Killer Physique

by G. A. McKevett

  Savannah lay in bed, staring up at a ceiling that was much farther away than it usually was.

  That was because she and Dirk were sleeping on the blow-up camping mattresses they had borrowed from Tammy. She could tell that hers had a leak. It was almost flat already, and her fanny was dragging on the floor.

  She listened to her husband’s breathing and tried to decide if he was awake or asleep.

  They hadn’t said much when they’d first gone to bed, and she had attributed that to exhaustion—and the fact that Dirk hated the new sleeping arrangements.

  But judging from the lack of snoring, she was pretty sure he was awake. And if Dirk was conscious and had nothing to say—not even to complain about—something was wrong.

  “You asleep?” she whispered, just loud enough for him to hear, but not enough to wake him.

  “Yeah. Out like a log.”

  “You okay?”

  He took much too long to answer, then said, “I guess.”

  She rolled toward him and onto her side, having to rearrange two cats in the process. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothin’. It was just sorta a tough day.”

  “You were wonderful with your parents. Especially your mom, when they first got here. I was so proud of you.”

  “No big deal. That was the easy part.”

  She wondered whether to venture into those waters. She knew she probably shouldn’t. But then, she had always been a dive-off-the-high-board-into-the-icy-water sorta gal.

  “Your mom . . . she kinda talks a lot, huh?”

  He groaned. “I always thought you talked a lot, but her . . . ? She could talk the dogs off a meat truck.”

  “And then there’s the cheapness thing,” Savannah ventured.

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “You know, the thing about washing the plastic dishes and only shopping at thrift stores.”

  “Oh, yeah. Those were great ideas. I should start getting my socks and underwear from there. Did you see those shirts she picked up for them? Said they were only a buck each.”

  Savannah cringed. Yes, how could she not notice? Most of Southern California would notice those shirts. Dora had found several eyeball-searing, Hawaiian-print monstrosities and snapped them up. And though Richard had blushed bright red when modeling his that evening before dinner, Dora had strutted around in hers like a runway model at Paris Fashion Week.

  “Your dad’s a peach, and I really think your mom has a heart of gold,” she said, “but how are we gonna stand a whole week of that constant chattering?”

  “I don’t mind it. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do,” he snapped back in a tone that told her she’d crossed the line.

  Granny Reid had often told her granddaughters, “Don’t you ever say a bad word to a man about his beloved momma. No matter what he says about her hisself, it don’t give you the right to chime in. If you know what’s good for ya, you’ll bite your lip and keep it to yourself. Nothin’ good ever came from criticizing a man’s mother to his face. Just hold it in and wait till you can gossip about her behind his back.”

  And apparently, Granny Reid’s rule applied even when that man had known his mother for less than twelve hours.

  “It’ll be fine,” she said. “It’s gonna be a nice visit, and maybe we’ll get some leads on this case. Do you want to fill me in on your visit to Thomas? And I’ll tell you the finer points of my talk with Alanna.”

  “Van,” he said, sounding as weary as she had ever heard him, “I gotta go leak the lizard. And when I get back, do you mind if we don’t talk anymore tonight. I don’t think I can stand to hear another word outta anybody’s mouth. I just want to enjoy the silence because, come tomorrow, we’re gonna have to do that al-l-l over again.”

  “Gotcha,” she said. “Just be quiet and don’t wake them up. And don’t you pee on that floor or I swear I’ll talk to you for the rest of the night.”

  He grunted and left the room. She rolled onto her back once again and stared up at the ceiling.

  He didn’t take long. In less than three minutes he’d returned to bed, and true to her word, she said nothing, giving his ears, and hers, a much needed rest.

  Thirty seconds later, he was snoring.

  Oh well, so much for blissful silence.

  Vaguely aware that her bladder was bursting and in desperate need of a potty visit, Savannah opened one eye and looked at the clock. 3:04 AM.

  The night was only half over, and already nature was calling.

  It was her own fault. She had drunk way too much sweet tea at the supper table. After all, what else was there to do but eat and drink, when you couldn’t get a word in edgewise?

  She rolled out of bed and shuffled out of the guest bedroom, down the hall, past her bedroom, which was now occupied by her in-laws, and into the bathroom.

  She tried to be as quiet as possible. There was no point in waking up the whole house just because she’d had trouble pushing away from the tea.

  Her bare feet stuck to the floor only once or twice on her trip to the toilet, for which she was infinitely grateful. Most nights when she had to make an unscheduled bathroom visit, she managed to get up, do her business, and go back to bed while maintaining a half-asleep, dreamlike state.

  With any luck, tonight would be the same.

  She lowered her pajama bottoms, took the position, and—

  “Ah-wa-a-what the-ah-gh!” she screamed as her warm, still half-asleep butt hit water as frigid as a Yukon mountain stream and the cold, slimy hardness of the porcelain rim—the tiny, skinny edge of the toilet bowl itself, not the warm, wide comfort of the new wooden seat she had recently installed.

  She struggled, trying to pull herself out of the cold, slick, God-only-knows-what’s-in-there mess, only to sink all the way to the bottom. Her boobs were squashed against her thighs, her knees mashed against her chin, and her feet completely off the floor.

  “Aw, shit!” she screamed, forgetting all about her sleeping in-laws in the next room. “Damn it, Dirk, I am gonna kill . . . you . . . de-e-a-ad!”

  She flailed about, trying to push herself up, but she succeeded in doing nothing but splash the freezing water all over herself and the surrounding floor.

  “Dirk!” she yelled, forgetting her former threat. “Get in here and help me! You lop-eared, flea-bitten numb-nut, I’m swear I am gonna—”

  The bathroom door flew open, and even in the semi-darkness, she could see the look of alarm on Dirk’s face.

  “Savannah? What the hell?” he asked, hurrying to her.

  “You left the damned toilet seat up again! And I—” She struggled some more, her arms outflung, twisting back and forth like an agitator in a washing machine. “Damn you! Get me outta here.”

  She could see him hesitate, as though weighing the wisdom of giving her her freedom at a time like this.

  “Now!” she screamed.

  “Okay, okay. Calm down, sugar.”

  He reached down, slid his hands beneath her armpits, and lifted her out.

  “You’re gonna be okay, darlin’,” he said, trying to pull her now-soaked pajama bottoms back up. “It’s just water.”

  She slapped his hands away. “Just water? Just water? It’s stinkin’ toilet water! Did you even flush?”

  “Of course I did.” He thought for a minute. “I think.”

  “Ugghh! Get outta here!” She kicked off the wet bottoms, then realized she couldn’t go back into her now-occupied bedroom to get clean ones. “No, wait a minute. Give me your tee-shirt. I’m gonna have to take a shower.”

  As he peeled off his shirt, she turned on the tub faucet, then flipped the lever to turn on the shower. She mopped the floor with her pajama bottoms, then shoved them at him. “Take those out to the garage and throw them in the washer.”

  He gave her a sheepish grin and he took them. “Sorry, babe.” “Gr-r-r. If you weren’t so cute, I’d murder ya.”

  “I know. Thank God I’m cute.”

  “Go.”r />
  “I’m gone.”

  He turned toward the door, and that’s when he and she saw them—his parents, standing there in the doorway, staring, their mouths wide open.

  Savannah squealed and pulled the shower curtain in front of her.

  Dirk waved the wet pajamas at them. “Move along, move along,” he told them. “Nothing to see here.”

  Dora and Richard looked at each other, then scooted back into the bedroom.

  It was several seconds before Savannah heard Dora’s titters, then Richard’s guffaws.

  She unwrapped herself from the shower curtain, telling herself that it was good to be able to laugh at yourself once in a while. A healthy dose of humility was character building.

  She tossed a towel over the shower rod and got ready to step inside.

  Yes, someday, they would all laugh about this. Ha ha, remember the night when Savannah—

  “Awww-h-h-u-u-ugh!” she screamed again, even louder than before, as the frigid water hit every inch of her already traumatized skin. “What the hell?”

  She jumped out and checked the faucet. Had she forgotten to adjust it to “warm”?

  No, it was halfway between “cold” and “hot,” just as it always was.

  She dialed it closer to “hot” and tested it with her hand.

  Cold. It was ice cold.

  Then she turned it all the way to the left. But what should have been boiling water was still chilly enough for a polar bear.

  “I can’t believe this!” she shouted, not caring anymore who heard her. “Now there’s no hot water!? What’s going on around here? I—”

  There was a knocking at the door. Then it opened. She turned to see Dirk.

  “What’s the matter now?” he said, standing there in the doorway, concerned and confused, her wet laundry still in his hands. “I got halfway down the stairs and heard you yell again.”

  “There’s no hot water! The water heater must’ve blown. Of all the damned luck, having it go out just when I need to—”

  The master bedroom door opened. Just a couple of inches. And Richard stuck his head out.

  “Uh,” he said, “just so you know. Your water heater didn’t blow up.”

  “What?” Savannah and Dirk asked in unison.

  “I thought I should tell you, before you start trying to fix it . . . there’s nothing wrong with your hot water heater. It’s just that, well, Dora turns hot water heaters off at night.”

  Savannah and Dirk stared at him, speechless for the longest time.

  Finally, Dirk asked, “Why?”

  Richard looked over his shoulder back into the room. Then down at the floor. Then at them. “You know,” he whispered, “to save electricity.”

  Chapter 22

  If it hadn’t been for coffee, Savannah would have never come downstairs again. She would’ve been perfectly content to remain in Dirk’s man cave until she died of dehydration and starvation—dehydration being the more likely of the two, since she was pretty sure that she could live for six months or so off the Godiva truffles she had stored on her buttocks.

  In a year or two, she would be pretty much mummified, and then they could place her in some sort of museum on display with a sign at her feet that read, “The Woman Who Died of Dehydration and Mortification.”

  And with any luck, every time Dirk went to the bathroom to choke the chicken or drain the dragon or dangle the snake, he could feel pretty dadgum awful about what he had done to her.

  Yes, when Savannah had awakened the next morning and realized that she was wearing Dirk’s tee-shirt instead of her Minnie Mouse jammies, it had all come rushing back to her. Her humiliation. Her fury. Her in-laws laughing their Seattle asses off in the next room. Her bedroom!

  Many times, Granny Reid had told her to never, ever wish ill upon another human being.

  But Gran had never sunk her bed-warmed butt into an ice-cold toilet at three in the morning, and then not even had a warm shower available to wash it off. If she had, Savannah was pretty sure that her righteous but fiery grandmother would understand.

  At first, she considered witchcraft. Perhaps she could paint her naked body blue and bury a picture of a black cat—heaven knows, she had plenty of those—at a crossroads under a full moon, the whole time cursing Dora Jones.

  But Savannah had been raised a Baptist, and that sort of thing was a bit of a stretch. So she decided to follow her upbringing and say a little prayer instead.

  “Dear Lord, if it wouldn’t be too much to ask, and if You aren’t too busy working on world hunger and universal peace, I would really appreciate it if You would curse Dora Jones, for me, and work it out somehow so that she never gets to take another warm shower or hot bath for as long as she lives.”

  Feeling a bit better and smelling the aroma of the fresh coffee that was waiting for her in the kitchen below, she decided to abandon the whole mummy plan and join the land of the living.

  They were the ones who should be ashamed of themselves, not her.

  And if she could just remember that, she might be able to face them again without falling down dead on the spot from embarrassment.

  When Savannah came downstairs and plodded across the living room, she saw Tammy sitting at the desk computer. Waycross was parked on a chair beside her.

  They don’t know, Savannah told herself. They weren’t here. They do not know.

  As she walked by them, she mumbled her customary precoffee greeting, “Um, hey. Yeah, mornin’.”

  They both shot back a simple “Good morning” and stared straight ahead at the computer. Tammy began to cough furiously, and Waycross covered his face with both hands, his shoulders shaking as if he were having some sort of seizure.

  Okay, they know.

  She raised her chin three notches, stiffened her backbone, and marched into the kitchen. At least, she marched as well as any woman could, wearing enormous, fluffy, red house slippers. As well as any woman could who had been fished out of a toilet bowl in the middle of the night.

  Before she entered the room, she heard soft, hushed voices and the rattle of dishes, glasses, and cutlery. But the instant she walked into the dining area, the threesome sitting at the table fell silent. And they froze in mid-chew, as though someone had hit some sort of celestial “pause” button.

  “Yeah,” Savannah said, as she walked past the table and its occupants and over to the dish cupboard. “That’s right. She’s up now, so watch whatcha say.”

  Springing back to life, Dirk jumped up from his chair and rushed over to her. It was the first time she had seen him since “the incident”—since he had been banished to the living room to sleep on the couch.

  He reached past her into the cupboard and pulled out her favorite Beauty and the Beast mug. “Here, baby, let me get that for you. You go sit down at the table, and I’ll bring it to you. A nice, hot cup of coffee, that’s what you need.”

  Although it was the last thing in the world she wanted to do, it had to be done. So she schlepped her way back to the table and sat in Dirk’s chair—simply because it was the farthest away from Dora’s.

  The Joneses looked far more festive today in their tropical print shirts. Savannah needed a pair of dark sunglasses to look their way, which, eventually, she did. She ventured a glance at Richard first. And the affectionate, amused twinkle she saw in his eyes set her at ease faster than anything any of them could have said.

  “Good morning, Savannah,” he said.

  She gave him a half-nod and a crooked smile. That was the best she could muster.

  Finally, she forced herself to look Dora’s way. She was surprised to see the embarrassment she was feeling herself registered on the older woman’s face, plus a bit more as she stared down into her coffee cup.

  For just a moment, Savannah allowed herself to consider that maybe, just maybe, Dora Jones wasn’t the most evil mother-in-law on the planet and hadn’t deliberately set out to humiliate her daughter-in-law beyond belief.

  Maybe, just maybe, D
ora’s fiddling with the water heater temperature might have come out of a good place in her heart. Perhaps she was just trying to save them a dollar or two and didn’t deserve to be executed at sunrise.

  “I’m sorry,” came a squeaky little sound from the other end of the table.

  At first, Savannah wasn’t even sure she had heard it. But then she forced herself to take another look at Dora. And sure enough, her mother-in-law had set down her coffee and was looking at her with eyes that were positively brimming with tears and sincerity.

  Savannah gulped and squeezed out a simple, “That’s okay.”

  “Really?” came the shaky reply. “Does that mean you actually forgive me?”

  Savannah looked beyond Dora to her new husband, who was standing in the kitchen, her Beauty and the Beast mug in one hand, the coffeepot in the other, a hopeful, pleading look on his face.

  She turned back to Dora and donned her sweetest, Southern-lady, butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my mouth smile. “Of course I forgive you, Dora,” she said. “It was all just a sad, unfortunate misunderstanding.” Then, as quickly as it arrived, the smile disappeared and her blue eyes turned icy. “But I’m warning you—if you ever so much as touch the temperature knob on my hot water heater again, I will get my gun, and I will shoot you dead where you stand. Got it?”

  Dora nodded. “Got it.”

  “Good. Then I believe that this here’s gonna be the start of a long and lovely, mother-daughter relationship.”

  Half an hour later, Savannah looked up from her breakfast plate and saw Tammy sticking her head around the corner, peeking into the kitchen. She had a tense, questioning look on her face.

  “Yes, it’s safe. You can come in now,” Savannah said, as she shoveled in her last bite of grits.

  Dirk snickered and added, “The dust’s all settled. No casualties.”