Sugar and Spite by G. A. McKevett

reporters after all, figuring a simple “no comment” was best under the circumstances. But the moment she got into her Camaro, she whipped the cell phone out of the glove box and dialed Larry Bostwick, attorney-at-law. The caped crusader, a defender of the underdog, a criminal’s last hope and an innocent man’s best friend.
    In other words, Larry was a crooked defense lawyer who smelled of stale cigarette smoke and wore a bad toupee and rumpled polyester suits. But he was a damned good liar… just the sort of guy to have on your side of the courtroom.
    “Larry, Savannah Reid here. Have you heard about Dirk Coulter’s problems?”
    “Heard about it on the radio this morning when I was driving to the office. Does he need me?”
    “You have no idea how badly.”
    “Have they arrested him?”
    “Cuffed and rights read,” she said with a sigh. “Get down here to city hall lickety-split, would you? He’s in a weird frame of mind, and I don’t know what he’ll say or do that would make his problems worse. And they’re bad enough already.”
    “How bad? How does it look for him, Savannah?”
    “It’s bad. He’s in up to his eyeballs. Hurry.”
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CHAPTER SEVEN

    Summer meetings of the “staff” of the Moonlight Magnolia Detective agency were conducted beneath Savannah’s rose arbor in her backyard, with pitchers of fresh lemonade and iced tea, or beer and wine coolers if everyone was officially off duty. The attendees usually wore shorts, T-shirts, and sandals… except for Ryan Stone and John Gibson, who came a bit more presentably attired in fresh cotton shirts and linen slacks.
    But the winter weather of February called for a seasonal change of menu and wardrobe. Mugs of steaming Earl Grey tea or Irish coffee, hot chocolate with lots of whipped cream, or the occasional whiskey toddy warmed the guests who had changed to long sleeves, as the temperature frequently plummeted to a bitter, bone-chilling seventy-three degrees, rather than the standard seventy-six.
    Whether the dead of winter or during a midsummer dream, the group usually enjoyed these gatherings of minds, ideas, personalities, and resources, pooled to solve a particularly puzzling case.
    But this time, the mood wasn’t so festive, because one of their members was noticably absent. And even though Dirk could be a sand burr on the back of everyone’s britches from time to time, they all liked him… whether they would openly admit it or not.
    Savannah and Tammy, Ryan and John lounged on comfy chaises beneath the arbor, discussing Dirk’s predicament while consuming mug after mug of tea that Savannah had scented with cloves, cinnamon sticks, and slices of lemon and oranges. An array of fresh-from-the-oven, heart-shaped, pink frosted sugar cookies was displayed on a large delft platter—Savannah’s token gesture of celebration for the upcoming lovers’ holiday. The very fact that the pile of sweets had been sitting there for five long minutes showed a couple of things: One: Her guests were too upset to eat. And two: Dirk Coulter wasn’t present to inhale them like a Hoover vacuum cleaner. Savannah missed slapping his hand and telling him to behave.
    John took a sip of his tea, closed his eyes for a moment to savor the experience, then fastidiously brushed a drop from his perfectly trimmed mustache. “So, Savannah, we are at your disposal, my dear,” he said with his deep, theatrical, British accent. “Please tell us how you would like us to proceed in helping this unfortunate compatriot of yours.”
    Savannah looked from him, the regal silver fox, to an anxious Tammy and an infinitely attentive Ryan. Dirk’s situation was grim, to be sure, but with players like this on his team, maybe he had a chance that was a wee bit bigger than the infamous “no chance in hell.”
    “It’s going to be hard to go after the killer,” she said, “with no more than we have on him at this point.”
    “Dirk didn’t get a good look at him?” Tammy