Savannah put a plate of cookies on the table, along with the obligatory coffee, and tea for John. Tammy and Waycross had been summoned, to complete the team. Savannah had mineral water for her, and a six-pack of root beer for him.
Baby Vanna Rose was snoozing, draped across Waycross’s lap. Both the baby’s and her daddy’s fiery red hair glowed in the warm light of the stained-glass lamp. Unlike the overly streetwise Brody, the toddler wouldn’t understand the morbid topics being discussed, even if she should wake.
“Let’s start with you, Tamitha,” Savannah said. “Did you dig up anything else on our principal players?”
Tammy grabbed her electronic tablet and referred to her notes. “Brooklynn Marsh is an interesting lady.”
“Really?” Dirk said. “I didn’t notice.”
When Tammy gave him a long, confused look, Savannah said, “She’s a pretty sad case.”
“Plain. Mousy. Lackluster,” Dirk interjected.
Savannah searched for kinder words but couldn’t find any. “She struck me as a worn-out, dragged down, faded version of whoever she might have been if she hadn’t hooked up with a jerk like Faraday.”
“As unpleasant as that evaluation might sound,” Tammy said, “I’ll have to admit you may be right. She was a successful professional, the managing editor for a major magazine. Very fit and attractive, too, I’d say, judging from her earlier social media photos. She made a lot of money, owned a nice home. But then she met Geoffrey and her life took a major turn for the worse.”
“In what way, love?” John asked as he added another bag of Earl Grey to his cup.
“Did he run them into debt?” Ryan asked.
Tammy nodded. “He certainly did. She spent all her money on his legal problems. Especially after his great-grandmother cut him off and refused to foot the bills for his shenanigans anymore. Brooklynn took out a second mortgage on her beautiful beachfront house to pay his attorney’s fees.”
“But he was convicted anyway,” Savannah added.
“That’s right. She even spent a couple of months in jail herself for ‘obstruction of justice’ when they figured out she’d lied and given him a false alibi. That led to her losing her job and therefore her home. Where they’re living now is a cheap rental.” Tammy laid her tablet down and took a sip of her water. “The poor woman’s life has gone to the devil in a wicker basket since she hooked up with that guy.”
“I don’t doubt what you found there,” Dirk said. “It may all be true, but he’s driving a sports car now that cost more than a house.”
“Let’s just say”—Savannah turned to the always sharply dressed Ryan and John—“the two of you would covet his wardrobe. His suit, Ryan, is almost as nice as your bespoke Giorgio Armani.”
Ryan gasped with pseudo-horror. “No! Tell me it isn’t so!”
“But not as fine as my Brioni,” John said.
“Oh, no. Of course not,” Tammy assured him. “The suit has never been created that’s as lovely as your Brioni.”
John gave Ryan a nudge in the ribs and a good-natured laugh.
“If you guys don’t mind,” Dirk said, rolling his eyes, “we’re supposed to be discussing murder, not fashion.”
“We’re determining the financial status of our major suspect,” Savannah told him. “That’s important.”
“Yeah, yeah. Okay.” Dirk threw up his hands. “The guy who couldn’t pay for his own attorneys, whose fiancée is broke because she did, is now rolling in dough. That might be something we should check out.”
“I’m on it,” Tammy said.
“He’s probably into something crooked,” Waycross spoke up. “Sounds like he couldn’t hold a job if it had a handle on it.”
“Sounds like the only thing he’s good at is livin’ off womenfolk,” Granny said.
Waycross nodded. “Yes, he does seem pretty good at that. But if he’s got a lotta money and no job and his woman’s flat broke, he’s prob’ly come by it through skullduggery.”
“Like he did before with the trafficking,” Savannah said.
Ryan held up his hand. “We know a guy in the bureau who specializes in human trafficking. We can ask him to check around, see if maybe this guy’s returned to his wicked ways.”
“Thank you,” Savannah said gratefully. As wonderful as it was to have successful restaurateurs for friends and part of her team, it was even nicer that they were former FBI agents.
“How ’bout that Mary Mahoney lady, the housekeeper?” Waycross asked. “She’s got more access to the dead woman than anybody else. Also, not ever’body likes their boss. There mighta been some bad blood between them two.”
“Oh, there was a bit,” Savannah told him. “I think there was affection, too. She claims Lucinda made a second will, leaving the estate to her. But that doesn’t always rule out murder.”
“Could even be a motive,” Gran said, “if she decided that the Good Lord was takin’ too long to call Miss Lucinda home. She mighta got impatient to collect that inheritance and rushed things along.”
“True,” Savannah said. “A lot of killers have love-hate relationships with their victims. Those two emotions aren’t mutually exclusive.” She turned to her little brother. “You check her out, darlin’. See if anything pops up. Okay?”
Waycross blushed and said, “Sure. Glad to help.”
It touched Savannah’s heart that her brother was so grateful to have a place on the Moonlight Magnolia team. He was a valuable addition to their group. But since childhood, Waycross had never thought of himself as even worthwhile, let alone a precious commodity. His recent troubles with a prescription drug addiction had caused what little self-esteem he had to plummet.
But the entire family, even Dirk, had rallied around him. Especially his loving wife, Tammy. Little by little, he seemed to be coming around.
“Look, guys, we need to wrap this up,” Dirk said, “or I’m gonna have to run out on you. I’ve gotta get back to work.”
“You do?” Savannah asked, dismayed. Then it occurred to her that her earlier call had interrupted his workday. Instantly, she felt guilty. “I’m sorry, sugar. I’ll go with you, help you shovel the garbage.”
He gave her a sweet, understanding—if exhausted—smile. “You don’t have to be sorry. Especially ‘shovel garbage’ sorry. You did the right thing calling me. I needed to come home for that business with the kiddo. I had to talk to him, question the doctors, take pictures, and all that.”
“Are you gonna arrest that no-good momma of his for child abuse?” Granny asked, keeping her voice low.
“She’s already under arrest,” Dirk said, “behind bars even. Surprise, surprise, she couldn’t make bail. But I’ll be adding to her charges, big time. What she did to that kid—” His voice broke. He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I’ve seen way too much of that crap in my career, but this is one of the worst. He’s such a sweet kid, too. It makes me crazy.”
Granny reached across the table and placed her hand on Dirk’s. “I know, son,” she said. “It’s a heartbreaker, for sure.”
Tammy looked down at her baby, sleeping on her husband’s lap. She said tearfully, “I’m quite sure I would kill somebody if I had to in order to keep them from doing something like that to my child. I can’t imagine how a mother could . . .”
Waycross wrapped his arm around his wife’s shoulders, leaned over, and kissed the top of her golden hair. “At least we don’t have to worry about Brody’s momma doin’ nothin’ like that to him ever again.” He turned to Dirk. “Do we?”
“No. She’ll be serving time for the drug charges, and now this? Any halfway sensible judge will make sure she’s behind bars for most, if not all, of his childhood. She won’t get her hands on him again. At least, not until after he’s a grown man.”
“And a lot bigger and stronger than she is!” Tammy added.
Dirk winced, reached up, and touched his badly bruised eye that Brody had pummeled. “Having wrestled with her and gotten punched by him,
I’ll tell you now, that family knows how to fight! I hope I don’t have to tangle with either one of them again.”
Dirk rose from the table, stretched, and popped a couple of cookies into his pocket. “Like I said before, I’ve gotta get back to the mansion, spend a few more hours rummaging around before I put this day outta its misery.”
Savannah looked over at her grandmother and wondered if she dared impose on her again.
As always, Granny read her mind. “Go on along and help your husband. I can tell you’re dyin’ to. I’m stayin’ the night anyway, since Mr. Brody invited me so sweet-like. Don’t take more’n one of us to take care o’ a sleepin’ child.”
Ryan gave John a questioning glance and John spoke up, as well. “We can come, too. Make a party of it. Four of us have twice as good a chance of finding something as two.”
“Really?” Dirk looked like he couldn’t believe his good luck. “Wow! Thanks!”
Tammy looked wistfully down at the baby sleeping on Waycross’s lap. “Well, you guys have fun,” she said, a plaintive tone in her voice. “You know we’d pitch in, too, but we’re parents now, so—”
“So, nothin’,” Granny said, reaching for the tiny redhead, who didn’t stir at all as she transferred her from her grandson’s lap to her own. “Get outta here and go catch a bad guy. The young’uns are gonna be asleep, safe and sound, the whole time. Remember, when it comes to takin’ care o’ kiddos, I’m a champion!”
Tammy didn’t bother to hide her glee as she wriggled about, doing her “happy dance.”
Dirk was astonished. “I never saw anybody so happy to wallow in trash as you are, Miss Fluff Head.”
“Oh, shut up, Dirk-o,” Tammy shot back. “You aren’t the only one who takes their life’s work seriously.”
“Okay, okay.” He held up both hands. “Since Gran’s being so generous and willing to sit on the rug rats, I’ll bring the kid downstairs and put him on the couch, then we can take off.”
“I’ll get the bedclothes for him,” Savannah said. “Tammy, would you check under the kitchen sink and grab as many of those rubber cleaning gloves as you can find? Ryan, would you collect some trash bags? Lots of them. John, please run upstairs and get those bottles of hand sanitizer out of the bathroom cabinet. Waycross, in the utility room cupboard, in the earthquake emergency stash, there’s a whole box of those little flashlights. Would you fetch ’em?”
They all stood, staring at her in amazement.
Finally, John said, “Is it truly that revolting, the Faraday mansion, the hoard inside it?”
“Oh,” she said, “you have no idea. I’d suggest you all stop at home on your way there and change into work clothes. Clothes you won’t mind burning later.”
They stared at each other for the longest time, eyes wide, mouths open. Savannah thought she might have overdone it, lost Dirk the assistance he so needed.
Then Tammy said, “Wow! This sounds awesome!”
“Smashing!” John said. “I can’t wait!”
A second later, they took off in all directions to collect the supplies.
Four minutes later, the four self-appointed crime scene assistants raced out the door.
* * *
Savannah watched as Dirk, black eye and all, gently laid the sleeping boy on the white sheet, made sure the pillow was fluffed under his head, and covered him with the blanket.
Reaching down, Dirk scooped up Cleo, his favorite feline sleeping partner, and tucked her securely under the child’s arm.
“Good night, Brody,” he whispered. “Tomorrow will be a better day.”
Then he bent down and kissed the boy on the head.
As she watched, it occurred to Savannah that, in all the years she had known him and in all the situations she had watched him deal with people, she had never loved and respected her husband more than she did at that very moment.
Chapter 20
“There’s an old sayin’ we use down south.” Waycross paused to wipe the sweat off his forehead with his shirtsleeve and catch his breath. “It goes, ‘I’m up to my eyeballs’ in whatever.”
His fellow searchers welcomed the interruption, small though it might have been, to take a breather of their own. They laughed.
Not uproariously, by a long shot. Just dry chuckles.
Waycross and Tammy, Ryan and John, Savannah and Dirk, and even Mary Mahoney, had been searching the hoard for two hours.
The magic had worn off for all of them after the first twenty minutes. Since then, they had all been operating on pure work ethic and determination to find something, anything, to reward them for their efforts thus far.
Savannah looked across a pile of ancient magazines at her little brother, all grown up. His mop of red curls was the same as the little boy who used to tag along behind her, looking for opportunities to either amuse or annoy her.
The mischievous sparkle in his eyes had become more subdued with the years. Other than his beloved Tammy and their magical red-haired fairy fay, life had been more difficult than kind to Waycross, and it had taken its toll.
Savannah missed the jolly little guy who had frequently hidden frogs in his sisters’ underwear drawers and who drew long, curly mustaches on every photo he could get his hands on—celebrities on yet-to-be-read neighbors’ newspapers, wanted posters in the post office, Adam and Eve in Granny’s family Bible.
But Waycross Reid was a good man. A devoted husband, father, grandson, brother, and brother-in-law. He was far more important than he realized.
He deserved a generous helping of self-confidence.
Savannah considered it part of her life work to help him attain it.
She laughed at his comment and said, “You never thought you’d literally be up to your eyeballs in garbage, huh?”
“None of us did,” Tammy said, as she shined her small flashlight around the area at her feet. “I still haven’t seen the floor yet!”
“I caught a glimpse of it about an hour ago,” John piped up from his and Ryan’s area, closest to where Lucinda’s bed had been. “It’s a beautiful hardwood parquet. Quite lovely, if I do say so.”
“Along with the rest of the house.” Ryan shifted an armful of clothing to one side, then had to grab a stack of books that threatened to collapse on him. “Obviously, this place is in need of some TLC, but—”
“No,” Dirk said as he shoved a pile of papers into a brown evidence bag. “It’s not in need of TLC. Our garage floor’s got some grease on it and should be scrubbed. That’s ‘in need of some TLC.’ This place doesn’t need tender lovin’ care. It needs somebody to set a match to it. Once we get our evidence outta here, that is.”
John gave him a scandalized look. “Torch it? This magnificent, historical work of art? I hope you’re in jest, lad.”
“I agree,” Ryan said. “If you can look past the mess, this home is an art deco masterpiece! Not to mention the treasures that are scattered among the junk at our feet.”
They all looked down. Other than John, everyone wore a doubtful frown.
“I hate to contradict you, Ryan, but I don’t know about that,” Tammy said, “unless there’s a market for used toothpaste tubes, empty cold cream bottles, and naked paper towel rolls.”
Ryan held up a book as Exhibit 1 of his argument. “This, for instance, is a 1902 copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. It’s easily worth between five and ten thousand dollars.”
Dirk gasped and so did the rest.
“Seriously?” Waycross asked. “I’m up to my eyeballs in junk worth thousands of dollars?”
“You’re practically swimming in dough, mate,” John told him. “Makes you see things a bit differently, no?”
“Yes!” Waycross returned to his task with renewed vigor.
“Good,” Dirk said. “Maybe you’ll find that will Mary was talking about, or a threatening letter, or a scandalous diary.”
“To heck with that,” Waycross said, digging in up to his elbows. “I’m fixin’ to fin
d another book like that ’un!”
* * *
Half an hour later, the search team heard someone coming through the tunnel in their direction and glass clinking, along with what Savannah thought sounded like the tinkling of ice.
Refreshments? she thought. Somebody’s brought us energy-restoring, soul-refreshing goodies? What a delightful idea.
“Do I hear food?” Dirk said, turning to face their new arrival.
“Just beverages,” said Mary Mahoney as she appeared around the curve in the path. She had a tray in her hands, loaded down with what Savannah hoped with all her heart was lemonade.
It was. Fresh squeezed and well sugared. Savannah’s all-time favorite.
Other southerners could extoll the virtues of sweet tea, and of course, she loved it, as well. But there was nothing like real lemonade to quench the thirst and recharge a dehydrated, calorie-deficient body.
“You’ve been working a long time,” Mary said as she found a reasonably clean spot atop an old overturned laundry basket to place the tray. “I thought you might need something to wet your whistles, as Lucinda used to say.”
“Lucinda drank a lot of lemonade, did she?” Dirk asked, a sarcastic tone in his voice.
Savannah suggested his skepticism might have something to do with the enormous amount of empty Irish and Scottish whiskey bottles they had uncovered in the hoard.
“Not really,” Mary said. “My lady preferred beverages with a little more kick, to be honest. But back in the old days, when we entertained frequently, she would ask me to make lemonade for our guests.”
“I can’t imagine how beautiful this place must’ve been back then,” John said as he hurried over to help her pour and serve the lemonade. “It’s such an elegant estate, and those were such glamorous times.”
Mary’s eyes sparkled as she handed Ryan his glass. Like most females, she looked him over thoroughly from head to toe, taking in his dark hair, pale green eyes, and his body, which many hours on the tennis court had honed to perfection.
“Oh,” Mary said, “you wouldn’t believe the people she entertained here. Everybody who was anybody came to Qamar Damun in its heyday. Everybody wanted an invitation to this place. Some arrived even without an invitation. If we invited fifty people to a party, a hundred would show up. They weren’t all well behaved either, if you know what I mean.”
And the Killer Is . . . Page 17