Hide and Sneak Read online

  Books by G.A. McKevett

  Just Desserts

  Bitter Sweets

  Killer Calories

  Cooked Goose

  Sugar and Spite

  Sour Grapes

  Peaches and Screams

  Death By Chocolate

  Cereal Killer

  Murder a’ la Mode

  Corpse Suzette

  Fat Free and Fatal

  Poisoned Tarts

  A Body to Die For

  Wicked Craving

  A Decadent Way to Die

  Buried in Buttercream

  Killer Honeymoon

  Killer Physique

  Killer Gourmet

  Killer Reunion

  Every Body on Deck

  Hide and Sneak

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  G.A. MCKEVETT

  Hide and SNEAK SNEAK

  A SAVANNAH REID MYSTERY

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Books by G.A. McKevett

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2018 by G.A. McKevett and Kensington Publishing Corporation

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2017955332

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-0086-5

  First Kensington Hardcover Edition: May 2018

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-0087-2

  eISBN-10: 1-4967-0087-2

  First Kensington Electronic Edition: May 2018

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you, Leslie Connell, for your encouraging words when I need them most, for always being my “first reader,” and for your many years of service to the Moonlight Magnolia team. I am so grateful to you, dear lady.

  I also wish to thank all the fans who write to me, sharing their thoughts and offering endless encouragement. Your stories touch my heart, and I enjoy your letters more than you know. I can be reached at:

  [email protected]

  and

  facebook.com/gwendolynnarden.mckevett

  Chapter 1

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Of course, I can babysit for a couple of hours. I’m the oldest of nine children. Hightail it over here with that little redheaded punkin. Auntie Savannah’s been aching to get her hands on her.”

  Words uttered so blithely with such conviction, such confidence, with only the best of intentions.

  They were words that came back to haunt a person. Not unlike: “For better or for worse.” Or in Savannah Reid’s former life as a police officer, “Hey, only five more minutes to the end of my shift; what could happen now?”

  As Savannah stood in the bathtub, letting the hot shower water stream over her exhausted body, washing baby urp out of her hair and rinsing even more from between her breasts, she pulled the shower curtain aside a few inches and peered down at her unhappy charge.

  The less-than-angelic pixie lay, squalling, in her makeshift cradle on the bathroom floor, snugly tucked into what had been, only moments before, a towel drawer from the linen closet.

  If the drawer had been lined with prickly pear cactus instead of Savannah’s softest Egyptian cotton guest towels, Miss Vanna Rose’s yowling couldn’t have been louder or more piteous.

  The sound reverberated around the room, bouncing off the tiles and straight into Savannah’s heart. “I’m so sorry, kiddo,” she told her tiny niece as she applied a second application of shampoo. “But I’m sure you’d pitch an even bigger hissy fit if I was to bring you in here with me.”

  The child responded with another plaintive wail that threatened to peel the rose-spangled paper off the walls.

  “Lordy mercy, that kid can holler!” Savannah marveled at the sheer volume, not to mention the vibrato that would do a mezzo-soprano proud.

  Suddenly, the bathroom door flew open, startling Savannah. She jumped and dropped the shampoo. It hit her big toe. Yelping, she danced around, while grabbing for the closest weapon of opportunity—a bar of her husband’s favorite soap on a rope.

  Not that she was likely to fight off an intruder with a half-gone bar of soap, but the pain from her mashed toe had shot all the way up her body and into her brain, so she wasn’t thinking clearly.

  It was simply shocking how heavy a bottle like that could be when nearly full. Whoever had invaded her sanctuary, burglar or babynapper, they were about to become the first person to be slaughtered with a chunk of Old Spice.

  Fortunately, it was her husband who rushed inside.

  Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter stood there, taking in the scene. His wife. Her head covered in lather that was streaming down into her eyes. Eyes filled with shampoo, pain, and fury. Her hand upraised, brandishing his soap. The cherub in the drawer on the floor, mouth wide open, screaming, her cheeks red with rage.

  Dirk wore his own look of alarm, along with an unsettling amount of blood on his face, his shirt, arms, and hands.

  While a typical day in the Reid-Coulter household could hardly be called “mundane” or “ho-hum,” Savannah had to admit, this was a bit unusual even for them.

  Her anger quickly turned to concern as she watched him peel off his bloodstained shirt.

  Tossing it into the hamper, he said, “And here I thought I’d had the worst day.”

  “Oh, sugar,” she said, fighting down the fear every police officer’s spouse suffers daily. “Are you wounded?”

  “Naw. It’s all Loco Roco’s. We tussled, I clocked him a good one on the nose, and the dude sprung a leak.”

  “Roco’s out of jail?”

  “Not anymore. Apparently, in the state of California knocking over a liquor store is a violation of a guy’s parole. So’s assaulting a police officer. Go figure.”

  He knelt beside the angel in the drawer and, leaning down with his face close to hers, he said, “I’m sorry, Curly-locks, but I can’t even touch you, let alone hold you till I get every drop of ol’ Roco’s bodily fluid yuck offa me.”

  He stared at Savannah, the shampoo bottle in one hand, the soap still in the other. “You’re taking a shower now,” he asked semi-indignantly, “with my birthday present soap? Funny time to treat yourself to a luxurious bath routine, when you’re supposed to be babysitting my favorite girl here.”

  Savannah scowled. “I thought I was your favorite girl.”

  “No. Kitty Cleo’s my favorite,” he said with a grin. “At least, she was, until this little beauty came along. But don’t worry. You’ve always been a solid second. Actually, now you’re third, but at least you’re still on the podium.”

  He gave his wife a wi
nk. She stuck out her tongue, responded with a loud, rude raspberry, then ducked back into the shower. “Just for that, I’m not going to jump out of here, like I was fixin’ to when I saw you all bloodied up. Figured you’d be anxious to get in. But now I’m gonna take my time and ‘luxuriate,’ as I’ve been accused of doing. Might even condition my hair, exfoliate, and shave my legs, too, while I’m at it.”

  “Fine,” he replied. “I’ll go downstairs.” He looked around and shuddered. “This bathroom always gives me the heebie-jeebies anyway. Flowery walls, lacy towels, perfumey candles. Girl crap everywhere.”

  Ducking his head closer to the baby’s, he spoke to her in the softest tone imaginable—the one he used for cats, dogs, and children. Occasionally for Savannah as well, but only if they hadn’t been arguing about such things as overly feminine bathrooms and him leaving the toilet seat up. “Don’t you cry, little darlin’,” he told the child. “Uncle Dirk will make it up to you as soon as I get out of the shower, and that’ll be before Auntie Savannah. While she’s still shaving that first leg, you and me’ll be all comfy in her big chair downstairs, reading a book.”

  The baby stopped crying and stared up at him, big blue eyes bright with interest, as though she understood every word and was intrigued by the prospects.

  “It won’t be no pansy, princess book neither,” he added as he stood and walked to the door. “It’ll be a good one with some bears or a big, bad, pig-eatin’ wolf or two in it.”

  Savannah watched him, enjoying the blissful silence from the drawer on the floor, while experiencing just a tiny jab of jealousy that he could comfort her niece far better than she.

  “Hey, since you have such a quieting effect on her,” Savannah said, “why don’t you take her downstairs with you and let me finish my shower in peace?”

  Dirk looked positively scandalized. “And let her see a grown man shower? Naked? No way! That’s just . . . just . . . wrong. She’d be scarred for life.”

  Savannah rolled her eyes and sighed. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Dirk. She’s two months old. I assure you, she’d never even register it, let alone remember it.”

  He grinned and waggled a blood-streaked eyebrow at her. “But you’ll never forget the moment you first laid eyes on the Big Monty.”

  He ducked as a net bath scrubbie sailed past his left ear, then chuckled as he left the room and closed the door behind him.

  Savannah could hear him whistling the theme to The Godfather, loudly and badly, as he walked down the hallway, heading for the staircase and the more gender-neutral, less female-foo-foo bathroom downstairs.

  Actually, she couldn’t remember her first sighting of the much ballyhooed “Monty.” Undoubtedly, it was years ago when she had still been a cop and they had been partners. It was probably during a stakeout when she had inadvertently caught a glimpse of him “draining the dragon” onto a roadside sage bush. But she knew better than tell him she had no distinct recollection of the momentous event.

  Personal experience had taught her that men didn’t take such news well.

  For the sake of domestic tranquility, she decided to revise their love story, creating a version more in line with his. She decided that her initial glimpse of such manly glory and her subsequent swooning at the sight occurred on their honeymoon night.

  What the heck, she thought, mentally dismissing the whole subject. Where’s the harm in a bit of revisionist history, as long as everybody lives happily ever after?

  Anticipating a renewed series of protests from the juvenile on the floor, Savannah quickly rinsed away the last bit of shampoo, turned off the shower, and stepped out of the tub. After a quick “lick and a promise,” as Granny Reid would say, with a towel, she slipped into her fluffy terrycloth bathrobe.

  In the drawer at her feet, her tiny niece appeared to have been temporarily distracted from her fit-pitching and seemed moderately mollified by the brief, but pleasant, encounter with one of her favorite people, Uncle Dirk.

  The baby gave her aunt an enchanting half smile and cooed adorably as she waved her tiny fists.

  “Yeah, I know, you like him better than me,” Savannah said, scooping her up and cradling her against her chest. “So does Cleo.”

  Savannah tweaked the tiny rosebud mouth with her fingertip. “That’s perfectly okay. I understand.”

  Savannah pressed a kiss to the child’s cheek. Little Vanna squinted as one of her aunt’s wet, dark curls fell down onto her forehead.

  The baby’s tiny fingers tangled in the hair and tugged.

  It hurt, but Savannah didn’t even notice as she gazed into eyes as sapphire blue as her own. Squalling fits and upchucked milk were forgotten as the bond between the two Reid females tightened yet another notch. Two hearts, forever entwined with Love’s soft, but ever-enduring chains.

  “I plum adore you, Miss Savannah Rose. You’ll never know how much,” the former cop, present private detective, all-around tough gal whispered to her tiny namesake as they left the bathroom and headed down the stairs. “I have a lot to teach you. Especially about men. Most of it you won’t need to know for a long time, but for right now, let’s discuss deep voices. Us gals are suckers for a deep voice, like your Uncle Dirk’s. Women are always just hurling themselves at his feet, and all because of that voice of his.”

  As they reached the bottom of the staircase, Vanna gazed up at her aunt with a slightly doubtful look.

  “Okay,” Savannah clarified, “not all women. To be honest, the vast majority of them don’t really like him very much, deep voice or not. Mostly, it’s just you, Cleo, me, and sometimes Diamante—if he’s feeding her off his plate. It’s a pretty small fan club, when you come right down to it.”

  Vanna cooed, expressing agreement and adding her own opinion on the subject.

  “Yes,” Savannah replied. “You’re absolutely right. He is a good guy at heart. The barking and growling are mainly just when he’s hungry.”

  They passed the bay window, where Diamante lay drowsing in the sun, a glossy black panther-ette soaking in some rays.

  Normally, Di’s sister, Cleo, would have been curled next to her, enjoying the day’s last bit of sunshine. Life-giving, bone-warming, soul-uplifting, California sunshine.

  But Dirk was in the shower, which meant that faithful, brave Cleo would be standing just inside the bathroom door, staring, terrified, as once again the daily horror unfolded before her eyes. Every muscle in her sleek, feline body would be taut, quivering with anticipation, ready to make the ultimate sacrifice. If necessary, she would leap into that shower and at least attempt to rescue poor “Daddy,” should he be overcome by all that vicious water raining down pitilessly on him.

  Yes, Cleo adored Dirk and had since they’d met, back when she was a six-week-old kitten. It had been love at first sight for both of them.

  She had decided that his lap was the most comfortable and his petting the most satisfying of any human anywhere, including Mom’s. She would abandon Savannah and her caresses the moment Dirk walked into a room—much to Mommy’s consternation.

  Back then, he had even shown his devotion by changing his bank password from “BROKE1” to “MYCLEO.”

  Diamante, on the other hand, was far more practical. While she would have fought a rabid Rottweiler, fang and nail, to prevent it from harming her beloved mom, she was perfectly willing to let any human being, even dear Mommy, die a hideous death if they were foolish enough to step into a cubicle where water poured down on them. As far as Di was concerned, anyone who did such a dumb thing was just asking for it and deserved whatever they got.

  Diamante scrambled down from her window and followed Savannah as aunt and niece passed into the kitchen. Savannah took a small glass bottle, filled with Tammy’s breast milk, from the refrigerator.

  “For heaven’s sake, do not microwave it!” Her friend Tammy had instructed her with what Savannah considered an overly enthusiastic admonition that bordered on Maternal Mania. “There’s no telling what nutrients those waves might des
troy or alter in some horrible, unnatural way.”

  “O-o-o-kay,” Savannah had replied with an ever-so-slight eye roll.

  “No! Not o-o-kay!” was Tammy’s passionate response. “I know what that means when you say that and roll your eyes. That means you think I’m being silly, and you’re going to do it your own way. But you better not! I’m the mom around here, and when it comes to my baby, what I say goes!”

  Savannah had been taken slightly aback, given that Tammy was usually such a gentle, acquiescent soul.

  But when Waycross added, “Better do it, Sis. She’s got all those postnatal hormones roarin’ through her bloodstream, and she’s liable to slap ya neckid and hide your clothes if you don’t abide by what she says.”

  Savannah promised, Tammy was convinced, and the topic was discussed no more.

  A promise is a promise, Savannah reminded herself when she passed the microwave on the way to the stove. Especially one made to a woman whose hormones have run amuck.

  She looked down at Vanna Rose and said, “It’d be just my luck that, if I snuck it on the sly, the first words out of your little mouth wouldn’t be ‘Ma-ma’ or ‘Da-da.’ They’d be, ‘Hey, Mom. Guess what? When you weren’t looking, Auntie Savannah microwaved my bottle.’”

  Vanna watched with a slightly concerned frown crinkling her forehead as Savannah placed the bottle into a shallow pan of water to heat.

  “Don’t you worry your pretty little noggin,” Savannah told her. “I’ll get it right. I’m actually a very good cook, as you’ll discover in a few years. Your mommy will probably raise you up on celery sticks and carrot puree, but what happens at Aunt Savannah’s house stays at Aunt Savannah’s house. Yessiree. Over here, you’ll get introduced to the wonders of homemade ice cream and chocolate chip cookies. If you’re lucky and I’m ambitious, maybe on the same day.”

  Once the milk was heated to precisely the right temperature, Savannah offered it to the child and sauntered back to the living room.