Killer Reunion (4 page)

As the queen of the reunion slithered across the highly polished gym floor, heading in their direction, Savannah took the opportunity to survey her former competition.

While Savannah hated the way some women evaluated every other female they met, employing a slow scornful scan of the other's appearance, taking in every detail of the hair, makeup, jewelry, clothing, and shoes, she found herself doing the same thing.

From the too-high jet-black updo to the thick Cleopatra eyeliner, the gaudy jewelry, the rhinestone tiara, and the overly sequined, two sizes too small purple dress, Savannah could tally at least a dozen major fashion faux pas. Obviously, she hadn't gotten the memo about avoiding the “matchy-matchy” trap. Her dress, purse, and high heels were all of the same satin and were all equally bespangled with sparklies galore.

Of course, Savannah knew that if she liked Jeanette Barnsworth, nothing so trivial would matter one iota to her. Never before in her life had Savannah judged another woman by her fashion sense or lack thereof, and she wasn't proud of doing so now.

But then, she also wanted to grab ole Jeanette by her lofty beehive, rip that ridiculous crown off her head, and wrestle her for a half an hour or so in a muddy pigpen. So, as far as Savannah was concerned, it was all too obvious that Miss Prissy Pants Jeanette just brought out the worst in people.

What could she do?

It wasn't until Jeanette was only a few feet away from them that Savannah realized she wasn't alone. Trailing along in her wake, like a hooked trout behind a fishing boat, was the town mortician, Herb Jameson.

Was Mr. Jameson her date? Savannah wondered. If so, she couldn't imagine why.

As nice as he was, and as nice looking as he had once been many years ago, Savannah couldn't understand how Jeanette could be attracted to this man, whose daughter, Amy, had been in their graduating class.

But then, it was commonly believed that Jeanette had married her recently departed husband, Jacob Barnsworth, for money—not love or lust—and he was even older than the mortician she now had in tow.

Jameson might be the only undertaker in town and fairly well off by McGill standards, but Savannah couldn't imagine that his wealth was significant enough to entice Jeanette. She had inherited her parents' substantial estates, and now that she had her mitts on Jacob Barnsworth's money, as well, she was surely rolling in the dough.

As Jeanette walked up to them and stood between Dirk and Tom, leaving her date to stand meekly behind her, Savannah searched her mind for an appropriate greeting. But none came to mind that didn't contain at least two or three curse words that Granny Reid would deplore. So Savannah said nothing. And for what seemed like about ten long, awkward years, neither did anyone else.

Finally, it was Dirk who broke the silence. “Lemme guess. You're Jeanette. The gal who likes purple and figures all the rest of us do, too.” When she didn't reply, he added, “I mean, why else would you decorate this place so's it looks like some giant barfed grape punch all over everything?”

Jeanette raised one darkly penciled eyebrow, lifted her chin a notch, and turned to Savannah. Nodding toward Dirk, she said, “Yours, I presume?”

Savannah laced her arm through Dirk's and pulled him closer. “Absolutely. This is my husband, Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter.” Glancing over Jeanette's shoulder, she said, “And I do believe that's Mr. Herb Jameson you've got there. Good evening, Mr. Jameson. How nice to see you again.”

“You, too, Miss Savannah,” the mortician replied with a courteous nod. “It's a pleasure.” Though the strained look on his face belied his words. His eyes wouldn't meet Savannah's when he spoke. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he adjusted and readjusted his tie, as though it was choking him.

Savannah had known the undertaker her entire life, and he had never been anything but kind and open with her. Only a few years ago he had assisted her and her family, helping to prove her youngest brother innocent of murder.

So why was he hiding, quite literally, behind his date's skirts and acting like a kid who had just been caught pilfering a dollar from his grandma's purse?

One quick glance at Dirk and Tom told Savannah that she wasn't the only one in the room who had noticed the mortician's unusual behavior. Both men were staring at him with the predatory eyes of professional investigators, evaluating, questioning.

Tom took a step closer to the older man, quite obviously invading his personal space. “You're hard to get ahold of these days, my friend,” Tom said without the slightest note of friendliness in his tone. “I've been by your funeral parlor four times in the past two days, lookin' to have a little chat with you. And even though that big black hearse of yours has been parked there in the back, I can't seem to rouse nobody to come to the door.”

Jameson gulped and shifted the knot in his tie for the third time. “Well, Sheriff, that's a bit of a stumper. Did you knock hard? Sometimes if I'm in the back, in my office, I might not hear you if you don't knock hard enough to—”

“For heaven's sake, Tom,” Jeanette interrupted. “Herb doesn't drive that hearse around all the time, you know. He's got a regular car.”

Tom nodded thoughtfully. “Yup. I know. I heard he's got a brand-new Cadillac. Bought it Monday off Arthur Johnson's lot. Paid cash for it, too, I hear.”

Savannah couldn't help being impressed. “Seems there's not a lot you don't hear,” she said.

Tom grinned. “There are a few advantages to policing a small town.”

Dirk gave a snort and added, “Yeah. In a place this size, you'd know what everybody had for dinner last night and who burned the bologna.”

“Supper,” Savannah whispered.

Dirk looked confused.

“Around here, if you eat it at night, it's
supper
,” she explained.
Dinner
is what we call lunch.”

“And here I thought I was fluent in Southern.”

Jeanette sighed and patted her updo, obviously bored with the conversation, which was not centered around her, and anxious to get on with her evening. She reached back and grabbed Herb Jameson's hand. “If you are finished interrogating my date, Tom Stafford, we've got us some serious dancing to do.”

Tom gave her a curt nod. Then, to Jameson, he said, “Y'all have a good time tonight, but the next time I come knocking at your funeral parlor, you better hightail it to answer that door before I take my boot to it. You hear?”

Jeanette pulled Herb away before he could answer, but the frightened look in his eyes showed that he had received the message quite clearly.

Savannah had never been good at containing her curiosity. “What do you want to talk to him about, Tom?” Of course she hoped to score at least half a point for using his preferred name.

She did.

“Not that it's any of your business,” he said, “but I got a few questions to ask him about a recent autopsy that he performed.”

Dirk cleared his throat. “Wouldn't happen to be a postmortem on old man Barnsworth, would it?”

When Tom didn't reply, Savannah pressed ahead. “I heard that you're not convinced he died of natural causes. That you are thinking maybe the self-coronated queen of the ball might have personally introduced him to his Maker. And I'm guessing you might be questioning Mr. Jameson's autopsy findings. Am I right? I mean, he's got himself a new, cash-bought Cadillac, and it appears he's got a girlfriend for the first time in years. Maybe she made it worth his while to come to that conclusion.”

Tom gave her an annoyed look, but Savannah could also read a smidgen of grudging respect in those green eyes. “Sounds like
you
hear a lot yourself, gal. But then, your ears always have been on the stretch, listenin' to what ain't none of your business. And your imagination's always worked overtime.”

Dirk slipped his arm around Savannah's shoulder and hugged her to his side. “And
those
, Sheriff Stafford, are just two of a thousand qualities that make her an amazing woman and a helluva detective. I can't tell you how glad I am that she's on my team now. Not yours.”

Savannah didn't have enough time to savor fully the ugly mixture of anger, humiliation, and frustration that distorted her ex-boyfriend's perfectly handsome face before her husband whisked her away and onto the dance floor.

But as he pulled her into his arms and, chuckling all the while, pressed a kiss to her earlobe, it occurred to her that she had never in her life been so in love with a man.

B
y the time the reunion party festivities started to wind down, Savannah was in a much better mood than when they had begun. Between getting to dance a dozen slow songs with her husband—who, for all his size and his reputation for moving like Godzilla tromping through Tokyo, was fairly light on his feet—and enjoying a generous portion of chocolate-dipped strawberries, she had decided that this event, which she'd been dreading for so long, didn't stink. At least not as badly as she'd feared.

Several of the attendees had greeted her warmly, showing genuine affection and pleasure at seeing her again. A few of the girls who had performed the duties of ladies in waiting for Queen Jeanette during their school years appeared to have matured and moved on to more worthwhile occupations, like getting lives of their own.

To Savannah's surprise and deep soul satisfaction, she detected a bit of regret and a sense of apology in their manner when they approached her and initiated conversations about the “good old days.”

So when all the good-byes had been said, the last strawberry pilfered, and the class song sung, Savannah was happy she had come. But thanks to Marietta's ridiculously high and tight sandals, she was even happier to be leaving.

As she and Dirk strolled arm in arm down a hallway that led to a rear door, they passed a glass case filled with sports trophies and memorabilia.

“You must've won more than your share of those when you were in high school,” she said, “you being a jock and all.”

“What makes you think I was a jock?” he said softly.

“I don't know. You're a big, strong guy. You love sports. I just figured . . .”

“Naw. The school there at the orphanage didn't have much of a sports program. Duking it out on the playground when the bigger boys picked on us, running after guys who stole our stuff—that's pretty much what passed for phys ed.”

Savannah gulped, mentally kicking herself for momentarily forgetting his own unfortunate childhood.

She squeezed his arm and leaned her head on his shoulder. “I'm sorry, sugar,” she said. “I am an idiot. Sometimes I just get wrapped up in myself and forget that you had a tough time growing up, too.”

He kissed the top of her head. “No big deal. We've both seen plenty of little kids who had it a lot worse.”

“That's for sure.”

Her soul shuddered as she remembered the pathetic circumstances of so many children she had tried to protect and serve while on the police force. Though it caused her pain to recall those memories, the exercise of doing so certainly put things into perspective. While being ridiculed and humiliated by others had blighted her childhood, those indignities paled in comparison to the atrocities she had seen visited upon other innocents.

As they continued on down the hallway and passed through the back entrance, Dirk noticed that she was limping.

“It's those stupid shoes that Marietta loaned you, right?” he asked.

“Yeah. I should've known better than to borrow any sort of fashion accessories from Mari.”

“I don't know. You'd probably look cute in those neon blue leopard-print tights of hers. A lot better than she does, anyway.”

She grinned up at him. “Bless you for that.”

“Why don't you just wait here while I go get the car?” he said. “I'll pull right up, like a proper chauffeur, and open the door for you. You can even sit in the backseat if you want to.”

She snickered. “That's a sweet offer, and I'll let you go get the car since you suggested it. But sitting in the backseat all by my lonesome wouldn't be much fun. Not without you to keep me company.”

He raised one eyebrow and gave her a sexy smile, which Tom Stafford could only aspired to. “Maybe we'll take the long way home to Granny's. Stop by Lookout Point perhaps?”

“Now you're talking. We can play ‘Studly Chauffeur Gives His Rich Mistress a Tune-up.'”

“I'll be back as quick as I can.”

“I'm sure you will.”

She watched him hurry away, fleet of foot and light of step. But then, he could afford to; he wasn't wearing Marietta's sexy strappy sandals.

With the promise of adventurous hanky-panky looming on his horizon, she was sure he would make the trip in record time.

Although she was equally certain that his ETA would be delayed somewhat by the fact that he would spend at least five minutes wandering around the large, dark parking area, trying to remember what their rental car looked like. It was a white, midsized four-door sedan. Not exactly a standout vehicle in a crowded lot.

Yes, Dirk was big, he was cute, he was brave, and he was obnoxiously masculine. And he was intelligent, in a street-smart sort of way. Unfortunately, he didn't always think things through. Especially when he had sex on the brain.

True to her expectations, it took him forever to return. But she wasn't alone for long. As she waited, Savannah saw a couple of women exit the door and walk in her direction. Before they reached her, they paused near a garbage can. One of them reached into her purse, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and tore off the top.

As she tossed the litter into the can, Savannah heard her say, “I tried to stop. And I did for a while. But I packed on ten pounds in no time flat, so I had to start again.”

Her companion nodded. “I understand completely. That's the worst part about quitting. You pork right out. Your good clothes don't fit you anymore. It's just not worth it.”

As the women continued to chat about the downfalls of giving up nicotine, they turned their faces slightly toward Savannah, and she could see them more clearly owing to the dim halogen lights that lit the entrance.

She recognized Amy Jameson immediately. She looked a lot like her father, Herb. Although his hair was now silver and thin, it had once been auburn, thick, and curly like Amy's. And they both had soft, sweet faces and easy smiles, readily offered to everyone they met.

Until tonight, anyway
, Savannah reminded herself. Once again, she found herself wondering at the change in the undertaker's personality. People seemed to change around Jeanette, and not for the better.

The person who had always been closest to Jeanette was the smoker who was speaking with Amy at the moment. Lisa Mooney—now Lisa Riggs, since she had married the middle Riggs boy, Frank—had been Savannah's second least favorite female at McGill High. She had always emulated Jeanette in every way possible. For as long as Savannah had known her, Lisa had dressed like Jeanette, had walked with the same prissiness as Jeanette, had talked like her, and had tormented other girls in fine form, under Jeanette's rigorous tutelage.

Savannah had assumed that one day Lisa would outgrow Jeanette and become her own person. But apparently, she hadn't, judging from her attire. She was wearing an outfit that was almost identical to Jeanette's, except for the color. Lisa's dress, purse, and high heels were all hot pink, and though a bit less rhinestone encrusted than Jeanette's, her attire definitely qualified her as second runner-up in the “gaudy” category at the reunion.

But Lisa's mood seemed far less festive than her overstated costume. She looked perfectly miserable as the two women conversed in hushed tones.

“I don't understand how you can still be friends with the likes of her,” Amy was saying to Lisa in a voice far more harsh than Savannah had ever heard her use. “How can you still talk to her? How can you be nice to her, knowing what she's done?”

“I don't know for a fact that she did it, and neither do you,” was Lisa's quick retort. “I like to think of myself as a loyal person. I don't turn my back on my best friend just because of some mean-spirited gossip.”

Amy dropped her voice even lower, and Savannah had to strain to hear her say, “You know it's true, Lisa. You, of all people. You know her better than anybody, and you know in your heart what she did. It's time she was held accountable for all the lives she's destroyed.”

To Savannah's surprise, Lisa threw her cigarette onto the sidewalk, covered her face with her hands, and began to cry. She wept so bitterly that Savannah couldn't help feeling sorry for her.

Did it really matter that twenty-five years ago a teenage girl had made love to her boyfriend? A relatively worthless boyfriend at that, as it had turned out. Who hadn't committed a few youthful indiscretions in their day? Tonight the woman Lisa had become was hurting badly, apparently paying a heavy price for being loyal to the wrong person.

Savannah thought back over the years, recalling how Lisa had been Jeanette's ever-present sidekick, fighting her battles for her, doing the more aggressive girl's bidding, all without question.

It must be hard
, Savannah thought
, to pass the age of forty and only then realize that the person you've spent your life idolizing may have committed murder
.

“I can't believe it. I just can't believe she would stoop that low.” Lisa fished around in her purse but brought out nothing but her cigarettes, a hairbrush, and a lipstick.

Amy produced a tissue from her pocket and handed it to Lisa. “I know what you mean,” she said, her tone softer and less accusatory than before. “I have a hard time believing that he'd go along with it, too. I sure thought better of him than that. But Jeanette's always had a way with men. She knows just how to get whatever she wants from them. He's not the first to give in to her, and he sure won't be the last.”

Savannah could hear the pain and disappointment in Amy's voice, as well. She tried to imagine how difficult it would be to realize that your own father had aided and abetted a murderess—all for the price of a new Cadillac and a roll in the hay.

Amy's mother had died when she and her two sisters were very young, and Herb Jameson had raised his girls with loving devotion. Savannah had never heard a cross word pass between Herb and his daughters or seen any sign of dissension in their relationships.

Leave it to Jeanette to cause problems where there had never been any before.

As though materializing from their conversation, Jeanette sauntered out the back door with Herb at her heels.

Savannah took a step backward, deeper into the shadows.

Amy and Lisa froze, looking like a pair of rabbits whose hutch had just been invaded by a fox.

But as Jeanette headed in their direction, Lisa suddenly sprang to life and said in a far too loud and animated voice, “I've gotta skedaddle. Frank had to work tonight, but he's probably home by now. Promised to make it up to me with a nice romantic dinner. So I'd better git goin'.”

Her unconvincing speech delivered, she scurried away and disappeared into the darkness among the parked cars.

Jeanette walked up to Amy, her backbone even stiffer and her chin even higher than usual. “Well, well. That one took off like somebody'd lit a bonfire on her skirt tail.”

After a long, tense moment, Amy said, “I reckon she had somewhere to be.”

Jeanette sniffed. “Oh, yeah. Like that tightwad Frank would treat her to a romantic dinner. She'd do well to weasel a cheeseburger and the small fry out of that cheapskate.”

“As it turns out,” Amy said with a quick hurt look at her dad, “I've got someplace to be myself.”

“Really?” Jeanette said as Herb stared down at the sidewalk. “And where's that?”

“Anywhere but here,” was Amy's curt reply before she turned and strode away into the darkness without another word to Jeanette or any further acknowledgment of her father.

Herb looked perfectly miserable as he watched his daughter leave. It occurred to Savannah that he, too, would prefer to be anywhere other than in his present situation.

But it was Jeanette's response that fascinated Savannah. As Jeanette stood, glaring at the departing Amy, her face darkened with anger so intense and ugly that, even knowing her history, Savannah was taken aback.

Apparently, the years had not improved Jeanette's temperament. Quite the contrary, it seemed.

But Savannah wasn't surprised. Having dealt with people during some of their worst moments, she had formulated a theory about mankind. She'd decided that with age, good people tended to become better, bad people got worse, and sometimes good folks went wrong. But she had yet to see a bad person become a good one.

So it was no shock that a spoiled and temperamental child had become an angry and potentially dangerous woman.

As Savannah watched the humiliated woman huff and puff, fists clenched, she could feel Jeanette's rage building. Having not one, but two former friends disrespect her so blatantly wasn't something that McGill's closest thing to a socialite was accustomed to.

Savannah wasn't surprised when Jeanette turned her wrath on her date.

“Well, thank you very much, Herb,” she said, her voice thick with sarcasm. “I sure appreciate how you rushed to my defense there.”

Herb shrugged. “Sorry, sugar, but I don't know what you expected me to say or do.”

“You could have at least told that smart-mouthed daughter of yours to show me a bit of respect. I've been nothing but good to her over the years, introducing her and her sisters to important people, inviting them to all the best parties. Parties they never would've been able to attend, them being nothing but run-of-the-mill undertaker's daughters.”

Savannah watched as the mortician squared his thin shoulders. “I suppose, if that's the way you feel, you won't mind if this run-of-the-mill undertaker finds himself another way home.”

“What other way?” Jeanette's rage burned several degrees hotter. Even in the semidarkness, Savannah could see that she was trembling with fury as she reached out and poked Herb's chest hard with her long acrylic fingernail. Purple, of course. “
What
other way?” she repeated. “Are you going to embarrass yourself and me, too, by hitchhiking your way home, when everybody here knows you're my date?”