Killer Reunion (19 page)

“W
ouldn't you think that a place called Burger Igloo would at least have air-conditioning?” Dirk complained as he and Savannah slid into the red leatherette booth across from Tammy and Waycross.

Savannah promptly poked a few quarters into the table-side jukebox and selected some Elvis tunes. In spite of their interesting visit to the nursing home, the sleep-deprived Dirk had been somewhat cranky all morning. She figured a few tunes from “the King” might cheer him up.

He needed to perk up as soon as possible, because her own mood was pretty foul, and the last thing she needed right now was another assault and battery on her ever-growing criminal record.

Between the Jeanette smack down and then being accused of her murder, if Savannah accomplished one more violent felony, she'd probably earn her “career criminal” badge.

It was an honor she could do without.

Her wifely duty done, Savannah took a moment to look around the old café and reminisce.

As a teenager, she had spent every Saturday night within these walls, where the price of one milk shake could buy a poor kid an evening of entertainment.

No matter how hard the week had been, with schoolwork, the copious chores at home, and whatever part-time job she performed to bring home a bit of extra money to Gran, her grandmother had always made sure that Savannah's Saturday nights were free. And that she had the price of a chocolate malted in her purse.

Back then the bright red leatherette seats had been new and supple, not stiff and cracked, the way they were now. In those days, the chrome table edges and the jukeboxes had glistened like the freshly polished grille of a brand-new Ford Mustang. The framed vintage movie posters on the walls had been old even then, but Savannah didn't remember them being so yellow or dingy.

She was careful not to look at the booth in the back, where she and Tommy Stafford had sat for hours, exchanging kisses and contemplating the wisdom or foolishness of running away and getting married as soon as they turned eighteen.

Such memories, sweet as they might be, were best left in the past. Especially considering the present circumstances.

“I remember this place,” Tammy said as she perused the plastic-encased menu. “The closest thing to a salad in here is some extra pickles on your burger.”

Savannah looked indignant. “That simply isn't true. You can also order extra lettuce and tomatoes.”

With a sigh, Tammy closed her menu and leaned her head on Waycross's shoulder. “Your fiancée and your child are starving for something alive to eat,” she told him. “Something with a real nutrient in it. This constant diet of processed, high-sodium, fatty food just isn't cutting it.”

He smoothed the top of her silky golden hair with gentle strokes and said, “Don't fret none, sugar. I'm on it. You'll have something nutritious to eat before the day's over. I promise. If nothing else, I'll raid Gran's garden.”

Tammy looked down at her belly, patted it, and said, “Did you hear that, baby? Daddy's going to get us something yummy. Maybe some fresh carrots! Wouldn't that be good?”

Savannah turned to Dirk, a smirk on her face. “Are they just too sweet or what?”

“Way too sweet for my taste. Like Granny's iced tea. Can you imagine how sweet that kid's gonna be?”

Tammy laughed. “So sweet that Auntie Savannah and Uncle Dirk are gonna gobble it up. You wait and see.”

“I have no doubt,” Savannah said. “We can't wait to get our hands on that rug rat and spoil it rotten.”

Once Savannah, Dirk, and Waycross had placed their orders—chocolate malteds and double chili cheeseburgers, with extra lettuce, tomatoes, and pickles for Tammy—the conversation turned far more serious.

Waycross's usually peaceful, cheerful expression was solemn as he asked, “How long's it gonna be before they do that arraignment thing, or whatever it's called when they make you go before the judge and say whether you're guilty or not?”

Savannah shrugged. “Haven't heard anything yet.”

“The longer it takes, the better,” Dirk added.

Tammy took a drink from her frosty water glass and popped some vitamins. “It gives us longer to solve the case and find the real murderer.”

“I think,” Savannah said, “Tommy might be dragging his feet a bit with the paperwork. That's good of him to help me out like that.”

Dirk snorted. “He's a real pal, that guy, keeping you out of jail long enough for you to solve his case for him. Woo-hoo.”

Note to self
, Savannah thought.
Don't say anything positive about an ex-boyfriend in front of a cranky husband.

She stuck another quarter in the jukebox and selected “Blue Suede Shoes.”

“Either way,” she said, “he's going to have to move forward sooner or later. I'm sure with the notoriety of this case, he's under pressure to wrap up his investigation.”

“
Is
he investigating?” Waycross asked.

“Not exactly working up a sweat that I can see.” Dirk scowled and wadded his paper napkin into a tight ball. “Looked to me like he was sitting there in his office, soaking up the air-conditioning, while Savannah's bacon sizzled in the skillet.”

Savannah couldn't help snickering. “Bacon in a skillet? Boy, you've been hanging out south of the Mason-Dixon Line too long. You're starting to talk funny, Yankee boy.”

“You know what I mean,” he grumbled. “We've gotta get this thing solved now. Before an arraignment. Once court proceedings have started, it'll be a lot harder to turn things around.”

“Sorta like getting an eastbound freight train to stop, turn around, and go west,” Waycross said.

“Exactly.” Dirk propped his elbows on the table and rested his head in his hands for a moment.

He looked dead tired, and Savannah felt guilty, as though she was somehow to blame for his current state. Then she reminded herself that she was . . . at least partly.

I hereby swear, Lord,
she prayed,
if you help me get out of this mess, I will never, never strike another human being for the rest of my life. Not even a thump. Not even Marietta. Unless she flashes her hind end to my husband, and then I reckon you'd give me a pass
.

“Speaking of sisters . . . ,” she said.

“We were?” Tammy asked.

“She probably was. In her head,” Dirk told them. “She does that a lot now that she's going through the change.”

Savannah raised her hand to smack him on the shoulder but quickly lowered it. You couldn't break a sacred vow. At least not ten seconds after you made it.

“As I was saying,” she continued, “this Imogene Barnsworth is our strongest suspect.”

“We have other suspects?” Tammy asked.

Dirk rolled his eyes, and Savannah braced herself for a “dingbat” or “fluff head” comment.

But Dirk seemed to think better of it. Probably because Waycross was sitting across the table from him and was in Protective Preggers Papa mode.

“No, we don't have any other suspects,” Savannah admitted, “which puts her right up there in the number one spot. So, let's look at her close like.”

Tammy pulled her ever-ready electronic tablet from her purse and scrolled through her notes. “Okay. Here's my latest. I found out that she's on the move. Literally. She's in the process of buying a luxury property about half an hour north of here. An equestrian estate with a beautiful old Tudor house, a lake, a creek, even its own waterfall.”

“I know that place,” Savannah said. “It's a far cry from the nursing home she's in now.”

“And not only that,” Tammy added, “but she's been working on the deal for the past three months.”

Dirk perked up. “Three months? That was even before her brother died.”

“Did she have money of her own three months ago?” Savannah wanted to know.

“Not unless she was stuffing her mattress with it there at the nursing home. There's none on record anywhere.”

“Then she must have been pretty sure she was going to inherit her brother's estate,” Savannah said.

The group fell silent as the waitress approached their table and served their burgers.

But the instant she was gone, Dirk said, “I got the idea that she was mad at Jeanette, thinking she might've murdered her brother. But what you just told me makes me wonder if Miss Imogene had something to do with both of them kicking the bucket.”

“She didn't speak highly of Jacob, either,” Savannah added. “Called him stupid and worthless, if I remember right.”

Waycross giggled. “I call Jesup worse than that all the time. Not in front of Granny, of course.”

“But if she had something to do with killing her brother,” Tammy mused, “she'd have done so, knowing that his estate would go to his wife.”

“And that'd require her doin' two killin's,” Waycross said.

Savannah put a dab of mustard on her hamburger. And then, because the kitchen had been stingy with the chili, she poured on a generous dollop of ketchup. “Something tells me that Miss Imogene Barnsworth wouldn't be all that squeamish about committing two murders. Or, as she put it, ‘doing the world a favor.' Maybe she decided to do the world
two
favors.”

Dirk crammed a large portion of his sandwich into his face, shoved it into one cheek, and said, “What if Herb Jameson isn't a complete nitwit of a coroner, and the murder weapon really was a high heel?”

Tammy brightened. “It's a woman's weapon. And our number one, and only, suspect is female. Sounds pretty good to me.”

“Except for one thing,” Savannah said far less enthusiastically than Tammy. “A high heel is a weapon of opportunity. If she'd been planning these murders for a long time, surely she would've come up with something better than whacking a victim on the head with a shoe and drowning her.”

They all sat in silence for quite a while, thinking, analyzing, and chewing.

Not surprisingly, Tammy finished her “lunch” before the rest of them.

“I was wondering,” she said. “Do you suppose it might be worthwhile to sneak into the nursing home and check Miss Barnsworth's closet for a bloody high heel?”

Savannah dabbed her lips demurely with her paper napkin. “I reckon it is, darlin',” she said. “Yes. I reckon it is.”

T
he last place in the world Savannah wanted to go was back to the sheriff's station. But Tom Stafford's big patrol car was parked in front of the building, indicating to everyone passing by that the sheriff was in residence.

If they wanted to have a talk with him sooner than later, it had to be there.

“He's not going to tell us anything. You just wait and see,” Dirk said as they strode up the sidewalk toward the front door.

“No, I don't suppose he will,” Savannah replied. “But he's going to listen to what we've got to say. Even if you have to hog-tie him while I yell it in his ear.”

“Gee, something to look forward to.”

“And I'm going to read every single expression on his face. I've always known what that boy was thinking ten minutes before it crossed his mind.”

“Unfortunately for us men, most females seem to have that ability.” Dirk opened the door and ushered her inside.

The moment they entered, Tom looked up from his seat at his desk. The first expression that Savannah had the opportunity to read was one of extreme annoyance.

He glanced up at the clock on the wall. “That's gotta be some sorta record. You stayed out of trouble and out of my hair for a whole four hours. Woo-hoo. Congratulations.”

She gave him a big smile. “Now, Sheriff Stafford. Sarcasm does not become you.”

“How's about you turn around and march out that door and stay away another four hours? That way, when you come back, I'll be home, watching the game and enjoying my evening beer.”

“I wish I could catch a game and throw back a cold one,” Dirk grumbled. “Seems like about a million years ago that I was able to do that. But then, I've got a murder to solve, so I don't have time to sit around on my fist, with my thumb up my ass, and swig beer.”

“Oh, well,” Tom said. “I'm plumb tore up with sympathy for you there, good buddy. Maybe if you were better at your job, you'd be able to close your cases faster. I, on the other hand, have got mine all sewn up.”

Dirk took a couple of quick steps toward Tom's desk, and for a moment, Savannah thought she was going to have to separate a tangle of two very large, very angry men.

She hated doing that sort of thing. Especially with an extra-large chili cheeseburger and a chocolate malted in her stomach.

She quickly positioned herself between them and said, “Boys! Boys! Boys! Now ain't the time. If you two could stick your dickie-dos back in your breeches and stop this pissing contest, we might get something accomplished. And I, for one, would be most grateful.”

She plopped herself onto the metal chair closest to Tom's desk, figuring that if she was seated, it would be a bit harder for him to throw her out the front door. Perhaps lying prone on the floor would be better still. But since the station house looked like it hadn't been swept for several months on end, she decided against it.

“We didn't drop by just to show our pretty faces, you know,” she said. “And we certainly didn't come calling just to annoy you. I figure I had that covered this morning. No point in being redundant.”

“You're right about that, gal.” Tom leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head. “What
did
you come by for? Spit it out and be done with it.”

“We've got a good lead on that Jeanette gal's murder,” Dirk said as he plopped himself on the chair next to Savannah's. “Thought we'd share it with you, for all the good it'll do.”

“A lead? Goody.” Donning his best fake surprised look, Tom rubbed his hands together gleefully and added, “This should be great! What is it? Did you bring me a witness who saw you do it? A high heel with some actual blood and brain tissue on it? By all means, lemme hear what you've got.”

“What we've got,” Savannah said, “is a real honest-to-goodness suspect. You know, the kind that you'd be looking for if I'd never smacked Jeanette.”

Dirk chimed in. “Yeah, a suspect with a motive and an opportunity and all that good stuff they teach you in How to Be a Cop One-Oh-One. Or do you backwoods po-lice get your training from watching forensic shows on the television?”

Savannah poked Dirk in the side with her elbow and said softly, “Stop. You aren't helping.”

“Listen to your woman there, Detective Sergeant Coulter,” Tom told him with a sneer. “Once in a while she says something smart. It's a mite hard to pick it out from all the stuff that's flyin' outta her mouth, but—”

“And you stop, too, Tommy Stafford!” she shouted. “I've had it up to here with you both. My life's on the line, and if you care about me half as much as
you
used to tell me you did”—she pointed to Tom and then turned and stuck her finger in Dirk's face—“and as much as
you
say you do every night, you'll both put all this petty male jealousy and bickering aside and figure out who really killed Jeanette Barnsworth before I get convicted of a murder I didn't do!”

There was a long silence, and she was encouraged to see that both men looked a little ashamed of themselves. Neither appeared to be so overcome with guilt that they'd be hurling themselves off any cliffs, but the ill wind in the room did seem to have shifted a bit.

At least for the moment.

She figured she'd better take advantage of the lull in hostilities.

“As it turns out, Sheriff,” she said, “we've uncovered someone who certainly had a motive. Somebody who disliked Jacob Barnsworth and hated Jeanette. A person who, as a result of these deaths, will be receiving millions of dollars.”

Tom said nothing but just sat there, his hands behind his head, leaning back on the rear legs of his chair, looking at her.

“Miss Imogene Barnsworth of Sulfur Springs,” she told him. “She's Mr. Barnsworth's half sister. She—”

“I know who she is.”

“Then you've been investigating her, too?”

“I know everyone who's anybody in my county.”

“You must know that with Jeanette gone, Imogene will inherit her brother's estate.”

Dirk cleared his throat, and in a calmer voice than before, he added, “When we spoke to her a few hours ago, she told us how happy she is that they're dead.”

“I imagine she is,” Tom replied. “If I was gettin' all that money, I'd be kickin' up my heels at Whiskey Joe's instead of sitting here, chewin' the fat with you two. Doesn't mean I murdered him. Or Jeanette, either, for that matter.”

“But it's a powerful motive,” Savannah said. “And we found out that she's been in the process of buying that Tudor mansion up in Cedar Hollow for the past three months. Sounds to us like she was planning on a visit from Lady Luck before the lady even knocked on her door.”

“Figured that out all by yourselves, didja?” he said with an unpleasant grin.

“Yes, we did.” Savannah resisted the urge to take one of the pens out of the old, cracked coffee cup on his desk and shove it up his left nostril.

As she was fighting the inclination, she vowed to swear off making sacred vows. They certainly cramped one's style at a time like this.

“What's more . . .” Dirk fished around in his pocket and pulled out the sheet of paper that the receptionist at the nursing home had given him. “We've got this. Proof that she wasn't at her nursing home when the murder occurred.” He held the paper out so that Tom could see it, but the sheriff hardly gave it a glance.

“I already know that Miss Barnsworth wasn't at her nursing home Saturday night,” he said.

“You do?” Savannah was somewhat pleasantly surprised that he was still actually conducting an investigation. Maybe he wasn't as convinced of her guilt as he appeared.

“Yes. I do. I not only know the people in my jurisdiction—their names, their faces, where they live—but I also know their habits. And I know where Miss Imogene Barnsworth spends her Saturday evenings.”

Savannah was almost afraid to ask, but she had to. “Where?”

“Playing poker. For money. In the back room of Arnold's Feed and Supply.”

“Poker?” Savannah felt her mood slide down into the toes of her loafers.

“Yeah. And she's damn good at it. Been winnin' like all git out for the past six months. I'm not surprised she's been looking at buying a luxury property. She can afford it. Especially since her winnin's are all off the books.”

“But, but did you at least check and
see
if she was playing poker
this
Saturday night?” Savannah felt like she was beating a dead horse with Tommy boy or, more like it, a lazy mule, but she had to try.

“Nope. I didn't have to. I know she was there.”

“How?”

“She's a creature of habit. We all are, Savannah. That's what living in a small town is about, or have you forgotten all the Saturday evenin's you spent suckin' down chocolate malteds at the Burger Igloo?”

The twinkle in his green eyes told her he was thinking more about that corner booth than about chocolate malteds. She decided to steer the conversation back to less nostalgic topics.

“So Imogene Barnsworth is a degenerate gambler,” she said, “and a good one at that. Just my luck. I can't believe, Tom Stafford, that you'd allow such a thing to go on here in your squeaky-clean community. And in the back of an innocent feed and grain store, too.”

Tom grinned and held up both hands in surrender. “Hey, what's a lawman to do? I've got way too many jewel thieves and international spies and serial killers to deal with. Who's got time to break up a friendly little card game?”

A few moments later, as Savannah and Dirk left the station house and were walking down the sidewalk to their car, she said, “I don't know if you caught it or not, but when he was being a smart aleck, asking what evidence we'd brought him, he asked if we had a high heel that actually had blood and brain tissue on it.'”

“Yeah. So?”

“That means he's already tested the one he took from me there at the scene and knows it doesn't have any on it.”

“We knew it wouldn't have any on it.”

“But
he
didn't know. Now he knows. And if, God forbid, it comes to it, a jury will know.”

“I doubt that's gonna help a lot, Van.”

“It can't hurt.”

“Yeah, well, whatever. But I caught something, too.”

“What's that?”

“On his desk I saw both of Jameson's autopsy reports. The one he did on Jacob Barnsworth and Jeanette's, too.”

“So?”

“So at least you know he's been looking at them. He's not just sitting around, watching games and sluggin' down beer, like he's letting on. He just said that to get under our skin. Mine anyway. You're right about it being a pissing contest between us guys.”

“Okay, so he's looking at the autopsy reports. I don't know how much that's gonna help.”

“Can't hurt.”

“Whatever.”