Sour Grapes (A Savannah Reid Mystery #6) (4 page)

She

turned back to Ryan. "Is the pay good?"

"Listen to her," Tammy said, snickering. "Like she's picky these days. I balance her books . . . or try to. Believe me, if it pays minimum wage, she'll jump on it like a hound on a T-bone."

"A hound on a T-bone?" Savannah laughed. "You've been hanging out with me too long, New York girl. I'll have you eating grits and gravy before you can shake a

lamb's tail."

Tammy gagged. "No way. No grits, no gravy, and certainly nothing to do with a sheep's back end."

Savannah scooped up a big forkful of pie, dripping with the caramel and pecan sauce. "I'll take it," she told Ryan. "Looking out for some girlie-girl beauty queens, making sure they don't stub their pretty toes and ruin their pedicures, maybe breaking up a few cat-fights over false eyelashes and hair mousse. How hard could it be? I mean. . . what could happen at a beauty pageant?"

The beauty queen sat at her dressing table, wearing a pink chenille bathrobe and hair curlers, staring at her reflection in the brightly lit, Hollywood mirror. The dozen bulbs around the mirror's edge illuminated

every tiny blemish on her nearly perfect complexion,

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and she studied each one, frowning, as though it were a critical issue that demanded an immediate solution.

The walls and shelves of her bedroom were laden

with the spoils of her victories in the pageant world. Trophies, some over three feet tall, cluttered every horizontal surface. Vertical surfaces were covered with photographs--beautiful pictures, professionally taken over the years--showing a little girl who had been groomed to look like a woman at the age of six.

The closet door stood open, and inside glimmered an array of sequined and rhinestone-studded evening

gowns of every hue, jostling for space with feathered boas, a hundred pairs of glittering shoes, and miscellaneous faux fur accessories.

Having decided on a course of action, the girl at the dressing table chose a particular cream from the dozens

of bottles before her and began to dab the lotion on her

"trouble spots." From time to time, she glanced to her right at the lighted glass case that sat on its own special

table and held her pride and joy. . the Miss California Sunshine crown. . . in all of its cubic zirconia glory. She was good at what she did.

Very good. And she knew it.

She looked across the room at the younger, far less attractive version of herself stretched out on the twin

bed against the opposite wall.

"Go downstairs and get me a soda," she told her sister. "And make sure it's a cold one from the back of the fridge."

"Get it yourself."

"I said . . get me a soda, now!"

The well-trained younger sibling stirred from her

bed, grumbling under her breath, but obeying never

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theless, trudging across the bedroom in penguin-spangled, flannel pajamas.

In their little sorority, hierarchy had been established long ago, and it was too late to challenge authority now.

"Diet! Make sure it's diet!"

"Eh, screw you." The objection was mumbled low enough that it didn't constitute outright mutiny.

As soon as sister number two had left the room, the beauty queen picked up the telephone and punched in

some numbers.

Her party answered almost immediately. Keeping her voice low, she said, "It's me. Yeah. Did you think it over . . . you know . . . what we talked about?"

She frowned, not liking what she heard.

"That won't do. That's not what I want. I told you what I want"

She listened again, but not for long. "No! I don't care what you say; it's gotta be the way I told you before."

More objections on the other end.

She shook her head, sending curlers tumbling, and stomped her bare foot. "No, no, no, no! You better listen, or you'll be sorry. A lot of people are gonna be sorry if you don't listen to me."

As the party on the other end continued to fill her

ear with unpleasantries, the bedroom door opened and her sister appeared, diet cola in hand.

Time to end the conversation.

"You heard me," she said in her most ominous tone--a voice she would never allow a panel of pageant judges to hear. "I made it very clear to you what I expect, and this isn't negotiable. I want action. . . very soon. Understand?"

She slammed the phone down and snatched the

soda out of her sister's hand. "What are you grinning at?" she snapped. "What's so damned funny?"

"You." The younger girl walked back to her bed, flopped across it, and began to chew her thumbnail. "You trying to get your way with people."

"I don't try." She took a long swig of soda and smiled. "I do it."

"Yeah, well, you're gonna squeeze the wrong person one of these days, and you're gonna get it. . . something you don't want, that is."

Beauty set her soda aside, took another look at her Miss California Sunshine crown, and went back to dabbing pimples with lotion.

"No way," she said. "I'm a woman who knows what she wants. . . and how to get it. Every time. You just watch me, Squirt, and take a lesson from an expert."

The younger sister groaned and rolled over to face

the wall, mumbling minor obscenities. . . just loud enough to express her disgust . . . but low enough not

to incur Her Highness's royal wrath.

Yes, in this tiny kingdom . . . everyone knew her place.

An hour later, on the sidewalk across the street from the beauty queen's modest suburban home, a figure stood in the shadow of some oleander bushes, watching.

The upstairs bedroom light had been out for twenty

minutes. Twenty-three, to be exact. But the watcher still waited. Thinking. Planning.

Having observed the house before, the person knew that four people lived there: mom, pop, the beauty con

testant, and her younger sister, and knew which bedroom was hers. . . the little bitch on the phone . . . the one making demands.

The watcher knew what had to be done. The only questions remained, "When?" and "How?" Some things had to be done properly. Carefully. And murder was certainly one of those.

The first time the thought murder had crossed the

watcher's brain, it had been like an electric shock, ter-rifym , repulsive, foreign. But with each subsequent thought, the concept seemed less revolting, more possible, even necessary The would-be victim had chosen her own fate. The rest was a foregone conclusion.

But when?

Now wasn't the time. Not on a quiet, residential street in a house full of people. Not without a plan. . . a good, well-thought-out plan.

The pageant.

The Miss Gold Coast Pageant began in two days. An event full of emotion, confusion, hundreds of people running around in semiordered chaos.

Yes. . . what better backdrop could there be than a beauty pageant . . . ? The perfect stage for murder.

t4C4 ood morning!" Tammy looked up from the

Vrcomputer keyboard and gave Savannah the dazzling,

bright, cheerful smile that could be conjured only by a dyed-in-the-wool "morning person."

"Oh, shut up," Savannah grumbled as she trudged down the stairs in her fuzzy red slippers and her ratty

old robe that was basically the same faded shade of navy

blue as the circles beneath her eyes. "You know better di, an to 'good morning' me before I've had coffee. Especially when I've been up half the night."

- To her great dismay, Tammy followed her into the kitchen, opening blinds and curtains, spreading sunshine--literally and figuratively--all along the way. "Half the night? Cool! Does that mean you and Dirk were stalking that child-abuser guy again?"

Savannah groaned and hauled the largest mug she

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could find out of the cupboard. "We prefer to call it a 'stakeout', not 'stalking.'"

"What's the difference?"

After only the briefest consideration, Savannah said, "Very little, come to think of it. But good guys get paid to do it."

"You don't; Dirk does."

After filling the mug with coffee stronger and thicker

than Mississippi mud, Savannah added a decadent amount of Half & Half. From the corner of her eye she saw Tammy cringe, so she poured in more--nothing quite like a health nut to bring out the defiant hedonist

in her.

"Once in a great while," she said dryly, "I get paid for it. And Dirk's good to help us out when we're in a jam."

She took a big swig of the coffee and felt the life

Fortifying caffeine make a beeline for her bloodstream. She could have sworn her heart fluttered and slowly

began to beat. Low-level brain-activity waves started to bounce through her head.

Heading for the refrigerator, she said, "Speaking of lam . . . do we still have some of Granny Reid's blackberry

preserves? Or did I use them on the biscuits when [ fed the troops yesterday?"

Tammy's chin hiked a couple of notches. "I don't snow. I don't eat fruit that has been ruined by processed sugar. My body is a sacred temple."

Savannah found the jam hiding behind the hotildge

sauce. "Yeah, well. . . your 'sacred temple' could ;-et run over and mashed flat by a bus tomorrow, and rou'll wish you'd had a decent last meal before you de

Parted this earth. Want some eggs and bacon?"

"Absolutely not."

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"Grits, swimmin' in butter? Hot, flaky biscuits? Cream gravy?"

"Get real."

- Savannah shrugged as she pulled the necessary ingredients

for a full, Southern-style breakfast from the refrigerator and cupboard. "Suit yourself, girl. You don't know what you're missing."

1.. Tammy grimaced and mumbled, "A heart attack, high blood pressure, stroke, diabetes, obesity--" - "Watch yourself, Miss Prissy Pot." Both hands full, Ike kicked the refrigerator door closed with her foot and dumped the stuff on the counter. "I could fire you for insubordination."

- "Fire me from the almost job that you almost don't

pay me for?"

"That's the one. Careers like yours are hard to come by. . . studying at the gum-soled feet of a master detecre.

Tammy glanced down at Savannah's fuzzy red slip

Cis, grinned, and slid onto a kitchen chair to watch as

Smannah began her preparations. "So, Nancy Drew . . .

you and the Hardy boy get your bad guy last night?"

"We did. The moron sneaked into his mom's house

t two in the morning to pick up some of his CDs

a favorite baseball cap. He's paying for the stuff

his freedom. Where he's at, he won't get to use any

The little girl he abused was ecstatic to hear we'd

ted him up. She can go back to school now, play in yard again, live like a normal kid"--Savannah sighed he stretched some bacon strips across a hot skillettil

her mom makes another trip to the local bar and 1gs home the next yahoo pervert."

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Tammy winced. "Ouch, that's pretty cynical."

"Yeah, well.. . . when you've been around that block a hundred times, you learn the lay ' the land."

The smell of frying meat filled the kitchen and, apparently, wafted to the sunporch in the back of the house, because two sleek black cats--big enough to pass as miniature panthers--came running into the kitchen. Both wore black, rhinestone-studded leather collars and expectant looks on their faces.

"Ah, Cleopatra, Diamante"--Tammy reached down to stroke them as they passed, tails held high, on their way to their food dishes--"all you guys have to do is lie in the sunshine and eat. Tough life being a cat."

"Feline Americans," Savannah corrected her.

"What?"

"You heard me. This is a politically correct household."

Tammy snorted. "Since when?"

The telephone rang, and Savannah grabbed it off the wall. "Moonlight Magnolia Detective Agency," she said, her voice Southern silk. "Good morning."

Tammy pointed to the kitchen clock, which showed a quarter past one.

Savannah grunted and began to flip the bacon in the

skillet. "Er . . . make that afternoon," she said.

The female voice on the other end was just as sultry

and even more distinctly down-Dixie. "Don't know if it's morning or afternoon, huh? Late night?"

Savannah smiled, instantly feeling better in all areas, even ones the caffeine hadn't reached. "Ah," she said, "if it isn't my chronologically gifted maternal crone calling

from Georgia."

"What?" The voice sounded a mite cranky.

"We're being politically correct around here thi

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morning. . or afternoon. We're proving how enlight'ened and--"

"Oh, hogwash. I didn't call you to get an earful of buflpucky."

Savannah chuckled. "So, why did you call me, Granny Acid? Not that you have to have a reason, of course."

"I called to warn you."

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"Warn me? Why? Did you have one of your prophetic

dreams about me or--"

"No, not this time. I'm letting you know that you're gonna be getting some company, a visitor from Georgia."

"You? Are you gonna come see me again, Gran?"

A mischievous snicker on the other end. "Not me. I don't think California has recuperated from my last trip

out there."

'That's true. Mickey Mouse and Goofy still have hangovers. So, if it's not you, who?"

"One of your beloved siblings."

Savannah sighed. With one brother, seven sisters, and a gaggle of nieces and nephews, the nerve-wracking possibilities seemed limitless. "Not Vidalia and the twins . . . both sets, that is . . ."

Glancing over at Tammy, Savannah saw her assistant make a wry face that reflected her own thoughts on the