Whiskey Joe’s happy hour customers were in fine form when Savannah arrived.
Nothing like half-priced drinks to make fools out of a roomful of local yokels, she thought as she entered the door and dodged a flying swizzle stick with a lemon twist.
The television, mounted on the wall behind the bar, was blaring the early edition of the regional news. She was just in time to hear the end of the story about Clifton Oprey’s arrest with all the pathetic details of Clifton’s previous losses and his public vows of vengeance.
As the weatherman took over the broadcast, the room erupted in arguments about Cliff’s guilt or innocence.
Without taking an official poll, judging on pure volume and passion alone, Savannah would have to say that the “guilties” had it. That was a scary thought, she decided, considering that this was the pool from which any impartial jury might be drawn to try either Clifton Oprey or her own brother.
Glancing around the room, she quickly spotted Dirk, hovering near the pool tables with a mug of beer in hand and a bored look on his face.
Of course, there was no way to actually tell if he was bored or not, as that was Dirk’s usual expression—the only exceptions being when free food was within reach or when reading a suspect his rights. Then his mood soared to the lofty heights of “mildly interested.”
As she headed toward him, he saw her and met her halfway.
“Gran said you wanted me to come by,” she told him, her mouth close to his ear so she could be heard above the tumult. “You got something?”
“No. I tried to talk to your mom over there . . .” He nodded toward the perpetually occupied stool beneath the Elvis photo. “And she basically told me to shove it. Guess she doesn’t like my face.”
“Naw, it’s not your face,” she assured him. “You’ve got a great face, considering how many times it’s been planted in the dirt and dragged on the asphalt and pummeled into a bloody pulp and—”
“Okay already!”
“She just hates cops.”
He quirked one eyebrow. “Oh, yeah? She must have been thrilled when you joined the department.”
Savannah studied the woman in the corner, who didn’t seem to be aware of her arrival. Although she must have, Shirley didn’t appear to have moved from that spot since the last time Savannah had seen her.
For a moment, Savannah entertained the question of whether someone could sleep while sitting, drinking, and smoking.
“My mom hasn’t been thrilled about anything I’ve done since the day I was born,” she said.
“Sorry, Van.”
She turned back to Dirk and saw him giving her a much more sympathetic look than she would have thought him capable of.
Smiling at him, she said, “Don’t be sorry, really. It’s okay. Gran was wonderful to us. Most kids growing up with moms like Shirley don’t have the blessing of a grandmother like mine. I wouldn’t change a thing.”
He offered her a drink of his beer, but she shook her head. “Thanks anyway. What were you trying to get out of Shirley when she basically told you to file it in the realms of the nether world?”
“I heard that farmer, Clifton Oprey, was talking to her right before he confessed to the judge’s killing. But when I asked her about it, she bristled like one of your cats when I yank its tail.”
“You yank my cats’ tails?”
“It’s a figure of speech, Van. Good grief!”
“It’d better be. I’d hate to have to jerk a knot in your tail, and you know I’d do it if I caught you tormenting my animals.”
She didn’t like the little smirk he gave her; she’d been hoping for abject terror . . . or at least moderate intimidation.
“I mean it.”
“I know you do. Go talk to your mama, and see what she had to do with this convenient turn of events.”
“All right.” She sighed. “But the next time I mention that I’m coming home for a little vacation and family bonding . . . don’t let me.”
Chapter 17
“Why isn’t Macon outta jail yet?” Shirley Reid asked as she released a double stream of smoke from her nostrils. “I mean, with Cliff confessing and all, I’d have thought you’d have him home by now. What’s holdin’ up the works?”
The bartender walked over to Savannah, who was sitting on the stool beside Shirley, and slid an enormous glass of iced tea across the bar to her. “Compliments of the gentleman over there,” he said as he pointed to a waving, grinning Dirk on the other side of the room.
“Tell him, ‘Thanks, but he’s no gentleman, and he’s still sleeping alone tonight,’ ” she said, after a long swig. She turned to her mother. “I did what I could, Mom, but it wasn’t enough. They don’t believe Cliff’s confession.”
“What’s not to believe?” Shirley twisted one of the enormous turquoise rings on her forefinger. “He hated the judge, made no bones about that, ever since the judge took his farm and Sally died.”
“Having somebody make a false confession isn’t exactly unheard of, you know. Besides, they found some stolen stuff in Macon’s room, and they can hold him for that alone.”
Shirley sagged on her stool. “Well, dammit, then. That was a lot of trouble for nothin’.”
“What do you mean, a lot of trouble?” When Shirley didn’t respond, Savannah nudged her with her elbow. “What trouble? What did you have to do with Cliff’s confession?”
“Nothing. Much.”
Not for the first time, Savannah briefly entertained the wish that she had been adopted. Or maybe found on the side of the road or under that cabbage leaf someone had told her about when she had wanted to know where babies come from.
“What did you do to talk that dear old man into confessing to a homicide?” she asked, dreading the answer.
“I might have mentioned that if he did confess, they probably would believe him and it would give you a chance to find out who really did it.”
“Oh, thanks, Mom. Nothing like a little pressure. Now I’ve got both him and Macon dangling over the fire I’m trying to put out.”
“So try harder.”
“Easy for you to say, when . . .” She swallowed the rest of her sentence—the comment about Shirley’s tailbone being rooted to the barstool and all.
Instead, she said, “I’m surprised Cliff would take such a drastic step, just because you asked him.”
Shirley shrugged. “I might have mentioned that it would be a really nice thing to do for that wicked witch of a grandmother of yours, after all she did for him after he lost his wife. ’Course, I didn’t call her a witch when I was talking to him.”
“No, of course not. What did you do, remind him of how Gran brought meals over to him and even cleaned his house a few times after the funeral?”
She nodded. “And of how she had Macon bring him home from here a few times when he’d had too many, and how she had washed him up and Macon had put him to bed.”
“Honestly, Shirley . . . that was low.”
Savannah was surprised when her mother slapped her. She shouldn’t have been; it wasn’t the first time. But she had never seen it coming and was always shocked when it happened.
She had to reach deep inside for the self-control to keep from knocking her backward off her bar stool.
She’s your mother, she heard Gran’s voice saying in the recesses of her conscience. Respect the station.
“You’ve bitched for years,” Shirley said, “that I was a rotten mother. Well, I was trying to help my kid, okay? And if you don’t like the way I was going about it, to hell with you.”
“That’s enough.”
Savannah spun around on her stool to see Dirk standing behind her and Shirley. His face was flushed, his eyes narrowed as he glared at her mother.
His big hand closed over Shirley’s shoulder, and Savannah saw her wince. “Don’t you ever, ever do that again,” he said, his voice low, but shaking. “Because if you do . . .” His hand tightened, and Shirley whimpered. “. . . I’m going to forget that
you’re a woman and break your jaw. Got it?”
Savannah slid off her stool and picked up her purse from the bar. “I’m done here anyway. Already heard wa-a-ay more than I wanted to.”
“I’m really sorry I even asked you to talk to her,” Dirk said as they walked out of the bar together and headed across the parking lot to her brother’s pickup. “If I’d have known she was going to hit you, I never would have—”
“Don’t worry about it, buddy.” Savannah slipped her arm companionably through his. “It’s really no big deal.”
“I don’t believe that. Your own mother slaps you across the face in a public place, and you say it’s no biggy? I’ve seen you karate chop the crap outta guys for less than that.”
“You don’t understand. It’s not all that important, because Shirley isn’t that important to my life. If Gran ever slapped me, I’d be devastated.”
He covered her hand with his and squeezed it. She liked how it felt, warm and comforting.
“Your grandmother really was more of a mom to you, wasn’t she.”
“Hell, yeah. Shirley’s more like an irritating sibling.”
“You’ve got a lot of those.”
She grinned up at him. “Alma and Waycross are cool.”
“Alma, Waycross, and you . . . that’s three out of nine. Not that great, considering your grandmother’s good upbringing.”
“One good grandma can only do so much to balance the books. A lot of other factors went into the way we turned out.”
She fished in her purse for the truck’s key, but the one street lamp, mounted on a pole in front of the tavern, didn’t do much to illuminate the area.
“Are you going back to your grandma’s?” he asked.
“I reckon. She was frying up chicken when I left. There’ll probably be leftovers. Wanna follow me over?”
His face lit up, nearly enough to help her find the key. But then he shrugged. “I don’t know. Your poor grandmother’s got enough people bummin’ food off her. She doesn’t need another mooch.”
“So, stop by the little grocery store there on the highway and pick up a contribution.”
“Like what?”
“Anything with more than fifty percent fat calories should do nicely.” She found the key and was unlocking the truck’s door when she heard the low, thrumming roar of a powerful automobile engine approaching and headlights swept across the parking lot as a car pulled in.
“It’s Tom,” she said, even before she saw the cruiser.
“Oh, goody. Let’s go.” He jerked the truck door open and motioned for her to get in.
She swallowed a grin. “We really should say hi. He might have something new.”
He grumbled, but slammed the door closed and walked with her over to the cruiser.
Tom got out and immediately headed in their direction. “Good evening,” he said, directing the greeting more toward Savannah than Dirk.
“How’s it going?” Savannah replied.
Dirk radiated silence.
“You guys coming or going?” Tom tucked his shirttail into his trousers, flexing biceps and pecs.
Savannah tried not to notice. Because she was sure that, if she did, Dirk would notice her noticing.
Men . . . they certainly made life more complicated.
“Going,” Dirk said, managing to spit the word out in one curt syllable.
“You off duty? Looking for a cold one?” Savannah asked, nodding toward the bar.
“Still working. I’m looking for Alvin. See him in there?”
“Save yourself the trouble,” Dirk mumbled. “He ain’t there.”
“Why are you looking for him?” Savannah ventured. “If you don’t mind me asking?”
Tom grinned at her. She could feel Dirk tense beside her.
“You can ask,” he said. “Since you were right, you can ask anything you want.”
“About what?” Savannah wanted to know.
“About Alvin’s fingerprints being on the judge’s desk drawer. How’d you know?”
It was Savannah’s turn to smirk. “Just had a feeling. I also think he killed Judge Patterson. Since I’m on a roll, are you going to believe me about that, too?”
Tom chuckled. “Whoa, girl. Let me get my hands on him first. And when I do, I’ll turn him upside down and give him a good shake. We’ll see what rattles and rolls out.”
Savannah couldn’t remember when it had felt so good to lie in bed and allow the fatigue of the day to melt away from her body and into the featherbed.
At least for eight hours or so, the investigation was on hold, dinner finished, dishes done, friends and most of the family gone. And with her cats lying, one on either side of her feet, like kitty bookends, it was almost like being home.
Gran climbed into bed beside her, smelling of bath soap and talcum powder, and, for just a moment, all was right in Savannah’s world.
The illusion of safety evaporated as Gran settled under the covers and said, “Did you tell Tommy Stafford to let Cliff out of that jail . . . that he wouldn’t have said a blame-fool thing like that if Shirley hadn’t put him up to it?”
Savannah hesitated, considering whether or not to tell the truth. But she had learned long ago that, with Gran, you might as well spill it—the whole truth, and nothing but. She could spot a lie at a hundred paces, and heaven help you if you were the one who had uttered it. In Savannah’s childhood, lying was one of the only sins that could actually land you behind the toolshed with a switch, ripped from a nearby tree or bush, applied to your rear end.
That . . . and smoking cigarettes . . . or drinking beer.
“No, Gran. I didn’t mention it to Tom.”
“Somebody needs to.” She punched her pillow, fluffing it. “Clifton’s way too old to be in jail. If he has to sleep on one of those cold steel cots, his arthritis will give him miseries.”
“But he volunteered . . . so to speak. And believe me, there’s nothing cold about those jail cells. There’s no air-conditioning up there, like there is downstairs in the offices.”
Gran’s silence told Savannah that she should have kept that tidbit to herself. Her grandmother was worried enough already, without her adding details to the grim picture.
Savannah rolled onto her side and looked at Gran. In the moonlight, she saw the glint of tears on her cheek, and her own heart ached for this lady who had done nothing to deserve this pain at her age.
Nothing, but to love too much.
Savannah reached out and gently brushed the tear away with her fingertips. “I can’t say anything to Tom on Cliff’s behalf, Gran. I’m already feeling a mountain of guilt over not getting rid of those medals when I had the chance. By doing the right thing I could have condemned my brother to a murder he didn’t commit. I’m not going to do anything else virtuous to aid the side of justice.”
“Of course you are.” Gran pushed her hand away . . . but clasped it afterward. “I don’t want to hear foolishness like that. You’re going to do whatever you believe is right, and the Lord’s gonna reward you for it. He’ll make sure Macon is safe in the end.”
“Did you think that maybe it was the answer to one of your prayers . . . Clifton confessing like that?”
“No! It never occurred to me that God would approve of a man lying through his teeth . . . or his dentures, in Cliff’s case. Your mother put him up to it. We both know that.”
“I still think it’s a blessing that’s bought us some time . . . time to investigate, to prove Macon’s innocence. Aren’t you the one who’s always telling me that the Lord works in strange ways?”
Gran was silent for a long time. Finally, she said, “You know I don’t like it when you use my own words against me. And you also know that you’re not so big that I can’t still give you an ol’ fashioned whuppin’.”
“I know.” Savannah giggled. “That’s why I save that particular tactic as a last resort, when I can’t come up with anything else . . . and when you’re too tired to chase me down.”
By the time Savannah shuffled into the kitchen the next morning to get her all-important first cup of caffeine, Gran already had the assembly line going. Bacon and pork sausage were sizzling on the stove, biscuits baking in the oven, and on the back burner, a pan of grits bubbled.
Cleopatra and Diamante had followed Savannah in from the bedroom and were doing figure eights around her ankles. “I know, I know . . . you’re famished,” she said as she paused to pour some Kittie Kiddles into a cereal bowl and place it out of the way behind the garbage pail.
At the back door, Beauregard pressed his wet nose against the screen and whined pitifully.
“Pay him no nevermind,” Gran said. “He’s been fed, watered, and petted. He’s just raisin’ a stink ’cause he’s jealous.”
Savannah glanced over at the stove and its bounty. “Good heavens, are you expecting Sherman’s armies to drop in this morning?” she said, taking a mug from the cupboard.
“Oh, yes, they’ll all be coming by, it being Saturday and laundry day,” Gran said, adding several more strips of bacon to the skillet.
“They come over on the weekend to do your laundry for you? How very considerate of them.”
“That’ll be the day. Marietta and Vidalia don’t know the difference between washing a white T-shirt and a red wool sweater.”
“You do their wash and their kids’, too?”
Gran shrugged. “Well, they’re busy, you know. It ain’t easy, making ends meet and bringing up a family these days. If I can help out a bit, I don’t mind.”
Growling under her breath, Savannah took a drink of her coffee, then set the mug aside. “I’ll make the gravy,” she said. “And I’ll finish up those eggs, too.”
Gran looked completely nonplused. “But why? What would I do with myself?”
“Sit right there in that chair,” Savannah said, pointing to the table, “and supervise. You’re over eighty years old. It’s high time you got promoted.”
As predicted, the gang began to pour into the tiny house at exactly the same time as the gravy was poured into the bowl. On the back porch, pillowcases bulging with laundry began to stack up next to the washing machine.
Peaches And Screams (A Savannah Reid Mystery) Page 18