Bitter Brew

by G. A. McKevett

  “Wow. I’m surprised he didn’t tell you to pick up his dry cleaning while you were at it.”

  “I’m sure if he’d thought of it, he would’ve.”

  In the middle of their commiseration, a couple of teenage boys strolled by the front of the store, paused, and appeared to be having a conversation about some high-priced, if somewhat smoky, sneakers just inside the broken window. The shoes were well within their reach.

  Dirk tooted the horn and, when they turned to look, he waved them along.

  “Well, what did you do, pick up the wrong ring?” Savannah asked.

  “Worse than that. Way worse.”

  Reaching across her, he opened the glove box and took out a baggy filled with cinnamon sticks. He removed one, stuck it in his mouth, replaced the rest inside the compartment, and slammed it closed.

  “After I got the ring at the jewelry store, I was on my way to his house, but that’s when I saw Loco Roco running outta that liquor store there on the corner of Main and Seaview with a pillowcase in his hand.”

  “Oh, I remember. That’s the day you came home covered in Loco’s blood.”

  “Yeah, I chased him down, found a bunch of cash and a ton of those little, travel-size bottles of booze in the pillowcase, and started to cuff him.”

  “He resisted?”

  “They don’t call him Loco for nothin’. He fought me. He lost and bled. A lot. I tossed him into the back seat—”

  “—on top of the roses.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “I know you. Go on. And . . . ?”

  “He mashed ’em flat.”

  “And bled all over them?”

  “That, too.”

  “I had to take him to the station house and book him before I got a chance to tell the captain.”

  “Who’d been waiting all that time on the corner?”

  “So he informed me.” He took a deep drag on the cinnamon stick. “After I had Loco all locked down and the report written, I went back out to the car and that’s when I saw the mashed flowers and”—he gulped—“the empty ring box.”

  “You’d left the jewelry on the back seat?”

  “With the roses.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But didn’t you search Loco? Didn’t Booking search him?”

  “Of course, we did. After I figured out he’d taken the ring, Charlie and me did everything but turn him upside down and shake him. Which means . . .”

  “He had ‘secreted’ it.”

  Dirk just nodded. One small, totally disheartened nod that told Savannah far more than she wanted to know.

  “Gross,” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Did the captain find out?”

  “Charlie told him.”

  “Did it ever . . . um . . . show up?”

  “Nope. Captain said, even if it did, he wasn’t going to give his wife a ring that had spent time—”

  “Secreted.”

  “Exactly.”

  Savannah thought it over. She considered how much she disliked the captain and his rigid, dictator style of bossing his underlings. She recalled seeing his wife strut around the station house from time to time, flashing her jewelry—not to mention various body parts—as she flirted quite openly with some of the younger, better looking cops, despite the fact that she was old enough to be their mother.

  No, neither the captain nor his dirty ol’ lady of a wife would have wanted that ring after Loco Roco had “disposed” of it.

  “No wonder we’re here tonight, instead of dining at ReJuvene,” she said. “It’s a wonder you’re alive.”

  But Dirk didn’t answer. He was eyeing a vehicle that was coming down the street toward them. When it got a bit closer, Savannah realized it was another patrol car.

  “What’s Vince Muller doing here?” Dirk grumbled, as the driver—one of his least favorite brothers in blue—pulled over to the curb in front of him, parked, and got out.

  Savannah said nothing. She just gave Muller a scowl that was only slightly less cranky than the one her husband was wearing as the patrolman sauntered past them.

  Having joined the SCPD after Savannah had left, Muller hadn’t offended her personally, their paths having seldom crossed. But Dirk had told her a few tales about Muller’s bullying tactics and less-than-honest dealings with shadier members of the public. Not to mention the fact that, in a short period of time, he had managed to become the captain’s pet.

  But the deciding factor, as far as Savannah was concerned, was that Dirk didn’t like him. If her husband said Vince Muller was a dirt clod, Savannah was convinced he was.

  She figured loyalty was important in a marriage, so she made a point of not smiling at anybody Dirk loathed. At least not in his presence.

  It wasn’t easy. She was fairly sure that it would lead to premature wrinkling of her forehead.

  Dirk loathed a lot of people.

  Vince walked by them without saying a word, offering nothing but a curt nod of his head. In his right hand he held an oversized duty flashlight.

  Following suit, they withheld both spoken greetings and curt nods, simply deepening their scowls.

  Vince didn’t seem to notice or care. He strolled to the front of the store and poked his head through the massive hole in the display window.

  “He’d better watch out,” Savannah said. “A chunk of that broken glass at the top could break loose, fall, and chop his head off.”

  “If we’re lucky,” Dirk replied dryly. Then he smiled. A nasty, unpleasant smirk. “That’d make my day, getting to tell the captain that his number one flunky suddenly lost about ten pounds of unsightly fat.”

  They watched as Vince straddled the yellow caution tape, then gingerly stepped into the store.

  “What the hell is he doing?” Dirk asked.

  They watched as he flipped on his flashlight, producing a beam in the dark interior of the burned store.

  “Maybe somebody died and made him head of the SCPD Arson Squad,” Savannah suggested.

  “He’s acting like he owns the joint. He shouldn’t be in there at all. That tape’s there for a reason.”

  “Arson hasn’t investigated yet?”

  He gave a little snort. “More like Arson hasn’t ‘pretended’ to investigate yet. Remember, the owner is a good friend of the mayor.”

  “Oh, that’s right. I forgot. And storeowners with friends in high places never set a match to their own stores.”

  “Never. In the history of the world.” He shrugged. “Well, at least not in San Carmelita, under the current administration.”

  “Quaint, seaside village with sparkling beaches, antique shops galore, palm trees swaying in the ocean breeze—”

  “A city government as crooked as a snake with a bellyache. The travel websites don’t mention that.”

  “Now, now. No place is perfect.”

  Savannah watched with mounting interest as the beam of light appeared to work its way through the store, up and down each aisle.

  “Seriously,” she said, “what is he doing? If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s shopping.”

  At that moment, the light and Vince came toward them, and a few seconds later, he was stepping through the hole in the window and back onto the sidewalk.

  Dirk sighed, a bit relieved. “Good. He’s got no business poking around in there. I don’t appreciate him doing that. Especially when I’m supposed to be keeping everybody out.”

  Again, without a greeting or acknowledgment of any sort, Patrolman Vince Muller strolled past them as he returned to his cruiser.

  Savannah happened to glance down at his feet. “Since when do SCPD personnel wear sneakers on patrol?”

  “What?”

  She nodded toward the retreating figure’s feet. “Your buddy’s wearing tennis shoes. Expensive ones. On duty.”

  “Why, that dirty, rotten—”

  “What on earth?” Savannah said as, to their surprise, Vince opened
the rear door of his cruiser and slid inside.

  “I don’t know. But he forgot to roll the window down. I hope he closes the door and gets locked in.”

  Savannah snickered. “How long would you wait before you let him out?”

  “Since he greeted me and my wife so cordially when he arrived. . . I’d say, when Satan sets up house in an igloo.”

  A few moments later, the partially-closed rear door of the patrol car swung fully open once again, and Muller stepped out.

  As before, he walked past them and to the front of the store, flashlight in hand. Savannah glanced down at his feet and couldn’t believe what she saw.

  “He’s barefoot!”

  “No way!”

  “See for yourself. Hairy toes, ingrown toenails, the works.”

  “And broken glass everywhere. He’s nuts. I knew he was annoying and a major kiss-up, but he’s totally off his rocker.”

  “Scored himself some expensive sneakers though, didn’t he?”

  “He certainly did and right under my nose.”

  “Does he really think you’re going to let him get away with that?”

  “Apparently, bein’ Captain’s pet has gone to his head.”

  Once again, they watched as Vince Muller maneuvered over the police tape and, far more gingerly than the last time, stepped inside the store.

  As before, the flashlight beam moved back and forth between the aisles, illuminating the shelves on one aisle, then the next.

  “Looks like he’s gonna get hisself some dancing shoes, while he’s at it,” Dirk said.

  “Hey, a guy’s gotta look sharp when he’s doing the salsa.” She pulled her phone from her purse and began to take a video of the proceedings.

  This time it took a bit longer before Patrolman Muller exited the store. When he finally did, Savannah couldn’t come to grips with what she was seeing. But once she had partially recovered her composure, she zoomed in on his feet, making sure she got the image clearly, because no one would have believed their story without seeing it for themselves.

  “No,” she heard Dirk mutter. “No. Just . . . no!”

  She took one look at his face and knew that he was shattered. Brotherhood of the Boys in Blue, and all that.

  “They’re probably for his wife,” she offered, trying to make her distraught husband feel better.

  “He ain’t married. No girlfriend. And those have gotta be a size eleven, at least.”

  “Yes. At least,” she said. “Who’d have thought they even made those that big?”

  “Okay, that’s it.” Dirk removed the cinnamon stick from the corner of his mouth and tossed it onto the floorboard. “This ain’t happenin’ on my watch. I don’t care if the guy is the captain’s favorite recess teeter-totter mate.”

  “Are you actually going to arrest him?”

  “Depends on how much grief he gives me.”

  “I’ll keep filming.”

  “Good idea.” He reached for the door handle, then hesitated. “Um . . . you can edit out that ‘teeter-totter’ comment, right?”

  “Tammy can.”

  “Then keep rollin’.”

  Chapter 2

  “I don’t allow my child to watch violent, X-rated films.”

  “It isn’t X-rated,” Savannah told Tammy, who was sitting on Savannah’s couch, her child in her lap. She was shielding baby Vanna Rose’s big blue eyes with her hand. “We didn’t start filming until after the anniversary, back seat hanky-panky was over, and everybody was fully dressed.”

  Sitting next to Tammy was Savannah’s younger brother, Waycross. His left leg was encased in a cast and resting atop a pillow on Savannah’s coffee table.

  “Whoa!” he said with a groan as he put his hands over Tammy’s ears. “Way too much information for my wife’s virgin ears to hear,” he said in his slow, Southern drawl that was as soft and gentle as the young man himself.

  Savannah laughed as she plugged her phone into the widescreen television in her living room and punched the appropriate screen icons. “What are you guys, the See-No-Evil, Hear-No-Evil, Speak-No-Evil monkeys? If you’re going to hang out around here, you’ll have to toughen up.”

  “I know. A toxic environment if ever there was one,” Tammy replied with a grin on her pretty face. “Sex, violence, caffeinated coffee, not to mention saturated fats and gluten everywhere.”

  Dirk rose from his leather recliner—the newest addition to Savannah’s otherwise girly-girl living room and former bachelorette pad. He stretched out his arms to the red-haired imp sitting on Tammy’s lap. “Give me that kiddo. I’ll keep her occupied so’s she won’t get scarred by all the onscreen violence and mayhem.”

  Vanna Rose gave Dirk a big grin, cooed, and eagerly lifted her chubby, baby hands to him.

  He scooped her into his burly arms and hugged her to his chest as he settled back into his recliner. “We’re going to play us a game of patty-cake, while your mommy and daddy watch Uncle Dirk knock the crap outta a bad guy.”

  Receiving a disapproving look from Tammy, he added, “Don’t worry. Once she gets old enough to understand what I’m saying, I won’t say it.”

  “He’ll even stop quoting those charming bedtime limericks to her,” Savannah said.

  Tammy gasped, and Waycross gave her a playful nudge. “Don’t worry, sugar,” he said. “They’re just yanking your chain. Even ol’ Dirk wouldn’t rattle off a dirty limerick to a baby.”

  Savannah cast a quick glance at Dirk, who was choosing to ignore the comment, while kissing the baby’s tiny fists.

  “Well,” she mumbled under her breath, “at least not the one about the gal from Nantucket.”

  Waycross heard the comment and turned a brilliant shade of pink that only true redheads can achieve with such little provocation.

  Savannah had a feeling that, as soon as his broken leg was healed, Poppa Waycross would be having an old-fashioned behind the barn—or garage, as the case might be—conversation with Uncle Dirk about what was and was not appropriate bedtime entertainment for a six-month-old baby girl. Especially a little lady of Southern heritage.

  Dirk turned his niece to face him, her back to the TV, and engaged her in a no-holds-barred game of patty-cake.

  Meanwhile, the questionable images appeared on the widescreen television.

  The after-dark, street-lamp-only lighting was barely adequate to reveal the onstage action. But with a little effort the adults in the room had no problem discerning the major players.

  There was Det. Sgt. Dirk Coulter in his Harley-Davidson T-shirt and jeans, doing what he had done hundreds of times before, wrestling with and attempting to subdue a suspect on the not particularly mean streets of picturesque San Carmelita. Only this time, the culprit was a police officer in full uniform.

  Almost.

  Mostly regulation, except for the footwear . . . which was all too obvious when Dirk grabbed the smaller man, who was fighting him like a felon going away for life, lifted him off his feet, and body slammed him onto his back on the sidewalk.

  At that point, the perp’s legs were sticking straight up, his trouser legs sliding down, and his fashion-forward attire all too visible.

  Tammy squealed. “Gladiator sandals!”

  “Sparkly ones?” Waycross added, wide-eyed and incredulous.

  “Yes,” Savannah replied, giggling and freezing the action. “Rhinestone-studded. Assorted jewel-tone colors, guaranteed to match evening gowns of all shades and hues.”

  “And he’s got really gnarly, calloused toes and heels, too,” Tammy observed, cocking her head sideways to get a better view of the upturned, unpedicured feet. “That’s just . . . wrong.”

  “On so many levels,” Savannah agreed.

  “You’re arresting him!” exclaimed Waycross as Savannah pushed “Play” to resume the action, and they saw Dirk flip the wildly flailing Vince Muller facedown and attempt to cuff him.

  “Of course, I did. I told the sonofabitch . . . sorry, darlin’. . . .” He ruffled th
e baby’s red curls. “I mean, I told the mean ol’ bad man to put those stupid sandals and the runners he’d just stole right in front of me back where he got ’em. Or else.”

  Tammy gazed, fascinated by the twitching, jerking figure on the sidewalk, sandals kicking wildly. “I guess the taser was the ‘or else.’ ”

  “Yeah. Didn’t wanna have to shoot a fellow cop for stealing a pair of hooker shoes.”

  “Men’s size eleven,” Savannah said.

  “Okay,” Dirk replied. “Male hooker.”

  Tammy shook her head, gave a tsk-tsk and a nod toward the baby. “We’re really going to have to clean up our speech around here and keep it clean for the next twenty years or so.”

  Savannah thought for a moment and said, “Male entrepreneur specializing in the wholesale, freelance marketing of society’s unsanctioned salacious pleasures.”

  “Now see there.” Tammy grinned. “Was that so hard?”

  “What I wanna know,” Waycross interjected, “was what that captain, the one y’all dislike so much, said when you told him you’d arrested his favorite cop.”

  Dirk grinned, as though recalling a memory warm and dear to his heart. “I thought it was best if I told him right away, so as soon as I had Muller booked, I went to the captain’s house to inform him.”

  Savannah chuckled. “Tell them the best part.”

  “He had company. A party, in fact. Lots of guests. Even the mayor and his wife were there. Everybody wanted to hear all about it. Every sordid detail.” Dirk breathed a sigh that bespoke soulful satisfaction. “Turns out . . . it was his mother-in-law’s birthday party.”

  Chapter 3

  Sleep didn’t come quickly or easily to Savannah that night. But her insomnia had nothing to do with the rare Southern California rainstorm raging outside the bedroom window.

  She actually enjoyed the sound of the rain, the wind, even the occasional rumble of thunder and lightning flash. One of the few things she missed about her childhood home in Georgia was the less-than-perfect weather.