Killer Honeymoon by G.A. McKevett Read Free Book Online Page B

she’s a woman? Something tells me that under that suit, she’s got bigger gonads than mine.”
    She gouged him in the ribs with her elbow. “But not as big as mine!”
    “Baby, nobody’s got a set like yours!”
    “Don’t you forget it.” She leaned closer and rested her head on his shoulder. He kissed the top of her head.
    “Thanks for the offer,” she said, “but I don’t want you to thump her on my behalf. If you did, I’d have to jump into the affray and, like she said, we’d be spending our honeymoon behind bars instead of making wild whoopee in a beautiful lighthouse.”
    “We could find out which car is hers and put Limburger cheese on her manifold.”
    “Now you’re talkin’.”

Chapter 5
    M uch later, Savannah and Dirk settled down for the evening in the living room of the lightkeeper’s cottage, having brought their luggage over from the motel. After searching through her suitcase, Savannah had donned the sleazy leopard-print negligee her sisters had given her as a bridal gift, thinking it might impress Dirk. When she’d appeared in all her glory, Dirk had given her a hearty wolf whistle and motioned her over onto the double chaise lounge where he was sprawled.
    He’d dressed up special for her, too. He was wearing his briefs. As they snuggled on the chaise in front of the fireplace, a soft afghan across their laps, Savannah contemplated—not for the first time that hour—how to murder her new husband and get away with it.
    Of course, she would never actually do such a thing. But she found that, as she listened to him bitch and moan about absolutely everything under the sun, fantasizing about husband-cide could relieve a lot of pent-up stress.
    “This bathtub crap just doesn’t cut it. A man has to take a shower. Baths are for girls.”
    That complaint had prompted her to wonder how long it would take for a man to drown if he was dangled upside down by his feet . . . out a two-story window . . . in a Category 17 hurricane.
    “This refrigerator doesn’t get cold enough. My beer won’t get cold enough. You know I can’t stand it when my beer isn’t cold enough!”
    How long, she had wondered, could a guy survive, folded into quarters and stuffed into that undersized, theoretically lukewarm refrigerator? Could you fold a fellow in eighths and shove him into that tiny freezer? Would he suffocate right away, or would the hypothermia get him first?
    “That looks like a feather bed! I can’t sleep on a feather bed! They’re way too soft! I need a good, hard surface for my bad back! Call that Betty Sue gal and tell her to get me a plank of plywood to put on top of that thing. Otherwise, I’ll toss and turn all night, and you know how cranky I get when I don’t get a good night’s sleep.”
    If you rolled a grumpy curmudgeon up in a feather bed mattress, she speculated, and dragged him to the edge of a cliff and pushed him over, would he bounce when he hit the bottom? How many times? Would he roll on into the water? If he did, would a shark be able to bite through the mattress or just get a big mouthful of feathers?
    “That might be entertaining,” she mumbled to herself as they cuddled and stared into the fire, “a shark spitting out a mouthful of feathers.”
    “What?” Dirk turned and looked at her as though she’d lost her mind. “What did you say?”
    “Oh, nothing. Do you think sharks sneeze?”
    He shook his head and sighed. “Savannah, you’re a very strange woman.”
    “Yes, I am. Don’t ever forget that.”
    “Not likely.” He reached down, took her hand, and folded it between his. “Since you’re asking silly questions, I’ve got one for you.”
    “Shoot.”
    He nodded toward the mantel. “How do they get a ship inside a bottle, like that one there? I checked and there’s no hole in the bottle or seam where they glued it or anything like that.”
    “It’s a secret.”
    “Well, yeah. I figured that. Do you know the secret?”
    “Yes. Grandpa Reid was a