And the Killer Is . . .

by G. A. McKevett

  She certainly was.

  Glancing over at Granny, she could see her grandmother was getting up, vacating the chair for Savannah.

  While Savannah was touched and honored by the gesture, she wouldn’t have it. Gran had raised her too well.

  “Sit still,” she told her grandmother, waving her down. “I’m going to snag a piece of that cake and some coffee and join you.”

  Granny eased herself back into the chair and said, “What’s wrong with that hound dog out there? I haven’t heard him bay like that since the cat next door at the trailer park got into his food dish and ate part of his supper.”

  “He wants Brody to come out and tussle with him again,” Savannah told her. “The kid’s as keen on it as the hound. I think you can safely say they’ve bonded.”

  “I had a redtick hound myself when I was about his age,” Ethan said. “One of the best friends I ever had. He went everywhere with me. Slept with me. Even ate with me any time my mother wasn’t looking.”

  “Boys and their dogs,” Granny said, reaching down to pick Cleo up from the floor and set her on her lap. “They’re best friends. Like a grandma and cats.”

  Savannah went into the kitchen and was in the middle of cutting herself some cake when Brody bounded through the kitchen, racing toward the back door. He was wearing his old shorts, which were now, at least, clean.

  “Hey!” she called after him. “You want a piece of cake before you head out there? You might need some energy with all that tossing and tumbling you’re about to do.”

  Brody hesitated, and she could see he was sorely tempted. But another bay from the Colonel sent him over the edge. “Naw. I’ll have some when I come back inside,” he said before he raced to the back door and disappeared.

  Savannah headed back into the living room, her treats in hand. Sitting on the sofa, she turned to Ethan and said, “I was happy, as always, to see your car in the driveway when I came home. But I hope you didn’t drop by for a ‘murderer reveal’ like on TV. We’re good, but we take more than an hour to catch the culprits, I’m afraid.”

  He gave her a reassuring smile. “I’m sure you do. I have no expectations of a quick resolution here.”

  “Of course, we can always hope,” she said. “But unless the killer’s standing over the body with blood on his clothes and the murder weapon in his hand, it usually takes longer than sixty minutes.”

  Watching him take a sip of his coffee, then squeeze the mug tightly between his hands, Savannah could feel the stress radiating from him in waves.

  “Truthfully,” he said, “I’d be satisfied if I thought you’d be able to solve this case in two months. Even two years. Ever. I’m afraid you won’t be able to, and Lucinda will never receive the justice she deserves.”

  “I understand. I won’t lie to you, Ethan. That’s always a possibility. Some murders are never solved.”

  Granny spoke up, adding, “Sometimes ever’body knows who done it, why, and with what. But for one reason or another, the police just can’t nail the killer and put ’im away for good.”

  “That’s true,” Savannah said. “Knowing ‘who done it’ and proving it in a court of law are two very different things.”

  The look of sadness and anger on Ethan’s face went straight to Savannah’s heart as he sighed and said, “That’s undoubtedly true. Bringing a killer to justice, I’m sure, is a lot harder in real life than it is on television or in the movies.”

  “It is,” Savannah assured him. “Much harder. That’s why detectives—private ones and cops alike—lose a lot of sleep during some cases. Believe me, we don’t want to see a killer walk either. The thought that they’re still out there and could do it again makes us crazy.”

  Ethan set his mug down, reached into his jeans pocket, and pulled out his wallet. “That’s why I came over here this afternoon,” he said. “After we talked there on the pier, I had a feeling this was going to be one of those cases that’s really hard to solve.”

  “Okay,” Savannah said. “You’re probably right about that. But put your billfold away, boy. Your initial retainer was overly generous. We haven’t come close to running through that and probably won’t. I reckon I’ll owe you money in the end.”

  “No. I won’t be accepting any refunds from your agency, whether or not you catch the killer. Whatever happens, I know you and your team will be doing your best, and that’s enough for me.”

  He reached into his wallet and pulled out a check. He placed it on the sofa cushion between them. “That,” he said, “is a little extra effort on my part to catch this guy.”

  Savannah looked down, saw the amount, gulped, and said, “That’s a mighty effort there, darlin’. What are you fixin’ to do with that much moo-lah?”

  “It’s a reward,” he explained, “for information leading to the arrest and blah, blah, blah. If anybody tells you anything that takes this investigation forward, they get that. If a second, separate party comes forward with something else, I’ll give them the same.”

  “Goodness!” Savannah nearly choked on her cake. “That’s . . . wow! You really do want this guy caught.”

  “You have no idea. The more I think about it—the fact that Lucinda managed to live such a full, long, adventurous life, that she made it out of all sorts of dangerous situations and thrived, only to have her amazing life end in that pathetic, cruel way—I can hardly stand it.”

  “I hear ya, son,” Granny said. “Not because I’m an old gal myself, but there is something particularly sad about an elderly person’s life being taken that way. Like they lived all that time, maybe a good, peaceful life, and then, that’s what their legacy is. What they’ll be remembered for. It ain’t right. Not a’tall.”

  “Exactly!” Ethan’s face flushed dark with rage. “Lucinda should have been able to die naturally and peacefully with someone she loved holding her hand, not a murderer strangling her. She should have been allowed to keep her legacy, her reputation as a glamorous woman, a gifted actress, someone who inspired and helped a lot of people. But her killer robbed her of that, along with whatever years she had left. He stole her from us and the times we might have spent with her. I want him to pay for it.”

  Ethan paused, and Savannah could tell he was trying to get control of his anger.

  She also knew he never would. Not about this.

  “Murder is far more complex than the killing of a human being, as horrible as that is,” she said softly. “There are always multiple victims. One person dies, but so many other lives are damaged, too. Some beyond repair.”

  “Catching the killer, convicting them, it’s a good thing,” he said. “I was so grateful to you and your team for bringing the murderer who ruined our family to justice. But it didn’t bring back our dead, and we’re still suffering the aftereffects of what happened. We always will.”

  Savannah studied the young man sitting next to her and thought of all he and his wife had endured. She grieved the loss of his marriage, his life as he had known it before they had been victimized.

  “I’m going to do all I can for you,” she told him, “and for Lucinda.” She reached over and picked up the check. “This may help. There may be someone out there who knows something. The thought of a substantial deposit in their bank account might inspire them to share it.”

  Granny chuckled. “More than once, I’ve seen a person become inspired to do the righteous thing for a pile of filthy lucre.”

  Ethan looked confused. “Lucre?”

  “That’s Bible talk for money, son,” Gran told him. “I’m just sayin’, the Lord moves in mysterious ways.”

  Chapter 17

  Once Ethan had left and Granny had settled down for a nap in the upstairs bedroom, Savannah decided to take a glass of lemonade out to Brody, who was still playing with the Colonel.

  The boy had found a ball and was playing fetch with the hound. Although he was getting a bit frustrated. The Colonel was good at catching a thrown object, but he had never been inclined to bring it
back to the human who had tossed it for him. He seemed to be of the opinion that, if he’d gone to the trouble of catching his prize, he should be able to keep it.

  As a result, Brody was spending more time chasing the hound and prying the soggy ball out of his dripping jowls than throwing it.

  The moment she stepped outside with his lemonade in one hand and a glass of tea for herself, she found the child standing, hands on his hips, glaring at the dog and giving him a piece of his mind.

  “You ain’t so good at this,” he told the Colonel, who was prancing around the yard, his tail held high, the ball in his mouth, and a self-satisfied look on his long face. “You’re supposed to bring it back to me so’s I can throw it again, you knucklehead!”

  Savannah laughed, took the glasses over to the wisteria-draped arbor near the back of the property. “The Colonel doesn’t always play by the rules,” she told Brody.

  “No kidding. He seems to think it’s a lot of fun for me, watching him run around with the ball in his jaws. He ain’t got the hang of this a’tall.”

  “I hate to tell you this,” Savannah said as she set the drinks down on an accent table between the chairs, “but he’s been doing that since he was a pup and his father before him and his granddaddy, too.”

  “You knew the Colonel’s granddaddy?” Brody asked, amazed.

  “I sure did. This is Colonel Beauregard the Third. His grandfather was our first Colonel. Granny got him when I was a kid.”

  “My age?”

  “A mite older than you.”

  “Did you play ball with him, too?”

  “I tried. He was as obstinate as his son, and his grandson after them. Seems that particular brand of contrariness runs in the Beauregard hound dog family.”

  Brody laughed. “I don’t care. He’s still fun. Watch this.”

  He scampered over to the dog and got down on his hands and knees. Immediately, the hound dropped the ball, ran to him, and with his nose, bowled the boy over onto his side.

  Brody grabbed the dog around his saggy neck and dragged him down on top of him.

  That was when the battle began in earnest. Pseudo-fierce growling on the Colonel’s part, a lot of squealing from Brody, as they rolled back and forth across the grass, neither willing to let go of the other.

  Savannah laughed, enjoying the moment of innocence and levity, having had little of either for the past twenty-four hours.

  What is it about kids and dogs? she thought, watching them. They bring out the best in one another. Recalling all she had seen and heard at the Faraday mansion last evening and today, she added, Too bad adult humans can’t do the same.

  At that moment, she saw something that caused her to collapse in a fit of laughter. Colonel Beauregard III grabbed a mouthful of the seat of Brody’s shorts, gave a mighty tug, and pulled them halfway down the boy’s buttocks.

  “Hey!” Brody yelled, trying to pull them up. “Knock it off, dog! Those are my britches! Let ’em go!”

  But his struggles only added to the fun for the hound. He tugged at the cloth with typical canine enthusiasm, as though they were playing tug-of-war with a rope toy.

  Savannah got up from her chair and sauntered over to give the boy a hand in retrieving his clothing and his dignity. “What’s the matter, Mr. Greyson?” she teased. “Looks like he’s getting the better of you. Or at least of your drawers.”

  She reached down to pry the dog’s jaws apart, but before she could, she saw something that made her gasp and freeze, her hand on the animal’s massive head.

  “Stop! Colonel, drop it! Leave it!!” she commanded.

  Normally the hound would have been reluctant to quit a game he was enjoying so much, but he seemed to sense the urgency in her voice. In an instant, he did as he was commanded, backed away from the boy, and sat down on his haunches, whining softly.

  “What’s the matter?” Brody said, sitting up and readjusting his clothing. “Why’d you make him quit? We was havin’ fun!”

  Savannah felt her knees go weak, so she sat down, abruptly, on the grass beside the boy.

  Her mind raced, taking in what she had seen and frantically trying to think of the best way to discuss it with the child.

  In the end, she decided to just be honest and forthright. But gentle.

  “Brody, darlin’,” she said, reaching over and smoothing his tousled hair. “Just now, when you and the Colonel were wrestling. I saw something.”

  He looked totally confused and only moderately concerned. “What are you talkin’ ’bout? Did you bring me somethin’ out here to drink?”

  “Yes. I brought you lemonade, and you can have it in a minute. But I have to ask you about something I saw, there on your backside.”

  Instantly, the boy’s smile disappeared, and his color deepened as he blushed. “Ain’t nothin’,” he said.

  “I think it is, and I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to talk about it.” She stood and offered him her hand. “Would you prefer to go over there?” she asked, nodding toward the arbor, the chairs, and table with the drinks on it.

  “No!” He refused her hand, sat up, and crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t want to go there. I want to go home. Call my momma and tell her to come get me right now!”

  Savannah’s heart sank. This was going to be even worse than she’d feared. “I can’t, sweetie,” she told him. “I can’t call her where she is. Your mother couldn’t come and get you right now, even if I did call her.”

  He started to cry. “But you tell her it’s important. She said I should always call her and not say nothin’ because—” He choked on the rest of the words, put his hands over his face, and sobbed.

  Savannah felt a rage welling up inside her, stronger, darker, and uglier than she could recall in her entire life.

  But she pushed it down, deep inside, so the child wouldn’t hear it when she said, “Your mother told you that if anyone ever saw those marks, those sores on your bottom, you should call her?”

  He nodded.

  “And not tell anybody how they got there, right?”

  “Yes,” he whispered.

  “Did she tell you that something awful would happen if you told anyone what happened to you?”

  He looked up at her and seemed to be somewhat surprised that she knew.

  “Yes,” Savannah said. “I know about marks like those. The long ones are from a belt. From somebody giving you a whuppin’. . . a really hard one.”

  When he didn’t reply, she continued, “Brody, I used to have bruises like that on me, too. On my bottom and on the backs of my legs. My momma made me wear long skirts, and long socks that came all the way up to my knees, even in the hot summertime, so the neighbors and the kids and teachers at school couldn’t see them.”

  This time the boy was more than surprised. He was shocked. “You did?” he asked incredulously. “You did?”

  “Yes. I sure did, and I remember to this day how bad those whuppin’s hurt.”

  He nodded but offered nothing else.

  “I saw something else on your bottom, too,” she said softly. “You had something else done to you, too, besides the whuppin’. Something I didn’t have done to me.”

  Staring down at the grass, he gave another little nod as teardrops rolled down his cheeks.

  She took a deep breath and fought back her own as she said, “Those round, red sores, and the ones with black scabs on them . . . those are cigarette burns, aren’t they?”

  “I can’t say anything,” he protested. “My momma said, if I did . . .”

  “I know. But you didn’t tell me anything. You don’t have to, darlin’. I was a police officer, and I know what causes marks like that. I also know who does it to kids. You didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t tattle on anybody. I figured it out on my own. Okay?”

  “Yeah. Okay. But she said if anybody saw them or if I tell anybody, something bad will happen. The cops will put me and her both in jail.”

  “That’s not what’s going to happ
en, honey. Nobody’s going to put you in jail. I promise. Nothing bad is going to happen to you. Nothing like that is ever going to happen to you again.”

  She reached out her arms to him, and to her relief, he threw himself into her embrace, burying his face against her chest.

  Even the bloodhound joined in by walking over to them and nuzzling the weeping child with his big nose and whining his sympathy.

  “See there,” she said, kissing the top of the boy’s head. “The Colonel is letting you know that he’s going to protect you, and I’m going to, and Detective Coulter, and even Granny, too. We’re all plumb fierce about protecting kids and keeping them from being hurt. You don’t have to worry anymore.”

  She felt him sag against her with relief, and that was what caused her to lose the fight with her own tears.

  She held Brody Greyson, rocked him, and cried along with him. She wept for him and for the wounded child she had been so many years ago. She cried for all the children who bore the marks of adults’ pain, frustration, and rage on their precious bodies.

  * * *

  Later, inside the house, Savannah left Brody snuggled up to Granny’s side on the sofa as she read to him from one of Savannah’s favorites, The Blue Fairy Book. She went upstairs to her bedroom, washed her face, and phoned Dirk.

  She dreaded the call terribly. She knew he would be as upset as she was over this awful development. The last thing she wanted to do was tell him over the phone.

  He sounded cranky when he answered with, “Yeah. Hi.”

  “Where are you?” she asked, anticipating his answer.

  “This stinkin’ place, sortin’ through the stinkin’ junk. That’s what my life is now. Stinkin’ garbage. Why?”

  “I, um, I—” She swallowed, fighting back the tears that were threatening to resurface.

  “What is it, babe? What’s wrong?” he asked, all signs of grouchiness gone in his concern for her.

  Don’t tell him on the phone, her instincts warned her. Life’s best and worst words should be said face to face.

  “I know you’re working, honey,” she said. “I know you’re busy. But could you . . . could you please come home?”