Sour Grapes

by G. A. McKevett

  Whatever she was doing, Savannah didn’t envy her. And she felt bad that she had been the catalyst to bring a family to ruin.

  No, she thought, not me.

  Anthony Villa had destroyed his family—with some help from a stupid, but seductive teenager, who was old enough to know that what she was doing was wrong, but far too young to understand the terrible consequences.

  Not me.

  Tomorrow morning she would wake up and continue with her life, doing things that had nothing in common with the Villas. And once the trial was over, they would become nothing more to her than a sad memory. They, on the other hand, would live in this nightmare for the rest of their lives.

  With thoughts like those, she wasn’t surprised that it took her a long time to go to sleep. And when she did, she found that the sweet familiarity of home wasn’t enough to chase away the restless dreams.

  She was standing in the old cemetery just outside her hometown, an ancient graveyard where the brave sons of the Confederacy had been laid to rest next to their wives and children who had died when Sherman had cut his deadly swath of destruction across Georgia.

  Graceful drapings of moss hung from the trees, dipping down to the weathered marble stones, some so aged that their names and dates were barely visible. The grass was halfway up to her knee and tickled her calf as she walked along between the monuments, reading the names of families who had lived in the area for generations.

  Savannah recognized the place and many of the names. She had played hide-and-seek here as a child, and being more courageous than some, she had even ventured here at night to speak to Grandpa Reid after a tractor accident had taken him from them when she was only six.

  As she usually did when she visited this place, she carried a bouquet of flowers in her hand, bachelor buttons and snapdragons, picked from Gran’s garden. She brought them for Gramps. He had always told her that bachelor buttons and snapdragons were “manly,” unlike those sissy flowers like pansies, roses, and daisies.

  She was trying to find Gramps’s grave . . . but she couldn’t remember where it was. All around her there were fresh mounds of earth, new graves recently dug. At least a dozen of them. And when she stepped in the soft soil, she sank in to her ankles.

  Looking down, she saw a name on one of the new stones.

  “Villa”

  Her heart caught in her throat, and she looked at the next grave marker. It, too, was inscribed with that name. And the next and the next. An entire family. Dead. Gone.

  Sherman had marched through Georgia again.

  “It was you, Savannah. You did it.”

  In the darkness she couldn’t see the face of her accuser, but she recognized the smooth, aristocratic voice.

  “No, Catherine,” she said, “it wasn’t my fault. I’m sorry for your loss, but I didn’t cause it.”

  “Everything would have been okay. But you couldn’t leave it alone. You had to come after Tony.”

  “He killed two girls. He has to pay for that.”

  “Tony didn’t kill anyone, you fool. I did.”

  Savannah sat upright in her bed, her pulse pounding in her ears, cold sweat pouring off her body and soaking her nightgown.

  She was shaking all over and could hardly breathe. “No,” she whispered. “That isn’t true.”

  “Yes, it is,” Catherine replied. “Tony couldn’t kill anyone . . . not even when it was necessary. He’s weak. All men are weak. We women have to take care of them.”

  It took Savannah’s sleep-drugged mind two seconds to realize that she was no longer dreaming. And when she did, she lunged for her nightstand and yanked the drawer open. Inside was her Beretta.

  “Don’t!” Catherine said. “If you do, I’ll shoot you dead right now. I swear I will.”

  Savannah saw the glint of the gun that was only a few feet from her head. The moonlight was bright enough for her to see the front end of the barrel and know it was high caliber.

  She froze, as she had been ordered to do.

  “If you do everything I tell you to do,” Catherine was saying, “I’ll let you live for a few more minutes. Because I want you to hear what I have to say to you. I want my words to be the last thing you hear on this earth.”

  Chapter 25

  With a super charge of adrenaline coursing through her bloodstream, Savannah’s mind raced, thinking of a hundred plans, but discarding each one. Catherine was close, but not close enough for her to grab the gun.

  She couldn’t possibly get her Beretta out of the nightstand drawer in time to use it without being shot herself.

  No weapons were within reach, and she couldn’t imagine defending herself with a pillow against a high-caliber pistol.

  “Have you ever been married, Savannah?”

  What the hell does that have to do with anything? she wondered.

  But she said, “No, I haven’t.”

  Catherine chuckled . . . a most unpleasant sound. “I didn’t think so. You aren’t really the sort of woman that men want to marry, are you?”

  Not sure how to answer that one, Savannah said nothing. She didn’t want to give Catherine the satisfaction of her admitting that, indeed, no man had ever asked. But then, there was no one to whom she would have said yes, so maybe it was just as well.

  “If you haven’t been married,” Catherine continued, “you can’t know what it’s like to have your husband betray you with another woman.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “No, you can’t. Until you’ve experienced it, it’s truly unimaginable. The rage that you feel, the incredible hurt, the images that play over and over and over again in your mind. You see her touching him. You see him touching her, doing all those special things with her that he’s done with you. You think of sweet things he’s told you, things you treasure, and you wonder if he said those things to her. And you lose those precious memories, because when you recall them, they don’t give you pleasure anymore, because . . . you wonder . . .”

  “You’re right,” Savannah said. “I’ve never suffered that particular pain. It must be terrible.”

  “You’re damned right it is. And don’t patronize me. Don’t try to be my girlfriend here, because in a few minutes I’m going to kill you.”

  “Catherine,” Savannah said as gently as she could, “I wasn’t the one who slept with your husband.”

  “No, but you took him away from me and our boys. I had it all fixed. I had forgiven him, and we were going to go on from there. But tonight he’s in jail instead of being home with us where he belongs. And that’s your fault.”

  “If you kill me, Catherine, you’ll get caught, and then where will your boys be? With both of their parents in prison, what’ll happen to them?”

  “Both of us won’t be in prison. After I shoot you, I’m going to turn myself in. I’m going to confess that I killed Barbara. I’ll tell them that Anthony had nothing to do it. That isn’t completely true; he’s the one who threw that little whore over the cliff. I told him that if I could kill her and get her off our backs, the least he could do was get rid of the body. And he even screwed that up. I’m telling you, men are helpless.”

  “Did he know you were going to kill her . . . and the other girl, too?”

  “Not until afterward, when I told him I had already done it . . . for us.”

  “So he had nothing to do with the actual murders?”

  “That’s what I said. You aren’t listening.”

  “But when I questioned him this evening,” Savannah said, “he confessed.”

  “He’s protecting me, taking the blame so that I can stay free and be with the boys. And I can’t let him do that. A man who’s killed two teenage girls—he’d get a death sentence. But they’ll go easier on me, a woman. I’ll tell them everything, about that little slut coming after my husband. I’ll tell them that I was temporarily insane, and if there’s one woman on that jury, I’ll be found not guilty.”

  “But what about Francie? What about me? How are you going to
explain killing us?”

  “Who needs to explain anything? There’s no evidence saying that I killed either of you. I was very careful with the second girl, and I’ve been very careful tonight. No one will ever prove that I did the two of you. I’m going to get away with this. All of it. You just wait and see.”

  She laughed, and again the sound of it went straight through Savannah like a cold, wet wind.

  “Oh, what am I saying?” Catherine added. “You won’t be around to see it.”

  “Catherine, really, I don’t believe you’ve thought this through. You believed you had all of the bases covered with Barbie, too, but you didn’t. If you kill me in cold blood, there’s no way you can chalk that up to temporary insanity. You won’t get away with it.”

  “I think I will,” Catherine said. “Let’s see who’s right.”

  Savannah saw her hand tighten around the gun as she took one step closer.

  She was going to shoot. Savannah knew it.

  She also knew that her only hope was to lunge for the gun. She would probably take a bullet. With any luck, it wouldn’t be fatal.

  What a miserable option. But it was her only one.

  “Actually, you should thank me,” Catherine said. “At least you’re going to go quick, like the second kid. The little whore wasn’t so lucky. I guarantee you that when she was sucking in that insecticide, she would have welcomed a bullet between the eyes . . . like I’m going to give you right now.”

  Savannah braced herself, ready to spring. But at that exact instant, there was a whooshing sound in the darkness behind Catherine, and then a loud crack and strange twang as the woman’s right leg shot out from under her. She spun sharply to the left and fell backward.

  Savannah had the gun before Catherine Villa hit the floor.

  The light switch was thrown, and through squinted eyes Savannah saw her baby sister Atlanta standing over Catherine, her broken guitar in her hand and a satisfied look on her face.

  “So, Big Sis,” she said. “What’s all the ruckus in here? I’m tryin’ to get some sleep down the hall there, and you gals woke me up with all your chatterin’. Thought you might need some help, Van.”

  Savannah looked down at Catherine, who was writhing on the floor, holding her leg.

  “That was a pretty good wallop you gave her,” she said appreciatively.

  “Yeah, you owe me a new guitar. By the way, I heard everything she said about killing those girls. Want me to call Dirk?”

  Savannah grinned. “Please, darlin’. I’d be most grateful.”

  Casually, as though she had nothing else to do with the rest of her night, Atlanta turned and walked out of the room.

  Savannah nudged the squirming Catherine with her toe. “Hey, did you get a load of that?” she asked her. “That was my little sister who knocked your leg out from under you . . . a chip off the old family salt block. Not bad, eh?”

  Catherine muttered only inarticulate cries of pain.

  “Stop your whining,” Savannah told her. “I’ll make sure Dirk takes you by the hospital on the way to jail. It’s probably not broken. Although . . . it does look sorta funny, sticking out sideways like that. . . .”

  The entire Moonlight Magnolia clan was miserable. Deliciously miserable. They sprawled on lounge chairs in Savannah’s backyard, buttons and belts loosened, holding their distended stomachs and vowing to never eat another bite of food for as long as they lived.

  Savannah was ecstatic—a job well-done!

  To celebrate the closing of the case and the fact that it was Saturday—persons of Southern heritage don’t need much reason to celebrate—she had plied them with barbecued ribs, potato salad, baked beans, corn on the cob, homemade rocky road ice cream and beer. For some reason, nobody seemed to have an appetite for wine.

  They were stuffed to the gills; her task was done.

  Even the usually prim and proper John Gibson was flat on his back in her hammock, his eyes closed as though he were in a coma, his trouser button undone, his mustache sporting a kernel of corn, a blotch of barbecue sauce on the front of his polo shirt.

  Dirk was cranking the next batch of rocky road in the old-fashioned ice-cream churn . . . just in case anyone got faint from hunger and needed a sugar boost.

  Even Tammy had joined in the decadence. Although she had dismissed the idea of eating ribs, she had chowed down on the beans, corn, and salad. And, for the first time Savannah could almost see a tiny bit of a paunch going on beneath that middy blouse of hers.

  “I’m in agony,” Ryan said from his chaise. “Savannah, I’ve never eaten so much in my life. You’re a delightful sadist.”

  “Sadomasochist, you mean,” she said, holding her own tummy. “I put away more than any of you. Remember, I have to taste everything . . . several times . . . at each stage of cooking just to make sure I’m getting it right.”

  “You got it right,” Dirk said. “You got it so right. You’re my kind o’ woman.”

  “One who gives you free food and does half of your work for you?”

  “Exactly.” He stopped cranking for a moment and looked over at her driveway. “By the way, where are those new wheels I bought you? I wanted the guys here to see ’em.”

  Savannah laughed and shook her head. She was never going to hear the end of the tire saga. The fine city fathers had decided they didn’t owe her a new set, because she shouldn’t have been “interfering” with a police pursuit at the time hers were ruined. She was lucky that they didn’t sue or prosecute her... or so they said.

  So, Dirk the Tightwad of the Ages had forked over the big bucks from his own pocket. Savannah didn’t feel too guilty. Long ago she had decided that he was probably independently wealthy since he had a full-time job and seldom spent a single cent on anything. He could afford it.

  And they were nice ones—a new set of radial red-walls, just like she had asked for.

  “They’re underneath my sister right now,” she said. “Atlanta drove to Hollywood to do her backup singing gig for Dixie Lynn today. She left before I was even out of bed and should be home anytime. I can’t wait to hear how it went. Thanks a million, John, for arranging it for her.”

  John groaned and nodded, but he kept his eyes closed. “You’re welcome. It was my pleasure.”

  “And I have to thank you guys, too, for those referrals in Georgia,” she said. “I’m setting up appointments for Atlanta to go to as soon as she gets home—a counselor who specializes in eating disorders and a support group, too.”

  “Do you think she’ll stick with it?” Tammy asked.

  “I hope so. She’s seen Angela twice this week, and she’s getting past the idea that it’s a shameful thing to talk to a pro. One step at a time.”

  “She’s lucky she has you for a sister,” Tammy said, giving Savannah an affectionate smile.

  “I’m lucky to have her. I have to tell you, guys, if it wasn’t for my little sister smacking Catherine Villa with her guitar, I honestly don’t think I’d be here right now. That gal was going to kill me . . . then and there . . . no doubt about it.”

  “Well, she’s gonna get hers,” Dirk said. “That busted leg ain’t settin’ right, I heard, and she’s gonna have to have it operated on. Not to mention the charges against her.”

  “I understand,” Ryan said, “that they’re cutting a deal for Anthony Villa, that he’ll probably receive a light sentence and be back with his sons and vineyard in a few years.”

  “That’s right.” Dirk lifted the lid of the churn and looked inside. “Did you hear? The results of the tests are back. The chemical used to kill Barbie was an insecticide, like we thought. A bug bomb called, Pests No More. Appropriate, huh?”

  “Be nice,” Savannah warned him. He dipped his finger in the ice cream and she swatted his hand.

  “And here’s the clincher,” he added. “The baby wasn’t even Anthony’s after all. Trent Gorton was the father.”

  “So, Barbie had the Villas dancing on strings for nothing.” Savannah s
hook her head. “Do you think we’ll get Catherine for Francie’s death?”

  “Yeah, I think between you and Atlanta testifying to what she said when she came after you . . . it’ll be enough. You Reid gals are pretty convincing with those big blue eyes and that sweet Southern drawl. You’re so deceptively innocent-looking.”

  She batted her lashes and deepened her dimples. “Why, thank you, kind sir. Want some more ice cream?”

  “Do bears—?”

  “Here.” She shoved a bowl at him.

  The purr of a well-tuned motor caught their attention as Savannah’s Mustang pulled into her driveway.

  “Oh, good!” Savannah exclaimed as her sister climbed out of the car and walked over to the patio where they were. “Atlanta’s back! She must be so excited . . . on cloud nine . . . her dream come true . . . a—”

  “It sucked! It so-o-o sucked!” Atlanta plopped down on the grass, her legs crossed, her lip out. “I hated the whole thing! You wouldn’t believe how boring it is to record a song! You sing it over and over and over again until you’re just sick to death of hearin’ it!”

  Savannah stared at her, unable to comprehend this reversal. It was so abrupt. So . . . Atlanta.

  “It ain’t what it’s cracked up to be, this singing thing,” she said. “Dixie was downright cranky, and I don’t really blame her. I had to be there at nine, but she’d been recording since seven in the morning. She hadn’t even had time to do her hair and makeup. I’m tellin’ ya, she looked like crap! Nothin’ like she did at the Oscars.”

  Lying in his hammock, eyes still closed, John smiled, his mustache twitching.

  Ryan and Tammy gave each other a sideways look.

  Dirk started dishing up a bowl of ice cream.

  Savannah walked over to the barbecue grill. “Okay,” she said. “So much for that. We saved you some ribs. The veggies are on the kitchen counter. Can I dish you up a plate?”