A Body To Die For

by G. A. McKevett

  Dirk had joined them, a glass of white wine in his hand—also a first.

  “Well, aren’t you suave and debonair tonight?” Tammy said, admiring his physique-flattering tuxedo.

  “Quite sharp, old boy,” John agreed. “Is that a Hugo Boss?”

  “No, it’s my brother-in-law’s. He just got married, and he hadn’t returned it to the rental place yet, so I borrowed it from him.”

  “Ah, I see.” John developed a sudden coughing fit and had to excuse himself for a moment.

  “I never really believed that confession anyway,” Dirk said, anxious to stir the conversation to his own area of expertise. “Rachel never could tell me where the murder weapon was. She wouldn’t even tell me what part of his body got shot.”

  “There are a few things I don’t understand.” Tammy licked some caviar off the end of her finger. “How could Sharona walk up to Bill like that and him not know it was her?”

  “It was a moonless night,” Savannah told her, “and that area is really dark. No streetlights or artificial lighting of any kind. She could see him when he opened the glove compartment because of the little light inside it. But she was standing in the dark. Besides, he thought he was meeting Pinky or one of his flunkies. He never would have expected it to be her.”

  “And the phone calls,” Tammy continued. “We know it was Sharona he was phoning when he made that call in front of Clarissa. But how about the other call, the mushy one that Tanner overheard him make in the garage, when he told someone he wanted to meet them when he was done with Pinky? Who was that?”

  “That call was to Rachel,” Savannah said. “That’s what makes all this ugly business even sadder. Apparently, he really was in love with Rachel and leaving Clarissa to make a home with her and Tanner. If Sharona hadn’t killed him, the three of them would probably be in Las Vegas together right now.”

  Dirk sniffed. “Well, before you make this guy ‘Man of the Year,’ remember that he was juggling women right and left, and had a major gambling addiction. He wasn’t exactly family material.”

  “That’s true,” Savannah said. “They’re probably better off without him in the long run.”

  “How is Ruby Jardin?” John asked, rejoining them with his wineglass refilled. “Was she terribly disappointed that Clarissa didn’t turn out to be the killer?”

  “Terribly,” Savannah said. “In fact, she was so disappointed that I sent Tammy to the bank right away to cash her check. I think she’ll get over it, though, once she realizes that she really did want to hear the truth about her son. She really did want justice for him.”

  “But for right now, she’s pissed?” Dirk asked.

  “Oh, big-time.”

  Over her shoulder, she heard Marietta saying, “Why now, don’t you look just cute as a dumplin’ with all that curly red hair, and in that grownup man’s tuxedo…”

  “Oh, no. They’re here and Marietta’s at ’em!” Savannah turned and rushed out of the tent.

  She found Marietta gushing over a very embarrassed, formally dressed Tanner Morris. He was the picture of adolescent awkwardness in his tuxedo. His only youthful expression consisted of a pair of suspenders with skulls and crossbones on them.

  Rachel was dressed in a simple black dress with a waist-long strand of simple white pearls…New York elegance all the way. She looked more relaxed and happier than Savannah had ever seen her.

  She even gave Savannah a hug and air kiss for a greeting.

  Looking around the lavishly decorated yard, she said, “Wow, do you guys always celebrate like this when you close a case?”

  “No. This is all a lovely gift from two of my dearest friends.” She laced her arm through Tanner’s. “Come along, and I’ll introduce you to them. And after that, you can raid the chocolate fountain.”

  Tanner lit up. “A chocolate fountain?”

  “Young man. You haven’t lived yet. But you’re about to experience life to its fullest.”

  An hour later, Savannah was dancing with Dirk, her head resting comfortably on his shoulder, his arm warm around her waist, holding her close.

  “This is almost worth getting dressed up for,” he said, pulling her even a bit closer.

  “Wear a pair of three-inch heels for a few hours, buddy,” she told him, “then tell me about ‘uncomfortable.’”

  “Those two are having fun,” he said, nodding toward Tanner, who was enthralled with Tammy and had been discussing computers with her for the past half hour. Rachel was between Ryan and John, and the three of them were embroiled in a hot, literary discussion.

  “Yes, they are. I’m glad,” Savannah said. “They have some healing to do, too.”

  “Did you invite Clarissa to this?”

  “I did. I wasn’t at all surprised when she turned me down. I don’t know if I could forgive my sister for something like that, either. It’s a bit much to ask.”

  “At least Clarissa isn’t going to press charges against her for the blackmail.”

  “Yes, but that’s as much to Clarissa’s advantage as it is Rachel’s. Clarissa is going to have enough bad press, just explaining how her husband got shot by a girlfriend while paying off his cockfighting debts to a bookie. I shudder to think what the True Informer is going to do to her.”

  He laughed, “Yeah, I’m sure you’re sick about it.”

  “Clarissa’s not as bad as I thought. She’s a bitch, but that’s not an altogether bad thing to be.”

  “If you say so.” He nodded toward Marietta, who was sitting, dejected beside the fountain, drowning her sorrows in Belgian chocolate. “And speaking of sisters, how is yours?”

  “Cranky. She had it out today with Vidalia on the phone, but in the end, they made up. She promised not to ever wear jeans like Vi’s in front of Butch again. Vi apologized for calling her a ‘godforsaken, brazen hussy slut.’”

  “Whoa, tough words.”

  “We Reid women aren’t known for holding back. I’m taking her to Santa Barbara tomorrow. We’ll go to the pier, hang out on the beach, and she can try out her new red bikini as a pickup tool. I’ll make it all up to her, see that she has a nice vacation after all.”

  She looked up at him and saw that he was smiling down at her, his eyes soft and kind. She had the distinct impression he hadn’t been listening to her, which was nothing unusual.

  But for tonight, that was okay. She was in a forgiving mood.

  He really did look gorgeous in that tux.

  “What were you thinking about just then?” she asked him.

  “Actually, my mind had drifted,” he admitted. “I was thinking how nice you smell.”

  “That’s Marietta’s hair spray. She darned near drowned me in it this afternoon.”

  “No, it’s not hair spray. You always smell like this.”

  “Oh, thank you.”

  “And I was thinking how nice it is to dance with you. We don’t dance together enough.”

  “I think this is the first time we’ve ever danced.”

  “That’s what I mean. We should do it more.” He gave her a quick spin that nearly lifted her off her feet, but he caught her, steadied her, and pulled her against him again. “You asked me about my dream before,” he said, suddenly looking quite vulnerable.

  “What?”

  “Before, you seemed surprised when I said I’d had a dream, too. You know, something I’d wanted to do, besides be a cop.”

  “Oh, right. What was it?”

  “Don’t laugh.”

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  “I wanted to be a dancer. And if you ever tell anybody, I’ll deny it and get you back, big-time.”

  “I won’t tell a soul. I swear. A dancer? Really?”

  “Well, not like John Travolta. More like Fred Astaire, when he was waltzing with Ginger Rogers. I always thought that would be cool, to be able to glide around a floor like that with a pretty lady in your arms.”

  She put her face against his and gave him a kiss on the ear. “I think that’s a
wonderful dream to have. And I’m glad you shared it with me.”

  “It’s not the sort of thing I’d want the guys at the station to hear.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Or Ryan.”

  “God forbid.”

  “Or John.”

  “It’ll just be our little secret.”

  “’Cause if any of them found out, I’d have to move to Mexico and take up deep-sea fishing or bullfighting or some other overtly masculine occupation.”

  She sighed. “Fred, just shut the hell up, and dance with me.”

  “Okay, since you asked so nicely, and since you smell so good…Ginger.”

  “Ah-h-h…nice,” she said, snuggling into his warmth. “Nice, Fred. Very, very nice.”

  Savannah Reid may have a few extra curves on her full-figured body, but that hasn’t stopped her from becoming one of California’s most successful private investigators. Her latest case puts her hot on the trail of a shady weight loss therapist who’s made a killing treating—and cheating—his overweight patients. The question is, did he kill his wife, too?

  Dr. Robert Wellman claims his breakthrough hypnosis techniques can help anyone shed unwanted fat in record time. But while countless weight-challenged folks have flocked to his popular clinic, most have only lighter wallets to show for it. Still, Dr. Wellman seems to have it all, until his wife Maria is found dead at the bottom of a cliff outside the Wellmans’ seaside estate—and it’s clear she didn’t go down without a fight.

  Savannah is more than happy to help her good friend, Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter, investigate Maria’s untimely death. The clues all seem to point to murder, from the broken statuary to the trampled flowerbeds surrounding the deadly precipice. And since Dr. Wellman appears to be the only viable suspect, Savannah is sure it’s an open and shut case. But she’s about to learn that appearances can be oh-so deceiving. Pound for pound, this is shaping up to be one of Savannah’s toughest cases ever. But she’d better find the killer soon…or else the bodies will just keep piling up…

  Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of

  G.A. McKevett’s

  newest Savannah Reid mystery

  WICKED CRAVING

  coming next month!

  Chapter 1

  Savannah Reid rolled down the window of the rented pickup, breathed in the fresh sea-scented air, and decided it was a perfect day in sunny California. But then, barring earthquakes, mudslides, and brush fires, most Southern California days were pert nigh perfect.

  She vacillated between being deeply grateful she had moved from rural Georgia to the picturesque seaside town of San Carmelita, and being bored to death with “perfect.” She missed the drama of an old-fashioned, southern thunderstorm, complete with all-hell’s-done-broke-loose lightning crashing around you and the scream of tornado sirens going off, warning you to shake some tail feathers and get your tail—feathers and all—into the nearest storm cellar.

  Ah, yes, she thought, watching the palm trees glisten in the tropical noonday sun. There is nothing quite like huddling with your granny and eight siblings in a spider-infested tornado shelter at two in the morning, storm raging above you, to bring a family together.

  “And we are close,” she whispered, thinking of her loved ones in Georgia, so far away. “So close it’s a wonder we haven’t murdered one another yet.”

  “Murdered who?” Dirk asked as he guided the pickup truck away from the downtown area and headed toward the poor side of town. The part of San Carmelita that didn’t have perfectly matched palm trees lining the streets. The part where windows had bars, not flower boxes, and the only fresh paint on the building walls was gang graffiti. The part where you were more likely to see a pit bull chained to somebody’s front porch than a Chihuahua poking its head out of somebody’s purse.

  “What?” she said to the guy sitting in the driver’s seat next to her. Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter was still with the San Carmelita Police Department.

  She wasn’t. And on most days, she was grateful for that. Occasionally, she waxed a bit bitter about the fact that she had been dismissed. But those days only came along about once a month…like most of her truly dark moods. And a bar of chocolate or a dish of ice cream usually put her world right again.

  “You were talking to yourself,” he told her.

  “Was not.”

  “Were, too.”

  “Well, do you have to bring it up and make me feel like a nitwit who’s losing my marbles?”

  “Don’t snap at me. You told me to tell you…said you wanted to break the habit.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry.” She sighed and wondered if she could blame her forgetfulness on perimenopause. After all, now that she was solidly in her mid-forties—and if she didn’t admit that she’d been forgetful her whole life—it could float, excuse-wise. And it would carry her through to menopause and past to senility.

  “I’m forgetting stuff lately,” she said, “because I’m approaching the ‘change o’ life.’ You wouldn’t know anything about it. It’s a woman thing.”

  “I know it’s not why you’re talking to yourself. You’ve been doing that for twenty years.” He slowed the truck down to drive over a particularly deep drainage dip in the road and checked his cargo in the mirror. “But that might be why you’ve been extra irritable lately.”

  She shot him a look. “Ever consider it might be because you’ve been exceptionally irritating?”

  “No.”

  “No, you haven’t been irritating?”

  “No, I haven’t considered it might be me. I’d rather blame it on you and your hormones.”

  “A dangerous thing to do, blaming anything on a woman’s hormones.”

  “You brought it up.”

  “True.”

  She didn’t like this—him winning two arguments in a row. She decided to just keep quiet and say nothing for a while.

  That never lasted long.

  “It’s just that I’ve been bored lately,” she said, fifteen seconds later, as they headed deeper into a valley that stretched from the sea into the dry, brown, scrub brush-covered hills.

  The tattoo parlors, pawn shops, porn stores, and junkyards had given way to tiny, dilapidated stucco houses and yards covered with dead, brown grass, surrounded by sagging fences.

  Many of the inhabitants sat on sagging sofas on sagging porches, wearing saggy clothes and saggy facial expressions—much like many of the inhabitants of the poor, rural town where she had been raised.

  Savannah understood despair. She knew, all too well, the toll it exacted on the human spirit.

  “Do you miss being on the job?” he asked. “Is that why you’re bored?”

  She considered his question honestly before answering. Did she miss being a police officer? The constant adrenaline rushes? The camaraderie with the other cops? The fascinating view of ever-changing human drama? Having drunks throw up on her shoes?

  “I do sometimes,” she admitted. “Mostly when I don’t have any clients. Private investigation can get pretty mundane when you don’t have a single case to investigate. It’s been a bit lonely at the Moonlight Magnolia Detective Agency lately.”

  “And that’s why you hang with me,” he said, giving her a grin and a poke with his elbow.

  “That and all this philosophical, mind-expanding conversation.” She looked him over, taking in the Harley-Davidson T-shirt that had, in a former life, been black, but had gone through a navy blue stage and was now a muddy chocolate brown. “And your sense of style.”

  She glanced at herself in the truck’s side mirror and saw a woman who wasn’t exactly a fashion plate herself. Her thick, dark hair had a mind of its own, so she pretty much let it do its wayward-curls thing. Clean skin with a bit of lip gloss and mascara, hastily applied, were the extent of her daily beauty rituals. And her wardrobe was only a notch above Dirk’s on any given day—a lightweight blazer over a simple cotton shirt with jeans or linen slacks. The blazer hid the Beretta strapped to
her side. And the cotton and linen kept her cool under the California sun.

  Years ago, when they had first met, both Savannah and Dirk had turned heads, especially when they were in uniform, before their detective days. And even though Dirk’s T-shirt might be faded, and they both had gained some extra poundage here and there, in Savannah’s mind, Dirk was still a stud, she was a babe, and as a pair, they were both pretty darned hot stuff.

  On the seat between them lay the empty sack that had recently held two apple fritters and two cups of coffee, all compliments of the Patty Cake Bakery.

  Patty, the blonde bimbo baker, liked the way Dirk filled out his worn jeans and, apparently, didn’t mind the old T-shirt, because she was always generous, doling out the sugar and caffeine. She was also a major cop groupie, which irked Savannah and pleased Dirk to no end.

  Since Dirk was also in his mid-forties—a tad past his “glory days”—he was constantly starving for attention from the opposite sex, wherever he could get it. He wallowed in every bit that came his way, even from a moderately desperate, blatantly oversexed donut clerk.

  Long ago, Savannah had gotten sick of the goo-goo eyes and the silly tittering and the deliberately deep bending over the counter while Patty was waiting on them. But Savannah kept her mouth shut. Patty was as well known for her generously frosted maple bars as she was for her appetite for the boys in blue, and Savannah was a woman with her priorities in order…having a healthy appetite of her own.

  She glanced down at her ample figure and wondered briefly how many of Patty’s maple bars and apple fritters she was toting around with her on any given day. Several pounds worth, to be sure. But Savannah liked to think that most of her “extra poundage” was well placed. And the admiring glances she got from quite a few guys told her that Patty’s pastries were being put to good use.

  The guy sitting beside her was one of those. Frequently, she caught him giving her a sideways look that wasn’t very different from the ones Patty gave him when she was sacking up the goods. And, considering how long Savannah and Dirk had worked together—first as partners on the San Camelita Police Department and then as investigators of numerous homicide cases—she found it most complimentary that he still noticed and enjoyed her curves.