Sour Grapes

by G. A. McKevett

  Was she going to be crushed here in this car?

  “I’ll tell you how they kill cockroaches.” The person actually sounded happy, as if enjoying the situation. The thought made her even more sick to her stomach. She had known it would be risky—this plan of hers. But if you didn’t take the occasional risk, you got nowhere. And Barbie had grown tired of being nowhere.

  But in her wildest fantasies, she’d never thought of this as an ending to her story.

  She tried to see what was going on as the person continued to fumble with something in the trunk. But Barbie was facing the front of the car and could see nothing but faint outlines in the darkness.

  “Here’s how they kill vermin like you,” the person said.

  Barbie closed her eyes and winced, expecting . . . she didn’t know what.

  Then she heard a pop, followed by a spewing sound. And she smelled a strong, acrid, chemical odor, that stung her nostrils and made her eyes burn.

  “Bug bombs.” That’s how to get rid of cockroaches like you.”

  Something hard was tossed into the trunk, and Barbie felt it hit her leg. Something moist sprayed against her calf, and the bitter smell was suddenly much, much worse.

  “You blew it this time, Barbie baby. You fucked with the wrong person, one time too many. And now you’re going to die for it.”

  The trunk lid slammed closed, leaving Barbie in complete darkness. As the deadly vapor filled the small enclosure, she thought she must be breathing pure fire into her lungs.

  She tried to scream. The tape ripped the tender skin on her lips, but it wouldn’t come off.

  She twisted her wrists until they were sticky with blood, but the bindings held fast.

  She rolled over onto her back, pulled her knees up to her face, and kicked as hard as she could at the top of the trunk. But as much pain as the movements caused her, the metal didn’t budge.

  “Help me! Please, please, help me!” she screamed behind the tape. But there was no one to hear her muffled cries.

  After what seemed like an eternity, the terrible pain in her lungs seemed to lessen just a little. Moment by moment, Barbie’s panic gradually began to subside, and she stopped her futile thrashing.

  It wasn’t so bad.

  Maybe she didn’t need to fight it. Maybe she didn’t need to escape.

  This darkness. The comforting, warm darkness, closing all around her . . . it wasn’t so bad.

  In the fuzzy recesses of what remained of her mental functions, Barbie Matthews was mildly surprised.

  Who would have thought it?

  This dying . . . it wasn’t so bad, after all.

  Chapter 8

  Just as Savannah had surmised, Atlanta was heading into the ladies’ room. And her wanna-be stalker, Frank Addison, was making a production of lighting a cigarette and studying a piece of impressionistic art on a nearby wall.

  As Savannah waited and watched, half-hidden behind a giant potted palm, several females came out of the rest room, including contestants, their mothers, and some of the Villa Rosa staff, as well as Catherine Whitestone-Villa.

  When Catherine passed the palm on her way back to the tasting room, she spotted Savannah. A look of concern crossed her face, and she walked over to her. “Is everything all right, Savannah?” she asked. “You seem . . . upset.”

  Savannah glanced over at Addison, who was still pretending to be absorbed by the painting. “Oh, sure. Everything’s just peachy. You go on back to your dinner, Mrs. Villa. I think your husband is beginning his speech.”

  “Oh, yes!” Her face brightened. “I don’t want to miss that. He counts on me to be in the audience.” She lowered her voice and whispered, “Tony’s actually a little bit stage-shy, if you can imagine that. Isn’t it sweet?”

  “Oh . . . sweet . . . very sweet, indeed.”

  As Catherine walked away Savannah resisted the urge to gag. Maybe she wouldn’t want dessert, after all—not even one helping, let alone two.

  But her nausea quickly changed to cold-blooded fury when Atlanta came out of the bathroom and was immediately intercepted by the horny Frank Addison. Although Savannah couldn’t hear what he was saying, it was easy to catch the drift of his conversation as he dug into his Brioni jacket pocket, produced a business card, and tucked it into Atlanta’s hand.

  Savannah was there in half a dozen strides. She was just in time to hear him say, “. . . anytime . . . love to hear from you . . . many things to talk about. . . .”

  She wasn’t sure who was the more surprised, Frank or Atlanta, when she snatched the card out of the girl’s hand. She gave Atlanta a quick, businesslike smile, and said, “I’ll take that, and you can go back to your dinner, Miss Reid.”

  “But . . . but this . . . gentleman and I are talking,” Atlanta sputtered.

  “This gentleman and I have business to discuss, and you need to return to your table, Miss Reid . . . immediately.” She gave the girl a slight push toward the door, and Atlanta walked away, glaring at her older sister over her shoulder.

  “Dang, I’m gonna pay, big-time, for this,” Savannah muttered. She turned to Frank Addison, who by now was more angry than surprised. “What did you think you were doing there, Mr. Addison? I’m sure someone told you it’s against the rules for the judges to consort with our pretty contestants.”

  His face turned so red that his nose flushed purple. She half expected him to have a stroke right there in front of her but decided that was too much to hope for.

  “Consort? Who’s consorting?” he said. “The young lady dropped a piece of paper, and I picked it up and gave it to her,” he said with a sniff that was, no doubt, intended to sound indignant, but Savannah decided he probably just had allergies. “Boy, that’s what you get for trying to be a gentleman. You do a good deed, and somebody thinks you’re up to no good.”

  Savannah cast a withering glance down at the zipper area of his trousers. “Oh yes, I can see that your ‘no good’ is up. And that’s what bothers me. I saw the way you were looking at the contestants when they were traipsing across the stage. And I saw you follow that particular lady to the bathroom and wait for her to come out. And I saw you hand her your business card. And I heard what you told her about getting together later, so don’t try to bullshit me, Mr. Addison. I know exactly what you’re trying to pick up . . . and it ain’t no piece of paper for a lady.”

  He said nothing, but Savannah noticed that his purple nose turned three shades darker, and his gray eyes burned with an anger so intense that she quickly realized: This man was more than your run-of-the-mill pervert; he was potentially very dangerous.

  So, it was even more important to make her message unmistakably clear.

  Savannah stepped closer to him, and since he wasn’t a particularly tall man, and she was wearing pumps, they were standing eye to eye. “Let me put it this way, Mr. Addison,” she said, her voice ominous in its lack of inflection. “In the future, when you look at our pretty little girls, you better put all those wicked, nasty thoughts right out of your mind, ’cause they’re gonna get you in big trouble with me.

  “You see, I’m working Security at this pageant . . .” Just for effect, she lifted her skirt a few inches to reveal the holster and pistol she had strapped to her thigh. “So, I’m looking out for all the girls. But that one girl you were trying to hit on—well, let’s just say you’ve got good taste but rotten luck—she’s my little sister. And I’m very protective of my family members.”

  “I’m sure you are,” he replied in a tone that was far too casual for her liking. He still hadn’t gotten the message.

  “If you know what’s good for you, Mr. Addison,” she said, moving even closer until her nose was almost touching his, “you’d better behave yourself at this here pageant. Because if you don’t, I’m gonna get hold of a great big knife and lop off your tallywhacker. Then I’ll feed it to you on a hot dog bun with mustard, relish, and extra onions. Do you understand me, sir?”

  He didn’t answer but gave her a c
urt nod. She could tell, by the fine sweat breaking out on his upper lip and the shortness of his breath, that her unladylike, but graphic description had produced the desired effect.

  She started to turn away, then reconsidered. “Oh, yes, by the way . . . when it comes judgment time, you’re not to hold this conversation between you and me against Miss Atlanta Reid. And you don’t need to give her any special consideration because of it either. You rate her like you would anyone else, and you and I will get along just fine.”

  She left Frank Addison standing there with his inflated blood pressure and deflated ego and returned to the tasting room, where dinner festivities were coming to a close. Anthony Villa had finished his speech, the dessert dishes were being cleared away, and the rich aroma of coffee filled the room.

  Glancing over at Atlanta’s table, Savannah quickly noted two facts: Barbie Matthews still had not made her appearance, and Savannah’s younger sister was positively livid, her eyes shooting blue lasers across the room at Savannah.

  “Ah, the joys of sisterhood,” Savannah said with a sigh. “Oh, well, it just goes to show you: No good deed goes unpunished.”

  Savannah had expected a certain amount of hostility the next time she conversed with her youngest sibling. But nothing had prepared her for the storm that descended upon her head when she crossed the path of Hurricane Atlanta in the gallery half an hour later.

  “Get away from me! I am not speaking to you!” Atlanta said with a Vivian Leigh toss of her head. “In fact, I’m considering never speaking to you again. Not for as long as I live. Not for as long as you live. Not for as long as—”

  “Okay, okay, I get your drift.” Savannah sighed and ran her fingers wearily through her hair. Her “do” had long since died, along with her hopes of wringing any enjoyment from this assignment.

  She glanced across the gallery and saw Mrs. Lippincott, surrounded by a circle of tired staff. Ryan was with them, looking as fresh and debonair as he had at the beginning of the evening. Dang his hide, she thought.

  She lowered her voice, not wanting an audience for this little domestic squabble. “I understand that you’re very upset with me, ‘Lanta,” she said. “So, what else is new? Older sisters are a lot like parents; they seldom, if ever, do anything right . . . at least according to the younger kids in a family.”

  “But you were rude to a judge! A judge, Savannah! And he was being so nice to me. He probably would have given me really high marks, if you hadn’t stuck your big, fat nose into things.”

  Savannah reached out, put her hand on Atlanta’s forearm, and gave her a cautionary squeeze. “Sh-h-h . . . keep your voice down. Let’s go into your room to discuss this.”

  Atlanta shook her hand away. “There’s nothing to discuss. We aren’t speaking, remember?”

  “So, I guess I should have just let you go on talking to that sleazebag. He was going to hit on you, do you know that?”

  Atlanta’s face lit up. “Really? Really, do you think he likes me that much?”

  Savannah resisted the urge to strangle her. “No-o-o, I’m quite sure he doesn’t like you. He doesn’t even know you. He’s only interested in banging you, and he doesn’t have to like you for that.”

  Atlanta’s nostrils flared, and for half a second Savannah expected flames to shoot out of her nose. “What’s the matter, sissy?” she said bitterly. “Do you want him for yourself? You’ve got a thing for him? Is that it?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I—”

  “I think that’s exactly what it is. I think my big sister is sexually frustrated and—”

  “Atlanta, that’s enough.” Savannah gave the teenager the same look that Gran had given the Reid children about three seconds before her righteous wrath exacted its toll on their backsides. “For your information, young lady, the only frustration I’m feeling at this minute is the overwhelming desire to bend you over my knee and paddle your hind end.”

  “This conversation is over,” Atlanta said in a tone that was less self-assured than her words.

  “Yes, it is. We’ve already said way too much for a couple of sisters who aren’t speaking to each other.”

  Savannah felt a flood of sadness sweep over her as she watched her sibling walk away. Did all families have these problems, she wondered, or were the Reids specially blessed in that regard?

  She didn’t have to think that one over for very long. Having been a police officer for years, she knew all too well the kinds of problems that some families had—problems that sometimes ended in tragedy.

  This little disagreement was nothing. Really.

  So, why did it hurt so much?

  Savannah felt someone’s presence behind her, and when she turned around she saw Mrs. Lippincott standing there, watching. She had left Ryan and the staff members and walked over to Savannah’s side of the gallery. Savannah wondered how much she had overheard.

  “Is everything all right, Savannah?” she asked.

  Savannah considered brushing her off with a flip answer, then at the last second decided to be honest. “Not exactly. I’ve certainly lived more peaceful lifetimes . . . but I’m fairly certain I lived them as an only child.”

  Mrs. Lippincott smiled. “I understand. I have three younger sisters of my own.”

  Several of the contestants walked through the gallery, snickering, giggling, excited and as happy as only a group of carefree teenagers could be. As they passed Savannah and Mrs. Lippincott, the older woman watched them with a look akin to resentment on her face.

  “What a waste,” she said. “All that beauty, health, and energy squandered on the young. They have no idea how fleeting all of those gifts are. If they did, they would enjoy this period of their lives so much more.”

  Savannah nodded. “How true.”

  “Don’t you envy them . . . their youth?”

  Savannah thought for a moment. “Not really. Along with the beauty and energy goes a lot of inexperience and naïveté. I wouldn’t be that young and stupid again for anything in the world. Those life lessons were too hard-earned to be given away.”

  Marion Lippincott quirked one eyebrow. Savannah got the distinct impression that she wasn’t accustomed to being contradicted. “Oh? May I ask how old you are, Savannah?”

  “I’m in my early forties.”

  “Ah . . . that explains it. Check back with me in around twenty years, and we’ll see how you feel about the subject then.”

  Savannah chuckled. “You may be right. By the way, Mrs. Lippincott, I was going to ask you about one of your girls . . . a Barbara or Barbie—”

  A horrible, terrified scream cut through the room.

  Savannah swallowed her words and nearly her heart. The sound had come from the direction of the guesthouse, the same direction that Atlanta had walked just moments ago. And somewhere in the recesses of her mind, Savannah knew—with sickening conviction—that it was her little sister who had screamed.

  “Oh, my God. . . . ,” she whispered. But she was already running, with Ryan at her side, her gun in her hand . . . and Mrs. Lippincott trailing somewhere behind.

  Chapter 9

  Savannah and Ryan nearly collided with Atlanta, who was racing down the hall, running away from her room. Thankful to see the kid in one piece, Savannah holstered her Beretta and held out her arms. Atlanta flew into them, sobbing.

  “What is it, sweetheart?” Savannah asked, trying to peel her sister off so that she could check her for injuries. “What’s wrong?”

  “Was it you who screamed, Atlanta?” Ryan asked. He still had his gun drawn, but was holding it behind his thigh and out of sight.

  Atlanta nodded vigorously and tried to squeak out a couple of words, but she was crying too hard.

  Mrs. Lippincott came running up behind them, followed by half a dozen of the staff members. Excited and alarmed, they were all trying to talk at once.

  “What happened?” Mrs. Lippincott demanded. “What’s going on here, and why are you crying, Ms. Reid?”

  Sava
nnah held up one hand in a manner that clearly said, “Back off.”

  “Wait there please,” she said. “Let us take care of this for the moment.”

  Mrs. Lippincott seemed to get the message, and she took a couple of steps backward. “Okay, okay,” she said to the staff, “quiet down. Everybody be calm while they figure this out.”

  Savannah put her hands on Atlanta’s shoulders and gently shook her. “Come on, honey, and take a couple of deep breaths. Do it. In. Out. That’s it. Now tell me what’s wrong.”

  Atlanta shivered, turned, and pointed to the door of her room, which was half-open. “In there,” she said, “on the bed.”

  Ryan hurried on down the hall, reaching the room just before Savannah. They positioned themselves on either side of the door, nodded to each other, and Ryan shoved it the rest of the way open with his foot, his gun lifted and ready.

  After a quick glance, they charged into the room. Expecting the worst—whenever that might be—Savannah had also drawn her Beretta. But the room was vacant.

  “What is that?” Savannah said. “What’s the problem that—”

  She didn’t need an answer from Ryan; by then she could clearly see the problem for herself.

  There on the bed next to the window—Atlanta’s bed—was a large pool of red ugliness.

  “Blood,” Ryan said simply.

  Savannah nodded and moved closer. When she was about a yard from the bed she could smell it, the thick, coppery stench, that was instinctively repulsive and set one’s nerves on edge.

  “There’s a lot of it,” Ryan commented.

  “Yes, definitely not caused by nicking your legs with a dull shaver.”

  Savannah heard Mrs. Lippincott at the door and turned around to see her entering the room. “Stop! Stop right there. Don’t come in here.”

  “But I have every right to—”

  “No! Nobody comes in here,” she said with an air of authority that wasn’t to be denied . . . even by the formidable Mrs. Lippincott. “Everyone stays out until we see what we have here. This may be a crime scene, and we don’t want it contaminated more than it already is.”