Killer Physique

by G. A. McKevett

  “Well, well. And a fine how-do-you-do to you, too,” she said, trying her best to avoid being French-kissed by a canine who hadn’t even bought her dinner and whose name she didn’t know.

  Returning her attention to the Jeep, she saw a tall, handsome man getting out. He looked remarkably like Dirk, only with glistening white hair and paler skin. He appeared to be in his early sixties. He was wearing a blue plaid flannel shirt and well-worn jeans.

  So this is Richard Jones, my father-in-law, Savannah thought. And more important, it was Dirk’s biological father.

  She couldn’t imagine the enormity of the moment for both of them.

  Richard’s eyes sought out Dirk, and when he saw him, his face glowed with one of the happiest smiles Savannah had ever seen on anyone.

  He rushed across the lawn, his arms open, grabbed Dirk, and enfolded him in an embrace that looked like a cross between a bear hug and an NFL tackle.

  Savannah watched on the sidelines, as the two men clung to each other, laughing from the sheer joy of the experience.

  She glanced toward the Jeep, but the sun was glaring on the windows and she couldn’t see the passenger still inside.

  Finally, Richard held his son at arm’s length so he could check him out. “Just look at you!” he said. “Boy, you’re a chip off the old block.”

  “Then I guess that makes you the old block,” Dirk said, still laughing. “How was your trip?” he asked, casting a quick look at the still-closed passenger door.

  “Fine, just fine. It’s a beautiful drive.” Richard looked at the Jeep, too, a slightly worried look on his face. “It might’ve not been a good idea to take the Pacific Coast Highway, though. Turns out, it’s quite a thrill ride. I think I scared the hell outta your mother when I was wringing out those curves, and she was looking over those cliffs. She was white-knuckling it all the way.”

  Both men and Savannah were quiet for a long moment as they waited, watching the closed door.

  At last, Dirk said, “Is she all right?”

  Richard shook his head. “To be honest, son—no, not really. She’s scared, you know . . .”

  Dirk cleared his throat. “Yeah. I know.”

  He looked over at Savannah. She had no idea what to say or do.

  Finally, the Southern hostess in her came to the fore, and she started toward the Jeep. But Dirk met her halfway and said softly, “That’s okay. I got it.”

  She paused, still holding the wiggly schnauzer, as Dirk walked up to the Jeep door and slowly opened it.

  A woman with clouds of lovely salt and pepper hair sat there in the passenger seat. Like her husband, she was wearing jeans and a plaid flannel shirt. But other than that, it was impossible to see what she looked like, because her hands were spread over her face. She was leaning forward, nearly against the dash. Her shoulders were hunched and shaking with sobs.

  For only a second, Dirk hesitated. Then he reached inside and awkwardly put his arms around her. “Hey there,” he said softly. “What’s the matter, huh?” Ever so gently, he pulled her out of the Jeep and steadied her as she leaned against him, still weeping.

  He stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head. “There, there,” he said, “you’re okay.” She looked up at him, her pretty face wet with tears—as his had been only moments before in the house with Savannah.

  “What’s all this?” he said with a smile. “You haven’t even met me, and you’re cryin’ already? Most people don’t start bawling till they’ve known me at least five or ten minutes.”

  She gazed up at him with a mixture of awe, adoration, and heartbreak in her eyes. “It’s just that . . . you don’t know how long I’ve waited to . . .”

  Again she dissolved into tears.

  “I know. Me too,” he told her. Then he put his arm around her shoulders and led her toward Savannah, Richard, and the house. “Come on. We’ve got a lot of catchin’ up to do. And first of all, I want you to meet my beautiful, new wife.”

  Dirk looked at his beaming father and gave him a grin and a wink. Then he added, “ ’Cause from what I can tell, the men in this family have a history of marrying women way better than they deserve.”

  For a woman who couldn’t squeeze out a single word because she was crying too hard, she’s sure making up for lost time now, Savannah thought, as she sat across the lunch table from her mother-in-law and listened to her seemingly endless stream of chatter.

  I do declare, I don’t think she ever stops to take a breath, Savannah told herself. Maybe she just sucks the air in through her ears and lets it flow outta her mouth.

  She looked to her left to see if Dirk had noticed. And judging from the glazed look in his eye, the mechanical nods of his head, and the obligatory grunts of “Uh-huh,” and “Huh-uh,” he was finding it as difficult to follow Dora’s verbal stream of consciousness as she was.

  “I’m telling you,” Dora was saying, as she helped herself to a third helping of Savannah’s famous crab macaroni and cheese, “I felt like slapping Richard for driving so fast on that crazy road. But of course if I’d slapped him, we would’ve gone right over the side of one of those giant cliffs and splatted down there on those jagged rocks. I’m telling you, it was absolutely terrifying! Some of those cliffs had to be a hundred feet high!”

  Savannah didn’t have the heart to tell her that in some places the cliffs between the Pacific Coast Highway and the ocean below were actually several hundreds of feet tall. And the thought of slapping anyone who was driving that gorgeous but treacherous road was ludicrous.

  Personally, Savannah had driven it once. She was absolutely delighted that she had and believed that everyone should do so. Once.

  “And Richard kept wanting to pull off to the side of the road to look at the views. I was scared to death that somebody was going to run us over. If even one person decided that they were going to stop and look at the view in the exact same place that you are busy looking at the view they could run into the back of you, push you and your car off one of those cliffs, and it would be just like in the movies, when the car goes sailing through the air in slow motion—except that if it was for real it wouldn’t be in slow motion—and then splat! The car and you in it would look like one of those cars that got mashed in a junkyard. You’ve seen those cars that get mashed in the junkyard, haven’t you, Dirk? Savannah, you’ve seen them, right?”

  Savannah’s and Dirk’s heads bobbed in unison like a couple of dolls in the back of a ’59 Chevy.

  Savannah turned to Richard, hoping that perhaps he had a solution to the problem at hand—the desperate need to rest one’s ears with a second or two of blissful silence every once in a while.

  But Richard was enjoying the crab macaroni and cheese as much as his wife. He munched away peacefully, not even attempting to interject himself into Dora’s one-woman conversation. Nor did he look upset by the situation.

  In fact, he didn’t even seem to notice.

  Savannah reminded herself that they had been married for more than forty years. No doubt, he had adapted to the situation long ago—or else he would’ve gone crazy or deaf or both.

  “This macaroni and cheese is the best I’ve ever had,” Dora was saying. “I’ve made a lot of macaroni and cheese myself in my life. No matter how tight the grocery budget is, you can almost always afford macaroni and cheese.”

  Savannah was infinitely relieved that they were finally off the subject of the terrors of the Pacific Coast Highway. She herself was starting to feel nauseous, just hearing about those winding curves and dizzying heights.

  Cooking was a good topic of conversation. She was happy to be back on familiar ground.

  “Yes,” Dirk began, elbowing his way in, “Savannah’s a great cook. And this is one of her best dishes. I asked her if she’d cook it for you because you—”

  “But this isn’t real crab meat you’ve got in here, is it, Savannah?”

  Dora gave Savannah an intense, probing look. And for a moment, Savannah thought what it must feel like
to be a perp in an interrogation room with Dirk.

  “Well, I . . .”

  “Because that would just be like throwing money away, using real crab meat when the fake stuff is so good and so much cheaper. You do use the fake stuff, right?”

  “I . . . um . . . it’s a special occasion, so I—”

  “Oh, no. You might as well have put a match to that money and burned it up. We’ll have to put a stop to that. Waste not, want not, you know. My parents were children during the Great Depression, and if they taught us kids one thing, it was ‘Waste not, want not.’ And you young people these days would do well to remember that because you never know when you’re going to need something and you won’t have it because you . . .”

  Savannah laid her fork down on her plate and slowly, discreetly put her right hand up to her ear. Just for a moment she entertained a small, harmless fantasy. She imagined that there, near her earlobe, was a tiny button. And if she pushed it, just like that, one itty-bitty push, she was turning the volume on Dora’s chatter from a ten down to a two.

  Ah yes, she thought, much better.

  It was a nice little fantasy. Far, far nicer than the other one that kept running through her mind, no matter how many times she willed it away. The other dark, evil fantasy, where she stuffed her mother-in-law’s mouth full of crab meat—fake of course, so as not to burn up all that good money—then covered her mouth with a big ol’ piece of duct tape, and then tossed her out the back door.

  Lord knows, Dirk’s put up with your crazy relatives all these years, Savannah, she told herself. Between her sister Marietta acting like a brazen hussy around him to her youngest sister, Atlanta, throwing juvenile hissy fits to sister Vidalia and her two sets of completely undisciplined twins—Savannah had an enormous debt to pay. And the currency was tolerance.

  Suddenly, from the living room erupted a cacophony of indignant cat snarls, followed by the rapid-fire staccato of canine toenails racing across her hardwood floor. Wild hissing. Schnauzer barking. Two black streaks followed by a gray one—into the kitchen, around the table twice, then back into the living room.

  “If you don’t mind,” Dora prattled on, “when we’re done with our lunch, I’d like to bring our dishes in from the truck and wash them up there in your sink.”

  “Oh?” Savannah couldn’t help being impressed by this unexpected show of gentility. “You brought along your china on your road trip?”

  “Of course we brought dishes. We weren’t gonna stop at restaurants along the way. They charge you an arm and a leg for a hamburger and fries these days. On the other hand, a can of pork and beans and a package of saltines—half the price, at least.”

  “Of course you can wash your dishes,” Savannah assured her. “I just hope none of them got broken there in the car, on that rough, winding road.”

  “They didn’t get broken,” Dora said around her mouthful of mac and cheese. “They’re plastic. You know, the kind that you throw away after you use them.”

  Savannah knew she shouldn’t do it. Stating the obvious was a habit that frequently landed her in a heap of trouble.

  But that had never stopped her before.

  “Then why don’t you just throw them away instead of washing them?”

  There, she’d said it. There was no going back now.

  She glanced at Dirk, who rolled his eyes and shook his head. She looked at Richard, who was busy buttering a corn muffin and paying no attention at all to the melodrama playing out around him.

  Dora, for once, seemed to have nothing to say. She just sat there, staring at Savannah, her mouth open.

  But it was a short reprieve. She quickly regained her composure and her gift of speech.

  “Well, we certainly haven’t used those plates and utensils enough times to warrant just throwing them away,” she said with great indignation.

  She turned to Dirk and shook her head sadly. “Son, you’ve got yourself a very pretty girl here, and obviously she’s an excellent cook. But you’re going to have to keep a tight rein on those purse strings of hers, or she’ll run you right into the poor house.”

  Dirk gasped and shot Savannah a terrified look.

  Savannah felt every drop of blood she possessed rush to her face.

  Even Richard glanced up from his muffin and temporarily suspended his buttering.

  A hundred hot, sarcastic words fought each other to be the first to spill out of Savannah’s mouth as she struggled to keep them all inside.

  But it was finally Dirk who came to the rescue. He chuckled, gave his mother a playful wink, and said, “Naw, I don’t control Savannah’s purse strings. In fact, I don’t dare touch her purse. That’s where she keeps her Beretta.”

  From the living room came another series of cat hisses and dog barks, followed by the sound of something crashing and breaking.

  Yep, she thought. Marietta, Vidalia, Atlanta, and all the rest of the crazy Reids notwithstanding—payback’s a bitch.

  Then there was another sound, even more disturbing.

  It was Savannah’s cell phone, and the cheerless little tune it was playing was “Funeral March of a Marionette,” the theme song of the old Alfred Hitchcock television show.

  Dr. Liu was calling.

  Instinctively, Savannah knew that she had way bigger problems to deal with than a cheap, chatty mother-in-law.

  Chapter 21

  Savannah felt terribly guilty for leaving Dirk alone with his parents while she worked a case. It was a bit like throwing Daniel into the lions’ den with a string of pork chops tied around his neck.

  Okay, it’s only one lioness, she told herself as she drove the Mustang down the Ventura Freeway, heading south toward Malibu. And Dirk seemed to be holding his own with her—far better, in fact, than Savannah had been.

  The telephone call she had received at the table had, indeed, been Dr. Liu.

  “Savannah,” she’d said, “you were absolutely right. The tissue sample taken from the skin above his breastbone showed extremely high concentrations of Lido-Morphone. Undoubtedly a lethal dose. I’m changing my ruling to homicide.”

  When Savannah had informed Dirk, she’d seen the struggle of conscience on his face. He had spent less than an hour with his parents, yet duty was calling.

  Now that Dr. Liu had changed her ruling to homicide, the SCPD would no doubt initiate a formal investigation. And as their senior detective, Dirk would probably catch the case. Then he wouldn’t have time to breathe, let alone visit at length with his guests.

  Surprisingly, both Dora and Richard had tried to assure Dirk that they wouldn’t be offended if he had to leave them alone to do his job. But during a quick, private conference with Savannah on the back porch, Dirk had agreed to accept her offer to drive to Malibu and interview Alanna Cleary alone.

  Of course, not being a complete fool, she’d allowed him to believe that her offer was based entirely on selfless generosity. Had she been completely honest, she would have admitted to him and herself that self-preservation had a lot more to do with it.

  Because if she didn’t get a break from Dora, Dora might get a break from her—an arm break, a leg break. Or at the very least, a broken nose.

  She still couldn’t help seething when she thought about that snarky purse strings comment.

  Keep a tight rein on her purse strings, my ass, she thought. She had been earning and managing her own money since she was fourteen years old, and she’d be damned if some gal she’d just met was gonna start telling her how to spend it. While she was chowing down on her 100 percent genuine crab macaroni and cheese!

  As Savannah left the Ventura Freeway and jogged her way over to the Pacific Coast Highway, she passed some of the most fertile farmland in the country. At the moment it was covered with acres and acres of strawberries, glistening in the sunshine, as far as the eye could see.

  She drove by numerous fruit stands, advertising flats of the colorful berries for deliciously low prices.

  Dora would, no doubt, approve.
/>   Unless frozen ones were cheaper. Maybe somewhere there were artificial strawberries for free. Perhaps someone would even pay you to take them!

  We could have them for dinner tonight, she thought, with pork and beans and crackers and eat them off recycled disposable plates with broken forks that only have one or two tines left.

  Stop it, girl! You’ve plum lost your marbles! she told herself with a mental slap to bring her back to sanity.

  Well, you haven’t lost them all entirely, but there’s definitely a hole in the bottom of your bag. It’s a good thing you’re getting away for a while, even if it’s to investigate a murder.

  “Call me just as soon as you’re finished talking to Alanna,” Dirk had told her as he’d kissed her good-bye at the door. “Right now, she’s the only fresh lead we’ve got.”

  And he’s right, of course, she thought as she drove the beautiful stretch of the PCH just north of Malibu. To her left stood the gently rolling mountains, and to her right was the sparkling ocean.

  Surfers in their black wetsuits took advantage of the early-afternoon high tides, riding the glistening waves while trying to avoid the barnacle-encrusted shoals.

  In designated areas, giant RVs had parked in their reserved spots, while families enjoyed the beach, the ocean, and each other on their quintessential Southern California vacations.

  Savannah made a mental note to be sure her in-laws got a chance to visit the beach several times during their stay. She would dig the kites out of the garage, pack up a nice picnic lunch, complete with one-time-use paper plates, and a Frisbee for the mini-schnauzer named Mickey.

  Dora should approve. California beaches were free.

  Savannah had no trouble finding Arroyo Verde Canyon, where Alanna Cleary lived. Unfortunately, that region of Malibu had received quite a lot of attention only a few months before when brush fires had ravaged the area.

  Thanks to the valiant efforts of courageous firefighters, the blazes had been extinguished before any structures were lost.

  But Savannah recognized the canyon immediately when she saw the charred hills.