as icy as her eyes. “You wanna die today, Josh … like a whupped dog … right here in front of your little brother?”

  Josh weighed his options, looking at the business end of Savannah’s Beretta, then Dirk’s Smith & Wesson.

  “It ain’t worth it, bro,” Jesse said. “Give it up.”

  After what seemed like twelve or thirteen years to Savannah, Josh Murphy let the flashlight slip from his fingers. It clattered to the floor.

  “Put your hands on your heads,” Dirk said. “And turn around.”

  Instantly, Jesse did as he was told. Josh took a bit longer before he obeyed.

  “Palms on the wall,” Savannah told them, “feet apart. Wide apart.”

  Jesse yelped as he spread his feet. “I’m cut, you guys,” he said. “I’m bleeding like a pig here. I’m about to die.”

  Revolver in his right hand, Dirk used his left to pass Savannah a pair of cuffs. “So, what do you expect us to do about it, Jesse?” Dirk asked. “Want us to tie a tourniquet around it? Cinch it up nice and tight? Cut off the blood flow?”

  “Uh … no.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  Savannah holstered her weapon, pulled Josh’s hand down, and clamped a cuff on one of his wrists, then the other.

  As always, she felt a small sense of relief once the suspect was manacled. “It’s the hands that’ll hurt you,” was the motto that had been drilled into her throughout her training.

  And having the more aggressive of the two robbers under control, the worst part was done.

  She compared it to eating your liver and onions so that you could enjoy your chocolate cake dessert.

  As she cuffed Jesse, Savannah could see the blood dripping onto the floor from his crotch. Dark red blood stained the whole seat of his jeans.

  The guy wasn’t kidding; he really was badly cut. They were going to have to make an unscheduled pit stop at the hospital.

  Dirk grabbed Josh and headed toward the back door.

  Savannah followed, with the leaking brother in tow.

  As Dirk used the pharmacy owner’s keys to open the back door, Savannah waited patiently with her prisoner.

  “Jesse,” she told him, “you make a piss-poor burglar. You oughta take up some other line of work. Wasn’t there something worthwhile you wanted to be when you grew up, other than a low-life scumbag who’s always getting busted? Didn’t you have a dream, boy?”

  Jesse shrugged, thought about it, then gave her a sheepish little grin. “Yeah, I wanted to grow up and be Superman … or the Incredible Hulk … or maybe Spider-Man.”

  “And you were how old when you decided on ‘super hero’ as a life vocation?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. When I was about seventeen or eighteen. I dropped outta school in the tenth grade … got held back a few years.”

  “And what was the big appeal, other than being able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, stuff like that?”

  “You get to wear cool outfits, and they put your picture in the paper.”

  Savannah looked into his eyes.

  Jesse was dead serious.

  “Okay,” she said, leading him through the open door. “Never mind. I reckon you made the right career choice after all.”

  Chapter 2

  “Um … is that what you’re wearing?” Tammy asked when Savannah came downstairs the next morning in her Minnie Mouse pajamas, pink chenille robe, and furry slippers.

  Even though Savannah had just rolled out of bed and her mind was as fuzzy as her house shoes, she caught the gentle criticism underlying the question. Tammy wasn’t asking for information, she was making a statement.

  Perky Miss Tammy Hart sat at the rolled-top desk in the corner of the living room—Savannah’s official “office”—working on the computer, a slightly disapproving frown on her pretty face. Though she normally wore yoga workout garb, jeans, or shorts to work, Tammy was decked out in a joyously bright, aqua pantsuit with a ruffled, floral-print, girlie blouse.

  Savannah swallowed her own fashion review as her tired brain tried to process this change of scenery. And while she was at it, she made a mental note to redefine her assistant’s job description.

  It would not include fashion critique.

  She walked over to the windowsill to pet the cats, who were curled up on their perch. They looked like miniature black leopards, soaking in the morning sunlight. “So, what’s up?” she asked, “You don’t approve of my sleeping attire?”

  “I love your Minnie Mouse jammies … for sleeping in. Not so great for interviewing a client, though.”

  “A client? What cli—? Oh, shoot! I forgot!”

  She turned and raced up the stairs, furry slippers pounding the steps as she ran.

  “Don’t worry,” Tammy called after her. “I’ll entertain her when she gets here. I dressed up special, just in case.”

  “In case you need to deliver a weather report today?” Savannah mumbled as she hurried into her bedroom to find something to wear to greet her 9:00 A.M. client.

  Something other than cartoon-spangled pajamas … or a suit the color of a Southern California swimming pool.

  Savannah sat in her comfy, wing-backed chair with Cleopa-tra—a purring, glossy black ball of feline contentment—in her lap. As she scratched behind the cat’s ear, she watched the young woman on her sofa and listened to her sad story.

  Clients always had sad stories.

  Nobody hired a private detective because their relationships were happy, their lives carefree, their loved ones all safe and accounted for.

  And Emma Strauss, as she had introduced herself, had big green eyes, short red hair, high-end clothes, plenty of tastefully decadent jewelry … and a serious problem with her grandmother.

  “You have to help me, Savannah,” she was saying. “My grandmother’s losing her mind! She keeps trying to kill herself, and this last time she almost did it!”

  Emma’s eyes filled with tears as she stared down at her hands that were folded demurely in her lap. But Savannah could see how tightly her fingers were clenched. And her heart went out to any granddaughter who loved her grandmother so dear
ly.

  Savannah had a granny of her own who meant the world to her. She couldn’t imagine how distraught she’d be if Gran were in danger of harming herself. And yet …

  “I’m so sorry for your predicament, Emma,” she said, offering the woman a tissue from a box on the end table between them. “It must be just awful, what you’re going through. But if your grandmother has a problem with her mental faculties, I’m not sure a private investigator is what you need. Maybe a psychologist or even your family physician?”

  “Our doctor said there’s nothing physically wrong with her. She’s in amazing shape for a woman in her eighties. And if you were to suggest that she needs a shrink, you’d better be ready to duck and cover. She’d probably smack you in the head with a brick.”

  Savannah couldn’t help chuckling. “That sounds like my Granny Reid. Only she’d brain you with a skillet. She’s always been a big believer in skillet-smackin’.”

  Emma wiped her tears and blew her nose. She tucked the used tissue into her designer handbag … a purse that, Savannah was fairly certain, cost more than her entire wardrobe. Then she ran her fingers through her hair and sat up straighter. “Actually,” she said, “your grandmother is part of the reason why I came to you for help.”

  “My grandmother?” Savannah’s mind tried to process that tidbit of information but couldn’t make sense of it. “What would my granny in Georgia have to do with this?”

  “Oma Helene and I were watching television one night, not too long ago, when we saw you and your … uh … granny on a news show. You solved a case, a homicide, and she helped you. I think they said she was visiting you here in California. It was just a short news clip, but we could see how close the two of you were, how much love and respect you have for each other.”

  Savannah nodded. “That’s true. I adore Gran. She raised me, my brothers and sisters … all nine of us. I figure if that doesn’t earn a body sainthood, nothin’ does.”

  Emma smiled. “I agree. Oma Helene and I talked about you, and how close we are, too. She liked you and your grandma. I could tell. And she’s not a person who likes very many people.”

  “I’m honored.”

  “You should be. My grandmother is an excellent judge of character.”

  “Which is probably the reason she doesn’t like very many people.”

  “Exactly.”

  Savannah scooped the sleeping cat off her lap and set her gently on the floor. Cleo woke instantly, gave Savannah a dirty look, and walked away with an indignant twitch of her tail.

  Reaching for a plate of pecan brownies on the coffee table, Savannah said, “Tell me more about your grandmother’s suicide attempts.” She offered the goodies to Emma, who shook her head, then relented and took one.

  “First she drove her scooter over a cliff.”

  “Her scooter? Your grandma rides a motorbike?”

  “Oh, yeah. She used to ride a Harley till Ada took her keys away from her.”

  “Who’s Ada?”

  “Oma Helene’s niece. She runs the family business … and everything else now. She tries to run Oma’s life. She and Oma hate each other.”

  “Okay. So, how did your grandmother drive off a cliff and live to tell about it?”

  “Fortunately, her leather jacket caught on a bush. The gardener found her dangling there … kicking and screaming.”

  “Wow!”

  “Yeah. And then, last week, she dumped a bunch of her sleep aid medication into a cup of hot chocolate and drank it. We found her unconscious on the floor and rushed her to the hospital. She was out cold for twenty-four hours. The doctor said a less hearty soul would have died.”

  Savannah took a brownie for herself and nibbled at the chocolate frosting as she considered what she’d just heard. “Has your grandmother been depressed lately?”

  “No. Oma loves life. She hates people, but she’s thankful for every day she’s given.”

  “Has she shown any signs of senility?”

  “You mean, other than intolerance of her fellow man?”

  Savannah grinned. “That isn’t senility. That’s wisdom born of longevity.”

  Emma shook her head. “My grandmother has every brain cell she came into the world with. Nothing gets past her.”

  “What does she say about these ‘suicide attempts’?”

  “She says she accidentally lost control of the scooter, and that she didn’t put anything in the hot chocolate but milk, sugar, cocoa, and a dash of vanilla.”

  “So, why don’t you believe her?”

  Emma’s big green eyes filled with tears again. She bit her lower lip. “Because …” she said, “… the scooter spill might have been an accident. It could have happened to anyone. But somebody, somehow, deliberately put an overdose of medication in that hot chocolate. And if it wasn’t my grandmother, then that means somebody is trying to … I can’t stand to even think that.”

  Savannah reached over and rested her hand on the young woman’s forearm. “You were right to come to me,” she said. “You do need a private investigator. Take me to Grandma Helene. I have a feeling I’m going to like her.”

  * * *

  “Okay, I’d like her a lot better if she wasn’t totin’ a gun,” Savannah told Emma as they watched Helene Strauss charge out her front door and rush down the driveway toward them, a rifle in her hands.

  Three minutes before, Emma had turned off the main highway and driven down a winding road through an enchanting forest. With its thick, shady trees and patches of sunlit meadows all colorfully sprinkled with bright wildflowers, the property looked like something from a fairy tale.

  Savannah could easily imagine the wee folk peeking at them from behind the mossy rocks that bordered the creek flowing parallel to the road.

  And when they arrived at the Strauss mansion, Savannah was sure she’d been transported to a land of fantasy. The Bavarian-style, timber-framed beauty was straight from the pages of a storybook, with its graceful lines and steeply pitched red roof, its chocolate brown crisscrossing over cream stucco. Flower boxes decorated each balcony, overflowing with rose-colored geraniums, snowy alyssum, and royal blue lobelia.

  But the fairy tale ended the moment Savannah put one foot outside of Emma’s BMW and caught sight of an armed and apparently dangerous, eighty-something-year-old woman charging out of the house.

  Without hesitation, Savannah slid back into the passenger’s seat and locked the door.

  Emma chuckled and reached for her purse. “Pay no attention to the gun. She’s had it for years, but, as far as we know, she hasn’t actually shot anybody with it yet.”

  “Gee. How comforting.”

  Savannah’s brain whirred, trying to remember anything her former police training might have taught her about what to do in a situation like this.

  If the person rushing toward her had been a twenty-something gangbanger, or a yahoo like Josh or Jesse Murphy, she would have already pulled her Beretta from its holster, taken a position behind the car door, and demanded he drop his weapon or die.

  She didn’t recall anybody at the academy saying anything about how to deal with a raging granny.

  Tossing her keys into her purse, Emma got out of the car. “Oma, it’s me, Emma,” she called out. “Put down the gun, and come give me a hug.”

  Helene stopped at the front of the car and peered across the hood at Savannah. “Who’s that you’ve got with you?”

  Savannah realized the sun was in the woman’s eyes.

  “A friend of mine,” Emma replied.

  “Not that weird boyfriend of yours with the black nail polish and the earrings sticking out of his face.”

  “No, it isn’t Kyd.”

  “Good. I can’t stand the look of him. He’s ugly enough without all that stuff he does to himself.”

  Savannah felt a rush of relief as Emma gently took the rifle from her grandmother’s hands. The vision of her own funeral, where the boys in blue were both grieving and giggling over her casket, hadn�
�t been a pleasant one. After all the truly tough guys she’d taken down over the years, she didn’t want her autopsy report to list the cause of death as “Shot by a Disgruntled Octogenarian.”

  Slowly, she reopened her door and got out of the car.

  Helene Strauss looked her up and down, then squinted, studying her face. “Do I know you?” she asked.

  “You’ve seen her, Oma,” Emma said. “It’s Savannah Reid, that private detective who was on the news with her Southern granny. You remember …?”