Sugar and Spite (13 page)

They heard keys rattling in locks, metal drawers opening and closing. Savannah had a feeling, a good feeling, the sort of premonition she often experienced just before she got a break in a case.

One look at Ryan and another at John told her they were feeling the same. Ryan even gave her an encouraging little wink.

A few seconds later, Eileen returned, holding several pairs of rubber surgical gloves and a plastic bag containing… something Savannah couldn’t quite see. Eileen distributed the gloves, laid the bag on her desk, and donned a pair herself. Then she carefully opened the sealed, signed, dated bag and took out the object.

“What an ominous-looking… thing,” Ryan said, obviously as stumped for words as Savannah was.

“It looks like some sort of fancy tool, like an ice pick or…” Savannah said, staring at the beautiful but deadly instrument.

It did, indeed, look a bit like an ice pick. Only the foot-long steel shaft had squared sides, like those of a screwdriver, and tapered to a deadly point. At the top of the spearlike section was the hilt, a horizontal figure eight, and above that was an ornate handle, fashioned into a rearing cobra’s head.

“Is it some kind of dagger?” Savannah asked, inwardly cringing at the damage this sort of weapon could wreak.

“Or maybe a minisword,” Ryan added.”

“It’s a poniard,” John said, “and a beauty at that. May I?”

He slipped on the pair of gloves Eileen had given him, then took the weapon carefully from her hand. Turning it this way and that, he examined it closely, the oversize hilt, the ornate handle with its evil-looking snake’s head and eyes that were faceted dark red gemstones.

“Are those rubies in the eyes?” Savannah asked, her female interest piqued by any sort of jewels.

John reached into his pocket and retrieved his key chain. Dangling from it was a jeweler’s loupe. He used it to study the stones more closely.

“You carry a loupe in your pocket?” Eileen asked. More than in lust, she was moving toward genuine, lifelong affection for the man with the cultured accent and the silver mane.

Savannah chuckled. “Doesn’t everyone? You never know when you’ll need to appraise an heirloom or start a fire in the wilderness.”

“They’re tourmalines,” John said, putting his key chain back into his slacks pocket. “Dark pink tourmalines. High-quality. A rather gaudy touch to an otherwise nice piece of workmanship. I’d wager that the added stones were the buyer’s idea, not the armorer’s.”

“Is the handle gold?” Savannah asked, afraid to trust her eyes in the company of such a knowledgeable individual as John Gibson.

“Gold-plated,” he said. “Again, a tad risqué for my tastes, but…”

“What did you call it again?” Ryan asked. “A pin-yard?”

“A poniard,” John replied. “It’s a medieval weapon.”

“And exactly what would an item like that be used for?” Savannah asked, though she figured she knew the answer.

“A poniard is worthless for fencing or for any display of sportsmanship,” John explained. “You can’t slice a loaf of bread or dress game with it, because there’s no cutting edge to speak of. Historically, poniards were used for only one thing: to kill human beings. And, I might add, although as a tool their repertoire was sadly limited, they were most effective at what they did.”

“I’m sure they were,” Savannah said with a shudder.

“How do you suppose,” Eileen said, handing it off to Savannah, “it got at the scene of the Coulter homicide?”

Savannah nearly dropped it. “This hideous thing was in Dirk’s trailer? That’s where you found it?”

“It was lying beneath the body, under her hips.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Not even a little.” Eileen smiled, pleased with the effect her words had on Savannah. “When Dr. Liu’s people lifted the victim, this was lying under her. It was covered with blood. We’re analyzing the blood now, but we expect it will turn out to be all hers. No prints or anything else on that fancy handle. Nothing else was on it… other than the blood, that is.”

“Should we assume,” John said, handing the poniard to Savannah, “this doesn’t belong to Dirk?”

Savannah took the weapon gingerly and turned it this way, then that, allowing the light to play off the fine scales etched in the cobra’s skin. “Of course it isn’t Dirk’s,” she said. “Dirk doesn’t even own a paring knife. He just learned how to percolate coffee last year.”

“Any chance it belonged to Polly?” Ryan asked.

Savannah shook her head. “I really doubt it. Polly was a prissy girlie type. I don’t think she would have packed a Swiss Army knife, let alone something like that.”

“Then it probably belonged to the killer,” Eileen said, “That’s what McMurtry thought.”

“Jake McMurtry has seen this?” Savannah asked, somewhat surprised.

“Sure.” Eileen gave her a questioning look. “I thought you knew it was his case. He mentioned seeing you at the scene.” She grinned. “He also told me that you’d probably come snooping around. He reminded me how much Hillquist despises you and what he’d do if he found out anybody was helping you.”

“Don’t worry, Eileen,” Savannah reassured her. “We won’t say a word to anybody who might get back to the bosses. In fact, we wouldn’t say anything even if you let us photocopy this little gem…”

“I can do you one better than that.” Eileen reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a couple of excellent Polaroid photos of the piece.

Savannah had to restrain herself from clapping her hands and jumping up and down like a kid at a birthday party. But as she took the pictures, she became a bit more somber. “You know, Eileen…” she said, “… we’d never rat you out to the bosses. But I’m going to have to check this out, ask around, show these pictures to get possible leads.”

Eileen shrugged. “You gotta do what you gotta do. We can’t let them nail Dirk on something like that, just because…” Her voice faded away, and Savannah got the distinct impression she regretted having started the sentence.

“Just because what?” she nudged her.

“Just because… he’s… well, a friend of yours.”

Savannah thought that one over for a moment and shivered, as though the temperature in the room had suddenly dropped several degrees. She fingered the deadly, ugly weapon and wondered who the killer had intended to murder with it, Polly, Dirk, or both of them? And was Eileen right? Would Hillquist pin this murder on Dirk, refusing to look down other avenues just because Dirk was closely associated with Savannah?

Did Hillquist really hate her that much?

Years ago, she had exposed some of his own wrongdoings and caused him a great deal of public embarrassment. All this time he had been waiting for the opportunity to get her back. And now the press was clamoring for the bad cop to be hung out to dry.

Of course Hillquist hated her that much. He hated her at least as vehemently as she did him. And even half as much would do the trick.

Ryan’s arm stole around Savannah’s shoulders, and he gave her a companionable, sideways squeeze. “Savannah isn’t the only friend that Dirk has,” he said. “Even if he rubs people the wrong way from time to time, he’s a good guy. And he’s not going to take the rap for a murder that someone else committed. Especially someone who would carry around an ugly weapon like that. Whoever was packing that wicked monstrosity… he’s definitely one of the bad guys. All we have to do is find him.”

* * *

Back in the Bentley, Savannah climbed into the rear seat. And as soon as the men were settled in the front, she got right down to business. “Okay, so it’s a medieval weapon,” she mused. “So, where do we start? Museums, I suppose. Maybe a trip to the university history department.”

“Wait a second,” John said. “A poniard is a medieval weapon, but I didn’t mean to mislead you into thinking that one is a piece of antiquity.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s new. A reproduction.”

“Mass-produced?” Ryan asked.

“Thankfully, no. It was handcrafted by a talented armorer. I studied it closely for any identification stamp, a hallmark, a signature of some sort. But I didn’t see one.”

“Maybe the craftsman made it to the customer’s specifications and wasn’t all that proud of his work,” Savannah suggested.

“That’s precisely what I think.” John nodded thoughtfully. “The workmanship was actually quite good, much more professional than the gaudy, sensational design. I, too, suspect the artist chose not to claim it as his own.”

“So,” Savannah said, “where do you suppose we could find this mercenary, medieval armorer who’s good at what he does but will sell out for a buck? I doubt he advertises in the Yellow Pages under Poniards-R-Us.”

“I know where we could go that we would be waist deep in medieval artisans,” Ryan said.

Savannah was all ears. Finally, she had a hot lead, and she was ready to take it and run if she only knew. “Where? Where can we go?”

John smiled broadly and nodded at Ryan. “Grand idea. But I thought they began in April.”

“The big one does,” Ryan agreed, “but there’s another, smaller version going on now.”

“Big one? Smaller one?” She leaned over the back of the front seat and poked them in the ribs with her forefinger. “What are you two talking about?”

Ryan glanced back at her and raised one eyebrow suggestively. “Let me put it this way, fair damsel. How lookest thou in a corset?”

* * *

When Ryan and John chauffeured Savannah back to her door, she was surprised to see Tammy’s hot pink Volkswagen bug still sitting in her driveway.

“Your hired help works long hours,” Ryan said as he opened Savannah’s car door and handed her out.

Savannah nodded. “She’s a jewel. You all are, and I love you to pieces.”

His lips brushed her cheek. “And the feeling is mutual.”

“Good night, love,” John said from the driver’s seat. “Remember your promise… right to bed. I want you well rested for the Medieval Faire tomorrow morning.”

“I will, cross my heart.”

“I wish you had accepted our offer to buy you dinner,” Ryan said. “I think a nice meal would have done wonders for you.”

“I’m too exhausted to eat,” Savannah replied with a sigh that seemed to rise from her tired toes. “I never thought I’d say that, but it’s true.” She blew John a kiss. “I promise: straight to bed.”

She dragged herself away from them and into the house. The moment she opened the door, she was greeted with a familiar, heartstring-twanging smell… a scent from her childhood.

“Fried chicken?” she said, shaking her head in wonderment. “It can’t be, but…”

And it wasn’t any take-out-in-a-bucket kind either. It smelled exactly like her Gran’s chicken… and gravy, too!

“Is that you, Savannah?” Tammy called from the kitchen, “I’m in here.”

“Well, glory be! Wonders never cease! A beach-bum bimbo in the kitchen! Who woulda thought it?”

Savannah hurried through the living room and nearly collided with Tammy, who was emerging from the kitchen, an actual dishtowel tied around her waist for an apron, a smudge of flour on her nose, and a grin as broad as McGillicuddy’s barn door on her face.

“What are you up to?” Savannah asked her. “And what is that heavenly smell?”

“What does it smell like?” Tammy replied coyly.

“It smells like my Granny Reid’s fried chicken, but you must be toying with me, tantalizing my taste buds with dreams of what cannot be.”

Tammy opened the oven door with a flourish. “Voilà! Chicken à la Gran!”

Inside, nestled in a baking pan half-covered with foil was golden brown, crisp, and mouthwatering moist, home-fried chicken. And on the stove, bubbling in a cast-iron skillet was… cream gravy.

“When did you…? How did you…?”

Tammy grinned and hurried over to stir the gravy with a wooden spoon. “I called your grandmother. I told her you were having a tough day, and when I mentioned that you weren’t even taking time to eat, she knew it was serious.”

Savannah sniffed. “Thanks, Tarn.”

“And I asked her what your favorite homemade dinner was and how to make it.”

Savannah opened the oven door and looked inside again, just to make sure it wasn’t a starving woman’s mirage. The moment she had gotten the first whiff, her appetite had returned with a vengeance.

“And Gran just told you how, and you did it?” she asked, incredulous.

“Well… I had to call her back about seven times to ask stuff, but, basically, yeah.”

Savannah walked over to Tammy, slipped her arm around her teeny, tiny waist, and gave her a sideways hug. “You know what I’m gonna do, babycakes? I’m gonna give you a great big old honkin’ raise.”

“A raise? Really?” Tammy did a little in-place, gravy-making jig. “All the way to up to minimum wage?”

“Minimum wage?” Savannah looked at her as though she had lost her mind entirely. “What do you think, girl? I’m made of money?”

* * *

Half an hour later, as Savannah licked the last bits of deliciously greasy crust dust from her fingers, a look of sadness crossed her face.

Tammy was sitting across the table from her, too grossed out by the action of actually touching raw animal flesh with her fingers that she was swearing off food of all kinds for a week. She saw the look, and said, “What is it? You’re thinking about Dirk, aren’t you? You’re wondering what he had for dinner tonight.”

“That’s true. I was.” She shrugged and reached for another chicken leg. “Oh, well, whatever they gave him, it was his favorite meal.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because it was free… and free food is always Dirk’s favorite. It’s the only upside to being in jail.”

* * *

Tammy stayed much longer than she normally would that evening—even missing her Tae Kwon Do workout at the Y—and Savannah knew why. She was being a good friend, lending quiet support, and keeping Savannah’s mind off Dirk, at least a little. But, eventually, she had to go. And when she left a little after ten, Savannah was shocked at how empty and lonely her house seemed.

Normally, Savannah liked living alone, just herself and the two furry faces, and Dirk dropping by for a free meal a time or two a week. But tonight, with the thought that Dirk’s visits might have become a thing of the past, she was already feeling the loss of his warm, masculine, dearly familiar and comforting presence.