Bitter Sweets (17 page)

It had happened twice.

“What if we go together at about ten?” Dirk would do anything to grab a little sleep.

“Are you asking me out, darlin'?”

“Yeah, you can buy me an Egg McMuffin.”

“Gee, how could a girl turn that down? By the way,” she said, “if we're going to continue to be seen in public together, you should probably shed the trench coat and the sneakers. I've heard disparaging remarks about your apparel from the last two individuals I've questioned.”

“So, what's your point?”

“If you want me to burn them and spread the ashes at sea, I'll do that for you. It would be my pleasure, and I would consider it a public service.”

“Yeah, well, screw you, Reid. And just what are you wearing right now?”

“What am I wearing? Is this some sort of obscene phone call?”

“You wish.”

“See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, thanks for the tip. I owe you one, kid.”

As Savannah pulled up to her house, she felt good. Not magnificent, because she still hadn't found Christy Mallock. Not great, because she still didn't know who had killed Lisa and Earl, and no arrests had been made.

But it had been a good day. Several interesting interviews, some new leads, a spot of light at the end of the tunnel.

Then she saw the colonel's Lincoln parked directly across the street from her house.

What now? It could mean almost anything.

“Shit,” she whispered to no one who cared. “That spot of light is probably an oncoming locomotive.”

 

When Savannah walked into her living room, she was surprised at the sight that awaited her. Granny Reid sat on the sofa, the skirt of her best satin caftan spread demurely around her, a dainty cup of tea in her hand. Her gold hoop earrings sparkled in the light of the lamp, which was actually dimmed a few notches.

Beside her was the colonel, holding a hefty mug, looking every bit as masculine as Gran did feminine. There was plenty of room on the sofa, but he was sitting next to her.
Right next to her grandmother!

And even if the closest thing to sex in Savannah's recent past had been the reference to an obscene phone call with Dirk, she recognized sexual tension when it was floating this thick in a room.

Savannah opened her mouth, intending to say something obnoxious like, “Well! It's a good thing I got home in time. God knows what might have happened in the next five minutes!”

But, just before she made a total fool of herself, she recalled when the situation had been reversed and Gran had walked in to find her sitting next to a gentleman caller on the sofa. She decided to do what Granny had done all those years ago.

She turned up the light until it was eyeball-searing bright, took a seat directly across from them, and pasted a plastic smile on her kisser.

“Hello, Grandmother, Colonel Neilson, and how are we this evening?”

“We are just fine, dear,” Gran replied. “And obviously, you are too, since you're grinning like a goat eating briars.”

“I have had a nice day, thank you.”

“Does that mean you have some news about my granddaughter?” the colonel asked. When he turned to face her, Savannah saw that his eyes were swollen and red, his nose, too. In his hand he held a crumpled tissue. On the coffee table in front of them was the box.

She felt like an idiot.

He hadn't been making a move on her precious grandmother; Gran had been comforting the poor man. The colonel didn't strike her as a person who would let down his guard easily with a stranger. But Granny seemed to quickly earn the trust of everyone she met.

“No, Colonel, not yet,” Savannah told him. “I'm so sorry. But I just spoke to Detective Coulter on the telephone, and we have several new leads now that may help a great deal. Believe me, we're doing all we can.”

“I'm sure you are, and I'm grateful. It's just that . . . .”

“I understand.” She settled back into her easy chair, and Diamante and Cleopatra appeared almost magically on her lap. “Since you're here, there is something I'd like to ask you about . . . . if you don't mind.”

He did seem to mind, but he said, “Go ahead.”

“When I was looking through the boxes that I took from your house, I found pictures and letters that show Lisa and Vanessa Pearce had been friends for a long time.”

The colonel wadded his tissue into a tight ball. “That's true. Vanessa's family lived across the street from us for years. She and Lisa were close.”

“Until Earl came along?”

“Yes. Until Earl.” From the look on his face, Savannah could see that it was an effort for the colonel to even speak the name, as though he found it distasteful.

“I also understand from the letters, that Earl was involved with both women at one time . . . . about eleven years ago.”

“Yes.”

“And that both Vanessa and Lisa found themselves pregnant by him at approximately the same time.”

“Yes.”

“Lisa and Earl got married. Lisa had her child, and that was Christy, right?”

“Yes.”

Savannah wondered if she was destined to receive only one-syllable answers in this conversation. A bit of elaboration might be helpful, but he seemed suddenly quite tight-lipped.

“Do you know what happened to Vanessa's baby?”

His breath came quick and hard, as though he had been running a race, rather than lounging on a sofa with a mug of tea in one hand. His coloring faded to an unhealthy gray. “Yes,” he said.

“What happened to it?”

His hand started shaking so badly that he had to set the mug quickly on the table. “She had an abortion.”

“Are you sure, Colonel?”

“Yes, dammit, I'm sure.” He turned to Gran and gave her a look of deep embarrassment and apology. “Forgive me, Mrs. Reid, but . . . .” When he returned his attention to Savannah, his eyes were so full of pain that Savannah felt it, running hot and cold through her own soul.

“I know she had an abortion,” he said, “and because of complications, she can never have children of her own. I know what a hell that is, because I went through it with my own wife before we adopted Lisa.”

He closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the sofa. “And I'm sure, Miss Reid, because I was there through the whole unfortunate, tragic business, doing what I believed I had to do to protect my own daughter. I know because I paid for Vanessa's abortion. I paid, and I paid, and goddammit I'm still paying. . . .”

S
avannah entered her guest bedroom to find Gran sitting in bed, reading a romance novel which, judging from the amount of cleavage spilling over the woman's bodice on the cover, was of the “hot and steamy” genre.

“I decided it was your turn to be pampered,” Savannah said as she set a tray on the nightstand and poured herself and Gran a cup of jasmine tea.

“Pampered, my hind end.” Gran gave her a knowing smirk. “You're just feeling guilty about jumping to conclusions earlier this evening, and now you're trying to kiss up.”

Savannah's mouth fell open. As always, she was taken aback by her grandmother's insight and candor. “So?”

Gran shook her head and sipped her tea. “Now,
there's
an intelligent response. How can I possibly argue with that?”

“Does that mean you don't want the tea?”

With a look of pure ecstasy, Gran took a long, deep smell of the steam that curled from the rim of the delicate china cup. Savoring the essence of the flowers, she said, “No. I'll keep it. I can be bribed. Sit yourself down.”

Gran pulled her legs up, and Savannah stretched out across the foot of the bed. Lying on her side, she propped up on one elbow.

“What did the colonel have to say?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

“Who's asking? My granddaughter, whom I love and trust, or Savannah Reid, P.I.?”

Savannah thought for a moment and decided to be honest. After all, her interest was more professional than personal. “The P.I., I suppose.”

“Then, in that case, it's none of your business. Colonel Neilson is my friend now, and I don't tell tales on friends . . . . unless they're really good, juicy ones about sex,” she added. “Then I might tell Florence.”

Florence and Gran had been next-door neighbors and best friends for thirty-five years.

“I wouldn't want you to betray a confidence, Gran, you know that.”

“I don't know that at all, so don't be all sweet and lightness with me. I know more about you than you know about yourself, young lady. And the truth is, you'd do most anything to solve a case.”

“Well. . . . I. . . .”

“On the other hand, I understand how important it is to you to settle this one in particular. I know how bad you feel about your part in it, plus you're worried sick about that little girl.”

“That's true, I am. And if the colonel were to mention anything to you that you thought might help me . . . .”

“I'd tell you. Okay?”

Savannah relaxed, knowing she had no reason for concern. Gran was sensible, if nothing else.

“Mostly, the poor man is just grieving over losing his daughter, and I know how he feels.” Gran's eyes momentarily lost their luster as she looked into the past. “I thought it would just about kill me, too, when I lost your Uncle Henry, your father's oldest brother. He died in the Korean War, you know.”

“Yes, Gran, I know. Dad told me about it. I'm really sorry I never met Uncle Henry.”

“I wish I never raised him in the first place. He was my first baby, you know, and real sickly. But I took good care of him and brought him up to be a fine young man. I remember askin' myself, ‘What for?' Just so he could step on a mine and get blown to kingdom come?”

Savannah reached over and covered her grandmother's hand with her own. “I'm sure Henry was a blessing to the world for the time he was here.”

“He was; it's true. But I know what the colonel is suffering. In some ways it's even worse than losing your mate. I hated losing your grandfather, but at least he had led a long, fulfilled life.”

Stroking Gran's fingers, Savannah tried to return some of the support and comfort she had received over the years. It felt good to be on the giving end for a change.

“My great-great-grandma, Granny Shaw . . . . she came over here on the boat from Ireland, you know, during the Great Potato Famine,” Gran continued, “and she used to say, ‘It's unnatural for the lamb's fleece to hang from the rafter before the sheep's.' And that's the way it feels when one of your own children goes before you. It's not the way the good Lord intended it, and it hurts more. You ask any mother or father who's lost a young'un.”

“I'm sure that's true, and I'm sure the colonel must be in terrible pain.”

“He is, indeed. I have no doubt at all about that. Plus, his baby was taken away through an act of cruelty, not an accident, or illness, or war like my Henry. That has to be even worse.”

“About the worst thing a person can endure, I have no doubt.”

Gran set her romance novel aside and picked up her small, well-worn Bible from the nightstand. “We'll have to remember Colonel Neilson in our prayers tonight, Savannah. He needs all the comfort he can get.”

 

Half an hour later, Savannah lay on her own bed, staring up at the antique ceiling fan she had installed last summer.

She liked to think of herself as a spiritual person, if not particularly religious. But it had been longer than she cared to remember since she had uttered a long, formal prayer. Most of her prayers were said on the run, hasty words muttered in the heat of battle. “Please, God, don't let so-and-so happen,” or “Oh Lord, what should I do now?”

The last few times she had stepped into a church, it had been in the course of an investigation, not for worshiping purposes. So, she felt a little rusty around the edges.

“I'm not so good at this,” she whispered. Her voice sounded alien and strained to her in the dark quiet of her bedroom. “You haven't exactly heard from me in a while.” She laughed at herself. “But I guess I don't need to tell You that. Gran says You keep pretty good tabs on things like that.

“I hope you're keeping track of Christy. Please don't let her be hurt any more than she already has. To be honest, I've always had a problem understanding why You let bad things happen to innocents like Christy and other kids. But I guess You have your reasons. Gran says You do. I hope You do.”

She thought back on her childhood prayer format, looking for direction to continue.

“And God, bless Gran for being the wonderful person that she is, and thank You for sending her to me at a time like this. Bless the colonel and try to numb his pain, if You can. Keep Christy in the palm of Your hand and help me return her to the love and safety of her family.

“And while You're at it, could You make me a little smarter? Right now, it would really help. Amen.”

She lay there, thinking about what she had done, feeling a bit like the Scarecrow asking the Wizard of Oz for a brain.

But a quiet voice inside—maybe the voice of Hope, that her grandmother sang of—whispered a word of comfort.

It told her that her prayer, rusty or polished, had been heard and received.

 

The last time Savannah had tried to speak to Vanessa Pearce, she had been eighty-sixed from the Shoreline. But Savannah experienced only a passing twinge of misgiving as she pulled up before the tiny, bread box of a house. Talking to people who didn't like her or want to talk to her was a part of life. Not the most pleasant part, to be sure, but an accepted one.

Earlier, Savannah had decided that she had some time to kill before meeting Dirk for the electrician's interview. So, she had called the Shoreline to see if Vanessa was working. She had been told that Vanessa was taking the day off to fix her motorcycle, its having “thrown a rod.”

Not being especially knowledgeable about vehicle repair, Savannah hoped she would be finished “throwing” things by the time she arrived. A tussle with a six-one, purple-haired, bad-ass motorcycle chick wasn't her idea of a good time.

Apparently, automobile repair mechanics rated high on Vanessa's list of priorities, far above lawn and home maintenance. Half a dozen partially dismantled vehicles littered the lawn and an engine had been torn apart on the porch.

Savannah left the Camaro and waded across the sea of grass. In the rear, next to the alley, stood a two-car garage that was larger than the house. Its two doors were flung open, hanging loosely on their hinges, like a bird's broken wings. From inside came a long, colorful stream of verbal abuse.

Vanessa was making eloquent observations about someone or something's family pedigree, Oedipal tendencies, and probable eternal destination.

She walked through the open doors, just in time to see a wrench fly across the garage and smash into the far wall. It seemed Vanessa liked to throw her tools, too.

“What the hell do you want?” Vanessa squatted on the floor, a mess of greasy components spread out before her. The smell of gasoline was strong, emanating from a washtub filled with gas and more oily engine pieces. Savannah recalled that this practice was what her brother Macon called “soaking parts.”

“To talk a few minutes. You can keep working though, if you want,” she added, hoping to sound cordial.

Standing, Vanessa tossed her dirty shop towel onto the cement floor. “I'm warning you, I just found out that my Harley's engine has to be completely overhauled, so I'm not in a very good mood.”

Mmmmm,
Savannah thought.
Cordial doesn't seem to be working.

She dropped the “nice” routine and allowed her expression to register her fatigue and annoyance. “My investigation isn't going very well, either,” she said, “so that makes two of us.”

“The cops say somebody blew Earl's brains out.” Vanessa's tone was flat, but challenging. Savannah could tell that the statement was intended to shock her. But she wasn't easily shocked and didn't like being worked.

“Actually, when I saw the body, the brains were still inside. No exit wound,” she replied evenly. Two could play that game.

“Did you kill him?”

“No. Did you?”

Both women stared at each other for a long, tense moment. In the end it was Vanessa who broke eye contact.

“Okay,” Vanessa walked over to a cement block and sat down. She didn't offer Savannah a seat, but Savannah didn't want one. “What do you want to know?”

With most people Savannah tried to exercise a degree of decorum and common civility. But, even though Vanessa appeared to be wonderful with kids, she seemed less socially adept with adults. Maybe she just didn't like private detectives. Or perhaps it was more personal and she didn't like blue-eyed women with Southern accents who asked her obnoxious questions.

Whatever the case, Savannah decided to dive right in, head first.

“Did you hate Lisa?” she asked.

“She and I were best friends.”

“Even after Earl Mallock married her instead of you?”

Vanessa's eyes blazed and she bit her lower lip hard enough to make it bleed as she struggled with her temper.

Yes, Savannah thought,
pay dirt.

“Earl had to marry her. She was pregnant with his kid.”

“So were you.” Savannah's tone was gentle, but Vanessa looked as though she had been hit with a bull whip.

“How the hell do you know
that?
Who told you that?”

“I read it in some of Lisa's letters. I'm sorry, I don't mean to violate your privacy. I'm just trying to understand what—”

“You don't need to understand a damned thing about me or my past. It's none of your fucking business. You get the hell off my property, bitch, before I knock your goddamned head off. Do you hear me? Do you?”

Savannah assumed that everyone on the block could hear Vanessa; she was screaming the words. But tears were beginning to flow down the woman's grease-smeared cheeks, and Savannah knew she had taken the situation as far as was wise at the moment.

Quietly, she turned to leave, as Vanessa continued to hurl insults at her back.

There was no reason to tarry. She had the information she had come for. The answer was: Yes, Vanessa was capable of violence. Anyone listening to her now, or who had seen the wrench sailing across the garage, would have no doubt about that.

“Don't you ever come back here again! Never! I mean it!”

Savannah continued to walk without turning around. It was a dangerous gamble. She half expected to get a socket wrench thrown at her back.

“If you want to find out who killed Lisa and Earl,” Vanessa shouted, “go after that child molester/pervert that Lisa was dating. She gave him the boot because of what he tried to do to Christy. He probably killed her . . . . and Earl, too. Hassle
him
for a change. Don't go bothering people who didn't do anything wrong.”

Savannah could hear Vanessa's voice breaking, and she knew that once she was gone, the hard-nosed motorcycle mama would fall to pieces.

In spite of herself, Savannah couldn't help feeling sorry for her and a bit guilty that she had caused her to be so upset.

But, on the other hand, Savannah rationalized as she climbed into the car, if Vanessa Pearce had anything to do with the murders, she deserved to feel rotten. And if she was innocent, the cry would do her good.

 

“Where is it?” Dirk asked, the moment Savannah got into his Buick.

She shoved the sack with the Egg McMuffin at him. “Why am I giving
you
bribes when this is
my
lead?” she asked as he quickly unwrapped it and chomped off an enormous bite.

“Because you love me?”

“Guess again.”

“Because I'm not so grouchy when I've been recently fed?”

“That's more like it.” She punched his shoulder and pointed to the ignition. “Let's get rollin', pal. We've got even more reason than ever to visit Mr. Ian ‘High Volt' Warner.”