Killer Physique (A Savannah Reid Mystery) (23 page)

“If you don’t mind,” Savannah said.

“I don’t mind if you don’t mind the mess.”

“We’ve seen messes,” Dirk replied, as Leland held the door open for them.

Once they were inside and Savannah had looked around, she could see that it was, indeed, a disaster. But not in an untidy, dirty house way.

Leland and his wife were moving.

Stacked against the wal , cardboard boxes with their lids fastened with packing tape were labeled “living room” and “bathroom cupboard,” as wel as “pots and pans.”

Savannah didn’t envy them. It had been years since she had moved from one house to another. But she would never forget the aching muscles, the frazzled nerves, or the terrible mental anguish of not being able to find your salt shaker or your underwear.

No, when you were moving, life was hardly worth living.

“Moving, huh?” Dirk asked, stating the obvious.

“Yeah. The bank foreclosed on us. My wife lost her job, and the limo business is in the toilet right now.” He glanced toward the door where his wife had just made her ignominious departure. “Financial stress—it’s hel on a marriage.”

“That’s a tough break, man,” Dirk said. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you married?” Leland asked.

Dirk smiled from ear to ear. “I sure am. To her.” He pointed to Savannah.

Leland seemed surprised. “Oh. I didn’t realize that. I thought you were partners, like cop partners.”

“I’m a cop. She used to be,” Dirk explained. “And when she was, we were partners. Now we real y are.”

“But your last names are different.”

Savannah gulped. That was one little issue that, so far, she and Dirk had managed to not quite discuss. She had decided to keep her maiden name. And although Dirk must have noticed that she was stil using it, he hadn’t complained.

“Um . . . we don’t want to keep you if you’re busy packing and al that awful stuff,” she said, “but we have a couple of questions, if you have time. It won’t take long.”

“Sure. I’d like to get my mind off my moving—and my pissed-off wife—for a while. Fire away.”

“We have a couple of questions about your garbage,” Dirk said.

“My garbage?”

“The garbage you took out of the limo when you cleaned it, after you took Jason to the premiere. Do you stil have it?”

“There wasn’t any.”

Savannah wasn’t expecting that. “Any? None at al ?”

“Not a bit. Jason didn’t drink, even though I provide liquor in the bar. He didn’t eat anything or make a mess of any kind. He never did. He’d just get in, take his ride, and get out. I vacuumed the carpet; that was al .”

Dirk gave Savannah an “I told you we could’ve phoned” look, which she skil ful y ignored.

“Why?” Leland asked. “Were you looking for something in particular?”

“Yes. A white patch about this big.” Savannah showed him, making a square with her fingers. “He wore it for pain relief.” Leland thought long and hard. “No. I’m sure I’d remember if I saw something weird like that.”

“There’s no chance you might have vacuumed it up?” Dirk asked.

“No way. The carpet’s black. If something that big and white had been lying there, I would’ve noticed it for sure.”

“Damn,” Dirk whispered under his breath.

“Yeah,” Savannah replied.

“You say Jason had to wear pain patches?” Leland asked. “That’s a shame. He never complained. But then, Jason was like that. Real y easy to be around, you know?”

Later, as Savannah and Dirk were walking back to the car, Dirk surprised her with a philosophical observation. “That’s nice, what Leland said about Jason. That Jason was easy to be around because he never complained. It’d be nice, after you died, to have people say that about you.” Savannah thought about Dirk and how he had to be the grumpiest fel ow that most people ever met. She didn’t want to tel him that if he didn’t amend his ways, his reputation as a non-complainer was in great jeopardy.

“I’ve heard,” she said, “that it’s a good exercise to try to go a whole day—twenty-four hours—without complaining about a single thing. They say that if you can do that, your whole life wil change almost immediately.”

“Naw, I’ve tried that crap, and it never works for me. It works for everybody else, but not for me.” He took his sunglasses off and wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “Man, it’s just too stinkin’ hot today. I hate hot weather. When it’s hot, it drains al the energy outta me, and I just feel like I’m gonna puke sometimes, because I just can’t stand . . .” As soon as Savannah and Dirk returned home, Savannah raced up the stairs to the bathroom. Between the visit to the morgue and then the lengthy ride to Rosado, it had been a long time between pit stops.

Even as she scurried down the hal way, her mind was running over the long list of domestic chores she stil had to perform before the arrival of the in-laws tomorrow evening.

She wasn’t worried about the prospect of cooking for them. If there was one thing Savannah had down pat, it was spreading the table with delicious food for her guests.

And as Dirk had said, her home was pretty, cozy and charming—quintessential Southern décor. So she felt pretty secure in that department, too.

But housecleaning?

That was another story.

She wasn’t filthy. Not by a long shot. She was the daughter of Granny Reid of McGil , Georgia, and had been taught that cleanliness was next to godliness.

She couldn’t count the times she had heard her grandmother say, “A bar of soap only costs a nickel. So it don’t matter how poor you are, there’s no excuse for dirtiness.”

And though the price of detergent had risen quite a bit since Gran had coined those phrases, the truth and wisdom of her words remained in the heart and mind of her granddaughter.

Throughout history, Savannah’s housekeeping standards had been higher than those of most hospital operating rooms. But a lot had happened in Savannah’s world during the past year or so. She had survived a nearly fatal attack, and it had taken her months to recuperate. And in some ways, she knew her body would never be the same.

Then there was the whole wedding fiasco.

Although most brides have their share of chal enges and traumas, she and Dirk had endured far more than fate should have al owed.

And the honeymoon . . . they hadn’t nicknamed the whole adventure the “Kil er Honeymoon” for no reason.

Then, if al that hadn’t been enough, there was Dirk.

With his shaving cream and toothpaste on the mirrors, underwear and cut fingernails on the kitchen counter, and his propensity for leaving things in strange places—sunglasses in the freezer and ice cubes in the microwave—she had nearly given up on keeping the house tidy as long as her husband was living in it.

She had considered fixing up the garage, transforming it into a nice little bachelor’s apartment for him. After al , this was California, where alternate lifestyles were considered avant-garde.

But her in-laws would probably frown upon her banishing their son to the garage—even if she had been strong enough to bind and transport Dirk to the proposed new living quarters.

So her house was a mess, and they were arriving in less than twenty-four hours, and there wasn’t anything she could do about it at this point.

Maybe if she fed them often and wel enough, they wouldn’t notice the fact that her kitchen curtains were in her washing machine and not hanging from her windows.

At least, thanks to Dirk, her bathroom floor was clean. Maybe this having a husband around could be a beneficial thing once in a while. At least you—

She halted in mid-thought and mid-stride the moment she set foot in the bathroom. Her shoe stuck to the floor as if she were walking through a movie theater after a visit by a kindergarten class on a field trip. And it couldn’t have been any stickier than if every kid in that class had spil ed a soda and dropped a melted ice cream cone and a handful of half-chewed Jujubes on it.

“What the hel ?” she yel ed, trying to unstick her foot and back her way out of the nightmare. “Dirk! What in tarnation did you do to this floor!?” She heard his heavy, plodding steps coming up the stairs. “What are you yel ing about, woman?” he shouted back. “Criminy, girl! I could hear you al the way from the kitchen!”

She managed to get her shoe loose and herself back into the hal way just as he joined her. “What on earth did you put on this floor, boy?

Horsehide glue?”

“Of course not. How stupid do you think I am?”

“Right now is probably not the best time to ask that question.” She took a deep breath and counted to ten. “Now just tel me truthful y, what did you use on this floor.”

“The stuff you gave me. The junk with the picture of the ditzy woman in a dress on the front who was grinning while she was mopping the floor.” He gave a sniff. “And I’ve gotta tel you, I think my testosterone level went down several notches just looking at that damned picture.”

“Did you read the directions on the back?”

“What? Wel , no. But I’ve used stuff like that when I was in the service. I had to clean a few latrines, and it wasn’t al that complicated.” Savannah thought over the directions she had, herself, fol owed for years when using her favorite “clean and shine” product.

(1) Squirt small amount onto floor. (2) Spread evenly with damp cloth. (3) Rinse cloth in warm water and wipe floor. Repeat (3) as needed until floor is clean.

Yes, they were simple directions. So what was the problem?

He sighed as though weighed down by the cares of the world. “Al right. Here’s what I did—I got that bucket out from under your kitchen sink, squirted about half of the bottle in the pail, fil ed it up with water, and mopped it.” Ah, if all mysteries were so easily solved, she thought.

“Again I ask you, ‘What did I do wrong?’ ” he said, his hands and arms waving about as though he were conducting the San Carmelita Philharmonic Orchestra.

“Just take a little strol in there, darlin’, and I’m sure you’l get a sense of it.”

“I know it was a little sticky after I first did it,” he said, “but I figured after it dried, it’d be . . .” She left him and walked back down the hal toward the stairs. A second later, she heard him curse quite colorful y.

“Yeap, Daddy just discovered the problem,” she whispered to one of the cats who had come upstairs to see what al the hul abaloo was about.

“I’d stay clear if I were you.”

She was walking through the kitchen on her way to the enclosed back porch and the half bath—where she could take care of her much overdue visit to “see that man about that horse,” as Granny used to cal it—when the phone rang.

“Dadgummit. I don’t have time for this,” she said. “My eyebal s are a-floatin’ as it is.” But she hurried into the kitchen and scooped up the phone from the counter.

“Hel o,” she said breathlessly.

“Hel o, daughter,” said a sweet, deep male voice. A voice that sounded a lot like Dirk’s. On a good Dirk day.

Not today.

“Oh, howdy, Richard.” She glanced at her watch. “Did y’al get to San Francisco yet?”

“We got here in record time. We already took our tour of Alcatraz.”

“Did you like it?”

“Loved it. Next time I’m in the doghouse with Dora, I think I’l head down this way and see if I can get a room there.” Savannah smiled. She liked this man already. Anybody with a deep, Dirk voice and a corny, down-home sense of humor was pretty much al right in her book.

“We’re looking forward to your visit so much,” Savannah said, knowing that her nose might grow a half an inch for that little half-fib. “Dirk’s real excited.”

“Us, too, dear,” he replied. “Believe me, this is a dream come true for both of us.”

“We’l do al we can to make you comfortable once you get here.”

“Ah, don’t worry about that. I was a cop, remember? Did a lot of stakeouts. I can get comfortable anywhere.” Savannah knew exactly what he was talking about. Spending fourteen-hour stretches in Dirk’s Buick, waiting for a bail jumper to sneak into his old lady’s house to score some love, afforded many life lessons—including how to find comfy positions under chal enging conditions.

“Don’t you worry about anything, honey,” he said. “This is going to be a nice visit. The first of many, I’m sure.” Instantly, she felt better about everything: the curtains in the washer, the sparsely furnished refrigerator and cupboards, the bathroom floor that felt like flypaper.

“I’m sure you’re right,” she said, basking in the warm glow. “When do you reckon you’l be arriving? In time for supper, I hope.”

“Oh, we’re early risers. Up before the sun. We’l be on the road by four at the latest. We’l be there by noon!” Dirk found her in the kitchen—the phone in her hand, a brain-dead look on her face, as though al her circuits had been blown.

“They’l be here for lunch,” she told him in a flat monotone, her eyes staring straight ahead.

“Noon? Lunch? Tomorrow?”

She nodded woodenly. “They’re early risers, up before the sun.”

“Damn.”

“No kidding.”

Chapter 20

The next day, Savannah and Dirk sat in the living room, each in their favorite spots, as they petted cats and resisted the urge to jump up and run to the window every time they heard a vehicle drive by.

In spite of the fact that her stomach was tied in knots and her hands were trembling from al the adrenaline and caffeine surging through her system, Savannah yawned.

She glanced at the clock on her mantelpiece. “It’s only a quarter to noon, and I already feel like I need a nap.”

“It’s a good thing you found out that Freddie’s Food Mart was open twenty-four hours a day, huh?”

“Oh yeah, grocery shopping at five in the morning! How fun! Reckon I can scratch that great adventure off my bucket list.”

“And the bathroom floor looks pretty good, don’t you think?” he said sheepishly.

“The house stinks like ammonia, and the floor’s stil streaky as hel , but at least you can walk in and out of the room without getting stuck like a poor pitiful mouse on one of those awful glue traps.”

She happened to glance his way, and one look at his face told her that while she might be feeling nervous, he was positively terrified.