And the Killer Is . . .

by G. A. McKevett

  Savannah placed her hands on her friend’s shoulders and gave her a quick rub. “Can I ask you for a favor, darlin’?” she asked, knowing the answer. Even without a massage, Tammy was always eager and ready to please.

  Savannah was convinced that if the Chinese had a Tammy to help them build their Great Wall, it would have sprung up overnight.

  “Could you get Mary Mahoney’s phone number for me? I’ve misplaced it, and I’d like to make a quick call to her.”

  “Sure! No problem.”

  Savannah was sure it wouldn’t be. Tammy Hart-Reid could tap into bank accounts and most government service records in less than ten minutes. A phone number, no challenge at all. Savannah would have bet she’d have the number before she got back from the utility room.

  She passed the washer, dryer, and noticed the cats’ filled water and food bowls. Brody’s doing, she thought. At the window, she stopped and looked outside.

  The scene was every bit as charming as Tammy had described. Only now, Granny was holding Vanna Rose in front of her and Vanna was doing the squirting with the hose gun. She had a pretty good aim for a toddler, and both boy and dog were completely drenched and utterly joyful.

  “One phone call and I’ll be joining you,” Savannah whispered.

  Then she heard Tammy shout from the other room, “I’ve got it, your phone number, that is!”

  “Of course you do,” she replied. “What would I do without you? What would I do without any of you?”

  * * *

  Savannah settled into her rose-print chintz chair to make the call to Mary. She knew she wouldn’t be enjoying it long, but lately, she’d had to snatch “comfy chair” moments as often as she could. They were few and far between.

  Mary answered after one ring. “Savannah! How’s it going?”

  “We’re cautiously hopeful, ma’am. So far, so good. I called because I have a few quick questions for you.”

  “Okay. Let’s hear them.”

  “First, I want to double check on something you told me earlier. Where did you say you last saw that tell-all manuscript that Lucinda was writing?”

  “It was under her pillow, there where she was sleeping.”

  “Is that where she usually kept it?”

  “For as long as I can remember, even when it was only a few pages, she’d tuck it under her pillow. I think she wanted to make sure no one saw it until she was ready to show it to the world.”

  “Okay. Can you remember exactly what day it disappeared?”

  “No, I’m sorry. I know it wasn’t long ago. Days ago, not weeks.”

  “Did you see it at any time after she died?”

  “No. Definitely not.”

  “Okay, thank you. My next question is very important. To your knowledge, when was the last time Geoffrey was in the house? For any reason. Even for a moment.”

  “It’s been a long, long time. Before he went away to prison. He and that fiancée of his—”

  “His wife now, actually. They tied the knot.”

  “Foolish girl.”

  “I know.”

  “They came by here to try to talk Lucinda into paying for his bail and his attorney. She wouldn’t. They stormed out in a huff. Well, the girl wasn’t the sort to storm or huff anywhere. But he was furious.”

  “Was the house”—Savannah struggled to find the words—“in the condition it’s in now?”

  “Upstairs, but not downstairs. Lucinda entertained them in the parlor, and it was clean and neat at the time.”

  “Did they see the rest of the house, any of the messy part?”

  “No. I’m sure they didn’t. I was with them the whole time. They were only here about ten minutes.”

  “Okay, and now, one last question: Is there any chance Geoffrey has a key to the mansion or knows a way in?”

  “A key? No. A way in? Sure. The place is falling apart. Right now, you could find at least a dozen places where you could walk or crawl in, if you wanted to. That’s part of why I refuse to live inside the big house itself. That and the filth. At least, my apartment door has a sturdy lock on it and windows that lock. I wouldn’t feel safe in there.”

  Savannah thought of Lucinda, strangled in that house only a few days ago, and stated the obvious. “You’re absolutely right to be concerned. As it turns out, Qamar Damun isn’t safe at all.”

  * * *

  When Savannah had finished her call with Mary, she debated whether or not to phone Ethan, as well. She knew he was eager for any tidbit of information she could give him.

  However, there were a little boy and a baby girl in the backyard who she knew would be delighted to have her join them, even for a few minutes. Not to mention a grandmother whose face always lit up at the sight of her.

  A strange feeling was creeping over Savannah, trickling through her veins. Born of a dilemma she’d never faced before.

  She felt torn. Guilty.

  She hated it.

  She took pride in the fact that she followed her grandmother’s teaching: “Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with your might.” She had lived by that and found satisfaction in doing so.

  But now she didn’t know what to do. How could she give all of her might to being both a private investigator and a guardian for a child who needed her? There was only one of her, and when she had to juggle those two responsibilities, both would surely suffer.

  She glanced over and saw that Tammy was watching her from the desk in the corner. “It’s tough deciding between working or doing the ‘mommy thing,’ huh?” her friend said, with eyes that were kind and wise for her age.

  Savannah nodded. “It sure is. How do you working mothers do this, handle both roles?”

  “We don’t. Nobody can,” Tammy replied. “We do one at a time, back and forth. We try to find a balance.”

  “Every day?”

  “Every hour. Sometimes every minute. It’s really hard.”

  “How do you ever feel good about yourself? How do you take pride in having done a great job?”

  “Do a good job. Great is overrated. Good is fine. You can take pride in the fact that you did your best. Be proud that you tried.”

  “Does it ever balance out?”

  “Sometimes you can have all the balls in the air, going around and around and not dropping. But most of the time, like I said, you just try. That’s enough.”

  Savannah thought again of her career, her number one reason for living most of the years of her life. She thought of Dirk, of how little he asked of her and how grateful he was for whatever she gave him. She thought of little Brody out there, having fun. But not as much as he’d be having if she would join him.

  “I gave enough to my career for one day,” she said. “I’m going outside to play.”

  “Good for you,” Tammy said. “I’m proud of you.”

  “Balance, you say. Just try.”

  “You got it!”

  Savannah disappeared upstairs and returned two minutes later, wearing her swimsuit top, a pair of shorts, and flip-flops. Her hair was pulled back and fastened with a barrette.

  As she sailed through the living room, past the desk, Tammy yelled, “Whoopee! Look at ’er go! Teach those kids how to properly use a garden hose sprayer!”

  “Let’s just say, you won’t need to give Vanna a bath tonight, not when Auntie Savannah’s done with her!”

  Savannah bounded out the back door, and, if she had entertained doubts before about how she should spend the next hour—work or play?—those concerns evaporated the instant she saw the love lights in those three precious people’s eyes. Even the Colonel bayed joyously, ran to her, jumped up and put his big, muddy feet on her shoulders. The next second, she received the wettest kiss ever given to her by a male.

  “Ew-w-w!” she yelled. “Dog slobber! Quick, gimme that hose! Quick!”

  Considering the attitude of the crowd gathered in her backyard, she realized that was a poor choice of words as a jet of ice-cold water filled her left ear, then hit her f
ull in the face.

  “No! No! Oh! Dadgum!” she spewed and sputtered, trying to shield herself from what felt like a fireman’s hose blasting away her eyebrows, nose, and ears. “That’s not what I meant! Turn it off! Oh-h-h, when I get my hands on that hose, you are so-o-o gonna regret—There! Yeah! How do you like that!? Yeah, you’d better run. Run, you turkey butts! Run! Run! Run! A-ha-ha-ha!”

  Chapter 27

  Tammy had just set the table, and Savannah and Granny were dishing up the fried chicken, gravy, and potatoes, when Dirk walked through the back door.

  “What happened out there?” he asked, pausing in the utility room to remove his muddy sneakers. “That backyard looks like somebody tried to fill the swimming pool and then realized we don’t have one.”

  Savannah paused halfway to the table with the platter of chicken to give him a kiss. He looked at her stringy, damp hair and flushed cheeks. Then he glanced around the room and saw that everyone else, except Tammy, had the same wet, flushed appearance. Granny, Brody, and Vanna all looked like someone had dunked them in the ocean, then left them on the beach to dry in the noon sun.

  “We had fun,” Savannah said simply.

  “Obviously,” he said. Then he noticed the chicken and thoughts of anything else fled. “Oh, wow, does that ever look and smell good. I thought I was starving before, but now . . .”

  He headed straight for the table, pulled out his chair, and plopped down on it. Picking up his knife and fork in his fists and pounding on the table, prison dining hall style, he said, “I want some grub! I want some grub!”

  Brody scrambled onto his seat, grabbed his own flatware, and joined in the chant.

  Savannah just gave her husband a sad look and shook her head.

  “What?” he said. “I’m setting a bad example for the kid? You don’t approve, and I don’t get dessert?”

  Brody giggled, but Savannah still wore the same grim expression.

  “You’re not sending me to bed without my supper, woman. I’m not kidding. It’s been so long since I’ve eaten that I’m fartin’ cobwebs.”

  “Dirk!” Granny shouted. But when she clamped her hand over her own mouth everyone could hear her giggling.

  Brody nearly fell off his chair, helpless with laughter.

  Savannah was still unmoved. She walked over to the kitchen counter, picked up a paper lunch sack, and handed it to him. “I knew you’d be starving,” she said, “so I made this up for you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Same as this,” she said, waving her hand to indicate the table and its bounty.

  “But why would you make me a sack lunch? I hadn’t even come home and misbehaved yet.”

  Savannah turned to Tammy and said, “Go on. Tell him.”

  Tammy ran over to him and parked herself on a chair beside him. She produced her tablet and began to scroll down its screen. “Savannah told me to try to find out how Geoffrey’s making all that money. He doesn’t have a job and is failing miserably at blackmail.”

  “Okay. And I’m still hungry.”

  She shoved the tablet under his nose. “See this charcoal suit? Does that look like the one he was wearing?”

  Dirk looked. “Yeah. I guess so.”

  She searched, then showed him the screen again. “Is that the diamond-encrusted platinum watch he had on?”

  “Looks like it,” he replied, moderately interested.

  She displayed Exhibit C. “His gold cuff links, also with diamonds?”

  Dirk sat up straight in his chair. “Yeah, I believe it is.”

  “And the coup de grace.” She showed him a picture of the Porsche.

  “Where did you get these pictures?” he demanded. “Come on! Stop playin’ with me here. What’s up?”

  Tammy laughed. “You’re about to apologize to me that you ever called me a bimbo, an airhead, a dumb blonde, a—”

  “Hey, hold on! I never called you a dumb blonde. Savannah’d smack the crap outta me if I did. Now what have you got?”

  “A luxury menswear shop was burglarized a week ago. A trio of three guys broke in and stole numerous high-end suits, including that charcoal one, jewelry, including that watch and those cuff links, the owner’s laptop, which is sitting in there on the office desk. Yes, I’m sure. I checked the serial number against the one that was stolen. Then, the frosting on the cake . . . they took his Porsche. I have the VIN number if you’d like to make a comparison.”

  “Wow! Thank you! I will never call you a fluff head again.”

  She gave him a “yeah, right” look. “I’ve heard that before.”

  He sniffed. “Then you should probably take it with a grain of salt.”

  Savannah leaned over the table and patted Tammy’s hand. “Go on, kiddo. Tell him the very best part.”

  “This cake has two frostings?” Dirk asked.

  “The other two guys were caught.”

  “Did they rat him out?”

  “Not yet. But they all three shared a cell together in prison.”

  Dirk leaped out of his chair and, without a word, raced out the back door.

  A few seconds later, he ran back inside, his stocking feet soggy with mud. He grabbed his shoes off the floor, snatched the lunch bag out of Savannah’s hand, and took off. Again.

  * * *

  Other than a ten-minute period, when Savannah snuck away to her bedroom to call Ethan and give him a quick catchup, she had the privilege of enjoying what she found out later was commonly called a Family Movie Night.

  She was astonished that it could be so much fun for the three of them—Granny, Brody, and herself—to lounge around in the living room, devour bowls full of homemade savory popcorn, washed down with root beer floats, and watch an old Disney classic together.

  They allowed Brody to choose, since he was the most recently added guest, and he picked Aladdin, because as he put it, “That blue genie dude just cracks me up!” Though he did put one of Savannah’s best accent pillows over his face and make mooing sounds during the romantic scenes, smearing popcorn oil on the pillow’s silk cover in the process.

  When the evening was finished, and both Granny and Brody were in bed, Savannah retreated to her upstairs sanctuary, the bathroom, and pampered herself with a luxury she hadn’t enjoyed for days. Her ritual bubble bath.

  Dressed in her fluffy white bathrobe, she took her latest romance novel, her phone, and clean undies and went into the room that she had decided long ago was the most peaceful place in the world.

  Her world, anyway.

  Running steaming hot water into the tub, she added a generous squirt of bubble bath scented with star jasmine.

  Having pulled down the blinds, she lit several pink votive candles and set them, here and there, around the room. Then she flipped off the light.

  Standing in the middle of the room, she took a moment to look around, as she had hundreds of times, and enjoy what she had done. Because she, alone, had created this lovely space.

  It was as feminine and soft and dreamy as her life was hard and harsh and all too real at times. She felt like a woman within these walls, even after a day when she had wrestled a bad guy to the ground, blending her sweat and sometimes her blood with his.

  The wallpaper with its tiny red and pink rosebuds, the mahogany wainscoting beneath it, the black and white ceramic tiles on the floor, the Victorian pedestal sink, and her favorite, the claw-foot tub, all drew her into a magic world that soothed all of her senses.

  Even her taste buds were to be pampered. On a tiny china saucer sat two dark chocolate, raspberry-cream-centered truffles.

  “Ah-h-h,” she said. “You did good today, Savannah. Well, you tried. You did the best you could, and Tammy says we all get credit for that. So, enjoy.”

  She dropped the robe and lacy knickers on the floor and slipped slowly into the sparkling pile of bubbles. The water was hot, almost too hot, but that was exactly how she liked it.

  She lay back in the suds and wondered why she didn’t just insist on li
ving here, 24/7. Never, never, ever to step out of that tub again.

  She closed her eyes, drew a deep breath . . . and the phone rang.

  “Damn it!”

  She cursed herself for not turning off the phone, although she knew she never had and never would. She had too many people who loved her and might call her, desperately needing her help. She’d been a cop. She knew what could happen to perfectly innocent people out there. She could never allow herself to be truly “off duty.”

  She leaned as far as she could, trying to reach the phone, which she had left on top of the wicker hamper.

  It was too far. She’d have to get out.

  If that loved one in desperate need on the other end wasn’t already dead, she was going to kill them.

  Finally, she retrieved the cell phone and instantly melted when she saw the caller ID.

  Alma Reid.

  Savannah didn’t want to admit that she played favorites with her siblings, but she did. Absolutely. Hands down. Waycross was her favorite between her two brothers, and sweet, gentle, smart, and funny little Alma was the only sister she liked.

  She loved them all, of course. There was some rule book somewhere that said you had to. That you were a rotten person if you didn’t.

  But she actually liked Alma, too. She enjoyed her. She missed her.

  “Hello, darlin’,” she said into the phone as she settled back into the bubbles that were about half gone. “I’m so glad it’s you. I’ve been missing you lately somethin’ fierce. Even more than usual, that is.”

  “I’ve been missin’ you a bunch, too,” said the soft, gentle, southern voice, so like her own . . . when she was in a good mood and not irked at anyone.

  “When are you going to come out for a nice California vacation? I’m working on a case now, and I’ve got some extra money. I’ll pay your way.”

  “Actually, I was thinking of doing that. But you wouldn’t need to pay my way. I’ve got some saved back.”

  “That’s wonderful! Tell me when you’re coming, and I’ll bake a cake!”

  “One of your German chocolate ones with the pecan and coconut frosting?”

  “Any kind your little heart desires.”