Sour Grapes (A Savannah Reid Mystery #6) (30 page)

'They're underneath my sister right now," she said. "Atlanta drove to Hollywood to do her backup singing

gig for Dixie Lynn today. She left before I was even out of bed and should be home anytime. I can't wait to hear how it went Thanks a million, John, for arranging it for her."

John groaned and nodded, but he kept his eyes closed. "You're welcome. It was my pleasure."

"And I have to thank you guys, too, for those referrals in Georgia," she said. "I'm setting up appointments

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for Atlanta to go to as soon as she gets home--a counselor who specializes in eating disorders and a support

group, too."

"Do you think she'll stick with it?" Tammy asked.

"I hope so. She's seen Angela twice this week, and she's getting past the idea that it's a shameful thing to

talk to a pro. One step at a time."

"She's lucky she has you for a sister," Tammy said, giving Savannah an affectionate smile.

"I'm lucky to have her. I have to tell you, guys, if it wasn't for my little sister smacking Catherine Villa with

her guitar, I honestly don't think I'd be here right now. That gal was going to kill me . . . then and there . . . no

doubt about it."

"Well, she's gonna get hers," Dirk said. 'That busted leg ain't settin' right, I heard, and she's gonna have to have it operated on. Not to mention the charges against her."

"I understand," Ryan said, "that they're cutting a deal for Anthony Villa, that he'll probably receive a light sentence and be back with his sons and vineyard in

a few years."

'That's right." Dirk lifted the lid of the churn and looked inside. "Did you hear? The results of the tests are back. The chemical used to kill Barbie was an insecticide, like we thought A bug bomb called, Pests No More. Appropriate, huh?"

"Be nice," Savannah warned him. He dipped his finger in the ice cream and she swatted his hand.

"And here's the clincher," he added. `The baby wasn't even Anthony's after all. Trent Gorton was the father."

"So, Barbie had the Villas dancing on strings for nothing." Savannah shook her head. "Do you think we'll get Catherine for Francie's death?"

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"Yeah, I think between you and Atlanta testifying to what she said when she came after you. . it'll be enough. You Reid gals are pretty convincing with those big blue eyes and that sweet Southern drawl. You're so deceptively innocent-looking."

She batted her lashes and deepened her dimples. "Why, thank you, kind sir. Want some more ice cream?" "Do bears--?"

"Here." She shoved a bowl at him.

The purr of a well-tuned motor caught their attention

as Savannah's Mustang pulled into her driveway.

"Oh, good!" Savannah exclaimed as her sister climbed out of the car and walked over to the patio

where they were. "Atlanta's back! She must be so excited. . . on cloud nine. . . her dream come true . . . a--"

"It sucked! It so-o-o sucked!" Atlanta plopped down on the grass, her legs crossed, her lip out. "I hated the whole thing! You wouldn't believe how boring it is to record a song! You sing it over and over and over again until you're just sick to death of hearin' it!"

Savannah stared at her, unable to comprehend this reversal. It was so abrupt So . . . Atlanta.

"It ain't what it's cracked up to be, this singing thing," she said. "Dixie was downright cranky, and I don't really blame her. I had to be there at nine, but she'd been recording since seven in the morning. She hadn't even had time to do her hair and makeup. I'm tellin' ya, she looked like crap! Nothin' like she did at the Oscars."

Lying in his hammock, eyes still closed, John smiled, his mustache twitching.

Ryan and Tammy gave each other a sideways look. Dirk started dishing up a bowl of ice cream.

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Savannah walked over to the barbecue grill. "Okay," she said. "So much for that. We saved you some ribs. The veggies are on the kitchen counter. Can I dish you up a plate?"

"Naw, I'm not really . . ." Atlanta paused. Her eyes met her sister's for a long moment. "Yeah, okay," she said. "I'll take some of that potato salad you made yesterday and a piece of corn."

As Savannah walked into the house, she heard her sister saying, "You know what? On the way here on the plane I was noticing that those flight attendants have

got a pretty good job. I mean, they get to dress up in cute uniforms and meet lots of rich guys and travel all

over the world. That would be cool, you know. I'm just thinldn' that maybe if I was a stewardess, I might meet some movie director in first-class, and. . . you know, a lot of actresses get discovered that way, because . .

Marion Lippincott was right, after all, Savannah decided as she put a double-sized scoop of potato salad on

a paper plate; all that energy, all that optimism--it really was wasted on the young.

But at that moment, as she gazed out her kitchen window at her loved ones--those her own age and those younger--Savannah was extremely contented to be exactly where she was on life's road.

Right here. . . this spot where she was standing. . . it was the very best place in the world to be.

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everal hours later, having been plied with copious L./amounts of double Dutch chocolate fudge, popcorn, and the potables of their choice, Savannah's guests began to take their leave.

Tammy departed first, promising to return in the wee hours of the morning to take Savannah to the airport.

Although Savannah returned home as seldom as possible to the tiny rural town in Georgia where she

had been born and raised, this visit was unavoidable. The oldest of nine children, Savannah had been summoned to yet another wedding.

If there was anything worse than going home, it was to a wedding, not your own, without any sign of a ring on your finger, without even an escort on your arm.

Ryan and John were the next to leave, waving goodbye from their vintage Bentley as Savannah watched

from her front porch. She could hardly see through the tangle of bougainvillea that was taking over the front

porch of her Spanish-style bungalow.

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"Have a safe trip to Georgia, dear," John called as they pulled out of her driveway, his silver hair glowing at the light of the streetlamp.

"Be sure to give us a ring if you need anything, okay? Ryan added, his head stuck out the window. "In fact, Owe us a call whether you need us or not. We're going Lo miss you."

"I'll miss you, too." She blew them a kiss.

"Eh, what're you wasting that on them for," said a ;Touchy voice behind her. She turned to see Dirk stand-mg there, pulling on his battered bomber jacket 'Those :wo aren't into girl kisses."

"Stop," Savannah said. "Stop right now. Behave a lit-le better, and I might blow you . . . a kiss. . . now and hen."

His eyes twinkled. "Mmm, had my hopes up for a -tali* a second there."

She scowled. "Get real, Nacho Chip Breath. Are you ;-oing home now, too?"

"Yeah. Some of us have to work tomorrow, while other )eople get to leave on vacation."

"Some vacation. . . watching one of my zillions of ablings get married, while I'm still. . .

"Yes?" His eyes searched hers; she quickly glanced tway.

"Nevermind." Linking her arm through his, she )egan walking him toward his Buick, which was parked )11. the street in front of her house.

"Were you about to moan and groan about still being

ingle?" he asked. "I could have sworn that was what you were going to say."

"No way. I like being single. No man's shoes to trip wet-... except your rotten old sneakers when you're

tere for Monday night football and the free pizza.

PEACHES AND SCREAMS 301

Having the toilet seat down, where it belongs, all the time. . . except when you visit and leave it up."

"So, with a guy like me around, you don't need a husband. Is that what you're saying?"

"Yeah, except for vehicle maintenance, lawn care, and the occasional plumbing job, I do okay."

"But then there's the old bada-bing, bada-boom." He prodded her with his elbow.

"Eh, if I can do without having my oil changed, my tires rotated, and my pipes roto-rooted I can give up the old binging and booming."

His smirk faded into a look of concern. "Speaking of . . . romance . . . are you going to be seeing any of your

high school buddies there in Georgia?"

For a second, memories of adolescence flashed before her mind's eye: sultry nights in pecan groves, stolen kisses behind the athletic field bleachers, daring caresses at the drive-in movie, the back seat of Tommy Stafford's '56 Chevy.

Yes, she'd had a few "high school buddies." However, only one face came to mind. Tommy's.

But did she even want to see his face again?

"No. I don't think so," she said.

"Good."

Dirk looked so relieved that she didn't bother to set

the record straight, to admit she had been answering her own question, not his.

It was her turn to nudge him. "Why, Detective Coulter, I do believe you're jealous."

He jerked his arm away from hers. "I'm not neither. I just don't want you getting into trouble. You being' so far away, I won't be able to bail you out"

Before she could protest, she recalled that he had, in fact, bailed her out--both figuratively and literally--numerous times over the years.

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She looked up at his face, street fight scars, perpetually mussed hair, and all, and felt a rush of affection for her best friend in the world. Standing on tiptoe, she gave him a kiss on the cheek.

His 'stakeout shave' rasped against her lips, but she had long ago decided that Dirk's rugged masculinity

was perhaps his most appealing attribute. . . along with a rabidly protective streak toward those he cared for. The rest of the world could go to Hades in a pink Easter

basket, as far as Dirk Coulter was concerned, but the handful of people he loved. . . he loved fiercely.

"I'll be fine," she told him. "I'll get Marietta married off. . . for the third time. . . and I'll be right back. You won't even know I'm gone."

To her surprise, he bent down and returned her kiss, his lips warm as they lingered just a bit longer than the

usual "peck" on her cheek.

"Oh, I'll know you're gone," he said, clearing his throat. For once, he didn't add any smart aleck disclaimer to dilute the sentimentality of the moment. "Believe me, I'll know."

As she watched him drive away down her street, his tailights disappearing at the corner, Savannah realized she was going to miss him, too. A lot.

Whether she ran into Tommy Stafford or not.

'Thanks for bringing me to the airport," Savannah told Tammy as they pulled into the short-term parking

lot of the mystery maze known as Los Angeles

International Airport, "and for taking care of the kitties and the agency for me while I'm gone."

Tammy had a slight pout on her face as she swung

her old, hot pink, Volkwagen bug into an empty spot

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and cut the engine. "And all I asked in return was one, little, itsy-bitsy peek at the dress."

"You're not looking at the dress. That's it that's all. I don't even want to think about the damned thing, okay?"

They got out of the car, locked it, and headed for the trunk in front. Tammy opened it and helped Savannah haul out her suitc:Nse, carryon, and one enormous garment bag.

"It can't be that bad," Tammy said, grabbing for the bag, which Savannah snatched out of her hand.

"It's revolting. Let's just say, it makes me look like an enormous, upside down tulip."

"What color?"

Savannah winced at the thought "Florescent peach." "Ouch."

"Yeah. I swear, Marietta picked that style just to make the rest of us look ridiculous. She's not above it, you know."

Tammy grabbed the suitcase, Savannah the carryon, and they headed for the departure terminal. "What color is the maid of honor wearing?"

"Mint green."

"That's not so bad. . . I guess."

"Yeah, Marietta was set on dusty rose, but we talked her out of it. Dusty rose and peach. That girl never has had a lick ' sense when it comes to colors, or dressing, or decorating. . . or men."

"This is her third time around, huh?"

They stood at the crosswalk, waiting for the constant flood of taxi cabs, limos, vans, and transport busses to come to a halt. Even in pre-dawn hours, LAX hustled and bustled. Savannah punched the signal control button several more times, although she knew that--like

304 G.A. McKevett

the panel on an elevator--repetition did no good. It only provided the illusion of control to the puncher.

"Yeah, this is Hubby Numero Tres. And she's got two children, one from each of her ex's. Impulse control isn't exactly Marietta's forte, either. She was asking everybody whether they thought it was silly for her to

wear a white gown and veil. They said it was, but she's going for it anyway."

Finally, the light changed, and they started across. A nearby bus coughed out a cloud of acrid, diesel smoke, and Savannah tried to breathe momentarily through

her ears. Ah . the luxury of travel.

The electronic doors slid open, ushering them into the terminal full of harried, mostly irritated, passengers. "When Marietta asked me what she should wear," Savannah continued, as they headed for the endless queues, "I suggested that she wear a football jersey with the number '3' on the back."