Sour Grapes

Book 6: Savannah Reid Mystery

by G.A. McKevett

Genres: Cozy Mystery; Private Investigators; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Southern California’s plus-sized P.I. takes on a beauty contest killer in a mystery that’s “ as crisp and sparkling as Villa Rosa's best white zinfandel” ( Publishers Weekly). Since moving from the Deep South to San Carmelita, California, private detective Savannah Reid has longed for a little slice of home. But just when she’s about to enjoy some juicy fried chicken, her spoiled baby sister, Atlanta, comes knocking. She’s here to enter the Miss Gold Coast Beauty Pageant and become a star. Savannah is less than thrilled by the impromptu visit, but she's more alarmed about Atlanta's growing obsession with her appearance. Competition at the pageant is getting fierce—so much so that someone's been driven to murder. Desperate to keep her sister out of harm's way, Savannah digs into a real beauty of a case—and discovers the ugly side of the wave-and-pose industry. And when it comes to a bevy of backstabbing, sequin-wearing, crown-coveting glam girls, the question isn't who would want to commit murder, but who wouldn't?

Release date: October 23, 2013

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 311

Sample

Standing at the counter of Burger Bonanza, the tantalizing aroma of stale cooking oil tickling her nostrils, the sight of sandwiches in greasy wrappers setting her taste buds atwitter, Savannah Reid considered herself lucky to be within reach of food . . . any food. It had been a long night.

“Sure you can afford this cornucopia of culinary delights, big boy?” she asked her buddy, Dirk Coulter, who stood beside her, studying the backlit menu on the wall—specifically, the price column—with the discriminating eye of a first-rate cheapskate.

“I can afford it if you don’t get carried away,” he grumbled. Spotting a poster that dangled on a string from the ceiling, he brightened. “Hey, they’ve got a special . . . a Junior Deluxe with fries and a drink for ninety-nine cents! Let’s get a couple of those!”

“Let’s don’t. I’m starved, and that measly kiddy meal wouldn’t fill a chipmunk’s cheeks,” she said, her Southern drawl becoming more pronounced, as it always did when she was irritated and hungry. And Savannah was frequently one or the other.

She stepped up to the counter and motioned to the skinny girl in the baggy, red-and-blue polyester pantsuit. As the Burger Bonanza hostess sauntered to the cash register, Savannah noted the plastic name tag on the breast pocket of her shirt. “Good evening . . . ah . . . Jeanette. I would like to order a—”

“I ain’t Jeanette,” the girl said as she slid an enormous wad of gum from one side of her mouth to the other and chomped on it. “Whaddaya want? We’re closin’ in a couple o’ minutes.”

Savannah forced a weak smile and resisted the urge to relocate the gum to some other orifice . . . like the left nostril or right ear. Both of which bore multiple piercings. Beside her, Dirk snickered, and she elbowed him in the ribs. “Well, Miss Scrawny-Assed, Ill-Mannered Person Wearing Jeanette’s Uniform, I want a double chili-cheeseburger with a superlarge fries and about a quart of Coke and—

“Hey, stop right there!” Dirk held up one hand in his best traffic-directing mode. “I’m not made of money, you know. Cops don’t exactly knock down the bucks.”

“I know. I was one. But private detectives don’t make a killin’ either. And I just spent half the night, keeping you company on a duller-than-dirt stakeout for free.”

“I thought the joy of hangin’ out with me would be payment enough.”

Savannah looked him up and down, taking in the tousled, thinning hair, the decrepit bomber jacket, the ratty T-shirt with a faded Harley-Davidson logo, the nearly kneeless jeans, and the smirk on a face that showed the wear and tear of more than twenty years as a street cop.

In a weak moment, she might have admitted that she joined him on midnight stakeouts for the pleasure of his company. They had been partners on the San Carmelita police force for seven years, before she and the department had experienced a parting of the ways. And she missed Dirk. If nothing else, she missed the daily opportunities to yank his chain; he was just so “yankable.”

She gave him one of her deep-dimpled smiles, then sniffed. “Eh . . . get real, Fart Face. You promised me food. Now, fork over for a double chili cheese and the works before I pitch a fit.”

Dirk groaned—a beaten man. He turned to the girl behind the register. “Get her what she ordered, before she decides she wants onion rings and a strawberry sundae, too.”

A few minutes later, they were sitting on miserably hard booth seats, their feast spread across the table between them. Dirk was pouting, and the expression looked ridiculous on a forty-plus guy wearing a Harley shirt.

“Geez, you didn’t have to go ahead and order the rings and—”

‘’Oh, hush and stuff your jaws.” She shoved the oil-soaked bag of onion rings over to him and grabbed her own burger from the tray. Chili ran from both sides of the sandwich and dripped onto the wrapper as she bit into it. The spicy sauce filled her senses, and she closed her eyes as she chewed, savoring the moment. Ah . . . food, nourishment, highly saturated fat calories. Once again, all was right with the world.

For just a second, maybe two, her pleasure was slightly dimmed by the thought that tomorrow morning, this burger would be riding around on her butt or elsewhere on her body, along with about thirty extra pounds of Winchell’s Donuts, Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey, Yukon Gold potato chips—drowned in French onion dip—and chocolate-dunked, peanut butter cheesecake. But, as always, these depressing thoughts had a short shelf life in Savannah’s mental archives.

Long ago, she had decided to live comfortably with those thirty pounds. She liked the extra sixteen that had settled on her chest. And she figured a pound or two on her face filled out any fortysomething wrinkles. A pound on each foot and another for both hands weren’t something she worried about. That only left nine unwanted pounds, which she assumed had wound up on her rear, and since she carefully avoided wraparound dressing-room mirrors, she hardly ever saw her backside. Outta sight, outta mind—it was a motto to live by.

Yes . . . after a bit of rationalization, Savannah had conjured a healthy self-image. Nine unseen pounds certainly wasn’t enough to cause her to take drastic measures . . . like dieting or jogging.

“You’d think,” Dirk said around a mouthful of burger, “that for the prices they charge, they’d install a decent sound system in here.” He nodded toward the speaker mounted on the wall behind a potted plant with brown, crispy leaves.

Savannah squirted a glob of ketchup onto her fries as she listened to the scratchy version of “Hotel California.” “Glenn Frey sounds good no matter what,” she said.

“Eh, you’ve just had a crush on him since he was on Miami Vice a million years ago,” Dirk said, sounding slightly miffed. Although they had never been romantically linked, Dirk sulked when she said anything good about another guy. And Savannah had to admit that she bristled when he made “Cindy Crawford-hot-bod” comments. But she wasn’t about to admit that those minor irritations were indicators of anything other than a long-standing, completely blasé friendship.

“Are you goin’ out with me again tomorrow night?” he asked, reaching for her soda. “That guy’s bound to show up at his mama’s house sooner or later, and then I’ll nab his ass and stick it back in jail where it belongs.”

“Yeah, I’ll hang out with you again. But only because I have a special feeling in my heart for kid beaters like that one. I think it’s called loathing. Get your hands off my Coke. Buy your own.”

“What are you talkin’ about? It’s all-you-can-drink. When it runs out, you just go fill it up again. Why should I pay for two?”

She snatched the Coke out of his hand and returned it to her side of the table. “Because I don’t want to swap slobber with you.”

“I wouldn’t slobber in it. Geez, Van . . . for a chick you can be really gross sometimes. I—”

“Sh-h-h. Heads up,” she said, looking over his shoulder toward the front of the dining room, where a motley entourage was filing in, wearing the baseball jackets and caps, and red-kerchief bandannas that identified them as members of one of Los Angeles’s more vicious gangs.

“What is it?” Dirk asked, instantly serious. They had worked together so long that they read each other well, and even though a half smile was pasted on her face, her blue eyes registered definite concern.

“Looks like we’ve got some big-city gang activity,” she said, “right here in the sleepy little beach town, tourist trap called San Carmelita.”

“How many?”

She turned back to him but watched them in her peripheral vision as they spread out across the front of the restaurant. “We’ve got five males and a female. The girl’s walking up to the counter. Looks like she’s going to order.”

“And the others?”

“We’ve got one very big, older and very mean-looking dude standing in the doorway, eyeing the parking lot. He’s wearing a black-leather raincoat.”

“It ain’t rained since April.”

“Exactly. Oversize, and he’s got one hand inside.”

Dirk winced. “Oh, shit. That there’s bad news. What do you figure he’s carryin’?”

“Whatever he ripped off in his last burglary. Could be an Uzi.”

“Do you think it’s them?”

Savannah didn’t have to ask who he meant; the same thought had occurred to her the moment the crew had entered. An APB had been issued about a group of teenage gangsters, led by a guy in his early twenties, who had been holding up fast-food joints on the coast of California, north of Los Angeles. They picked spots—like Burger Bonanza—that were near a freeway entrance and hit them late at night, just before closing, nabbing the day’s receipts. As soon as they robbed the place, they headed down the highway and were lost in the traffic.

So far, they hadn’t killed anyone, but during the last holdup they had shot a cashier and destroyed the kid’s right arm. Definitely bad guys . . . quickly getting badder.

“Oh yeah,” she said. “I’d bet they’re our buddies. And us here with I-Ain’t-Jeanette and the salad bar cleaner-upper . . .”

Her voice trailed away as one of the males, carrying an enormous boom box, walked by their table on his way to a booth in the back corner of the room. He sat down, facing forward, set the box on the table in front of him, and turned on what Savannah called “rap crap,” drowning out Glenn Frey and causing Savannah to hate him with all her being.

“He’s mad-doggin’ me, big time,” Dirk said. “Sizin’ me up.”

“Yeah, the guy at the door is checking us both out and keeping an eye peeled on the parking lot. What do you wanna do?”

“Bust ’em?”

“Yeah, right. Duh . . . six to two are pretty lousy odds. I don’t mind getting you and me killed, but if anything happened to sweet little Ain’t-Jeanette, I’d never forgive myself.”

“I guess you’re right. Maybe if I just whip out my badge, it’ll scare ’em away.”

Savannah raised one eyebrow. “Hey, that’s a possibility. Not you pullin’ it out, but me. Remember what we did to distract those yahoos in Chat-n-Chew Café a few years back?”

“Yeah, but there were only three of ’em, not a roomful.”

Savannah saw two of the other guys take seats in the front corner booths. The girl sat down beside one of them, a soft drink in her hand. She gave Savannah an icy, bitter look that belied the softness of her youthful face.

Savannah’s anxiety barometer rose a couple of notches; she and Dirk were now effectively surrounded. “Well, we gotta do something fast,” she said. “They’ve taken positions. It’s going down.”

She reached under the table and tapped him discreetly on the knee. “Pass me your badge.”

“Ah, man . . . how come you get to be the cop?”

“ ’Cause I’m the girl, and they won’t get as shook up if it’s me. Now give me the tin.”

Reluctantly, he slipped his hand inside his jacket, then handed her the badge under the table. “It’s not tin; it’s gold . . . and you’d better not get any bullet holes in it.”

She glanced around warily as she slid the thin, leather folder inside her sweater. “I’ll try not to.” Then, louder, she added, “I’m gonna make a trip to the salad bar. Want anything?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the leader of the entourage tense and lift his left hand slightly. The others froze, their eyes darting between him and the booth where she and Dirk were sitting.

Dirk used the opportunity to glance over his shoulder at the front of the restaurant, the salad bar, and the players in their drama. “Yeah,” he said with studied nonchalance, “nab me some breadsticks.”

“Breadsticks comin’ up.”

Slowly, she stood and strolled up to the stainless-steel bar with its fake stained-glass canopy. The teenage, male employee had just finished covering the last metal canister and loading it on a cart with the others. All that remained was melting ice, strewn with bits of lettuce and other veggie castaways. He didn’t look happy to see her.

“I’ve got everything put away,” he said. “We’re closing, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know,” she replied, walking up to him and standing as close as she could without arousing the suspicions of the gangsters nearest her, about twenty feet away. “And I want some chocolate pudding.”

“We don’t have no pudding,” he said, swabbing at the stainless-steel edge of the bar with a soggy rag. “And even if we did, I told you, we’re closing.”

Savannah took a couple more steps toward him, until they were nearly nose to nose. “I said . . . I want pudding. And I know you’ve got some in the kitchen.” She jabbed his chest with her forefinger for emphasis. “You get back there and fetch it for me. I’m suffering from PMS and I need my friggin’ chocolate fix. You hear me?”

The kid’s eyes bugged slightly. “Yeah, I guess so. I mean, I’ll see if we’ve got some.”

As he started to walk away she whispered, “Stay back there. Both of you.” He looked confused. She raised her voice. “And if you come out here without that pudding, mister, you’re takin’ your life in your hands!”

She lingered at the salad bar, checking out a shriveled radish, floating in the watery ice, until she could see that the boy had taken the clerk by her elbow and led her into the back of the kitchen out of sight.

Like cigarettes burning holes in an old sofa’s cushions, Savannah could feel the gangsters’ eyes boring into her as they watched her every movement.

Her mind racing, mentally rehearsing her next sequence of maneuvers, she meandered back to the table where Dirk sat. A thought raced through her brain, This is a dumb idea. You’re gonna get yourself and Dirk killed.

She quickly retorted with a silent, Oh, yeah . . . can you think of anything better?

Predictably, there was no reply, silent or otherwise. What she had in mind probably wouldn’t work. But she couldn’t think of anything else, and she’d much prefer to be active than wait and react to a roomful of armed kids with hardened, criminal mind-sets.

“Did you get me those breadsticks?” Dirk asked, loudly, rudely as she reached the table. He, too, was “getting into character” for their little drama, sitting there in the booth looking grouchy. Fortunately, for Dirk, acting grouchy wasn’t exactly a stretch.

“Nope, I didn’t get your breadsticks,” she told him, “or my pudding either. They’ve put everything away. You’re outta luck.”

Taking a deep breath and saying a quick prayer for safety that Granny Reid had taught her more than thirty years ago, she stood next to Dirk. She felt him tense and knew he, too, was ready.

Suddenly, she grabbed him and yanked him out of the booth and onto his feet. A half second later, she had plastered his face against the nearest wall. “All right, buddy,” she told him, kicking his legs apart, “you spread ’em and don’t make a move!”

She heard the gang members gasp collectively, and one of them said, “Hey, man . . . what the hell?”

Only then did she allow them to see the 9mm Beretta she had drawn from her shoulder holster. “I’m a cop,” she told them, showing them Dirk’s badge in her other hand, “and I’m arresting this man. Just stay where you are and be cool, and I won’t let him hurt you.”

She put the badge away, grabbed a pair of handcuffs from her slacks pocket and put them on his wrists. “And you,” she said, giving him an elbow in the back for emphasis, “better not cause me any trouble, or I’ll part your hair with a bullet. What little you’ve got, that is.”

Dirk growled under his breath; he was more than a little sensitive about his thinning, not-so-luxurious mane. “Watch it,” he said. “You’ll pay later.”

“Was that a threat?” she said, showing him the Beretta. “Did I hear you threaten me, you lowlife scum?”

One of the hoods and the girl got out of their seats and took a couple of steps toward Savannah. She watched them warily.

“So, what’d he do?” the girl asked.

The big guy at the door strolled over. “Yeah, whatcha bustin’ him for?”

“Murder,” Savannah said. “I’ve been after this guy for a long time.” Turning back to Dirk, she said, “That’ll teach you to go on a blind date that your ex-girlfriend arranged. She fixed you up with a homicide detective, Lame Brain. We both owe her one.”

Savannah gave the gangsters her best deeply concerned, maternal look. “You guys oughta get outta here while you’ve got the chance. I’ve already called for backup, and in a minute this place is gonna be swarming with cops . . . reporters, too. Maybe even the America’s Most Wanted crew. If I were you, I wouldn’t want to be in the middle of a mess like that. Once they start asking you questions, they never let you go.”

The older guy gave his troupe a curt nod, and they rushed the door, en masse. Only the girl lingered, gazing at Dirk with what looked a lot like groupie adoration.

“You’ve been on America’s Most Wanted?” she asked him, batting her eyelashes. “Who’d you murder?”

“He’s a serial killer,” Savannah supplied. “Murdered at least a dozen teenage girls . . . about your age.”

Dirk shot Savannah a look. He was frowning, but his eyes were sparkling.

“Really?” The girl was completely smitten. “Wow!”

“Yeah . . .” Savannah added, on a roll, “even ate parts of ’em. Cooked ’em up, right there in his kitchen along with some onions, turnips, and mustard greens.”

Dirk turned his face to the wall and cleared his throat. His shoulders shook slightly.

“Latisha!” The leader was holding the door open. “Move your ass, bitch!”

“Hmm, smooth-talkin’ laddie, treats his ladies nice,” Savannah mused as she watched them hustle out the door. “Busting him would be almost as much fun as slapping cuffs on you, Babycakes.”

“Speaking of cuffs,” Dirk said when the last one had stepped outside, “these are loose enough for me to slip ’em off if I need to, right?”

“Of course. You don’t think I’d bind those mighty fists of fury, do you? I might have needed you to duke it out with the big guy.”

“Yeah, right. How much of a head start are we gonna give ’em?”

“Not much. We’ve gotta see which entrance they take when they get to the freeway, north or south. Let’s get going.”

Keeping her gun in hand and highly visible, she led her “prisoner” across the restaurant and out the door. The gangsters were piling into two late-model luxury cars. Apparently robbery paid better than private detecting, Savannah decided as she directed Dirk to her 1965 Mustang on the opposite side of the parking lot. Its China red paint glowed a sickly coral in the light of the yellow parking-lot lamps. The feeble illumination also made it difficult for her to read the license plate on one of the cars that was revving up and getting ready to leave.

“I’ve got the Lexus,” she told Dirk, who was shuffling along in captured-cannibal-serial-killer style.

“Yeah, and I’ve got the Acura. You carryin’ your cell phone?”

“It’s in my car pocket.”

“Your what? Oh, yeah, I forgot . . . that’s Southern for glove box.”

When they reached her Mustang, Savannah opened the passenger door and shoved Dirk inside, then slammed it closed. A quick glance at the car nearest them told her the gang was watching. Sitting in the backseat, the girl had her nose pressed against the window and was practically drooling on the glass. Savannah was amazed; females who were hopelessly smitten with Dirk were a rare commodity.

She hurried to her side of the car, slid into the driver’s seat, and got the motor humming. Her Mustang might be ancient, but thanks to. . .