Sour Grapes (A Savannah Reid Mystery #6) (10 page)

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your mouth, you old perv," she whispered. "And screw your eyes back into their sockets while you're at it." When Atlanta left the stage, instead of returning to her table, she exited the room by way of a side door. Savannah had seen a number of the girls coming in and

out through that door. It appeared to be the shortest route to the ladies' room.

Alarm bells went off in her head as she watched Frank

Addison rise from his seat and stroll nonchalantly

through the same door behind Atlanta. It took Savannah only a few seconds to get across the room and out

the door.

"Oh, no you don't," she muttered as she followed him, rapidly closing the distance. "Don't you even think about what you're thinking about . . . not with any of

my girls, you peckerhead, and especially not with that one!"

Barbie Matthews knew with more certainty than she

had ever known anything before, that she was about to be murdered; the only question remaining was, "How?"

She had done everything she had been told to do. She had allowed her hands to be taped so tightly that

her fingers had almost immediately gone numb. She had submitted to having a wide piece of the silver tape

stretched across her mouth, which itched terribly and tore her lips, besides making it difficult for her to breathe. She could taste her own stomach juices, bitter in her mouth, and she was afraid she would vomit and choke.

For just a moment Barbie thought of how many times

she had used self-induced vomiting to keep her weight

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down. How ironic if she actually died that way, after hearing all the warnings about how dangerous the practice

was and dismissing them as alarmist hogwash.

Her captor had forced her to walk to the back of one

of the cars that was parked at the edge of a lot, and now the person was opening the trunk. The gun was still pointed at her face.

"Get inside. Now . . . move it!"

So, she wasn't going to be killed here at this location. Barbie mentally clutched at the hope that a car ride

might provide her with an opportunity to escape. Obediently, she climbed into the trunk. It was harder to do than she would have thought, with her hands taped behind her and her legs weak and shaky from fear.

But she managed to crawl in, scraping her shin painfully, and lie down as she was instructed.

Crunched into a fetal ball, on her side, she could smell the moist, mustiness of the trunk, the rubber of the spare tire, and the gasoline residue on the outside of a metal can beside her head.

But those odors were only faint impressions. Barbie had far more pressing issues than unpleasant smells to

worry about. Something in the manner of the person standing over her, leaning into the trunk, told her that something was about to happen. Something very bad.

Maybe she was going to be killed right there and

then, after all.

Briefly, she wondered what it would feel like . . . a bullet passing through her flesh. She had heard that sometimes people were shot and they didn't even realize

it. Maybe it wouldn't hurt too badly.

As though from far away at the end of the long, dark hallway, she could hear her tormentor saying, "You're

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-iothing but a cockroach. You know that, don't you? A cirl like you, who doesn't care who she hurts, who she ises--you're nothing but a damned cockroach."

Barbie had a thousand things she wanted to say in

ier own defense, a thousand things she wanted to tell captor, having to do with their illegitimate birth, in:estuous relationships, and their most unpleasant, eterml destination. Most of all, she wanted to say that she as special. . . far too special to be treated this way.

But now, for the first time in her life, when she ranted most to speak, Barbie Matthews was speechess--because of the tape across her mouth.

Her tormenter was rummaging around in the trunk

war Barbie's feet. "You know how they kill cock-oaches?" the voice asked.

Mash them? Barbie thought. Oh, god, was that how he was going to be killed? Squashed flat like a bug on a idewalk?

Was she going to be crushed here in this car?

"I'll tell you how they kill cockroaches." The person tctually sounded happy, as if enjoying the situation. The thought made her even more sick to her stomach. the had known it would be risky--this plan of hers. But you didn't take the occasional risk, you got nowhere. knd Barbie had grown tired of being nowhere.

But in her wildest fantasies, she'd never thought of his as an ending to her story.

She tried to see what was going on as the person coninued

to fumble with something in the trunk. But larbie was facing the front of the car and could see

iothing but faint outlines in the darkness.

"Here's how they kill vermin like you," the person aid.

Barbie closed her eyes and winced, expecting. . . she didn't know what.

Then she heard a pop, followed by a spewing sound. And she smelled a strong, acrid, chemical odor, that stung her nostrils and made her eyes burn.

"Bug bombs." That's how to get rid of cockroaches like you."

Something hard was tossed into the trunk, and Barbie felt it hit her leg. Something moist sprayed against her calf, and the bitter smell was suddenly much, much worse.

"You blew it this time, Barbie baby. You fucked with the wrong person, one time too many. And now you're going to die for it."

The trunk lid slammed closed, leaving Barbie in complete darkness. As the deadly vapor filled the small enclosure, she thought she must be breathing pure fire into her lungs.

She tried to scream. The tape ripped the tender skin on her lips, but it wouldn't come off.

She twisted her wrists until they were sticky with

blood, but the bindings held fast.

She rolled over onto her back, pulled her knees up to her face, and kicked as hard as she could at the top of the trunk. But as much pain as the movements caused her, the metal didn't budge.

"Help me! Please, please, help me!" she screamed behind the tape. But there was no one to hear her muffled cries.

After what seemed like an eternity, the terrible pain in her lungs seemed to lessen just a little. Moment by moment, Barbie's panic gradually began to subside, and she stopped her futile thrashing.

It wasn't so bad.

Maybe she didn't need to fight it. Maybe she didn't need to escape.

This darkness. The comforting, warm darkness, closing all around her. . . it wasn't so bad.

In the fuzzy recesses of what remained of her mental

functions, Barbie Matthews was mildly surprised. Who would have thought it?

This dying. . . it wasn't so bad, after all.

ust as Savannah had surmised, Atlanta was heading into the ladies' room. And her wannabe stalker, Frank Addison, was making a production of lighting a cigarette and studying a piece of impressionistic art on

a nearby wall.

As Savannah waited and watched, half-hidden behind a giant potted palm, several females came out of the rest room, including contestants, their mothers, and some of the Villa Rosa staff, as well as Catherine WhitestoneVilla.

When Catherine passed the palm on her way back to

the tasting room, she spotted Savannah. A look of concern crossed her face, and she walked over to her. "Is everything all right, Savannah?" she asked. "You seem . . . upset"

Savannah glanced over at Addison, who was still pretending to be absorbed by the painting. "Oh, sure.

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Everything's just peachy. You go on back to your dinner, Mrs. Villa. I think your husband is beginning his speech."

"Oh, yes!" Her face brightened. "I don't want to miss that. He counts on me to be in the audience." She lowered her voice and whispered, "Tony's actually a little bit stage-shy, if you can imagine that. Isn't it sweet?"

"Oh . . . sweet. . . very sweet, indeed."

As Catherine walked away Savannah resisted the

urge to gag. Maybe she wouldn't want dessert, after ill--not even one helping, let alone two.

But her nausea quickly changed to cold-blooded

Fury when Atlanta came out of the bathroom and was

tmmediately intercepted by the horny Frank Addison. klthough Savannah couldn't hear what he was saying, it as easy to catch the drift of his conversation as he dug

tnto his Brioni jacket pocket, produced a business card, md tucked it into Atlanta's hand.

Savannah was there in half a dozen strides. She was lust in time to hear him say, ". . . anytime . . . love to hear from you . . . many things to talk about . . ."

She wasn't sure who was the more surprised, Frank 3r Atlanta, when she snatched the card out of the girl's hand. She gave Atlanta a quick, businesslike smile, and ;aid, "I'll take that, and you can go back to your dinner, Vliss Reid."

"But . . . but this . . . gentleman and I are talking," ktlanta sputtered.

'This gentleman and I have business to discuss, and mu need to return to your table, Miss Reid. . . immediitely." She gave the girl a slight push toward the door, ind Atlanta walked away, glaring at her older sister over her shoulder.

"Dang, I'm gonna pay, big-time, for this," Savannah

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muttered. She turned to Frank Addison, who by now was more angry than surprised. "What did you think you were doing there, Mr. Addison? I'm sure someone told you it's against the rules for the judges to consort

with our pretty contestants."

His face turned so red that his nose flushed purple. She half expected him to have a stroke right there in

front of her but decided that was too much to hope for.

"Consort? Who's consorting?" he said. "The young lady dropped a piece of paper, and I picked it up and gave it to her," he said with a sniff that was, no doubt, intended to sound indignant, but Savannah decided he probably just had allergies. "Boy, that's what you get for trying to be a gentleman. You do a good deed, and somebody thinks you're up to no good."

Savannah cast a withering glance down at the zipper

area of his trousers. "Oh yes, I can see that your 'no good' is up. And that's what bothers me. I saw the way you were looking at the contestants when they were

traipsing across the stage. And I saw you follow that particular lady to the bathroom and wait for her to come

out. And I saw you hand her your business card. And I heard what you told her about getting together later, so don't try to bullshit me, Mt Addison. I know exactly what you're trying to pickup. . . and it ain't no piece of paper for a lady."

He said nothing, but Savannah noticed that his purple nose turned three shades darker, and his gray eyes burned with an anger so intense that she quickly realized:

This man was more than your run-of-the-mill pervert he was potentially very dangerous.

So, it was even more important to make her message iinmistakably clear.

Savannah stepped closer to him, and since he wasn't

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a particularly tall man, and she was wearing pumps, they were standing eye to eye. "Let me put it this way, Mr. Addison," she said, her voice ominous in its lack of inflection. "In the future, when you look at our pretty little girls, you better put all those wicked, nasty thoughts right out of your mind, 'cause they're gonna get you in big trouble with me.

"You see, I'm working Security at this pageant . . ." Just for effect, she lifted her skirt a few inches to reveal the holster and pistol she had strapped to her thigh. "So, I'm looking out for all the girls. But that one girl you were trying to hit on--well, let's just say you've got good taste but rotten luck--she's my little sister. And I'm very protective of my family members."

"I'm sure you are," he replied in a tone that was far too casual for her liking. He still hadn't gotten the message.

"If you know what's good for you, Mr. Addison," she said, moving even closer until her nose was almost touching his, "you'd better behave yourself at this here pageant. Because if you don't, I'm gonna get hold of a great big knife and lop off your tallywhacker. Then I'll feed it to you on a hot dog bun with mustard, relish, and extra onions. Do you understand me, sir?"

He didn't answer but gave her a curt nod. She could tell, by the fine sweat breaking out on his upper lip and the shortness of his breath, that her unladylike, but graphic description had produced the desired effect.

She started to turn away, then reconsidered. "Oh, yes, by the way. . . when it comes judgment time, you're not to hold this conversation between you and me

against Miss Atlanta Reid. And you don't need to give her any special consideration because of it either. You rate her like you would anyone else, and you and I will get along just fine."

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She left Frank Addison standing there with his inflated

blood pressure and deflated ego and returned to

the tasting room, where dinner festivities were coming to a

close. Anthony Villa had finished his speech, the dessert dishes were being cleared away, and the rich aroma of coffee filled the room.

Glancing over at Atlanta's table, Savannah quickly noted two facts: Barbie Matthews still had not made her appearance, and Savannah's younger sister was positively livid, her eyes shooting blue lasers across the room at Savannah.

"Ah, the joys of sisterhood," Savannah said with a sigh. "Oh, well, it just goes to show you: No good deed goes unpunished."

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Savannah had expected a certain amount of hostility

the next time she conversed with her youngest sibling. But nothing had prepared her for the storm that descended

upon her head when she crossed the path of

Hurricane Atlanta in the gallery half an hour later.