Cooked Goose

by G. A. McKevett

  “Wow, good idea. You give great advice, you know, for a woman who’s never had a man in her life.”

  Savannah grimaced and decided to call a contractor about that escalator. “Think nothing of it,” she replied dryly. “Do you feel better? May I go now?”

  “Oh, sure. I just heard Butch’s truck in the driveway. I’m gonna ask him about . . . you know . . .”

  “Good girl.”

  As she hung up the phone, Savannah was only marginally suicidally depressed. Of her seven sisters, all were married except the youngest, Atlanta. And even the baby of the family had a steady boyfriend who had given her a “promise” ring.

  On the other hand, Savannah—the oldest, the matriarch of the Reid clan—was as single as a hag’s front tooth.

  Of course, that was the way she liked it: uninvolved, uncomplicated, no hassle, no dirty men’s boxers on the floor . . . no deep male voice to whisper “Love you, honey,” before she went to sleep at night.

  It really was simpler this way.

  Or so she told herself when an acute case of the “lonelies” set in.

  Besides, there were very few mood dips that couldn’t be raised by some form of confection.

  No sooner had she taken a sip of the chocolate/liqueur concoction than the phone jangled again. Maybe she had blown it with the marital advice. Maybe Butch hadn’t gone for the bait after all.

  Naw. If Numb Nuts had turned Vidalia down for a B.J., she just hadn’t made her intentions clear enough to seep through to his marijuana-dulled brain cells. It was definitely worth another try.

  Savannah snatched up the phone. “Sweetie, I know your tummy feels like it’s about to explode,” she said, “and I’m sure your back hurts something awful, but I’m telling you, oral sex is the perfect solution for what—”

  “I couldn’t agree more. I’ll be right over.” Click.

  Savannah frowned into the dead receiver, then slowly replaced it.

  She sighed. The bubble bath would have to wait. So would the hot chocolate. She had to change the locks, bar the door and cover the windows with industrial-thick plywood.

  Who said she didn’t have a man in her life?

  She had Dirk. Whoopee . . .

  And judging from his enthusiastic tone on the phone, he’d be there in less than five minutes. Where was that hammer, those nails?

  9:45 P.M.

  “I thought I’d treat you to a pizza!” Dirk sounded so pleased with himself as he stood, grinning like a billy goat eating briars, on Savannah’s front porch.

  “Dirk Coulter/treat. That’s a contradiction in terms,” she said, looking for the legendary pepperoni and mushroom pie. By the porch light she could clearly see both of his hands. They were predictably empty.

  “Hey, are you implying I’m cheap?” He honestly looked crestfallen; Dirk lived in a world of self-delusion, in which he was generous, optimistic, well-dressed and articulate.

  “Dirk, I love you, but you’re as tight as my Granny Reid’s Sunday-go-to-meetin’ girdle.”

  “Hey, don’t even kid about a thing like that . . . mentionin’ me in the same sentence as women’s underwear.”

  She grabbed his sleeve and gave it a playful yank. “Come inside and bring your imaginary pizza with you.”

  He trudged into the living room, his lip protruding in a semi-pout. “I really was going to call and order a pie,” he said. “I got this five-dollars-off coupon, and if we don’t ask for any toppings and we don’t tip the delivery kid—they’re always late anyway—it’ll only wind up costing me a couple of bucks.”

  “Gee, you shouldn’t have.”

  “I know. But I thought it was the least I could do, considering your generous offer on the phone a while ago.”

  “I didn’t know it was you.”

  “That’s kinda what I figured, but since you offered, I thought the least I should do was show up in case you changed your mind and—”

  “Forget it. It ain’t happenin’. How about a beer instead?”

  9:50 P.M.

  It took nearly five full minutes for Charlene Yardley to realize she was still alive.

  When the darkness had closed around her, bringing temporary relief from her nightmare, she had thought she was dying. And she had slipped into that black emptiness willingly, eagerly. Anything to escape. Death had become a friend.

  But now Charlene could feel herself rising out of that blissful, womb-like void, in spite of her efforts to stay there. The pain in her tom, battered body, the grave-cold dampness, the residual terror that she couldn’t . . . wouldn’t name, were claiming her again.

  She was re-awakening to her nightmare.

  Through shock-dulled senses she tried to determine where she was. But all she could discern were the most elementary of sensations: pain, cold, darkness, a foul taste in her mouth, a vaguely familiar smell.

  Slowly, minute by agonizing minute, Charlene realized she was lying on the ground. The taste in her mouth was a combination of dirt and her own blood. The smell was that of oranges, both fresh and rotting, nauseatingly sweet. The wet cold that had seeped through her clothing and into her aching bones was simple evening dew.

  It was night. She was lying facedown in an orange grove. Her hands were bound behind her back.

  What had happened to her?

  Even as the confused, fear-frozen half of her brain asked the inane question, the rational, coming-to-full-consciousness half replied in a language all too clear.

  She had been raped and murdered.

  No, not quite murdered. But nearly.

  Charlene could still see his face as he had dealt her that final blow to the head. Even through his ludicrous disguise, she had seen the wildness, the rage in his eyes.

  Yes, he had fully intended to kill her. She had no doubt about that—not then, not now.

  Did he think he had?

  Where was he?

  With that last question, a sense of urgency swept through her, and Charlene Yardley realized that she didn’t really want to die after all.

  Despite the pain and the spirit-crushing awareness of what had happened to her, she really, really wanted to live.

  Far away—she couldn’t tell how far—she could hear the occasional, faint, swooshing sound of a vehicle passing. Traffic. A road. Help.

  But she had to get to it. Before he returned.

  Maybe he was still there. Nearby. Watching her. Waiting for her to move.

  Charlene strained to hear any movement, the intake or exhalation of breath. But the night air was filled with the peaceful sounds of the grove: crickets chirping, a frog’s croak, the hoot of a distant owl . . . and that promising hum of the traffic.

  When a louder, deeper rumble signaled the passing of a truck, she felt the vibrations in the ground beneath her. The road had to be fairly close. If she could only get to it.

  She willed herself to rise, but with her hands bound, she couldn’t even move. Her limbs refused to obey her brain’s commands. Her body seemed no longer her own.

  But it was hers. The pain told her that much. And if she could hurt, she should be able to move.

  For what seemed like forever, she strained at the cord that bound her wrists. At first, it did no good; in fact, her efforts only seemed to make the knots tighter. But as she continued to twist, one way, then the other, she could feel her left hand slipping free. Something wet and slick, maybe her own blood, made it easier. Finally, she wrenched it free.

  Now able to fold her right arm, she managed to get it beneath her. But when she tried to rise, to place her weight on it, a pain—like nothing she had ever felt—shot through her, lightning hot, white, blinding.

  And when the searing brightness faded, Charlene was—thanks to the overloading and short-circuiting of her sensory preceptors—once again, in darkness.

  And for a little while longer, her nightmare was on hold.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  10:00 P.M.

  “That old Santa fart didn’t mean it when he said he was going
to sue me . . . did he?” Savannah stared into the foam of her beer as though it were a fortune teller’s crystal ball. After a particularly rough day, the alcohol contained in even one brew could push her paranoia level to clinically certifiable levels.

  She and Dirk sat in their usual TV-watching, pizza-eating, beer-drinking positions. Savannah was cuddled into her cushy, floral chintz, wingback chair. Like her, it was a bit overstuffed and infinitely comfortable. On her footstool, Diamante and Cleopatra were curled in black furry balls at either side of her feet. Kitty bookends, she liked to call them.

  Dirk was stretched across the sofa. In ancient Roman style, he preferred to conduct his culinary orgies sprawled and horizonal. He had already consumed six slices of his economy pizza. With typical generosity, he had allotted Savannah two.

  Dirk sniffed and took a long slug of beer from his bottle, then set it on the coffee table. After seven years Savannah still hadn’t trained him to use a glass or a coaster or to leave the toilet seat down. Having Dirk around the house was a bit like owning a husband, Savannah had decided, but without the added fringe benefits of regular sex, lawn care and automobile maintenance. The price without the perks.

  “So,” he said, “you’re worried about getting sued by the Santa with the blue balls. I’d worry too, if I was you. He sounded like he meant it.”

  Dirk never pulled punches with her. It was his greatest charm . . . and the major reason she often wanted to strangle him.

  “How could you tell? Maybe he was just a little—”

  “Nope, he meant it. His eyes were bugged out. Way out! That’s a definite sign of sincerity. I learned a long time ago from doing interrogations: When the veins in a guy’s forehead are poppin’, he’s usually telling you the truth.”

  Savannah sighed and thought of all the overdue bills in her desk drawer—scary red-lettered documents threatening to disconnect or repossess some basic creature comfort. The last thing she needed right now was to be sued, by anyone, and especially Saint Nick.

  Being a private investigator could prove lucrative from time to time, but more often, detecting provided only a meager existence. Savannah missed the steady paycheck from the S.C.P.D., the medical and dental coverage, the Christmas fund and the all-you-can-eat-and-drink Fourth of July picnic. But she didn’t miss the department’s lopsided politics or the constant hassle from the suits. Life hadn’t been easy as an outspoken, brassy broad who had never quite perfected the fine art of kissing trouser backsides.

  No . . . when all was said and done, Savannah was content with her present lot in life; she’d rather be broke.

  “So, let Kris Kringle sue me,” she said. “I can’t imagine that he would welcome headlines that read, ‘P.I. Gives Santa Blue Balls.’ How’s he going to explain that he was ripping a woman’s shirt off in the parking lot five minutes before he was going to be sitting on the gilded throne, bouncing kiddies on his knee?”

  Dirk took another slurp of suds. “You’re right. The mall wouldn’t like that either. But they’re not going to be hiring you for surveillance again any time soon. That’s gonna cause a problem.”

  “Yeah. It was my only paying gig, and the electric bill’s seriously overdue.”

  “Oh, well, sorry about your cash flow, but I was worried about my investigation. I was hoping you and Fluff Head would help me nab my guy.”

  “Thanks for your concern,” Savannah replied dryly, “and don’t call her that. Tammy’s a good kid.”

  “She acted like a nitwit today and opened you up for a lawsuit. Now you’re defending her. You’re both a bit screwy if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t ask you. And now that you’ve insulted my employee and me, I’m not going to lift one dainty pinky to help you with this case. You can catch your Santa Rapist without assistance from the bimbos at Moonlight Magnolia Detective Agency.”

  “You were going to help me . . . even without being paid?”

  His jaw and every ounce of flesh attached to it dropped several inches. He couldn’t have looked more forlorn if he had just been told that his new cocker spaniel puppy had to have triple bypass surgery.

  “You were going to give me a hand with this case . . . for free?”

  “That’s right, big boy. An honest-to-goodness freebie, for old time’s sake and all that. But you had to open your smart mouth and throw it all away. Now ain’t that a bite in the ass.”

  He snapped his mouth closed. A muscle twitched in his jaw.

  “So, what’s it gonna cost me?” he said. “Exactly how do you want me to suck up?”

  She batted her eyelashes at him. “Why, darlin’, what makes you think I want you to ‘suck up’ as you so indelicately put it?”

  “Because you’re a dame. And dames always want us to suck up. They expect us to kiss their lily white butts and admit what a jerk we’ve been.”

  Savannah pictured it for a moment: Dirk on his knees, looking oh-so-humble, her skirt lowered just enough on one side to accommodate the penitent kiss. His lips warm and soft as—

  She shuddered.

  “Naw . . . that’s all right. We’ll skip the butt kissing part. Just admit you were a jerk, do some sincere grovelling for the rest of the evening, and we’ll call it even.”

  10:05 P.M.

  Angie Perez searched the car’s glove box for the box of mints she had stashed there for just this occasion—when her boyfriend, Brett, was bringing her home drunk. Her mom would probably be in bed, but just in case, she’d better not walk through the door reeking of tequila, thanks to the four margarita grandes she’d downed at Brett’s brother’s house.

  Brett had drunk at least five. And he was driving.

  Angie had tried to be responsible. She had asked him if they could take a cab or call one of their friends to give them a lift home. But Brett had been royally pissed at the very idea that she thought he couldn’t handle his booze. He was touchy about subjects like how fast he drove, how much he drank, and whether he was the best she’d ever had in bed.

  He wasn’t. And she was tired of trying to convince him he was.

  All in all, Angie had just about had it with Brett; she was seriously considering dumping him. After the Christmas and New Year’s Eve parties, of course. Angie knew she was cute. And she was pretty sure that if she gave him the boot on January 2nd, she’d be able to fill the vacancy before Valentine’s Day.

  “Hey, you’re weaving all over the place,” she told him when he missed a particularly tight turn on Forest Hill Road. There weren’t any forests—just smoldering brush, compliments of the afternoon’s fire—and not much of a hill, but Forest Hill Road was the best route for getting across town if you’d had a few too many. Oh, it was poorly lit and fairly curvaceous, winding its way between lemon, avocado and orange ranches. A challenge to drive. But for the most part, cops didn’t patrol this stretch after nine in the evening, so it was the choice of the inebriated.

  “Slow down, Brett,” she said, gouging him in the ribs. “Remember what happened to those sophomores last semester.”

  “They were idiots. They deserved to die.”

  Brett had a real way with words, she decided, not to mention his sensitivity.

  Yes, he was definitely going to get dumped come January. Being a blond, blue-eyed varsity team quarterback only got you so far.

  They rounded a curve and at the edge of the headlight’s beams, just ahead on the left side of the road, Angie thought she saw something move. Something white. An animal maybe? A big animal.

  It was crawling. Slowly. As though it were hurt.

  “Brett. Look at that. Over there.”

  Brett looked, but he seemed to be having trouble focusing. “What? I don’t see nothin’. What are you talking about?”

  “There. At the edge of the grove. I think it’s a dog that’s been hit, or . . . ?”

  They drew nearer. Another twenty feet and she could tell what it was.

  “Oh, my god, Brett. It’s a person. A woman. And she’s naked!”

 
Ordinarily, she would have expected Brett to exhibit an acute interest in a nude female. But instead of stopping, he stomped on the accelerator and his father’s ancient Oldsmobile shot forward.

  In half a second they had left the naked, crawling woman behind.

  “What are you doing? Couldn’t you tell she’s hurt?” Angie turned in her seat and craned her neck, but she couldn’t see much in the red afterglow of the taillights. “Brett, go back! We have to help her!”

  “No way. I’m not getting involved in anything like that. Who knows what happened to her? It could have been anything, any kind of trouble.”

  “That’s right. That’s why we have to help her. She looks hurt. She may need to go to the hospital!”

  Angie punched him in the biceps and tried to grab at the wheel, but Brett shoved her hand away. “I’m not stopping; do you hear me? We’ve both had too much to drink and I’m driving. If I get another ticket, the judge said he’d suspend my license.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. If that woman got herself in trouble, it’s her problem. It’s not going to be mine.”

  At a fork in the road, he slowed a bit and Angie yanked her door open.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he shouted. “Close the damned door before you fall out!”

  “Stop the car! I’m going to go back and help her, even if you won’t!”

  He slammed on the brakes, throwing her against the dash. “So, go ahead and get out. I want you out of my car!”

  She jumped out before he could change his mind.

  “You’re stupid, you know that?” he yelled. “You’re really, really stupid.”

  “Yeah, and you’re an asshole.”

  It was only after she had closed the door behind her that Angie realized her predicament, standing there on a dark road in the middle of nowhere.

  “At least call the cops!” she shouted as he pulled away. “Brett, please! When you get home, make a phone call! One lousy call, please!”

  But he had already peeled out and amid the squeal of his tires and the roar of the Oldsmobile’s eight-cylinder engine, Angie wasn’t sure if he had heard her or not.