Killer Reunion (18 page)

Tom sighed, snatched Gran's papers out of her hand, and clipped them to Marietta's. “Okay,” he said. “I reckon between the two, it'll come close to coverin' it.”

Cheering erupted. But it was short lived, because Sheriff Tom Stafford rose from his chair, held up both hands, and shouted, “That's enough! Quiet! The sooner y'all settle down, the quicker I can process her outta here.”

He turned to Savannah. “And as far as you go, gal”—he stuck his finger in her face and waggled it—“you've been nothing but a royal pain in the ass from the minute you got here. I
cannot wait
to be shed o' you.”

O
ne of Savannah's favorite pastimes for as long as she could remember was sitting in the swing on Granny Reid's front porch and watching as the setting sun gilded the cotton fields in soft patinas of copper and gold. The evening breeze would sweep across the green plants, stirring their delicate white and pink blossoms and wafting their sweet, fresh fragrance toward the house, like a gift from the angels.

And of all the times she had experienced that commonplace miracle, this night had to be the best ever.

Next to her sat her husband. He was holding her hand tightly, as he'd done almost constantly since they'd left the sheriff's station.

While Dirk's edges were a bit rough, and his idiosyncrasies somewhat difficult to ignore, Savannah never had to wonder if she was the center of his universe. He made that abundantly clear every day.

And there was nothing like the threat of losing a loved one to make a fond heart grow even fonder.

Nearby, Gran sat, rocking contentedly in her chair. The expression of profound peace on her face gave her an almost angelic look.

When Savannah thought of how Gran had placed her home on the line that very day to gain her freedom, Savannah knew that she had never loved her grandmother more than she did at that moment.

She also felt surprisingly close to her sister Marietta for the first time in many years. Savannah understood what Marietta's salon meant to her. She had worked hard for many years, cutting, curling, and coloring her town folks's hair, filing and polishing their nails, while listening to every detail of their personal lives—the good, the bad, and the downright ugly.

Savannah vowed that no matter how annoying her sister might prove to be in the coming years, she would always remind herself of this day and at least attempt to be more patient.

Sitting on a motley assortment of folding lawn chairs, Tammy, Waycross, and Alma were also enjoying the sunset and the celebratory mood resulting from Savannah's reprieve, temporary though it might be.

As always when members of the Moonlight Magnolia gang were assembled, a plate of warm-from-the-oven cookies was being passed around, and the general topic of conversation was whatever case they were working on at the moment. None had been so thoroughly discussed as this one, with so little progress.

“I don't know why,” Granny said, “but I've just got a notion that this business with Jacob Barnsworth's half sister, it ain't gonna lead to nothin' in the end.”

Dirk nodded. “Me too, Gran. But when it's the only lead you've got, you follow it to the end. Whether there's anything there or not.”

“I know, grandson. I know.”

Savannah felt a buzzing in her hip pocket, and a moment later the tune “I'm Too Sexy” began to play. She jumped up from the swing, saying, “That's Ryan, returning my call. Excuse me for a minute, y'all.”

Tammy smiled brightly, as she always did at the mention of Ryan Stone. “Tell him hi from us,” she said.

“We promise not to say anything important till you get back,” Granny added.

“But if you take too long, we might eat all the cookies,” Dirk said as Waycross passed him the plate of goodies.

“You better not!” Savannah shouted. “Somebody grab that plate and put it away somewhere safe till I'm done with this call.”

As she hurried through the front door and into the living room, she answered her phone. “Ryan, thank you for getting right back to me. I know how busy you and John are with the restaurant and all.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” replied the deep, elegant, deliciously male voice that never failed to set her heart, and other parts of her, atwitter. “When our favorite damsel is in distress, we knights-errant come a-charging.”

Savannah smiled at the imagery of Ryan and John atop white horses, suited in shining armor, lances in hand, riding to her rescue. Although, since they had become joint owners of a gourmet restaurant in San Carmelita, they were more likely to be wielding Sakai chef's knives than swords.

“And charging, you did,” she said. “I so appreciate you scrambling to send those documents to Dirk right away.”

“Anything we could do to get you out of that jail. John and I were beside ourselves to think of you behind bars. Was it dreadful?”

“The gruel was moldy, and the water rancid, but I was starting to get the hang of rock busting.”

He chuckled. “And your serial killer cell mate?”

“A far better conversationalist than you might imagine.” She could hear a heavy door sliding open, then closing. “You're home, on your balcony,” she said, picturing him in his white shorts and pale blue polo shirt, walking out onto his deck to enjoy his luxury condo's magnificent view of the Pacific.

“Yes, I am,” he said, “and wishing you were here to share the sunshine and a glass of wine with me.”

Ordinarily, if a man had said that to her, she would have considered it flirtatious. But Ryan and John had been a couple since long before she'd met them, so there had never been a chance she would be anything but the dearest of friends to either of them. And she had found that more than enough.

“I wish I was there, too, darlin',” she replied. “I've got myself in one helluva pickle here.”

He cleared his throat. “Which reminds me, I spoke to that attorney that I mentioned to Dirk. He'll be happy to defend you if it comes to that. He's very good. Comes highly recommended.”

“If he's a friend of yours, I'm sure he's excellent.”

“I told Dirk, and I hope you know I mean it, that all you have to do is crook your little finger, and John and I will be on the next plane to Georgia.”

“Of course I know. But you've done plenty already. How can I ever make it up to you?”

“Just come home to us, Savannah,” was the heartfelt reply. She could hear the love and concern so clearly in his voice that it made her ache to hug him and stand on tiptoe to plant a kiss on his cheek.

“Buy some good champagne,” she told him. “I'll be there before you know it.”

“I'm putting it on ice right now.”

After she said good-bye, Savannah closed her eyes and pictured Ryan and John, drawing comfort from the mental images of their beloved faces that she had stored in her heart's treasure chest.

Ryan was exquisitely handsome with his black, wavy hair, darkly tanned skin, and pale green eyes. And John, several years older than Ryan, was the quintessential British gentleman, with thick silver hair and a lush mustache to match and a deliciously aristocratic accent.

How much you take for granted
, she thought,
until your very freedom is threatened
.

She had always assumed that she would grow old with her loved ones on the porch and her dear friends in California around her. To be able to sit down and share a meal with them at will, to be able to pick up a telephone and call them just to chat for as long as she wished. Who would have thought such basic joys could be taken from her?

“No,” she whispered. And because she liked the sound of it, she said it aloud. “No.”

She recognized that tone of voice. It was the one she encouraged the women who attended her self-defense classes to use. “Shout it in your attacker's face!” she'd told her students over and over again. “Scream it at him! No! No! No! You will
not
be a victim! You refuse! You
will not
!”

She jumped up from Granny's sofa, punched her fist into the air, and shouted as loudly as she could, “No! No! No! No!”

She felt the power of her proclamation rise from her feet and flow upward through her, filling her mind, body, and spirit with resolve, courage, and confidence like she had never felt before.

For as long as she needed to, she stood there, her fist raised high, her backbone stiffer than it had been in a long time, her posture that of a defiant warrior.

Then she slowly lowered her arm and turned toward the door, where she saw her husband. He was standing, watching her, with a look of alarm on his face.

“Um. Are you all right?” he asked. “I heard you yell and, uh . . .”

She gave him a bright, cheerful smile. “Darlin', I'm way better than all right. This woman is
fine
!”

 

After her brief but effective self-administered pep talk, a good night's sleep, and one of Granny's fortifying breakfasts, Savannah felt like taking on the world. Or at least tracking down her one and only lead.

By eight thirty the next morning, she and Dirk were on their way in the rental car to the equally small neighboring town of Sulfur Springs and the nursing home where Mr. Jacob Barnsworth's final remaining blood relative resided.

They headed south, following the highway through acres of cotton fields, took a right at the Y, and continued on through more cotton fields. They found the nursing home on the edge of town, in the middle of a cotton field.

“You guys sure grow a lot of cotton around here,” Dirk commented.

She shrugged. “Somebody's gotta do it, if you plan to keep wearing T-shirts, jeans, and cotton underdrawers.”

“When you put it like that, guess I oughta be more grateful.”

“You're darned right. Thank God for farmers. Ever put on a pair of wool boxer shorts?”

“Can't say I ever have. They'd probably be a bit scratchy.”

“There ya go.”

Savannah felt another butt buzz. “My rear end's sure getting a lot of action lately,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

She held up her cell. “Phone.”

Nodding solemnly, he said, “Thank you for clarifying that.”

Her pulse quickened to see a number with an Atlanta area code. “This is the attorney that Ryan recommended,” she told Dirk.

“Good luck.”

Savannah answered the call, and for the remainder of the ride to Sulfur Springs, she discussed her situation with the lawyer. He was a good listener, and when it was his turn to talk, he had a soft, good old boy accent and a gentle manner that she found comforting. But his penetrating questions, astute observations, and sage advice assured her he was no lightweight. Her confidence in him was well placed.

By the time they arrived at the nursing home, Savannah had decided that she was in good hands, after all.

Once they had concluded their conversation, she turned to Dirk and said, “Well, I'd say, so far, so good.”

But as always, Dirk wanted details. “Okay, fine, but what did he actually say?”

“In a nutshell, exercise my right to be silent, especially with Tom.”

“Did you mention that's impossible for you? You know, being a Reid female and all?”

“Shut up. He did mention one other thing.”

“What's that?”

“He said we'd better catch the person who really did it, or I'm going to be eating a lot of bologna and cheese sandwiches and sharing a cell with a gal named Toots.”

D
uring her previous few visits to nursing homes, Savannah had developed a negative opinion of such establishments. So she was expecting something dark, drab, and depressing when she and Dirk entered the front door of the plain, utilitarian-looking building with its gray clapboard siding.

But the moment they were inside, she realized this was a place where she wouldn't mind spending her golden years. Perhaps she needed to reexamine her prejudices.

The receptionist sat at a delicate French desk, upon which was a small computer, a telephone, and a crystal bowl with one giant, floating peony. Beyond her lay a room that looked like a cozy reading area, with wingback chairs, plush ottomans, and elegant side tables, each chair lit with a Tiffany-style floor lamp.

A blaze glowed in the brick fireplace, which on closer inspection, she realized was fake. But considering it was the middle of a hot summer, she decided it was more practical than a burning log.

Bookshelves on either side of the mantel were well stocked, and Savannah recognized both classic titles, as well as current bestsellers. A large aquarium bubbled cheerfully against the opposite wall, its colorful residents swimming among the miniature coral reefs, seashells, and plants that had been artistically arranged.

“Hey,” Dirk whispered in her ear, “this ain't half bad. Let's you and me move in here when we get old and gray.”

She didn't bother to mention to him that without her six-week refresher of “midnight brunette” hair color, she was already halfway there.

Savannah walked up to the desk and addressed the pretty little blonde in a pale blue sheath dress, with a floral silk neck scarf tied jauntily to the side. Her name tag identified her as Margie.

“Good morning, Margie. My name is Savannah Reid.” Savannah offered her hand. “And this is Dirk Coulter. We'd like to see Miss Imogene Barnsworth.”

“Is Miss Barnsworth expecting you?”

“I don't believe so. But if you'd be so kind as to tell her that we're here, I'd be most obliged.”

Margie reached for the desk phone, punched in a few numbers, and said, “Miss Imogene, this is Margie at the front desk. There are some folks here to see you. A Miss Reid and a Mr. Coulter.”

Margie listened a moment, then said to them, “I'm sorry. But Miss Barnsworth is on her way to her morning dance class and can't see you right now.”

Savannah smiled. At least the ends of her mouth curved upward, but there wasn't a lot of sparkle in her eyes when she said, “Tell her it's mighty important. We need to speak to her about her inheritance.”

Margie conveyed her message, then hung up the phone. “Miss Barnsworth will receive you in the courtyard. It's right through those double doors over yonder.”

Savannah laced her arm through Dirk's and headed in that direction. “I thought that might do it,” she told him.

“I must admit, there are advantages to having a smart wife.”

They found Imogene Barnsworth on her hands and knees in a bed of pansies and marigolds. Thinking the frail elderly lady had fallen, Savannah rushed to help her, only to find that Imogene was neither frail nor all that elderly. And apparently, she hadn't fallen, either. She was picking some weeds from among the flowers and placing them in a small, neat pile on the herringbone brick patio.

While Savannah was sure that Tammy had been correct in reporting Imogene's age, she hadn't met many women in their seventies who looked as youthful as this lady. Her shoulder-length hair was mostly silver but still held some strands of its original auburn hue. Her eyes were a strange shade of gold, like dried oak leaves in autumn.

When she saw Savannah and Dirk, she rose and brushed the dirt from the knees of her yellow yoga pants.

“Those gardeners,” she said, “just never do a good job, no matter how many times you go after them. I guess I should be grateful. At least this time they didn't trample the flowers.”

Imogene led them to a wrought-iron bench and invited them to have a seat. She started to drag a matching chair closer to the bench, but Dirk quickly took it from her.

“Here, ma'am, let me get that for you,” he said.

She gave him a pretty, almost flirtatious smile. “You must've been brought up right. They say a man who treats a woman like a princess must've been raised by a queen.”

Savannah winced. Dirk had not been raised by his biological mother. He had grown up in an orphanage. But how could this nice lady have known that?

To his credit, Dirk showed no sign of having been affected by her comment. He simply said, “Thank you, ma'am. That's kind of you to say so.”

They all three sat down, and Savannah wondered how to broach the topic of Jacob Barnsworth's death. But before she could even begin, Imogene jumped right into the deep end.

“I understand that with my worthless brother's death and with his snooty nuisance of a wife gone, too, I'm set to inherit a dump truck full of money.”

Then and there, Savannah decided that she liked Imogene Barnsworth quite a lot. If for no other reason than that the lady had the courage to say whatever was on her mind. There was far too much dillydallying in the world these days to suit Savannah, but precious little of it was happening in the courtyard at that moment.

“Yes, ma'am, that's about the size of it,” she told her. “It's come to our attention that you're the next one in line to inherit your brother's fortune.”

“Or what's left of it, after that hussy spent far more than her share. I'd try to get all the stuff she bought as part of the deal, but who wants that much purple junk? Not me. I've always been more of a yellow kinda gal. Or green. Us redheads look good in green.”

Savannah smiled. “I'm sure you do.”

Imogene glanced from Savannah to Dirk, her sharp eyes missing nothing of their attire and demeanor. “I figured you two work for that attorney who called me yesterday. But you're not dressed like lawyers. And you don't act like them, either.”

“I'll take that as a compliment,” Savannah said. “At least the ‘acting' part.”

“Good. I meant it as one. But if you don't work for him, who are you?”

Usually, in a circumstance like this, Savannah thought up a lie. Experience had taught her that as a private investigator, it was seldom wise to lay all one's cards on the table at the outset.

But something about Imogene Barnsworth inspired her to be candid with the woman. Perhaps not completely candid, but more honest than usual. Something told her that this lady had an excellent internal lie detector. Savannah also had a feeling that once Imogene decided you were a liar, she'd have nothing more to do with you. You'd be out on your ear, figuratively, if not literally.

“We don't work for the lawyer. I'm a private investigator, and my husband here is a police detective. We're investigating the murder,” Savannah said bluntly. “Trying to find out who did it.”

She felt Dirk cringe slightly beside her. He was very much a cards-flat-against-the-vest sort of guy. She didn't expect him to approve.

“Investigating the murder?” Imogene asked. “Which murder?”

Savannah was surprised, but she quickly recovered and answered evenly, “Both.”

Imogene sniffed and brushed one silver and copper strand of hair behind her ear. “I can't imagine why anybody would waste their time trying to figure out the first one. It's so obvious that purple piece of trash killed my brother. Everybody in the county knew that from the minute they heard he was dead. Some were even whispering at the wedding that it was bound to happen. Why else would a gal in her forties marry an old fart like Jacob? It sure wasn't for his sunny disposition or his good looks.”

As Savannah listened to Imogene speak such critical words about her brother, it occurred to her that maybe there were siblings in this world who got along even less well than she and Marietta.

“Actually,” Savannah said, “we're concentrating more on the second murder, Jeanette's murder.”

“I can't see why anybody would spend more than five minutes or so on that one, either,” Imogene said. “She was a one-woman walking pestilence, that witch. I'll bet you there's not a soul on this earth who misses her. Whoever pushed her into that lake did the world a favor. And they sure as hell did
me
a favor.” Imogene threw back her head and laughed uproariously. The eerie sound filled the courtyard and bounced off the surrounding walls of the building.

Savannah shivered inside. She had heard friendlier laughter coming from the monsters in horror films.

“Would you please tell us, Miss Barnsworth,” Dirk said, “if you know anyone who might've had a motive to kill Jeanette Barnsworth?”

“She was a nasty, ornery woman who tormented every female who crossed her path, and tried to seduce every male within reach. She was a thief of the worst kind. She stole everything she could from everyone around her—their mates, their money, their time, their energy, their self-esteem. She would have taken their souls if she could have, just to satisfy one of her passing whims. Who
wouldn't
have a motive to kill a woman like that? That's the question you need to be asking yourselves. And good luck finding an answer.”

With that, Imogene Barnsworth rose and said, “You two are going to have to excuse me now. I have a dance contest to attend. And if I don't go, that Sherry Hayes is bound to win it, and that won't do. After her nabbing first place in the beauty contest last week, her head will swell so big, there'll be no living with her.”

She scurried away into the building, leaving Savannah and Dirk to sit on the bench in the courtyard and wonder.

“Well?” Dirk asked. “What do you think?”

“I like her.”

“Me too. But do you think she might've done it?”

“I think she just might have done the world a favor, and herself one to boot. What do you think?”

“I think so, too.”

“Shoot. I hate it when I like a suspect.”

“Yeah. Takes all the fun out of it.”

As they were leaving the nursing home, Savannah and Dirk stopped once again at the little French desk with the pretty blond receptionist.

“We have a couple of quick questions for you,” Savannah said.

Margie's eyes widened with interest. Whether it was genuine or feigned, Savannah wasn't sure.

“I'd be happy to answer any questions you might have, if I can,” she replied.

“When your residents come and go from your facility,” Savannah said, “are their departures and arrivals noted anywhere?”

“Yes, we have an entry and exit log. It's necessary, you see, because”—Margie glanced around and lowered her voice—“some have degrees of dementia, and we have to keep a close eye on them. They need to be accounted for every moment of every day while they're in our care.”

Savannah glanced at Dirk, and he took his cue. Stepping up to the desk, he took his badge from his pocket and flashed it ever so quickly under Margie's nose. “I'm Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter,” he said. “And I'm going to need to see the log from this past Saturday night.”

“Certainly, Detective.” Margie quickly typed something into her computer. A moment later they heard a printer on a bookshelf behind them spring to action.

The receptionist jumped up from her seat, ran over to the bookshelf, and returned with a piece of paper, which she handed to Dirk. “We don't keep paper copies of the entry logs,” she told him. “We scan them and save the files on the computer. I hope that'll be enough for you.”

Savannah leaned over and peered at the paper as Dirk studied it. He ran his finger down the page and stopped over an entry that read:

He tapped the entry with his finger, and Savannah nodded.

“Thank you,” he told the receptionist. “Yes, this will be quite enough.”

Savannah and Dirk turned to leave, but Savannah hesitated, then walked back to the desk for one more question.

“Do you have any idea where she might have gone Saturday night?”

“No. I wasn't here. I believe Gilda worked that shift. But I probably wouldn't know even if I'd been here. Miss Imogene's a very private lady. She doesn't have much to say about her comings and goings. A secretive person, if you know what I mean.”

Savannah nodded solemnly. “I certainly hope I do.”

Savannah and Dirk exited the nursing home, and as they strolled down the sidewalk toward the parking lot, they stopped in front of a large plate-glass window and observed the activity inside. A big, spacious room was filled with women and a few men, all dressed in comfortable workout attire.

Everyone was dancing. Moving with joyous and wild abandon, they were performing dances popular in every decade for the past fifty-plus years. And they were doing it with more enthusiasm, grace, and skill than could be found at any modern club populated by their children or grandchildren.

In the center of all the activity was a woman in a bright yellow yoga suit, doing a frenetic and highly energetic rendition of the Charleston.

Arms flying, knees knocking, Imogene Barnsworth was winning the contest hands down.

“Feeble?” Savannah said, more to herself than to Dirk.

But he replied, anyway. “Not so's you'd notice.”

“And secretive.”

“Yeah. Sweet.”