Murder à la Mode

by G. A. McKevett

  MURDER ON ICE

  Savannah stepped inside the freezer and instantly felt a chill that made her shiver underneath her silk nightclothes. But her shudder had nothing to do with the temperature inside the walk-in.

  On the floor to her left lay a body, sprawled on its back, staring with glazed eyes at the ceiling.

  “Lance, take a look at this,” she called.

  A few seconds later, Lance appeared at her side. He gasped when he saw the body. “Oh, my god. What…what happened?”

  “I don’t know,” Savannah replied, but the mental computer inside her head was already clicking away, processing the possibilities.

  “Should we….?” Lance said, reaching a hand toward the body, then withdrawing it. “I’ll go call 9-1-1, have them send an ambulance.”

  “No point in that,” Savannah said.

  “You mean…?”

  “Yes.” Savannah had seen enough corpses in her life to know this person was no longer among the living. And while the head was covered with blood and the face contorted with whatever pain the victim had felt when exiting the world, the orange hair and tangerine suit were unmistakable.

  “Tess is dead,” she said. “There’s nothing we can do for her now…except call the coroner.”

  Books by G.A. McKevett

  JUST DESSERTS

  BITTER SWEETS

  KILLER CALORIES

  COOKED GOOSE

  SUGAR AND SPITE

  SOUR GRAPES

  PEACHES AND SCREAMS

  DEATH BY CHOCOLATE

  CEREAL KILLER

  MURDER À LA MODE

  CORPSE SUZETTE

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  G.A. McKevett

  Murder à la Mode

  A SAVANNAH REID MYSTERY

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  This book is dedicated to

  Lady Antonette “The First”

  who reminds us that life goes on

  and is beautiful!

  Contents

  Murder on Ice

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  About the Author

  Chapter

  1

  As Raff, the swarthy pirate king, pulled Lady Wimblety against him, she could feel the depth, and more impressively, the length, of his rising need, pressing against her thigh. Or it might have been his sword, she wasn’t sure; nor did she care. She was far beyond caring. Trembling—Lady Wimblety that is, not his fingers, because Raff the pirate king’s fingers never trembled—his rough, battle-scarred fingers tugged at the lacing on her bodice and—

  “I wish you wouldn’t read those stupid books when you’re on stakeouts with me,” Dirk mumbled as he nudged Savannah in the ribs hard enough to make her drop her paperback novel onto the sand beside her.

  Swatting his hand away, she reached for the book and brushed away the wet, cold grit, making sure not to smudge the image on the cover. After all, it was the cover art that had enticed her to buy the novel in the first place.

  Raff the pirate king in all of his raven-locked, bulging-biceped, sapphire-eyed, burgeoning-manhooded glory had once again seduced her into forking over her hard-earned money. She had run into her local drugstore for a bottle of aspirin and come out with two paperbacks: Love’s Tempestuous Tempest and Flickering Tongues of Flaming Passion.

  She simply couldn’t help herself; the same male model graced both covers. And whether Lance Roman was dressed—or pretty much undressed, as the case might be—as a ravaging pirate who was ravishing a lust-besotted gentlelady with a ripped bodice, or as a New York City fireman rescuing a damsel with scorched hair and ripped T-shirt, he was positively irresistible. If Lance Roman was on the cover, Savannah Reid bought the book. Savannah and a million other faithful, some might say fanatical, admirers.

  So, when Detective Dirk Coulter, Savannah’s friend and former partner on the police force, called and asked her to accompany him on a beach stakeout, she had welcomed the chance to catch up on her reading.

  She brought Tempestuous Tempest, knowing that Dirk would never let her live down Flickering Tongues. It was the lesser of two evils.

  “You’re supposed to be keeping a heads-up with me,” Dirk said, “watching out for these punks. But you’re sitting there, getting off on that junk and ignoring me.”

  She glanced over at the little pile of goodies he had brought along to while away the boring stakeout hours. On his ragged, Harley-Davidson beach towel lay two empty soda cans, a deflated tortilla chip bag, a CD player and two Grateful Dead CDs.

  “You forgot to bring your boxing and wrestling magazines, didn’t you?” she observed.

  He scowled and nodded, “And I just got the latest edition of The Ring, too.”

  “So, now I’m supposed to sit here and entertain you?”

  He reached down and zipped up the front of his leather bomber jacket. The beach weather had been cool all afternoon by Southern California standards, and with the sun setting, the temperature was dropping to downright chilly. “You don’t gotta entertain me,” he said. “You’re just supposed to be helping me keep an eye out for these thugs, not reading about Muscleman Goldilocks there.”

  Savannah laughed. “He’s no Goldilocks. Lance’s hair is ebony black, and you’re just jealous.”

  “Jealous? Of what? I got muscles like that.”

  Savannah could have pointed out that Dirk used to have muscles like that. But in the years she had known him, he had gone from “ripped” to…well…“not so ripped.” But she didn’t care. He had never minded her extra poundage. True buddies never noticed such things.

  “And the dude’s hair looks like a girl’s,” he continued, poking a finger at the cover, “hangin’ down in his eyes like that.”

  Again, Savannah took the high road and decided not to mention that Dirk’s hair didn’t exactly hang down anywhere. His remaining precious strands were carefully combed to make the most of an ever-decreasing population.

  Lovingly, she placed the novel into her backpack and pulled out a Snickers and a can of Coke. “Looks like this is going to be dinner again, big boy,” she told him as she unwrapped the chocolate bar.

  “Yeah. I was hoping for better. I thought if I suggested we pose as a couple on the beach, you’d bring along a picnic,” he said, “some fried chicken, potato salad, stuff like that.”

  “Get real,” she said, her Georgian drawl thick as she popped open the soda can. “I cooked for you Friday night when you came over to watch the heavyweight bout on my HBO. And I made you biscuits, eggs, and grits on Sunday morning.”

  “I hate grits.”

  “You ate them.”

  “I didn’t know what the white goop was, or I wouldn’t have.”

  “Eh, you’ll eat anything if it’s free.” She reached into the pack and brought out another candy bar. It was smashed nearly flat and its wrapper was torn. She held it out to him. “Here, want this?”

  He snatched it out of her hand. “Sure.”

  They both munched for a while, quietly surveying their surroundings. Anchor’s Way Beach was one of the favorite playgrounds in the small California seaside town of San Carmelita. And usually it would have been full of su
nbathers, even on a day like today, when there were more clouds than sun and a chill wind blowing inland. But the swing sets were empty, the volleyball nets deserted, and the die-hard surfers were hanging ten a few miles south at Pelican Ridge State Park.

  A couple of robbers—a pair described by witnesses as “one white male, late teens, wearing a red baseball cap; one black male, late teens, hooded sweatshirt with a Rams insignia”—had been holding up beachgoers, striking randomly, but usually just after sundown. Their favorite victims had been lovers taking a moonlight stroll or snuggling on the beach.

  So Dirk, who had been assigned the case, had called Savannah that morning and suggested they do some beach snuggling and see if they could lure the bad guys out of hiding.

  Savannah had gladly accepted the invitation to take down the bad guys. As far as the beach-blanket cuddling, she told him she would listen to the weather report and if it was, indeed, a cold day in hell, she was up for that, too.

  “How long do you figure we’ll have to wait for these guys to show their ugly mugs?” Dirk asked while he licked the remaining chocolate from his thumb and forefinger.

  “Five days. A week tops,” Savannah replied as she watched a seagull swoop low over their blanket. She covered the top of her Coke can with her hand, just in case. She had gotten over the romance of beach seagulls long ago, after one dropped some “special sauce” on her hamburger. She hadn’t eaten a Big Mac or fed a bird a french fry since.

  “A whole week? That long?” Dirk said with a whine in his voice that irritated the daylights out of her. To Dirk Coulter, “wait” was a four-letter word.

  Actually, she expected they might have a nibble from their teenybopper hoods a lot sooner, but she had learned long ago to prepare Dirk for the worst. That way he would delay his three-year-old, spoiled-baby routine of, “Can we go now? Can we go now? Can we, huh, huh, huh?”

  It was a litany that made her crazy and caused her to entertain homicidal thoughts about strangulation and dismemberment. She thought it better to lie to him than murder him.

  “Yeah, that long,” she said. “Even if they’re out here, they’ll probably want to check us out a few times before they jump us.”

  “Assuming they’re smart, and they probably aren’t, or they’d have real jobs.”

  Savannah grinned. “Like us?”

  “Well, like me.”

  She slugged his arm. “Hey. Just because I’m self-employed now doesn’t mean I don’t work. It’s not easy being a private detective.”

  “What’s hard about it?”

  She sighed. “Not being able to pay the bills when you don’t have any clients.”

  “Yeah, but if you had work, you’d miss out on all this….” He waved his arm wide, indicating the deserted, wind-swept beach. “Not to mention my company.”

  She looked around at the palm trees, swaying in the evening breeze, black silhouettes against a coral- and turquoise-streaked sky. On the far horizon the Avalon Islands floated on a layer of ocean mist and a lighthouse blinked into the gathering darkness. She smiled at him. “Like I said, it’s not an easy life. Sometimes I suffer.”

  “Yeah, yeah. It sucks to be you. I’ve heard it all before.”

  Savannah took a deep breath, drinking in the fresh salt air. For just a moment she could see Lance Roman strolling down the beach wearing nothing but a ragged, bloodstained pair of tights, his hair sweeping back from his rugged face with…a red baseball cap turned backward, walking with a guy in a Rams sweatshirt…?

  “Don’t look now,” she said, “but we’ve got company.”

  Dirk didn’t move, but his eyes brightened, and he smiled a nasty little grin. “Oh yeah? Where?”

  “Over your right shoulder about sixty feet back. Salt-and-pepper team walking this way.”

  “Fit the description?”

  “Yep. And they’re checking us out.” Her mouth had suddenly gone dry. She took a long drink from her cola, then set the can on the sand beside her. “How do you wanna play this one, big boy?” she asked him.

  “You mean I get to be in charge this time?”

  “It’s your gig. You call the shots.”

  He chuckled. “Since when?”

  “Now. And you’d better call it, because they’re closing in fast.”

  “I don’t wanna be sittin’ when they get here,” he said.

  “Me either.”

  “So, let’s stroll, act lovey-dovey.”

  “You got it.”

  He stood and extended his hand to her. Pulling her to her feet, he said, “You want to walk down to the water or stand here and make out?”

  She moved a step closer to him until they were nose to nose. “I wouldn’t want them to think we were trying to get away,” she said.

  “Me either.” He reached out his left arm, wrapped it around her waist and pulled her against him.

  He smelled like chocolate, leather jacket, and aftershave, not a bad combination, she had to admit. He was also deliciously warm, she decided as she involuntarily snuggled closer…and felt a long, hard object between them.

  “Is that a pistol in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?” she asked in her best Mae West impression, while keeping an eye on the approaching twosome in her peripheral vision.

  “Actually, it’s my Smith and Wesson,” he replied as his hand slipped between them and moved slowly beneath her breasts.

  “Then you’d better be reaching for it, boy, and not coppin’ a feel.”

  “Who? Me? Naw, I wouldn’t take advantage of a situation like that.”

  “Oh yes, you’re above all that. You—”

  Her words were cut off by his lips covering hers. Before she knew what was happening, Good Ol’ Dirk was kissing her. And even though she was trying to concentrate on the pair on the beach and attempting to pull her own 9mm Beretta out of its holster beneath her sweater, she couldn’t help noticing that he had a tasty smear of caramel on his lower lip.

  Oh yes…and that Dirk was an especially and unexpectedly good kisser.

  Who woulda thunk it? The words ran through her jangled mind a half-second before she reluctantly ended the kiss, Beretta in hand, but still concealed within her sweater.

  “Ready?” she said, a bit breathlessly.

  She could have sworn she heard him chuckle. “Sure,” he said. “Are you?”

  She felt the press of his weapon against her midriff. They were both as ready as one could get to be robbed. “Yessiree.”

  And the dreadful duo had arrived, stopping about six feet away from them.

  The white kid in the baseball cap pulled a knife from beneath his oversized windbreaker and held it out in front of him. “Give it up, bitch,” he said. “Your purse and your jewelry. Now!”

  The black teen produced a length of chain and began to twirl it in a circle in front of him like a cowboy with a lasso. “Your wallet,” he told Dirk, “and your watch.” He swung the chain in Savannah’s direction. “Do it, bitch, or we’ll mess up your face bad.”

  “Naw,” she responded, her drawl even thicker than usual. “I don’t think so.”

  She and Dirk pulled away from each other and turned toward the pair. In one fluid movement they both pointed their weapons in the robbers’ faces and enjoyed watching their cocky smirks dissolve into looks of shock and profound dismay.

  With his left hand, Dirk produced a badge. “San Carmelita Police Department, and you girls are under arrest.”

  The black kid dropped his chain onto the sand. He started to back away, his hands held up in front of his face. “No,” he said, “I ain’t goin’ in. No.”

  “Freeze!” Dirk shouted. “Right there! Don’t you move!”

  “You can’t shoot us, man,” the other boy said, moving away with his friend. “It’s against the law for you to shoot us when we’re not no threat to nobody and we’re not—”

  A shot crackled in the air, stunning him into silence. The round sizzled as it hit the surf right next to his foot.

&nb
sp; Smoke curled from the barrel of Savannah’s Beretta.

  “Believe me, darlin’,” she said, “I missed you because I intended to. Next shot takes your head clean off.”

  “But…but cops can’t—” he argued.

  “I’m not a cop. Not anymore.” Even in the near-darkness her eyes blazed as she stared the kid down. “I’m just a plain ol’ citizen who’s sick to death of folks not being able to enjoy their beaches because of the likes of you.”

  “But you can’t just shoot me!”

  “Oh, but I will. And I’ll say you rushed me with a knife. It was all I could do. And you’ll be dead, so who’s gonna say otherwise?”

  The boy looked to his friend, who simply shrugged. Turning to Dirk, he said, “So, what’re you gonna do? I’m a juvenile! Are you gonna just stand there and let her shoot a kid?”

  Dirk grinned. “Yep. She’s a good shot, too…hangs out at the range more than I do. She’ll take you down with one, two tops.” He moved closer to them, stuck his badge back in his pocket, and produced a pair of handcuffs. “Or you can just turn around, put your hands up and spread your legs.”

  “Oh, man, this sucks,” the black kid complained as Dirk cuffed him.

  Savannah did the same to his partner and said, “That oughta teach you guys a lesson: Never bring a knife and a chain to a gun fight. Better yet, get a real job at Burger King and work for a living like everybody else.”

  Ten minutes later, Dirk was shoving his prisoners into the backseat of a patrol car while Savannah watched, content and cheerful. She was looking forward to the rest of the evening. Dirk had promised to buy her dinner, and after a satisfying meal—okay, it would be a hot dog if Dirk was buying—she would head home where she’d relax in a bubble bath, then cozy up in bed with her Lance Roman paperbacks and her two cats to keep her feet warm.

  Could life get any better?

  “I can’t believe it!” she heard one of the robbers say just before Dirk slammed the door in his face. “The cops are having their girlfriends shoot people now! Man, that’s not even fair!”