Killer Physique (A Savannah Reid Mystery) (9 page)

They turned to leave when they heard a voice—a decidedly cranky voice—coming from the speaker over the door. “This time, throw some macadamia nuts in there, too.”

“How can anything that smel s so good be so bad for you?” Tammy said, as she watched Savannah take a heavily laden cookie sheet from the oven.

Savannah smiled, accustomed to Tammy’s outspoken campaign against al things nonnutritious. “Once in a while, you have to eat something that’s good for the soul, as wel as the body,” Savannah told the younger woman. “You don’t do it every day.”

“You do it every day,” was the ready response. “Several times a day.”

Savannah donned her best pseudo-self-righteous look. “I do not make chocolate chip macadamia nut cookies every day.”

“That’s true. Sometimes it’s peanut butter fudge or blackberry cobbler or German chocolate cake.”

“Then don’t falsely accuse me, girlie. You gotta get your facts straight before you convict.” As Savannah used the spatula to deftly flip the cookies off the sheet and onto the cooling rack, she heard the front door open and her brother’s soft voice as he cal ed out, “You gals in here?”

“In the kitchen,” Savannah shouted back.

“Boy, howdy,” he yel ed back, “I can smel them cookies al the way in here.”

“Just fol ow your nose.” Savannah lowered her voice and said to Tammy, “If you intend to keep on keeping company with my little brother, you’re gonna have to reconsider your dietary habits. He’s a good ol’ boy, and Georgia menfolk don’t thrive on lettuce leaves and celery stalks.” Tammy sighed. “We’ve already talked about that. If it hasn’t mooed or clucked lately, he doesn’t consider it food.”

“And it’s gotta be swimmin’ in gravy, too.”

“I know. You Southerners seem to consider gravy a beverage.”

“And don’t you forget it.”

Waycross entered the kitchen. He had orange paint on his hands and arms and a generous smear of it on his left cheek.

“Looks like the Charger’s getting a new orange dress,” Savannah said.

“Not yet. I’m stil workin’ on the engine. But no reason it can’t be as bright as a new penny, too.” Savannah looked at the tal , skinny redhead, and her heart melted. Of her eight siblings, Waycross was, by far, one of her two favorites. Cheerful, kind, and without a lazy cel in his body, he was a pure joy to be around.

She was thril ed he had decided to stay in California for a while. Dirk had been kind enough to let him move into his old mobile home that sat in a trailer park on the edge of town. Waycross was a skil ed auto mechanic who also did excel ent body and paint work, so she’d had no problem finding him work at a shop that specialized in restoring classics.

Between the California sunshine and the beaches, a manly man trailer to live in, and the company of a sweet, beautiful girl like Tammy, Waycross was simply thriving like weeds in a watermelon patch. And Savannah couldn’t be happier about it.

He started to reach for a cookie, then stopped, his bright orange hand hovering over the cooling rack stacked with goodies. Turning to Tammy, he said, “My hands are a mess, sugar. Could you please get me one o’ them?”

Tammy giggled, grabbed a cookie, and fed it to him—so slowly and sensuously that Savannah felt like she needed to go take a cold shower by the time the deed was accomplished.

“By ‘one o’ them,’ I meant ‘two,’ ” he told her, licking a bit of chocolate off his lower lip.

Tammy watched the simple action, total y entranced. Eventual y, she snapped to attention and said, “Oh, sure. Of course.” Savannah decided to look away as the whole erotic scene replayed and gave them a bit of privacy.

It was so strange, seeing them together like this. In love. And, yes, in lust—but so cute about it.

She couldn’t help wondering if she and Dirk appeared that sil y to other people. Probably not. They were so much older and far more mature.

Then she recal ed, only a few days ago, when they had been exchanging kisses on the town pier. A ragged old curmudgeon who was fishing off the end had packed up his equipment with a vengeance, shot them a disapproving grimace, and grumbled as he stomped away, “Get a room, wil ya?”

Okay, maybe they made fools of themselves, too. Apparently, you never got too old for True Love to make a fool of you.

As Waycross chewed on his second and then third cookie, Tammy asked Savannah, “Is there anything we can do to help you out with this case?

Not that it’s real y a case yet, because you don’t even know what happened, but, wel , you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean.” Savannah began to place some of the cookies that had cooled into a plastic container. If she didn’t, with Waycross around, the batch was likely to meet an untimely death. “It’s sort of a case. After al , a seemingly perfectly healthy young man fel down dead. A lot of people are wondering why.”

“Like you?” Tammy said with a little smile.

“Absolutely. You can’t be in the detective business without having a mile-wide streak of curiosity.”

“You mean, without being a nosy busybody,” Waycross said around his half-chewed cookie.

Savannah reached over and gave him a bop on his curly head. “Don’t talk with food in your mouth,” she said. “And don’t forget that you’re a Reid, too. So, genetical y speaking, you’ve got a lot of ‘nosy’ in your DNA along with the rest of us.”

“Nope. The womenfolk in our family are the only ones who carry that nosy gene thing. Along with wide backsides and generous fronts,” he added with a chocolate grin.

“Oh, boy . . . now you real y are asking for it!”

He reached for another cookie. She slapped his hand. And they struggled with the container for a while before she relented and tossed one at him. He snatched it out of the air and popped it whole into his mouth.

“Does he eat like that when he takes you out to restaurants?” Savannah asked Tammy.

“No,” she replied, giggling. “He saves his worst behavior for you.”

Savannah sealed the lid of the container, set it on top of the refrigerator, and said, “There are exactly twenty-four cookies in there. If, later on, I find I’m one short, Waycross Reid, I’l be draggin’ you behind the barn for a hickory limb switchin’.” He snickered. “Since you don’t have a barn or a hickory tree, you’l have to forgive me if I ain’t exactly quakin’ in my boots.”

“Are you two gonna help me with this case that ain’t a case, or are you gonna eat me outta house and home?” Savannah asked, mildly miffed.

She was losing her good humor as she thought about Dirk upstairs, snoozing away in bed, while she slaved away in a hot kitchen, preparing bribes for people he had offended.

Life was frequently unfair.

“Sure.” Waycross dusted his hands together, ridding them of imaginary cookie debris. “What can we do?”

“Find out everything you can about Jason Tyrone, but concentrate on the scandalous stuff.”

“Dig up the dirt,” Tammy said with a smile.

“Exactly. Especial y anything having to do with a recent romantic breakup.”

“He’s a gay fel er, ain’t he?” Waycross said. “I think I read that in one of Granny’s newspaper magazine thingies.”

“Yes,” Savannah said, “it was al over the tabloids that he recently split up with a partner he’d been with for a long time. Find out what that was al about, if you can.”

Tammy nodded knowingly. “Always check out the significant others first—especial y if there was a recent parting of the ways.”

“And run a financial check on him, too, while you’re at it,” Savannah said. “Find out if there were any problems in that area.”

“We’l see if we can root up any of the usual naughtiness—foolin’ around on your honey, gamblin’, drugs . . .” He glanced up at the top of the refrigerator. “. . . stealing goodies from your big sister when she ain’t lookin’.”

“I kid you not, you knucklehead. You touch those, I’l throw a duck fit.”

She turned to go into the living room with the intention of heading upstairs for a bit of beauty rest beside her snoring husband. But instead, she ran into Dirk at the bottom of the stairs.

His hair was tousled, his face bed-crumpled and wearing an expression that was most disgruntled.

“The cookies are done,” she said. “I was just coming upstairs to join you.”

“Too late,” he replied, as he tucked his shirt into his jeans and ran his fingers through his hair. “I just got a cal from Dr. Liu. She wants us to meet her right away.”

“Oh? Okay. I don’t real y want to make another trek out to the morgue, but if she’s got something that’s—”

“Not the morgue,” he told her.

“What? Where then?”

“The pier.”

“The pier? Why? There’s not another crime scene, is there?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. She cal ed me on my cel , told me to meet her at the pier and to bring you. She also said not to tel anybody about it.” Savannah was total y taken aback. Since when did the total y open and honest Dr. Liu play cloak-and-dagger games?

“Did she say why it’s a big secret?” Savannah asked, as she strapped on her weapon holster, inserted her Beretta, and reached for her purse.

“Nope.”

“And you didn’t ask her?”

He grabbed his bomber jacket out of the closet. “Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Because she sounded like she was in a mood. And not a good mood, if you know what I mean.” He opened the door and held it as she passed through.

But she couldn’t let it drop. “It’s just plum not like you,” she insisted, “not to ask. You’re the one person on the planet who’s even more nosy than I am.”

“Yeah, that’s true. But if you real y have to know—the one person I’m even more afraid of than Eileen is Dr. Liu.” He took a deep breath, and Savannah could swear that she saw him shudder a little. “I’m afraid of her even on a good day,” he added, as though confessing some deep, dark character flaw. “Let alone when she’s having a bad one.”

Chapter 9

Most of Savannah’s memories of trips to the town pier were happy ones—including her last visit with Dirk, when they had been reproved by the old fisherman for their public display of affection.

Built in 1842, the San Carmelita pier was the second-largest one in California. And it was Savannah’s favorite, mostly because of the lack of typical tourist attractions. The pier was home to only one modest seafood restaurant, a tiny bait-and-tackle shop, and a bicycle-rental kiosk.

There were no tacky souvenir stores, palm readers, kite vendors, or ice cream shops. In the pier’s heyday, it had serviced giant steamships. But now it was a simple and peaceful haven for those who wanted to catch a fresh fish for dinner. And a nice place to make out with your new husband, if there were no crotchety fishermen around to object.

At least once a week Savannah would come down to the pier for a long walk and al ow the fresh sea air to blow through her hair and carry her troubles away—at least for a few minutes. The sounds of the gul s, crying out to each other as they swooped and dove overhead, and the music of children’s laughter as they played on the swings and slides on the sand below were a soothing balm to her soul.

As far as she was concerned, a day that included a visit to the pier was almost always a good day.

But today . . . today she wasn’t so sure.

A secret audience with the county’s medical examiner didn’t sound like a fun time. Over the years, Savannah had formed the opinion that—other than those having to do with Christmas presents and surprise birthdays—the word “secret” was usual y spel ed “t-r-o-u-b-l-e.” This trip, Savannah had insisted on driving her Mustang. Beautiful y restored years ago by Waycross, the bright red 1969 ’Stang was her baby, her pride and joy.

She could take only so much riding around in Dirk’s Buick before she had to mention that far nicer transportation was available to them.

That always went over wel .

Along with her insistence that she, not he, drive.

Therefore, he was in a semipouting mood when she pul ed into the parking lot near the pier and cut the ignition.

“I don’t see her anywhere,” she said, a little too cheerful y, as she looked up the beach, then down.

He simply grunted and got out of the car.

She fol owed him, slipped her arm through his, and nudged him. “Why so grumpy?” she asked. “I’ve been driving us around for years. It’s never been a big deal.”

“It’s kinda a big deal,” he said. “After al , we’re married now.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“It’s got to do with everything. I’m your husband. Wives let husbands drive their cars. I mean, California’s a community property state. That means the Mustang’s kinda half mine.”

She stopped in mid-stride and stared up at him, mouth open, for a long time. Final y, she found her voice. “Git outta here. No way. If we fol owed your logic I’d own half of that old jalopy of yours.”

He brightened hopeful y. “That’s right! Half of the Buick is yours and half of the Mustang’s mine. Fifty-fifty.”

“No, no, no. You get one hundred percent of your Buick. I get one hundred percent of my Mustang. And that’s fifty-fifty.” He grumbled under his breath but reached for her hand and gave it a little squeeze. “I think your math is a little faulty there, gal.” She chuckled. “And if you think that a measly marriage certificate entitles you to any part of the Red Pony . . . then your cornbread just ain’t quite baked in the middle.”

As they mounted the steps leading up to the pier, Savannah spotted Dr. Liu about halfway down the dock. And had Savannah not been looking for the coroner, she probably wouldn’t have recognized her at first glance.

Gone was the overtly sexy attire—the ultra-high heels, the short skirt or the tight pants. Jennifer Liu was wearing a simple pair of jeans, a white tee-shirt, and a Dodgers basebal cap. Oversized sunglasses hid nearly half of her pretty face, and her long, black hair was pul ed into a ponytail.

She was walking slowly away from them toward the end of the pier, her head down, her hands thrust into her jeans.

“Wow,” Savannah said, “she real y is in a bad mood. Looks like she just lost her best friend.”

“No kidding,” he replied. “Wonder what’s up.”

“Maybe it’s bad news about the case. Maybe she found out it was homicide, after al .”