Bitter Sweets

this one out of the fire, but she had to try. “You could help him if you’d just tell me how to get in touch with him.”

    “Help him? You want me to help him by turning him over to you. Yeah, right, lady. Now get the hell outta my place before I have you thrown out.”

    “Your place? You own this club?”

    “That’s right, and you’re trespassing.” Vanessa turned to the corner where Savannah’s previous admirer was sitting. “Hey, Joe, you want to show this gal the parking lot?”

    Whoop’de-do, she thought. This was just what she needed...to get up close and personal with Joe Dumpty.

    “I’m leaving. I’m leaving.” She held up both hands in surrender as she slid off the stool and headed for the door. “But... next time you see Earl, you tell him that there’s a whole heap of people who want to see him right now. We know what he did, and we aren’t going to stop until we’ve got him.”

    She paused for a breath and to let her words sink in. Apparently, Vanessa was listening, because she was getting a bit pale around the gills, like the cobwebby, stuffed fish on the wall.

    “It’s not a question of whether anybody finds him,” Savannah continued, “just of who nabs him first. And you tell him that, so far, the odds are on me, ‘cause I’m the maddest.”

    On the way back to her car, Savannah glanced around the parking lot and spotted a bright purple Trans Am sitting near the rear entrance. The color was startlingly vivid, even in the dim light of the setting sun. Gee, wonder whose that might be? she told herself.

    She memorized the plates, then got into her Camaro. As she was jotting down the number, her phone rang.

    With some misgivings, she answered it. “Yes?”

    “Hi, Savannah, it’s Tammy.”

    “Thank the stars.” She wasn’t up for another round with Bloss or even Dirk. “What’s up?”

    “Alan Logan sued Earl Mallock...for illegal bookkeeping practices that led to the demise of their business. Logan won.”

    “Mmmm...so that’s what Alan was talking about. Interesting, though I don’t know what that might have to do with Lisa’s death.”

    “Sorry. I thought it might help.”

    Tammy sounded so disappointed that Savannah could have bitten her tongue. The kid needed to stay busy; it was the only way to heal her heart.

    “Every thing helps, honey. Good work. I have something else for you, if you don’t mind.”

    “Of course not.” She perked up instantly. “What is it?”

    “Call Denise Harmon at the station. She should be on the desk by now. Ask her to run this plate for us.” She read her the Trans Am’s letters and numbers. “If we’re lucky, we’ll come up with the address where Earl may be staying.”

    “Really?” Her voice sounded thick, desperately hopeful. “Do you think that’s where the little girl is now?”

    Savannah thought of Christy’s message, frantically scribbled with a red crayon in the Pocahontas coloring book. “Ah,

    Tammy,” she said, feeling the ever-increasing sense of urgency that was twisting her nerves into knots. “From your mouth to the good Lord’s ears.”

    Savannah was relieved to see that Captain More Gun’s didn’t close at six o’clock, along with most of the other downtown stores. Apparently, survivalist/gun enthusiast types shopped later than the usual boutique/cappucino bar patrons.

    Hurrying through the door, she mentally rehearsed her string of white lies that would hopefully garner some information about Earl Mallock. Something told her he spent a lot of time here.

    Reeking of cordite and excessive testosterone, the store contained everything any self-respecting anarchist could want: guns, knives, flak jackets, camouflage, and K rations. And, of course, powder, primers, brass casings, and lead slugs-all the ingredients necessary to make your own bullets from scratch.

    On the wall to her left hung a large poster of a Rambo-wanna-be, bristling with guns, knives, grenades, and rocket launchers. He was covered with sweat and grime, his fatigues ripped, veins popping on exaggerated muscles. No doubt, some males’ idea of sex appeal.

    A large Confederate flag nearly covered the back wall, and the sight of it gave her a little twang of homesickness. Good ol’ Dixie. Magnolia trees gently draped with Spanish moss, tall glasses of iced tea with sprigs of fresh mint, and sultry summer nights.

    But after seeing the two yahoos behind the counter the sweetness of nostalgia faded, and she