Poisoned Tarts Read online

  And that would have been a shame because lusting after the two of them—hard bodies and all—was one of Savannah’s favorite pastimes, second only to watching Dirk walk away.

  With Ryan’s dark good looks, his six-foot-plus frame, and his impeccable sense of style, he could set any female heart pitter-patting. And although John was older than Ryan, his life partner, John’s thick silver hair and his soft, aristocratic British accent was enough to make a girl melt.

  For all the good it did her, Savannah had been pitter-pattering and melting into puddles in their presence for years.

  “Hey, Van, bring some of those brownies over here,” Dirk called from the other side of the living room. “And is that fudge? Is it rocky road?”

  Snuggled into her favorite rose-print chintz easy chair, he leaned back and unbuckled his Harley–Davidson belt.

  “What are you doing there in my chair?” she asked as she brought the plates of goodies to him. “I’ve told you time and again not to sit in it. I’ve got the cushion molded just right for my own hind end, and you’re gonna wreck it. Get out! Now!”

  “It’s comfortable,” he objected as he reached for the plate. “I can see now why you like sitting here, even if it is a sissy, pansy chair with stupid flowers all over it.”

  “Get out of it!” she said, kicking him on the shin with her fuzzy red slipper. “You insult my chair and expect me to let you sit there? Move your carcass over to the couch and take those boots off. They’ve got mud and heaven knows what else on ’em.” She took a sniff and wrinkled her nose. “Lord have mercy, boy, what have you been wading through? Meadow muffins?”

  “Meadow whats?” He lifted his boot and stared at the sole.

  “Cow pies,” she said. “You know…bovine biscuits.”

  “Ah. You mean bull shit,” he said. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I—”

  “Sh-h-h,” Savannah said, seeing her grandmother descend the stairs, a cloud of Hawaiian print in her floor-length pink and red muumuu. “Watch your mouth. Gran’s coming down.”

  “I heard that,” Gran said, a twinkle in her eye as she joined them in the living room. “Who’s been tippy toeing through the bullpucky?”

  “Me,” Dirk admitted as he quickly stood and offered Gran the chair. “I had to chase a suspect through a pasture yesterday out in Mooney Canyon. I guess I haven’t gotten around to scraping off all the…uh…forensic evidence yet.”

  He held Gran’s arm as she settled into Savannah’s easy chair and gently placed the ottoman under her feet. Then he handed her his brownie and a piece of fudge.

  Savannah smiled, loving him just for a moment, then she said, “Go put those boots out on the front porch and get back in here before my news story comes on.”

  Glancing at the television, she could see that the weather report was nearly finished. And that meant the colorful, local story would be next. She wasn’t sure how she felt about her latest exploits being broadcast for God and everybody to see. With cameras everywhere these days, a body had precious little privacy.

  On the other hand, the footage had convinced the cops who had appeared on the scene that the other guy was the one who had thrown the first punch…or at least attempted to before she’d effectively blocked it.

  There were times when a bit of store security videotape could be a girl’s best friend.

  “I don’t need to see it on the screen,” Dirk said as he plodded off to the hallway. “I was there. I saw the whole bloody, gory scene in person.”

  “Bloody?” Tammy was all ears. “Gory?” She looked anything but appalled. In fact, she looked deliciously intrigued—embarrassingly so.

  Ghoul, Savannah thought proudly.

  She’d taught the kid everything she knew about crime scene gore, its significance, and how to process it.

  Granny settled her generous self into the easy chair and looked perfectly at home, the golden light of the reading lamp setting her white hair aglow with a fire that matched the one burning in her bright blue eyes.

  Granny Reid might be an octogenarian who had traveled a lot of long, bumpy, pothole-pitted roads, but her passion hadn’t dimmed one bit over the years. And one didn’t need a second glance to see where Savannah had gotten her feisty spirit.

  Gran took a bite of Dirk’s brownie, closed her eyes, and savored it for a moment, then she said, “Perfection, Savannah girl. Sinful, scrumptious perfection.” Then she opened her eyes, the moment for savoring over. “Now, what’s this business about you committing murder and mayhem at the local supermarket? I thought I taught you better than that.”

  “You did, Gran,” Savannah said as she sat on the floor beside her grandmother and rested her head on Granny’s knee. “You taught me to be a lady, but sometimes a lady has to…well…”

  “Hey, it’s you!” Tammy said, nearly jumping out of her chair and pointing to the television. “Oh, you look great! I’m so glad you were wearing that turquoise sweater. That’s one of your best!”

  “Oh please. Tammy Hart, stylist to the stars,” Savannah said, giving her friend a grin.

  “Actually,” John said, “Tammy’s right. You do look stunning in that sweater.”

  “I agree,” Ryan added.

  “Oh, right.” Savannah snorted. “Like either of you would even notice.”

  “We notice.” Ryan lifted one eyebrow and gave her a quick once-over that set her pitter to patting all over again. “Notice is all we do, but we notice.”

  Dirk reentered the room and shuffled across the floor in his socks. He sat down on the rug next to the television, reached over, and turned up the volume.

  The blond cutie at the anchor’s desk began the story. “And this afternoon in a San Carmelita supermarket, an altercation sent a local accountant to the hospital. As seen here on the store security videotape, two shoppers exchanged words, and their discussion rapidly escalated into an argument. The woman you see there at the bottom of your screen is Savannah Reid, formerly a police officer with the San Carmelita Police Department.”

  The living room erupted in whistles and cheers. Savannah held up both hands, “Quiet! Quiet! Listen now; throw cash and gifts later.”

  The newscaster continued, an amused look on her face. “At this point in the argument, Reid held up one finger—no, ladies and gentlemen, not that finger—her pinkie—but even that appeared to enrage Timothy Barnett, who took a swing at her. As we can see, Ms. Reid has not forgotten the self-defense training she received from the S.C.P.D. and there…only a few seconds later…you see Barnett on the floor amid a pile of fallen produce, tumbled cans, and broken bottles.” The reporter grinned her perfect, bleached white smile. “Yes, folks, we do have a major cleanup on aisle five.”

  “Yay-y-y-y! That’s our girl!” Ryan shouted.

  “Here, here!” John saluted her with his cup of Earl Grey.

  “Oh, Savannah! I’m so proud of you,” Tammy said, her pretty face shining, tears in her eyes. “You blocked him with an exquisitely executed gedan barai. The mae geri kick to his chest was flawless, and that nage waza was the perfect choice to put him on the floor.”

  Savannah stared at her for several seconds, then said, “Uh, okay. Thanks, Tam.” And she decided to cut back a bit on Tammy’s martial arts training.

  Dirk smirked. “I see you’re still using that ‘the average size is…’ line to provoke suspects,” he said.

  Savannah winked at him. “Hey, the classics hold up.”

  The only less than jovial person in the room was Gran, who sat with her arms crossed over her ample chest, a scowl on her face.

  From Savannah’s seat on the floor beside her grandmother, she looked up into that infinitely dear face and cringed. Her grandmother had raised her and her eight brothers and sisters. Savannah knew the look all too well—she was in trouble.

  “What was that business you did with your finger there?” Gran wanted to know. “Is that what I think it was?”

  Savannah giggled and nudged Gran’s leg. “Naw, it wasn’t that at all.
Like the gal there on TV said, it was my pinkie. A perfectly innocent gesture. I’d never do that other one…after you teaching me to be a genteel Southern lady and all.”

  Dirk cleared his throat, and Savannah shot him a warning look.

  “Well, you must have said something pretty unladylike for him to take a swing at you like that,” Gran said.

  “He was being nasty to his wife and little boy, mouthing off and threatening them,” Savannah told her. “And I just couldn’t abide it. You know, like ol’ Leon Hafner used to do. And Gran, I remember all too well what you did to Leon that Saturday night when he came calling uninvited.”

  A mischievous grin flitted across Gran’s face. She shrugged. “Eh, well, Leon deserved to get a skillet upside his head,” she said. “He was always thumpin’ on poor Alice and her too scared and broke to leave him with three little young’uns in tow. She came over to our house that day with a bloody nose and a black eye, and when he came bustin’ through my kitchen door after her, hollering and carrying on, I had to do something. So, I grabbed a twelve-inch skillet and gave him a good talkin’ to.”

  Savannah laughed. “After their little, uh, conversation, Leon needed seven stitches to close that gash on his forehead. But he never came over to our house in a rage again. Not even when Alice finally left his ugly a—, I mean, left him flat.”

  “It looked like that accountant in the grocery store was needing some stitches himself,” Tammy said. “There was blood everywhere!”

  “Naw,” Savannah laughed. “Most of it was ketchup.”

  “Most?” Gran asked.

  “Ketchup?” Ryan added.

  “She was next to the condiment section,” Dirk explained. “You work with what you’ve got.”

  John nodded. “Our Savannah is resourceful, if nothing else.”

  “Did they arrest that fellow?” Gran wanted to know. “Are you going to have to go to court and testify and all that rigmarole?”

  “Naw, I didn’t press charges,” Savannah told her. “He never actually got the chance to lay a finger on me, so why bother?”

  Dirk reached for the plate of fudge. “I’d say he got the point when that shelf full of ketchup and mustard came crashing down on him. I swear I saw a pickle sticking out of his ear.”

  “Oh, you did not.” Savannah chuckled. “But I wasn’t trying to make a point with him. Guys like that never get the point anyway, so what’s the use? My statement was for his wife. I wanted her to see that he’s not God Almighty, no matter what he’s told her. Seeing another woman take him down a notch or two might have done her some good. I sure hope so.”

  A cell phone began playing the theme song to The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. Dirk reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out his phone. “The captain,” he offered in explanation. He shrugged and added, “Seemed appropriate somehow.”

  They nodded, understanding perfectly. Dirk’s rocky relationship with his captain—and everyone else in the S.C.P.D.—was common knowledge. The brass didn’t like him. He hated them. And most of his fellow cops respected his work but would have run ten miles in the opposite direction to avoid working with him.

  Dirk had only slightly less luck with partners than with women. And the only person who had actually enjoyed working with him, had been Savannah. Since she and the S.C.P.D. had parted ways years ago, Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter had been the proverbial lone wolf, and nothing made him happier than to be pack free.

  When he wanted companionship, howling at a full moon or whiling away the boring hours of a stakeout, he invited Savannah to come along.

  She was so much better than Detectives Demitry, Averick, or Bura—way better looking, and she always brought food.

  “Coulter,” he barked into the phone, chatty as always. He listened for a few seconds, then began to scowl. “Why? No. I don’t think so.”

  Savannah perked up as they all listened intently. While they wouldn’t have admitted it for all the rocky road fudge in the world, they lived vicariously through Dirk and his cases. Since Savannah was no longer a cop, Ryan and John had long ago left the FBI, and Gran and Tammy were merely Nancy Drew wannabes, they had to get their true crime fix somehow.

  “If it’s only been nineteen hours, what’s the big deal?” Dirk was asking. “Whatever happened to the twenty-four-hour rule?”

  Ah, a missing person, Savannah thought. Not as interesting as some cases, but it could turn into something.

  “Just ’cause it’s a fat cat’s daughter.” Dirk shook his head in disgust. “Yeah, okay, that’s even worse…a fat cat’s spoiled rotten daughter’s friend. She doesn’t come home from partying, and I’m supposed to go club hopping to find her? I mean, it’s not like she’s a little kid who went missing from a local playground or—” He sighed. “Yeah, yeah. Okay. I’ll get right on it. In fact, I left ten minutes ago. Happy?”

  He snapped the phone shut.

  “Teenager didn’t make it home last night?” Savannah asked.

  “Yeah, an eighteen-year-old named Daisy O’Neil. She’s a friend of that Dante kid….” He thought for a moment. “You know, that gal that’s always in the tabloids, the skinny one.”

  “Tiffy Dante.” Tammy turned to Gran. “She’s sort of a local celebrity around here, she and her friends. Her dad is filthy rich, and she and her high society girlfriends are always getting into some sort of trouble.”

  Gran waved a dismissive hand. “Oh please. I know who Tiffy Dante and her girlfriends are—the Skeleton Key Three. I read the papers and watch some TV. I mean, we may live out in the toolies there in Georgia, and McGill may be nothing but a wide spot in the road. But I’ll bet you that more girls at McGill High School know who Tiffy Dante is than know the name of the first lady of the United States of America. Sorry state of affairs, but true.”

  “Oh yeah,” Dirk said. “I’ve heard of them, too. Read something about some sex–drug parties they were having there at her father’s mansion last year when…oh…sorry, Mrs. Reid.”

  Gran gave him a wry look. “We know about sex and drugs there in McGill, Georgia, too.” She grinned. “Not that we’d have nothin’ to do with either one.”

  “No, of course not.” Savannah turned to Dirk. “So, who did you say is missing? Tiffy? Bunny? Or the third one…what’s her name…?”

  “Kiki,” Tammy supplied. “The third one’s name is Kiki.”

  “But it’s Daisy O’Neil who’s missing,” Dirk reminded them.

  “Where do they get these names?” Gran said. “Can you imagine sticking a perfectly sweet, innocent little baby with a stupid tag like Kiki for the rest of her life?”

  Savannah bit her tongue and decided not to mention that Gran had named one of her sons Sebastian and one of her daughters Annameena. Gran might be over eighty, but she still had a fast hand, and Savannah was within slapping distance.

  “So,” Savannah said, “if the Skeleton Key Three is Tiffy Dante and her friends Bunny and Kiki, who is Daisy O’Neil?”

  Tammy was fast with the answer. “Daisy is sort of a hanger-on, an appendage to the Key Three. She’s not as rich and certainly not as thin as the others. I’ve seen her pictured many times with them. She’s never quite as put together as they are. Though I must say, she’s the prettiest of the group, in my opinion.”

  “Well,” Dirk said, rising from the rug and shoving his phone back into his pocket. “Whether she’s rich or thin or good-looking, I couldn’t tell you. All I know is that she didn’t come home last night and her mother is worried about her, and Tiffy’s dad, Andrew Dante, is raising a stink about us looking for her.”

  “And when you’ve got the kind of wealth that Andrew Dante has,” John said, “it’s enough to make certain that your complaint is heard.”

  “Yeah, the chief is after the captain to get after me. So, I’ll have to call it a night here.” He turned to Savannah. “Thanks for the good dinner, Van.”

  She didn’t even bother to ask; she just started to wrap up some brownies and fudge in a napkin to
go.

  More than anything, she was itching to tag along. But Gran had only arrived from Georgia two days before, and with her other guests there, it would just be too rude. Southern hospitality just didn’t allow for such things.

  She knew Dirk was thinking the same thing as he glanced around the room, then gave her a questioning look.

  “Oh, go ahead and go,” Gran said, standing up and offering a hand up to Savannah. “You know you want to.”

  “I don’t want to,” she lied.

  “You do, too. It’s as plain as the fudge on your face.” Gran reached down and wiped a smear of chocolate off her granddaughter’s lip. “Don’t stick around on my account. I’ll be trottin’ off to bed in a minute anyway. Gotta read my Bible and my True Informer. There’ll probably be something in there about this missing girl. You know how they beat everybody else to the scoop.”

  Gran’s unwavering confidence in the True Informer’s journalistic integrity had always amazed Savannah. Whether something was written between the well-worn leather covers of her King James Bible or within the pulp mill pages of the national tabloid, it was gospel, according to Gran.

  “Go ahead and go with him, Savannah,” Ryan said as he stood and stretched his long limbs. “John and I have an early tee time at the club tomorrow morning. We’ll be getting going ourselves.”

  Only Tammy appeared to mind. Her lower lip protruded in predictable fashion. Tammy didn’t mind the fact that Savannah would be leaving as much as that she wouldn’t be accompanying her.

  Savannah felt for her, but not enough to invite her along. There was a limit to how many civilians Dirk could bring with him when he was on the job. And since Savannah brought along carbo-rich goodies and Tammy irritated him to distraction, Savannah was always his first choice.

  “You coming?” he asked her.

  She grinned, winked at him, and out of respect for her grandmother, decided not to give him her usual X-rated reply to that question. “Absolutely,” she said. “Let me get my weapon and—”