Killer Reunion (5 page)

Herb grabbed her hand in mid-poke and squeezed it hard. “I might hitchhike,” he said. “If that's what it takes. I don't care, as long as I'm not with you. This date's over, Jeanette. In fact, the whole thing's over. I'm done with you. And frankly, I've got to tell you, you weren't worth it. Not even close.”

As yet a third person walked away from Jeanette in less than five minutes, she shouted at his retreating back, “I don't suppose that new Cadillac was worth it, either, huh?”

Glancing briefly over his shoulder, he said, “I'm returning it to Arthur tomorrow. I'm sure he'll give you some sort of refund.”

“Too bad there ain't some sorta refund for dating an impotent old man!”

Herb paused in mid-step for half a second, then continued on, his stride even faster and more purposeful than before.

Ouch
, Savannah thought.
Low, low blow.

Even in the course of a heated argument, some topics needed to be off-limits. Apparently, Jeanette hadn't heard that rule or, more likely, had given herself permission to violate it.

As Savannah stood still and silent in the shadows, watching her enemy's humiliation, it occurred to her that she should be enjoying this moment more. At least she would have expected to.

How many times in her imagination had she told this person off, given her a piece of her mind, set her straight? How many times had she fancied a hundred different ways that Jeanette might get her comeuppance in the most humiliating ways possible?

But while the fantasies had given Savannah a great deal of pleasure at the time, the reality seemed far less sweet. More than anything else, she felt sad.

So much drama, so much pain, for so many people . . . and for what?

Nothing.

It was all completely pointless.

Such a waste of time, of energy . . . of life.

For years she had hated Jeanette and had wished her ill, and now, seeing her nemesis in the flesh, in the act of living out her own miserable existence, it occurred to Savannah that the worst punishment Jeanette could receive was simply being Jeanette.

“What are
you
lookin' at?”

It took a second for Savannah to realize that Jeanette had spotted her and was speaking to her.

The rudeness of the question and how it was asked dispelled any momentary sense of pity Savannah was feeling. Anger, the cold kind, hit her bloodstream like an instant four-liter transfusion of frosty iced tea.

“I beg your pardon?” she said in a flat, sinister tone, one that might have concerned a somewhat more timid soul.

But Jeanette Barnsworth had no link labeled TIMID on her DNA chain.

“I asked you what you're lookin' at. Hiding there in the shadows, eavesdropping, listening to stuff that's none of your business.”

Slowly, Savannah stepped out of the darkness and into the dim yellow light.

As anemic as the halogen glow was, Jeanette appeared to see something in Savannah's eyes that registered at least a bit of caution. She took one step backward, putting a little more distance between them.

“I wasn't eavesdropping,” Savannah said. “I was just standing there with my teeth in my mouth, waiting for my husband to bring the car up, when you started screaming nasty things at your date. If they were secrets, maybe you shouldn't have been shouting them out for God and everybody to hear.”

“Yeah, well, I reckon since they kicked you off the police force for being so fat, you're one of those private detectives who go around spying on people for money. 'Pears you're good at somethin', after all.”

Savannah swallowed a gasp as the sharp blade of the woman's words drove deep into her heart. What was it about catty, cruel women that they always knew your soul's deepest wound and how to pierce it, at whim, with breathtaking accuracy?

She forced her voice to be even, her breathing slow and calm, as she said, “Your investigation skills are sadly lacking there, Miss Jeanette. Part of being a good detective is making sure you've got all the facts in hand before you go accusing people. And not just the facts that suit your purpose.”

“And what purpose do you reckon I've got?”

“Putting other people down so you can feel good about yourself and the rotten things you do.”

“I feel just fine about myself.”

Savannah nodded thoughtfully. “You shouldn't. But I suspect you do. I used to think that, just maybe, what appeared to be arrogance on your part was some sort of cover-up for a deep-rooted insecurity. But there are plenty of people who actually think they're better than everybody else. They're not insecure or troubled or tormented. They're just plain ole conceited.”

Jeanette absorbed the insult without even flinching and took a couple of steps closer to Savannah. “And then,” she said, “there are people like me who know what's what and who's who. Like that my family's always had a pot to piss in, and yours had a stinkin' outhouse. Like that my grandpa was mayor of McGill, and yours dug graves in the cemetery. Like that my mom was president of the garden club, and yours is a worthless drunk who spends all day and night holding down a bar stool and swiggin'—”

“You need to shut up, Jeanette. And you need to do that now,” Savannah said softly, calmly.

Jeanette smirked. “Woo-hoo! Look at you gettin' your dander all up. Hurts to hear the truth, doesn't it? And while you're out there in sunny California, pretending to be some highfalutin private detective, you probably don't want to remember how you used to spend every Saturday doing our laundry.”

Again, Jeanette stepped closer, until the two women were less than a yard apart. “Did you know,” she said, her eyes bright with perverse pleasure, “that I used to leave little . . . um . . . treats on my underwear just for you?” When Savannah didn't reply, she continued, “But you always got them clean. Yes, if there's anything you and your grandma was good at, it was gettin' stains out of other folks' underdrawers.”

Time slowed for Savannah as she stood there, watching, listening, evaluating. Often, when seeing cruelty up close and in sharp detail, she had wondered how society could embrace the idea that no person was actually bad, only troubled, in pain, or misinformed. While Savannah had seen many criminals whose misdeeds were merely echoes of abuses perpetrated on them, she had also seen too many sadistic narcissists in the world to believe that was always the case.

Some people truly enjoyed inflicting pain on others. And some of them, like Jeanette, had not been mistreated in their early lives. Some had been coddled, pampered, and told that the world revolved around them. And as a result, they believed that others existed only to serve them, to make their lives easier and more pleasant, to raise them up simply by being under their feet.

“The only thing you ever had going for you,” Jeanette continued, “was Tom Stafford. But you lost him, too, didn't you? All I had to do was crook my finger, and, boy, he came running.”

Savannah was vaguely aware that some people had come out of the building and were standing nearby, close enough to overhear this exchange. She could feel other eyes watching from the darkness of the parking lot, eavesdroppers listening to every word they were saying. But she didn't care. She felt nothing except that strange icy coldness coursing through her veins as Jeanette's words flowed over her.

Over, but not through.

“Of course, I didn't
want
him,” Jeanette was saying. “He was cute and all, but frankly, he wasn't all that good in the sack. Didn't rise to the occasion, if you know what I mean. Besides, he always said he was gonna be a cop. And who'd wanna marry a cop?”

A hundred images flooded Savannah's mind. Those big, handsome men in blue uniforms carrying the Reid kids out of their mother's house in their strong arms. Their deep, comforting voices telling them not to cry, that everything was going to be fine.

Countless memories of the men and women who had stood beside her on the police force, risking their lives, placing their vulnerable bodies between strangers and harm's way. All because it was their duty, even to die, if need be. To protect and serve.

And even more pictures of Dirk, her husband, interjecting himself over and over again into the most horrific circumstances, trying to make a difference. She had seen him bruised, bleeding, spit upon, with filth hurled at him, along with words that seared the soul. Any soul. Even that of a street-hardened cop.

She had seen tears fill his eyes as he held the ones he couldn't save in his arms and watched them, felt them, slip away.

“I mean, really,” Jeanette rattled on, “who'd want a lousy cop for a husband? Not me, that's for sure. They don't make beans, you know. I could never settle for a crap lifestyle like—”

At first Savannah thought it was a gunshot. The sharp report echoed throughout the parking lot. Those standing nearby were struck silent.

The only sound was that of Jeanette Barnsworth hitting the sidewalk.

Slowly, Savannah became aware of the burning sensation in her right hand. Then she felt Dirk beside her, his arm around her waist, his breath against the side of her face.

She heard him whisper, “Holy shit, babe. What did you . . . what did she . . . what the hell? She's out cold!”

And she was.

Queen bee Jeanette was sprawled on her back across the sidewalk, her arms out flung. The skirt of her rhinestone-studded dress fluttered up to her waist, revealing a less than attractive tummy-tucking foundation garment.

For a moment Savannah thought Jeanette was dead.

And judging from the burning sensation in her hand, she just might be the one who'd killed her.

But in her left hand Savannah could feel her purse and the weight of the Beretta that she was carrying inside it. So at least she hadn't shot her.

A moment later someone left the bystanders and walked up to stand on the other side of her. “Whoa. Howdy,” she heard Tom Stafford say. “You got one helluva right cross there, gal. She's out for the count.”

It occurred to Savannah that perhaps someone should be checking Jeanette for vital signs. Out of curiosity, if for no other reason, just to make sure she still had some.

But no one was rushing forward to administer CPR or scrambling to locate a cardiac defibrillator machine. Jeanette's former schoolmates seemed perfectly content to stand there and gawk at their fallen monarch.

“What'd you do it for?” Tom asked.

Quickly, Savannah replayed the recent conversation between herself and her tormentor in her head and decided there was no part of it she cared to share with the world.

Heaven knows, they'd already heard way too much.

“You know Jeanette,” she said. “Pick a reason. Any reason.”

On the sidewalk, the stricken Jeanette began to stir. She sat up, put her hand to her left cheek, and massaged it for a moment. Dazed, she looked around, trying to reorient herself to her surroundings and the situation.

Dirk whispered to Savannah, “It's alive! It's alive!”

“Yeah,” she replied. “Talk about mixed emotions.”

Tom put his hand on Savannah's elbow, then gripped it tightly. “Savannah, you assaulted her. You know I'm gonna have to arrest you for that.”

Savannah couldn't help being at least moderately amused as she watched Jeanette struggle to get her skirt down and her beehive updo straightened. “She assaulted me first,” she told him.

He looked doubtful. “I don't see a mark on you.”

“Not all injuries leave a mark, Tom. You know that.” Savannah looked up at him, her eyes searching his for understanding.

She found it. The stern look on his handsome face softened, but he said, “That might be true. But if she decides to press charges, there won't be much I can do about it.”

Savannah pulled her arm out of his grip and took a few steps toward Jeanette.

This time it was Dirk who grabbed her. “Leave her alone, Van,” he said, “unless you want to spend the rest of our Dixieland vacation in the Crowbar Hotel.”

“I promise, I'm not gonna ruffle a hair on her head. We're just gonna have us a little girl-to-girl chat. I'm not stupid enough to smack her around right under the noses of two fine policemen like yourselves.”

When they both cut her withering sideways looks, she added under her breath, “Well, not more than once in an evening.”

She walked over to Jeanette and knelt down on one knee beside her.

The instant that Jeanette focused on Savannah's face, she appeared to become instantly aware of her circumstances and in total recall of former events. “You hit me! You knocked me down! You slapped the tar outta me! How dare you!”

“Now, now,” Savannah said in her most soothing cop voice. “I didn't hit you, darlin'. My hand just kinda slipped, and your face got in the way.”

“Hand slipped, my hind end! You attacked me, and I'm gonna press charges. I'm gonna—”

Savannah lowered her voice and leaned close to Jeanette's ear. “Hush. You need to stop running your mouth for once and use your head. I'm not about to plead guilty to anything involving the likes of you. Which means it'd have to go to trial. You just remember all the stuff you said right before . . . before my hand got that little spasm. The little trick you liked to play with your underwear. The fact that you fooled around with a guy you weren't the least bit interested in marrying, just so you could be one up on a girl you didn't like. That sort of thing goes over well in a small, conservative town like this.”

Savannah glanced up at Tom, who was hovering over them. She wasn't sure if he could hear what she was saying or not. So she leaned even closer to Jeanette's ear and whispered, “And while you're testifying, be sure to add the part about how the sheriff's lousy in bed. He'll probably be sheriff for the next hundred years or so. Should make things nice for you, living hereabouts.”