Cooked Goose (28 page)

It was a warm evening, and he had a glossy coat of sweat on his forehead. Although Savannah guessed the perspiration might be due to arguing with Vidalia. From experience she knew it was hard work.

“Your sister’s bananas,” he said, popping the top on the beer. “She’s gone off the deep end this time. She says she’s gonna divorce me, and I think she actually means it.”

“I doubt she means it. It’s probably just the hormones talking.”

“She can’t divorce me,” he said, looking genuinely distressed. “She can’t handle the twins by herself and with another baby coming in a couple of months. She’s plum crazy. How’s she gonna feed herself and those kids if she throws me out?”

Savannah quietly studied her brother-in-law and thought that, even though no one was particularly thrilled when he and Vidalia had gotten married, he wasn’t a bad sort. Okay, he was a bit of a yahoo, but—whether Savannah wanted to admit it or not—so was Vidalia.

Butch might drink a little too much, but he was a sweet drunk and never got completely ripped or out of control. As a car mechanic he didn’t make a lot of money, but they always seemed to pay the rent and have food on the table—when Vidalia bothered to cook. Otherwise, they spent a lot of evenings at the local fast-food joints.

All in all, he and Vi were a fairly good match. In Savannah’s humble opinion, better than Vidalia realized. And although they had always bickered, this out-and-out warfare was a new thing. Something must be up.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Savannah said, “what are you two fighting about?”

He looked embarrassed and uncomfortable as he stared down at his cowboy boots. “Eh, just some nonsense. It ain’t worth goin’ over.”

She debated whether to push the issue and decided to throw out one more line. “If it’s something big enough for her to divorce you over, maybe it’s not just nonsense.”

He drank about half the can in one gulp and toyed with the keys on the heavily laden ring on his belt before he replied. “She’s all mad because she, well, about a month ago she found some stuff. You know, some magazines, that I’d stashed under the bathroom sink behind the spare toilet paper rolls.”

“Oh. I see.”

“And she tore ’em all up and burned the scraps and made me promise I wouldn’t bring anything else like that home ever again.”

“Yes? And?”

“And well, I sorta forgot my promise, and last week she found another one that had sorta slipped behind the toilet tank.”

“That sucker just ‘slipped’ back there, huh? Imagine that.”

He blushed. “Well, you know how it is. She ain’t exactly been friendly lately and the twins busted our computer and, well, guys gotta, you know. I don’t know why she’s makin’ such an all-fired fuss about it. I mean, all men like that stuff. It ain’t like I’m messin’ around on her or nothin’ like that. I’m not doin’ nothin’ nobody else don’t do. I’m a good guy.”

He began to sniff a little, and his bottom lip quivered. Savannah felt a rush of affection for him, knowing what this little talk of theirs was costing him. He really did care about Vi and his children.

“Of course you’re a good guy, Butch,” she said. “You’re a great guy, and a fine husband. I know how difficult Vi—or any woman—can be when she’s expecting. And I know it’s hard for a man to put himself in a pregnant woman’s shoes. But let’s think about this for a minute.”

She considered her case long and hard before presenting it to him. “It’s difficult to draw any kind of a parallel here that will help you understand, but let’s pretend, just for a moment, that for some weird, medical reason, your pecker suddenly shrank to about half an inch long.”

His eyes bugged out at the very thought. Yes, she had his full attention. “What?”

“Just pretend for a minute it could happen. And say this...condition...was going to last for about nine months.”

“This is plum stupid.”

“I know. But I’m cheaper than a marriage counselor, so hush and listen.” She took a deep breath. “And during this nine months, with this half-inch of equipment, you can’t exactly do your husbandly duties to your wife. Least ways, not as effectively as you did before. Plus, you’re probably not feeling too good about yourself, not feeling much like a stud. And maybe you’re tired all the time and throwing up every morning to boot. Got the picture?”

He didn’t look especially enchanted with the tale, but he nodded. “I guess so.”

“Then one day, you’re fishing around under the bathroom sink for a spare roll and you find a magazine full of good-looking dudes with come hither looks and twelve-inch peckers. And, all of a sudden, you realize that’s why your old lady has been spending so much time in the john. And it’s got nothing to do with constipation, like she said when you asked her.”

He didn’t reply, but grunted and rubbed the tips of his boots together.

“Now, even if your wife told you that all the other wives do it when their husbands go through one of those weird ‘dicky-shrinking’ periods, I still don’t think you’d be too happy about it. Right?”

Another grunt.

“You’d probably tell her to get those damned mags out of your house, to wait and be patient until things were back to normal and you could take care of business again.”

He choked and cleared his throat. “You think what I did was wrong, too?’

Savannah flashed back on the materials that Tammy had removed from the guest room. “I’m not going to say what you do in your own bedroom—or bathroom—is right or wrong. That’s between you and your wife and your own conscience. But the Golden Rule says, ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.’ And I think it’s a darned good rule. No matter what all the rest of the guys might be doing.”

He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and sniffed again.

“Also,” she said, “I think it’s really important, once you’ve made a promise to your mate, to keep it. But, like I said, it’s free advice. You can take it or leave it.”

She stood, leaned over and kissed him on the top of the head. “And I meant what I said. You
are
a great guy. Vi’s a lot luckier than she thinks she is.”

“Thanks, Savannah.” He gave her a weak smile and crushed his beer can in his hand. “I’ll go talk to Vi. I want this to be a good Christmas for us all.”

“It will be.” She slapped him on the back. “Just one big happy family, right?”

* * *

When Savannah walked back into the house, she found Margie and the twins still absorbed with their dough—the part that wasn’t on her floor or chair seats. They were using her cookie cutters to make bells and stars. For once, Jack’s creations were not genitally enhanced.

“We’re gonna bake ’em in the oven,” Jillian announced proudly.

“And hang them on the Christmas tree,” her brother added.

Savannah gave Margie an affectionate smile. “Good going, Ms. Bloss.”

“No problem, Ms. Reid.”

In the living room, Savannah found Dirk sitting on her sofa, feet propped on the coffee table.
Gee
, she thought.
Must be about dinnertime
.

He was wearing a bedraggled expression, the one he wore most often these days. But she couldn’t really blame him.

“I’ve seen cheerier faces on death row inmates,” she told him as she sat beside him on the sofa and slipped a newspaper under his feet. “Need a beer?”

“No, I need an IV drip of morphine, but I’m still on duty. I just got back from that bookie’s place, you know, Maldonado.”

“Let me guess: Judging from the sourpuss you’re wearing, it was a bust. And I don’t mean the kind where you slap cuffs on him.”

“You got that right. He’s out of town, has been for over a month. Visiting some relatives in Atlantic City. And yes, it checks out. Completely. He’s been very visible in the casinos there. About a zillion people saw him.”

“Poop.”

“My sentiments exactly. What’s going on up there?” He pointed to the staircase. “I saw your brother-in-law going up, looking like a hanged dog.”

“I laid a guilt trip on him. Hopefully, it’ll lead to domestic tranquility.”

“What had he done wrong?”

“He was born male.”

“The bastard.”

“Precisely.”

The doorbell rang, and Savannah hauled herself to her feet. This was getting to be a bit much. “Grand Central Station,” she muttered as she made her way to the door. “I’m beginning to long for the old days when I was suicidally lonely.”

But it was a pleasant surprise—Ryan Stone in all his male glory, decorating her front porch. He was wearing a charcoal suit that was damned lucky to be draped across such a body. Savannah wished she were wearing something other than a faded sweatshirt and jeans.

“Sorry I didn’t call first,” he said. “But I’ve got something interesting, and I couldn’t wait.”

“Come right in. Heaven knows, we could use something interesting.”

“I saw Coulter’s car out front,” Ryan said as he walked inside. “This is for him, too.”

“What’s for me?” Dirk said, sitting up straight and taking his feet off the table.

Ryan glanced around. Seeing that the younger set was absorbed in their craft, he unbuttoned his jacket and sat on one of Savannah’s easy chairs.

“As you know,” he said, “I’ve still got friends in the bureau. And since I’ve left, they’ve acquired some pretty sophisticated toys.”

“Like what?” Savannah said, sitting on the sofa next to Dirk.

“Like an extensive computer data bank that will cross- reference all sorts of goodies. Like similar crimes, comparable M.O.s, facts in one case that parallel another.”

“Sounds good,” Dirk said. “Wish we had one.”

“Well, for a few minutes this afternoon, you did. Without telling them why—because you told me to keep it under wraps—I asked them to run the star-studded ring through the files, just to see if we could come up with a match.”

Savannah scooted out to the edge of her seat. “And…?”

“Bingo.” Ryan reached into his pocket and pulled out a computer printout. “Last year, on 21 July, a young Latino male was beaten to death in a junkyard in East L.A. The case is still open, no suspects. But the kid lived long enough to tell authorities that there were three assailants, white guys that he didn’t recognize. They beat him with clubs and their fists. He said they were wearing big heavy rings that really hurt when they punched him.”

“Where does the ‘star’ reference come in?” Savannah asked.

“He died in a hospital about twelve hours after the beating. When they did the autopsy, they said it was from brain death due to inner cranial swelling. He had about a hundred significant bruises, but there were four that were particularly distinctive. They were on his head and face and one on his shoulder, the shape of a star.”

They sat quietly for a few moments as Savannah and Dirk digested this new information that was possibly very helpful, though it wasn’t immediately obvious how.

Finally, Savannah said, “July 21
^st
. That date rings a bell.” She reached for her cell phone on the coffee table and opened her calendar app. Scrolling backward, she found what she was looking for. “Yes, that’s what I thought.”

“What?” Dirk said, trying to read over her shoulder.
 

“July 21st last year,” she said. “That was the first day of the Point Morro Air Show.”

Dirk nodded thoughtfully. “The ladies said their men didn’t wear those rings very often. In fact, hardly at all. But we know one thing. That day, at least Titus Dunn was wearing his.”

From the upstairs guest room came a sound—the tell tale, rhythmic squeaking of bedsprings. Ryan smiled and gave Savannah a questioning look.

She shrugged and turned to Dirk. “Gee, things are looking up around here. It seems everybody’s making a little progress.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

December 20—11:37 a.m.

Savannah’s feet were hurting, her spirits were plummeting, she was cranky and hungry. And it wasn’t even noon yet. Since early that morning she had been running around San Carmelita with the photo of the notorious ring in hand, asking every off-beat, garage, basement or backyard jeweler if they had ever seen such a piece.

She had never known how popular the hobby of gold casting was. Sometime, when she wasn’t so tired, cranky and hungry, she might check it out as a possible pastime herself. Considering the lack of suitors in her life, it might be the only way she’d be able to build her jewelry collection.

This last shop was in the back of a tarot reading parlor, where they sold strange, esoteric jewelry with lots of crystals and Egyptian-looking hieroglyphics. The air was heavy with the scent of lavender incense and an aura of mysticism.

She rang the silver bell on the counter and a handsome, middle-aged black woman wearing a colorful batik caftan glided into the room. “Good morning, child,” she said in a lovely accent that Savannah guessed might have been from the Caribbean. “I am Mama Tallulah. And how may I help you today?”

Savannah smiled and said, “My name is Savannah, and you would make me a very happy woman, if you would just tell me that you’ve seen a ring like this before.”