Killer Reunion Read online

  Dirk pulled her close and nuzzled her hair. “You ain’t beneath nobody, darlin’. And tomorrow night the two of us are gonna walk hand in hand into that gymnasium, with all its tacky crepe paper and balloon decorations. And my head’s gonna be held high. The lady I’ll be escorting will be not only my wife and the prettiest woman ever to come out of Georgia, but also the best person I’ve known in my life.”

  Savannah looked into her husband’s eyes and knew with every cell of her being that he meant it. He told her that often, and she usually delivered a smart-aleck response, like “If I’m the best person you’ve ever known, boy, you need to get out more.”

  But at that moment, sarcasm was the farthest thing from her mind. “And I love you, too. Plumb to pieces.”

  “I know you do. But we better get in that house right now, ’cause your granny’s at the window, watching us make out. And from the scowl on her face, I’d say she disapproves.”

  Savannah sighed and laughed. “Reckon some things never change.”

  Chapter 2

  “It’s not that I minded the two of you swappin’ slobber in front of my house,” Granny told Savannah and Dirk once she had hugged them hard enough to make their ribs ache. “Seein’s how y’all are married now, it’s allowed and even encouraged. But not when I’m in here, itchin’ to get my hands on you.”

  Savannah gave her grandmother an extra hug and marveled at the essence of pure feistiness that radiated from this eighty-plus Southern belle, wrapped in a pink and purple floral caftan. Her thick silver hair was neatly arranged, every curl in place, and from her ears dangled fuchsia chandelier earrings.

  Every birthday since Gran had turned eighty, she had challenged herself to do something “new and daring.” Wearing shoulder-sweeping chandelier earrings was last year’s bold fashion foray. Savannah couldn’t wait to see what this upcoming birthday would bring. Granny had already warned everybody to beware; it was going to be a doozy.

  “So, where is everyone?” Savannah asked, looking around the strangely empty house. She had expected to be mobbed by a gaggle of Reids and Reid younguns. Even half of her siblings, along with their rambunctious offspring, could fill the average living room.

  “I told ’em not to descend on you like a pack of hyenas the minute you got here this evenin’,” Gran replied. “They’ll all be swoopin’ in like a flock o’ pigeons first thing tomorrow mornin’, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, lookin’ for breakfast.”

  Savannah grinned at the imagery of bushy-tailed pigeons, but mixing her metaphors was just part of Gran’s charm, so Savannah wouldn’t dream of correcting her.

  “They’ll be lookin’ for you to cook for ’em, you mean,” Savannah said.

  Gran chuckled. “I don’t mind. Vidalia’s biscuits are heavy enough to sink a battleship, and Marietta fries her eggs so hot, they have them tough ruffle things around the edges. I don’t mind cookin’, especially for you, sugar.”

  With eyes the same striking sapphire blue as Savannah’s, Gran gazed lovingly up at her granddaughter. But the affection quickly turned to concern. “What’s the matter with you, girl?” she snapped.

  “What? Oh, nothing, Gran.”

  “Yes there is. Somethin’s amiss for sure.”

  She grabbed Savannah’s hand and pushed her across the tiny living room to an ancient plaid sofa covered with a large afghan—just one of Granny’s many creations that decorated the otherwise plain but cozy house.

  “Sit yourself down right there,” she said, “and tell me all about what’s ailin’ you.”

  Gran gave Dirk a shove toward the overstuffed armchair in the corner, its threadbare areas covered with snowy crocheted doilies . . . also products of Gran’s skilled fingers. “And since you’re my grandson-in-law now, I’ll let you sit in my comfy chair.”

  “Why, thank you, Granny. I’m deeply honored,” Dirk said. He settled into the chair, but after placing his hands briefly on the doily-covered armrests, he seemed to think better of it and folded them demurely on his lap. He looked anything but comfy.

  Savannah grinned, watching her husband squirm. Dirk had never been at ease among “girlie” stuff. Discarded beer cans, empty pizza boxes, and rusty TV trays were what he considered to be perfectly acceptable items of home décor. But ruffles and floral prints sent him into a dither. So an overtly feminine home like Granny’s was the stuff of nightmares for a manly man like him. He lived in mortal terror that he would break a delicate ceramic angel or snag a lacy something or spill iced tea on an heirloom quilt.

  Savannah had tried in vain to convince him that a woman who had raised nine children in a tiny house was quite adept at gluing broken items and removing even the most stubborn stains.

  Savannah couldn’t count the times over the years when she had heard Gran say to her or one of her siblings, “Accidents happen, sugar dumplin’. Don’t fret. There ain’t nothin’ in this house that means half as much to me as you do.”

  Whatever Gran did or said, it came from a heart filled with love. Even interrogations like the one that was about to begin.

  But no sooner had Gran settled herself next to Savannah on the couch than they heard the back door open, then slam closed. No doubt, it was one of the Reid offspring. Neighbors and friends would have been polite enough to knock.

  Savannah was grateful for a possible reprieve from the pending “What’s wrong with you?” Gran cross-examination.

  “Yoo-hoo! Granny? You here?” yelled a less than melodious female voice from the kitchen.

  “In the front room, Marietta,” Gran called back.

  “I brought your casserole dish back, like you told me to. I didn’t get a chance to wash it. I’m pokin’ it here in the sink.”

  Savannah braced herself as the approaching click-click of high heels announced the arrival of Marietta. She was sister number two, right behind Savannah in the long line of siblings. Miss Mari was Savannah’s least favorite of the batch.

  She actually qualified as one of the other reasons why Savannah wasn’t thrilled to be “home.”

  “I thought I’d fetch it over here before that ornery, nasty, mule-headed sister of mine and her old man come sailin’ in,” Marietta babbled as she made her way from the kitchen, through the bedrooms, and toward the living room. “I’m gonna try my best to avoid crossin’ paths with—” Marietta stopped so abruptly in the living room doorway that she nearly fell off her four-inch zebra-striped mules. “Oh. You done got here.”

  Savannah flashed her sister her best fake smile, which looked more like a grimace worn by wolves fighting over the carcass of a dead elk. “Sorry for the inconvenience,” she said. “If I’d known, I would’ve asked the captain to circle over Atlanta a few times before landing.”

  Propping her hands on her ample hips, Marietta lifted her chin and stuck out her chest, which, in typical Reid gal fashion, was more than voluptuous. So voluptuous, in fact, that if she took one deep breath too many, she might “volupt” right out the front of her low-cut leopard-print blouse.

  As Savannah took in the tiger-striped purse, it occurred to her that Miss Marietta wanted to make sure every male in the county knew that she would be a virtual tear-cat between the sheets, if only they were fortunate enough to get the chance to bed her.

  A shockingly large percentage of them had lucked out at one time or the other. Much to Granny’s consternation.

  But Savannah just thought her sister looked like a billboard advertisement for a zoo. Also, she had seen enough of Marietta’s heavy-duty body-shaping foundation garments hanging on the shower curtain rod to know that it was mostly false advertisement.

  Granny cleared her throat and said, “I’ll thank you girls to be civil to one another when you’re under my roof. And if you reckon you can muster it, a smidgen of sisterly love would be a fine thing, too.”

  Marietta tossed her head, wriggled her hips, and delicately patted her oversized bouffant as she flashed a sideways look at Dirk that could definitely be classified as come-hither. />
  Dirk looked down, suddenly fascinated by the design of the doily on the armrest.

  “It’s a lot to ask there, Granny, expecting the two of us to pretend we even like each other, let alone love one another,” Marietta said. “This here precious sister of mine pert near took my head clean off the last time I saw her. Whopped the holy tar outta me right there in the middle of her living room. And me, a guest in her house. It was plumb shameful.”

  Savannah opened her mouth to retort, but Granny placed a warning hand on her knee and gave it a squeeze.

  “I remember that squabble all too well,” Gran said. “If you’ll recollect, I was in the house when it happened and heard you squawkin’, Marietta, all the way upstairs to the guest bedroom, where I was tryin’ to get a nap. I also remember ’tweren’t nothin’ but a pillow fight and your big sister didn’t give you one lick amiss that day. What you got, you had comin’.”

  Savannah could be quiet no longer. “That’s for sure, missy. You go flaunting your womanly wiles—which may or may not be all that wily—in front of another woman’s husband, you’re going to get trounced. Especially when that woman’s your big sister.”

  Marietta gave Savannah a catty smirk. “Well, now, you always was a sight bigger than me, ’specially in the hip area, but I figure I better watch what I say on that topic, or I might get beat to death for that, too.”

  Savannah smiled, recalling the Catfight of the Century with the sort of delicious satisfaction reserved for those whose portion of well-deserved revenge had been a long time coming.

  So what if the battle had done more damage to her sofa accent pillow than it had to her overly flirtatious, highly immodest sister? Having to restuff a cushion was a small price to pay for getting to knock the stuffing out of a sister who so thoroughly deserved it.

  Secretly, Savannah half hoped that Marietta would flash Dirk another unsolicited view of her scant knickers. Probably also leopard print. Savannah had no doubt that given the chance, she would score a knockout in round two, as well. But, of course, that sort of sporting event could never occur on such hallowed ground as Granny Reid’s living room.

  Maybe before the visit was over, she’d have the opportunity to lure Miss Hussy Pants into a dark alley or a peach orchard and rearrange her hairdo once again.

  One could always dream.

  But as Savannah was fantasizing about the gory details such a rematch might offer, the front door opened, and Alma Reid entered the house. Like a sudden and unexpected parting of the clouds, Alma’s sunny presence immediately dispelled the darkness.

  At least for Savannah.

  If Marietta was her least favorite sibling, Alma was dearest to her heart. Shy and sweet, ever thinking of others, Alma seemed the exact opposite in every way to Marietta—to the point where Savannah couldn’t help wondering if they were truly from the same gene pool.

  Savannah jumped up from the sofa, ran to Alma, and folded her into a hearty Reid embrace. When Savannah finally released her, Alma gazed up at her older sister with adoring eyes and said, “Shoot f’ar. I wanted to be here when y’all got in. I’ve been dyin’ to see you. It’s been so long.”

  Casting a quick glance at Marietta, Savannah saw her roll her eyes. Yes, Marietta and Alma were as different as a soft pink rosebud and an out-of-bloom prickly pear cactus.

  As Alma hurried over to Dirk and he rose to greet her, Savannah felt the gentle nudge of Granny’s elbow in her ribs. “You doin’ all right, dumplin’?”

  Savannah managed a chuckle and said, “Right as rain after a long dry summer.”

  “Bull pucky.”

  Okay. So much for fooling Gran, Savannah thought. When would she learn that it was nearly impossible to hide your inner being from someone who knew you better than you knew yourself?

  “It’s just that . . . well . . . coming home . . . It’s a mite hard,” Savannah confessed.

  She was surprised and annoyed to hear the shakiness in her own voice. Savannah liked to think of herself as a pretty darned tough cookie. Getting choked up about a simple thing like coming home to your birthplace and the loving arms of your family didn’t exactly fit Savannah’s carefully constructed self-image.

  She preferred to think of herself as a gal who ate nasty criminals over easy for breakfast, along with a side order of sharp nails—all spiced with a drizzle of rattlesnake venom.

  And while she didn’t fully believe her own illusion, she certainly didn’t see herself as a weepy female, prone to getting the vapors over nothing.

  “It ain’t easy, Savannah girl, comin’ home. You got a lot of history here, and not all of it’s good.”

  “That’s for sure,” Marietta piped up. “I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes, coming back to town, seeing people you haven’t seen in ages, looking twenty-five years older and a heap wider through the backside. And speaking of shoes, I hope you brought some good ones, not those old lady loafers you usually wear.”

  Granny shot Marietta a reproving look. “Miss Mari, I will thank you to keep your words soft and kind while you’re under my roof. Your sister here is facing what you might call ‘the dark night of the soul,’ and we should strive to be supportive in her time o’ need and sorrow.”

  Savannah stifled a chuckle; Granny had a tendency to wax dramatic and poetic at times like this. “I wouldn’t say it’s a particularly ‘dark night,’” she said. “I’m just a bit nervous about runnin’ into people I was glad to be rid of when I left here.”

  Breaking his uncharacteristically long silence, Dirk added, “Don’t worry about Savannah, Granny. She’s fine. Since she started goin’ through this change of life business, she’ll start bawlin’ over an inspiring margarine commercial.”

  Silence reigned in the room.

  The level of estrogen-charged indignation rose by the moment.

  Finally, it was Marietta who came to Dirk’s rescue. “I don’t know what all the fuss is about. Tell me the truth, Savannah. These people you’re so in a tizzy about seeing . . . Do you like ’em?”

  “Do I like them?” Savannah didn’t even have to think about it. “No, I can’t stand them. They’re a bunch of conceited, snotty bit—” She gave Granny a quick look. “Um, disagreeable females who made my life miserable. I wouldn’t give you two cents for the whole batch of ’em, not if they were dunked in chocolate and rolled in pecans.”

  A sly grin crossed Marietta’s face as she reached up and fingered her rhinestone earring thoughtfully.

  As Savannah locked eyes with her sister, she seemed to sense that she was about to hear something important. Something life changing. Something profound.

  From Marietta.

  Go figure.

  “Well, now, dear sister of mine,” Marietta said, her Georgia drawl as thick as sorghum syrup. “Here I figured you were a whole lot smarter than that. If you don’t give a hoot about them, got no use for ’em, and think they’re just a pack of disagreeable, worthless females . . . why the heck would you care what they think of you?”

  Later that night, as Savannah snuggled close to Dirk in Granny’s bed, beneath Gran’s handmade tulip quilt, she whispered, “I feel guilty, taking the best bed in the house. But Granny wouldn’t accept no for an answer. That’s Southern hospitality for you.”

  “Yeah. Thank goodness for Southern hospitality. After being scrunched up in that airline seat for hours, it feels good to stretch out. I’m dead tired. Good night, darlin’.”

  “Thanks for coming with me,” she whispered. “I know traveling long distances—you know, like out of town—is not really your thing.”

  He chuckled and pulled her closer. “No problem. But I’ll let you make it up to me. Sometime when I’m not too tired to breathe.”

  Laying her head on his shoulder, she ran her hand lightly over his chest and felt the warmth of his skin, the masculine bristling of hair against her palm.

  “That was something else, what Marietta said, huh?” she whispered. “Imagine Miss Prissy Leopard Pants coming up with somet
hing all enlightened like that.”

  Dirk replied with a snore.

  It was another hour or so before Savannah drifted off to sleep, still pondering the simple logic of her sister’s statement.

  Why would she care what these people thought of her? As long as she had the affection and respect of those she loved, wasn’t that all that truly mattered?

  Yes, ole Marietta had nailed it.

  Finally, as sleep overtook her, Savannah’s last thought was, True wisdom has come . . . out of the mouths of babes. Or, in this case, a nitwit, dingbat floozy. Wonders never cease!

  Breakfast at Gran’s house was an event. A major event.

  Not exactly Christmas Eve or Thanksgiving dinner, but close.

  In the Reid household every meal was an extravaganza. If not for the sophistication of the cuisine, then for the sheer volume of it.

  Savannah had always been astonished at the amount of food it took to feed her clan and the space required to seat even her next of kin.

  The cheap aluminum dining table with its gray, pearlescent surface, which had borne the burden of thousands of such feasts, had been stretched with extra leaves made of plywood until it practically filled the old country kitchen.

  Less fortunate city folks who seldom consumed more than a bagel, donut, or fiber bar with their morning coffee might have been astonished at the glorious, if somewhat gluttonous repast spread upon that humble table. But the Reid family considered it perfectly normal to begin the day with a hearty, calorie-dense, and cholesterol-laden breakfast.

  Granny Reid appeared to live in mortal terror that some member of her family might faint dead away in the street late some morning from lack of nourishment. And the townsfolk would gossip about it for the next fifty years. Long after Gran was resting peacefully in the cemetery on the hill, McGillians would be shaking their heads, tsk-tsking oh, so sadly, and whispering about how “Granny Reid always was a mite stingy with her sausages and overly tight with her buttered biscuits, and a body had to practically pry the jam jar out of her hand.”