Sour Grapes Page 3

  “Yeah?”

  “You’ll let me off the hook for the burger dinner that you didn’t get to finish, right?”

  Chapter 2

  Savannah Reid, transplanted Georgian belle, was never happier than when those she loved were seated around her kitchen table, and she was stuffing their faces with good, Southern home cooking. And at that moment, four of her favorite people were finishing off a platter of fried chicken, a bowl of mashed potatoes, and a boat of cream gravy.

  Well . . . three of them were eating the calorie-laden goodies. Savannah’s health-conscious assistant, Tammy Hart, was enjoying her usual salad. At least, she said she was enjoying it, though Savannah couldn’t grasp the concept of “savoring” lettuce.

  “Tammy, you need to eat something,” she told her, passing a golden drumstick under her nose. “You’re so skinny now, you’d have to run around in a rainstorm just to get wet.”

  The petite blond reached down and patted her nonexistent fanny. “Actually, I’ve got to watch it. I’ve put on a couple of pounds lately.”

  Savannah tossed the chicken leg onto Dirk’s plate and tried not to burp. A couple of pounds . . . on that size zero butt. Please.

  She had decided long ago to feel no envy, only deep sympathy, for this emaciated waif. Okay, so Tammy might look great in a bikini, but she would never know the deep, soulish thrill of eating a huge slice of cheesecake, double-dipped in chocolate and topped with raspberry liqueur.

  The poor child wasn’t svelte; she was tragically deprived.

  Savannah turned her attention to the opposite end of the table, where the object of most of her sexual fantasies sat . . . Ryan Stone, tall, dark, gorgeous, suave, debonair, her dear friend and sometimes fellow private detector.

  And next to Ryan sat the reason why those delicious fantasies would never become reality—John Gibson, Ryan’s life partner, an older, silver-haired, completely sophisticated and charming British fellow. She very simply adored them both. Sadly, so did Tammy and every other female who crossed their paths.

  On the other hand, Dirk—being a red-blooded, all-American, highly heterosexual and not particularly tolerant male—had only recently learned to appreciate their unique skills. As retired FBI agents, they had used their expertise to help both Dirk and Savannah solve some difficult cases. Savannah had noticed that, after they had pulled Dirk’s butt out of the proverbial wringer a few times, he had dropped the “fairy” and “twinkle-toes” comments.

  At the moment, he was making no comments at all, because he was quickly dispensing the chicken leg off to “drumstick heaven.” Dirk was never particularly conversational in the presence of food. Especially free food.

  “This meal was absolutely delightful, my dear,” John said, dabbing at his silver mustache with his napkin. “I can’t believe I’ve lived my entire life thus far without the pleasure of Dixieland cooking.”

  She walked over to the kitchen counter where she began to slice a fresh-from-the-oven apple pie. “Then you should come over more often and make up for lost time,” she said. “We can’t have you walking around with a cholesterol level less than three hundred.”

  She slid a piece, dripping with French vanilla ice cream and caramel sauce, under Ryan’s nose and was rewarded with a breathtaking smile. “Savannah, you spoil us rotten. Please don’t ever stop.”

  “Never. Besides, we’ve gotta celebrate Dirk’s big bust here.”

  She saw him glance down at his chest, and she was thankful his mouth was too full for him to make the predictable, corny joke.

  “Yes, congratulations, Sergeant Coulter,” John said, lifting his teacup, which was brimming with his own special blend of Earl Grey. “A most impressive showing on your part . . . and Savannah’s as well.”

  “Five wanted felons and nine guns,” Ryan added. “Good haul.”

  Dirk grunted, and his face flushed slightly. He wasn’t particularly adept at accepting praise . . . receiving so little of it.

  “Mmm, yeah, thanks,” he muttered. “Those damned gangbangers . . . bunch o’ punks. I’m tellin’ you, when I see the kids today, I just wanna get myself neutered, if you know what I mean.”

  Savannah reached into a drawer and pulled out a can opener. “If you’re serious, I can take care of that right now for you.”

  “Gimme some pie instead.”

  “Say, ‘please.’ ”

  “Oh, yeah . . . please.”

  She gave him a double-sized piece. Might as well, she figured, and save herself a trip; he was sure to ask for seconds.

  As she joined them at the table, her own generous serving in hand, Ryan asked her, “How is your schedule now, Savannah? Do you have time for a little extra work?”

  She perked up instantly. As a private detective, she often found herself on the “famine” side of the “feast or famine” wheel of fortune.

  “Work? Real work . . . like for real money.” She gave Dirk a loaded, sideways glance, which he conveniently ignored.

  “Well, I don’t know how much work will be involved,” Ryan said between sips of coffee. “It’s more like presenting a presence. I’ve been hired by a beauty-pageant promoter to ‘guard’ some lovelies who are competing for the Miss Gold Coast crown.”

  “Miss Gold Coast?” Tammy asked, nearly choking on her salad. “What a disgrace . . . evaluating women on the basis of physical attributes like a herd of cattle.”

  “Yeah,” Dirk agreed. “Disgusting. Do they need an off-duty cop as a chaperone for those chickie-poos?”

  “I heard they have one more position to fill, and they specifically asked for a female,” Ryan said.

  “Reverse sexual discrimination. That’s what it is. A middle-aged, white guy can’t get a break in this country anymore.”

  “Hush and eat your pie, Dirk,” Savannah said, nudging him under the table with her foot. “Guarding a batch of beauties would be bad for your blood pressure.”

  She turned back to Ryan. “Is the pay good?”

  “Listen to her,” Tammy said, snickering. “Like she’s picky these days. I balance her books . . . or try to. Believe me, if it pays minimum wage, she’ll jump on it like a hound on a T-bone.”

  “A hound on a T-bone?” Savannah laughed. “You’ve been hanging out with me too long, New York girl. I’ll have you eating grits and gravy before you can shake a lamb’s tail.”

  Tammy gagged. “No way. No grits, no gravy, and certainly nothing to do with a sheep’s back end.”

  Savannah scooped up a big forkful of pie, dripping with the caramel and pecan sauce. “I’ll take it,” she told Ryan. “Looking out for some girlie-girl beauty queens, making sure they don’t stub their pretty toes and ruin their pedicures, maybe breaking up a few catfights over false eyelashes and hair mousse. How hard could it be? I mean . . . what could happen at a beauty pageant?”

  The beauty queen sat at her dressing table, wearing a pink chenille bathrobe and hair curlers, staring at her reflection in the brightly lit, Hollywood mirror. The dozen bulbs around the mirror’s edge illuminated every tiny blemish on her nearly perfect complexion, and she studied each one, frowning, as though it were a critical issue that demanded an immediate solution.

  The walls and shelves of her bedroom were laden with the spoils of her victories in the pageant world. Trophies, some over three feet tall, cluttered every horizontal surface. Vertical surfaces were covered with photographs—beautiful pictures, professionally taken over the years—showing a little girl who had been groomed to look like a woman at the age of six.

  The closet door stood open, and inside glimmered an array of sequined and rhinestone-studded evening gowns of every hue, jostling for space with feathered boas, a hundred pairs of glittering shoes, and miscellaneous faux fur accessories.

  Having decided on a course of action, the girl at the dressing table chose a particular cream from the dozens of bottles before her and began to dab the lotion on her “trouble spots.” From time to time, she glanced to her right at the lighted glass case t
hat sat on its own special table and held her pride and joy . . . the Miss California Sunshine crown . . . in all of its cubic zirconia glory.

  She was good at what she did.

  Very good. And she knew it.

  She looked across the room at the younger, far less attractive version of herself stretched out on the twin bed against the opposite wall.

  “Go downstairs and get me a soda,” she told her sister. “And make sure it’s a cold one from the back of the fridge.”

  “Get it yourself.”

  “I said . . . get me a soda, now!”

  The well-trained younger sibling stirred from her bed, grumbling under her breath, but obeying nevertheless, trudging across the bedroom in penguin-spangled, flannel pajamas.

  In their little sorority, hierarchy had been established long ago, and it was too late to challenge authority now.

  “Diet! Make sure it’s diet!”

  “Eh, screw you.” The objection was mumbled low enough that it didn’t constitute outright mutiny.

  As soon as sister number two had left the room, the beauty queen picked up the telephone and punched in some numbers.

  Her party answered almost immediately. Keeping her voice low, she said, “It’s me. Yeah. Did you think it over . . . you know . . . what we talked about?”

  She frowned, not liking what she heard.

  “That won’t do. That’s not what I want. I told you what I want.”

  She listened again, but not for long. “No! I don’t care what you say; it’s gotta be the way I told you before.”

  More objections on the other end.

  She shook her head, sending curlers tumbling, and stomped her bare foot. “No, no, no, no! You better listen, or you’ll be sorry. A lot of people are gonna be sorry if you don’t listen to me.”

  As the party on the other end continued to fill her ear with unpleasantries, the bedroom door opened and her sister appeared, diet cola in hand.

  Time to end the conversation.

  “You heard me,” she said in her most ominous tone—a voice she would never allow a panel of pageant judges to hear. “I made it very clear to you what I expect, and this isn’t negotiable. I want action . . . very soon. Understand?”

  She slammed the phone down and snatched the soda out of her sister’s hand. “What are you grinning at?” she snapped. “What’s so damned funny?”

  “You.” The younger girl walked back to her bed, flopped across it, and began to chew her thumbnail. “You trying to get your way with people.”

  “I don’t try.” She took a long swig of soda and smiled. “I do it.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re gonna squeeze the wrong person one of these days, and you’re gonna get it . . . something you don’t want, that is.”

  Beauty set her soda aside, took another look at her Miss California Sunshine crown, and went back to dabbing pimples with lotion.

  “No way,” she said. “I’m a woman who knows what she wants . . . and how to get it. Every time. You just watch me, Squirt, and take a lesson from an expert.”

  The younger sister groaned and rolled over to face the wall, mumbling minor obscenities . . . just loud enough to express her disgust . . . but low enough not to incur Her Highness’s royal wrath.

  Yes, in this tiny kingdom . . . everyone knew her place.

  An hour later, on the sidewalk across the street from the beauty queen’s modest suburban home, a figure stood in the shadow of some oleander bushes, watching.

  The upstairs bedroom light had been out for twenty minutes. Twenty-three, to be exact. But the watcher still waited. Thinking. Planning.

  Having observed the house before, the person knew that four people lived there: mom, pop, the beauty contestant, and her younger sister, and knew which bedroom was hers . . . the little bitch on the phone . . . the one making demands.

  The watcher knew what had to be done. The only questions remained, “When?” and “How?” Some things had to be done properly. Carefully. And murder was certainly one of those.

  The first time the thought murder had crossed the watcher’s brain, it had been like an electric shock, terrifying, repulsive, foreign. But with each subsequent thought, the concept seemed less revolting, more possible, even necessary. The would-be victim had chosen her own fate. The rest was a foregone conclusion.

  But when?

  Now wasn’t the time. Not on a quiet, residential street in a house full of people. Not without a plan . . . a good, well-thought-out plan.

  The pageant.

  The Miss Gold Coast Pageant began in two days. An event full of emotion, confusion, hundreds of people running around in semiordered chaos.

  Yes . . . what better backdrop could there be than a beauty pageant . . . ? The perfect stage for murder.

  Chapter 3

  “Good morning!” Tammy looked up from the computer keyboard and gave Savannah the dazzling, bright, cheerful smile that could be conjured only by a dyed-in-the-wool “morning person.”

  “Oh, shut up,” Savannah grumbled as she trudged down the stairs in her fuzzy red slippers and her ratty old robe that was basically the same faded shade of navy blue as the circles beneath her eyes. “You know better than to ‘good morning’ me before I’ve had coffee. Especially when I’ve been up half the night.”

  To her great dismay, Tammy followed her into the kitchen, opening blinds and curtains, spreading sunshine—literally and figuratively—all along the way. “Half the night? Cool! Does that mean you and Dirk were stalking that child-abuser guy again?”

  Savannah groaned and hauled the largest mug she could find out of the cupboard. “We prefer to call it a ‘stakeout’, not ‘stalking.’ ”

  “What’s the difference?”

  After only the briefest consideration, Savannah said, “Very little, come to think of it. But good guys get paid to do it.”

  “You don’t; Dirk does.”

  After filling the mug with coffee stronger and thicker than Mississippi mud, Savannah added a decadent amount of Half & Half. From the corner of her eye she saw Tammy cringe, so she poured in more—nothing quite like a health nut to bring out the defiant hedonist in her.

  “Once in a great while,” she said dryly, “I get paid for it. And Dirk’s good to help us out when we’re in a jam.”

  She took a big swig of the coffee and felt the life-fortifying caffeine make a beeline for her bloodstream. She could have sworn her heart fluttered and slowly began to beat. Low-level brain-activity waves started to bounce through her head.

  Heading for the refrigerator, she said, “Speaking of jam . . . do we still have some of Granny Reid’s blackberry preserves? Or did I use them on the biscuits when I fed the troops yesterday?”

  Tammy’s chin hiked a couple of notches. “I don’t know. I don’t eat fruit that has been ruined by processed sugar. My body is a sacred temple.”

  Savannah found the jam hiding behind the hot-fudge sauce. “Yeah, well . . . your ‘sacred temple’ could get run over and mashed flat by a bus tomorrow, and you’ll wish you’d had a decent last meal before you departed this earth. Want some eggs and bacon?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Grits, swimmin’ in butter? Hot, flaky biscuits? Cream gravy?”

  “Get real.”

  Savannah shrugged as she pulled the necessary ingredients for a full, Southern-style breakfast from the refrigerator and cupboard. “Suit yourself, girl. You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  Tammy grimaced and mumbled, “A heart attack, high blood pressure, stroke, diabetes, obesity—”

  “Watch yourself, Miss Prissy Pot.” Both hands full, she kicked the refrigerator door closed with her foot and dumped the stuff on the counter. “I could fire you for insubordination.”

  “Fire me from the almost job that you almost don’t pay me for?”

  “That’s the one. Careers like yours are hard to come by . . . studying at the gum-soled feet of a master detective.”

  Tammy glanced down at Savannah’s f
uzzy red slippers, grinned, and slid onto a kitchen chair to watch as Savannah began her preparations. “So, Nancy Drew . . . did you and the Hardy boy get your bad guy last night?”

  “We did. The moron sneaked into his mom’s house about two in the morning to pick up some of his CDs and a favorite baseball cap. He’s paying for the stuff with his freedom. Where he’s at, he won’t get to use any of it.

  “The little girl he abused was ecstatic to hear we’d picked him up. She can go back to school now, play in the yard again, live like a normal kid”—Savannah sighed as she stretched some bacon strips across a hot skillet—“until her mom makes another trip to the local bar and brings home the next yahoo pervert.”

  Tammy winced. “Ouch, that’s pretty cynical.”

  “Yeah, well . . . when you’ve been around that block a hundred times, you learn the lay o’ the land.”

  The smell of frying meat filled the kitchen and, apparently, wafted to the sunporch in the back of the house, because two sleek black cats—big enough to pass as miniature panthers—came running into the kitchen. Both wore black, rhinestone-studded leather collars and expectant looks on their faces.

  “Ah, Cleopatra, Diamante”—Tammy reached down to stroke them as they passed, tails held high, on their way to their food dishes—“all you guys have to do is lie in the sunshine and eat. Tough life being a cat.”

  “Feline Americans,” Savannah corrected her.

  “What?”

  “You heard me. This is a politically correct household.”

  Tammy snorted. “Since when?”

  The telephone rang, and Savannah grabbed it off the wall. “Moonlight Magnolia Detective Agency,” she said, her voice Southern silk. “Good morning.”

  Tammy pointed to the kitchen clock, which showed a quarter past one.

  Savannah grunted and began to flip the bacon in the skillet. “Er . . . make that afternoon,” she said.

  The female voice on the other end was just as sultry and even more distinctly down-Dixie. “Don’t know if it’s morning or afternoon, huh? Late night?”