Cooked Goose (14 page)

“I’d like to hear your version.”

Savannah licked the whipped cream spoon and dropped it into the sink along with the empty bowl. “Naw. It’s old news, while what happened to you tonight is front-page headline material.” She returned to the table and sat down. “Let’s talk about that.”

Before Margie could reply, the doorbell rang.

Savannah rose to answer it. “That’s probably Dirk,” she said.

Margie wasn’t pleased. “You mean, Dirk Coulter, your old partner?”

“He’s not all that old, but—”

“He’s a cop! I told you not to call the cops.”

Savannah sighed. “Been there, done that. So, neither one of us is particularly good at taking orders.” As she left the kitchen, she added over her shoulder, “And, just for the record, that’s closer to the real reason why I got canned.”

She looked through the peephole and saw a wet, pink, slimy tongue. Yeap, it was Dirk.

“Hi,” she said, swinging the door open and ushering him inside. “We’re in the kitchen, pigging out with Ben and Jerry. Wanna bowl of ice cream?”

As they passed through the living room, he peeled off his battered bomber jacket and tossed it onto the sofa. “What flavor is it?” he asked.

She gave him a withering look. “Free—your favorite. Do you want some or not?”

“Do bears sh—”

“Hush.” She pressed her finger to her lips and nodded toward the kitchen. “There’s a minor in the house.”

“I’m not gonna say nothin’ her foul-mouthed father don’t say,” he whispered.

“Sh-h-h.”

She led him into the kitchen, where Margie still sat at the table, wearing a whipped cream-laced scowl.

“Margie," she said, “have you met Detective Dirk Coulter?”

“I think so. A long time ago.” She couldn’t have been less impressed.

“Ms. Bloss, how nice to see you again,” Dirk said with all the respect due royalty. He pulled out a chair and sat across from her. Savannah took her seat at the head of the table.

“You were just a kid,” he continued, “the last time I saw you. At a Fourth of July picnic, I believe. What are you, about twenty-two now?”

Savannah resisted the urge to gag. Dirk knew when to spread it on thick. Mainly, when he wanted to get as much information as possible out of a disgruntled, female witness.

It was working. Margie fluttered her lashes as demurely as a Southern belle. “No,” she said. “I’m just sixteen.”

“Really? You look much older.”

More fluttering. A shy smile. “Oh, well, thanks, detective.”

“We found your car where you…um…left it,” he said, “smashed into that water tank.”

Tears clouded the teenager’s eyes, but she blinked them back. “The Roadster’s a write-off, isn’t it?”

Dirk nodded. “Afraid so. But it was a pretty smart move; it got you away from him.”

“I guess it’s too much to hope that you found him dead inside the car,” Margie said bitterly.

“Way too much, I’m afraid.”

Savannah set a bowl of ice cream in front of Dirk and handed him the jar of hot fudge. Years ago, he had been demoted from “guest” to “family.” If she could buy it, he could damned well serve himself. “No sign of Santa?” she asked.

“Not even a curly white hair,” he said, sounding tired. “Of course, we had the car towed to the impound lot. We’ll go over it with a fine tooth comb tomorrow morning when it’s daylight.”

“Does my dad know what happened to me yet?” Margie asked.

“Not as far as I know. We put out an APB for him, so I’m sure he’ll show up soon.”

Margie gave a disgusted sniff that didn’t cover the hurt in her eyes. “He’s probably hanging out in a sleazy motel somewhere with some bimbo. That’s usually what he was doing when my mom couldn’t get in touch with him.”

Dirk looked embarrassed. Savannah had noticed, years ago, that Dirk took it personally when members of his own gender screwed up. And she had decided that was somehow endearing.

“Well, whatever he’s doing,” Dirk said offhandedly, “I’m sure he’ll get the message soon. How about your mom? Have you talked to her yet?”

Margie shook her head. “Savannah already offered to call her. But she’s gone to Italy this month with her new husband. I don’t know how to get hold of them. I wouldn’t really want to anyway.”

“Hm-m-m.” He picked up the ice cream and dumped twice as much into his bowl as Savannah had originally given him. “Then why don’t we just see how big a dent we can make in this carton of ice cream,” he said, “and we’ll talk about the guy who grabbed you tonight.”

“Dent, my eye.” Savannah shook her head, mentally wishing her Chunky Monkey a fond farewell. “By the time Coulter finishes an ice cream carton, it’s as totaled as your car. Sorry, Margie, bad joke.”

She left the table and walked to the coffeemaker where she threw in some water and a hearty, Louisiana chicory blend. It was going to be a long night. All that sugar would need a caffeine chaser.

* * *

Margie and Dirk continued to chat companionably, and Savannah wondered at the seeming compatibility between these society misfits. In polite company, neither would have been considered charming. Maybe that was the common ground.

Just before she left the two of them and headed upstairs, she told Margie, “I’m going to try to get your dad again on the phone, while you tell Dirk all the gory details.”

As she walked upstairs and into her bedroom, Savannah whispered a prayer of gratitude that, at least this time, the details weren’t nearly as gory as they might have been.

She had an idea where she might get in touch with Bloss. The comment Margie had made about the cheap motel and a bimbo had stirred an inkling.

Cops—like plumbers, bankers, and doctors—were creatures of habit. And some of those habits weren’t particularly commendable.

In her years on the force, she had seen far more “fooling around” than she had wanted to, and a lot of it had taken place at the Blue Moon Hotel on the outskirts of town.

Experience had shown her that San Carmelita’s doctors took their honeys to the Island View Hotel on the beach for nooners. Lawyers preferred Casa Presidio in the marina. But cops fancied the understated, under-priced ambiance of The Blue Moon for their peccadilloes.

“Hello,” she said when the front desk answered, using her breathy, phone-sex voice that she usually reserved for undercover prostitution stings. “I need to speak with one of your guests. His name is Bloss.”

“There ain’t no Bloss stayin’ here,” said an oily-sounding guy.

“I see.” She dumped the sexy tone. Why put out if it wasn’t working? “Could you please check again,” she snapped. “He and his ‘wife’ might be listed under Smith or Doe.”

“I’m sorry.” The clerk jerk didn’t sound exactly suicidal to her. “We don’t have any guest listed with the name Bloss, Smith or Doe. Is there something else I can do you for?”

“You can tell the good captain that his daughter has been in a traffic accident, and he needs to get over to Savannah Reid’s house as soon as possible.”

“I told you, he isn’t here.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just give him the dadgum message, would you? Do a good deed. It’s Christmas for Pete’s sake.”

* * *

A few minutes later, when Savannah was walking down the stairs, returning to the kitchen, she could hear Margie chatting away in the other room, even more animated than before.

The moment she entered the room, Margie jumped up from her chair and hurried to her. “Savannah, I just remembered something else,” she said, grasping Savannah’s arm.
 

“What’s that, darlin’?”

“I just told Dirk—and he thought it was pretty important. The rapist dude, he was wearing a ring. A big one. When he whacked me on the head, it really hurt.”

Savannah led her back to her chair. “That
is
important. I should have asked you about that. Which hand was he wearing it on?”

“His right one, the one he was holding the knife with.”

“What did it look like?”

“It was big, like a class ring. In the middle was a dark circle and inside that was a big, metal star.”

Dirk gave Savannah a knowing look, which she returned. “If I give you a piece of paper,” she said to Margie, “can you draw it for me?”

The girl shrugged. “I’m not very artistic, but I’ll try.” Savannah took a legal pad and pen from the drawer beneath the phone and handed them to her. “Here, just do the best you can.”

In no time at all, they had a fairly decent sketch of a man’s ring. With satisfaction, Savannah noted that the style and shape of the ring in Margie’s drawing could have caused the bruising on Charlene Yardley’s face.

“For someone who isn’t very artistic, that looks pretty good to me,” Dirk said, still buttering the kid up. She beamed, reveling in adult male praise.

“Do you think it’s a fair representation of what you saw?” Savannah asked her, just making sure.

“As best I can remember. I was really scared and it was pretty dark. But, yeah, it looks like it.”

“Great.” Dirk tore the yellow sheet from the pad and studied it carefully. “We’ll have Charlene Yardley and the other victims look at it,” he said, “and see if they remember seeing it, too.”

Again, the doorbell sounded. Savannah’s two cats, who had just ventured into the kitchen and buried their whiskers in their food dishes, ran for cover.

“Now whoever could that be?” she said as she sauntered to the front door. She had a good idea who her guest was, and she was in no hurry to let the Big Bad Wolf into her humble cottage.

“Why, Captain,” she said, flashing him her most saccharine smile, “how nice of you to grace my doorstep with your auspicious presence.”

Shoving the door open, he barged into the house. “Cram it, Reid.” He paused and glanced around the living room. “Where’s my daughter?”

Savannah couldn’t resist a little verbal jab. “You must have gotten my message,” she said sweetly. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important.”

He stared at her blankly for a moment, then glowered, his little piggy eyes squinting even tighter. “Where the hell’s my kid?” he demanded.

“Well, if you’re going to be snotty about it.” She waved a hand toward the back of the house. “Kitchen. There.”

He stomped past her, pushing her aside. She considered giving him a karate chop between the shoulder blades, but decided on sarcasm instead. “Do come in and make yourself at home,” she muttered as he marched through her living room and into the kitchen. “Just take off your coat and throw it in the corner. Don’t see why you won’t stay a little longer.” Bloss ignored her and headed straight for his daughter, who was cowering in her chair.

“What’s this shit about you wrecking your new car?” he snapped.

Dirk gave a Savannah a look and muttered, “So much for not swearing around minors.”

Anger replaced the look of fear on the teenager’s face. “Hi, Daddy,” she said dryly. “It’s nice to see you, too.”

“Is it totaled?”

“Yes, the car is smashed to smithereens. And I’m fine, thanks for asking.”

Savannah could hear the pain behind the girl’s sarcasm, and she had to bite her tongue to keep from interfering.

“I’ve made one damned payment on that car.” His voice rose along with the florid coloring in his puffy cheeks. “One payment! And you’ve already smacked it up! I can’t believe it! What kind of idiot are you?”

Savannah had had enough. She stepped between the captain and Margie. “That’s enough, Bloss,” she said quietly.

“Who the hell are you to stick your fat butt in, when I’m talking to my own kid?” he shouted.

Dirk jumped to his feet, but Savannah shot him a “Stay Out of It” look. Bloss was still Dirk’s boss, and there was no point in him getting canned, too.

“You’re in my home,” she told Bloss, still reining in her temper. “And Margie is a guest in my home. That makes it my business. And, besides that, I’m trying to stop you from saying things you’ll regret and making a complete fool of yourself, Captain…sir.”

In spite of Savannah’s silent admonition, Dirk took a step in the captain’s direction. “Your daughter,” he said, “wrecked her car to keep from being raped and murdered. He was in the car with her. That’s how she got away from him.”

“He was—you mean, the rapist? Oh, my God.” The bluster went out of Bloss, apparently, along with the strength in his legs. He sat down hard on the nearest chair and wiped a hand across his eyes. For once, his daughter had his full attention. “Did, did he—?”

Margie gave her father a cold, bitter smile, and for a moment, Savannah could see a strong family resemblance.

Margie was Bloss’s daughter, after all. Not a heritage to boast about.

“No, he didn’t rape me,” Margie told her dad, “but if I hadn’t acted like an idiot and wrecked my new car—the car you’ve only made one payment on—I’m sure he would have.”

Bloss’s scowl deepened. He turned to Dirk, who was returning to his seat. “When did all this supposedly happen?”

“Supposedly?” Margie’s eyes filled with tears. She slammed her fist on the table. “What do you think, Daddy? That I made this all up? You think I wrecked my car and made this up to—?”