Sour Grapes (A Savannah Reid Mystery #6)

Sour Grapes

by

G.A. McKevett

When her self-centered younger sister Atlanta arrives on her doorstep demanding to participate in the Miss Gold Coast Beauty Pageant, Savannah Reid is hurled into a world of backstabbing beauties who will stop at nothing--even murder--to be crowned.

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

G.A.

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G.A. McKevett

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First Hardcover Printing: February 2001

First Paperback Printing: December 2001

10 98765432

For Elizabeth Harris

New York's skyscrapers to the blue grasses of Kentucky,

'we done it all, 'Lizbeth, with beauty, style and class.

There's a bit of you in every heroine I write.

Standing at the counter of Burger Bonanza, the tantalizing

aroma of stale cooking oil tickling her nostrils,

the sight of sandwiches in greasy wrappers setting

her taste buds atwitter, Savannah Reid considered herself

lucky to be within reach of food ... any food. It had

been a long night.

"Sure you can afford this cornucopia of culinary delights,

big boy?" she asked her buddy, Dirk Coulter, who

stood beside her, studying the backlit menu on the

wall--specifically, the price column--with the discriminating

eye of a first-rate cheapskate.

"I can afford it if you don't get carried away," he

grumbled. Spotting a poster that dangled on a string

from the ceiling, he brightened. "Hey, they've got a special

... a Junior Deluxe with fries and a drink for

ninety-nine cents! Let's get a couple of those!"

"Let's don't. I'm starved, and that measly kiddy meal

10 G.A. McKevett

wouldn't fill a chipmunk's cheeks," she said, her

Southern drawl becoming more pronounced, as it always

did when she was irritated and hungry. And

Savannah was frequently one or the other.

She stepped up to the counter and motioned to the

skinny girl in the baggy, red-and-blue polyester pantsuit.

As the Burger Bonanza hostess sauntered to the

cash register, Savannah noted the plastic name tag on

the breast pocket of her shirt "Good evening... ah ...

Jeanette. I would like to order a--"

"I ain't Jeanette," the girl said as she slid an enormous

wad of gum from one side of her mouth to the

other and chomped on it. "Whaddaya want? We're

closin' in a couple ' minutes."

Savannah forced a weak smile and resisted the urge

to relocate the gum to some other orifice ... like the

left nostril or right ear. Both of which bore multiple

piercings. Beside her, Dirk snickered, and she elbowed

him in the ribs. "Well, Miss Scrawny-Assed, illmanered

Person Wearing Jeanette's Uniform, I want a

double chili-cheeseburger with a superlarge fries and

about a quart of Coke and--

"Hey, stop right there!" Dirk held up one hand in his

best traffic-directing mode. "I'm not made of money,

you know. Cops don't exactly knock down the bucks."

"I know. I was one. But private detectives don't make

a killin' either. And I just spent half the night, keeping

you company on a duller-than-dirt stakeout for free."

"I thought the joy of hangin' out with me would be

payment enough."

Savannah looked him up and down, taking in the

tousled, thinning hair, the decrepit bomber jacket,

the ratty T-shirt with a faded Harley-Davidson logo,

the nearly kneeless jeans, and the smirk on a face that

SOUR GRAPES

showed the wear and tear of more than twenty years as a

street cop.

In a weak moment, she might have admitted that

she joined him on midnight stakeouts for the pleasure

of his company. They had been partners on the San

Carmelita police force for seven years, before she and

the department had experienced a parting of the

ways. And she missed Dirk. If nothing else, she missed

the daily opportunities to yank his chain; he was just so

"yankable."

She gave him one of her deep-dimpled smiles, then

sniffed. "Eh .. . get real, Fart Face. You promised me food. Now, fork over for a double chili cheese and the

works before I pitch a fit."

Dirk groaned--a beaten man. He turned to the girl

behind the register. "Get her what she ordered, before

she decides she wants onion rings and a strawberry sundae,

too."

A few minutes later, they were sitting on miserably

hard booth seats, their feast spread across the table between

them. Dirk was pouting, and the expression

looked ridiculous on a forty-plus guy wearing a Harley

shirt.

"Geez, you didn't have to go ahead and order the

rings and--"

"Oh, hush and stuff your jaws." She shoved the oil

soaked bag of onion rings over to him and grabbed her

own burger from the tray. Chili ran from both sides of

the sandwich and dripped onto the wrapper as she bit

into it. The spicy sauce filled her senses, and she closed

her eyes as she chewed, savoring the moment. Ah...

food, nourishment, highly saturated fat calories. Once

again, all was right with the world.

1 :4 G.A. McKevett

slightly dimmed by the thought that tomorrow morning,

this burger would be riding around on her butt or elsewhere on her body, along with about thirty extra pounds of Winchell's Donuts, Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey, Yukon Gold potato chips--drowned in French onion dip--and chocolate-dunked, peanut butter cheesecake. But, as always, these depressing thoughts had a short shelf life in Savannah's mental archives.

Long ago, she had decided to live comfortably with those thirty pounds. She liked the extra sixteen that had settled on her chest. And she figured a pound or two on her face filled out any fortysomething wrinkles. A pound on each foot and another for both hands

weren't something she worried about. That only left nine unwanted pounds, which she assumed had wound up on her rear, and since she carefully avoided wraparound dressing-room mirrors, she hardly ever saw her backside. Outta sight, outta mind--it was a motto to live by.

Yes. . . after a bit of rationalization, Savannah had conjured a healthy self-image. Nine unseen pounds certainly wasn't enough to cause her to take drastic measures.

. . like dieting or jogging.

"You'd think," Dirk said around a mouthful of burger, "that for the prices they charge, they'd install a decent sound system in here." He nodded toward the speaker mounted on the wall behind a potted plant

with brown, crispy leaves.

Savannah squirted a glob of ketchup onto her fries

as she listened to the scratchy version of "Hotel California."

"Glenn Frey sounds good no matter what," she said.

"Eh, you've just had a crush on him since he was on Miami Vice a million years ago," Dirk said, sounding

al/ U l71(/-11-r. 1 3

slightly miffed. Although they had never been romantically linked, Dirk sulked when she said anything good about another guy. And Savannah had to admit that she bristled when he made "Cindy Crawford-hot-bod" comments. But she wasn't about to admit that those minor irritations were indicators of anything other than a

long-standing, completely blasé friendship.

"Are you goin' out with me again tomorrow night?" he asked, reaching for her soda. "That guy's bound to show up at his mama's house sooner or later, and then I'll nab his ass and stick it back in jail where it belongs."

"Yeah, I'll hang out with you again. But only because I have a special feeling in my heart for kid beaters like

that one. I think it's called loathing. Get your hands off my Coke. Buy your own."

"What are you talkin' about? It's all-you-can-drink. When it runs out, you just go fill it up again. Why should I pay for two?"

She snatched the Coke out of his hand and returned

it to her side of the table. "Because I don't want to swap slobber with you."

"I wouldn't slobber in it. Geez, Van.. . . for a chick you can be really gross sometimes. I--"

"Sh-h-h. Heads up," she said, looking over his shoulder toward the front of the dining room, where a motley entourage was filing in, wearing the baseball jackets and caps, and red-kerchief bandannas that identified them as members of one of Los Angeles's more vicious

gangs.

"What is it?" Dirk asked, instantly serious. They had worked together so long that they read each other well, and even though a half smile was pasted on her face, her blue eyes registered definite concern.

"Looks like we've got some big-city gang activity," she

I

said, "right here in the sleepy little beach town, tourist trap called San Carmelita."

"How many?"

She turned back to him but watched them in her peipheral

vision as they spread out across the front of the

-estaurant. "We've got five males and a female. The cirl's walking up to the counter. Looks like she's going order."

"And the others?"

"We've got one very big, older and very mean-looking Jude standing in the doorway, eyeing the parking lot. le's wearing a black-leather raincoat."

"It ain't rained since April."

"Exactly. Oversize, and he's got one hand inside." Dirk winced. "Oh, shit. That there's bad news. What Jo you figure he's carryin'?"

"Whatever he ripped off in his last burglary. Could te an Uzi."

"Do you think it's them?"

Savannah didn't have to ask who he meant; the same hought had occurred to her the moment the crew had

ntered. An APB had been issued about a group of eenage gangsters, led by a guy in his early twenties, who had been holding up fast-food joints on the coast if California, north of Los Angeles. They picked spotsike Burger Bonanza--that were near a freeway enrance and hit them late at night, just before closing, tabbing the day's receipts. As soon as they robbed the )lace, they headed down the highway and were lost in he traffic.

So far, they hadn't killed anyone, but during the last toldup they had shot a cashier and destroyed the kid's

ight arm. Definitely bad guys. . . quickly getting bad-ter.

SOUR GRAPES 15

"Oh yeah," she said. "I'd bet they're our buddies. And us here with I-Ain't-Jeanette and the salad bar

cleaner-upper. ."

Her voice trailed away as one of the males, carrying an enormous boom box, walked by their table on his way to a booth in the back corner of the room. He sat down, facing forward, set the box on the table in front of him, and turned on what Savannah called "rap crap," drowning out Glenn Frey and causing Savannah to hate

him with all her being.

"He's mad-doggin' me, big time," Dirk said. "Sizin' me up."

"Yeah, the guy at the door is checking us both out and keeping an eye peeled on the parking lot. What do you wanna do?"

"Bust 'em?"

"Yeah, right. Duh . . . six to two are pretty lousy odds. I don't mind getting you and me killed, but if anything happened to sweet little Ain't-Jeanette, I'd never forgive myself."

"I guess you're right. Maybe if I just whip out my badge, it'll scare 'em away."

Savannah raised one eyebrow. "Hey, that's a possibility. Not you pullin' it out, but me. Remember what we did to distract those yahoos in Chat-n-Chew Café a few years