Killer Reunion Read online

  Rather than have her legacy tarnished, her character disparaged in such a brutal fashion, Gran made sure that everyone who pushed away from her table had to readjust their belt, loosening it at least two notches just to be able to breathe.

  Savannah had never once questioned where she might have inherited the tendency to overfeed her guests. And she would bet dollars to donuts that not one person around Gran’s table that morning would suffer a hunger pang again. At least not until lunchtime.

  Gran presided at the head of the table, as was her honor as the octogenarian matriarch. Though she did little sitting. She was constantly jumping up to add a bit more cream gravy to the bowl, a few more biscuits to the basket, and peach preserves to the crystal candy dish that had been pressed into service for Savannah’s sake.

  On either side of her sat Savannah and Dirk. The chair next to Gran’s had always been Savannah’s by firstborn birthright. And although her siblings had complained about it from time to time, Gran had always defended Savannah’s position by pointing out the added responsibilities shouldered by the oldest child in a family of nine kids.

  “Them who works the hardest gets the seats of honor,” she had proclaimed time and again to quell a row.

  That also explained why the grandchildren were lined up, sans chairs or any other form of creature comfort, at the kitchen counter, their plates in front of them and dour expressions on their faces. In Granny’s home it was still the 1950s, and although she was fine with them being seen and heard, they were definitely not in charge.

  “How come when Aunt Savannah comes to call, us kids have to eat standin’ up instead of sittin’ at the table?” whined one of sister Vidalia’s adorable eight-year-old twins.

  “Oh, hush your bellyachin’,” Vidalia snapped, turning around and swatting Jack’s backside. “It ain’t because Aunt Savannah’s here. Not this time, anyways. It’s ’cause you and your sister were jumpin’ like a pair of wild jackrabbits on the table last Sunday a week ago and broke the other leaf. So you’re standin’ at the counter, and it’s your own blamed fault.”

  She turned her wrath on her daughter. “Jillian, stop playing with that bowl of oatmeal, or I swear, I’m gonna make you wear it for a hat, oats and all.”

  She crumbled some biscuits onto the high chair trays of her second set of twins, who were seated behind her and next to Savannah.

  A moment later, Savannah felt a half-chewed, soggy bit of something hit the side of her neck. Apparently, the kid doesn’t like Gran’s biscuits, Savannah thought as she wiped away the slimy blob with a paper napkin. Thankfully, it hadn’t been buttered.

  She thought of Tammy, her health-conscious assistant and best friend back in San Carmelita, who was five months pregnant. Savannah made a mental note never to sit downwind of that child, either, in the coming months. The kid would probably smack her with a half-gnawed-upon celery stick.

  Farther down the table sat the rest of Savannah’s family. At least the ones who were still living in town.

  Next to Vidalia was Butch, Vi’s long-suffering husband. Between his hard work as an auto mechanic in McGill’s only garage, Vidalia’s frequent hissy fits, and two sets of twins, poor old Butch did well to retain his sanity. More than once he had threatened to “cut my strings and go straight up.” And while Savannah wasn’t sure quite what that meant, she wouldn’t have blamed him if he had.

  Next to him, wearing her usual baggy black pencil skirt and equally saggy plain white shirt, sister Cordele looked like a twenty-seven-year-old going on seventy-seven.

  Her dark hair was slicked back, held with an extreme amount of gel, and fastened with a black barrette. Though, in typical Reid fashion, the tiny ringlets at her neckline were managing to escape and curl down onto her tightly buttoned collar. As always, the look on her pretty but unadorned face was as severe as her fashion choices.

  Beside Cordele sat Jesup, Cordele’s exact opposite. Jesup had allowed her thick, dark hair to go on its own flights of fantasy, and it pointed in every direction, in a wild array. Except for where she had shaved off a wide strip just above her right ear and had had her initials tattooed on her scalp. She had gotten the name of a boyfriend, now five guys ago, over the left.

  Granny had not been thrilled.

  Though Gran had been slightly less irate than when Jesup had come home sporting a Celtic ink chain around her neck. And far less unhappy than when she had gleefully displayed a new skull and crossbones on her left buttock.

  More than once, Savannah had heard Gran praying under her breath for strength while dealing with Jesup. The phrases “cross to bear” and “thorn in the flesh” had been uttered, along with the words “beat the tar outta.”

  The rest of the gang was absent from the breakfast table for a variety of reasons.

  Much to Savannah’s delight, Waycross had moved to San Carmelita and would soon be marrying Tammy.

  Atlanta had relocated to Nashville, where she was fulfilling her life dream, singing backup at a recording studio.

  Macon, the family rare-do-well, was serving the last two weeks of a three-month hitch in the county jail for yet another DWI. Like their mother, he had yet to learn that cheap whiskey and curvy country roads weren’t a complimentary mix.

  “Marietta told me to send you her regrets,” Vidalia said, nabbing another biscuit for herself. “She had something important she had to do, or else she’d have joined us this morning.”

  “Like watch her toenail polish dry?” Dirk muttered into his coffee mug.

  Savannah noted his scowl with a minor sense of alarm. Her husband wasn’t particularly jovial this morning. Far from it, in fact.

  If nothing else, Dirk was a creature of habit. But he was trying desperately to eat his breakfast—while having to share a table occupied with Reids galore—without a newspaper to smack and abuse, and without his Bonanza bowl.

  Not for the first time, she realized this solitary, routine-enslaved curmudgeon had sacrificed a great deal to become her mate.

  No wonder she loved him.

  Snatching the biscuit basket from Vidalia, she said, “As far as Marietta, I’ll just bet she was plumb overcome with contrition at missing the chance to see me again.”

  Vidalia looked slightly puzzled. “If that means she was all broke up about it, I’d have to say she looked like she’d survive. Maybe even thrive. I wouldn’t feel too sorry for her, if I was you.”

  Savannah grabbed the platter with the bacon and sausages as it made a second round about the table, and helped herself. “I saw her last night. That was enough to hold me for a while.”

  “She said you were frettin’ about having to see the old gang at the reunion tonight,” Butch offered, making a rare contribution to the conversation. “But if it’s that uppity snit Jeanette Parker you’re worried about seeing, you can rest easy. She’s got a lot more on her mind right now than tormenting you.”

  “That’s for sure,” Alma said, jumping up from the table and hurrying to the refrigerator to fetch more butter. “She’s a widow, fresh made.”

  “And your ole beau, Tommy Stafford,” Cordele added, “he’s the sheriff now. And he’s been doing his best to prove that her bereavement was intentional. On her part, that is.”

  Savannah perked up and nearly choked on her bacon. “Really? Jeanette Parker married Mr. Barnsworth, and now he’s dead?”

  “Dead as a roadkill skunk,” Butch supplied.

  Granny nodded. “And the whole sorry affair smells even worse. Jacob Barnsworth has gone on to his eternal reward, and that Jeanette gal has her sticky fingers on all his money. ”

  “And on a lot of other women’s husbands,” Vidalia added with a giggle. “You know she’s always been a slut.”

  Gran cleared her throat. “Now, Vidalia, you know we don’t use language like that in this household. I much prefer ‘maiden of ill repute.’ ”

  “Or two-bit hussy,” Savannah suggested.

  Nodding thoughtfully, Gran said, “Considering the female in ques
tion, that would work, too.”

  Dirk gave Savannah a mischievous grin over the rim of his coffee mug. “I wasn’t impressed with that old boyfriend of yours the last time we were here,” he said. “Maybe I can offer Sheriff Tom Stafford the benefit of my extensive expertise. Maybe you and me could nail this Jeanette gal for murder, Van. Now, wouldn’t that be fun?”

  A thrill coursed through Savannah’s body and soul, and it had little to do with the caffeine content of Granny’s potent coffee or the sugar in her preserves. It had a lot to do with the fantasy of settling old scores and maybe even reaping a long-delayed harvest of pure ole vengeance.

  Of course, such reveries weren’t noble, virtuous, or particularly worthy of a fine Southern lady. But the more Savannah thought about it, mulling over the possibilities, the more she imagined how delicious such a scenario might be.

  Sweet, indeed. Maybe even sweeter than Granny Reid’s best apple butter.

  Chapter 3

  “Oh, wow!” Savannah whispered to Dirk as they entered the gymnasium. Grotesquely overdecorated, the room was a virtual jungle of balloons, crepe-paper drapes, and tinsel streamers.

  “Oh, yuck, is more like it.” He grimaced, as though he had just popped a sour candy into his mouth right after brushing his teeth. “Purple? Your school colors were purple and purple?”

  “No. Green and gold. But Jeanette’s favorite color has always been purple. Even when she was in kindergarten. And something tells me she was head of the decorating committee.”

  Dirk nodded toward the buffet table, which was spread with a suspiciously high percentage of purple edibles, including periwinkle deviled eggs and strawberries dipped in lavender-tinted white chocolate. “Looks like ole Jeanette gets around.”

  “Let’s just say that Miss Jeanette has her way with everybody and everything. Always did and, apparently, still does.”

  As Dirk searched the rows of name badges on a nearby table, looking for theirs, Savannah scanned the room, checking out the assembled alumni. Here and there in the crowd she spotted vaguely familiar faces, but she could name only a few. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one who had changed a bit in the past twenty-five years.

  The attendees’ attire rivaled the room’s for pure gaudiness, with sequins and glitter galore. Glancing down at her simple wraparound dress, Savannah realized she was severely under-blinged. But the sapphire silk complimented the blue of her eyes, the V neckline showed a hint of ample cleavage, and the sash set off her hourglass figure to its best advantage. And Marietta had sent a pair of risqué sandals with four-inch heels to Granny’s house, along with a note strongly suggesting that she not embarrass the family by wearing loafers. At the last second, Savannah had relented and strapped them on.

  Her feet were already complaining, but she had to admit she felt pretty sexy in them, in an expensive call girl sort of way.

  “You’re hot as a pistol tonight, darlin’,” Dirk whispered as he handed her their name badges. “Best-lookin’ gal in the room, hands down.”

  She took the badges, peeled the back off his, and pressed it onto his lapel. She ended the ritual with an extra little pat. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

  “Is it working?”

  She grinned up at him. “Oh, yeah. Keep it comin’. All night long.”

  He rolled his eyes and sighed. “How many times have I heard that?”

  “Get me through tonight, big boy, and you’ll hear it even more.”

  “Don’t worry about nothin’. I’m not going anywhere.” He slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her closer. “I have to guard my interests, you know, from what’s-his-name.”

  “His name is Thomas. Prefers Tom. Call him Tommy. He hates it.”

  “I’ll have to remember that.”

  “And while you’re remembering, remember that none of your interests need to be guarded. Certainly not from the likes of him. He had his chance, and he blew it big-time.”

  “Messed around on you, right?”

  “Yes. He traded in three years of sweet high school romance for some one-time romps up at Lookout Point with the likes of Miss Prissy Pants Jeanette and her right-hand lackey, Lisa Mooney.”

  Dirk snorted. “He’s lucky to still be alive—”

  “And male.”

  “Ouch.”

  Savannah shrugged. “I briefly considered homicide or gender reassignment. But in the end I just dropped his sorry butt and moved on . . . as far as I could get without falling into the Pacific Ocean.”

  “I’m sorry you went through that, babe. But I’m not the least bit sorry you relocated to California. His loss is my gain.”

  She gave him her best dimpled smile. “I’m certainly not frettin’ about it anymore. All’s well that ends well, and all that good stuff.”

  Leaning his head down to hers, he said in her ear, “But just the same, if you want me to catch him in the parking lot or in a dark alley somewhere, I could settle the score in your favor, if you know what I mean.”

  “I know exactly what you mean, and don’t even think about it.”

  “Aw, come on. Just a couple of good solid whacks. It would make me so happy to do that one little thing for you.”

  “No. This is supposed to be a vacation. Once this shindig’s over, and we escape hell’s purple waiting room here, I want to have some fun. I intend to spend my free time baking Gran a birthday cake, not making you a banana-nut loaf with a file filling.”

  Dirk craned his neck and perused the room’s inhabitants, from the dancers gyrating under the oversized disco ball to the long line at the buffet table, to the guests gathered in small, tight knots, whispering to each other. From the furtive glances they were casting at other attendees, it appeared they were the purveyors of the juiciest gossip. “Where is the ole boy, anyway?”

  “Haven’t seen him. But then, I haven’t especially been looking.”

  The moment Savannah uttered the words, she could practically feel her nose start to grow. Of course she had been looking. Even before entering the “city” limits of tiny, “blink ’n’ you’ll miss it” McGill, she’d had her eyes peeled, anticipating the first Sheriff Tommy Stafford sighting.

  It wasn’t that she was still in love with him. Far from it, in fact. All it took for her to conjure up a major case of loathing was to think of him with Jeanette Parker in the peach orchard or with Lisa Mooney up at Lookout Point, while he was supposedly still her steady boyfriend.

  To say that her first love had proven untrue was a vast understatement.

  Tommy had always been a pretty boy with no shortage of horny females throwing their bloomers in his direction. Usually while they were still wearing them. Exceptionally tall, with thick blond hair, bright green eyes, and muscles galore, he would have garnered far more than his fair share of female attention just based on looks alone. But he also had a slow, sexy grin and a charming way with women that made them feel oh, so special. At least for five minutes.

  And Tom Stafford had made Savannah feel extremely special for more than five minutes.

  Over the years, as other boyfriends had come and gone, Savannah had never had a problem letting go. Except with Tom.

  Maybe because he was her first. Maybe because he was drop-dead gorgeous. But she suspected it had more to do with the fact that he was in law enforcement. And she had been in love with cops since that dark night, years ago, when the boys in blue had carried her in their strong arms to a safer, healthier place.

  However, Savannah had a cop of her own now. Big, strong, brave, and true. Even if he was a bit loud when it came to newspaper reading and cornflake eating. And he was standing right beside her, her Knight in a Dark Blue Suit—his one and only suit—willing to do battle on her behalf.

  Eager, in fact.

  Far more than she wanted him to be.

  “Savannah.”

  She caught her breath as her heart started to pound. Even before she turned around to face the person behind her who had spoken her name, Savan
nah knew who it was. There was no mistaking that deep, sexy voice. Heaven knows, she had heard it often enough, whispering sweet nothings into her ear in moonlit peach orchards.

  As she slowly turned toward him, she heard Dirk mutter, “Speak of the devil, and he’ll appear.”

  No kidding, she thought, wondering how much of their previous conversation Tom had heard.

  Donning her very best poker face, she looked up at her old love, the source of seemingly endless angst and tears aplenty. She searched her repertoire for the perfect response—neutral, civil, but slightly frosty, articulate, and poised, with just a touch of “withering” thrown in for good measure.

  “Hey.” She gulped. Choked on her own spit. “Whuzup?”

  Wow, she thought. That’s tellin’ ’im. He’ll never recover from such a tongue-lashing.

  He flashed her the smile, and it occurred to Savannah that he’d had his teeth whitened since she’d last seen him.

  Tommy had always been a bit vain. She wondered if he still made his mom iron creases into his jeans and polish his sneakers white. But she would just have to wonder, because he wasn’t wearing jeans and sneakers tonight. Sheriff Thomas Stafford was in uniform and was looking dadgum good in it, too.

  Not that she’d noticed, of course.

  And yes, she silently observed, he wears that uniform even to his high school reunion.

  Tommy had always been darned proud to be a cop. She suspected he was tickled pink to be sheriff.

  Probably sleeps in his uniform and takes a shower in it, too, she thought. There. That’s more like it, Savannah girl. Find a way to work that into the conversation.

  “I wasn’t going to come to this thing,” Tom was saying, “until I heard that you’d be here.”

  Savannah cringed.

  She heard Dirk clear his throat.

  She reached back, grabbed her husband’s arm, and pulled him forward to stand beside her.

  “If you heard that I was coming,” she said, her voice silky, “then you must’ve heard my other big news, too.” She patted Dirk’s forearm. “Since you and I last laid eyes on one another, Deputy Tommy, I’ve gone and acquired myself a husband.”