Killer Physique

by G. A. McKevett

  “The garbage you took out of the limo when you cleaned it, after you took Jason to the premiere. Do you still have it?”

  “There wasn’t any.”

  Savannah wasn’t expecting that. “Any? None at all?”

  “Not a bit. Jason didn’t drink, even though I provide liquor in the bar. He didn’t eat anything or make a mess of any kind. He never did. He’d just get in, take his ride, and get out. I vacuumed the carpet; that was all.”

  Dirk gave Savannah an “I told you we could’ve phoned” look, which she skillfully ignored.

  “Why?” Leland asked. “Were you looking for something in particular?”

  “Yes. A white patch about this big.” Savannah showed him, making a square with her fingers. “He wore it for pain relief.”

  Leland thought long and hard. “No. I’m sure I’d remember if I saw something weird like that.”

  “There’s no chance you might have vacuumed it up?” Dirk asked.

  “No way. The carpet’s black. If something that big and white had been lying there, I would’ve noticed it for sure.”

  “Damn,” Dirk whispered under his breath.

  “Yeah,” Savannah replied.

  “You say Jason had to wear pain patches?” Leland asked. “That’s a shame. He never complained. But then, Jason was like that. Really easy to be around, you know?”

  Later, as Savannah and Dirk were walking back to the car, Dirk surprised her with a philosophical observation. “That’s nice, what Leland said about Jason. That Jason was easy to be around because he never complained. It’d be nice, after you died, to have people say that about you.”

  Savannah thought about Dirk and how he had to be the grumpiest fellow that most people ever met. She didn’t want to tell him that if he didn’t amend his ways, his reputation as a non-complainer was in great jeopardy.

  “I’ve heard,” she said, “that it’s a good exercise to try to go a whole day—twenty-four hours—without complaining about a single thing. They say that if you can do that, your whole life will change almost immediately.”

  “Naw, I’ve tried that crap, and it never works for me. It works for everybody else, but not for me.” He took his sunglasses off and wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “Man, it’s just too stinkin’ hot today. I hate hot weather. When it’s hot, it drains all the energy outta me, and I just feel like I’m gonna puke sometimes, because I just can’t stand . . .”

  As soon as Savannah and Dirk returned home, Savannah raced up the stairs to the bathroom. Between the visit to the morgue and then the lengthy ride to Rosado, it had been a long time between pit stops.

  Even as she scurried down the hallway, her mind was running over the long list of domestic chores she still had to perform before the arrival of the in-laws tomorrow evening.

  She wasn’t worried about the prospect of cooking for them. If there was one thing Savannah had down pat, it was spreading the table with delicious food for her guests.

  And as Dirk had said, her home was pretty, cozy and charming—quintessential Southern décor. So she felt pretty secure in that department, too.

  But housecleaning?

  That was another story.

  She wasn’t filthy. Not by a long shot. She was the daughter of Granny Reid of McGill, Georgia, and had been taught that cleanliness was next to godliness.

  She couldn’t count the times she had heard her grandmother say, “A bar of soap only costs a nickel. So it don’t matter how poor you are, there’s no excuse for dirtiness.”

  And though the price of detergent had risen quite a bit since Gran had coined those phrases, the truth and wisdom of her words remained in the heart and mind of her granddaughter.

  Throughout history, Savannah’s housekeeping standards had been higher than those of most hospital operating rooms. But a lot had happened in Savannah’s world during the past year or so. She had survived a nearly fatal attack, and it had taken her months to recuperate. And in some ways, she knew her body would never be the same.

  Then there was the whole wedding fiasco.

  Although most brides have their share of challenges and traumas, she and Dirk had endured far more than fate should have allowed.

  And the honeymoon . . . they hadn’t nicknamed the whole adventure the “Killer Honeymoon” for no reason.

  Then, if all that hadn’t been enough, there was Dirk.

  With his shaving cream and toothpaste on the mirrors, underwear and cut fingernails on the kitchen counter, and his propensity for leaving things in strange places—sunglasses in the freezer and ice cubes in the microwave—she had nearly given up on keeping the house tidy as long as her husband was living in it.

  She had considered fixing up the garage, transforming it into a nice little bachelor’s apartment for him. After all, this was California, where alternate lifestyles were considered avant-garde.

  But her in-laws would probably frown upon her banishing their son to the garage—even if she had been strong enough to bind and transport Dirk to the proposed new living quarters.

  So her house was a mess, and they were arriving in less than twenty-four hours, and there wasn’t anything she could do about it at this point.

  Maybe if she fed them often and well enough, they wouldn’t notice the fact that her kitchen curtains were in her washing machine and not hanging from her windows.

  At least, thanks to Dirk, her bathroom floor was clean. Maybe this having a husband around could be a beneficial thing once in a while. At least you—

  She halted in mid-thought and mid-stride the moment she set foot in the bathroom. Her shoe stuck to the floor as if she were walking through a movie theater after a visit by a kindergarten class on a field trip. And it couldn’t have been any stickier than if every kid in that class had spilled a soda and dropped a melted ice cream cone and a handful of half-chewed Jujubes on it.

  “What the hell?” she yelled, trying to unstick her foot and back her way out of the nightmare. “Dirk! What in tarnation did you do to this floor!?”

  She heard his heavy, plodding steps coming up the stairs. “What are you yelling about, woman?” he shouted back. “Criminy, girl! I could hear you all the way from the kitchen!”

  She managed to get her shoe loose and herself back into the hallway just as he joined her. “What on earth did you put on this floor, boy? Horsehide glue?”

  “Of course not. How stupid do you think I am?”

  “Right now is probably not the best time to ask that question.” She took a deep breath and counted to ten. “Now just tell me truthfully, what did you use on this floor.”

  “The stuff you gave me. The junk with the picture of the ditzy woman in a dress on the front who was grinning while she was mopping the floor.” He gave a sniff. “And I’ve gotta tell you, I think my testosterone level went down several notches just looking at that damned picture.”

  “Did you read the directions on the back?”

  “What? Well, no. But I’ve used stuff like that when I was in the service. I had to clean a few latrines, and it wasn’t all that complicated.”

  Savannah thought over the directions she had, herself, followed for years when using her favorite “clean and shine” product.

  (1) Squirt small amount onto floor. (2) Spread evenly with damp cloth. (3) Rinse cloth in warm water and wipe floor. Repeat (3) as needed until floor is clean.

  Yes, they were simple directions. So what was the problem?

  He sighed as though weighed down by the cares of the world. “All right. Here’s what I did—I got that bucket out from under your kitchen sink, squirted about half of the bottle in the pail, filled it up with water, and mopped it.”

  Ah, if all mysteries were so easily solved, she thought.

  “Again I ask you, ‘What did I do wrong?’ ” he said, his hands and arms waving about as though he were conducting the San Carmelita Philharmonic Orchestra.

  “Just take a little stroll in there, darlin’, and I’m sure you’
ll get a sense of it.”

  “I know it was a little sticky after I first did it,” he said, “but I figured after it dried, it’d be . . .”

  She left him and walked back down the hall toward the stairs. A second later, she heard him curse quite colorfully.

  “Yeap, Daddy just discovered the problem,” she whispered to one of the cats who had come upstairs to see what all the hullabaloo was about. “I’d stay clear if I were you.”

  She was walking through the kitchen on her way to the enclosed back porch and the half bath—where she could take care of her much overdue visit to “see that man about that horse,” as Granny used to call it—when the phone rang.

  “Dadgummit. I don’t have time for this,” she said. “My eyeballs are a-floatin’ as it is.”

  But she hurried into the kitchen and scooped up the phone from the counter.

  “Hello,” she said breathlessly.

  “Hello, daughter,” said a sweet, deep male voice. A voice that sounded a lot like Dirk’s. On a good Dirk day.

  Not today.

  “Oh, howdy, Richard.” She glanced at her watch. “Did y’all get to San Francisco yet?”

  “We got here in record time. We already took our tour of Alcatraz.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “Loved it. Next time I’m in the doghouse with Dora, I think I’ll head down this way and see if I can get a room there.”

  Savannah smiled. She liked this man already. Anybody with a deep, Dirk voice and a corny, down-home sense of humor was pretty much all right in her book.

  “We’re looking forward to your visit so much,” Savannah said, knowing that her nose might grow a half an inch for that little half-fib. “Dirk’s real excited.”

  “Us, too, dear,” he replied. “Believe me, this is a dream come true for both of us.”

  “We’ll do all we can to make you comfortable once you get here.”

  “Ah, don’t worry about that. I was a cop, remember? Did a lot of stakeouts. I can get comfortable anywhere.”

  Savannah knew exactly what he was talking about. Spending fourteen-hour stretches in Dirk’s Buick, waiting for a bail jumper to sneak into his old lady’s house to score some love, afforded many life lessons—including how to find comfy positions under challenging conditions.

  “Don’t you worry about anything, honey,” he said. “This is going to be a nice visit. The first of many, I’m sure.”

  Instantly, she felt better about everything: the curtains in the washer, the sparsely furnished refrigerator and cupboards, the bathroom floor that felt like flypaper.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” she said, basking in the warm glow. “When do you reckon you’ll be arriving? In time for supper, I hope.”

  “Oh, we’re early risers. Up before the sun. We’ll be on the road by four at the latest. We’ll be there by noon!”

  Dirk found her in the kitchen—the phone in her hand, a brain-dead look on her face, as though all her circuits had been blown.

  “They’ll be here for lunch,” she told him in a flat monotone, her eyes staring straight ahead.

  “Noon? Lunch? Tomorrow?”

  She nodded woodenly. “They’re early risers, up before the sun.”

  “Damn.”

  “No kidding.”

  Chapter 20

  The next day, Savannah and Dirk sat in the living room, each in their favorite spots, as they petted cats and resisted the urge to jump up and run to the window every time they heard a vehicle drive by.

  In spite of the fact that her stomach was tied in knots and her hands were trembling from all the adrenaline and caffeine surging through her system, Savannah yawned.

  She glanced at the clock on her mantelpiece. “It’s only a quarter to noon, and I already feel like I need a nap.”

  “It’s a good thing you found out that Freddie’s Food Mart was open twenty-four hours a day, huh?”

  “Oh yeah, grocery shopping at five in the morning! How fun! Reckon I can scratch that great adventure off my bucket list.”

  “And the bathroom floor looks pretty good, don’t you think?” he said sheepishly.

  “The house stinks like ammonia, and the floor’s still streaky as hell, but at least you can walk in and out of the room without getting stuck like a poor pitiful mouse on one of those awful glue traps.”

  She happened to glance his way, and one look at his face told her that while she might be feeling nervous, he was positively terrified.

  Feeling like a total jerk, she moved Diamante off her lap, stood, and hurried over to the sofa. She sat down next to him and reached for his hand.

  “I’m sorry, darlin’,” she said. “This is a tough situation for you, and I’m not making it any better by bellyachin’.”

  “That’s okay,” he said, more graciously than she felt she deserved. “I’m sorry you have to go through this with me.”

  She flashed back momentarily to the months of rehabilitation after she had been attacked. She remembered the ten thousand kindnesses, small and great, that he had so lovingly shown her during that time.

  And he had never once complained.

  She lifted his hand and kissed the back of it, then laid his palm against her cheek. “Sugar, don’t you give it a second thought. Like the preacher man said, you and I are one now. If you’re going through something tough, then so am I.”

  Suddenly, he grabbed her and hugged her against his chest, so tightly that she could barely even breathe.

  “Thank you, Van. You don’t know what that means. This is really hard for me. It’s about the toughest thing I’ve ever had to do, meeting them. I was mad at them for so many years. I had it in my head that they’d just thrown me out like yesterday’s garbage.”

  She pulled back from him, just enough to be able to look into his face. “But that isn’t true, honey. You know that now. Tammy told you they’ve been trying to find you for years. Your mom had posted messages all over the Internet, hoping to connect with you.”

  She was shocked to see tears well up in his eyes and spill down his face. Dirk did a lot of complaining, but in all the years she had known him, she had seen him get misty-eyed just a handful of times. And usually that occurred only when the national anthem was being played or they saw a particularly sad animal story on TV.

  Gently, she wiped his tears away with her fingertips. “I’ll betcha that before this visit is over, they’ll say some things that’ll make you feel a lot better about what happened.”

  “Maybe. But what if what they tell me makes it worse? Van, you don’t know how bad it was, growing up in that orphanage. Seeing the other kids get adopted. Wondering why nobody wanted you—not even your own mother or father.”

  She felt a shudder run through his body, and he closed his eyes, as though trying to shut out the painful memories.

  Running her fingers through his hair, she said softly, “No, sweetheart, I don’t know how bad that was. My folks had their problems, but at least I had Granny. I can’t even imagine what you went through.”

  “And I’d done a pretty good job of putting it behind me,” he said. “I’m not one of those people who sits around and complains about their lousy childhood. I never blamed any of my problems or who I was on them.”

  “I know you didn’t, honey. Look how many years it took you to even tell me about it. You’re a strong man. A self-made man. You should be proud. As we say down South, ‘You rose above your raisin.’ ”

  His eyes met hers with an intensity that frightened her. She’d never seen him like this and wasn’t sure what to do or say to help him.

  “I don’t feel like a strong, self-made man, Savannah. I wouldn’t tell anybody else on earth this—but right now, I don’t feel like a man at all. I feel like that little boy back in the orphanage, and it sucks.”

  She grasped him by the shoulders and gave him a little shake. “Stop it,” she said. “You just stop it right now, Dirk Coulter. I don’t care how you’re feeling. Feelings ain’t facts. And the f
act is: Your parents are gonna be here in a minute, and we’re gonna do everything we can to make them feel comfortable and welcome. And when I say, ‘We,’ I mean it. We’re in this together, you and me. Got it?”

  He nodded and offered her a half-smile.

  She gave him a playful thump on the end of his nose. “Now stop with the gloom and doom. We’re gonna have a nice visit. It’ll be fun . . . you know, like rummaging through a dumpster looking for rotten body parts.”

  He laughed, and she could tell he was beginning to relax at least a bit.

  “I just wish I could drop twenty pounds in the next two minutes,” he said, “and maybe sprout some more hair up there on the top.”

  At that moment, they both heard it—the distinctive sound of a vehicle pulling into the driveway.

  His eyes widened as he grabbed for her hand. “My blood pressure just went up fifty points, at least,” he said.

  “And I’ll betcha dollars to donuts that theirs is even higher,” she replied, jumping to her feet and pulling him off the sofa. “Let’s go put ’em outta their misery.”

  The first thing Savannah saw, when she and Dirk ran out of the house to greet his parents, was a giant black box in her driveway, and a blur of red, white, and blue.

  Then she realized it was an old, black, Jeep Cherokee with an enormous American flag painted across the hood.

  The driver’s door opened, and something gray and shaggy streaked across the lawn toward her.

  Her instincts—and her overactive imagination—told her that it was an enormous rat. But fortunately, before she made a complete fool of herself and ran, screaming, for higher ground atop her antique lamppost . . . she realized it was a dog. A miniature schnauzer.

  It raced up to her and began dancing at her feet, hopping up and down on her shoe, and scratching wildly at her kneecap with its forepaws.

  In an effort to save her best linen slacks—and because it was so darned cute that she couldn’t resist—she reached down and scooped it up.

  Wriggling like a worm on a hot sidewalk, the dog began to lick her cheeks and chin with a violence that she, as a cat owner, had never experienced.