Killer Physique (A Savannah Reid Mystery) (13 page)

She ached for him, noticing that his hand was trembling as he reached for the phone on the nightstand.

Dirk was a big guy, a brave guy, a manly sorta man.

Ruthless criminals didn’t make him shake. Neither did most dangerous situations. He handled whatever life and the job brought his way with unwavering courage and determination. Sometimes, afterward, he might feel the need for a cold beer and a quiet moment to decompress. But nothing shook him.

Except this.

He had been so pleased when Tammy had found his biological parents on the Internet. He’d been happy to discover that they’d been searching for him for decades. And he was ecstatic to find out they were as eager to meet him as he was to see them for the first time.

But now that the meeting was scheduled—imminent even—he was getting more and more nervous by the moment.

So nervous that Savannah was worried about him.

She watched as he punched the appropriate numbers to activate the message replay. He even put it on speakerphone so they both could listen.

Their sil y, playful message ran, “Hi! It’s us, Savannah and Dirk. Leave a message or else. Don’t make us hunt you down . . .” A pause, a beep, and then a deep, masculine voice that sounded eerily like Dirk’s said, “Hi, son, and Savannah, too. It’s Richard. Hope you guys are okay. We’re getting packed up and al that. I had the car serviced today, and we talked to the neighbor kid about feeding the cat, so we’re about ready to go. We’re real excited.” He took a deep breath. “Wel , I’m excited. Your mom, she’s . . . wel , she is in a little bit of the dither. Actual y, she is in a lot of a dither. It’s not that she doesn’t want to see you. It’s just that she has these bad feelings, you know, about how things turned out and al that.”

Savannah glanced at Dirk to see how he was taking this news. The expression on his face looked as worried as his father’s voice sounded.

Not good, she thought. Problems already, and they haven’t even arrived yet.

She reached over, took Dirk’s hand, and gave it a comforting squeeze.

“Anyway,” Richard continued, “I just wanted to touch base and say that I can’t wait to see you, son, and your new wife, too. We’l give you another cal once we’re on our way.”

Dirk replaced the phone on its base. “Wel , that was nice of him, to cal and al .” Savannah nodded a little too vigorously. “It was. Very nice. He sounds like a nice guy, a good guy.”

“Yeah, he does. But what’s that business about my mom? What sort of dither? I don’t real y like females who’re in a dither.” He gave Savannah a quick look. “Or guys either,” he quickly added. “People in dithers just aren’t that great to be around, male or female.”

“Good save.”

“Thank you. I try.”

Savannah stood and nudged him off the bed so that she could fold down the covers. “I think a bit of dithering—or even a lot of it—is to be expected under the circumstances.”

“Real y?” He stood and peeled off his shirt. He started to toss it onto a nearby chair, then thought better of it, walked to the closet, and pitched it into a hamper she had given him a few weeks earlier—along with detailed instructions on how to use said piece of delicate machinery.

“Lift the lid, toss in the clothes, close the lid.”

After numerous spirited discussions on the topic, he had managed to fol ow the directions fairly wel .

Getting him to close the closet door afterward—that was a lesson for another time.

“Yes,” she said. “Your mom’s entitled to have some misgivings, some trepidation about meeting her son for the first time since, wel , you know . .

.”

“Since she gave me away?”

“Exactly. I sure wouldn’t wanna be in her shoes when she walks up to our front door. Would you?”

“But Tammy said she was forced to, that she was just a kid and—”

“And I believe she’l tel you al about it when she gets here.”

“You think?”

“Probably.”

Savannah watched him climb into bed. Such a big man. Rugged. A male. So completely, absolutely adult. And yet there was something about his lower lip—the slightly tremulous set of it. Something about the sad and guarded look in his eyes that told her there was a little boy lurking inside that grown-up body. A kid who had spent his childhood in an orphanage and wanted to know why.

“If she doesn’t tel you,” Savannah said softly, as she climbed into bed beside him, “you might need to ask her. For your own peace of mind.” He snuggled close to her, and for once, he laid his head on her shoulder, rather than the other way around.

“Do you think I should? Would that be okay, you think? If she doesn’t volunteer it . . .” She played with his hair and stroked his cheek as she said, “I think you’l know when the time comes. You think fast on your feet, and you’ve got real y good instincts about people. You’l figure it out as you go.”

He thought about it for a long time. So long, in fact, that she thought he might have drifted off to sleep. But then he said, “And if I can’t figure it out, I can ask you what you think about it. Right?”

She kissed the top of his head, then pul ed him even closer. “Of course you can, sil y. You know me. There are two things I never run out of—

words and opinions.”

“That’s for sure.”

She swatted him.

He winced. “Ouch.”

“Go to sleep, turkey butt.”

“Okay. You too.”

Less than a minute later, Cleopatra and Diamante came into the room, jumped up on the bed, and found them both sound asleep.

Chapter 12

Heaven, Savannah thought as she fought her way to a slightly higher level of consciousness. Heaven. Hallelujah, I made it!

As a rule, private investigators didn’t lead a life that could be considered “squeaky clean” by almost anyone’s standards. The sneaking around, the breaking in, the listening in, not to mention the bevy of lies told in the course of a single day’s work. According to Granny Reid, having those activities on one’s resume could present a problem when attempting to enter the Pearly Gates.

At times, Savannah had feared for her mortal soul.

But she had made it! Nothing but Heaven itself smel ed like that.

Even before her eyes could focus, her nose was at work, identifying the delicious scents of freshly brewed coffee, sizzling bacon, fried eggs, and right-out-of-the-oven biscuits.

Then a second thought occurred to her. This might not be Heaven itself, but the closest thing to it on earth—Gran’s kitchen.

Many of her childhood mornings, she had awakened to this divine aroma. And even though she had never been known as a “morning person,” the al ure of those delicious smel s had coaxed her out of bed.

Opening her eyes, she ful y expected to see the bottom of the overhead bunk, where at least two of her sisters would be sleeping. Little sister Alma would be curled against her side, and the baby of the family, Atlanta, would be lying across the foot of the bed. They would al be covered with one of Gran’s beautiful, hand-sewn quilts.

But no.

Although it was one of Granny’s quilts that covered her, the cozy snuggle-bug next to her side was Cleopatra. And the foot warmer was Diamante.

The other side of the bed was empty, except for a rumpled pair of men’s boxer shorts that lay on the pil ow. So much for Husband Hamper Training 101.

She squinted, looking at the bedside clock.

7:19.

The stiffness of her muscles and the groggy feeling in her head told her that it wasn’t 7:19 PM.

No. It was morning, and she had slept for more than twelve hours.

That had to be a first, even for her.

And as she crawled out of bed and made her way to the closet for a robe, it occurred to her that this being-in-your-forties business had its disadvantages. She was definitely not as spry as she had been in her twenties and thirties.

But as she slipped on her robe and house slippers, she consoled herself with the thought that she was a heck of a lot smarter now than she had been twenty years ago. And she would trade “smart” for “spry” any time.

The cats fol owed her down the stairs, through the foyer, and into the living room, doing figure eights between her ankles. “One of these days,” she muttered, “I’m gonna step on one of y’al and squash your tail. Or worse yet, I’l take a spil and mash you both flatter than a flitter. You wait and see.”

As usual, her dire warnings went unheeded by the felines in question. They knew al too wel that Mom was a soft touch. None of her threats were ever carried out, and al of her promises were delivered.

They also knew that they would be fed before her morning coffee was even poured, let alone drank. So they continued to intertwine themselves around her legs and rub their faces against her feet, purring the entire time.

Final y, she made it to the kitchen, where she found Dirk sitting at the table, shoving a forkful of eggs into his mouth, chased by a swig from his enormous Bonanza mug that had al three of the Cartwright boys and Pa on the side.

Surely, he wasn’t the cook who had fil ed the house with blissful scents! Could it be she had married a closet chef?

No.

One look in the direction of the stove and refrigerator and she knew that the guilty parties were Tammy and Waycross.

Waycross was flipping eggs in a skil et on the stove. Tammy was taking biscuits from a metal pan and transferring them to a basket lined with a snowy linen cloth.

“Good morning,” they al said in unison.

“Sleeping Beauty’s decided to join us, after al ,” Dirk said between chews. “How’re you doing, babe? Did you get enough sleep?” She grunted and made her way to the cat dishes near the back door. “I should say so,” she replied. “Another hour and I would’ve turned into Rumpelstiltskin.”

Tammy giggled as she put the basket of biscuits on the table. “Don’t you mean Rip Van Winkle?”

“One of those guys with a weird name that starts with an R.”

She poured some fresh Kitty Vittles into the cats’ dishes and refreshed their water, as wel . A moment later, the glossy black faces were buried in the food—ankle circling and Mom-love forgotten in a fit of gluttony.

“When did you crawl out this morning?” Savannah asked Dirk as she walked to the table, planted a quick kiss on the top of his head, and then took a seat beside him.

“Oh, ages ago. Somebody had to get up and get going. We’ve got a ful day’s work ahead of us.” Tammy set a jar of Granny’s homemade peach preserves on the table next to the biscuits. “Don’t let him fool you,” she said. “He’s only been down here about ten minutes himself. ‘Get up and get going,’ my butt.”

Waycross laughed as he carried a platter laden with eggs and bacon stil sizzling from the skil et over to the table and set it in front of Savannah.

“Aw, who gives a hooey? Y’al needed some extra sleep after pul in’ that al -nighter. Neither one of you’s exactly a spring chicken these days.” Savannah shot him a disapproving, big-sister scowl. “You know, I can think depressing thoughts like that ’un al by myself, little brother. I don’t need assistance from you in that department.”

When she got a good look at the delectables on the platter, she instantly forgave him. “Since when did you learn to do that?” she asked. “Those eggs are beautiful. They don’t even have ruffles around the edges.”

“Gran taught me,” he said proudly. “ ‘You want the bacon crispy, but not the eggs.’ She’d say that ever’ time.” A sad look crossed his face, and just for a moment, Savannah thought that maybe this living in California arrangement might not be 100 percent wonderful for brother Waycross. Even Paradise came with a price.

“I miss her, too,” Savannah said, giving him a pat on the arm. “In fact, that’s the one thing I miss the most about being here on the West Coast.

That and seeing the pretty moss hanging from the trees.”

“I like that moss stuff, too,” Tammy chimed in. “Saw it when we went back to Georgia that time to get Macon out of jail.” At the mention of their brother’s name, another less-than-jol y look passed over both Savannah’s and Waycross’s faces. Among the Reid siblings

—some of whom were fairly eccentric and not altogether law-abiding characters—Macon was the one considered most likely to wind up serving a life sentence, making license plates in a Georgia high-security institution.

“How is Macon these days?” Savannah asked.

Waycross shrugged. “Macon’s Macon.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Ain’t it though?”

Savannah dug into the biscuit basket and picked out a large one. It seemed to weigh nothing at al in her hand. She turned to Tammy. “Did you bake these, Yankee girl?”

Tammy nodded and flushed a lovely shade of pink. She looked slightly embarrassed, like a kid being caught feeding a younger sibling a mud pie. “Yes, I did. It goes against everything I hold sacred, since you have to use white, bleached flour. Of course, at anyone else’s house I could have used some sort of whole-grain flour. But since it’s your house—”

“Blasphemy! Pure blasphemy! Any second now you’re going to get struck dead by a bolt of lightning! Waycross, stand away from her. Divine retribution’s on its way!”

Tammy sat down at the table across from Savannah, a glass of herbal tea in her hand. Waycross quickly claimed the chair next to Tammy’s and started loading up his plate with goodies.

“What else have you two been up to?” Savannah asked.

Dirk chuckled. “Maybe you shouldn’t ask.”

“Believe me, I do so with fear and trembling,” Savannah replied. She turned to the young couple, who were trading looks that were so lovey-dovey that Savannah was nearly put off her grub. “You can just give me the basics,” she told them. “You can keep the gory details to yourselves, considering it’s the breakfast table.”

Tammy blushed again and tittered. “Wel , before you jump to conclusions about our love life—”

“Y’al have a love life?” Savannah interjected. She turned to Dirk. “Our worst suspicions are confirmed. Wait’l I tel Gran. She’l take both of ’em behind the woodshed for a proper switching.”

“You tel on me, I’l never wash that Buick again,” Waycross threatened.

“Hold on there,” Dirk said. “Before this gets outta hand . . .” He shoved both the biscuit basket and the peach preserves toward Waycross. “Tel you what, brother-in-law. If you’l polish that car of mine like you did, say, once every five years, I’l make sure your sister doesn’t rat you out to Gran for anything. You can run amuck for al I care and Gran’l never be the wiser.”