Every Body on Deck

Book 0: Savannah Reid Mystery

by G.A. McKevett

Genres: Cozy Mystery; Private Investigators; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Plus-sized P.I. Savannah Reid has no problem mixing business with pleasure—especially if that means a free trip while on the job. But when a gruesome murder rocks the boat, Savannah may be in over her head . . . When famed mystery writer Natasha Van Cleef invites the Moonlight Magnolia Detective Agency on an Alaskan cruise in exchange for some personal protection, Savannah is instantly onboard with the idea. The voyage goes smoothly—until Natasha and her husband flee the ship and get killed in a suspiciously explosive crash . . . Awash in regret, Savannah and the MM crew won’t return home to San Carmelita until they expose whoever caused the fatal “accident.” But Savannah and her team discover that Natasha’s life was far more dramatic than any of her bestsellers. Not only was her marriage and literary career splattered with bad blood, but a crazed fan was tracking her every move. With suspects and clues flooding in by the boatful, it’s all hands on deck as Savannah rushes to seize the murderer before she lands herself in hot water next . . .

Release date: May 1, 2017

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 353

Sample

“Savannah, that’s the third disturbance call this week! You gotta get your grandmother under control, girl.” Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter switched off his cell phone and jammed it into the inside pocket of his leather bomber jacket. “I don’t want the chief calling me on the carpet about her no more. I can get in plenty of trouble all on my own, thank you. I don’t need any help from your relatives.”

Savannah Reid didn’t bother to ask for the gory details. She just sighed, turned the ruby red 1965 Mustang around, and headed out of town, toward the trailer park where her grandma had recently relocated.

“Darlin’, have you ever noticed,” she said, her Southern drawl even more pronounced than usual because she was annoyed, “that when she’s baking you banana bread, she’s ‘Granny?’ But the minute she does something a wee bit out of line, all of a sudden she’s ‘your grandmother’?”

“A wee bit outta line?” He gave a loud snort that made her jump.

Wow, he’s really irked, she warned herself. Usually, when he was aggravated, he just gave the occasional cringe-worthy liquid sniff.

“She assaulted her neighbor,” he said. “Clobbered him with a book.”

Savannah snickered. “Just a couple of little harmless whacks about the head and shoulders with a New Testament.”

“New and Old Testaments. She beat the crap outta him with the whole Bible. Large print, I believe. The thing weighed a ton. She coulda killed him. Or at least given him a concussion.”

“Gran’s in her eighties. Of course it was large print.” She snickered. “Sorta brings new meaning to the term ‘Bible thumper,’ huh?”

He didn’t laugh. She turned and searched his face. Not even a trace of a Dirk smirk. So she tried another tack. “Besides, it was Ol’ Man Biddle. Shoot, you lived by him and his old lady for years. You know yourself what an ornery peckerwood he is. Not to mention a pervert. If my Granny Reid hit him, he deserved it.”

“But isn’t she a Baptist or a Methodist or something like that? Isn’t hitting him with the Good Book kinda sacrilegious or something?”

Savannah shrugged. “It’s what she had in her hand when she saw him peeping through her window.”

Dirk opened the glove compartment and took out a plastic bag filled with cinnamon sticks. “The chief thought it was kinda cute the first time. But he took a dim view of her smacking Biddle around a second time, and with a cast iron skillet.”

“Again, it’s what she had in her hand. A weapon of opportunity. Biddle should’ve known better than to go skulking around her trailer two nights in a row. Apparently, he’s a slow learner.”

Poking one of the cinnamon sticks into the corner of his mouth, Dirk said, “You’re going to have to explain to her that this isn’t Georgia. Bible whackin’ and skillet smackin’ ain’t as widely accepted here on the West Coast as they are in the rural South. Since she’s moved to California, she’s turned into a juvenile delinquent.”

Savannah drove the red pony off the main highway and onto the pothole-pocked road that led to Shady Vale, one of the area’s two trailer parks.

The picturesque, seaside resort town of San Carmelita had approved zoning for one mobile home park—an elegant, beachfront community, tastefully landscaped with copious palm trees, rockeries adorned with succulents, and the occasional water feature. Highly selective, the home-owners association of Pacifica Harbor Park thoroughly vetted every potential inhabitant, insuring that only the most respectable and law-abiding members of society were invited to live among them.

Granny Reid had submitted her application and was anxiously awaiting their approval. Until then, she was stuck with the rest of the miscreants in Shady Vale. The “other” park.

Dirk was all too familiar with the community himself, having lived there for most of his adult life, until marrying Savannah and moving into her small, midtown home. Better digs was just one of the many upticks that marriage had brought him, along with a steady stream of home-cooked meals, cable TV, and an honest-to-goodness love life.

He was, for the most part, a deliriously happy married man.

Except when his in-laws broke the rules of society, and he was assigned the task of corralling them.

Just outside the city limits, at the end of the bumpy and broken road, past some neglected orange groves and beyond a windbreak of ancient eucalyptus trees, sat an assortment of house trailers. A baker’s dozen. Rusty and decrepit, they were unlikely to ever be called “mobile homes” again. At least, not without a hearty amount of scrubbing, some skillful bodywork, and a spray painting.

In general, the residents of Shady Vale weren’t known for being overly ambitious when it came to even basic home maintenance, let alone beautification.

As Savannah drove past the row of fragrant, gray green eucalyptus trees, she steeled herself for what might lie ahead. Granny Reid was a peaceful, God-fearing, law-abiding woman who was mostly known for her piety, good humor, and the triple-chocolate cakes she baked and delivered to members of the community who were in need.

In her hometown of McGill, Georgia, many of her neighbors had found those cakes—as well as pots of homemade soup, loaves of freshly baked bread, and tins of pecan fudge—on their doorsteps when sickness, financial hardships, family problems, or death itself had visited their homes.

When Gran had first moved to San Carmelita and taken over Dirk’s old trailer, Savannah had seen her extending the same warm, neighborly kindness toward her fellow Shady Valeians.

But then Ol’ Man Biddle had commenced with his tomfoolery. Some new ruffian residents had moved into the tiny community, individuals who were a bit more unruly and untidy than the less-than-stellar status quo.

The situation had been rumbling downhill ever since.

Savannah heard her husband groan, and she didn’t need to ask why, as the park came into full view ahead. It looked like 90 ninety percent of the town’s law enforcement personnel was there. Several radio cars blocked the entrance, their red and blue lights flashing. Inside the property were more police vehicles, uniformed cops galore, two fire engines, copious ambulances, and a large black truck with red and gold lettering on the side that identified it as belonging to the Hazardous Materials Response Team.

“Hazmat?” they both said in unison.

“Lordy mercy,” Savannah whispered.

Dirk shook his head. “What the hell’s she done now?”

“I just hope she’s all right.” Savannah’s heart was racing as she strained to see if anyone was being loaded into the ambulances. But the EMTs were nowhere in sight. The only individuals milling about were dressed in white protection garb, with hoods and self-contained breathing apparatuses over their faces.

Dirk took a long drag on his cinnamon stick and said, “I’ll bet she fed that bloodhound of hers chicken livers again. She should know better. It gives him the worst gas I’ve ever smelled in my life.”

In the interest of maintaining matrimonial harmony—at least what little there was at the moment—Savannah decided not to mention that Colonel Beauregard’s chicken liver gas expulsions were not the worst thing she had ever smelled. Without a doubt, Dirk had won the blue ribbon in that contest after an all-you-can-eat buffet extravaganza at Casa Jose’s. Savannah and the cats had fled the toxic cloud in the middle of the night, evacuating to the living room sofa, because the air in the master bedroom had become dangerous to any creature possessing a nose and set of lungs.

But Savannah decided to keep her mouth shut and spare Dirk that trip down memory lane.

There was, after all, a time to correct those around you and a time to just sit silently and smugly, reveling in the self-satisfaction that they were just purely wrong.

This was one of those times.

Biting her tongue, she pulled the Mustang as close as she could to the area that had been cordoned off by yellow police barricade tape. As soon as she had parked, they both jumped out and rushed to the nearest squad car. The uniformed patrolman inside recognized them and rolled down his window.

Nodding to Dirk, he said, “Mornin’, Detective. Not surprised to see you show up, this being your old stomping grounds and all.” He flashed Savannah a grin. “Nice to see you, Mrs. Coulter. How’s the sergeant here treating you?”

Savannah returned the smile. “It’s still ‘Reid,’” she replied, “but I’m enjoying being a Mrs., for sure.”

Never thrilled with what he called “pointless chitchat,” Dirk cleared his throat and gave the officer his grimmest, no-nonsense scowl. “Whatcha got here?”

The patrolman shrugged. “Don’t know. The chief said we should all stay in our units with the windows rolled up until hazmat figures out if it’s safe or not.”

Savannah shot Dirk a quick look. She was deeply disturbed that her grandmother was in the middle of some sort of hazmat situation, but that concern was closely followed by her dismay at the thought of coming face to face with the police brass.

Years ago, she and they had parted company under less than cordial circumstances. While she didn’t have any ex-husbands, she was pretty sure that running into the SCPD bosses felt a lot like rounding an aisle in the grocery store and finding yourself nose to nose with a previous spouse you were happy to be rid of.

If your ex had a gun and a badge and hated you almost as much as you loathed him.

The patrolman gave Savannah a sweet, reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. It’s the fire chief who’s giving the orders here,” he explained. “He’s the only boss around. At least for now.”

Savannah resisted the urge to reach inside the squad car and give the kid a hug. Like every other uniformed peace officer in the SCPD, he obviously knew about her being ousted and his sympathies lay with her. She didn’t care so much what a few guys in suits thought of her, as long as the men and women in uniforms were on her side. Like this young man, who had been hired long after her departure, but he had heard her story and aligned himself with her.

Ah. Loyalty among the rank and file.

He deserved a hearty embrace.

But Dirk wouldn’t approve. No doubt about it. He cast a dim eye on anything that might compromise his “bad-ass” reputation. Although he definitely had a soft side to his otherwise tough-as-nails persona, few living beings had the chance to see the sweet, mushy version of Dirk Coulter, let alone reap the benefits thereof. That privilege was mostly reserved for his wife and the children, cats, and dogs who happened to cross his path.

In the course of his career Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter had garnered numerous awards: a Certificate of Commendation, a Lifesaving Medal, a Medal of Merit, and even the coveted Medal of Valor.

Those honors aside, Dirk would never receive a Safe-Driving Medal or a Mr. Congeniality tiara and bouquet.

He had no problem with that.

Popularity and the good opinions and well wishes of his fellow human beings were commodities Dirk Coulter could do without.

On the other hand, having been raised as a Southern female, Savannah lived in constant fear that someone, somewhere, might not think she was the finest person walking the face of the earth. She worried about it every day, all day, and it kept her awake at night. Everyone, absolutely everyone, had to adore her.

Even people she couldn’t stand the sight of.

She wanted to be Dirk when she grew up someday and not give a flying flapjack what anybody thought of her. But she sincerely doubted that was ever going to happen. Southern belle training went deep.

DNA deep.

She was doomed to a life of people pleasing.

“Thanks,” she told the patrolman. “All I want is to find out if my grandma’s okay. Did you happen to see a feisty ol’ gal running around in a flowered caftan, causing trouble?”

“Silver hair, big earrings, and a bloodhound?”

“That’s her!”

He nodded toward the trailer that had formerly been Dirk’s, but was now inhabited by Granny Reid and Colonel Beauregard. “When the chief cleared the area, he told her to go in there and not come out. She gave him some lip, but finally did as she was told.”

“That sounds like your grandma,” Dirk grumbled under his breath.

Savannah feigned surprise and indignation. “A Reid woman . . . giving someone lip? Unheard of.”

Dirk snorted. “It’s the ‘did as she was told’ part that’s unbelievable.”

Savannah left the car and hurried toward the trailer.

“Hey!” the patrolman called out to her. “You can’t go over there. Not without a mask.”

Savannah reached down, pulled the hem of her linen jacket up across her face.

Long ago, she’d been told that in a potentially toxic situation, she should tear off her bra and hold one of the cups over her nose. But she couldn’t envision herself arriving at Gran’s door wearing her bra on her face instead of her boobs. That would, undoubtedly, lead to more speeches about Southern belle propriety, and she wasn’t in the mood. Especially if those speeches were given by a woman who had crossed paths with the law three times in one week.

From the corner of her eye, she could see a couple of the hazmat workers in their white, hooded uniforms scurrying toward her. So she quickened her step and managed to reach the trailer’s front door before they could intercept her.

She gave the door a couple of brisk raps. As she waited impatiently for Gran to answer, she turned and realized that Dirk was right behind her. The look of concern on his face went straight to her heart. He might complain about her grandmother from time to time, but he loved Granny dearly and was as concerned about her well-being as Savannah was.

Glancing over her shoulder, Savannah realized that the hazmat workers were nearly upon them. This was no time to stand on formality.

Savannah pushed the door open and hurried inside. Dirk quickly followed, then closed it firmly behind them and threw the bolt.

“Gran? Granny, where are you? It’s me, Savannah. Dirk’s with me, so don’t come out unless you’re decent.”

An instant later, the small trailer was filled with the plaintive sound of a baying bloodhound, as the Colonel in all of his canine glory came loping out of the bedroom. His long, silky, copper ears and pendulous dewlaps swung from side to side as he galloped toward them, eyes bright, tail wagging.

It was the most excited Savannah had seen him in years.

“I’m in here,” called a voice from the bedroom, “changin’ clothes. Sit yerselves down and rest a spell. I’ll be right out.”

Reluctantly, Savannah and Dirk sat on the old school bus seat that had served as Dirk’s sofa for many years. Gran’s furniture was on its way from Georgia, but until it arrived she was compelled to use what he had left behind. TV trays functioned as end tables. Stacked plastic milk crates doubled as bookshelves, chests of drawers, and dressers.

Gran had borne it all with good humor, saying that everybody ought to have a school bus seat for a couch at least once in their lifetime. But she appeared to be in a far less cheerful mood when she emerged from the back of the trailer, a bundle of clothing under one arm and a highly disgruntled look on her face. Her cloud of silver hair, usually perfectly coiffed without one hair out of place, was a mess. She had a smudge of dirt on one cheek and a small scratch and slight bruise on the other.

Colonel Beauregard scrambled to get out of her way and slid under the bus seat. Once he was semihidden behind Savannah’s and Dirk’s legs, he poked his long nose out and gave Granny a sad, apprehensive look, his big brown eyes reflecting the guilt of a tormented soul that had committed some grievous sin.

“Yeah, you better hide, you flea-bitten varmint,” Gran barked at him. “You’re the one that started all this hooey, but I’m the one who’ll get blamed for it. You wait and see.”

As Gran passed them on her way to the door, Savannah smelled a pungent, acrid odor—one that was all too familiar to anyone associated with law enforcement.

“Wow, Granny!” Dirk said. “You smell like a—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I stink like one of those blamed meth labs. Even after a rose bubble bath and lavender bath spray, I can still smell that nastiness in my nose and taste it in my mouth. Here I thought I’d left that mess behind me in Georgia. Who’d a’ thought they’d be doin’ drugs in a place as nice as California with beaches and palm trees and all?”

Savannah stifled a grin. Drugs in California? Who’d a’ thought, indeed?

Gran opened the door and hurled the clothing outside—a tropical print housedress and some undergarments.

Savannah couldn’t help remembering one of the foremost and unbreakable Southern Belle Rules: If by necessity a lady’s lingerie must be outdoors—say, hanging on a clothesline to dry after laundering—it should be hung discreetly, with the row of sheets on one side and large, thick towels on the other, so as not to be visible to passersby. Especially male passersby who might find such a sight overly stimulating and get themselves in a sexually charged dither.

Savannah decided that, since Granny appeared to be perfectly fine with the entire San Carmelita fire department and hazmat team having an up-close view of her flying knickers, she must be pretty upset, indeed.

“Let me guess,” Dirk said with a smirk. “The Colonel sniffed out a meth lab here in the park, and all hell broke loose.”

“Reckon they didn’t give you that gold badge for nothin’.” Gran sniffed. “You got it all figured out. ’Cept the part where that hound, cowering there under your legs, decided to bite a plug outta that drug-bakin’ weasel.”

Savannah looked down between her legs at the woebegone face of her favorite canine—as sweet a dog as she had ever known. “But the Colonel has a history, a traumatic history, with meth labs,” she said, pleading his case. “Sheriff Stafford used him to sniff out that one there on Cooter Hill, and the perp threw ammonia in his face.”

Gran’s expression softened. “Yeah. I remember.”

“So does he, I’m sure. He probably thought he was biting the same guy. They all smell pretty much the same, you know.”

Wearily, Granny plopped herself onto the nearest accent chair—a folding, metal one. She sighed. “But you’ve only heard the first chapter of the story. After the Colonel nipped him—”

“You said, ‘bit a plug outta him,’” Savannah corrected her.

Gran shrugged. “Whatever. That numbskull kicked him hard right in the rear end. So, I had to—”

“Smack him upside the head,” Dirk supplied.

Granny turned to Savannah with a half grin. “Detective-wise, he ain’t half bad, you know.”

“It’s why they pay him the big bucks.” Savannah nudged Dirk in the side with her elbow.

He looked confused. “They pay me big bucks? I didn’t know that.”

“Well, they should.” Savannah turned back to Granny. “What did you hit him with? Hopefully not your Bible this time.”

“No. But it was what you people call a ‘weapon of opportunity. ’”

A sparkle of the devilment lit Gran’s blue eyes, and Savannah was afraid to ask. But she had to. “So? What was it? Confess. Get it off your chest and you’ll feel a lot better.”

Granny cleared her throat. “As it turns out, I was being a good citizen, taking my dog for a walk, letting him do his business, and picking up the . . . um . . . business after the fact. No sooner had the Colonel concluded his business than he got a big whiff of that meth lab, coming from that old, rusty, blue trailer on the end.”

“Let me guess,” Savannah said. “You were picking up the business with something, like maybe your little garden shovel?”

Granny laughed. “My respect for the two of you is growin’ by leaps and bounds.”

Dirk stood, sighed, and pulled a pair of handcuffs from his jacket pocket. “There’s just one more question I have to ask you, Mrs. Reid, before I arrest you for this heinous crime.”

Granny looked up at him, grinned, and batted her eyelashes like a coquette who was one-quarter her age. “What is that, Mr. Po-lease-man?”

“When you smacked that numbskull upside the head with the shovel, was it full of . . . business? Do I have to charge you with first-degree battery and assault with a biological substance?”

Granny looked confused and shrugged. “Why, of course. If you’re gonna whack somebody, especially somebody who just kicked your hound dog, you might as well make it worth your while.”

“As jails go, this is what I’d call fine accommodations,” Granny said as Savannah walked with her to the door of her quaint Spanish cottage. Dirk followed behind, carrying Gran’s suitcase in one hand and Colonel Beauregard’s leash in the other.

Having scented the two cats that lived inside, the hound was in full bay, pulling with all his considerable might against the restraint.

Dirk could hardly keep his footing as he tried in vain to restrain him.

Gran glanced back over her shoulder. “You doin’ all right back there, Son?”

“Peachy,” Dirk huffed. “He’s sure eager to get inside.”

Savannah turned and took the suitcase from him, so he would have two free hands to corral the beast. Then she dropped to one knee in front of the Colonel. Grabbing him by the collar, she fixed him with her most baleful glare—the one she used to intimidate the worst of society’s evildoers.

“Stop!” she bellowed. “Knock it off, or you’ll be sleeping in the garage tonight instead of at the foot of Gran’s nice guest bed. You’ll be on a strict diet of dog food with not one bite of human leftovers to season them with.”

Instantly, the baying ceased, and the dog gazed up at her, brown, soulful eyes filled with fear and remorse.

“That’s better. I don’t want a repeat of that shameful cat-chasing behavior that occurred when we visited in Georgia. Understand?”

The dog’s head sank lower, until his chin was nearly on the ground. He whined pitifully, his tail tucked under his belly.

“Because if you harass those felines, I swear, I won’t intervene this time. I’ll let them have at you with tooth and claw until you look like you tangled with a herd of wild bobcats. You hear me?”

Another whine. The tail untucked and began to wag just a little. He took a step closer to her and licked the back of her hand.

“That’s my good boy,” she told him, stroking the soft auburn head. “If you can deny every natural and inbred instinct in every cell of your body and ignore those silly ol’ cats, I’ll give you a big, juicy ham bone I’ve been saving in the freezer since Easter. Okay?”

She rose, dusted her knee, and noticed Dirk grinning at her.

He gave her a wink. “That’s tellin’ ’im.”

“You just watch. He’ll be the perfect gentleman.”

Granny chuckled. “Sure he will. At least until we get inside the house.”

As they continued up the walk, Dirk cleared his throat. “A herd of bobcats?”

“Shush.”

“O-o-o-kay.”

They ducked beneath the always-needing-a-trim bougainvillea vines that arched over the doorway and entered the house.

Savannah ushered Gran inside first, then followed and set the suitcase on the foyer floor. Dirk followed with the Colonel, who was attempting to ignore the two cats in black satin coats, who eyed him fr. . .