Ain't She a Peach? Read online

“That one didn’t even make sense; you’re payin’ for it anyway,” Duffy told him.

  “He’s gone too far this time,” Frankie said, gesturing to the paint-by-number carnage thrown around the hallway. “This isn’t funny anymore.”

  “Wasn’t all that funny to begin with,” Duffy noted.

  “What if he’d gotten into the morgue? How would I explain that to the families who trust their loved ones to us?” she exclaimed. “ ‘I’m sorry that I provoked a local kid into desecrating your relative’s corpse’?”

  “But he didn’t get that far, Frankie, and I’ll bet that bein’ chased off by an alarm and questioned by the police is probably going to make him think twice before—”

  Margot came through the door. Her hair and makeup were magazine perfect as usual, but her dark blue designer suit seemed to be splattered with big dots of blue and green paint.

  “Hi, everybody, I realize I just got here, but I’m going to need to go home to change,” she said. “I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”

  “Margot, honey, why do you have paint all over your pretty suit?” Bob asked.

  Margot sighed. “I may have suggested that Aunt Donna ask Fred Dodge out on a date.”

  Duffy’s expression was horrified. “Oh, Margot, no.”

  “And then?” Frankie asked.

  “I said that their constant arguing was basically extended foreplay,” Margot said, her lips pulled back in a grimace. “And then she pulled a paintball gun from behind the bait shop counter and went Tony Montana on me.”

  Frankie winced. “Woman, have you been drinkin’ at nine in the mornin’?”

  “I was overconfident,” Margot admitted.

  “We warned you,” Duffy said.

  “I’ll go talk to her,” Bob said, shaking his head as he walked outside toward the bait shop.

  “Hey, did y’all sign the report paperwork I left?” Eric ducked around Bob and knocked on the door frame. He frowned at the state of Margot’s suit. “Is this related to the break-in or an issue I’m going to have to handle separately?”

  “Separate issue, but it was friendly fire.” Margot sighed.

  “One day, I will understand the things that this family says, and on that day I will be . . . so scared,” Eric said.

  “How was questioning at the Lewis residence?” Duffy asked.

  “I couldn’t get Jared to crack,” Eric said, frowning. “He is immune to most interrogation techniques, also the application of guilt and shame. And the reasonable doubt that I might have spotted his car on the surveillance video.”

  “I told you,” Frankie retorted.

  “Also, his mother insists that Jared was home all night, watchin’ TV with her. And that he went to bed at ten sharp,” Eric said.

  “What did she say they were watching?” Margot asked.

  “The Real Housewives of New York City.”

  “I know it’s a lie, but it would serve him right if it was true,” Frankie said.

  “And she claims that Jared is such a heavy sleeper that there’s no way he woke up in the middle of the night and left the house without her knowin’.”

  “Marnette Lewis takes an elephant-level dose of Ambien every night,” Frankie said. “She wouldn’t know if the Hulk smashed her nightstand. So we’re basically at a dead end.”

  “I’m sorry, but yes,” Eric said.

  “I’ll get your paperwork for you, Sheriff, it’s in my office,” Margot told him.

  “Thank you, Margot.”

  Eric turned to Frankie and stepped closer, so she could hear a little better. She shut down the involuntary shiver with iron will. “So I was thinking that I might take you out to dinner, a proper dinner to make up for the whole ‘my deputy accidentally and illegally incarcerated you overnight’ thing.”

  Frankie moved back, ever so slightly, just as Margot walked back into the hallway, paperwork in hand. “Oh, no, I couldn’t.”

  Eric, clearly caught off guard by her refusal, frowned. “Why? Because I couldn’t get the Lewis kid to confess to breaking in?”

  “What? No, that would be crazy,” Frankie scoffed. “I just have plans, with my cousins, tonight. And I can’t break them.”

  “We do?” Margot asked, arching her eyebrow. And when she saw the look on Frankie’s face, she said, “We do. We do. We do.” In such different tones with each repetition that it was obviously a lie.

  Honestly, it was as if Frankie had taught her nothing.

  “I, too, remember those plans and will pick you up at six,” Duffy said, just a little less awkwardly. “Which we have already agreed to.”

  “Well, I guess I’ll catch up with you some other time,” Eric said.

  “Okay,” Frankie assured him. “When I haven’t made plans with my cousins.”

  “Which we all knew about,” Margot added.

  “All right, then,” Eric said, holding up his paperwork. “I’ll get back to you if I have any more information.”

  “Bye!” Frankie said, waving her hand just a little too hard as Eric walked out. She turned to Margot. “Don’t help me anymore.”

  DUFFY DIDN’T LIKE the idea of lying to law enforcement officials, since that was technically a crime, so he insisted on actually picking Margot and Frankie up at six and driving them to the Dirty Deer. The bar was the hottest (read: only) night spot in town, serving beer and moonshine-based cocktails through a haze of barbecue smoke and neon light. Carl and Marianne, who had managed to convince Tootie to take the boys for the evening, were waiting in a coveted circular booth with a pitcher of beer between them. They were actually cuddled together, close talking and smiling silly secret smiles, despite the fact that they’d been married for more than ten years. Carl even turned his ever-present Braves cap around so Marianne wouldn’t get smacked with the bill.

  Frankie still didn’t understand how her perfect, professional cousin had ended up with a scruffy redneck like Carl, but they’d been completely, disgustingly in love with each other since high school. They made their differences work and were raising their two sons to be intelligent little goobers, who just happened to be very good at shooting and cooking their own squirrels.

  There were times when Frankie saw the ridiculous, calf-eyed love that her cousin and Carl had for each other and honestly thought it was sort of gross.

  “Hey, there,” Carl called, unfurling himself from around Marianne to scoot even closer and make room on the bench seat. “Not that we mind an excuse for a night out, but what was the sudden urgent need to see us?”

  “Frankie lied to a cop,” Duffy said, pouring himself a beer from the pitcher.

  Carl’s tone was injured. “Why can’t you ever just say ‘I missed you,’ man?”

  “Frankie turned down an invitation from a perfectly nice law enforcement official and made up a cousin hootenanny to justify her no,” Margot said.

  “That’s a blatant misuse of the word ‘hootenanny,’ ” Frankie told her.

  “It’s not Landry, right?” Carl asked Duffy, who shook his head.

  “Well, I appreciate the invitation anyway,” Marianne said. “When you start to think of pizza rolls and Cartoon Network as a quality evening, it’s time to get out of the house.”

  “So, why did we reject the perfectly nice law enforcement official with the bitable bottom lip and the ridiculous—and I mean, ri-dic-u-lous—body?” Margot asked.

  “Easy, girl,” Marianne said, patting Margot’s arm.

  “I’m in a relationship, I’m not dead from the waist down,” Margot shot back.

  “I don’t do relationships,” Frankie said, taking her own beer.

  “That’s it?”

  Frankie insisted, “I don’t do relationships.”

  Margot patted her hand. “Look, I get it. You know how much I struggled even starting a relationship with Kyle. The fact that he had kids scared me so badly, I didn’t even consider a relationship with him at first. Dirty, bendy, mind-blowing sex, yes, but not a relationship.”

  Duffy s
huddered. “I’m just going to turn this way,” he said, angling his body toward Carl and Marianne, who were rubbing noses. “Oh, come on, guys.”

  Duffy stalked away from the booth, toward the pool table.

  Frankie took a long sip of her beer. “But then after the world-rockin’ sex, you had your big Oprah moment of clarity and now you and Kyle and the kids are basically an Honest commercial come to life.”

  Margot told her, “That was unnecessarily harsh.”

  “Sorry,” Frankie muttered. “That was harsh. Look, my biggest goal as a kid was living long enough to get a driver’s license. I never even considered that I could find someone I love, get married.”

  “But you’re not sick anymore, Frankie. You’ve been in remission for years.”

  “Spoken like someone who’s never been sick. My rational brain knows that, but the rest of my body hasn’t gotten the memo. Even after you’re better, it changes the way you think about the future, what you want in life, what could happen next year. Every ache, every twinge is cancer. And you’re scared to talk to the doctor about it, because you don’t really want to hear one telling you again that you’re sick and you might not get better.”

  “And you haven’t talked to anybody about this?” Margot asked.

  “My doctor knows, but only because I call in every little ache and pain.”

  Margot shook her head. “But you’re always so upbeat . . .”

  “You’ve never heard of faking it till you make it?” She gestured to her recently rehighlighted hair.

  “I thought the hair and the clothes were an eff-you to the neighbors.”

  Frankie waggled her hand. “Sixty-forty. Besides, none of this really matters. I’m not exactly in the right place in my life that I could even have a real relationship, so I’m just going to let this thing with Eric fizzle away and go back to my weekends in Atlanta whenever I need an outlet.”

  “Not in a place where you can have a relationship? What do you mean by that?” Marianne asked.

  “I live in my parents’ house in my childhood bedroom. That doesn’t exactly scream ‘ready for commitment.’ ”

  “So change that, if it’s what you want,” Margot said, shrugging while Marianne made subtle cut it out gestures with her hands. “Move out. You can always stay in the apprentice apartment for a while until you figure things out long term.” She paused to watch Marianne’s hand motions. “What?”

  “Every time I try to bring up moving out, I chicken out because I don’t want to hurt my parents,” Frankie said, slumping back in her seat.

  Margot frowned. “Aw, that sucks.”

  “How did you two do it?”

  “My mother didn’t care how quickly I moved out, as long as I was moving into the right neighborhood,” Margot said.

  “I didn’t give my parents the opportunity to argue because I pretty much ran away,” Marianne said. “And then, when I came back, I basically just told them how things were going to work, because allowing my mama any room to argue would have led to disaster.”

  “I don’t think I can do that,” Frankie said. “It just seems ungrateful, after everything they’ve done for me.”

  Marianne put her arm around Frankie. “Well, it sucks, but you’re going to have to decide whether their feelings are more important than you being happy. Nobody is going to be able to do it for you. This is definitely one of those solo quest things.”

  “I could come up with a list of talking points for you, help you put the best spin on it,” Margot said with a shrug. Marianne lifted a brow, making Margot add, “But I won’t. Because that wouldn’t help you grow as a person.”

  “I appreciate the thought,” Frankie told her.

  “Wait, what are we talkin’ about?” Carl asked.

  Frankie hesitated, not wanting Carl to know exactly how much she was struggling with relatively simple adulting.

  “Frankie and the sheriff have crazy sexual chemistry, but when he asked her on a real date—as opposed to spending the night in the jail together, don’t think we’re not going to talk about that,” Margot noted quickly, smirking at her cousin, “she lied and said she had plans with us.”

  “You’re datin’ the sheriff?” Carl exclaimed. “Do you think he can get me out of a speedin’ ticket? It’s from a state trooper, but all cops are friends, right?”

  “Why is that the first question out of your mouth?” Frankie asked. “Also, Margot just said I turned the sheriff down.”

  “When did you get another speedin’ ticket?” Marianne asked.

  Carl told her, “I’ve been waitin’ my whole life to know someone married to a cop.”

  “We’re not married. We’re not even dating!”

  Carl smirked at her as Duffy returned to the table to refresh his beer. “We’ll see. You don’t get this stirred up over somebody you don’t want to pair up with for life.”

  Margot sighed. “Dear God.”

  “His redneck Yoda routine shouldn’t be hot, but somehow, it is,” Marianne said, shrugging.

  “I don’t have the stomach for beer now,” Duffy told his sister. “I hope you’re happy.”

  FRANKIE STUMBLED INTO the kitchen, thinking of the box of special-edition vanilla latte Pop-Tarts in the cupboard. She’d mostly restrained herself the night before, so while she was suffering from a mild headache and a distinct case of squirrel mouth, she was relatively unscathed. A couple of Pop-Tarts and some Tylenol and she’d be right as rain.

  Tootie swore by a big greasy breakfast biscuit and her Devil’s Due, a disgusting concoction of herbs, eggs, and mystery substances, but for Frankie, the best cure for a hangover was a buttload of sugar and questionable food dyes. She would probably be driving Duffy into work, though, because witnessing his best friend and his sister canoodling all night had sent him toward the moonshine side of the drink menu. Margot hadn’t really drunk anything, because Duffy’s faces were enough to keep her entertained.

  But alas, Frankie’s rendezvous with her beloved toaster pastries was not to be, because her mama was at the stove, laying fat strips of bacon in a pan. Mama’s frizzled strawberry-blond hair was tied up in a bun on top of her head, which she did only when she was planning some serious feeding. Frankie’s daddy was sitting at the table, drinking some of her mother’s high-octane coffee and reading the Ledger.

  “Hey, doodle bug!” he chirped, adjusting the napkin tucked into his shirt collar. “How’s the head? You were at the Dirty Deer pretty late.”

  “Did Stan or Carl talk to you or something?”

  “Nah, I looked up that ‘find your friends’ thing on my phone. You showed up at the Dirty Deer until almost closing time.”

  “That is not okay. And I’m turning off my location services,” Frankie told him, thanking her lucky stars that he hadn’t been tracking her like wildlife while she was technically in “captivity.”

  “No!” Bob exclaimed. “I like being able to find where you are, no matter what time it is! It’s for my peace of mind.”

  “Tracking your child like wildlife is not acceptable parenting, even if they’re underage. All you’re telling me is that you can’t trust me.”

  “I trust you! I just don’t trust anybody else,” Bob insisted. “Can we just think about it for a while before you do anything drastic?”

  “Drastic would be me attaching my phone to one of Tootie’s dogs and sending you on a wild dachshund chase.”

  “Please, doodle bug, just give me some time to adjust,” he begged her.

  She pursed her lips as his look of panicked discomfort pricked at her conscience. She knew, better than anyone, how quickly an everyday situation could turn tragic. And she’d seen enough anguished loved ones in that final moment when they lost all hope that everything would be okay that she wanted to prevent her father from going through anything similar. Even though she felt the opportunity for a first step toward independence slipping through her fingers, she said, “Fine.”

  “Thank you. Now, how’s the head?”
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  “I’m not too bad off,” she said. “I actually didn’t drink as much as Duffy, who still likes to pretend Carl and Marianne sleep in bunk beds.”

  “I’m making you breakfast. An egg in a nest with some bacon,” her mama said, pushing Frankie into one of the old-school aluminum kitchenette chairs the family had been using for years. Bob poured Frankie a glass of juice.

  “I’m not that hungry,” Frankie said. “I was just going to have some Pop-Tarts.”

  “Nonsense!” Mama insisted. “Pop-Tarts are just empty calories and carbs. No nutritional value at all.”

  Frankie muttered into her juice, “Yeah, that’s what makes them awesome.”

  “Well, I threw them out. They’re terrible for you.”

  Frankie spat orange juice onto her Pusheen T-shirt. “You did what?”

  “I threw them out! You don’t need all those chemicals and preservatives in your body, honey.”

  First the phone tracking and now this? How could so much be going wrong in one morning? She was handling this all so badly and she didn’t know how to stop the downward slide. Maybe if she’d had more practice talking about this sort of thing with her parents, it wouldn’t feel like she was so out of control.

  Resentment boiled through Frankie’s gut and rose through her throat as seething words. “So Pop-Tarts are bad, but the sheer amount of deep-fried carbs you ply me with on a daily basis is okay?” she shot back.

  Mama’s blue eyes went wide. She’d never heard that tone from her daughter before.

  Bob frowned at her. “Frankie, your mama’s only trying to make sure you stay healthy.”

  “Which would be understandable if I was five, but I’m a grown woman who used her hard-earned paycheck to purchase a rare, limited-run version of her favorite treat, only for her mother to toss it in the garbage. That’s not okay, Mama; you could have at least talked to me about it before you threw them out. Why would you not ask me?”

  “Well, honey, I didn’t do it to hurt your feelings. I just, I worry about you and whether you get the right kind of food to keep you strong and healthy. I just thought it would be better if you weren’t tempted.”

  “Because you’re the parent and I’m the child and you know better.”