Poisoned Tarts (2 page)

Savannah felt her tether strain, strain, and then snap. Yes, she had to. She just had to…

She looked around for the cart with the baby in it. He was out of sight behind a salad dressing display.

“Okay then,” she said with a nasty little smirk of her own, “if you're that all-fired informed, you know about the latest scientific findings.”

He looked confused. “What? What findings?”

“About abusers like you. Oh, you
haven't
heard? Then let me tell you.” She held her little finger up in front of his face, only a few inches from his nose. “They've done tests and discovered that abusers, guys who yell at their kids and belittle their wives in grocery stores just for the fun of it, just to prove what a big shot they are, this…this right here…is the average size of their—”

 

“Hey, your news story is coming on next,” Tammy called from the living room. “They said they've got film and everything!”

In the kitchen, Savannah grabbed plates laden with rocky road fudge and peanut butter chip brownies and scurried into her living room.

Her guests were stretched out on the sofa and across the floor, holding their bellies and moaning in pain. They were soldiers laid low, not from battle but from Savannah's determination to make sure that every morsel of food possible had been consumed—and then some.

She wasn't content until the aftermath looked like the scene in
Gone with the Wind
, with casualties stretched as far as the eye could see. When no one could move, or even breathe, only then would her job as hostess be finished.

“A little post-dessert repast,” she said.

The chorus of groans mingled with pleas of “No, no! I couldn't eat another bite!” as they snatched up the offerings.

Even the svelte and health-conscious Tammy took a piece of the fudge before passing the plate to Ryan Stone and John Gibson.

A couple of Savannah's closest friends and honorary members of her Moonlight Magnolia Detective Agency, Ryan and John had fought the urge to eat every delectable morsel that Savannah had forced on them for years—but with pathetically little conviction. If not for the hours spent at the gym and on the tennis court to counteract the effects, their ultratrim physiques would have disappeared long ago.

And that would have been a shame because lusting after the two of them—hard bodies and all—was one of Savannah's favorite pastimes, second only to watching Dirk walk away.

With Ryan's dark good looks, his six-foot-plus frame, and his impeccable sense of style, he could set any female heart pitter-patting. And although John was older than Ryan, his life partner, John's thick silver hair and his soft, aristocratic British accent was enough to make a girl melt.

For all the good it did her, Savannah had been pitter-pattering and melting into puddles in their presence for years.

“Hey, Van, bring some of those brownies over here,” Dirk called from the other side of the living room. “And is that fudge? Is it rocky road?”

Snuggled into her favorite rose-print chintz easy chair, he leaned back and unbuckled his Harley–Davidson belt.

“What are you doing there in my chair?” she asked as she brought the plates of goodies to him. “I've told you time and again not to sit in it. I've got the cushion molded just right for my own hind end, and you're gonna wreck it. Get out! Now!”

“It's comfortable,” he objected as he reached for the plate. “I can see now why you like sitting here, even if it is a sissy, pansy chair with stupid flowers all over it.”

“Get out of it!” she said, kicking him on the shin with her fuzzy red slipper. “You insult my chair and expect me to let you sit there? Move your carcass over to the couch and take those boots off. They've got mud and heaven knows what else on 'em.” She took a sniff and wrinkled her nose. “Lord have mercy, boy, what have you been wading through? Meadow muffins?”

“Meadow whats?” He lifted his boot and stared at the sole.

“Cow pies,” she said. “You know…bovine biscuits.”

“Ah. You mean bull shit,” he said. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I—”

“Sh-h-h,” Savannah said, seeing her grandmother descend the stairs, a cloud of Hawaiian print in her floor-length pink and red muumuu. “Watch your mouth. Gran's coming down.”

“I heard that,” Gran said, a twinkle in her eye as she joined them in the living room. “Who's been tippy toeing through the bullpucky?”

“Me,” Dirk admitted as he quickly stood and offered Gran the chair. “I had to chase a suspect through a pasture yesterday out in Mooney Canyon. I guess I haven't gotten around to scraping off all the…uh…forensic evidence yet.”

He held Gran's arm as she settled into Savannah's easy chair and gently placed the ottoman under her feet. Then he handed her his brownie and a piece of fudge.

Savannah smiled, loving him just for a moment, then she said, “Go put those boots out on the front porch and get back in here before my news story comes on.”

Glancing at the television, she could see that the weather report was nearly finished. And that meant the colorful, local story would be next. She wasn't sure how she felt about her latest exploits being broadcast for God and everybody to see. With cameras everywhere these days, a body had precious little privacy.

On the other hand, the footage had convinced the cops who had appeared on the scene that the other guy was the one who had thrown the first punch…or at least attempted to before she'd effectively blocked it.

There were times when a bit of store security videotape could be a girl's best friend.

“I don't need to see it on the screen,” Dirk said as he plodded off to the hallway. “I was there. I saw the whole bloody, gory scene in person.”

“Bloody?” Tammy was all ears. “Gory?” She looked anything but appalled. In fact, she looked deliciously intrigued—embarrassingly so.

Ghoul
, Savannah thought proudly.

She'd taught the kid everything she knew about crime scene gore, its significance, and how to process it.

Granny settled her generous self into the easy chair and looked perfectly at home, the golden light of the reading lamp setting her white hair aglow with a fire that matched the one burning in her bright blue eyes.

Granny Reid might be an octogenarian who had traveled a lot of long, bumpy, pothole-pitted roads, but her passion hadn't dimmed one bit over the years. And one didn't need a second glance to see where Savannah had gotten her feisty spirit.

Gran took a bite of Dirk's brownie, closed her eyes, and savored it for a moment, then she said, “Perfection, Savannah girl. Sinful, scrumptious perfection.” Then she opened her eyes, the moment for savoring over. “Now, what's this business about you committing murder and mayhem at the local supermarket? I thought I taught you better than that.”

“You did, Gran,” Savannah said as she sat on the floor beside her grandmother and rested her head on Granny's knee. “You taught me to be a lady, but sometimes a lady has to…well…”

“Hey, it's you!” Tammy said, nearly jumping out of her chair and pointing to the television. “Oh, you look great! I'm so glad you were wearing that turquoise sweater. That's one of your best!”

“Oh please. Tammy Hart, stylist to the stars,” Savannah said, giving her friend a grin.

“Actually,” John said, “Tammy's right. You do look stunning in that sweater.”

“I agree,” Ryan added.

“Oh, right.” Savannah snorted. “Like either of you would even notice.”

“We notice.” Ryan lifted one eyebrow and gave her a quick once-over that set her pitter to patting all over again. “Notice is all we do, but we notice.”

Dirk reentered the room and shuffled across the floor in his socks. He sat down on the rug next to the television, reached over, and turned up the volume.

The blond cutie at the anchor's desk began the story. “And this afternoon in a San Carmelita supermarket, an altercation sent a local accountant to the hospital. As seen here on the store security videotape, two shoppers exchanged words, and their discussion rapidly escalated into an argument. The woman you see there at the bottom of your screen is Savannah Reid, formerly a police officer with the San Carmelita Police Department.”

The living room erupted in whistles and cheers. Savannah held up both hands, “Quiet! Quiet! Listen now; throw cash and gifts later.”

The newscaster continued, an amused look on her face. “At this point in the argument, Reid held up one finger—no, ladies and gentlemen, not
that
finger—her pinkie—but even that appeared to enrage Timothy Barnett, who took a swing at her. As we can see, Ms. Reid has not forgotten the self-defense training she received from the S.C.P.D. and there…only a few seconds later…you see Barnett on the floor amid a pile of fallen produce, tumbled cans, and broken bottles.” The reporter grinned her perfect, bleached white smile. “Yes, folks, we
do
have a major cleanup on aisle five.”

“Yay-y-y-y! That's our girl!” Ryan shouted.

“Here, here!” John saluted her with his cup of Earl Grey.

“Oh, Savannah! I'm so proud of you,” Tammy said, her pretty face shining, tears in her eyes. “You blocked him with an exquisitely executed
gedan barai
. The
mae geri
kick to his chest was flawless, and that
nage waza
was the perfect choice to put him on the floor.”

Savannah stared at her for several seconds, then said, “Uh, okay. Thanks, Tam.” And she decided to cut back a bit on Tammy's martial arts training.

Dirk smirked. “I see you're still using that ‘the average size is…' line to provoke suspects,” he said.

Savannah winked at him. “Hey, the classics hold up.”

The only less than jovial person in the room was Gran, who sat with her arms crossed over her ample chest, a scowl on her face.

From Savannah's seat on the floor beside her grandmother, she looked up into that infinitely dear face and cringed. Her grandmother had raised her and her eight brothers and sisters. Savannah knew the look all too well—she was in trouble.

“What was that business you did with your finger there?” Gran wanted to know. “Is that what I think it was?”

Savannah giggled and nudged Gran's leg. “Naw, it wasn't that at all. Like the gal there on TV said, it was my pinkie. A perfectly innocent gesture. I'd never do that other one…after you teaching me to be a genteel Southern lady and all.”

Dirk cleared his throat, and Savannah shot him a warning look.

“Well, you must have said something pretty unladylike for him to take a swing at you like that,” Gran said.

“He was being nasty to his wife and little boy, mouthing off and threatening them,” Savannah told her. “And I just couldn't abide it. You know, like ol' Leon Hafner used to do. And Gran, I remember all too well what
you
did to Leon that Saturday night when he came calling uninvited.”

A mischievous grin flitted across Gran's face. She shrugged. “Eh, well, Leon deserved to get a skillet upside his head,” she said. “He was always thumpin' on poor Alice and her too scared and broke to leave him with three little young'uns in tow. She came over to our house that day with a bloody nose and a black eye, and when he came bustin' through my kitchen door after her, hollering and carrying on, I had to do something. So, I grabbed a twelve-inch skillet and gave him a good talkin' to.”

Savannah laughed. “After their little, uh, conversation, Leon needed seven stitches to close that gash on his forehead. But he never came over to our house in a rage again. Not even when Alice finally left his ugly a—, I mean, left him flat.”

“It looked like that accountant in the grocery store was needing some stitches himself,” Tammy said. “There was blood everywhere!”

“Naw,” Savannah laughed. “Most of it was ketchup.”

“Most?” Gran asked.

“Ketchup?” Ryan added.

“She was next to the condiment section,” Dirk explained. “You work with what you've got.”

John nodded. “Our Savannah is resourceful, if nothing else.”

“Did they arrest that fellow?” Gran wanted to know. “Are you going to have to go to court and testify and all that rigmarole?”

“Naw, I didn't press charges,” Savannah told her. “He never actually got the chance to lay a finger on me, so why bother?”

Dirk reached for the plate of fudge. “I'd say he got the point when that shelf full of ketchup and mustard came crashing down on him. I swear I saw a pickle sticking out of his ear.”

“Oh, you did not.” Savannah chuckled. “But I wasn't trying to make a point with him. Guys like that never get the point anyway, so what's the use? My statement was for his wife. I wanted her to see that he's not God Almighty, no matter what he's told her. Seeing another woman take him down a notch or two might have done her some good. I sure hope so.”