Killer Reunion (17 page)

No, this was no fun for anyone. And the sooner it was over, the better.

“You're right, Tom,” she said. “Get me printed and searched. Then show me to my cell.”

“I will,” he replied. “And why don't you tell your family that they can go on home now? They made their point. They love you and are behind you all the way. They certainly didn't need to traipse down here in the rain to show me that. I never doubted it. Not now, and not in all the years I've known you and them.”

Savannah gave her relatives, each in turn, a sweet, loving smile as she said, “Sheriff Stafford's right. Y'all should run along home now and get some rest. None of you had a good night's sleep, so you need to get caught up. Especially the kids and Granny and Tammy. I don't want anybody falling down tired on my account. I guarantee you the first thing I'm going to do when I get into that cell is take a nap. Y'all will be frettin' up a storm about me while I'm snoozing away. And what's the point in that?”

“Okay,” Gran said. “If that's what you want, Savannah, then that's what we'll do.”

She walked over to the sheriff and stood looking up at him, her body tense with anger and indignation. Tapping her finger on his broad chest, she said, “I'm going to tell you, Tommy Stafford, the very same thing that I used to tell you when you were a smart-aleck teenager and you and Savannah was keepin' company. You treat my granddaughter like the fine lady that she is, and you and me won't have no trouble. But if you act disrespectful to her in any way, shape, or form, I swear, I'll be on you like a big ole sticker burr on the heel of a cheap sock and ten times more painful. You got that, boy?”

Savannah thought that Gran's speech might make Tom angry, but it didn't seem to. In fact, she saw something twinkle in his eye, which might be a spark of humor or, at the very least, a great deal of respect and affection.

“Yes, ma'am,” he said. “I'm going to make sure that she's well taken care of. It's the least I could do, considering the kindnesses you and your family have shown me over the years.”

Gran lifted her chin a couple of notches, turned on her heel, and marched toward the door. But as she passed Dirk, she said over her shoulder, “You best see that you do, Sheriff Stafford. 'Cause if you don't, not only will you have to tangle with
me
, but this big boy here'll jerk two knots in your tail.”

“Make that three,” Dirk assured him.

Savannah watched her family file out the door, each shooting threatening looks at poor Tom.

She saw the way her old beau was avoiding Dirk's eyes as he fingerprinted her and lightly skimmed his hands, palms out, over her body, pretending to search her.

Then he reached into his desk and extracted a set of keys. Without looking at either of them, he headed for the stairs that led to the jail on the second floor.

On the first step he paused and said, “I'm gonna go on up and make sure that cell's ready. A clean sheet and all that. That'll give you two a bit of privacy to say your good-byes. Don't take too long. Savannah, when you're ready, come on up.”

When he disappeared at the top of the stairs, she and Dirk fell into each other's arms and kissed sweetly, then fiercely.

She tried not to cry. She didn't succeed.

Neither did he.

Finally, she said, “I guess I better go on up. He'll think we took off to Mexico.”

Dirk nodded. “And the minute I get back to Granny's, I'll hop on the phone to Ryan and John and see if they have any ideas about how to get you a really good attorney and a bail bondsman.”

After one more kiss, she stood still and silent, waiting for him to leave. Then she realized that as long as she was within his sight, he never would.

So she started up the stairs, slowly putting one flip-flop in front of the other. One, then the other. One, then the other. On legs that felt as though they were filled with lead and feet that seemed encased in cement.

Until she reached the top.

Until she heard the door softly close below.

F
rom the top stair Savannah looked down the narrow corridor with cells on either side and saw Tom holding an iron-barred door open for her. Apparently, her new living quarters were the second cell on the right.

The squalor of the place attacked her senses on so many levels as she walked that short distance. Overhead, naked low-wattage lightbulbs hung from frayed cords and cast their feeble illumination on the depressing scene.

The decrepit brick building might have been state of the art when it was constructed over one hundred years ago. But bare-minimum maintenance over the past century had taken its toll. The dark green army surplus paint had mostly peeled away from the walls and the iron bars, and rust and graffiti had taken its place.

The first two cells Savannah passed were occupied. She didn't find it particularly comforting that she recognized the guests in residence. They were regular partakers of the county's hospitality. They were minor offenders, and their transgressions could mostly be categorized as disorderly conduct while under the influence of alcohol or drugs.

“Right in here,” Tom told her, indicating her cell with a dramatic wave of his arm. “Got 'er all ready for you. Fresh sheet and ever'thing.”

“Gee, thanks,” she replied. Once inside, she looked around. “Where's the ‘everything'?”

“The toilet's clean. Don't gripe.”

She took in the cot, which folded down from the wall, secured by chains on two corners; the ancient metal toilet; the filthy six-inch window, which was set far too high in the wall to be of any use, other than to let in a wee bit of light.

“Gee,” she said. “It looked so much better on the Web site. Just goes to show, you book a honeymoon suite on the Internet, you never know what you're getting.”

He didn't laugh or even smile. “Seriously, gal, this is the best one of the bunch. I did what I could for you.”

“And I appreciate that, Tom,” she said. “Truly, I do.”

He left her standing in the middle of the cell and walked to the door.

As he let himself out, she said, “Just out of curiosity, and please don't take this as a complaint, 'cause far be it for me to bellyache when you're bending over backward to be nice, but what makes this cell so much better than the others?”

He gave her a nasty little grin as he turned the key, locking her inside. “It's the one most recently sprayed for bedbugs.”

 

Savannah's neighbor across the corridor was a bit of a town celebrity. Yukon Bill held the record for the most nights spent in the county jail. Since he had turned eighteen and officially become an adult, Yukon had “slept off” at least half of his nights behind bars. He was now eighty years old.

The town had thrown him a party when he reached one thousand incarcerations. They had honored him with a parade at five thousand. Yukon was now over the ten-thousand mark, but the town had ceased to find his habits humorous and worthy of accolades—or even of acclaim that was satirical in nature.

Savannah could remember when Yukon Bill's waist-long beard was shorter and bright gold. Now every strand had turned to silver, and the wrinkles on his darkly tanned face had deepened to crevasses.

“Did you bring me a liverwurst sandwich?” he asked her for the third time in an hour.

“No,” she told him. Again.

Apparently, Yukon had lost a bit of short-term memory, too.

“Why didn't you bring me a liverwurst sandwich?”

“I done told you, all I had was sardines and crackers.”

“Oh, okay. Don't ever bring me sardines. Never did like those smelly things.”

Savannah was lying on the cot, with her head toward the window and her feet toward the cell door. But when Yukon whipped out his equipment to “drain the dragon,” as Dirk liked to call it, she decided to reverse her position and stare at the dirty, rain-streaked window instead.

Anything was better than watching the town drunk relieve himself. Especially since while he did so, he leered at her, smiling and showing his solitary yellowed tooth.

To her surprise, Savannah found herself longing for the segregated population of a state prison.

“Hey, girly,” Yukon shouted her way. “How's about I ask the sheriff if you and me can share a cell tonight?”

When she didn't answer, he continued to present his case. “I may not be much to look at no more. But I still know a thing or two about how to please a lady.”

Savannah rolled onto one side and pressed her pillow against her ear. “Lord, just take me now,” she whispered.

“I know all kinds of tricks. You'd be surprised what a man can do with some know-how and a beard this long.”

Savannah felt something snap inside her, and she was pretty sure that it was her last nerve. Jumping to her feet, she hurled the pillow onto the cot and marched over to her cell door.

“Tom! Yoo-hoo, Tom!” she shouted.

When there was no response, she yelled even louder, “Tom-m-y Stafford, you come up here right now, or I swear, I'm gonna eat this pillow and choke myself to death.”

Still nothing.

“How do you reckon my family's gonna take it when you have to tell them I croaked myself in your jail?”

A minute or so later, she heard heavy steps, someone plodding up the stairs.

Eventually, he appeared at her cell, looking tired and aggravated. “What?” he snapped.

“I tried. Okay? I really did. But this just ain't gonna work.”

“
What
ain't gonna work?”

She pointed to Yukon Bill, then to herself. “This. Him and me. I want a divorce. At least a different cell mate.”

“Gal, your pancake ain't done in the middle. How can he be your cell mate when he's in a different cell?”

“Yeah, but he's still way too close. He's flashing me and making indecent proposals about his beard and how he wants to use it to have sex with me.”

“What?” Tom whirled around to face Yukon, eyes blazing. “What are you thinking, you old geezer, showin' off your privates to her and talking dirty? You know better than to pull that crap in my jail.”

“I was just takin' a piss!”

Savannah shook her head. “He was not. Well, he was. But he was also making it real obvious, dangling it out there in plain view. And he was enjoying it, too.”

“Enjoying it?” Tom looked horrified. “You mean he was . . . I mean . . . it was . . . he had a . . . ?”

“No! For heaven's sake, he's an old fart. Probably hasn't had a—”

“Hey, hey,” Yukon interjected. “I'm standing right here. Watch what you're sayin'. I get my feelings hurt easy.”

Savannah reached through the bars and grabbed the front of Tom's shirt. “Come on, Tom. You've got to do something. Don't you have another empty cell?”

“Nope. This was it. We've had a run on
stupid
in the past forty-eight hours, so we're fuller than usual.”

She tried another tactic. “I realize you don't have a gender-segregated jail here. But you've usually got a hooker or two locked up. Can't you stick me in with one of them?”

Tom looked doubtful. “I've got one female in custody on a drunk and disorderly, but I don't think you'd be happy with—”

“I'll take her! I will. Please, just move me away from Romeo here. Listening to him and, God forbid, looking at him constitute cruel and unusual punishment.”

Tom sighed and reached for the ring of keys on his belt. As he unlocked her cell and opened the door, he said, “Now this is it. If you don't like your new accommodations, you just keep a shut mouth about it. This is the last time I'm gonna run up those there stairs to do your bidding. Hear me?”

She nodded vigorously and hurried out of the cell before he could change his mind. “I hear you, darlin'. Loud and clear. I'll be quiet as a mouse peeing on a cotton ball for the rest of the night. I promise.”

“Savannah Reid,” he told her, “the day you get quiet, I won't even have to check your pulse. I'll know you're dead.”

He led her all the way to the end and the cell on the left.

“I warned you that you weren't going to like this,” he said as he turned the key and opened the door. “So you just move along right inside there and no more complaints. Come sundown, I'll be releasing Gilbert Hayworth across the way. And I'll move you over there for the night. That way at least you'll have your own cot.”

“That's fine, Tom. I appreciate it. I didn't mean to be difficult. I'd just enjoyed as much of Yukon's company as I could stand without going completely—” Savannah froze, swallowed her words, and tried not to choke on them.

Her eyes had adjusted to the dim light of the cell. And she had recognized the all too familiar face and form of the woman standing with her back against the rear wall.

“Mom.”

“W
ell, well, well. Won't cha just look at this?” Shirley

Reid said as she watched her oldest daughter take a seat on the cell's only cot.

Savannah felt her body ache, along with her heart, as she leaned back against the cold brick wall. Now she was completely convinced that this whole trip was nothing but an awful, prolonged nightmare. Surely, in real life she would never have this many strokes of rotten luck in so few days.

Locked in a jail cell with my beloved mother
, she thought.
What's not to love about that?

Savannah snuck one quick look at Shirley and was horrified at the change in her since the last time they met. If possible, her mother was even thinner than before, a rickety rail of a human being, with yellowed, crinkled skin stretched over bone. Savannah could see her ribs pushing against the worn denim fabric of her Western-style shirt. Her stiff-spined posture had disappeared, and her back was severely bowed, like that of a beast of burden who had carried far too heavy a load for much too long.

Heaven knows, it wasn't the burden of the nine children she brought into the world
, Savannah thought.
A burden of guilt perhaps
?

But Savannah quickly reconsidered, reminding herself of who her mother was. Shirley Reid seemed to have an uncanny ability to deflect any blame that might come her way from either an external or an internal source. Everything negative that had happened in Shirley's world had originated elsewhere, and certainly not from her. At least in her own mind, she was a victim, used and abused by those she had loved and treated so well.

As she leaned against the wall and surveyed her daughter from head to toe, Shirley snickered, obviously enjoying herself enormously. “It appears what I've been hearin' 'bout you at Joe's is true, after all.”

Savannah rolled her eyes. “Well, you know what they say. Anything you hear at Whiskey Joe's Saloon has to be the gospel truth.”

Shirley laughed. “All I know is, here you are, coolin' your heels with me in a jail cell. And I don't figure it's for something as simple as drinkin' a little too much and disturbin' the peace, like I did.”

Savannah tried to ignore her, but all of a sudden, having Yukon Bill for a neighbor seemed vastly preferable to her current situation. Of course, she couldn't call out for Tom again. Not after promising him absolute silence and contentment for the rest of the evening.

She tried to block out her mother's voice, but she knew that even if her ears and her mind could do so, her heart would hear every vicious, condemning word.

Some things just never changed.

“Who would've thought,” Shirley babbled on, “that after all these years of you and that sanctimonious grandma of yours bailing me out of jail, that you'd be right here with me. Only I'll be out first thing tomorrow morning, and word is around town that you may never get out. I reckon this time it's me looking down my nose at you for a change.”

Savannah stood, walked over to the cell door, and turned her back to her mother. She gripped the bars so tightly that she could feel the flaked paint digging into her fingers and palms.

“So you killed that prissy little bitch Jeanette Barnsworth and dumped her and her ugly purple Cadillac in the lake. I never pegged you for a killer, but that just proves that you never know about somebody.”

“I didn't kill her,” Savannah said, trying to keep her voice even. Long ago, she had learned that showing any emotion, especially distress or pain, to Shirley simply brought on more abuse.

“I don't care if you did or not,” her mother continued. “Jeanette always did look down on me, me and everybody else around her. She acted like she was so high and mighty, but she was nothing but a two-bit slut. Anytime she wanted to get laid, she'd come prancing into Joe's and pick up some guy. Any guy. And the lower on the totem pole he was, the better, as far as she was concerned. Yes indeed. When them high-society girls get horny, they don't go for their stuffy men in their pressed suits. They come across the tracks and go slummin' at Joe's. That's how they get their kicks. They're no better than any of the rest of us. Their shoes and jewelry might cost more. But that don't make them better.”

Shirley walked over to the cot and sat down. “As far as I'm concerned, you did the world a favor, murdering that bitch.”

“I told you, I didn't kill her. I slapped her. That's all.”

“That's enough to get your butt arrested. You were stupid to slap her, especially in front of other people. I'd never do a thing like that.”

“No,” Savannah said quietly. “You slap only your children. Or maybe hit your fellow bar patrons over the head with a beer bottle if you get drunk enough.”

“Don't you get smart with me, young lady! I won't stand for it.”

Slowly, Savannah turned and faced the woman who had struck her more times than she could count. The mother who had beaten her children with belts, switches, and anything else she could lay her hands on for such serious infractions as missing a bit of egg yolk when washing a plate or forgetting to call her “Shirley” instead of “Mom” in front of a male she was trying to impress.

“I've had a very bad couple of days, Shirley,” Savannah said. “Very bad. And I'm in one helluva rotten mood. I'd advise you to tread softly with me.”

“Or what?”

“Or you might regret it.”

Shirley smirked. “You're gonna beat me up right here, right now? With a witness in the cell across the way? With the sheriff right downstairs, and you with a murder charge hanging over your head? I don't think so. No.” She snickered again. “Whatever I wanna dish out, girl, you're gonna take.”

Savannah rose, took a couple of steps toward Shirley, then stood, glaring down at her. The taunting look on the older woman's face disappeared.

Savannah leaned down and whispered, “What I had in mind can be done very quietly. And it doesn't leave any marks. So, go on.... Dish out what you've got, and then we'll see how much you can take. I promise it won't hurt any worse than getting whupped half to death with a wooden coat hanger.”

Shirley jumped up from the cot, ran to the bars, and shouted, “Sheriff Stafford! Sheriff Stafford! Get up here quick! I mean it. I'm gettin' death threats here! Get a move on!”

 

Tom Stafford and Savannah stood in the corridor between the cells, their every movement being watched and their every word overheard by the prisoners inside those cells.

This was turning out to be one of the more entertaining days to spend in the McGill jail in a very long time. Each inmate was glued to his or her bars, straining to hear every word and see what was going to happen next.

Tom bent his head down to Savannah's and through gritted teeth said, “What the hell am I going to do with you, gal?”

She raised one eyebrow and propped her hands on her hips. “Tommy, climb down off that high horse of yours. You knew darned well that wasn't going to work before you stuck me in there with her.”

“I was hopin'.” He sighed. “Seriously, I'm running out of places to put you. I oughta poke you in the cell with Yukon and let him have his way with you.”

“Don't even joke about something like that.”

“You promised you'd be good.”

“I tried.”

“Obviously, not hard enough.” He gave her a look that was half annoyance and half affection. “You always did have a streak of pure ole contrariness a mile wide.”

She grinned up at him and even employed her dimples. “You could just let me hang out downstairs with you.”

“You're a murder suspect!”

“I know, but I'll be good.”

“Like you were up here?” He shook his head. “And what if you decide to make a break for it the minute my back's turned?”

“You could always handcuff me to the radiator.”

 

“I was just kidding about the radiator.”

“It ain't turned on. Don't bitch.”

She wriggled her arm, trying to find a less miserable position to sit in with her wrist fastened to a large metal pipe that was only an inch or so from the floor.

What she would have given for the universal cuff key in her nightstand table back at home! Or even a sturdy paper clip or a plastic straw, for that matter.

Unable to imagine herself relaxing on a Mexican beach or skiing down a Canadian slope without her loved ones, she had no intention of trying to escape. But she would have loved to have uncuffed her own wrist, then reattached herself to something a bit less ridiculously awkward. How fun it would be to surprise Mr. Smarty-Pants, who was pretending to work on her case by shuffling papers around on his desk.

She was about to raise yet another outcry when the front door of the station house flew open and Dirk rushed inside, accompanied by Granny and Marietta.

Dirk marched up to Tom, a stack of papers in his hand. “Okay,” he said. “I've got it all here. And you'd better be happy with it, because I paid a fortune to get all this crap faxed here from California in record time.”

Dirk turned to Savannah. “And you can thank Ryan and John, who pulled some strings, or it would've taken a week or more.”

He slapped the first document down on the desk in front of Tom. “This,” he said, “is from the county recorder of deeds for Savannah's house, showing there aren't any judgments or liens against it.” The second document quickly followed. “And that shows the true market value of the place. And this”—he threw down another piece of paper—“is a certified copy of the deed.” He took a deep breath, stuck his thumbs in his belt, and lifted his chin. “So, Sheriff Stafford, consider her bail posted and let 'er out. Pronto.”

“Yeah, pronto,” Granny said.

Nodding, Marietta added, “Yeah. What they said.”

Slowly, Tom picked up each piece of paper and scrutinized it with great deliberation, nodding and muttering to himself. Then he stacked them carefully, paper clipped them, folded them neatly, and handed them back to Dirk.

“That's impressive,” he said, “you gettin' all that together so quick. And, Savannah, it appears that real estate's a lot more expensive there in Southern California than it is here. I'm proud you've done so well for yourself.”

Savannah held her breath. She could smell a big “but” coming.

“But,” he said, “the property's out of state.”

“So?” Dirk said, his face turning an ugly shade of red.

“We don't accept out-of-state properties for surety.”

“Why on earth not?” Gran shouted. “What's the difference if it's here or there? It ain't like it's gonna run off or nothin'.”

“It might fall in the ocean, though,” Marietta added, “you know, if they have that Big One earthquake thing they're always talkin' about, and the whole state of California just cracks off and floats away into the—”

Gran shot her a stern look, and she shut up.

Dirk leaned far over Tom's desk, until the two men were nearly nose to nose. “Don't tell me that I can't bail my wife out of jail with a house worth thirty times what it says there in your standard bail schedule. Do
not
tell me that!”

Tom looked up at him calmly and said, “I'm sorry, Sergeant Coulter. But that's exactly what I'm telling you. I don't make up the rules. And I can't break them. Not even for as fine a woman as . . . your wife.”

Savannah thought Tom was going to choke on those last two words. And in that moment she knew, if she'd ever had doubts before, that Tom Stafford was still very much in love with her.

For all the good it did.

Granny pushed her way around Dirk to stand beside the desk. Reaching into her purse, she said, “I had a feelin' this sorta thing might happen. So I brought the same kinda papers, only they're to
my
house.” She shoved the documents in Tom's face. “And, young man, the last time I checked, my house
was
in the fine state of Georgia.”

Tom took the paperwork from her and perused it, as well. He avoided her eyes when he handed it back to her and said, “I'm sorry. While I appreciate the fact that you're trying to help your granddaughter, your property value just ain't high enough to do the trick.”

To Savannah's sorrow, she saw tears fill Granny's eyes.

“Are you telling me,” Gran said, “that the home I raised two families in ain't worth enough to get her out?”

“I'm sorry, Granny. I truly am.”

But Gran wasn't moved. “Until you let my grandbaby out of this jail of yours, you can just call me Mrs. Reid.”

“I understand.”

Marietta wriggled her way forward and, to Savannah's shock, began to rummage around in her giant rhinestone-encrusted giraffe bag. “As it happens, I have a property that I can throw in the pot, along with my grandma's. Between the two, I'm sure it'll put you over that danged limit of yours.”

“Since when do you have property?” Tom asked her as he took the papers from her hand. “Aren't you and your boys livin' in one of old man Landers's duplexes out there by the cotton gin?”

“Yes, we're renters. But that's the deed to my business. My hair and nail salon. And as you can see right there, it's worth a small fortune.”

Tom squinted as he read the property report “This was signed by Wanda Blaylock. Isn't she one of your very best customers?”

“Yes, she is. Comes into my place for nails and hair three times a week. I keep her looking gorgeous. So she, of all people, should know full well how valuable it is.”