Fat Free And Fatal

by G.A. McKevett

Genres: Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

There's nothing like a makeover story to get people hooked, and America is certainly addicted to the weight-loss saga of once celebrated actress Dona Papalardo. Plus-sized P.I. Savannah Reid is no exception although she can't imagine wanting to shed her own hourglass figure by undergoing gastric bypass surgery like Dona did. After Dona’s personal assistant is shot dead in the star's mile-long driveway, Savannah becomes her bodyguard. The victim was wearing one of Dona's fur coats, indicating that Dona was the target. And when Dona's hunky gardener takes a bullet between the eyes, Savannah knows she must act quickly to find the killer. Knocking around Dona's palatial estate gives Savannah plenty of opportunity to hobnob with A-list celebrities and compile a list of suspects that proves some people can never be too rich, too thin, or too vindictive. But just when Savannah's sure she's had her fill of the macabre, the shooter strikes again, and this time Savannah is nearly caught in the crossfire. Now, Savannah's determined to find the truth. After all, it's pretty hard to enjoy fifteen minutes of fame—or a double chocolate brownie—from six feet under...

Release date: March 21, 2013

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

The tiny, southern California town of San Carmelita had its picturesque areas where Hollywood celebrities browsed for antiques, shopped quaint boutiques, and sunned themselves on pristine beaches. But Saul’s pawnshop wasn’t in any of those areas. Saulie’s was on the other side of town, the part of town that the city council frequently discussed at meetings, trying to figure out new, cheap ways to spruce up the neighborhood. Or at least keep tourists out of it, so they wouldn’t get themselves mugged or perforated by a stray bullet.

Nestled snugly between a tattoo parlor and a porn store, Saul’s shabby little hockshop had been trading valuables of questionable ownership for instant cash for over fifty years. But Saul himself was neither shabby nor questionable. He was a character, and he also had character…which made him one of Savannah Reid’s favorite people.

As she and her friend, Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter, left Dirk’s old Buick and walked up the sidewalk toward Saul’s shop, she stepped off the walk to allow a teenage boy and his pit bull to pass, giving the dog and his master plenty of room.

Wearing full gang attire and a surly, wanna-piece-of-me? scowl on his face, the gangbanger looked threatening enough without his wide-jawed, excessively toothsome companion. And while the streetwise Savannah had kids like him for lunch on a bologna sandwich spread with plenty of mustard and a dab of mayo, she made it a point to avoid pit bulls whenever possible.

Dirk nudged her with his elbow. “Afraid of a little puppy dog?” he said.

“Puppy dog, my hind end,” she replied, her Southern drawl thick, despite all her years on the West Coast. “Remember when we saw a ‘pup’ like that one take a chunk out of a patrolman’s thigh a few blocks from here? All because the cop jumped over a fence and into the wrong yard, chasing a perp?”

Dirk shuddered. “Gross. Like I’m gonna forget that one. We saw some pretty nasty stuff when we worked graveyard back then.”

Savannah felt her own little chill. During the years she and Dirk had served together on the San Carmelita police force, they had seen some pretty nasty stuff in the noonday sun, too. Heart-wrenching, soul-scarring images that kept you awake at night. Unless you read a lot of trashy novels right before bedtime and ate a lot of chocolate—Savannah’s remedies for just about any of life’s unpleasantries.

Dirk was still a cop—still collecting nightmare material.

Savannah had moved on to greener pastures and become a private detective. Well, sometimes the grass was greener…when she actually had a paying client or two. Then there were the other times, like this one, when she had absolutely nothing to do except tag along with Dirk.

As they passed one seedy establishment after another, she wondered if there wasn’t a better way to spend a Saturday afternoon than hanging out on the bad side of the tracks with a guy who had been gruff in his twenties and grumpy in his thirties. And now that he and she were solidly in their forties, he had worked his way up to a five-star curmudgeon.

Dirk let go with a deep, chest-rattling cough, which he tried his best to suppress. She knew why. And it wasn’t going to work.

“That’s the third chest cold you’ve had this spring,” she said. “Not to mention the four sinus infections and all the sore throats.”

He growled under his breath. “So, don’t mention it. Don’t you start nagging me, woman. I won’t stand for it.”

“Since when? I’ve nagged you to quit smoking since the day we met. Pointing out all of your faults keeps me from having to focus on my own. So, why stop now?”

“Because I’m gonna fly into a blind rage if you don’t. I’ve had enough of your—” More gagging and coughing took his breath away, along with the rest of his argument.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You and your blind rages,” she said. “I live in fear.”

When they reached Saul’s front door, Dirk opened it and stood aside for her to enter. Savannah liked that. Right after a cigarette, he might smell like a Las Vegas casino, but Dirk was still an old-fashioned gentleman.

Dark and dank, the tiny pawnshop needed a good airing. The only bright spots in the glum establishment were the glass-front counters that held treasures ranging from estate jewelry and fake estate jewelry to dented French horns and antique typewriters.

A small gnome of a man appeared at the tinkling of the silver bells that hung above the door. He was wiping his hands on a dirty cloth as he came out of the back room, a hopeful look on his wizened face. But at the sight of Dirk, his bright, entrepreneurial grin disappeared. “Oh, it is only you,” he said with a slight Slavic accent. “I must say this to you, I’m not a happy man. Not at all. Saul does not like to lie to his customers, to deceive them, to deliver them into the hands of the law. If word gets around that I do this…”

“The guys who are trying to unload their stolen crap will take it elsewhere,” Dirk told him. “That’s a good thing, right?”

Saul grimaced. “I suppose so.” He turned to Savannah and his eyes lit up ever so slightly. “I am happy to see you, though, Savannah, my dear. It is not every day a pretty woman comes into Saul’s store.”

“Forget about the pretty girls for a minute, Saulie,” Savannah said, giving him the benefit of a brief smile before turning all-business, “and tell us about the ugly mug you’re expecting to come in here this afternoon.”

“Ah, that one.” Saul shook his head. “He’s a bad fellow, I tell you. About a month ago, he comes in here and tries to sell me a gun that he has no papers for. And when I refuse to buy it, he gets so very angry, I swear I think he is going to shoot me with it.”

“And you were probably right,” Savannah told him. “Always trust your instincts, Saul. In your business you can’t afford not to.”

Dirk glanced down into one of the glass cases, then bent over, taking a better look at a bowie knife with a rosewood handle. “Tell me exactly what he said when he called you this morning.”

Saul cast a quick look at Savannah. “I will not repeat exactly what he said in front of a lady, but he told me he had a woman’s Raymond Weil watch and a gentleman’s Tutima. Said he wanted to be rid of them this afternoon. Well, that Tutima rang a bell in my brain. Saul may be old, but he’s not so stupid as some think. I grabbed the…what you police call…the hot sheet and looked at it really quick while I still had him on the phone. And there it was, third item on the page: a Tutima with ‘Merry Christmas, Uncle Carl’ engraved on the back of it. So, I asked him if it was clean, mint condition, and he said, ‘All except for a short message on the back.’ Claims he’d had it engraved for his beloved uncle, but dear Uncle Carl—may he rest in peace—passed away before he could give it to him on Christmas.”

“Heartbreaking story,” Savannah muttered.

“Ain’t it though?” Dirk added. “Let’s get this bastard.”

“And return Uncle Carl’s watch to him…whoever he may be,” she said.

Saul’s eyes brightened at the prospect. “I have suffered too many losses from these no-goods who come in here and sell me stolen items. And then you police come along behind them, take the merchandise and leave me with nothing but empty hands. It will be a good feeling to catch one of them in the act and let him take the loss for a change—let him be the one who is disappointed and upset.”

“A good feeling?” Savannah laughed. “Oh, Saul, you have no idea how good you’re going to feel if we nail this guy. Revenge is better than a hot fudge sundae…with two cherries on top!”



Half an hour later, they were ready for the vendor of fine, recently pilfered goods to walk through the door. Savannah stood behind the counter, trying to look like a proper pawnshop clerk—which meant trying not to stare at the pretty sparklies in the jewelry cases that were constantly snagging her attention.

And Dirk sat on a folding chair, just inside the door that led to the back room, within earshot, but out of view of anyone coming into the shop.

As Saul chattered nervously away in Savannah’s ear, she wondered briefly if it might be a mistake, asking this frail, elderly man to cooperate with a sting like this. What if he had a heart attack right in the middle of the takedown? She was current on her CPR, but she couldn’t imagine bouncing up and down on that skinny little rib cage. Savannah would never be accused of being a lightweight; she was a “real” woman, gifted with a sturdy, hearty frame and plenty of feminine embellishments to flesh it out.

She knew she had the capacity to mash old Saul flat as a flitter—as her Granny Reid would say. Savannah had never been sure exactly what a flitter was, but she was certain you could easily slip it under a tight door. And sure as shootin’, nobody wanted to be one.

“So, tell me, pretty Savannah…when are you going to come in here and shop for an engagement ring?” Saul wanted to know as he rubbed some jewelers’ rouge on a cloth and began to buff a candlestick.

“Uh…maybe when I find somebody I want to be engaged to.”

Saul nodded his head toward the back door. “A nice girl like you with those beautiful blue eyes and all that shiny dark hair? You must have suitors lined up outside your doorway with flowers and candies. No?”

“Mmm, not so’s you’d notice, Saulie.” She gave him a flirty grin that deepened her dimples. “There’s plenty of room on my porch if you want to show up with roses and a box of Godiva’s chocolates.”

“Ah, I’m too old to do anything but look. But how about that one in there?” He nodded toward the back room where Dirk sat. “Any chance of him wanting to put a ring on your finger someday?”

Savannah snorted. “More like, any chance of me holding still for it? Saulie, go wash your mouth out with soap, saying a thing like that. It’ll never happen. That one in there wants to marry me about as much as I want to marry him.”

“And how much is that?” Saul said, his eyes twinkling with a light that hinted at a younger, more virile fellow still lurking inside his timeworn body.

A cough rumbled on the other side of the door, followed by some throat clearing. “You two hens wanna stop cackling in there,” Dirk said, “and stay sharp? In case you haven’t looked at a clock lately, this afternoon is just about up. It’s a quarter to five. This guy better show soon. I’m getting hungry.”

“Oh, stop your griping,” Savannah snapped. “I told you I’ve got a chicken stewing on the back burner at home. You’re getting a free chicken and dumplin’ dinner tonight. Biscuits, too. That should enough to—oh—heads up. We got company coming.” She turned to Saul. “Is that your buddy?”

Saul craned his neck to look out the window. He jumped to attention. “That’s him! That’s the one who calls himself R.L. Can you imagine a person wanting to be called by a couple of letters like that, instead of a proper name? That alone shows what a hoodlum he must be. I would wager he’s already spent time in prison.”

Instantly, Savannah thought of a dozen good ol’ boys from her home state of Georgia who went by assorted initials in lieu of full names. She knew a J.D., a J.P., a J.R., and a J.B., just for starters. All fine, upstanding, proud sons of the South—they hadn’t served more than thirty years of hard prison time between them. And most of that was for “thumpin’” on other, less upstanding, good ol’ boys who’d been asking for it.

Nope. Saulie’s theory just didn’t hold water.

But R.L. looked like he might be an exception. He did look like a hoodlum, from the metal-studded leather vest that he wore with no shirt underneath, to the spiked dog collar around his neck, from the five-inch-high black Mohawk, to the swastika tattoo proudly displayed on his bare chest. Savannah took particular notice of the enormous skull-and-crossbones ring on his right forefinger that would be nasty in a fistfight, should one ensue in the process of taking him into custody.

No, R.L. didn’t look like your average accountant or Sunday school teacher. He looked like exactly the kind of guy Savannah enjoyed busting—somebody who continually did nasty, ornery things to nice people, but was cocksure that they would forever get away with it.

She loved proving them wrong.

As he sauntered through the front door, she rearranged her face from a self-satisfied smirk to the look of a moderately bored clerk who was looking forward to going home at five sharp. “May I help you?” she asked R.L. as her eyes casually scanned the rest of his person, looking for any telltale bulge that might signify a weapon—other than the oversized skull ring. But the ring was all she saw.

He walked past her and over to where Saul stood. “Nope. Saul here is my man,” he said. “I called earlier.”

“Ah…you’re the good fellow with the Weil and the Tutima?” Saul laid his polishing cloth down on the counter. Savannah noticed that his hand was trembling. Again, she felt a pang of concern for her old friend. This sort of thing was nerve-wracking on anyone, let alone an octogenarian who had lost his wife only a year ago and had survived a triple bypass just last winter.

“That’s me.” R.L. glanced over at Savannah, then toward the front door and the back of the store. “Let’s do some business. And don’t take all day about it either, old man. I got places to go, things to do.”

Saul bristled at the “old man” comment, pulled himself a couple of inches taller, and stuck out his chin. “Not so fast, young man. Saul takes his time and conducts his business in proper fashion. Let me see what you have to sell and, if you wish to do business with me, remember to address me in a respectful tone of voice.”

R.L. gave a little snort, then dug into the front pocket of his jeans. He pulled out a couple of fine watches and dumped them onto the glass countertop as though they were nothing but a couple of carnival trinkets. “There,” he said. “I told you they were expensive stuff. New. Never even worn. So don’t go trying to cheat me. I want full price for these.”

Saul pulled a pair of glasses from his shirt pocket, then took his time unfolding them and slipping them on. As he studied the pieces carefully, turning each one over and over in his expert hands, he said, “I’m sure you came by these fine pieces in a perfectly legal way. Eh, my impudent fellow?”

R.L. started to answer, then paused, mentally snagged on the word impudent. Then, unable to decide if he’d been insulted or not, he said, “Sure. Like I told you, legal all the way. Christmas presents I just never got around to returning.”

Saul cleared his throat, looked up from the watches, and gave Savannah a big, toothsome smile. Suddenly, he looked years younger and decades stronger. “These watches,” he announced in a loud, clear voice, “are exactly as we thought. We can conclude our business now if you like.”

At his words, Savannah reached under her jacket and pulled her Beretta from its holster. She pointed the barrel at a spot a couple of inches below R.L.’s Mohawk. “Freeze,” she told him. “Don’t you even twitch, son, or you’ll have a whole new hairdo with a permanent part.”

Half a second later, Dirk came around the corner, his revolver drawn. When he saw the suspect, he smiled as brightly as Saul. “Well, hello again,” he said. “I remember you, you worthless pile of dog crap. I busted you about two years ago for robbing a church’s poor box. Remember me?”

As Dirk and R.L. reminisced about days of yore, Savannah was moving around the counter, intending to position herself between their suspect and the doorway. But she was watching him, his every movement…most importantly, his eyes. And she knew the instant he made the decision.

“No!” she shouted as he spun on his heel and headed for the doorway. “Don’t you run, you little—”

She banged her hip hard on the corner of the glass cabinet as she rounded it, but she hardly felt the pain because of the jolt of adrenaline that had hit her bloodstream. She headed for the door, about six steps behind their now-on-the-run thief.

R.L. and his ugly leather vest shot out the door with Savannah on his heels and Dirk behind her. He took off down the sidewalk, running with the grace of a recently decapitated chicken, knocking his fellow pedestrians aside and a kid off his bicycle.

But what he lacked in beauty, he made up in determination.

The guy was pretty fast.

Too fast for Savannah’s liking.

After only a couple of blocks, she could hear Dirk huffing and puffing behind her. An excellent runner with longer legs than hers, he normally overtook and passed her when they were in a footrace. But this time it was she who was in the lead when their quarry changed routes and headed down a side street toward the old mission.

A tourist attraction as well as a functioning church, the mission had a wide, shallow pool, decoratively situated in a courtyard at the entrance to the property. Inlaid with cobalt blue and yellow tiles, the pool provided some cool, refreshing wading for the town’s children on hot summer days.

And, it seemed, for the occasional thief on the lam.

Rather than try to fight his way through a crowd of tourists who were taking pictures of the ancient adobe building and its picturesque surroundings, R.L. decided to take a shortcut through the fountain.

Splashing water like a Labrador retriever puppy gamboling at the beach, he galloped through it and was out the other side in less than five seconds.

Savannah didn’t take the time or energy to even consider her new suede loafers. She plunged right in, making just as big a splash…much to the chagrin of the tourists within splash range.

She didn’t take time to hate him either as she felt the cold water soak her new linen slacks up to the knee. She could always hate him at her leisure.

Once she had her hands on him.

He reached the other side of the plaza and its surrounding wall, where he hesitated a couple of seconds before deciding to turn right and head for the old graveyard near the back of the mission.

Those two seconds were all Savannah needed to close most of the distance between them.

And when he paused another half second before jumping up onto the wrought-iron fence that bordered the cemetery, that was all she needed.

She tackled him, grabbed one handful of leather vest and another handful of Mohawk, and yanked him down off the fence. A moment later, R.L. was face first on the grass and Savannah’s right knee was firmly planted on the small of his back.

He let out a yelp as she tightened her grip on his hair.

“Make me run,” she said, putting her full weight on him. “Make me have to hotfoot all over God’s creation just to lay hands on you, will you? You’re gonna pay for that!”

She glanced down at her soaked loafers. Now that her suspect had been apprehended she could afford to be fashion conscious again. “You’re gonna pay for my shoes, too,” she told him, “if I have to take it out of your mangy hide!”

At the sound of pounding footsteps behind her, she turned and saw Dirk racing up to them. At least, he was attempting to race. His face was red and his eyes slightly bugged as he huffed and puffed his way along.

When he finally reached them, he bent double, holding his stomach, fighting for breath.

“You okay there, buddy?” she asked him.

“Yeah, sure…no sweat.”

But he was sweating. Profusely.

For a moment, Savannah forgot the struggling, groaning guy beneath her and did a mental checklist of heart attack symptoms.

“You feel any chest pain?” she asked him, fighting down a surge of panic. Visions of doughnuts and too many beers while watching football games danced in her head, not to mention a chain of cigarettes reaching back for years and years and years. “Any sort of pressure? Pain in your arm or—”

“No,” he said, still gasping, still bent double. “I’m not having a friggin’ heart attack. I just can’t catch my breath.”

He reached into his bomber jacket pocket, pulled out a pair of handcuffs, and tossed them to her.

She quickly manacled R.L., then stood and pulled him to his feet. She gave him a shove in Dirk’s direction. “There you go,” she told him, “one bad guy—signed, sealed, delivered. He’s yours.”

“Thanks.” Dirk grabbed R.L.’s arm and began to drag him back down the path they had just run. “I owe you one, Van.”

“Another one,” she corrected him, following close behind. “Another one in a long, long, long line of IOU’s.”

“Yeah, but that was the first time you’ve ever had to catch a bad guy for me,” he admitted. The look on his face was one of utter devastation and deep humiliation.

It worried Savannah more than his previous breathlessness.

Dirk was seldom embarrassed—even on the frequent occasions when he truly should have been—let alone mortified.

“Dumb luck,” she said, a little too cheerfully, even to her own ears. “Next time you’ll nab ’em.”

“That ain’t it, and we both know it.” He shook his head in disgust. “I can’t run anymore. Hell, I can’t even breathe anymore.”

They reached the fountain, where the startled, thoroughly splashed tourists were still standing around, their mouths hanging open, watching for the next chapter of this unexpected drama that was playing out before them.

Dirk stopped at the edge of the pool and pushed R.L. toward Savannah. “Hold on to him for a minute. I got somethin’ to do here.”

Amazed, Savannah watched as he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. She was even more surprised when she saw him toss them into the water.

“No way,” she whispered. “I don’t believe it.”

“Believe it, Van. It’s happening. It’s happening right now.” He squared his broad shoulders and lifted his chin a couple of notches. “The day that I can’t chase down a perp—the day that you can catch one and I can’t—that’s the day I quit.”

Savannah had seen Dirk quit before. Many, many times. He was an expert. He had “quitting” down pat.

He was as good at quitting smoking as she was at losing weight. They had both done it hundreds of times.

But after decades of “quitting” and “losing,” he was still a smoker and she was still overly voluptuous, according to the surgeon general’s weight charts.

This was no different than all the other times she had seen him give up the cigs.

Or was it?

Her breath caught in her throat when she saw what he did next. He reached into his pocket one more time, and pulled out his lighter. His silver Harley-Davidson lighter that he’d been carrying the day she had met him, back when polyester-clad dimwits were still dancing in discos and hitting on people with the line, “What’s your sun sign?” Back when she had worn “big hair” and shoulder pads that made her look like a linebacker.

That lighter was as dear to Dirk as his bomber jacket. She had truly believed she would one day bury him with both.

But…but it looked like t. . .