Sugar and Spite Page 2

  So the kid was scrawny and ate mostly mineral water, rice cakes, and celery sticks; everyone had their faults.

  Savannah retrieved several jars of homemade jams and preserves from the refrigerator and shoved them into Tammy’s hands. “Put these on the table,” she told her.

  The younger woman took the jars and looked at the labels disapprovingly. “Gran’s blackberry jam ... probably full of sugar.”

  “I’m fresh out of sea-kelp spread,” Savannah muttered under her breath, and swigged the hot chocolate.

  Tammy sashayed over to the table and plunked the jars in front of Dirk, who gave her a cocky smirk. “Now I have to cook for him, too?” she complained. “It’s bad enough that you’re his slave, but now I have to—”

  “Oh, stop ... enough already.” Savannah snapped her on her teeny-weeny, blue jean-covered rear with a dishtowel. “I’m not Dirk’s slave, but you are my assistant, so assist. Butter that toast.”

  “With real butter?”

  Savannah sighed. “Yes. Cholesterol-ridden, fat-riddled butter. I’m fresh out of tofu.”

  “I’ll go shopping for you.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Why are you having breakfast at four o’clock in the afternoon, anyway?” Tammy dipped only the tip of the knife into the butter and made a production of spreading the one-eighth of a teaspoon over the slice of bread.

  “Because we didn’t eat this morning,” Dirk replied, watching the meal’s progression with the acute attention of a practiced glutton. “We were working, remember?”

  “Spraying the genitalia of youthful offenders,” Tammy said with a giggle. “That’s work?”

  “Savannah did that all by herself. Thank God, or I’d be up on charges. You shoulda heard that guy screeching when they were scrubbing him down in the emergency room.”

  He and Savannah snickered. Tammy shook her head, pretending to be appalled.

  “There are advantages to going freelance,” Savannah said as she dished the eggs, some link sausages, and thick-sliced bacon onto the plate, then ladled a generous portion of cream gravy beside a scoop of grits. Where she came from, grits might be optional, but gravy was considered a beverage.

  Dirk’s eyes glistened with the light of hedonism as he picked up his fork. “Van, you’ve outdone yourself. This looks great.”

  “Yeah,” Tammy said as she sat down to a bowl of long-grain rice across the table from him. “She’s good at CPR, too. And if that doesn’t work, I’m pretty good at angioplasty.” She hefted her knife and punctuated her statement with a skewering motion.

  Savannah was reaching into the cupboard for a box of marzipan Danish rolls for herself, when she heard a buzzing, coming from Dirk’s leather coat, which was draped across one of her dining chairs.

  “I see you’ve got it set on VIBRATE again,” she said, digging through his pockets and handing him the phone. “Your love life in a slump?”

  “Eh ... bite me.” He flipped it open and punched a button. “Coulter here.”

  “He’s sure grumpy when somebody gets between him and his dog dish,” Tammy whispered to Savannah. “Reminds me of a pit bull I knew.”

  Savannah didn’t reply. She was watching the play of emotions over Dirk’s craggy face: irritation, fading to surprise, softening to ... she wasn’t sure what, but she was fairly certain the party on the other end was female.

  “Ah, yeah ... hi,” he was saying. He turned in his chair, his side to her and Tammy. His voice volume dropped a couple of notches. “I’m ... ah ... here at Savannah’s. No, not like that. We were working together this morning. No, really.”

  Savannah didn’t like the sound of that. Why, she wasn’t sure. She and Dirk weren’t anything “like that,” but she didn’t like to hear him saying so ... so clearly ... to another woman.

  Another woman? Where did that thought come from? she wondered. To hell with that, she quickly added to her mental argument. Who is he talking to?

  “Yeah, I was going back home right after ...” He looked wistfully down at the plate of goodies on the table in front of him. “... actually, I was leaving right now if you want to.... Yeah, that’s good. Sure. See ya.”

  He flipped the phone closed and rose from his chair. The look on his face reminded Savannah of a sheep after an embarrassingly bad shearing. “I ... ah ... gotta go,” he said. “Sorry about the”—he pointed to the food—“ah, breakfast. But I really should—”

  “No problem,” Savannah said as she snatched the plate out from under him and carried it over to the cabinet. “If you gotta go, you gotta go. Obviously it’s an important meeting.”

  “Ah, yeah, it is ... kinda.” He slipped on his jacket and fished for his keys. “I’ll see ya later, okay?”

  Savannah nodded curtly.

  He grunted a good-bye in Tammy’s direction, then headed toward the front of the house.

  “Don’t let the door slap your backside on your way out,” Savannah called after him.

  Another grunt. The sound of the door slamming.

  “Well,” Tammy said, recovering from her shock. “I never thought I’d see the day that Dirk Coulter would walk away from a free meal ... especially one you cooked,” she told Savannah.

  From the kitchen window, Savannah watched his battered old Buick Skylark as it pulled out of her driveway. He was practically spinning gravel.

  “Hmm,” she said thoughtfully as she took his heavily laden plate from the cabinet and carried it back to the table. She sat down, picked up his fork, and dug in.

  “That’s all you’ve got to say?” Tammy asked her. “Hmmm. That’s it?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  “And eating.” Tammy watched disapprovingly as Savannah shoveled in a mouthful of grits, dripping with butter.

  “I think best when I eat.”

  “That explains your mental prowess,” Tammy mumbled.

  “Shut up. I’ve almost got it.”

  “Got what?”

  “The plan of action.”

  “You’ve gotta know, huh?”

  Savannah snorted. “Only if I intend to sleep tonight.”

  She downed a few more bites, then jumped up from her chair. “Be back later,” she said as she snatched her cell phone off its charger base.

  “What’s the story?”

  “He forgot his phone.”

  “That’s your phone.”

  She shrugged. “We bought them at the same time. They look so much alike. It’s an honest mistake.”

  “Going out there is a mistake,” Tammy grumbled as she followed her to the front door. “There’s nothing honest about it.”

  “I don’t recall asking for your editorial comments. Go on the Internet while I’m gone. See if you can drum up some business for me so that I can continue to pay you that high, minimum-wage salary you’ve grown accustomed to.”

  Tammy sputtered, stood between her and the door, then moved aside with a sigh of resignation. “That’s it? The phone story? It’s a bit thin.”

  Savannah grinned and tossed her purse strap over her shoulder. “Yeah, well ... Dirk’s a bit thick. It’ll work.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  As Savannah pulled her 1965 Camaro into Dirk’s trailer park, she grimaced at the cloud of dust that was settling on her new red paint. There was a nice mobile-home park down by the beach, but Dirk was far too tight to spring for that. He had parked his ten-foot-wide in the Shady Vale Trailer Park fifteen years ago, and once Dirk was parked anywhere, he tended to stay until he rusted.

  Shady Vale was inappropriately named. Flat as a flitter, without a tree in sight, the property’s picturesque description must have been a figment of some developer’s imagination.

  Dirk’s neighbors were mostly transient, and more than once he had been forced to arrest one of his Shady Vale-ites for everything from armed bank robbery to blowing up half the park while cooking up a nice batch of methamphetamines in one of the trailer’s kitchens.

  The only residents who had been at Shady Val
e longer than Dirk were the Biddies. They were a cantankerous, nosy old couple who watched the comings and goings of everyone in the park, as though they owned the dusty, gravel road themselves. From their #1 spot at the entrance, they saw every arrival and had an opinion as to whether that person had legitimate business in Shady Vale.

  Their trailer was right next to Dirk’s, which was parked in spot #2, and Savannah was hoping she could avoid her usual argument with Mr. Biddle or an interrogation from Mrs. Biddle. If luck were on her side, she might be able to recognize Dirk’s mystery visitor’s vehicle and find out who his guest was without having to use that ridiculous cell-phone ruse.

  But the new silver Lexus parked beside his Buick didn’t ring any bells. Since when did Dirk have a girlfriend ... let alone one that could afford to drive a new Lexus?

  Looks plumb out of place in this neck of the woods, Savannah thought as she slowed down to see if the car had vanity plates. But the series of random letters and numbers told her nothing.

  She saw Harry Biddle sitting in his broken-down lawn chair, swigging a beer, scratching the roll of hairy belly that was protruding from beneath his gray undershirt. As she drove by he watched her with a lascivious gleam in his eye that made her want to crawl out of the car and slap him goofy. Half a slap would probably do the job.

  Feeling like an adolescent whose curiosity was about to land her in trouble, Savannah parked her Camaro behind the Lexus and got out. Harry perked up when he saw her walking in his direction, until she turned toward Dirk’s trailer.

  “Wouldn’t go in there right now,” he said, his ugly, snaggled grin widening.

  “Yeah, why not?” she asked, knowing she wasn’t going to like the answer.

  “Let’s just say, he’s already got hisself some company.” He waggled one bushy gray eyebrow suggestively. “I think three’d make a crowd, if you catch my drift.”

  “Well, catch mine, you old coot. Mind your own business.”

  “Or then ... maybe you three are into that kinky stuff....”

  “And maybe you’re a dork with a dirty mind and a grubby undershirt.”

  Leaving Mr. Biddle behind to mutter obscenities into his beer can, Savannah strode to the door of Dirk’s trailer and rapped a shave-and-a-hair-cut greeting. Might as well be friendly. Might as well be casual. Might as well pretend she wasn’t there to snoop.

  Dirk might even believe it.

  He didn’t. She could tell right away by the irritated look on his face when he opened the door. Considering his less than cordial mood, she pushed past him before he could ask her to enter ... or to leave, which was far more likely.

  “Gee, I hate to drop in on you unannounced like this but ...”

  Savannah’s voice trailed away when she saw who was sitting on Dirk’s 1973 vintage, beige-and-gold-plaid sofa. It was the last person she expected to see.

  The former Mrs. Dirk.

  The hated and often maligned—though not often enough in Savannah’s book—ex-wife who had run away with a shaggy-haired, twentysomething rock-and-roll drummer several years ago.

  “Polly!” Savannah replaced her look of shock with a carefully constructed facade of nonchalance. The act probably would have been more convincing if she hadn’t been choking on her own spit. “What are you doing ... I mean ... what a surprise. I didn’t expect to ever see you again.”

  “You mean, you hoped you’d never see me again.”

  “Yeah, that too.”

  Polly leaned back and propped her arm along the top of the sofa. She looked as casual as Savannah was pretending to be. Her long legs were stretched out before her, every inch of them bared by her short-short shorts. Savannah noted with just a bit of catty satisfaction that her knees were starting to sag a little.

  So was her heavily made-up face. Foundation applied with a trowel, spider eyelashes, red lips that had been painted too far outside the natural lipline to fool anyone ... except some fool like Dirk. He had admitted to Savannah that he had actually thought Polly was a real blonde for the first year of their relationship. Savannah could spot Golden Sun Frost a mile away ... especially when it was on a swarthy-skinned woman who, undoubtedly, had been born with dark brown hair.

  Like most of the men who had crossed Polly’s path, Dirk had been taken in ... in more ways than one ... by a used-to-be-pretty face and a not-too-bad body, and lots of skillfully worded female flattery. Those had always been Polly’s greatest weapons when hunting.

  “Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Savannah said smoothly. She was pretty sure by the frustration on Dirk’s face and the way he was pacing the ten-foot span of trailer floor that she had. If she hung around long enough, she might just put a stop to this nonsense all together.

  Some might call it interference; she called it charity. The guy needed to be saved from himself. On a nearby TV tray lay a single red rose. Probably a pre-Valentine gift from her to him or from him to her. The thought completely irked Savannah ... either way.

  “No problem,” Polly said smoothly. “I’m sure you’ll be leaving soon. Right? I mean, now that you see Dirk has company...”

  “And now that you’ve seen who that company is,” Dirk growled as he nodded, not so subtly toward the door.

  In her peripheral vision, Savannah could see Dirk’s cell phone sitting on top of the television set in the corner. She sauntered across the room in that direction.

  “Actually, I had a good reason for dropping by, old pal,” she told Dirk. “I brought you something. It’s in my car.”

  She craned her neck to look out the window at her Camaro. As she had hoped, they did the same and she took the opportunity to sweep the cell phone into her jacket pocket.

  “What is it?” Dirk said. She could hear the suspicion in his voice. She didn’t really expect him to buy this pitch. The best she could hope for was that he would be a gentleman and not call her “liar, liar, pants on fire” to her face.

  “Your cell phone,” she replied. “You left it at my house. I figured you’d need it.”

  Dirk shot her a “yeah, right” look and glanced around the room. He didn’t see his phone. But that wasn’t unusual for Dirk. The guy would lose his rear end if it weren’t stapled to his tailbone.

  “So where is it?”

  “In my car.”

  “Why didn’t you bring it in with you, Savannah?” Polly asked, flipping her lush golden mane of split ends back behind one shoulder.

  “Forgot.” Savannah held out her car keys to Dirk. “Why don’t you go get it. I think I left it on the passenger’s seat.”

  He grumbled under his breath and headed for the door. “Aren’t you coming with me?” he said, not bothering to hide his anger.

  “In a minute, darlin’,” she said, much too sweetly. “You go ahead. I’ll be along shortly.”

  He looked from her to Polly and back, then shook his head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to leave you two broads alone.”

  “Go on, Dirk,” Polly said, stroking one of her legs as though checking for razor stubble. “I’m not afraid of Savannah. We’re old friends, right?”

  “You may be old,” Savannah replied. “I’m barely middle-aged. And just for the record, you and I have never been friends.” She tossed the keys to Dirk. “Go get your phone. I’ll be right out.”

  Reluctantly, he exited the trailer, leaving the door ajar. Savannah waited until he was out of earshot. Then she took a few steps closer to Polly.

  In spite of what Polly had said, she did look a bit worried, just enough to satisfy Savannah’s perverse streak.

  “I don’t know what you’re doing here,” Savannah said. “After the number you did on Dirk, I can’t imagine why you would come back into his life, or why he would allow you to. But if you use him and hurt him again, like you did before, I swear I’ll beat the tar outta you. And if you think I mean that figuratively, you’re wrong.”

  A flicker of fear crossed Polly’s eyes; then she reached for the pack of cigarettes on a nearby TV tray and
lit up. She blew a long puff of smoke in Savannah’s direction before answering. “Now what is this I hear? Do I detect a note of jealousy? Was I right all those years ago ... you really do have a thing for Dirk?”

  “Yeah, I have a thing for Dirk. It’s called friendship. Loyalty. Concern for his well-being ... all things you wouldn’t know about.”

  “I think you want him all to yourself.” Polly released more smoke through her nose.

  How perfectly lovely, Savannah thought. Quintessential femininity. I’d Like to snatch her bald.

  Savannah reached over and, before Polly knew what was happening, grabbed the cigarette out of her hand. She crumbled it between her fingers and dropped the remains into a glass of white wine that was sitting next to the ashtray and a bottle of half-drunk beer on the TV tray. Dirk’s beer, no doubt. Polly’s wine.

  “If you hurt Dirk again,” Savannah said, using a voice she usually reserved for suspected murderers and child molesters, “I’ll hurt you. My interest is not romantic; it’s self-preservation. I’m not going to listen to him bellyache for two long, miserable years like he did when you left him before. If I have to pick up the pieces of Dirk, Miss Priss Pot, somebody’s going to have to pick up pieces of you. You got that?”

  Polly didn’t answer. But Savannah could tell by the wideness of her spider eyes and the way her too-lipsticked mouth was hanging open that she had heard and believed ... at least a little.

  Savannah left the trailer, slamming the door behind her, and nearly ran, chest first, into Dirk.

  “My cell phone isn’t in your car,” he said, his nose inches from hers, his voice as low and ominous as hers had been a moment before. “But then, neither one of us really expected it to be, right, Van?”

  Savannah reached into her left jacket pocket and took out his phone; hers was still in her right. “Oh, silly me,” she said. “Here it is. I guess I remembered to bring it in with me after all.”

  When she handed it to him, he looked puzzled and apologetic enough to make her feel a little guilty. “Oh, you really ... oh, thanks, Van.”

  “No problem. Watch yourself, buddy, with that gal.” She nodded toward the trailer. “Remember last time?”