07-Peaches And Screams

by G. A. McKevett

  “We got company,” Gran said, slowly rising from the table, “and they must be strangers. Sounds like Beau’s gonna eat ’em, if we don’t put a stop to it.” She shook her head. “I don’t know what’s gotten into that animal lately. He’s been so high-strung and nervous, with all that’s goin’ on. And now we got company. Who do you reckon it is, callin’ at this time o’ the morning?”

  “Tammy! Dirk! Oh, mercy! I don’t believe it!” Savannah practically flew off the porch and straight into a threesome hug with her old friends, who met her with open arms.

  Gran and Jesup grabbed Beauregard by his leather collar as he lunged at the new arrivals and sang at the top of his hound lungs.

  Once Tammy and Dirk realized they were actually embracing each other, the tri-hug ended abruptly.

  “When did you . . . ?” Savannah blabbered, “How did you . . . ? Oh, I don’t care. I’m so happy to see you!”

  If Savannah hadn’t realized before that moment how much those two meant to her, how much strength she derived from their friendship, she did then. And she would never forget it.

  “How do you figure we got here?” Dirk growled. “We took the midnight train to Georgia.” He looked oh-so-imposed upon . . . and loving every minute of it.

  “More like a red-eye flight,” Tammy added. “And Dirko here snored the whole way, kept the whole plane awake.”

  “It wasn’t me who kept things in an uproar. It was those black flea-bags you brought with us.”

  Black flea-bags? Savannah’s mind searched for a cross-reference. And found one.

  Along with the reason Beauregard was still going bonkers, struggling against Gran and Cordele, hurling himself toward the small compact car they had undoubtedly rented at the airport.

  Tammy grinned and shrugged. “They didn’t exactly like the travel cages,” she told Savannah. “And I wouldn’t let the airline people put them in the luggage compartment. They were under our seats, meowing all the way.”

  Savannah hurried over to the car and opened the back door. Sure enough. Two tiny plastic cages on the rear seat held two of the unhappiest felines she had seen in a long time. Four green eyes glared out at her, basically saying, “How could you? This is all your fault, Mom, and we’ll never forgive you.”

  But their anger evaporated, turning to terror as Beauregard broke free from Gran and Cordele and raced to the car. A second later, the dog shoved Savannah aside as he wriggled past her and jumped into the rear floorboard of the car.

  Savannah found herself in a whirlwind of hissing, barking, snarling, furry fury.

  “Oh, Lord help us!” Gran cried. “He’ll eat those cats whole, he will! The Colonel hates cats somethin’ fierce!”

  “Damn it, Beau! Get outta here!” Savannah snatched at handfuls of saggy, baggy hound hide, but couldn’t get a hold.

  Just when she thought the battle was lost, the dog yelped. Something changed.

  Inch by inch, Colonel Beauregard was retreating.

  Well, not exactly leaving under his own steam, Savannah realized when she saw Dirk’s big hands locked around the dog’s lower legs. Dirk was hauling the hound, kicking and yelping, out of the car, butt first.

  “I got him!” Dirk shouted. “I got him! I—owww! Shit!”

  “Oh, dear,” Gran said, looking on sadly, shaking her head. “I was afraid of that.”

  Five minutes later, the weary combatants were settled in Gran’s kitchen. Savannah sat at the table with Dirk, applying hydrogen peroxide to his wounded hand.

  Sitting on the floor, Jesup held Beauregard’s head on her lap and dabbed the long scratch on his muzzle with a cotton ball. “Did Savannah’s mean old cat hurt you?” she said. The dog whined, his eyes rolling.

  “Savannah’s cat was fighting for her life,” Savannah reminded her as she applied antibiotic cream to the small punctures in Dirk’s palm.

  “Those cats were in cages,” Jesup argued. “They weren’t in any real danger. It’s not like he could actually bite them. They didn’t have to reach through the bars and—”

  “Oh, please! They could’ve died of heart failure!” Savannah snapped. “How would you like to travel for hours on a plane and then have the hound from hell—?”

  “That’s enough!” Gran roared. “No harm’s done . . . except to you, Mr. Coulter, that is. I’m real sorry about that.”

  Dirk grumbled under his breath. Savannah heard something about “better not . . . rabies . . .”

  She wound a strip of gauze around his hand, then gave the uninjured one a squeeze. “That was a good save, big boy,” she said, “yanking him outta there like that. I owe ya.”

  “You bet you do, and I’ll collect. I’m talking a chicken-fried-steak dinner, mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, the works.”

  “But don’t worry about that yet,” Tammy said as she sat on the chair next to Dirk’s. “We’re here to help you.” She looked around the kitchen at each concerned Reid face. “We’re here to help all of you any way we can. What can we do?”

  Chapter 8

  “There’s no way in hell that Tommy’s going to let you talk to Macon,” Savannah told Dirk. “I had to twist his arm plumb out of its socket to get in myself. And that was before they found those medals under his bed.”

  She had filled them in on all the sordid details on the way into town from Gran’s house. Now they sat in the front seat of the rented car, Tammy in the back, watching the front of the McGill sheriff’s station half a block away.

  Tom’s cruiser was parked in front of the building. They had seen Sheriff Mahoney drive away ten minutes before in a new Ford pickup.

  “Tommy, is it?” Dirk’s ears perked. He propped his forearms on the steering wheel. Savannah half expected him to flex his biceps. “Is this Tommy an old buddy of yours?”

  “This is a one-horse town, Dirk,” Savannah replied, as evenly as possible. “Everybody here is either a friend or an enemy. And, being Southerners, we’re basically friendly. Somebody’s gotta actually do us wrong . . . or hurt someone we care about . . . to become a full-fledged enemy.”

  She cleared her throat and turned away to look out the window. “So, yes . . . I guess you could say he’s a buddy of mine. But he’s still not going to let you in to talk to Macon.”

  “Yeah, well, we’ll see about that. I can outsmart a hick deputy all day long and twice on Sunday. What’s the name of the local hangout?”

  “What?”

  “The bar where the lowlife spends most of its time and money.”

  “Whiskey Joe’s. It’s a couple of miles out of town.”

  Savannah didn’t bother to add the fact that her mother, Shirley Reid, was one of Joe’s most faithful patrons, and when she was particularly hard-up she sometimes tended bar there.

  “Do you figure that phone booth over there works?” he asked, nodding toward a dilapidated cubicle leaning against a nearby service station.

  “It worked last time I used it,” Savannah told him.

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Let’s just say I put in one thin dime, and my call went through.”

  “Oh,” Tammy said from the backseat, “back in the Jurassic era.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Gimme a quarter.” Dirk held out his bandaged hand.

  What a cheapskate, Savannah thought. Then she reminded herself that he had taken a fang for her. What a guy.

  She fished some coins out of her purse and dropped them into his hand. “By the way,” she told him, “they don’t have 911 around here. You’ll have to call information to get the station’s number.”

  “He’s going to call the station?” Tammy asked, leaning over the back of the seat as she watched Dirk walk to the phone.

  “Oh, yeah. This is one of his favorites . . . reporting a major row in the local dive. He throws in a few gory details about broken beer bottles and somebody’s ear nearly sliced off, hanging by an itsy-bitsy flap of skin. By the time he’s done spinning his yarn, ninety percent of the area’s law
enforcement is hightailin’ it out there.”

  “Hm-m-m . . . ” Tammy mused. “Is that a misdemeanor or a felony?”

  “Depends on whether or not they catch you. Of course, Dirk’s going to have to work up a Dixie drawl if he’s gonna pull it off this time. Southerners can spot a Yankee a mile off.”

  “But Dirk’s from California.”

  “Anybody who ain’t from south of the Mason-Dixon line is a Yankee.”

  “How about somebody from another country?”

  “They’re a foreigner.”

  “I see . . . I think.”

  Savannah turned around and looked Tammy up and down. She was wearing a simple shirt blouse and a denim skirt. “Can you pull your shirttail out and tie it in a knot at your midriff?”

  “Ah . . . yeah, I guess so. Why?”

  “And could you roll that skirt up at the waistband and make it about four inches shorter?”

  “Well, yes. Like this?”

  “Yeah, and take that scrunchy out of your hair and shake it loose.”

  Tammy did as she was told, a smirk on her face. “Let me guess, I’m the slut bait.”

  “Now, now, you’re in Georgia. Ladies here don’t have potty mouths. I was thinking more like ‘truck-stop cutie.’ ”

  “You think it’ll work on your buddy Tommy?”

  Savannah flashed back on Tom’s former appreciation of her own voluptuous curves.

  No. Tammy’s size-zero bod wouldn’t do it for Deputy Stafford. “Dirk’s taking care of Tom with the call,” she said. “You’ll have to work your wicked female wiles on someone else. And with any luck, you’ll be just his type.”

  Four minutes later, Dirk’s plan had unfolded and each of the players had changed their positions on the chessboard. Even those who weren’t aware—at least, not yet—that they were playing. Tom Stafford was in his cruiser, racing off to quell the mayhem at Whiskey Joe’s. The pharmacist, Fred Jeter, was leaning into the open hood of the rental car with Tammy beside him, explaining her theory of the “awful, knocking sound” her engine had been making just before the car stalled down the block from the station. Enthralled by the lengthy expanse of her lean legs, Fred had remained clueless as his jail had been invaded. And Dirk and Savannah had slipped in the front door unobserved, scooted up the stairs, and were standing in front of Macon’s cell.

  “Get over here. We’ve gotta talk fast,” Dirk said, looking over his shoulder, “or our butts are going to be as crispy fried as yours.”

  “Who are you?” a sullen Macon wanted to know.

  “Do what he said,” Savannah snapped at him. “It’s only a matter of time till either Jeter or Tom gets back, and we’ve gotta know some things.”

  Macon hauled his hulk off the cot and shuffled on stockinged feet over to the bars. “What? I done told you everything, Savan-nah. Why don’t you just let it be?”

  Dirk reached through the bars and grabbed a handful of Macon’s T-shirt. “ ’Cause you’re probably gonna get tried, convicted, and maybe executed for murder, smart guy. And your sister is gonna feel lower than dog shit if she doesn’t do everything she can to get you off. So, help her out, okay?”

  A light of fear flickered in Macon’s eyes, and for a moment Savannah envied Dirk. It had been a long time since she had instilled a drop of fear in one of her siblings. Too long. She’d have to sharpen up her intimidation and manipulation skills.

  “They know you were in the Patterson mansion,” she told her brother. “They’ve got your prints on the window sill. Your Ruger was on the floor, and they’re pretty sure it was the murder weapon.”

  Macon stared, sullen, at the floor. “So?”

  “So, you’re screwed, my friend,” Dirk said, releasing his hold on him. “What happened? You and your friend break in, figuring to rob the old guy?”

  Macon shrugged. “We didn’t know he was home. His big ol’ black car was gone. We thought he was at that golf club, like he usually was late in the afternoon.”

  Savannah felt her stomach tighten. Of course, she had known from the evidence that her brother had been there, but there was nothing like hearing a confession with your own ears to make you sick.

  “You broke in through the window, and then what?” Dirk said.

  “The old man came at us, roarin’ like some kind of a lion.” Macon shuddered. Apparently, the memory was still rich. “He was swingin’ that cane around like a crazy person. He hit me hard, right here.” He pointed to the bruised area on his forearm. “And he whacked Kenny Jr. across the back, too. Hit him so hard, he knocked him right on the floor.”

  “And so you shot him,” Dirk added.

  “No! I did not!”

  “Did Kenny Jr.?” Savannah asked.

  “No! That’s when Kenny dropped the gun . . . my gun. He was the one carryin’ it. We didn’t hurt the judge. Hell, we didn’t get a chance to.” Macon’s ruddy face flushed several shades brighter. “We just hightailed it outta there. Both of us. After he got whalloped, Junior was yellin’ like a scalded pig. I’m telling ya, we were scared shitless. That wasn’t what we had in mind at all. We were just gonna go in there, get a few of those fancy pistols of his outta the gun cabinet, and leave. But he started screamin’ and beatin’ and she-e-ez! It was awful!”

  “Are you telling me,” Savannah said, slowly, as though he were three years old again, “that the judge was alive when you . . . hightailed it outta there?”

  “Damn right, he was alive. Alive and kickin’, and screechin’, and swingin’ that cane. Lordy, he was mad!”

  Savannah glanced at Dirk and saw a look on his face that surprised her. Dirk was buying it. She only wished she could.

  “What about the medals?” she said.

  The look her brother gave her was as blank as a freshly washed chalkboard.

  “What medals? What are you talking about?”

  “The Civil War medals that were hanging on the wall in a frame. The frame you broke,” Dirk added.

  Macon shook his head and ran his fingers through his short hair, causing it to stand on end. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Medals? What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “The medals you stole from the judge’s house and stashed under your bed.” Savannah watched his face for any sign of recognition, but saw only confusion.

  “I didn’t take no medals,” he said. “I told you, we went there for some of his guns. And we didn’t even get the chance to grab any of those. I swear, me and Kenny Jr. didn’t take nothin’ outta there but a couple of nasty bruises.”

  Savannah glanced around into the other cells which, other than the one occupied by Yukon Bill, were empty. “Where is Kenny Jr.? I thought they picked him up, too.”

  “They did,” Macon replied. “But I heard them downstairs saying something about stashing him in the jail over in Brownsville. They didn’t want us talking to each other up here and getting our stories straight.”

  “Don’t you be talking to anybody about anything, not till you get a lawyer,” Dirk said, shaking his forefinger a few inches from Macon’s nose.

  “I know. I know. Savannah done told me that.”

  “Well, you listen to her, boy. She knows what’s best. And we’re going to do all we can for you, okay? So you just sit tight and don’t sweat it. Everything’s gonna work out.”

  Savannah watched as Macon’s eyes searched Dirk’s and seemed to find something comforting in the older man. Silently, she blessed her friend. Again.

  “Okay.” Macon nodded and looked as though his burden had been lightened by at least a couple of ounces. “Thanks, man.”

  “Don’t thank me. Thank her. She’s a lot better to both of us than we deserve.”

  A few moments later, as they walked away from Macon’s cell, heading back downstairs, Savannah nudged Dirk with her elbow.

  “Better than you deserve, huh, buddy?”

  “Eh, don’t let it go to your head. I was just bullshittin’ the kid.”

  “Yeah, right. I heard
you the first time and . . . Uh, oh. Trouble down below.”

  They both heard it at the same time, and they halted there on the third step from the top.

  A two-way conversation in the office at the bottom of the stairs. Somebody was getting an earful.

  “When you are left in charge of this place, Deputy Jeter, you are to remain on your post, come hell or high water, or good-lookin’ women with car trouble. Do you hear me, boy?”

  “I do, Sheriff. I’m sorry, but she said she was afraid it was about to catch fire, and I thought—”

  “That’s where you went wrong . . . that ‘thinking’ crap. We don’t pay you to think around here. We pay you to do what I say.”

  “Y’all don’t pay me,” was the soft, halfhearted reply.

  “What?”

  “I said, y’all don’t exactly pay me. I’m a volunteer, and—”

  “Does that mean you can shirk your duty, deputy? Does that mean you can go traipsin’ around and leave this facility unattended?”

  “No, sir.”

  Savannah leaned against Dirk and whispered in his ear. “We’re dead. We can’t stay up here all day, and when we go down, we’re compost.”

  “No, Deputy Jeter’s dead.” He grinned his wry little sadistic smirk, the one he wore when he was actually savoring the prospect of conflict. “You and me . . . we’re just gonna get our butts roasted.”

  Chapter 9

  Sheriff Mahoney stood by the water cooler, his thick arms crossed over the bulge of his belly, his stout legs spread, firm and planted. Nearby, the poor little pharmacist was quaking inside his white smock, wringing his hands and looking as though he would gladly walk out of that office and into a den of rabid hyenas.

  Savannah had never liked Mahoney, not even when she was a kid and he was a deputy. She didn’t trust him then, and she had met too many cops like him in the intervening years who had only deepened that prejudice.

  Most law enforcement officers were good people, she truly believed, who did a difficult job well, out of concern for their fellow humans.