Cooked Goose

your ice cream. It’s melting.”
    Margie stuttered and sputtered, then did as she was told.
    But you promised not to call the cops,” she protested in a whining voice that irritated Savannah more than the kid’s temper.
    “I did not,” Savannah said as she rose and walked to the microwave. Opening the door, she took out the jar of recently-zapped fudge. “I told you that I wouldn’t call a unit to pick you up from the service station, that I’d do it myself. Once you were with me, all bets were off. Do you want some more hot fudge?”
    Margie hesitated, obviously weighing the advantages of additional hot fudge over the desire to continue the argument. “Yeah, I’ll take some more fudge, and ice cream, too.”
    Savannah rewarded her with the chocolate and a smile. “Now that’s my kind of girl... eats like a stevedore.”
    Margie returned the grin and for a moment the bristly adolescent disappeared and a delightful little girl shone through. “I like Chunky Monkey,” she said. “It’s my favorite.“
    “Mine, too.”
    Margie watched with acute female interest as Savannah replenished her own bowl. “Do you ever have... like... a weight problem?”
    “Nope. I decided a long time ago, there’s a lot more to me—and to being a woman—than some numbers on a scale.” Savannah replaced the fudge in the microwave and walked across the kitchen to the refrigerator. “More whipped cream?”
    “Sure.” Margie cast an only-moderately-sly sideways glance at Savannah’s amply rounded figure. “My dad says you were fired from the police force because you were overweight.” Dumping the remainder of the cream into her own bowl, Savannah said, “Yeah, and your dad’s full of... well... let’s just say your father and I have different versions of that story.“
    “ I’d like to hear your version.”
    Savannah licked the whipped-cream spoon and dropped it into the sink along with the empty bowl. “Naw. It’s old news, while what happened to you tonight is front-page headline material.” She returned to the table and sat down. “Let’s talk about that.”
    Before Margie could reply, the doorbell rang.
    Savannah rose to answer it. “That’s probably Dirk,” she said.
    Margie wasn’t pleased. “You mean, Dirk Coulter, your old partner?”
    “He’s not all that old, but—”
    “He’s a cop! I told you not to call the cops.”
    Savannah sighed. “Been there, done that. So, neither one of us is particularly good at taking orders.” As she left the kitchen, she added over her shoulder, “And, just for the record, that’s closer to the real reason why I got canned.”
    She looked through the peephole and saw a wet, pink, slimy tongue. Yeap, it was Dirk.
    “Hi,” she said, swinging the door open and ushering him inside. “We’re in the kitchen, pigging out with Ben and Jerry. Wanna bowl of ice cream?”
    As they passed through the living room, he peeled off his battered bomber jacket and tossed it onto the sofa. “What flavor is it?” he asked.
    She gave him a withering look. “Free... your favorite. Do you want some or not?”
    “Do bears sh—”
    “Hush.” She pressed her finger to her lips and nodded toward the kitchen. “There’s a minor in the house.”
    “I’m not going to say nothin’ her foul-mouthed father don’t say,” he whispered.
    “Sh-h-hhh.”
    She led him into the kitchen, where Margie still sat at the table, wearing a whipped-cream-laced scowl.
    “Margie,” she said, “have you met Detective Dirk Coulter?”
    “I think so... a long time ago.” She couldn’t have been less impressed.
    “Ms. Bloss, how nice to see you again,” Dirk said with all the respect due royalty. He pulled out a chair and sat across from her. Savannah took her seat at the head of the table.
    “You were just a kid,” he continued, “the last time I saw you... at a Fourth of July picnic, I believe. What are you, about twenty-two now?”
    Savannah resisted the urge to gag. Dirk knew when to spread it on thick... mainly, when he wanted to get as much information as possible out of a disgruntled, female witness.
    It was working. Margie fluttered her lashes as demurely as a Southern belle. “No,” she said. “I’m just sixteen.“
    “Really? You look much older.”
    More fluttering. A shy smile. “Oh, well... thanks, Detective.”
    “We found your car where you... ah... left it,” he said, “smashed into that water tank.”
    Tears clouded the teenager’s eyes, but she