Sugar and Spite Page 5

  Savannah stood with him. “He’s going to my place. He’ll be there if you need him; just call.”

  It isn’t going to work, she thought. No way would Jeffries cut him loose after only half a dozen questions.

  “All right. Go get some sleep,” Jeffries said. Savannah braced her jaw to keep it from dropping. “Have your report on my desk by five.”

  Savannah hurried to Dirk, grabbed his elbow, and hustled him toward the door before the lieutenant could change his mind.

  “One more thing,” Jeffries said before they could make their exit. Uh-oh, Savannah thought. There’s always a catch. “Don’t talk to the press. Not one word, or I’ll haul your ass back in here so fast it’ll make your dick spin.”

  “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. I’m not talking to nobody‘bout nothin’,” Dirk said.

  Savannah shoved him through the door and closed it behind them. In less than thirty seconds she had him out of the station and was leading him, like an obedient cocker spaniel, across the parking lot, toward her Camaro.

  “So, after all these years,” he said, “you’re inviting me to spend the night with you.”

  “Only because your place is a crime scene,” she told him, slipping her arm through his. “And don’t get frisky on me. You’re sleeping in the spare room.”

  He leaned down and placed a quick kiss on her forehead. “Don’t worry, kiddo. I just want to drink a fifth of Jack Daniel’s and quietly pass out. Any horizontal surface will do. Believe me: Frisky’s the last thing on my mind.”

  “I know that you never liked Polly,” Dirk said as he poured himself the fourth shot of the evening. And the evening—at least the drinking part—was only thirty minutes old.

  Savannah watched, a little concerned as his unsteady hand replaced the bottle on her coffee table. He didn’t spill it, but he definitely set it down with more force than necessary. Dirk’s depth perception was always the first sense to go when he became inebriated. Which wasn’t all that often. He liked an evening beer with his Whopper or Big Mac, but she had seldom seen him show his liquor.

  But there was a first time for everything, and Savannah figured the night a guy watched his ex-wife die was as good a night as any to get stinking drunk. Excuses didn’t get much better than that.

  Besides, there were only a couple more hours of the night left. The green digital readout on her VCR said it was 4:25 A.M. She figured she would get him soused, then drag him upstairs and throw him into her guest bed. He could sleep all day ... as long as he woke up in time to generate a report for Lieutenant Jeffries.

  “Okay,” she said, “I’ll admit it. Polly wasn’t one of my favorite people. But then, I didn’t know her as well as you did. Apparently you saw something in her that wasn’t obvious to me.”

  Heaven knows what, she added silently as she settled back in her easy chair and petted the ebony, green-eyed purring machine that was curled in her lap.

  Dirk tossed back the shot and grimaced as it went down the hatch. Then he leaned back on the sofa and propped his feet on the coffee table. Savannah had told him a thousand times to keep his shoes off her furniture. A thousand and one times, he had forgotten.

  “Polly could be sweet, when she wanted to be,” he said. “At least, she was in the beginning. She’d say, ‘Pretty please,’ and butter me up when she wanted something. And when I gave it to her, she acted all grateful, like I was some fantastic sort of hero who’d rescued her.”

  Savannah listened quietly, stroking Diamante, remembering something that her grandmother had told her once. Granny Reid had said, “It’s not so much the person we fall in love with ... as much as it’s the way they make us feel about ourselves.”

  Perhaps that wasn’t such a grand and glorious commentary on the human heart, but the older Savannah got, the more she realized how true Gran’s words were.

  So, Polly had made Dirk feel like a knight in shining armor, rescuing a fair damsel who was perpetually in distress. Sometimes her dragons were real, other times imaginary, but they were always of her own making. A fact that seemed to elude Dirk.

  But the maid-in-trouble routine had worked all too well for Polly. She had never been without male company. Usually she had dangled several on a chain at once.

  Savannah tried to recall the last time she had felt a tug on her own chain. Ages. But then, she wasn’t in the habit of asking knights to wield their swords on her behalf. Maybe she should take some lessons from Polly on carefully cultivated helplessness.

  But then, defenseless Polly was lying in the morgue, next in line to be autopsied. So much for surrendering your personal power to avoid personal responsibility. If she hadn’t come over to Dirk’s to try to finagle him into bailing her out of some sort of problem, she would probably still be alive and irritating people.

  “Do you have any idea what she wanted from you?” Savannah asked, sipping her own hot chocolate, which, for once, wasn’t laced with Bailey’s or anything else alcoholic. One of them had to stay sober to negotiate the stairs later. And there was another reason for someone to keep a clear head ... a reason she didn’t want to think too much about right then.

  “Well, she certainly wasn’t there to cozy up to me—that’s for sure,” Dirk said with a sigh as he poured another shot. “Whatever she wanted, it wasn’t to kiss and make up.”

  For the first time, Savannah realized that Dirk had actually hoped, at least briefly, that Polly’s appearance, Valentine rose in hand, might have indicated a desire to reconcile on her part. She also realized that he might have welcomed that. The revelation didn’t sit well with her.

  “If we could find out what sort of problem she had, we might know why somebody wanted to kill her,” Savannah said. It wasn’t the time to talk shop, but she couldn’t help herself. Her mental cogs were already whirring. If things went as badly as she was afraid they would for Dirk, he was going to need some help ... a lot of help to clear himself of Polly’s murder.

  He tossed back the shot and shuddered. “Right now ... frankly, my dear... I don’t give a rat’s ass.” As he wiped his hand across his eyes, Savannah thought how tired, how gray he looked. She needed to get him into bed soon. “I guess I should care,” he added, slurring his words a bit, “but I don’t. I figure I’ll care later. Tomorrow or maybe the next day.”

  Savannah scooped Diamante out of her lap and placed the cat gently on the footstool. The miniature leopard didn’t even open an eye. “I think I’d better get you upstairs and into your bunk, cowboy,” she told Dirk, “before you pass out on me and I have to haul your mangy hide up those steps with brute strength.”

  He stood on wobbly legs and took a careful step toward her. “Yeah, I think I’ve enjoyed about as much of this day as I can stand. Let’s put an end to it.”

  With his arm slung over her shoulders and hers wrapped around his waist, she helped him up the stairs and down the hallway to her small, but adequate, guest bedroom. She knew he must be exhausted when he didn’t even complain about the room’s feminine, tulip-spangled quilt and lace curtains.

  She barely had time to pull back the spread and sheets before he collapsed across the bed. “Come on,” she said, tugging his sneakers off and tossing them on the floor, “we might as well make you comfy. Get out of those clothes.”

  In much the same way as she would have undressed one of her nieces or nephews, she removed his socks, shirt, and jeans. Although he didn’t help her much, he didn’t resist. She decided to leave on his boxers. Seeing him naked once in a twenty-four-hour period was enough.

  “Bathroom’s down the hall on the right if you need it,” she told him. “The door on the left is a closet, and if you ‘drain your dragon’ or ‘hang your rat’ on my linens there, you’re dead meat.”

  She waited for a reply but got only a cursory grunt as he snuggled into the covers and bunched the pillow under his head.

  “Sleep tight, buddy,” she said as she leaned over and gave him a peck on the forehead. “If you need anything, give a holler.”r />
  When he offered no response, she figured he was already a goner. But after she had turned out the light, as she was softly closing the door behind her, she heard him say, “Thanks, Van ... for everything.”

  “You’re welcome, sugar,” she whispered. “You’d do it for me.”

  “I would,” he said. She could hear the drowsiness in his voice as sleep overtook him. “You know, Van ... if you needed me, I’d rescue you, too. And I wouldn’t resent it, like I did with Polly. I’d be glad to help you out.”

  Savannah felt a little catch in her throat that seemed to squeeze some unexpected moisture into her eyes. “I know you would, darlin’,” she whispered. “Hush now and get yourself to sleep.”

  Dirk began to snore.

  When dawn broke, pink, gold, and turquoise, through her living room curtains, Savannah was still wide-awake, lying on her sofa, her grandmother’s crocheted afghan thrown over her ... her loaded 9mm Beretta and an extra clip filled with bullets lying on the coffee table beside her.

  Someone had to stay awake and sober. And, because of the hellish nature of his past twenty-four hours, Dirk had been given the honor of Designated Drunk.

  Because, even though the thought hadn’t seemed to have occurred to Dirk—at least, he hadn’t voiced any concerns in that area—Savannah was worried for their personal safety.

  Somebody had murdered Dirk’s ex-wife. That same somebody had tried to shoot him, too. Polly might be the one lying in the city morgue in a special white body bag with a locked zipper, reserved for homicide victims and those who had died under suspicious circumstances. But the intruder had entered Dirk’s trailer. And for all anyone knew, Dirk might have been his intended victim, not Polly. She might have just been at the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Savannah felt a shiver that not even Granny Reid’s lovingly crocheted coverlet could chase away. This feeling was in her bones.

  Without knowing who had been in that trailer, why he had been there, and who he had really intended to kill, there was no way to know if Dirk’s life was still in danger. If the killer had made the attempt once and failed, who was to say he wouldn’t try again?

  So, Savannah had stayed awake the rest of the night, standing guard, so to speak, while lying on her sofa and listening to her brass ship’s clock tick. Tammy would be in at nine, and by then it would be bright daylight.

  Then she would go to bed and get some badly needed sleep. But for now, the princess had to keep watch over the castle, just in case some homicidal dragon tried to cross the moat. Sir Dirk was passed out cold up in the tower. Even a knight in dusty armor needed some time off.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Even before Tammy arrived the phone started to ring; reporters from local papers and television stations wanted to know if Dirk had a statement. Savannah told them, not too tactfully, that if she were to wake him, he would, without a doubt, have several statements, none of which they would want to hear.

  Savannah wondered who had tipped them off that he was at her house. But then, journalists were fairly resourceful, and Savannah’s name had been linked to Dirk’s in print more than once, thanks to some high-profile cases they had worked together.

  When the doorbell rang at 8:34 A.M., Savannah threw the afghan onto the end of the sofa and gave up on getting any quick winks. She took her Beretta from the coffee table, shoved it in the back of her jeans waistband, and went to the door.

  Looking through the peephole, she saw Rosemary Hulse, one of her least disliked newspaper reporters. Rosemary was tenacious, but not obnoxious, when it came to getting her story. So, in a moment of humanitarian love and consideration, Savannah decided not to shoot her dead on the front porch.

  “Rosemary ...” she said as she opened the door, “you decided to pay me a little visit. How sweet. If I’d known you were comin’, I’d have baked a cake.” Her far-less-than-enthusiastic tone belied the expressed Southern hospitality.

  Rosemary didn’t buy it. She gave her a rueful smile, and said, “Sorry, it’s not social.”

  “Didn’t really figure it was.” Savannah noted that the usually perfectly groomed reporter looked a bit disheveled herself. Her customary pageboy flip didn’t flip, and she was wearing wire-rimmed glasses instead of her contacts. “Did they drag you out of bed so that you could drag me out of bed?”

  “Something like that. I’ve been up since three, when they called me about the shooting.” Rosemary glanced up and down Savannah’s rumpled shirt and slacks. “Did I drag you out of bed?”

  “More like off the couch. It’s been a long night.”

  “Is he here?”

  “Yeah, upstairs, hopefully sawing logs. I’m not going to disturb him, so don’t even ask.”

  Rosemary reached into her purse and produced a mini-recorder. “Mind if I ask you a couple of ques—”

  “Of course, I mind. I haven’t had my coffee yet, and my blood sugar level is zero, which means my brainwave level is the same.”

  Rosemary shot her a winsome smile. “Invite me in for coffee and a Danish, maybe?”

  But it wasn’t that winsome. “Nope. Sorry. Nothing personal.”

  “After coffee and doughnuts, when you’re feeling better” —Rosemary fished in her pocket for a business card and handed it to Savannah—“if you or Sergeant Coulter do decide to talk to the media, will you give me first crack?”

  “Don’t hold your breath. I don’t know much yet, and Dirk’s not exactly the chatty type.”

  The reporter wrinkled her nose. “I remember. I think he told me to ... well ... he suggested some unnatural act that—”

  “Don’t feel bad. Coulter has offered similar suggestions to almost everyone he knows at one time or the other. Actually, he likes you.”

  Rosemary looked doubtful. “Really? How can you tell?”

  “He actually spoke words to you. If he didn’t like you, he’d growl, maybe snap.”

  “And he’s your friend?”

  Savannah laughed. “My best one in the world. Doesn’t say much for my taste, huh?” Behind her, Savannah could hear the phone ringing again. “Gotta go.”

  “Give me a call.”

  “If I talk, it’ll be to you.”

  She shut the door in Rosemary’s face, nearly closing it on Cleopatra in the process. “One of you cats is always underfoot,” she told Cleo, nudging her with the toe of her sock. “Let me guess. You’ve got no Kitty Gourmet in your bowl, right?” The cat purred loudly and twined herself around Savannah’s ankles as she hurried to the cordless phone she had left on the coffee table. “Hello ... oh, shit,” she said as she tripped over the cat and caught herself just before she hit the rug. “Get your hairy face outta here. I’ll feed you in a minute.”

  “So, Dirk is there. I thought he might be,” said a sexy male voice on the phone. Savannah’s heart skipped a staccato pitterpat, as it always did when she heard from Ryan Stone ... or saw his handsome face ... or even thought of him. He was gorgeous, suave, kind, intelligent, funny, gay. Savannah hadn’t been able to reorient his sexual preferences, no matter how she had applied her feminine wiles, which, her being a Southern belle, were considerable.

  She had to be content to worship him from afar ... him and his partner, an older, but equally handsome and charming British fellow named John Gibson.

  “We heard it on the local television news this morning,” Ryan was saying as she sat down on the sofa and pulled Gran’s afghan around her again. “John guessed Dirk would be with you, making a serious dent in your kitchen staples.”

  “No, so far he’s only raided my liquor cabinet.”

  Ryan chuckled, then got serious. “So, how is he? Holding up all right?”

  Savannah was touched at Ryan’s concern; she knew that Dirk wasn’t his favorite person on the planet. Less than tactful Dirk had dropped enough derogatory comments about alternative lifestyles to alienate both Ryan and John. More than once Savannah had gouged him in the ribs or kicked him under the table for insulting her friends. Ryan and Joh
n tolerated Dirk because he was Savannah’s, and Dirk avoided bruises and tongue-lashings by at least pretending to tolerate them in return.

  “He was pretty shook up last night, when it first happened,” Savannah said, plucking at the fringe on the afghan, remembering Dirk, naked, cold, and shivering there on his trailer floor. “But later he composed himself sufficiently to piss off Lieutenant Jeffries when he questioned him.”

  “That sounds like the Dirk we know and love. Any idea who the killer was?”

  Once again, Savannah was pleasantly surprised. Ryan had automatically assumed it wasn’t Dirk. Maybe they hated each other less than she thought.

  “I’m pretty sure Jeffries thinks Dirk did it. We don’t know. He saw the guy, but barely. White, brown hair, medium height and weight, pretty generic-looking. Dirk didn’t get that good a look; he was wrestling him for the gun. Polly was bleeding to death on his floor. He had other things on his mind.”

  “Do you want us to come over, see what we can do?”

  Savannah wasn’t about to turn down the offer. Ryan Stone’s and John Gibson’s investigative skills had been invaluable to the Moonlight Magnolia Detective Agency in the past. They were both former FBI agents and still had a lot of connections at the Bureau. John Gibson seemed to know everyone who was anyone in Southern California and beyond. Ryan could find absolutely anybody ... especially someone who didn’t want to be found. They were definitely prize players to have on one’s team.

  “I’ll take a rain check for the moment,” she said, “until we see what Jeffries is going to do. Obviously, if they try to pin this on Dirk, I’ll have my work cut out for me.”

  “We all will.”

  Savannah smiled. “Consider yourself kissed, my friend.”