07-Peaches And Screams

by G. A. McKevett

  “We’ve gotta fill in that blank before we get much further.”

  Savannah glanced around and saw a young man walking along a path that crossed theirs, dressed in tennis shorts and a polo shirt, swinging a racket. His clothes were startlingly white against his dark tan; even Gran, laundry queen, would have been impressed. His hair and eyes were the same shade of brown as his skin, and his GQ good looks rang a bell in her memory banks.

  “That’s Goodwin,” she told Dirk. “I recognize him. It’s Mack Goodwin, the prosecutor son-in-law.”

  Dirk grunted under his breath. He made it a practice to be unimpressed with any guy who dressed better than he did. And that constituted a high percentage of the male population. “I guess he’s working out his grief on the tennis court,” he said. “Looks all broken up about the old man’s passing.”

  “Ah, you never know,” Savannah said, playing devil’s advocate. Not because she particularly disagreed with Dirk, but just on principle. Somebody had to counteract his negativity and maintain the cosmic balance.

  They were both surprised when Goodwin changed his direction and came their way.

  When he reached them, he flashed them a broad smile that was as bright as his outfit. But the smile didn’t make it to his eyes.

  Goodwin shifted the racket to his left hand and held out his right to Savannah. “You’re Macon Reid’s sister. I heard you were in town.”

  She shook his hand, but released it quickly. This man would probably be the one to try her little brother in a court of law. She had no intention of becoming a pal of his. Besides, she didn’t trust anyone who smiled with their mouth, but not their eyes.

  Goodwin turned to Dirk. “And you’re a friend of hers from California. A detective with the Los Angeles PD, I believe.”

  Dirk gave him a firm handshake that made him wince ever so slightly. Savannah secretly smiled to herself. Men and their games. They were so much more overt and entertaining than women’s.

  “I’m not from L.A.,” Dirk corrected him with obvious satisfaction. “San Carmelita. It’s on the coast north of L.A.”

  “And you came all the way out here to help your friend’s brother. How nice of you.” Goodwin’s emphasis on the word “nice” and the coldness in his eyes made the pineapple malted in Savannah’s stomach do a little shiver.

  But Dirk gave him look for icy look and said evenly, “What can I say, I’m just a swell guy. Besides, we wanna make sure that nobody gets a murder pinned on them that they didn’t do.”

  “We all want to make sure of that,” Goodwin replied. “That’s why I haven’t charged Macon yet . . . and won’t, until I have all the facts.”

  “And, of course,” Savannah added, “you wouldn’t want to do anything until he’s at least had a chance to talk to a lawyer, huh? I mean, it’s pretty awful that he’s gotta sit there, cooling his heels in jail without benefit of counsel.” She turned to Dirk. “I’ll bet that’s against the law . . . him sitting there, unrepresented . . . even here. Don’t you?”

  Dirk nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, yeah. If that happened where we come from, a suspect would have all kinds of grounds to—”

  “We’ve contacted Claude Wilkins,” Goodwin interjected, “and he’s cutting his fishing trip in the Ozarks short. He’ll be back by tomorrow morning. That’s soon enough.”

  “Well, not really,” Savannah said. “But I guess it’ll do.”

  “And meanwhile”—Goodwin propped his racket on his shoulder and spun it around a few times—“You two had better watch where you’re stepping around here, and who you’re talking to. I wouldn’t want the whole lot of you up on charges for interfering with an investigation.”

  “That’s fine . . .” Savannah stepped closer to him, until they were eye to eye. “. . . As long as there’s an investigation going on. I mean, I’d hate to think that y’all are sitting around on your fists, like you’ve got everything figured out. My brother’s a young man, a good kid, and we’re talking about his life here.”

  “Actually, I’ve heard that your little brother is a bit of a punk.” Goodwin held his ground as Savannah took another step closer, her fists clenched. “And my father-in-law was a good person. You ought to have seen him, Ms. Reid, laying there dead on his rug. I’ll never get over coming upon a scene like that. It’ll haunt me till my dying day. And if your brother did it . . . and I think he did . . . I’m going to see him strapped to a table with a needle in his arm. It’s the least I can do for a man who gave me everything I’ve got.”

  Savannah could feel her pulse, pounding hot and red in her face. Her vision started to blur, and for a moment she thought she might even pass out.

  With an effort, she gathered her mental and emotional reserves and resisted the urge to crumple. The last thing she wanted was to faint dead away at Mack Goodwin’s feet.

  She felt Dirk’s hand close around her upper arm. “Come on, Van,” he said, giving her a slight tug. “There’s no point in standing around here, talking to this guy. His mind’s already made up, and we’ve got work to do.”

  Reluctantly, she allowed Dirk to lead her away. But as they left, she heard Goodwin call after them, “You two watch yourselves. I mean it. I won’t tolerate the relatives of the accused obstructing justice. You hear me?”

  While Dirk filled the car’s tank at the service station on Main Street, Savannah used the phone booth to call Gran.

  “Don’t cook supper tonight, Gran. Dirk and I are going to take care of it.”

  “What do you mean, don’t cook?” Gran sounded as though Savannah were speaking some incomprehensible foreign tongue. “I’ll probably have the whole crew over here again, and they’re ugly when they’re hungry. I’ve already laid out the hamburger to thaw for meatloaf.”

  “Well, stick it in the refrigerator and use it tomorrow night, or the next. At least for tonight, you’re off duty.”

  “But . . . but . . .” Gran sputtered on the other end. “Whatever will I do with myself?”

  “Why don’t you sit in the swing on the front porch and watch your flowers grow? Better yet, sing to them, and they’ll grow even faster.”

  Gran chuckled. “Not the way I sing, sugar. You forgot; I got a voice that can curdle buttermilk.”

  It was Savannah’s turn to laugh. Gran did have a bit of a reputation in church for singing loudly and a tad off key.

  “So do I,” Savannah said. “But you always told me it didn’t matter, as long as you ‘make a joyful noise unto the Lord.’ You said the Almighty ain’t picky about such things.”

  “That’s true. But I just can’t imagine not making supper, I mean . . .”

  “Imagine it, Gran. It’s time. High time somebody started taking care of you, instead of the other way around. Go. Sit. Swing. Sing.”

  An hour later, Savannah, Tammy, and Dirk arrived at the old farmhouse, bearing nine large pizzas from the Pizza Palace in Brownsville. Sure enough, the house looked as though Sherman’s army had invaded and set up camp.

  Besides their threesome and Gran, the dinner crowd included Alma, Waycross, Cordele, Jesup, Vidalia and Butch and their two sets of twins, and Marietta, her two boys, and her fiancé. Just your usual dinner for eighteen, sitting around a table made for eight . . . tops.

  Once again, the children stood at the counter, but they complained less. After all, there was pizza to munch.

  The level of conversational buzz was deafening. Savannah glanced to either side of her and saw that Dirk and Tammy were positively stunned.

  Ha, wimps, she thought with an inward giggle. So-called “normal” families had no idea what true togetherness was all about. You couldn’t get much more “together” than having your sibling’s elbow in your face during a meal or getting your shins kicked continually under the supper table.

  “Anybody hear anything new on Macon and his predicament?” Butch asked as he shoved half a slice of pepperoni and mushroom pie into his face.

  “We had ourselves a busy afternoon,” Savannah said, “talk
ing to several folks, but I wouldn’t say we turned up anything worthwhile. Anybody else?”

  Waycross reached for a slice of the sausage and onion pizza. “Some guys were talkin’ at the garage today. They said it was Mack Goodwin found the judge dead. Said he was all shook up about it, was practically cryin’ when he called the sheriff and reported it.”

  “Well, I guess he made a pretty fast recovery,” Savannah said, dabbing at her mouth with a paper napkin. “We talked to him this afternoon at the country club, and he didn’t look particularly distraught when he told us to mind our own business or get locked up.”

  Gran offered her a refill of iced tea. “Y’all had better watch yourself. That Mack Goodwin’s known around here for comin’ down hard on criminals. And we don’t need the three of you in jail along with Macon.”

  “That’s right!” Marietta agreed. “Why, our wedding rehearsal is tomorrow night! If you get locked up, Savannah, we’ll be short a girl on the bridesmaids’ side of the line-up. It’ll look lopsided.”

  Her fiancé, a quiet, timid little guy with curly brown hair and big hazel eyes, squirmed a bit in his chair. Savannah guessed why, but restrained herself from asking.

  Cordele, on the other hand, didn’t feel the need. “Is your divorce through yet, Lester? Did your old lady sign the papers?”

  Lester choked on his pizza. Marietta slapped him on the back, far harder than necessary.

  “Lester’s working on it,” Marietta snapped at her younger sister. “He’s about got the battle-ax where he wants her. They’re just arguing about who’s gonna get the new pickup. We’ve got till Saturday.”

  “That’s only three days from now,” seven-year-old Jillian added, smiling a big, red pizza-sauce grin.

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Gran said, giving Cordele a warning look. “Eat your supper before it’s ice cold.”

  Marietta’s two boys, Steve and Paulie, stood at the counter with the other kids, chowing down on the pizza. Both were in their early teens, the products of Marietta’s former marriages, one from each ex-husband.

  Savannah saw a couple of sly smirks pass between them, and she wondered what they thought of Lester. Both were taller than their prospective stepfather, and beefier. Lester was going to have his hands full, trying to assert himself as alpha male in that household. She also wondered, not for the first time, if Marietta had thought this one through. She doubted it.

  Marietta was famous in McGill for her ability to create the “biggest” hairdos for proms and weddings at her salon and for the fancy designs she airbrushed on acrylic nails.

  But she wasn’t so well known for her common sense.

  “Boy, those pizzas weren’t long for this world,” Dirk whispered in her ear. He had nearly fainted when he realized how much it cost to feed the crew for only one meal.

  “Yeah, there’s a certain wolfpack efficiency to the way food disappears around here,” Savannah replied.

  “I made a carrot cake this mornin’,” Gran said, pushing back her chair. “Who wants a piece?”

  “You sit down, Gran,” Savannah said quickly. “If you made it, somebody else can serve it.”

  Everyone at the table . . . and the counter . . . stared at Savannah as though she had lost her mind. Apparently, the concept of self-sufficiency was foreign around here.

  “I’ll get it.” She stood and walked over to the refrigerator, where the cake with its thick cream-cheese frosting awaited the same fate as the pizzas. Setting it in the center of the table, in front of Marietta, she said, “Mari, would you cut Gran a piece first, and then serve our company?”

  “Well, I worked all day, but I reckon I could . . .”

  “Everybody at this table worked today. So, yes, I reckon you could.” Savannah shoved the handle of a knife into her hand, then pushed a stack of plates at her.

  Savannah turned to the youngsters. “If y’all want some cake, you clear these dishes off the table and take out the trash. Take those pizza boxes out to the burning barrel.”

  After a stunned moment of silence, a whirlwind of activity erupted, and in no time, the mess was cleared and the cake served.

  The crowd was munching cheerfully when Beauregard scrambled off the back porch and ran, baying, around to the front of the house.

  “We’ve got company,” Gran said. “Better go get him, Waycross. If it’s somebody the colonel don’t like, he’ll bite a hunk outta ’em.”

  “I need to talk to you, Savannah. Alone.” Tom Stafford stood at the front door, peering through the screen, his uniform hat in his hands. Behind him on the porch, Waycross wrestled with the overly protective hound.

  Dirk walked up behind Savannah, who was standing in the middle of the living room, and tossed his arm over her shoulders.

  “She’s having dinner,” he said. “And she’s had a hard day. She doesn’t need no more hassle from you.”

  Savannah hid her surprise. Since when did Dirk do the “my woman” macho thing?

  Tom ignored him. Didn’t even glance his way. “Please, Savannah. Can you come out here for just a few minutes, and then I’ll let you get back to your supper.”

  “It’s all right,” Savannah said, stepping away from Dirk. “Y’all go ahead and finish your carrot cake,” she added to the rest of the family who had crowded behind Dirk and Tammy to eavesdrop on the situation. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Don’t you give her a hard time,” Dirk called as she walked out the door and onto the porch.

  “I don’t aim to give anybody a hard time,” Tom replied. He looked tired, exhausted even, as he looked down at Waycross and the growling, bristling Beauregard, rolling around on the porch. “Come on, Savannah. We’ll sit in my car. It’s air-conditioned, and I don’t think the hound dog from hell can get me there.” He shook his head, utterly disgusted. “Lord, what did I ever do to deserve this stinkin’ job? Shee-it . . . even the friggin’ dogs hate me.”

  The giant, finely tuned cruiser purred as Savannah and Tom talked. Most importantly, it churned icy air out of its dash vents. Savannah was truly comfortable for the first time since she had arrived on home soil.

  Although she would have been a bit more comfortable had Dirk not been coming to the front door every three minutes, glaring out at them, and making a jealous-male spectacle of himself.

  “So, is that guy your boyfriend or what?” Tom asked.

  Savannah smiled as Dirk appeared again in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest, a look of pure misery on his face. “Oh, I’d say he’s more like my ‘or what.’ He means well.”

  “You could’ve fooled me. He’s been stirrin’ up things around town, asking questions and all, causing trouble.”

  “For whom?”

  “For me. Sheriff Mahoney’s been on me to come over here and set him straight. I’ll talk to him next.”

  “Naw, you’ll just tell me what you want him to know, and I’ll pass it on,” she replied. “Believe me, it’d be easier that way. Much easier.”

  He reached for a half-empty bottle of Coke wedged into a beverage holder in the console. Holding it out to her, he said, “Want some?”

  She looked at the bottle, considering the offer, but decided against sharing the drink with him. Inside the intimate confines of the car, she was all too aware of him.

  Of the nice way he smelled . . . as if he had just stepped out of a shower. That was one thing she had always liked about Tom; he always smelled good.

  And the way he filled out that khaki uniform.

  And the way his thick blond hair curled over his collar, and . . .

  Knock it off, girl, she told herself. With Dirk standing in the doorway and your brother sitting in a jail cell, now just so-o-o ain’t the time.

  “No, thanks,” she said. “I’m not thirsty.”

  “Oh, I thought maybe you just didn’t want to swap slobber with me . . . what with him standing there watching.”

  She shot him an irritated sideways look. That was something she d
idn’t like about Tom Stafford . . . his ability to read her like a front page headline.

  “What do you want to say to me that can’t be said to the rest of the family?” she said, in an attempt to get down to business.

  “Your brother’s in big trouble, Savannah. He’s going to go down for this. And I guarantee you, Mack Goodwin’s going to push for the death penalty.”

  “You told me that, in so many words, yesterday,” she replied.

  “Yeah, but what I didn’t tell you is that I’ve decided he might be innocent.”

  She forgot all about Dirk in the doorway and turned to Tom, fully attentive. “Oh? And when did you have this change of heart . . . or mind?”

  “This afternoon when I talked to him.”

  “You’re not supposed to be talking to Macon without his lawyer.”

  “And you’re not supposed to be sneaking into my jail to see him either. Turnin’ poor old Jeter’s head with a long-legged blonde in a short skirt. Honestly, Savannah, I thought better of you.”

  She grinned. “Hey, whatever works. Of course, you never would have fallen for a ruse like that.”

  He quirked an eyebrow. “No, I tend to fall for brunettes with big chests.”

  She glanced quickly over at the house, just in time to see Tammy grab Dirk by the arm and pull him out of the doorway.

  “Let’s don’t go there, Tommy,” she said softly. “It’s not the time. You know?”

  “Yeah, I know. Maybe sometime you’ll come home . . . alone . . . and none of your relatives will be in trouble with the law.”

  “Well, let’s don’t have that many restrictions on a visit. There are quite a few of us Reids. The chances of none of us being in trouble are pretty slim.”

  She decided to take a drink of his Coke after all. Suddenly, her mouth had gone dry.

  “What changed your mind about Macon?” she asked.

  “I’m a cop, Savannah. If I talk to twelve people, I get lied to a dozen times. I’m pretty good at spotting a liar. I think Macon’s telling the truth now . . . now that he’s admitted he was there at the scene.”