Bitter Brew

by G. A. McKevett

  “A couple of times he mentioned a bar called The Fisherman’s Lair.”

  “I know the place.”

  “I can’t think of any others right now. I also can’t say for sure what Brianne and her secret guy were doing together during those clandestine meetings.”

  “Apparently, Paul assumed it was hanky-panky.”

  “Yeah, but Paul couldn’t pour water out of a boot if the directions were written on the sole. I’d suggest you don’t put a lot of stock in anything he might have said to her. Or you either, for that matter.”

  “Do you think Brianne was having an affair?” Savannah asked. “Or maybe even multiple affairs?”

  “If it had been almost anyone else I know, I’d say, ‘Yes.’ But Brianne was different. She was one of the few people I ever knew who had true integrity. She did the right thing even when it wasn’t convenient for her. That’s a rare quality in human beings.”

  Savannah nodded. “I’m afraid you’re right.”

  Dee seemed to sink lower into the chair, like a parade balloon losing air, as she added, “I don’t know what she was doing on those nights when she said she was just going to the library or shopping but was meeting someone at various singles’ bars. And now that she’s gone, we may never know.”

  Savannah felt herself sinking a bit, as well. Unfortunately, she was afraid the groom and talented, amateur detective might be right.

  Chapter 12

  Savannah dreaded coming home to an empty house. Even if she and Dirk might be on the outs, she always preferred him to be home with her, rather than gone.

  Puttering around in an empty house reminded her too much of the lonely years . . . those long, solitary days and nights before she and Dirk realized that the precious friendship they’d shared for over a decade had grown into something even deeper.

  She had to believe that they were still friends. In spite of the anniversary gift unpleasantness and the quick pecks on the cheek instead of passionate good-night kisses—and the pleasant activities those kisses frequently initiated—she couldn’t bear to think their marriage was actually in trouble, let alone damaged beyond repair.

  As she pulled into her driveway, she was pleased to see Granny’s latest acquisition parked in the “guest spot.” It was an ancient Mercury panel truck, like the one Gran had driven a million years ago, when Savannah and her siblings were just kids. Waycross had found it at an auction, lovingly restored it, and given it to Granny for her birthday.

  Just seeing it parked in front of her house made Savannah feel happy and safe and peaceful deep inside. It was exactly the way she had felt all those years ago when the state of Georgia had taken her and her siblings from their negligent, abusive mother and awarded Granny custody of the entire lot of them. From that day forward, they had received nothing but devoted care at their grandmother’s loving hands.

  Waycross couldn’t have given Granny, or their whole family for that matter, a better gift than this vehicle, a reminder of their past.

  As Savannah got out of the Mustang and hurried into the house, she was infinitely grateful that she wouldn’t be spending the evening alone, eating alone, worrying alone.

  Thank goodness for Granny.

  In the foyer, she yelled, “Hey, Gran! I’m home.”

  The cats came running to greet her, winding themselves around her ankles, purring, proclaiming their undying love.

  Otherwise known in the Reid household as “Begging for food.”

  “I’m in the kitchen,” Granny hollered in return.

  Though her response wasn’t necessary. The luscious aroma of something chocolaty baking in the oven was enough to tell Savannah that her grandmother was cooking something quite wonderful.

  “I’ll be in shortly,” Savannah called back as she removed her Beretta from her purse and stowed it on the top shelf of the coat closet.

  Placing her purse on the pie crust table that Granny had given her so long ago, she felt a little of the tension of the day fade away.

  Her interviews had gone well. No one had accused her being a liar with bloomers aflame. She had gathered quite a lot of information, though she hadn’t figured out yet just what to do with it.

  At the moment, none of that mattered terribly. Granny was here, and she was cooking for her! Perhaps life was worth all the headaches and nuisance after all.

  She bent down to pet the cats and was amused to see them sniff her hand, walk several feet away, and sit there, giving her suspicious, disapproving looks.

  “I know,” she whispered to them. “I smell like goats. I’ve got news for you. When you gals eat too many of those spicy tuna treats, you don’t smell so great either.”

  She could have mentioned that the goat pen didn’t stink half as much as their litter box, but they were temperamental creatures, these mini-leopards of hers, and she didn’t want to push her luck.

  Making her way through the living room, she passed the desk and saw the light blinking on her answering machine.

  She was the only person she knew who still used one of the old machines, instead of the service provided by her telephone company. But she preferred it because she could still listen to the message in real time, when it was actually being left, and decide whether she wanted to pick it up or not.

  Pushing the play button, she hoped it was Dirk with some sort of conciliatory message. That would be all her heart needed to truly feel that all in her world was relatively okay again.

  But the male voice wasn’t Dirk’s.

  It was, however, familiar to her—one of her favorite cops, Jake McMurtry. Although he and Dirk didn’t always get along so famously, she had enjoyed working with Jake “back in the day.”

  “Hi, Dirk. Jake here,” he said. “I was a little surprised you pulled rank and switched tours on me like that. But the ol’ lady was happy to have me home tonight so . . . I guess it worked out. I hear you’re taking it again tomorrow night. No hard feelin’s, man. Bye.”

  Her heart sank instantly. Gone was the temporary high of having her beloved grandmother in her kitchen and the smell of chocolate wafting through her house.

  Her husband had lied to her. Deliberately, blatantly lied.

  Okay, she reminded herself, he might not have outright spoken words that weren’t true, but he had led her to believe that the hated captain had forced him to take that late-night stakeout as some sort of punishment for the Vince Muller fiasco.

  Now, she knew that Dirk had actually requested that assignment, even bumped a junior officer to get it.

  He wants to be away from you, her ugly inner voice shouted. He’s done with you! It’s over! He wants out! He’s probably with another woman right now. That’s why he didn’t want you to come along and keep him company. They’re probably in the back seat of his cruiser doing the same thing you were doing the other night when—

  “Shut up!”

  She didn’t realize she had spoken the words aloud until she glanced toward the kitchen door and saw her grandmother standing there, a dish towel in her hand, an astonished and distressed look on her face.

  “Savannah girl. What in tarnation’s wrong with you, sweetheart?” she asked.

  Savannah opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Tears filled her eyes as sobs tightened in her throat, then broke free with an awful, gulping, sorrowful cry.

  A moment later, she wasn’t even sure how she had gotten there, but she found herself sitting on the sofa with Granny next to her, cuddling her, cradling her head so that she could weep against her shoulder.

  Savannah felt as though, once again, she was twelve years old and even though her life might be falling apart around her, the strongest, most loving person on earth had her, and she would somehow make everything all right.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, the worst of Savannah’s sobbing had passed, and it occurred to her that she needed to bring a halt to this new trend of hers—collapsing into the arms of those closest to her and blubbering all over their shirts.


  It lacked dignity.

  But as she looked into her grandmother’s eyes, that were the same deep cobalt blue as her own, she didn’t see any sign of annoyance or judgment. Only love and concern.

  Savannah grabbed some tissues from a box on the end table, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose, then turned to Granny. This was the point in any of their heart-to-hearts when Savannah, having shared her concerns in much greater detail than she probably needed to, with far more raw emotion than was probably necessary, was ready to receive any wisdom her elder cared to share.

  Like precious golden honey, the words of wisdom dripped sweetly from Granny Reid’s lips. “That’s nothin’ but a bunch o’ hooey.”

  “Hooey?”

  “That’s what I said. Bullpucky. Balderdash. Much ado about nothin’, or at very least . . . a lotta ado about notta lot.”

  “But he lied to me!” Savannah heard the plaintive tone of her own voice. She realized she sounded like a four-year-old girl at the ice cream counter, complaining that her mom had bought her a single scoop of vanilla instead of a double butter pecan.

  She wasn’t proud.

  “Okay, so your man might’ve lied to you or stretched the truth a mite, or let you believe something that wasn’t quite the whole deal,” Gran acknowledged. “But there’s also a good chance he’s just keepin’ somethin’ that’s private to hisself.”

  “He’s a married man! He doesn’t get any privacy!”

  Savannah had spoken the words without thinking.

  Since hitting perimenopause, her brain/mouth filter had become frayed to the point of nonexistence. But that wasn’t always a bad thing. Sometimes, she heard her mouth saying things that her heart truly felt. Even if her more logical brain didn’t always believe them.

  “You know better than that, darlin’,” Gran told her with a gently reproving look. “Everybody harbors a smatterin’ of secrets from time to time. That don’t mean they’re all deep, dark secrets. Just things they don’t necessarily share with every Tom, Dick, and Sally in sight.”

  Granny glanced down at Savannah’s shirt cuff with its green stain. “Like not mentioning that a goat recently chewed on them. Most people would probably share that with those around them . . . unless they had a good reason to keep it to themselves.”

  Savannah gulped. “How do you know that a—?”

  “As you’ll recall,” Gran interjected, “we lived next to some folks who raised goats. Lord knows, I’ve had my underdrawers tugged off the clothesline and chewed more times than I can count. I reckon I should know what goat spit looks like.”

  Once again, Savannah regretted having taught those she loved her best detective skills. Not that they needed to be taught. Granny’s own natural curiosity, bordering on downright nosiness, was quite enough with or without lessons. She didn’t need instruction when it came to “sleuthing,” as Tammy liked to call it.

  “As I was saying,” Granny continued, “husbands have the right to keep a few things to themselves, just like we women do. They’re entitled to a secret or two, as long as they’re not destructive secrets about wrongdoings that’ll wind up hurting them and others.”

  “That’s just the point. If he’s not doing anything wrong, why does he have to hide what he’s doing? A man who has nothing to hide, hides nothing. You told me that yourself.”

  “Okay, okay. How do you know your man’s not on a stakeout, just like he said?”

  “He might be. But who’s he with, Gran? And what’s he doing with them? He made it real clear he didn’t want me along with him tonight. I offered to bring food and everything.”

  Granny gave a little tsk-tsk. “I see your point. That’s not like Dirk, turning down food. Or your company either. He’s mighty fond of you and partial to your cookin’.”

  “See? That’s what I said. He’s up to no good.”

  “No. I don’t believe it of him. He’s a fine husband, Dirk Coulter is. You’d have to show me a lot more evidence than that for me to convict him in a court of law.”

  “Then you think I’m being unfair to him?”

  “I think you’re jumpin’ to conclusions so high that you’d qualify for the Olympics pole vault.”

  “Really?” Savannah didn’t know whether to feel insulted or relieved.

  She decided to embrace the relief.

  “I so-o-o hope you’re right, Gran. I’d give anything to believe you’re right.”

  Granny reached over and patted her hand. “Then believe it, sugar. What’s the harm in believing the best about those you love?”

  “If they betray you when you were busy trusting them, that makes you a fool.”

  Granny laughed softly. “No, darlin’. It makes them a fool for betraying a good person who chose to give them the benefit of the doubt. It’s not a bad reflection on you. Making a conscious decision to be patient and kind and to believe the best of folks, that’s the act of a strong person, not a fool who’s too dumb to know he’s bein’ taken for a ride on a turnip truck.”

  “Unless they treat you badly and prove they aren’t trustworthy, and you’re dumb enough to trust them again.”

  “Now that’s a different story. If they’ve shown you what they’re made of, given you grief, and you go back for more—then that’s on you. But I don’t think your Dirk falls into that category or even comes close.”

  “What do you think I should do about this, Gran?”

  Granny shrugged. “If I tell you, you won’t do it.”

  “I might.”

  “You won’t. I know you, girlie.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  “Okay. I will, and it’ll be like water rollin’ off a duck’s back.” She fixed her granddaughter with a stern eye. “You should let it go, Savannah. If somethin’ important is botherin’ your husband, sooner or later, he’ll tell you about it, or he’ll just work it out on his own. Then it’ll be over and done with, and the two of you will pick up where ya left off. There. That’s the best advice I’ve got to give you.”

  Savannah tried to imagine herself “letting it go.”

  She couldn’t.

  “I can’t.”

  “I told ya so. I knew ya couldn’t. You’re good at a whole heap of things, but lettin’ go o’ stuff ain’t one of ’em.”

  “It’s really not. So, what’s your second-best advice?”

  “If you’re truly a glutton for punishment and just gotta open that can o’ slimy, crooked worms and wallow in the mess ya made, then ask him point-blank what’s going on with him.”

  That appealed to Savannah far more. The direct approach. “Yeah! I’ll grab him by the throat and shake him till he spills his guts,” she said with a semi-maniacal grin.

  “You do what suits ya, sugar. But I’d recommend a gentler approach. Dirk’s a big, strong feller with a healthy sense of self-preservation. I can’t rightly see him just standin’ there, submittin’ to a chokin’ all quiet-like. He’d probably call a halt to it with vim and vigor, and you’d be in a heap o’ trouble.”

  “True.” Her brain searched for an alternative plan. It didn’t take long to formulate one. “Okay. I’ll just ask him what in tarnation’s gotten into him lately, and I’m not going to take ‘Nothing’ for an answer.”

  Granny quirked one eyebrow and slowly shook her head. “Yeah. You do that, sweetcheeks. Good luck to ya.”

  Chapter 13

  Savannah lay in bed, pretending to enjoy a romance novel on her electronic e-reader. But she hadn’t flipped a page for so long that the thing turned itself off, leaving the room dark.

  Except for the dim, green light from the digital clock.

  It was reminding her that, two hours after his tour had supposedly ended, her husband still wasn’t home.

  Even after years of doing stakeouts of the same sort that he was supposedly doing that night, Savannah had never acquired the knack for staying awake past her usual bedtime. Her personal circadian clock worked far too well in that regard.

  Within minutes of her
normal zonk-out time, usually around midnight, her eyelids started to droop and her body seemed to melt into a puddle the consistency of warm apple jelly on a hot sidewalk.

  Even if she was sitting in an unmarked car, surveilling a highly dangerous suspect, or spying on someone while lying on a park bench and pretending to be an inebriated street person, or sitting in front of the television with her favorite show playing, she would slide into a deep sleep akin to a coma.

  Unfortunately, that night was no different.

  In spite of all the adrenaline coursing through her bloodstream, she was dismayed to discover that her exhausted body was less ready for battle than her mind.

  Hours ago, she had decided to confront her husband, harangue him, cajole him, twist delicate members of his body into pretzels, starting with his pinky finger or left earlobe and progressing to more sensitive parts if necessary. Whatever it took, she would finagle the truth out of him, once and for all.

  She had been fully prepared to do all of these things and more, even before he had stayed out two hours longer than expected. She had her speech all rehearsed.

  It wasn’t long.

  “Are you messing around on me, boy?”

  Subtlety wasn’t her forte.

  After her earlier talk with Dee, the astrologist-groom, she decided to chalk that impulsiveness up to being an Aries. Headstrong, forthright, fearless, totally lacking in even a smidgeon of tact—that was her, all right. She owned it, even celebrated it, even though she knew Granny Reid wouldn’t approve.

  One of Granny’s favorite Bible quotes in such circumstances was: “When it is possible, as much as lies within you, live in peace with all men.”

  Savannah appreciated the wisdom of those words, and she tried to abide by them as much as she could manage.

  She didn’t complain—very often—about the bath towels that were wadded into balls and crammed between the rod and wall, rather than folded neatly in perfect thirds, hung, and then smoothed with the palm of a loving hand before leaving the room.

  All day long, as she walked around her formerly neat home, she swallowed words like “Why the hell are your sunglasses in the bread basket?” And “Why on earth did you bother to bring that empty toilet paper roll all the way to the kitchen, only to drop it in the sink?”