Killer Reunion

by G. A. McKevett

  “Don’t even joke about something like that.”

  “You promised you’d be good.”

  “I tried.”

  “Obviously, not hard enough.” He gave her a look that was half annoyance and half affection. “You always did have a streak of pure ole contrariness a mile wide.”

  She grinned up at him and even employed her dimples. “You could just let me hang out downstairs with you.”

  “You’re a murder suspect!”

  “I know, but I’ll be good.”

  “Like you were up here?” He shook his head. “And what if you decide to make a break for it the minute my back’s turned?”

  “You could always handcuff me to the radiator.”

  “I was just kidding about the radiator.”

  “It ain’t turned on. Don’t bitch.”

  She wriggled her arm, trying to find a less miserable position to sit in with her wrist fastened to a large metal pipe that was only an inch or so from the floor.

  What she would have given for the universal cuff key in her nightstand table back at home! Or even a sturdy paper clip or a plastic straw, for that matter.

  Unable to imagine herself relaxing on a Mexican beach or skiing down a Canadian slope without her loved ones, she had no intention of trying to escape. But she would have loved to have uncuffed her own wrist, then reattached herself to something a bit less ridiculously awkward. How fun it would be to surprise Mr. Smarty-Pants, who was pretending to work on her case by shuffling papers around on his desk.

  She was about to raise yet another outcry when the front door of the station house flew open and Dirk rushed inside, accompanied by Granny and Marietta.

  Dirk marched up to Tom, a stack of papers in his hand. “Okay,” he said. “I’ve got it all here. And you’d better be happy with it, because I paid a fortune to get all this crap faxed here from California in record time.”

  Dirk turned to Savannah. “And you can thank Ryan and John, who pulled some strings, or it would’ve taken a week or more.”

  He slapped the first document down on the desk in front of Tom. “This,” he said, “is from the county recorder of deeds for Savannah’s house, showing there aren’t any judgments or liens against it.” The second document quickly followed. “And that shows the true market value of the place. And this”—he threw down another piece of paper—“is a certified copy of the deed.” He took a deep breath, stuck his thumbs in his belt, and lifted his chin. “So, Sheriff Stafford, consider her bail posted and let ’er out. Pronto.”

  “Yeah, pronto,” Granny said.

  Nodding, Marietta added, “Yeah. What they said.”

  Slowly, Tom picked up each piece of paper and scrutinized it with great deliberation, nodding and muttering to himself. Then he stacked them carefully, paper clipped them, folded them neatly, and handed them back to Dirk.

  “That’s impressive,” he said, “you gettin’ all that together so quick. And, Savannah, it appears that real estate’s a lot more expensive there in Southern California than it is here. I’m proud you’ve done so well for yourself.”

  Savannah held her breath. She could smell a big “but” coming.

  “But,” he said, “the property’s out of state.”

  “So?” Dirk said, his face turning an ugly shade of red.

  “We don’t accept out-of-state properties for surety.”

  “Why on earth not?” Gran shouted. “What’s the difference if it’s here or there? It ain’t like it’s gonna run off or nothin’.”

  “It might fall in the ocean, though,” Marietta added, “you know, if they have that Big One earthquake thing they’re always talkin’ about, and the whole state of California just cracks off and floats away into the—”

  Gran shot her a stern look, and she shut up.

  Dirk leaned far over Tom’s desk, until the two men were nearly nose to nose. “Don’t tell me that I can’t bail my wife out of jail with a house worth thirty times what it says there in your standard bail schedule. Do not tell me that!”

  Tom looked up at him calmly and said, “I’m sorry, Sergeant Coulter. But that’s exactly what I’m telling you. I don’t make up the rules. And I can’t break them. Not even for as fine a woman as . . . your wife.”

  Savannah thought Tom was going to choke on those last two words. And in that moment she knew, if she’d ever had doubts before, that Tom Stafford was still very much in love with her.

  For all the good it did.

  Granny pushed her way around Dirk to stand beside the desk. Reaching into her purse, she said, “I had a feelin’ this sorta thing might happen. So I brought the same kinda papers, only they’re to my house.” She shoved the documents in Tom’s face. “And, young man, the last time I checked, my house was in the fine state of Georgia.”

  Tom took the paperwork from her and perused it, as well. He avoided her eyes when he handed it back to her and said, “I’m sorry. While I appreciate the fact that you’re trying to help your granddaughter, your property value just ain’t high enough to do the trick.”

  To Savannah’s sorrow, she saw tears fill Granny’s eyes.

  “Are you telling me,” Gran said, “that the home I raised two families in ain’t worth enough to get her out?”

  “I’m sorry, Granny. I truly am.”

  But Gran wasn’t moved. “Until you let my grandbaby out of this jail of yours, you can just call me Mrs. Reid.”

  “I understand.”

  Marietta wriggled her way forward and, to Savannah’s shock, began to rummage around in her giant rhinestone-encrusted giraffe bag. “As it happens, I have a property that I can throw in the pot, along with my grandma’s. Between the two, I’m sure it’ll put you over that danged limit of yours.”

  “Since when do you have property?” Tom asked her as he took the papers from her hand. “Aren’t you and your boys livin’ in one of old man Landers’s duplexes out there by the cotton gin?”

  “Yes, we’re renters. But that’s the deed to my business. My hair and nail salon. And as you can see right there, it’s worth a small fortune.”

  Tom squinted as he read the property report “This was signed by Wanda Blaylock. Isn’t she one of your very best customers?”

  “Yes, she is. Comes into my place for nails and hair three times a week. I keep her looking gorgeous. So she, of all people, should know full well how valuable it is.”

  Tom sighed, snatched Gran’s papers out of her hand, and clipped them to Marietta’s. “Okay,” he said. “I reckon between the two, it’ll come close to coverin’ it.”

  Cheering erupted. But it was short lived, because Sheriff Tom Stafford rose from his chair, held up both hands, and shouted, “That’s enough! Quiet! The sooner y’all settle down, the quicker I can process her outta here.”

  He turned to Savannah. “And as far as you go, gal”—he stuck his finger in her face and waggled it—“you’ve been nothing but a royal pain in the ass from the minute you got here. I cannot wait to be shed o’ you.”

  Chapter 19

  One of Savannah’s favorite pastimes for as long as she could remember was sitting in the swing on Granny Reid’s front porch and watching as the setting sun gilded the cotton fields in soft patinas of copper and gold. The evening breeze would sweep across the green plants, stirring their delicate white and pink blossoms and wafting their sweet, fresh fragrance toward the house, like a gift from the angels.

  And of all the times she had experienced that commonplace miracle, this night had to be the best ever.

  Next to her sat her husband. He was holding her hand tightly, as he’d done almost constantly since they’d left the sheriff’s station.

  While Dirk’s edges were a bit rough, and his idiosyncrasies somewhat difficult to ignore, Savannah never had to wonder if she was the center of his universe. He made that abundantly clear every day.

  And there was nothing like the threat of losing a loved one to make a fond heart grow even fonder.

  Nearby, Gran sa
t, rocking contentedly in her chair. The expression of profound peace on her face gave her an almost angelic look.

  When Savannah thought of how Gran had placed her home on the line that very day to gain her freedom, Savannah knew that she had never loved her grandmother more than she did at that moment.

  She also felt surprisingly close to her sister Marietta for the first time in many years. Savannah understood what Marietta’s salon meant to her. She had worked hard for many years, cutting, curling, and coloring her town folks’s hair, filing and polishing their nails, while listening to every detail of their personal lives—the good, the bad, and the downright ugly.

  Savannah vowed that no matter how annoying her sister might prove to be in the coming years, she would always remind herself of this day and at least attempt to be more patient.

  Sitting on a motley assortment of folding lawn chairs, Tammy, Waycross, and Alma were also enjoying the sunset and the celebratory mood resulting from Savannah’s reprieve, temporary though it might be.

  As always when members of the Moonlight Magnolia gang were assembled, a plate of warm-from-the-oven cookies was being passed around, and the general topic of conversation was whatever case they were working on at the moment. None had been so thoroughly discussed as this one, with so little progress.

  “I don’t know why,” Granny said, “but I’ve just got a notion that this business with Jacob Barnsworth’s half sister, it ain’t gonna lead to nothin’ in the end.”

  Dirk nodded. “Me too, Gran. But when it’s the only lead you’ve got, you follow it to the end. Whether there’s anything there or not.”

  “I know, grandson. I know.”

  Savannah felt a buzzing in her hip pocket, and a moment later the tune “I’m Too Sexy” began to play. She jumped up from the swing, saying, “That’s Ryan, returning my call. Excuse me for a minute, y’all.”

  Tammy smiled brightly, as she always did at the mention of Ryan Stone. “Tell him hi from us,” she said.

  “We promise not to say anything important till you get back,” Granny added.

  “But if you take too long, we might eat all the cookies,” Dirk said as Waycross passed him the plate of goodies.

  “You better not!” Savannah shouted. “Somebody grab that plate and put it away somewhere safe till I’m done with this call.”

  As she hurried through the front door and into the living room, she answered her phone. “Ryan, thank you for getting right back to me. I know how busy you and John are with the restaurant and all.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” replied the deep, elegant, deliciously male voice that never failed to set her heart, and other parts of her, atwitter. “When our favorite damsel is in distress, we knights-errant come a-charging.”

  Savannah smiled at the imagery of Ryan and John atop white horses, suited in shining armor, lances in hand, riding to her rescue. Although, since they had become joint owners of a gourmet restaurant in San Carmelita, they were more likely to be wielding Sakai chef’s knives than swords.

  “And charging, you did,” she said. “I so appreciate you scrambling to send those documents to Dirk right away.”

  “Anything we could do to get you out of that jail. John and I were beside ourselves to think of you behind bars. Was it dreadful?”

  “The gruel was moldy, and the water rancid, but I was starting to get the hang of rock busting.”

  He chuckled. “And your serial killer cell mate?”

  “A far better conversationalist than you might imagine.” She could hear a heavy door sliding open, then closing. “You’re home, on your balcony,” she said, picturing him in his white shorts and pale blue polo shirt, walking out onto his deck to enjoy his luxury condo’s magnificent view of the Pacific.

  “Yes, I am,” he said, “and wishing you were here to share the sunshine and a glass of wine with me.”

  Ordinarily, if a man had said that to her, she would have considered it flirtatious. But Ryan and John had been a couple since long before she’d met them, so there had never been a chance she would be anything but the dearest of friends to either of them. And she had found that more than enough.

  “I wish I was there, too, darlin’,” she replied. “I’ve got myself in one helluva pickle here.”

  He cleared his throat. “Which reminds me, I spoke to that attorney that I mentioned to Dirk. He’ll be happy to defend you if it comes to that. He’s very good. Comes highly recommended.”

  “If he’s a friend of yours, I’m sure he’s excellent.”

  “I told Dirk, and I hope you know I mean it, that all you have to do is crook your little finger, and John and I will be on the next plane to Georgia.”

  “Of course I know. But you’ve done plenty already. How can I ever make it up to you?”

  “Just come home to us, Savannah,” was the heartfelt reply. She could hear the love and concern so clearly in his voice that it made her ache to hug him and stand on tiptoe to plant a kiss on his cheek.

  “Buy some good champagne,” she told him. “I’ll be there before you know it.”

  “I’m putting it on ice right now.”

  After she said good-bye, Savannah closed her eyes and pictured Ryan and John, drawing comfort from the mental images of their beloved faces that she had stored in her heart’s treasure chest.

  Ryan was exquisitely handsome with his black, wavy hair, darkly tanned skin, and pale green eyes. And John, several years older than Ryan, was the quintessential British gentleman, with thick silver hair and a lush mustache to match and a deliciously aristocratic accent.

  How much you take for granted, she thought, until your very freedom is threatened.

  She had always assumed that she would grow old with her loved ones on the porch and her dear friends in California around her. To be able to sit down and share a meal with them at will, to be able to pick up a telephone and call them just to chat for as long as she wished. Who would have thought such basic joys could be taken from her?

  “No,” she whispered. And because she liked the sound of it, she said it aloud. “No.”

  She recognized that tone of voice. It was the one she encouraged the women who attended her self-defense classes to use. “Shout it in your attacker’s face!” she’d told her students over and over again. “Scream it at him! No! No! No! You will not be a victim! You refuse! You will not!”

  She jumped up from Granny’s sofa, punched her fist into the air, and shouted as loudly as she could, “No! No! No! No!”

  She felt the power of her proclamation rise from her feet and flow upward through her, filling her mind, body, and spirit with resolve, courage, and confidence like she had never felt before.

  For as long as she needed to, she stood there, her fist raised high, her backbone stiffer than it had been in a long time, her posture that of a defiant warrior.

  Then she slowly lowered her arm and turned toward the door, where she saw her husband. He was standing, watching her, with a look of alarm on his face.

  “Um. Are you all right?” he asked. “I heard you yell and, uh . . .”

  She gave him a bright, cheerful smile. “Darlin’, I’m way better than all right. This woman is fine!”

  After her brief but effective self-administered pep talk, a good night’s sleep, and one of Granny’s fortifying breakfasts, Savannah felt like taking on the world. Or at least tracking down her one and only lead.

  By eight thirty the next morning, she and Dirk were on their way in the rental car to the equally small neighboring town of Sulfur Springs and the nursing home where Mr. Jacob Barnsworth’s final remaining blood relative resided.

  They headed south, following the highway through acres of cotton fields, took a right at the Y, and continued on through more cotton fields. They found the nursing home on the edge of town, in the middle of a cotton field.

  “You guys sure grow a lot of cotton around here,” Dirk commented.

  She shrugged. “Somebody’s gotta do it, if you plan to keep wearing T-shirts,
jeans, and cotton underdrawers.”

  “When you put it like that, guess I oughta be more grateful.”

  “You’re darned right. Thank God for farmers. Ever put on a pair of wool boxer shorts?”

  “Can’t say I ever have. They’d probably be a bit scratchy.”

  “There ya go.”

  Savannah felt another butt buzz. “My rear end’s sure getting a lot of action lately,” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  She held up her cell. “Phone.”

  Nodding solemnly, he said, “Thank you for clarifying that.”

  Her pulse quickened to see a number with an Atlanta area code. “This is the attorney that Ryan recommended,” she told Dirk.

  “Good luck.”

  Savannah answered the call, and for the remainder of the ride to Sulfur Springs, she discussed her situation with the lawyer. He was a good listener, and when it was his turn to talk, he had a soft, good old boy accent and a gentle manner that she found comforting. But his penetrating questions, astute observations, and sage advice assured her he was no lightweight. Her confidence in him was well placed.

  By the time they arrived at the nursing home, Savannah had decided that she was in good hands, after all.

  Once they had concluded their conversation, she turned to Dirk and said, “Well, I’d say, so far, so good.”

  But as always, Dirk wanted details. “Okay, fine, but what did he actually say?”

  “In a nutshell, exercise my right to be silent, especially with Tom.”

  “Did you mention that’s impossible for you? You know, being a Reid female and all?”

  “Shut up. He did mention one other thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He said we’d better catch the person who really did it, or I’m going to be eating a lot of bologna and cheese sandwiches and sharing a cell with a gal named Toots.”

  Chapter 20

  During her previous few visits to nursing homes, Savannah had developed a negative opinion of such establishments. So she was expecting something dark, drab, and depressing when she and Dirk entered the front door of the plain, utilitarian-looking building with its gray clapboard siding.