Buried In Buttercream

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Authors: G. A. McKevett

BOOK: Buried In Buttercream
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Books by G.A. McKevett
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Bitter Sweets
Killer Calories
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Sour Grapes
Peaches and Screams
Death By Chocolate
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Murder à la Mode
Corpse Suzette
Fat Free and Fatal
Poisoned Tarts
A Body to Die For
Wicked Craving
A Decadent Way to Die
Buried in Buttercream
 
 
 
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
G.A. MCKEVETT
Buried in Buttercream
A SAVANNAH REID MYSTERY
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Lovingly dedicated to Blanche McGivney Hald,
a beloved inspiration to all generations
to walk in beauty and in strength.
I want to thank all the fans who write to me, sharing their thoughts and offering endless encouragement. Your stories touch my heart, and I enjoy your letters more than you know. I can be reached at:
Chapter 1
“
T
his ain't exactly the roarin' hot time we had planned for this evening, huh, babe?” Dirk Coulter said to the woman at his side.
Savannah Reid couldn't take her eyes off the red wall of flames that had jumped the fire line half an hour ago and was rapidly consuming the town's community center. The building where she and the guy next to her were to have exchanged wedding vows an hour ago.
“Not even close,” she said, slipping her arm around Dirk's waist and leaning against him. “I had much more ambitious plans for you this evening, big boy.”
He put his arm across her shoulders and pulled her closer. His voice cracked a bit when he kissed the top of her head and said, “I'm sorry I couldn't get your wedding gown out, Van.”
She blinked back some tears that had nothing to do with the smoke in the air or the ash falling like dirty snow around them and the crowd assembled to watch the battle. It was all-out war between the San Carmelita Fire Department versus Mother Nature, and Big Momma was winning.
“Hey, you tried,” she replied. “If you'd tried any harder, I'd be bailing out my groom-to-be on our so-called wedding night, and that'd just be the cherry on the crap sundae.”
“I only hit him once.”
“Yeah, and that was one time too many, you knucklehead.”
Dirk flexed his hand. “A love tap ... that's all it was.”
“And if you and Jim weren't poker buddies, he'd have pressed charges then and there.”
“Eh, he knows I'm a man under duress. If there's anything harder on a guy's nerves than gettin' hitched, it's having the place he's supposed to do it in get torched on his wedding day.”
“Well, you be sure and mention that ‘duress' business to him,” she said, “ 'cause here he comes now. And he ain't lookin' none too friendly.”
An enormous fireman was elbowing his way through the mob, composed of countless other firefighters, copious members of the media, town cops galore, and an overabundance of run-of-the-mill gawkers.
When Jim Barbera reached them, he stuck his finger in Dirk's face and said, “I don't care if you
do
have a gold detective's badge, Coulter. Don't you ever lay a hand on me again like that or I swear, I'll—”
Slipping deftly between the two men, Savannah flashed the firefighter her best Southern belle, eyelash-batting, deep-dimpled smile. “Please don't hold it against him, Jim,” she said in a soft, down-homesy drawl. “Dirk was willing to risk life and limb to go into that burning building to rescue my wedding gown. And I know you'd have done the same for that pretty little wife of yours ... what's her name ... Lilly? She's expecting, isn't she? And this is, what, your third youngun?”
“Uh-huh.” Jim was trying hard not to succumb to Dixie charm. “You shouldn't have let your man go into a burning building, Savannah,” he grumbled. “Not for anything. That's the number-one rule.”
Savannah could feel her dander rising. The dimples got a tad less deep, the smile a bit less wide. The drawl had a bite to it when she said, “In the first place, he ain't
my man
just yet, thanks to this blasted fire. And even if he was—knowing him like I do—I don't reckon I'll be doing a lot of ‘letting' him do this or that. He's got a mind of his own and that's the way I like it ... most of the time.”
Fortunately, Jim got a call on his cell phone. He answered it with a predictable degree of gruffness, considering the conversation he was having, the smoke he had inhaled, and the fact that the fire behind him had totally engulfed the structure he and his company had been fighting to save.
“Yeah,” he said into the phone. “Oh? Okay.” He glanced around at the bystanders, then at Dirk. “Coulter's standing right here. I'll tell him.”
He stuck the phone back into his pocket. “That was the chief,” he said. “They're at the point of origin. It's the same guy again ... a pentagram drawn in the dirt and a black candle in the center of it.”
Immediately, Savannah turned toward the mob of spectators, and her eyes began to scan each face in the crowd, one by one. Nobody had to tell her what Jim and Dirk were thinking as they did the same. Odds were high that their arsonist with the creepy rituals was among them, watching with everyone else, enjoying the drama, the destructive fruits of his labor.
What was the point of unleashing hell on a community if you couldn't be there, firsthand, to watch the calamity?
This was his fourth fire in less than a month. They had to catch him before he burned the whole county down.
After a long, dry summer, Southern California had enough problems with wildfires without a pyromaniac getting his jollies by setting more.
“The wind shifted two hours ago,” Jim said. “And they announced it on the local news.”
“He had to know it was coming this way,” Savannah added. “Plenty of time for him to get here.”
Dirk switched from his Grumpy, Thwarted-Bridegroom Mode to his usual—Harried, Cynical Police Detective Mode.
His modes didn't vary much.
“Let's socialize,” he said to Savannah, “mingle a bit.”
“Yeah, you do that,” Jim told them. “I'm gonna get back to work, if I've got your word, Coulter, that you won't be trying to rescue any more bridal apparel.”
But Jim didn't need to finagle any promises out of Dirk. Ruined wedding plans pushed aside for the moment, Detective Sergeant Coulter and his still bride-to-be were on a mission. They had an arsonist to apprehend and a strong, personal investment in his capture.
“If I get my hands on him,” Savannah said, as they headed for the crowd of onlookers, “I'm gonna mash him like a spider on a sidewalk, until he's nothing but a big, greasy spot.”
“No, you've gotta save me some.”
Dirk took her hand and led her over the uneven, rocky ground with a paternal tenderness that was sweet and touching.
Three months ago—when both of their lives had been changed forever—all that loving concern had meant the world to her. His constant attention and unfailing devotion had been exactly what she had needed to survive her ordeal and heal the damage that had been done to her body and spirit. She never would have made it without him.
Two months ago, his endless support and help had been comforting, even convenient, as he had scurried about, running errands for her, waiting on her hand and foot.
But now, she was getting tired of being treated like a victim. She was a survivor. And all this solicitous hovering was getting to be a bit much.
Gently, she withdrew her hand from his. “Let's split up,” she said. “We'll cover more ground that way. You work this end of the crowd, and I'll take the other end. Meet you in the middle.”
Instantly, disapproval registered on his face in the form of his standard-issue showdown-at-high-noon cowboy scowl. “You're gonna go by yourself?” he said.
“Yes. I am. Just like I go to the little girls' room all by myself.” She gave him a smile that was sweeter than her words. After all, he wasn't deliberately being a pain in the rear end; he meant well.
So, she wouldn't smack him upside the head ... this time.
But he wasn't going to let it go. “I don't know how happy I am about you going off by yourself so soon after—”
“Then, darlin', you can just get happy in the same bloomers that you got unhappy in,” she said as she started to walk away from him.
“Be careful!”
She smiled back at him over her shoulder, and lightly scratched the tip of her nose with her middle finger.
Chuckling, he shook his head. “Well, at least don't tackle anybody. You know what the doctor said.”
As she left him behind and worked her way to the opposite end of the crowd, she tried not to think about what the doctor had said.
“Ms. Reid, you're a very lucky lady. Three of those five shots could have easily been lethal, had they been an inch or two to the right or the left.”
No, some memories should remain on the shelf marked, “Best Left Alone.”
“The worst is over, Savannah girl,” she whispered to herself, as she had so many times during the past three months. “The worst is over and done with. Move on.”
She passed a group of teenaged girls wearing far less than their mommas should have let them out of the house in. She checked them off her mental list.
Most arsonists were male. And the majority of them had practical reasons for setting their fires. Revenge, insurance fraud, or to destroy the evidence of other evil-doing ... those were the most usual reasons for blaze-setting.
But Savannah remembered, all too well, the class she had taken while still on the police force, the points the arson specialist had made when profiling what he had called the “pure arsonist.” Though rare, there were individuals who derived their own strange brand of sexual gratification from setting fires, watching them burn, and reveling in the secret joy of knowing they had created the ensuing havoc.
She ran down the mental checklist: 90 percent male, usually white, ages seventeen to twenty-six, with possibly some form of mental illness, substance abuse, previous felony convictions.
And she decided to add one more qualifier: mud-wallowin', slop-suckin' pigs, who ruin other people's wedding days.
Of those assembled to watch the mayhem, only a few fit the description, and even fewer when she ruled out those young white men who were excitedly chattering with others about the drama before them.
Instinctively, she knew she was looking for a loner.
And at the edge of the crowd, she found one.
On the opposite side of the community center's parking lot, on a small hill dotted with sagebrush, stood a solitary figure—a young, Caucasian man, dressed in baggy, dark clothes, who looked like he had just emerged from his mother's basement for a rare outing. He was farther from the fire than the rest of the spectators, but from his elevated position, he had one of the best views in town.
Gradually, Savannah worked her way through the crowd to get closer to him and have a better look.
Leaving the rest of the spectators, she casually strolled across the asphalt parking lot toward his hill, trying her best to watch him without being too obvious. Instead of making a beeline for him, she turned left and meandered in the direction of a path that appeared to lead from the lot up to where he stood.
Concerned that he would spot her, she moved slowly, trying to stay behind any tall brush that would provide cover. Fortunately, he seemed so fixated on the scene below that he was oblivious to all else.
Drawing closer, she could see that he was young, probably early twenties. He was dressed all in black, and once, when he turned her way for a moment, she caught the glint of a large, silver medallion around his neck.
Her pulse rate quickened. She was pretty sure she'd seen a star on the pendant. Maybe a pentacle?
Ducking behind a tree, she reached into her jacket pocket, pulled out her cell phone, and gave Dirk a call.
“Yeah?” he said.
“Other side of the parking lot, on the hill,” she whispered. “The guy in black, watching the fire. I think it's him.”
“Where? Oh, yeah. I see him.”
“Where are you?” she asked.
“On the far side of the crowd. Where are—? What the hell!”
She grinned. He'd spotted her. And even from sixty yards away, she could read his indignation in his body language. She gave him a little wave.
Instantly, he started to elbow his way through the spectators, heading in her direction.
“Don't even think about taking him yourself,” he told her. “You wait for me.”
Savannah's grin disappeared. “I know the drill,” she said.
And she did. Having been a cop—his partner, in fact—she knew all too well about waiting for backup. But it was one thing to wait for assistance as part of the routine. It was another to have someone—especially a former partner—tell you to do so because he was afraid you couldn't handle a situation by yourself.
“Be very careful, Ms. Reid,”
she could hear the doctor saying.
“I know your work involves physical altercations from time to time. You can't afford to—”
“Oh, shut up,” she whispered to the voice in her head.
“No,” Dirk barked back. “I won't shut up! You wait for me!”
Rather than admit she'd been talking to herself, she just said, “I'm waiting, okay?” and clicked the phone off.
He'll be here lickety split anyway,
she thought to herself as she watched Dirk push through the crowd like a football player within a few yards of a Hail Mary touchdown.
Even if he has to mow down women, children, and a couple of grandpas to get here.

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