Buried In Buttercream

her arms and legs out, a smile as wide as the Bellagio fountain on her face. She was the perfect picture of a spirit that was open to life, to love, to hope. “This is just so wonderful. Don’t you think so, Savannah?”
    “Um.”
    “I sure appreciate us having this little talk. Our heart-to-heart conversations mean the world to me. You’re like a big sister to me, and I love you so much.”
    “Zzzzz... .”

    Savannah woke from another nightmare, her heart pounding, her nightgown wet with cold sweat.
    But as she lay there, fighting her way back to reality, orienting and reminding herself that all was well, she realized ... this dream was different.
    As always, he had stood over her, pointing his gun down at her, telling her that he hated her and was going to kill her.
    But this time, his face looked like that of the Russian in the bordello. And this time, she had a gun, too. She pointed at him and fired.
    The face disappeared into the darkness behind him.
    And somewhere in the blackness of the night, she heard the sound of sorrow and utter despair. A young woman crying.
    Savannah searched until she found her. The girl was wearing nothing but a ragged flannel shirt, huddling there in the dark, sobbing.
    “Come on, Tammy,” she said, lifting her and supporting her as she walked her into the light. “I’ve got you, and you’re going to be fine now, darlin’. Just fine.”
    Remembering the details of the dream made Savannah feel better. Much, much better, in fact.
    She lay in the strange, hard, hotel bed, thinking about how Charlene had looked when Dirk had pressed money into her hand and they had put her on a bus bound for San Francisco. She thought about the brother who was going to be so happy to see his little sister again. He might have even thought he’d lost her forever.
    Restoration and healing. Such rare and precious commodities in the cold, cruel world.
    And as she drifted off to sleep, Savannah had to agree with Tammy. It had been a good day.
    One of the best ones ever.

Chapter 24
    S avannah couldn’t remember when her table had been so full. So many loved ones around it. So much good food weighing it down. So much sharing.
    So much bickering.
    “Marietta, how many of those biscuits have you had already, girl?”
    “I’ve been counting and she’s on her fourth one there.”
    “Mari’s always been a pig when it comes to bread of any kind.”
    “So true. So true. Any biscuit in her vicinity’s not long for this world.”
    “That’s why her butt’s so big, and white and doughy looking. It’s all bread.”
    “My bu-bu-tt’s not b-i-i-ig.”
    It was hard to talk with a mouthful of biscuit.
    Granny rapped her spoon on the table and spoke soft, gentle words of reconciliation. “Y’all shut your yaps and eat before I smack you all with a fourteen-inch cast iron skillet.”
    For several seconds, silence reigned. And it was pure bliss. Until Marietta swallowed her mouthful of biscuit.
    “I don’t think y’all are ever gonna figure out this murder case you got goin’ on here. So, I reckon you’re not gonna be gettin’ married neither. Which means we all dragged our merry as—”
    Gran cleared her throat. “Watch it, young lady.”
    “Our merry bee-hinds all the way across this country to see a lot of nothing.”
    “Marietta,” Savannah said, fixing her sister with a baleful eye, “if you don’t have anything kind and uplifting to say at my dinner table, you can take another biscuit and”—she glanced over at Gran and the children—“and shove it into your mouth. In fact, I’ll do it for you.”
    As Alma passed Marietta the biscuit basket, she said, “I thought that trip to Las Vegas was going to solve the case. You do believe it’s the husband who did it, right?”
    “We honestly don’t know,” Dirk replied, looking far less content and joyful than he usually did, after putting away one of Savannah’s fried-chicken dinners—his favorite.
    “The guy seemed like a decent fella,” Savannah added. “And it’s for sure he didn’t actually do the murder himself.”
    At the other end of the table, a quiet Tammy sat next to Waycross, her steamed brown rice and veggie plate nearly emptied. She gave Waycross a sweet smile and said, “Waycross and I have talked about it, and we think he hired it done. Why else would he go out of his way to set up an alibi? It’s the mark of someone who hires an assassin to pay for the hit and then make sure you’re out of town when it