Killer Reunion (14 page)

A
s a resident of Southern California, Savannah had experienced more than her share of earthquakes. She was all too familiar with the physical sensations they produced: the queasiness that went far deeper than the average upset tummy, the loss of equilibrium, the sinking feeling that the ground beneath your feet was about to rise up and smack you in the head. Not to mention the pure panic of it all when you realized that your world, as you knew it, might literally be coming apart at the seams.

As she stood there in the middle of Jameson's preparation room and heard the words “high heel,” she experienced all those earthquake sensations and more.

In less than a couple of seconds, her imagination had generated more than one horrific scene that would most likely be part of her future: Sheriff Thomas Stafford reading that ruling on the coroner's report, members of the jury listening to Herb Jameson testify as they stared at the muddy high heel that was Exhibit A on the evidence table.

One look into the mortician's eyes told Savannah that he was all too aware of the high heel, her high heel. The shoe that was now in Sheriff Stafford's possession.

She swallowed hard and wished that she was still standing closer to the door, so she could reach over and grasp the knob for support.

“I know how it looks, Mr. Jameson,” she said. “Believe me. If I were you, I'd be thinking the same thing. But I assure you that I didn't kill her. And I'm begging you to help me find the evidence I need to prove it.”

She searched his face for any sign that she might be winning him over with her entreaties. But she saw only condemnation and anger.

“If you truly came here for answers,” he said, “which I do not believe for one moment, then you have them, and you should leave. But if you came here to convince me that someone, anyone, other than you murdered this young woman—cruelly, painfully—then you've wasted your time and mine.”

“I'm very sorry you feel that way, Mr. Jameson,” she said.

“I'm sure you are. I'm sure you'd have been much happier if I hadn't figured out what you did and what you used to do it.”

He ripped the disposable overalls off, wadded them into a ball, and tossed them into the wastebasket with the rest of the soiled garments. “Let me tell you something, Miss Savannah. This may be a small rural town. And you may look down your nose at us and think we're a bunch of bumpkins. But some of us here in McGill happen to know our business. And some of us know it well. So, country bumpkin or not, you're not going to murder one of my people—let alone a woman I cared about—and get away with it. Not while I'm coroner in this town.”

Savannah couldn't remember a time when she had felt so much fear and sadness wash through her so quickly and take possession of her spirit and mind so totally.

To her horror, she burst into tears.

It was the last thing she wanted to do, sobbing her face off in front of this man. A man whose respect, even affection, she had always delighted in having.

Now it appeared he was her worst enemy.

Unable to think of a single thing to say, she headed back to the door. But before she was able to escape the room, her accuser, and the terrible sight of Jeanette's dead body, she heard the mortician say, “Yes, Savannah Reid, you'd better run. I talked to Tom Stafford on the phone not an hour ago. I told him what I found, what my ruling's going to be. He was on the other side of the county when we talked. But he said he was heading back here quick as he can.”

Savannah didn't reply, but she could practically feel the blood draining from her own face.

“That's right,” Jameson said. “The sheriff's coming for you. Says he'll have a warrant in his hands. And you're going to pay for what you did. You're going to pay for killing this beautiful, vibrant young woman. And it won't be just a prison sentence, either. The last time I checked, the state of Georgia still has capital punishment. If I have anything to do with it, and I will, you'll get the death penalty.”

Savannah ran from the room.

She raced down the dark, claustrophobic hallway, with its walnut paneling and navy blue carpet. She made it out the seldom-used side entrance and into the parking lot . . . before she fell to her knees and threw up her part of Granny's birthday breakfast feast.

When Savannah arrived at Butch's garage to collect Dirk, she didn't get out of the car. She just beeped the horn and waited for him to emerge, figuring that the fewer people who saw her with swollen, teary eyes and a red nose, the better.

Funny how a bit of news, especially about murder, can make it from one end of town to the other at the speed of pizza delivery
, she thought as she waited. She could practically hear the gossip as it flew through the air over her head.

“Hey, I heard Savannah Reid was bawling like a lost pup right there in front of Butch's garage. Made a fine spectacle of herself, she did!”

“Yes, I heard that already. Thelma Sullivan says it's 'cause she's about to be arrested for endin' ole Jeanette Parker. Oughta give her a medal instead of the 'lectric chair, if you ask me.”

Savannah couldn't help grinning at her own extravagant fantasies.
Don't worry, darlin'
, she told herself in her best big sister manner
. You won't get the electric chair. Hell. They don't use those things anymore
.
They'll put you down with an injection, like a toothless old hound dog with a chronic bladder infection who's taken to peeing on the carpet.

To pass the time and possibly distract her racing mind, she turned on the radio and caught the middle of a news story. “Execution of convicted husband murderer Penelope Barbera was postponed today because of questions about whether the drug to be used to end her life is humane or constitutes cruel and unusual—”

“Ugh!” She turned it off, took out her phone, and called Dirk. “Your limo has arrived,” she said. “Are you ready to go?”

“Naw. Me and Butch are fixin' this double clutch. We're up to our elbows in grease.”

“Now ain't the time, darlin'. You need to shake a leg and get yourself out here.”

“Okay.” He snickered. “Want me to bring you a soda? Wait a minute. Butch says around here it's called pop.”

“Yes. A ginger ale if you've got one.”

“You want a candy bar?”

“No. I'd probably throw it up, like I did my breakfast.”

There was a long silence on his end. Then he said, “Bad news from Jameson?”

“The worst.”

“I'll be right out.”

Three seconds later, she saw the office door fly open. Dirk ran out, a soda bottle in each hand. Butch emerged behind him but stayed in the doorway, a worried look on his face.

It touched Savannah's heart to see her brother-in-law so concerned about her. While they'd never had the opportunity to really develop a close relationship, they had always liked each other and gotten along well. Savannah considered him a saint for putting up with Vidalia's mercurial moods. A less even-keeled fellow would have flown the domestic coop long ago.

He gave her a half wave, and she returned it as Dirk dove headfirst into the car. She decided to move along before Butch's curiosity got the better of his good manners. The last thing she needed was an overly concerned relative asking questions.

In that regard, she already had her hands full with Dirk.

The instant he got into the car, he gave her a quick, thorough once-over. Unhappy with what he saw, he said, “What's the matter? What did Jameson say? How bad is it?”

“Let's get out of town first,” she said as she took a long swig of the lemon-lime soft drink he had handed her. No doubt, it was the closest thing to a ginger ale in Butch's minimally stocked soda machine.

“Out of town?” he complained. “I have to wait until we're
out of town
?”

“Think about the town you're in before you get too frazzled there, darlin'.”

“Right. I forgot. This is one of those ‘sneeze and you'll miss it' communities.”

That limited discourse had lasted long enough for Savannah to cross the boundary of the city limits and pass officially into the countryside. Several seconds later, they were surrounded by nothing but cotton fields.

She pulled the car over to the side of the road and drank a bit more soda. Then she turned to Dirk and said, “Remember in our marriage ceremony, that business about ‘for better and for worse?'”

“Yeah.”

“Well, call it a hunch, but I reckon this would qualify as ‘worse.' Maybe even ‘worst.' ”

“I can hardly wait to hear it. Spit it out, kid.”

Savannah took a moment to compose herself. She knew that a concise accounting would alarm her husband less than one containing all the nasty details.

The last thing a worried hubby needed to hear was something like “The coroner said he was absolutely certain I'm the murderer, and he intends to do everything he possibly can to make sure I get the death penalty.”

Just the facts
, she told herself.
Give him just the facts.

She drew a deep breath and plunged ahead with her abbreviated story. “Cause of death—drowning. Manner of death—homicide. Antemortem wound five centimeters deep, caused by a narrow cylindrical object with a blunt end.”

“A high heel?”

It wasn't easy being married to a homicide detective.

She nodded. “Jameson seems to think so.”

He groaned and slumped in his seat. “Shit.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

 

The hot noonday sun might have been a blessing for the occasional snake who climbed up out of the roadside ditches onto the hot asphalt to catch a few rays and work on his tan. But as Savannah and Dirk traveled that highway on their return trip to Granny's house, Savannah cursed the blazing heat. She cursed the sunbathing reptiles, the cotton fields where she had worked so hard as a child, and in general, this part of the world, where it seemed nothing good ever happened to her.

“That isn't entirely true,” she muttered to herself. “Gran's good.”

“You're doing it again,” Dirk told her.

“Talking to myself?”

“Yeah. Not that I particularly mind it, 'cause I talk to myself, too.”

“You most certainly do. All the time.”

“Yeah, but you start talking halfway through your thought, instead of at the beginning, like you're supposed to. And that drives me crazy, wondering what the heck you said, or didn't say, before it.”

“Ugh. I didn't realize there are rules governing how one should talk to oneself.”

“I just made it up. And ‘one' should not say ‘oneself,' either. It sounds uppity.”

“Okay. I shall try to remember that, too.”

“ ‘Shall' is kinda uppity, too.”

“Shall I tell one what one can do to oneself and with what?”

He reached over, placed his hand on her knee, and gave it a squeeze. “Don't worry about it, babe. You've got a lot on your mind. I was just kidding.”

And she did have a lot on her mind. Mostly the intersection up ahead, where the highway and Gran's driveway met.

The intersection where Sheriff Thomas Stafford's patrol car sat hidden in a copse of trees and bushes.

“Dadgum,” she said. “He got that warrant awful quick.”

She felt Dirk tense beside her and heard his breath quicken. “You let me handle this,” he said. “I'll be happy to tell him where he can stick that warrant of his.”

“I'm sure that would make you happy, big boy,” she replied. “But I'm also sure that's not the best way to handle the situation.”

“I don't have a lot of alternatives, since he took my weapon.” He sighed. “I've got some bullets I could throw at him, but he probably wears a vest.”

“I appreciate the thought,” she told him. “And I know you'd even be happy to insert those bullets manually, but I'm going to ask you for a really big favor.”

He gave her a frown, which told her that he wasn't expecting to like what he was about to hear. “
Okay.
Lay it on me.”

“I want you to stay in the car while I talk to him. I want you to let me handle this, one hundred percent, by myself.”

“You're right. I don't like it. You're my woman, and I'm going to protect you.”

She sighed. “I understand that you love me, darlin', and you want to take care of me. But now's not the time to get all caveman on me—”