Savannah decided to forgo her own cup of coffee or steaming cocoa with whipped cream, peppermint crumbles, and chocolate shavings. Vanna had quick-action piston leg kicks to rival the Rockettes. There was no point in taking a chance with a hot beverage.
As they settled into the rose chintz-covered, comfy chair—a cushion at Savannah’s back, her feet on the overstuffed ottoman—Savannah adjusted the bottle in the infant’s mouth and continued her sage instruction. “As a baby, who’ll be a girl and then a woman someday,” she said, with a tone of great gravity, “you have to remember a very important thing about the males of our species. Here it is. Don’t ever forget it: men . . . if you keep ’em fed and comfortable, for the most part, they’re darned near tolerable.”
Vanna spit out the bottle nipple and cooed a question.
Savannah listened with utmost attention, then gave a solemn nod. “Women, you ask?” She sighed and drew a deep breath. “Well, that’s a different situation all together. As it turns out, us females are a mite more complicated.”
Chapter 2
Half an hour later, Savannah emerged from the kitchen, a tray of predinner snacks in hand, to find her favorite chair occupied by her favorite husband, who was holding her all-time-favorite niece.
“I leave the room to round up some treats, and this is the thanks I get. I lose my seat,” she muttered as she placed the tray of assorted cheeses, crackers, sliced apples, and pears on the coffee table. “If you can tear yourself away from what you’re doing,” she told Dirk, “dig into this here. I got some of that stinky cheese you like so much.”
“Not now,” he told her with a dismissive wave at the food. The first dismissive wave she had ever seen him perform in the presence of edibles. “My girl and me are right at the good part of the story.”
As promised, Dirk was reading a small children’s book to Vanna—the ageless tale of The Three Bears. The baby stared up at him with eyes wide, a look of deep concern on her sweet face, as he described the discovery of the golden-haired child by the bears.
Being Dirk, he was embellishing in typical, pseudo-tough-guy fashion. “Miss Goldilocks, you are under arrest!” he pronounced in his best Papa Bear voice—if Papa had worked for the San Carmelita Police Department and had spiked his porridge with half a cup of testosterone powder that morning.
Then, in a tremulous little-girl voice, Dirk squeaked, “What for? What for? Why are you arrestin’ me? What did I do? What did I do?”
Dirk turned to the baby and said, “They always ask that. Even when they know damn—um, I mean—darned well what they did. It’s really annoying to us law enforcement professionals. Of course, I know you won’t ever say anything like that, because you’ll never do anything wrong. Not in your whole life.”
Savannah stifled a giggle as she helped herself to the least-stinky selection of cheese and some fruit. Then she settled onto the sofa near Diamante and Cleopatra, who were sitting on the footstool with their backs to Dirk and the baby. They were staging a not-so-subtle protest about their demotion to Spoiled Rotten Babies Second Class. A ginger-haired, fairy fey had taken their place.
As a result, life was hardly worth living for the felines of the household.
Cleo was particularly miffed, and who could blame her, after she had risked life and limb performing “shower duty”?
Savannah offered them a nibble of Dirk’s stinky cheese, and they perked up. Okay, so life might be worth living. But only a little and only for a moment.
Dirk kissed Vanna on the top of her head, which for a two-month-old, was lushly covered with curly fuzz. Then he continued his action-packed story. “Miss Goldilocks,” he said, channeling Papa B. again, “you picked the wrong house to vandalize. I happen to be a part-time, volunteer, auxiliary cop, and I am hereby charging you with first-degree malicious trespass and—”
“Malicious trespass?” Savannah asked with a snicker. “That seems a bit harsh.”
He frowned. “You tell the story your way, and I’ll tell it mine.”
With a shrug, she added, “Doesn’t matter anyway. Miss Goldi Prissy Pants’ll lawyer up, and the public defender will finagle it down to third-degree loitering.”
“An-n-nd,” Dirk interjected, ignoring her, “the additional charge of felonious, heinous, and cruel vandalism of domestic furnishings.”
Vanna squealed with delight, waved her arms, and kicked her legs joyfully.
“See there?” Dirk said. “She likes her colorful uncle’s version best.”
“‘Colorful’ is one word you could use to describe him,” Savannah replied under her breath. “Now, how’s about you vacate my chair and give me that young’un back while you tie into these goodies?”
As she watched a rapid succession of conflicting facial expressions cross his features, reflecting a major war raging within his soul, she knew which would win.
Even food couldn’t compete with the charisma of a two-month-old who adored you.
“I’ll stay put,” he said. “But you could load up a couple of those crackers and cram them in my mouth, if it’s not too bigga strain.”
She began to do as he asked, but no sooner had she commenced the task than she heard a brief knock on the front door and then the sound of a key in the lock.
“It’s us,” Tammy announced from the foyer.
“We’re back,” shouted Savannah’s younger brother, Waycross. “If you’re teaching our daughter to play poker, you’d better put the cards and chips away.”
“We finished the poker and billiard lessons an hour ago,” Savannah said when a beautiful, statuesque blonde glided into the living room, accompanied by a grown-up, male version of Vanna. “We’ve moved on to darts. She keeps wanting to chew on them, though. I reckon that’d fall in the same category as zapping the milk in that nasty ol’ microwave.”
“Ha, ha. Aren’t you funny?” Tammy said as she walked over to Dirk and started to take the baby from him. But she paused when she saw the storybook, then lingered a moment, taking in the tender scene.
Even Savannah had to admit, they were a pretty cute twosome—a big, rough-around-the-edges, sunburned bruiser like Dirk, with a lily-white, carrot topped angel in his arms.
Who would have thought a streetworn police detective would prove to be the perfect babysitter?
Savannah knew, of course. Unlike most people in Dirk’s personal and professional circles, she was quite familiar with his softer, sweeter side, and she was enchanted and endeared by it.
But Tammy had seen far more of the cranky, difficult aspects of Detective Sergeant Coulter’s personality, so Savannah wasn’t surprised that the new mother was awed by this seemingly miraculous transformation in the man when he was holding her infant daughter.
Dirk moved his feet off the ottoman and made room for Tammy. She sat down and began to gently stroke her baby’s downy curls.
Savannah watched Tammy, her dearest friend, now sister-in-law, as she whispered to her child, asking her about the bears and if she had enjoyed Uncle Dirk’s story.
But for all the sweetness of the scene, Savannah felt that something was wrong.
Yes, something was definitely wrong with Tammy.
For days, Savannah had watched her friend changing before her eyes and had been unable to do anything about it. Their bubbly, positive, energetic, California golden girl was gradually turning into a tired, dispirited, dull and colorless version of her former self.
Glancing over at Waycross, she saw that he, too, was watching his wife, an expression of equal concern on his freckled face. Normally, her little brother was like Tammy in temperament, both happy to grasp and enjoy every moment of the present, fully embracing life as it came.
But not yesterday or the day before, and even less today.
Reaching over to snatch up the tray from the coffee table, Savannah said to her brother, “I’m gonna go load this up again. Would you give me a hand in the kitchen?”
“Sure,” he said, after a brief glance at his little family. “I
reckon Uncle Dirk’s got this here situation in hand.”
With Waycross, Diamante, and Cleo following close behind, Savannah walked into the kitchen, where she pretended to busy herself with cutting a Honeycrisp apple into thin slices.
Di and Cleo began to make furry black figure eights around her ankles. “These miscreants think they’re starving, as usual,” she told her brother. “Would you mind pouring some of that awful-smelling kitty vittles into their bowls, before they tangle me up and take me down?”
As Waycross hurried to do as she asked, she lowered her voice to a whisper and said, “Your honey seems a mite droopy. I thought you two were going to enjoy a nice, romantic afternoon while I was babysitting. Figured that’d perk her up a bit.”
He shrugged as he slid the cat food back into the upper cupboard. “It might’ve, if we’d spent it being romantic.”
“But you didn’t?”
“Nope. Spent it scrubbin’ the bathroom floor that didn’t need scrubbin’ and cleanin’ out the garage that didn’t need cleanin’. Then we washed the windows, inside and out, that were already so crystal clear we’ve got birds crashin’ into ’em.”
Savannah didn’t have to ask why they were on this extreme cleaning spree. Both Tammy and Waycross were known for their fastidiousness. Tammy with the house and Waycross with the automobiles and yard. At any given moment, open-heart surgery could have been performed atop her washer and dryer or on the floor of his garage.
Ordinarily, Savannah would have thought this extreme scouring to be strange. But she was pretty sure she knew the reason why, and it troubled her.
“When exactly are they arriving?” she asked him.
“Shortly. In just a few hours. Boy, howdy, this day sure arrived quick. It was on us before we could turn around twice,” he replied with a Georgia drawl that was even thicker than hers. She had lived in Southern California twenty years, while he had been only recently transplanted.
Savannah looked into his eyes and saw a deep sorrow there that surprised and saddened her. Usually, Waycross’s ruddy, freckled face was alight with joy—joy for what he considered his charmed life. He couldn’t have been happier if he had won a record-breaking lottery. He had been lucky enough to marry the love of his life, and she had given him a beautiful little daughter.
Waycross was still in awe and wonder that an exquisite, perfect creature like Tammy Hart, now Tammy Reid, had chosen him, of all people, to love. A dirt-poor, wrong-side-of-the track kid from a rural Georgia town that was little more than a wide spot in the road.
Even before the birth of their baby, Waycross had considered himself blessed. Now he figured he was in bliss.
It was all a fairy tale that was too good to be true.
Looking into her brother’s eyes, Savannah could see that he was afraid his storybook life was about to crumble around him.
“The bad part is,” he said, “no matter how much she cleans, it ain’t gonna be enough for the likes of them.”
Savannah reached out her arms and folded him to her. “You don’t know that, sugar,” she told him. “Never underestimate the difference a wee one brings to a situation like this.”
“Even if they like Vanna, they’ve already made up their minds not to like me.”
“Their sweet little granddaughter is half you. One look at her will tell them that. They’ll love her to pieces, and that’s gonna spill over onto you. You just wait and see.”
Waycross gave his sister a squeeze, then kissed the top of her head. “But what if it don’t—spill over onto me, that is?”
Savannah thought it over for a moment, deciding whether to give him the brown sugar–coated version or just speak the truth. As she almost always did, she decided on the truth. “If after meeting you and getting to know you, darlin’, they still don’t approve of you, that’s on them. You’re a fine man. You’re plum crazy about their daughter. You’re a wonderful husband to her, and a fantastic father to their grandchild.”
Waycross gulped. “They had dinner with the governor of New York last Saturday night.”
“Okay. We had dinner at Granny’s. Her fried chicken and rhubarb pie ain’t nothin’ to sneeze at.”
“On Sunday, they went to see some fancy opera at a place called the Lincoln Center in New York City. After the show, they went backstage and drank champagne with the stars of it. I was guzzlin’ a beer and watchin’ NASCAR.”
“Okay, but I’ll bet your favorite driver won, while the hero of that opera they were watching probably stabbed or strangled himself to death or some such hooey. Those things always end bad.”
Waycross laughed. A little. “Thank you, Sis.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, ruffling his copper curls. “Don’t you forget that you come from good stock, too.”
He gave her a sad half smile, and she knew he was thinking about their less than upstanding parents.
“Shirley and Macon Sr. aside,” she continued, “Granny Reid is as fine a person as ever walked the earth. The same can be said of Grandpa Reid. So, if anybody has a mind to make you think you’re less than them, you remember that. Waycross Reid takes a back seat to nobody. Hear me?”
He nodded, but she could tell that her admonition hadn’t gone very deep into his psyche or soul. He’d be back to dithering in moments.
But she knew how to cheer up a Reid.
She walked to the refrigerator and took out a tin covered with foil. “This here’s what was left over from Gran’s rhubarb pie,” she said, shoving it into his hand. “There’s homemade vanilla bean ice cream in the freezer to go with it. You polish it off in here by your lonesome and nobody’ll be the wiser.”
The familiar smile returned to her brother’s face.
When the ice cream was presented, his eyes shone with their usual love-of-life gleam.
Yes, Savannah knew her business well.
It was the unofficial family motto. “If you wanna perk up a member of the Reid clan, shove some good food under their nose.”
Worked every time.
Except with Tammy.
As Savannah was strolling back into the living room, mulling over possible ways to light a fire under the lackluster Tamitha, she heard her phone buzzing in her sweater pocket.
She answered it, and within a minute, all thoughts of personal family drama had been set aside—at least for the time being.
Holy Aunt Betty’s cow, she thought as she listened to the worried caller explain a troublesome situation.
She had always been amazed to see how quickly a day could turn around, for better or for worse. While she sympathized with the parties who were in trouble, she had to be honest and admit that, as far as she was concerned, this was definitely “for the better.”
Glory be! She had a case!
Chapter 3
Ethan Malloy! Ethan Malloy! What a delicious distraction from family drama, Savannah thought as she drove south along the Pacific Coast Highway on her way to Malibu, home of the stars.
Thanks to her friends Ryan Stone and John Gibson, who had recommended her to yet another of their celebrity acquaintances, she would soon be a guest at a wonderful mansion owned by none other than the Ethan Malloy.
Well, not exactly a guest. Apparently, the gorgeous, Academy Award–winning actor found himself in need of a reliable private detective to handle a delicate and highly personal issue.
When John had called her that morning, he had asked with his aristocratic British accent, “Would you mind terribly, love—if you have the time and are so inclined—calling on a dear friend of ours? You may have heard of him. A lad by the name of Ethan Malloy. He lives in a simply charming Norman-style chateau, perched on one of the highest mountains in north Malibu. Admittedly, ’tis a fearsome drive up those treacherous canyon roads, but you’ll find it well worth your while for the view alone.”
Did she mind? Not a bit. In fact, she had forced herself not to dance an Irish jig at the thought.
The view, indeed!
Though she
was certain that the scenery John was referring to would be the magnificent coastline, nestled against a gently curving mountain ridge, she was looking forward to getting an eyeful of Mr. Malloy in his glorious flesh-and-blood person.
Ethan wasn’t just one of her own personal favorite movie stars. Since his debut in a blockbuster “sword and sandal” gladiator film six years ago, he had been the darling of the international film community. Especially its female members. Since then, he had played period heroes from every chapter of human history, and incited love and more than a little lust the world over.
Whether he was a pistol-packing sheriff dealing out justice in the Wild West, or a dark and brooding Gothic hero who rode his black stallion across the moors of Cornwall at midnight, Ethan—along with his broad shoulders, six pack, thick dark hair, and stunning blue eyes—was the subject of more women’s fantasies than any male star in decades.
Savannah considered herself one of Ethan Malloy’s most ardent admirers. So ardent in fact that, as a married woman, she would have felt a bit guilty about her obsession if she hadn’t frequently witnessed her husband risking life and limb to race from the kitchen to the living room, just to catch a glimpse of his beloved Catherine Zeta-Jones on the television.
Savannah was no dummy, and she hadn’t been a detective for years without learning a thing or two. No doubt about it. Her dear, darlin’ hubby suggested they watch Chicago far too often for a manly man who, otherwise, positively loathed musicals.
Though, besotted as Dirk was with Ms. Catherine, Savannah doubted that he donned any special type of apparel to watch her roll around atop a grand piano while belting out “All That Jazz.”
But Savannah had “dressed” for this occasion.
To her shame.
Not the “hang your head and stare at the tile on the floor for hours” shame that caused a gal to feel like a fallen woman, cook her husband’s favorite meal, or treat him to an especially exciting and illegal-in-some-states sex act on a non-birthday night.
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