“Should we assume,” John said, handing the poniard to Savannah, “this doesn’t belong to Dirk?”
Savannah took the weapon gingerly and turned it this way, then that, allowing the light to play off the fine scales etched in the cobra’s skin. “Of course it isn’t Dirk’s,” she said. “Dirk doesn’t even own a paring knife. He just learned how to percolate coffee last year.”
“Any chance it belonged to Polly?” Ryan asked.
Savannah shook her head. “I really doubt it. Polly was a prissy girlie type. I don’t think she would have packed a Swiss Army knife, let alone something like that.”
“Then it probably belonged to the killer,” Eileen said. “That’s what McMurtry thought.”
“Jake McMurtry has seen this?” Savannah asked, somewhat surprised.
“Sure.” Eileen gave her a questioning look. “I thought you knew it was his case. He mentioned seeing you at the scene.” She grinned. “He also told me that you’d probably come snooping around. He reminded me how much Hillquist despises you and what he’d do if he found out anybody was helping you.”
“Don’t worry, Eileen,” Savannah reassured her. “We won’t say a word to anybody who might get back to the bosses. In fact, we wouldn’t say anything even if you let us photocopy this little gem ...”
“I can do you one better than that.” Eileen reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a couple of excellent Polaroid photos of the piece.
Savannah had to restrain herself from clapping her hands and jumping up and down like a kid at a birthday party. But as she took the pictures, she became a bit more somber. “You know, Eileen ...” she said, “... we’d never rat you out to the bosses. But I’m going to have to check this out, ask around, show these pictures to get possible leads.”
Eileen shrugged. “You gotta do what you gotta do. We can’t let them nail Dirk on something like that, just because ...” Her voice faded away, and Savannah got the distinct impression she regretted having started the sentence.
“Just because what?” she nudged her.
“Just because ... he’s ... well, a friend of yours.”
Savannah thought that one over for a moment and shivered, as though the temperature in the room had suddenly dropped several degrees. She fingered the deadly, ugly weapon and wondered who the killer had intended to murder with it, Polly, Dirk, or both of them? And was Eileen right? Would Hillquist pin this murder on Dirk, refusing to look down other avenues just because Dirk was closely associated with Savannah?
Did Hillquist really hate her that much?
Years ago, she had exposed some of his own wrongdoings and caused him a great deal of public embarrassment. All this time he had been waiting for the opportunity to get her back. And now the press was clamoring for the bad cop to be hung out to dry.
Of course Hillquist hated her that much. He hated her at least as vehemently as she did him. And even half as much would do the trick.
Ryan’s arm stole around Savannah’s shoulders, and he gave her a companionable, sideways squeeze. “Savannah isn’t the only friend that Dirk has,” he said. “Even if he rubs people the wrong way from time to time, he’s a good guy. And he’s not going to take the rap for a murder that someone else committed. Especially someone who would carry around an ugly weapon like that. Whoever was packing that wicked monstrosity ... he’s definitely one of the bad guys. All we have to do is find him.”
Back in the Bentley, Savannah climbed into the rear seat. And as soon as the men were settled in the front, she got right down to business. “Okay, so it’s a medieval weapon,” she mused. “So, where do we start? Museums, I suppose. Maybe a trip to the university history department.”
“Wait a second,” John said. “A poniard is a medieval weapon, but I didn’t mean to mislead you into thinking that one is a piece of antiquity.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s new. A reproduction.”
“Mass-produced?” Ryan asked.
“Thankfully, no. It was handcrafted by a talented armorer. I studied it closely for any identification stamp, a hallmark, a signature of some sort. But I didn’t see one.”
“Maybe the craftsman made it to the customer’s specifications and wasn’t all that proud of his work,” Savannah suggested.
“That’s precisely what I think.” John nodded thoughtfully. “The workmanship was actually quite good, much more professional than the gaudy, sensational design. I, too, suspect the artist chose not to claim it as his own.”
“So,” Savannah said, “where do you suppose we could find this mercenary, medieval armorer who’s good at what he does but will sell out for a buck? I doubt he advertises in the Yellow Pages under Poniards-R-Us.”
“I know where we could go that we would be waist deep in medieval artisans,” Ryan said.
Savannah was all ears. Finally, she had a hot lead, and she was ready to take it and run if she only knew. “Where? Where can we go?”
John smiled broadly and nodded at Ryan. “Grand idea. But I thought they began in April.”
“The big one does,” Ryan agreed, “but there’s another, smaller version going on now.”
“Big one? Smaller one?” She leaned over the back of the front seat and poked them in the ribs with her forefinger. “What are you two talking about?”
Ryan glanced back at her and raised one eyebrow suggestively. “Let me put it this way, fair damsel. How lookest thou in a corset?”
When Ryan and John chauffeured Savannah back to her door, she was surprised to see Tammy’s hot pink Volkswagen bug still sitting in her driveway.
“Your hired help works long hours,” Ryan said as he opened Savannah’s car door and handed her out.
Savannah nodded. “She’s a jewel. You all are, and I love you to pieces.”
His lips brushed her cheek. “And the feeling is mutual.”
“Good night, love,” John said from the driver’s seat.
“Remember your promise ... right to bed. I want you well rested for the Medieval Faire tomorrow morning.”
“I will, cross my heart.”
“I wish you had accepted our offer to buy you dinner,” Ryan said. “I think a nice meal would have done wonders for you.”
“I’m too exhausted to eat,” Savannah replied with a sigh that seemed to rise from her tired toes. “I never thought I’d say that, but it’s true.” She blew John a kiss. “I promise: straight to bed.”
She dragged herself away from them and into the house. The moment she opened the door, she was greeted with a familiar, heartstring-twanging smell ... a scent from her childhood.
“Fried chicken?” she said, shaking her head in wonderment. “It can’t be, but ...”
And it wasn’t any take-out-in-a-bucket kind either. It smelled exactly like her Gran’s chicken ... and gravy, too!
“Is that you, Savannah?” Tammy called from the kitchen. “I’m in here.”
“Well, glory be! Wonders never cease! A beach-bum bimbo in the kitchen! Who woulda thought it?”
Savannah hurried through the living room and nearly collided with Tammy, who was emerging from the kitchen, an actual dishtowel tied around her waist for an apron, a smudge of flour on her nose, and a grin as broad as McGillicuddy’s barn door on her face.
“What are you up to?” Savannah asked her. “And what is that heavenly smell?”
“What does it smell like?” Tammy replied coyly.
“It smells like my Granny Reid’s fried chicken, but you must be toying with me, tantalizing my taste buds with dreams of what cannot be.”
Tammy opened the oven door with a flourish. “Voilà! Chicken à la Gran!”
Inside, nestled in a baking pan half-covered with foil was golden brown, crisp, and mouthwatering moist, home-fried chicken. And on the stove, bubbling in a cast-iron skillet was ... cream gravy.
“When did you ... ? How did you ... ?”
Tammy grinned and hurried over to stir the gravy with a wooden spoon. “I called your
grandmother. I told her you were having a tough day, and when I mentioned that you weren’t even taking time to eat, she knew it was serious.”
Savannah sniffed. “Thanks, Tam.”
“And I asked her what your favorite homemade dinner was and how to make it.”
Savannah opened the oven door and looked inside again, just to make sure it wasn’t a starving woman’s mirage. The moment she had gotten the first whiff, her appetite had returned with a vengeance.
“And Gran just told you how, and you did it?” she asked, incredulous.
“Well ... I had to call her back about seven times to ask stuff, but, basically, yeah.”
Savannah walked over to Tammy, slipped her arm around her teeny, tiny waist, and gave her a sideways hug. “You know what I’m gonna do, babycakes? I’m gonna give you a great big old honkin’ raise.”
“A raise? Really?” Tammy did a little in-place, gravy-making jig. “All the way to up to minimum wage?”
“Minimum wage?” Savannah looked at her as though she had lost her mind entirely. “What do you think, girl? I’m made of money?”
Half an hour later, as Savannah licked the last bits of deliciously greasy crust dust from her fingers, a look of sadness crossed her face.
Tammy was sitting across the table from her, too grossed out by the action of actually touching raw animal flesh with her fingers that she was swearing off food of all kinds for a week. She saw the look, and said, “What is it? You’re thinking about Dirk, aren’t you? You’re wondering what he had for dinner tonight.”
“That’s true. I was.” She shrugged and reached for another chicken leg. “Oh, well, whatever they gave him, it was his favorite meal.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because it was free ... and free food is always Dirk’s favorite. It’s the only upside to being in jail.”
Tammy stayed much longer than she normally would that evening—even missing her Tae Kwon Do workout at the Y—and Savannah knew why. She was being a good friend, lending quiet support, and keeping Savannah’s mind off Dirk, at least a little. But, eventually, she had to go. And when she left a little after ten, Savannah was shocked at how empty and lonely her house seemed.
Normally, Savannah liked living alone, just herself and the two furry faces, and Dirk dropping by for a free meal a time or two a week. But tonight, with the thought that Dirk’s visits might have become a thing of the past, she was already feeling the loss of his warm, masculine, dearly familiar and comforting presence.
It wasn’t going to happen! Not if she had anything to do with it!
They weren’t going to string Dirk out to dry just because they hated her and because Hillquist and Jeffries wanted to ascend the success ladder a couple of rungs.
No way!
She wanted to do something more tonight. At least curl up in her comfy chair with a legal pad and make notes, weigh what little evidence they had, brainstorm a bit.
But the dark dots that danced in front of her eyes and made the world spin inside her head warned her that she had to grab a few hours’ sleep before she collapsed entirely. Ryan and John said they would drop by at dawn-thirty and, not being a morning person, she knew that hour would roll around quickly. She had a case to solve and a Medieval Faire to go to, whatever the hell that was. And she needed to be at least semiconscious for both.
As she turned out the lights, double-checked the door locks, and headed for the stairs, she passed the desk ... and its wastepaper can ... and Macon’s printed e-mail, which Tammy had tossed there. Well, she hadn’t exactly thrown it in the trash. Delicately placed it there, prominently on top, where Savannah could clearly see it when she walked by was closer to the truth.
Tomorrow was garbage-collection day. She could, should, just leave it there, where it belonged, and in twenty-four hours it would be a part of her past.
Just as Macon Reid was part of her past and not her present.
Just the way she liked it.
If she picked up the piece of paper, he would become her present ... and, heaven knew, the present had troubles enough of its own and didn’t need to borrow sorrows from days gone by.
But her hand picked it up anyway, in spite of her better judgment’s warnings to let sleeping, even dead, dogs lie. She held it down to her side as she climbed the steps and walked down the hall to her bedroom. Carefully, without looking at any of the words printed on it, she laid the paper on her night table and walked to the bathroom to perform her nightly grooming rituals.
As she brushed her teeth, she thought about Dirk’s predicament and hoped he would pass the night of incarceration in relative safety. While she applied nightly moisturizer, she thought of the poniard with its ugly, snarling, cobra head and wondered how difficult it would be to locate the armorer who had crafted it. When combing her hair, she mentally rehearsed the questions she would ask lawyer Larry Bostwick the next time she had the opportunity to speak to him.
By the time she crawled into bed, she had managed not to think about the paper with Macon’s words on it at all. Well, almost not at all.
But there was no point in putting it off any longer. She knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep in the same room as that damned paper, unless she had read it. Of course, once she read it, depending upon what he said, she might have problems sleeping anyway. So, she was damned to insomnia either way.
She pulled the comforter and lace-edged sheet up around her throat, as though, somehow, the fabric could shield her from whatever pain the auld acquaintance being renewed might cost her.
For as long as she could remember, she hadn’t been able to shield her heart from him. Why was she so foolish as to think she could now?
Allowing herself one quick glance at the words, she saw, “years have come and gone ...”
“Yeah, no kidding,” she muttered. Then she took a deep breath and began to read from the beginning. Might as well get it over with, she thought. Just do it quick, like ripping off a bandage. It’ll only hurt for a second.
The letter was short and sweet, at least for Macon, who had never had a way with words.
Dear Savannah,
I don’t know if you will ever read this or not, but I’m trying to get in touch with you. I want to see you. It’s important. Can I buy you a cup of coffee sometime? Years have come and gone and it’s time to make amends.
Love,
Macon
Make amends? What amends could be made? she wondered. There was nothing she wanted from Macon Reid, except to be left alone in peace.
Why was he trying to get in touch after all this time? Did he have cancer or some other terminal illness? Had he experienced some sort of religious conversion and needed forgiveness? Or maybe he had started going to AA meetings after all, the way they had begged him to for years and was trying to fulfill that step about making things right with those you’d wronged.
Whatever his motive, Savannah had learned to live her life without a man’s support and protection. She had learned to do without it very early, and she didn’t need Macon Reid now. If, at this late date, he had decided he needed something from her ... well ... that was his misfortune.
She crumpled up the paper and dropped it in the nearby wicker waste can. Having read it, she decided not to reply, to ignore the fact that she had ever received it. Avoidance, denial ... yes, those were the best routes to take when dealing with a man like Macon Reid. That had been her mind-set for years; why change it now?
But sleep didn’t come as easily or as quickly as Savannah had hoped. She lay there, watching the moonlight filter through the lace curtains and paint delicate designs on the bed’s covering. She thought of all the things she had learned from Macon Reid. Lesson Number One: Don’t count on men to be there for you. They pretend to be strong, reliable, but when you really need them, they leave ... laying down skid marks on the pavement.
Then Savannah thought of Ryan and John, their gentle support, their determination to help her with this case. She thought of Dirk, wh
o had put his life on the line for her, literally, a number of times. She recalled how many times he had knocked on her door, just when she needed him most. How he had listened until dawn if she needed a friend to hear her side of an emotional issue.
And she felt ashamed for having applied that lesson to all males.
“No, Macon, it isn’t true,” she whispered to the father who had missed so many birthdays, graduations, Christmas plays, and tooth fairy appointments. “It isn’t true that men aren’t there when you need them. Some are.” She sighed and snuggled deeper into her pillow. “Some ... are.”
CHAPTER TEN
“Get off my face, or I swear, I’ll make cat soup out of you!” For the third time, Savannah shoved Diamante off her pillow ... or it might have been Cleopatra, or both cats. Before the break of dawn she didn’t have enough brain-cell activity to tell the difference.
The cat returned, purring loudly, rubbing herself in a sweep from nose to tail tip along Savannah’s cheek.
“You foul, odious beast, I hope you—” She inhaled a fur ball and choked on the rest of her curse.
Then she heard the doorbell ringing downstairs. “Oh, I see. You’re being a good watchcat. Gee ... thanks,” she added without enthusiasm. “If you weren’t so conscientious, I could have slept right through it and arisen at the crack of noon.”
She had minimal brain function by the time she opened the door and saw Ryan standing there, dressed like Conan the Barbarian, carrying some other sort of weird outfit slung over his arm.
Running her fingers through her mussed curls, she yawned, and said, “Don’t tell me you expect me to put that on.”
He grinned his Rock Hudson smile and looked her up and down. “Unless you intend to go to a medieval gathering in your pajamas.”
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