Ain't She a Peach? Page 10

  Eric cleared his throat. “Are you on a break, Deputy Mitchell?”

  Landry’s mouth dropped open. “Ah, no, sir, I’m not.”

  “Maybe it would be a better use of your time to go fill out the rest of your paperwork,” Eric said, tilting his chin down so it almost looked like he was peering over a pair of invisible glasses. He reminded Frankie eerily of her eighth-grade math teacher, Mr. Stewart. Come to think of it, Mr. Stewart had featured heavily in her first sex dream.

  She needed to change the subject of her internal monologue. Now.

  Landry’s ruddy cheeks flushed even darker. “Yes, sir.”

  “Talk to you later, Landry,” Frankie said as Landry scurried off.

  “You don’t have to fuss at him,” Frankie whispered harshly to Eric. “You know he damn near idolizes you.”

  “He needs to focus on his work instead of goofin’ off,” Eric told her. “Now, you get comfortable and wait for your family to come bail you out. Just sit down and relax and . . . don’t touch anything. Your uncle Stan said you’d been workin’ too hard. Several times.”

  Frankie sat down on the cot, grumbling, “Why does everybody keep trying to sentence me to vacation time?”

  FRANKIE WAS ON the verge of dozing off on her cot when Stan and Margot rolled into the sheriff’s office with one of those flatbed carts stacked with cases of oatmeal, dried beans, pasta—any staple that had a long shelf life.

  The flat cart also happened to be the same one Stan used to dolly new caskets into the funeral home, but no one needed to know that.

  “Yes!” Frankie cried, popping up from the cot. “Release me from this hellish prison!”

  “Janey put potpourri and fresh pillows in there for you,” Eric said, nodding to the little blown-glass bowl near the cot. “Your hell smells like apple-cinnamon.”

  “You do realize that in most places, the jail, the sheriff’s office, the courthouse, and the sanitation department are not all in one building, right?” Margot asked, glancing around the office. “I mean, this is super convenient, but it feels sort of crowded.”

  Janey told her, “We didn’t have a lot of municipal money to throw around.”

  Stan beamed at his daughter and put his arm around her shoulders. Frankie’s mouth fell open. For all his affection for Frankie, Stan had never beamed in her presence, not once. And to Frankie’s greater surprise, Margot smiled right back and sort of dipped her head toward Stan. It wasn’t a huge gesture of father-daughter affection, but it still put a lump in Frankie’s throat. She was ridiculously and unabashedly happy for her sad-sack uncle. Maybe they’d be hugging by Christmas.

  “She’s been a model prisoner,” Janey told Stan. “No biting or gouging.”

  “Doin’ the family proud,” Stan said with a snort.

  “I got the key right here,” Landry said, turning to the three key rings on hooks on the wall, marked 1, 2, and 3. Each old-fashioned iron key was paired with a small handcuff key. In his enthusiasm, Landry yanked a little too hard on the 2 key ring. And Landry, being Landry, lost his grip and let the ring slip from his fingers. It flew across the room, sliding over the waxed floor and straight toward the heating grate. Landry scrambled to the grate, where the ring hung through the quarter-size vent holes. The tiny, precariously balanced handcuff key was the only thing keeping it from falling all the way into the ventilation system.

  “No, Landry, don’t!” Frankie cried, just as Landry slid toward the grate on his knees, jostling the weight of the keys. The ring slipped through the grate and dropped into the vent with a distant clang. And then another clang, which, frankly, sounded like it was mocking her.

  “Son, tell me you didn’t.” Stan marveled while the reality of the situation slowly dawned on Margot’s face.

  Frankie let her forehead thunk against the bars. “He did.”

  Margot simply watched in mute horror, her eyes darting from the grate to Frankie and back.

  “It went straight on down the vent,” Landry said, peering through the grate.

  “It’s okay,” Eric assured Frankie, his hands raised. “It’s okay. We have backup keys for all the cells. Right, Landry?”

  “Right.” Landry smiled in relief for a moment and then his face fell. “Oh . . . shoot.”

  Frankie turned to Landry. “What do you mean, ‘oh shoot’?”

  “Well, the backup key isn’t here,” Landry said. “It’s at my house. I took it there when the office started gettin’ real messy under Sheriff Rainey. I was afraid we’d lose it.”

  “Well, then just go home and get it!” Frankie exclaimed, her voice cracking like ice under a school bus.

  “That’s the problem,” Landry said. “I can’t. I don’t know where it is.”

  Frankie closed her eyes and pinched her lips shut before she could say something in the “terroristic threatening” category. Her anxiety clawed through her chest like a living thing, shredding everything it touched. Her fingers went cold and numb and she tried to shake the blood flow back into them. Her stomach seemed to be turning itself inside out and crawling up her throat. Was she having a stroke? Was this what massive cardiac failure felt like?

  “What about a locksmith?” Eric asked.

  Janey shrugged. “Closest one’s in Hollman, which is about an hour away. But that lock’s about a hundred years old, so old I’m not sure his equipment would work anyway.”

  “Can we cut the bars?” Margot asked.

  “The jail’s on the historical registry, so we’d have to get permission from a circuit judge to make any alterations,” Eric said. “Which isn’t likely this late on a Friday. Also, we’ve only got the three cells. I know I’m the only candidate running for the job, but it doesn’t exactly speak well for me as the interim sheriff that I’m cuttin’ apart what little equipment we have because my deputy took home the keys and lost them.”

  Frankie raised her eyebrows and gave Eric a look that definitely fell into the category of terroristic.

  “That was the wrong thing to say,” Eric admitted, turning to his deputy. “Landry, go home and find that key.”

  “Sure. It’s gotta be in my bedroom somewhere,” Landry said, giving a little salute.

  Frankie flopped onto the cot. “My freedom depends on Landry. I’m going to die in here.”

  “You’re going to be fine,” Stan promised. “Worse comes to worst, you can tunnel your way out.”

  “Not the time for humor,” Margot told him, shaking her head.

  “What if Landry can’t find the key?” Frankie whispered. “He couldn’t find his ass with both hands and a map.”

  “Then we explore our locksmith and injunction options,” Eric promised, walking into the adjoining cell. He was right behind her, his voice low and reassuring in her ear. “You’re not stuck here. This is a temporary situation, a few hours, tops. Take deep breaths, Frankie, come on.”

  Frankie took three very large, gulping breaths. Eric reached through the bars and put his hand on her spine, a warm, comforting weight right between her shoulder blades. She knew she was being ridiculous. She knew she wasn’t in any real danger. But the idea of not being able to leave this space, of having no control over food, showering, clothes—the weight of it all crowded the breath from her lungs. She had to stop joking around about going to jail. She clearly wasn’t built for it.

  “All right,” Frankie said, nodding. She looked up to see Stan giving Eric the eyeball. Eric slowly withdrew his hand and backed away from the bars. “I’m all right.”

  “We’ll get you out of here before you know it, Frankie,” Janey promised. “And in a few weeks, you’ll forget how pissed off you are at Landry and you’ll turn it into one of your funny stories. You’ll get free beers out of it for months.”

  “Thanks, Janey,” Frankie grumbled.

  “But you’re okay for now, right?” Margot asked. “You have food and water and a bathroom . . . ish.”

  “Why does your voice sound so weird right now?” Frankie asked.

&nb
sp; “It’s just that Friday night is pizza night with Kyle and the girls,” Margot said. “And they’re waiting on me. And if you’re okay and there’s no chance of getting you out anytime soon . . . and Dad’s my ride home . . .”

  “You’re abandoning me?”

  “ ‘Abandoning’ is such an ugly word,” Margot protested.

  “I will remember this the next time you’re in jail,” Frankie promised.

  “Well, I’ve never been to jail, so that’s an empty threat,” Margot told her.

  “You’re a McCready. Your time will come!” Frankie shot back. When Margot made a confused-pouty face, Frankie sighed. “You can go. I’ll be fine. I’ll just stay here, alone, behind bars, with only a quilt for company.”

  “Great,” Margot said, grabbing Stan’s hand and dragging him out of the office. “Text me if Landry finds the keys.”

  “I was bein’ sarcastic,” Frankie called as they cleared the door. “You should recognize it, by now! Stan! Don’t tell my mama about this, she’ll freak out! Stan!”

  Stan raised his hand as he walked out the door. “Got it!”

  “I can’t believe they left me,” Frankie said.

  “You told them to leave,” Janey said.

  “Yeah, once. I figured it would take a few more times. Whatever happened to family loyalty?”

  “Well, what were they supposed to do, spend the next few hours staring at you in captivity?”

  “No,” Frankie grumbled.

  “And on that note,” Janey said, “please don’t take it personal, Frankie, but I’ve got to head home, too. I’m supposed to meet my sister for fish fry and bingo.”

  Frankie moaned. She’d forgotten that the sheriff’s office closed at nine. After that, all 911 calls were routed through the nearest state police post. Eric got a call in case of a serious incident like a drowning or a shooting, but anything else was handled by the state troopers. So the office was about to close, with her inside. It was like those nightmares she used to have about being trapped in a Kmart overnight and being chased by headless mannequins.

  “Sounds like a scintillatin’ evening,” Frankie said. “Go on.”

  Janey grabbed her purse and keys and waggled her fingers as she ran out of the room.

  “Frankie, don’t panic. Everything’s going to be fine,” Eric told her.

  “What about this situation strikes you as fine, Eric?”

  “Well . . . You . . . I . . .” Eric tried to keep the laugh in, but it bubbled up as a guffaw that had him bending at the waist.

  “It’s not funny,” she exclaimed. She wanted to swat at him, but there were bars in the way and her arms were only so long.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, wiping at his eyes. It occurred to Frankie that she’d never heard Eric laugh like that. And while she was pissed that it was at her expense, it did a lot to ease that cold ache in her middle. It was a really nice laugh.

  “I shouldn’t have laughed. And I shouldn’t have made that crack about not lookin’ good if I cut the bars. It’s just, who else would this happen to?”

  “No one,” Frankie said, rolling her eyes.

  “It will be a few hours, tops, maybe overnight,” Eric said. “I mean, Landry’s gotta find the key, right? Even he’s not dumb enough to throw something like that away.”

  Frankie deadpanned, “Landry, the guy who damn near smothered himself because he put a plastic poncho on wrong?”

  “I didn’t know about that one,” Eric said, pursing his lips as his hands slipped around the bars of her cell. “It’s kind of a miracle he’s survived this long, especially carryin’ around a handgun.”

  “It really is,” she said. “What about Hercules? Is he going to be okay while you stay late?”

  “Yeah, I dropped by the house this afternoon, fed him, let him out to run in the yard. He likes sleepin’ on the back porch better anyway. Are you hungry?” he asked. “I could run down to the Rise and Shine and grab somethin’ to eat.”

  “No, don’t leave,” she said, and without intending to, she grabbed at his hands. He stared down at their joined hands for a second and she jerked away. Or at least, she tried to. Eric caught her hand and held it firm, rubbing her cold fingers with his warm ones.

  “I won’t,” he promised. “I can call. I bet Ike Grandy would hand-deliver it for you.”

  She nodded. “Probably.”

  “A double bacon cheeseburger, onion rings, and a strawberry shake. Your usual, right?”

  She nodded, slowly drawing her hands out of Eric’s as he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. She sat back on her cot while he ordered the food. She kicked off her shoes. How was she going to sleep in here? And even if Eric had a T-shirt she could use for pajamas—she drew the line at prisoner orange, thank you very much—how was she going to change clothes? Would Eric leave her here when his shift was over and tell her he’d see her in the morning? She would be stuck. She pulled at the collar of her dress, a cold flush of dread running from her stomach through her legs. The little choices she had that let her pretend she had control over her life—her food, her clothes, the ability to walk out of a room if she wanted to—they were all gone. She was that scared kid in the hospital again, helpless. She was trapped, alone, unable to tell her family how unhappy she was or how scared, because she didn’t want them to worry. She could choke on the words trapped in her throat. She bent over on the cot, drawing a deep breath through her nose. She was losing it, and she’d only been trapped in here for twenty minutes.

  The claustrophobia that had gnawed at her insides just a few moments before returned, but as a dull throb. She heard metal scraping against the floor in the next cell. She turned to see Eric sliding that cell’s cot toward the bars closest to her.

  “You know, Janey told me that the original builders claimed that the constant supervision of an open plan kept the prisoners from being able to escape. But I think they just wanted easier paperwork.” His tone was conversational, as if she weren’t stuck in a century-old jail cell, waiting for an idiot to free her with a spare key. He was trying to soothe her. She’d spent enough time being placated to know what it sounded like. But she appreciated the gesture all the same. He could have just left her there while he went home to his considerably more adorable dog.

  “I don’t see the connection,” Frankie said, turning and facing him.

  “Well.” He kicked off his boots and unbuckled his gun belt. His whole body seemed to relax without its weight. He sat cross-legged on the cot, facing her cell. “They didn’t have to take their prisoners into interrogation rooms or mess with securin’ doors. The deputies could just shout to the prisoners in their cells when they wanted to know how to spell their names.”

  “Are you trying to distract me with inane details?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at him.

  The corners of his mouth lifted and he spread his palms. “It’s either that or I show you card tricks.”

  “I’ll pass,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t like magicians. You can never keep track of their hands.”

  “Eh, it’s a good way to pass the time when you’re stuck in a squad car for hours at a stretch, waitin’ for a call. It encourages dexterity. Plus, kids always think they’re funny. It’s a good way to distract ’em when they’re upset or scared over some trouble their parents have gotten themselves into. I didn’t break them out with Chase because, well, there just wasn’t time.”

  “Uncle Junior used to make little cranes out of Doublemint wrappers,” she said.

  “Origami?” he asked, his eyebrows raised.

  She nodded. “The redneck version, I guess. He learned it from some library book. Working in the mortuary, he didn’t deal with mourners at McCready’s very often, but when he did see kids, it was usually when they were upset or scared. He liked being able to give them something pretty out of nothin’, something they could put in their pocket and take with them.”

  “You have a nice smile when you talk about your family,” he said, gesturing
to her face. “I mean, you have a lot of different types of smiles, some of them sickly sweet and some of them scary as hell. But the nicest one is when you talk about your family.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Thank . . . you?”

  “Delivery!” Ike walked into the office with a heavy hunter’s jacket over his apron. If he found it at all odd to be delivering a bag full of sandwiches to a jail cell, he didn’t let on.

  “Hey, Frankie,” he said, handing the grease-spotted bag to Eric. He jerked his head toward the towering pile of groceries. “I heard you got a pretty good haul for your bail. That’ll help a lot of people. Good for you.”

  “Thanks, Ike.”

  Ike eyed the bars. “Don’t the Lock Down prisoners get sprung before dinner? How much longer are you stickin’ around?”

  Frankie frowned.

  “Sore subject,” Eric said, shaking his head and making a cut it out gesture at his throat.

  Ike shrugged. “Okay, then. I put a little horseradish in the ground beef mix this time. Tell me what you think.”

  Frankie grinned. “Sure thing. Put the bill on my tab.”

  “Eh, consider it part of your bail donation,” Ike said. “Well, I gotta be gettin’ back to the diner.”

  “Thanks, Ike,” Eric said as the short-order cook ambled out of the office.

  “G’night!” Frankie called as Eric slid her to-go cup through the bars of her cell. He laid out their greasy diner fare like it was a royal feast, folding her napkin in half and fluffing the wax paper around her onion rings before handing them to her.

  Frankie’s cell buzzed from inside her purse. She checked the screen and winced. Her mama was texting, asking why she wasn’t home from being “arrested” yet. Grimacing, Frankie texted back a flimsy excuse about meeting Marianne for drinks at the Dirty Deer, and then, of course, had to text Marianne to apprise her of the alibi. And then Frankie’s dad texted, and the cycle started all over again.

  “Your burger is going to get cold,” Eric said around a mouthful of turkey melt. He’d already dug into his sandwich and was halfway through his side salad—a side salad Eric had to beg Ike to assemble out of burger toppings under great protest. Even in a jail sleepover, his choices were distressingly adult.