by Molly Harper
The only drawback was that Tootie and Leslie insisted that the family had to have cornbread with their chicken and dumplin’s, which only continued the never-ending debate between her mother and her great-aunt about whether it was permissible to put sugar in cornbread. Honestly, as much as Frankie loved Tootie and her mama, she was considering stealing the cornbread skillets in both their kitchens and blaming it on a Sasquatch.
Standing at the kitchen counter, Frankie arranged the pulled pork artfully on a platter with potatoes that had been wrapped in foil and roasted in the stone pit. It was going to be difficult to find room for her platter on the family’s enormous picnic table between all the dishes and the little decorative pumpkins Margot had arranged. McCreadys tended to go a little overboard on . . . well, food, really.
Her only regret was the lack of peach pie. (Because McCreadys never had just one form of dessert.) It was way past peach season, and Leslie refused to bake with anything less than fresh, peak-season peaches. Leslie McCready had standards, so Frankie had to make do with pecan pie. It was still phenomenal, of course, but not as good as peach.
“Hey there, doodle bug.” Bob gave her a kiss on the temple and managed to snatch a bite of pork without losing a finger.
She gave her dad a mock glare. She knew it was a little weird to think of one’s father as handsome, but Bob McCready had a matinee idol’s jawline and the forget-me-not eyes Frankie had inherited. He and her petite strawberry-blond mother made a downright adorable couple.
“So you and the sheriff seem to be spendin’ a lot of time talkin’,” he said, attempting—and failing—to sound casual.
“Yes, because our jobs tend to smack us together like two marbles in a Tilt-a-Whirl, despite my trying to keep him at arm’s length,” she said. “I also spent a lot of time with the guy who installed new security cameras around the McCready’s property this week. You think I should date him, too?”
“I don’t think you should date anyone,” he said with a shrug. “I mean that literally. You should only date people who deserve you, and no one deserves you. I don’t know how Junior managed giving his baby up to some boy. I like Carl and all, but if I saw somebody pawing at you the way Carl puts his hands on Marianne, I’d have to shoot him.”
“You mean the appropriate way that Carl expresses physical affection for his wife, letting her know that he still loves her after all these years and serving as a good role model for their sons?”
“Yeah,” Bob said, shuddering. “It’s awful.”
Frankie pursed her lips. This was why she needed her getaway weekends in Atlanta, and why her parents could never ever find out about them. Or the travel brochures for Peru and Iceland and Australia she’d been hoarding since she was a teenager. Or the tattoo of a phoenix on her hip. Or the other tattoos of flaming feathers over her ribs—one for every chemo treatment she’d received as a child.
Hiding the tattoos was particularly important.
“Anyway, back to the sheriff. I’m just sayin’, he seems like a nice boy.”
Frankie made a disinterested noise. “Not even sure the sheriff likes me that much.”
“Oh, honey, everybody likes you. What’s not to like?” Bob asked with a grin.
“Do you ever think that sometimes you two overestimate my charms?”
“Not possible. Who would put such an idea in your head?” he exclaimed. “Duffy?”
“No, Daddy, it wasn’t Duffy. Trust me, my self-esteem is perfectly intact.”
“Well, you haven’t really dated anyone from around here for a while.”
“Because men my age in Lake Sackett think that I’m creepy and off-puttin’, Daddy.”
Bob chuckled, but his eyes were a bit sad as he ruffled her hair. “Whatever you say, honey.”
Frankie found space by edging aside the glitter-covered swear jar Tootie had placed in the middle of the table as a precaution. Family dinners were rife with opportunities to add to the quarter stash, and Tootie had been looking for alternative means of extra income to fund her planned cruise to Aruba with E.J.J. Her weekly poker games had slowed down considerably since Lucille Bodine broke her hip.
Frankie stretched her arms, enjoying the sensation of her soft Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters sweater against her skin. She needed a bit of comfort. She hadn’t slept well the night before, tossing and turning with worry over a mild twinge in her side she’d felt most of the day. Even though she knew in her head that it was likely just a muscle she’d pulled when helping Stan unload Paul Harner from the hearse, the throb of it was more worrisome than painful. She glanced over at her parents, straightening her shoulders. She couldn’t let on how tired she was or why she hadn’t slept. Her mom and dad would worry themselves sick over it, and that wouldn’t do anyone any good.
It was pretty easy to fake well-rested cheer when her family was making a Hallmark movie come to life before her very eyes. With the table set and the sun setting, her relatives began filtering out of their cabins to take their seats, the very picture of familial harmony. Marianne’s boys, Nate and Aiden, were occupied with chasing Kyle’s daughters around the yard. As the fun uncle with the most energy, Duffy was trying to herd the lot of them toward the table with the promise of pie. Tootie’s pack lounged on her porch, eyeing the food with hopeful gleams in their little doggy eyes. McCreadys were bullheaded and unruly, and Lord knew they were odd, but at times like this, Frankie was grateful as hell to be one.
Kyle wrangled June and Hazel into their seats while Margot fixed the girls’ plates. Frankie noted that Margot not only put an appropriate balance of proteins and vegetables on the plates, but remembered that June preferred broken crackers on her chicken and dumplings (and everything else) while Hazel considered foods touching to be a threat to democracy and kittens and all things decent. Both girls thanked Margot sweetly when she put the plates in front of them at the “kids’ end” of the table, but only June offered her a kiss on the cheek for her efforts. Hazel, as the older child and the only one who remembered their late mother, was a little slower to accept Margot’s place in their lives. Still, it was progress from Margot’s child-related reticence that’d had her questioning whether she could even have a relationship with Kyle.
Frankie was envious of Margot’s bravery, in making her life in a place so different from everything she knew and risking rejection from the family, who were basically strangers. Frankie admired her willingness to open her heart to children, even though Margot had barely considered herself qualified to take care of her adopted dog, Arlo. But she did not admire Margot’s look on this particular evening, because . . . yikes. Margot did not look as put-together as she normally did, and not just because she was dressed in a comfy sweater instead of her usual business suits. Dark circles bracketed her wide hazel eyes. Her golden hair was slicked back in a ponytail and there wasn’t a lick of makeup on her face. Not even tinted ChapStick.
“You look exhausted,” Marianne told her, sliding the German chocolate cake out of Nate’s reach without even looking. Carl distracted their rambunctious youngest child by making a smiley face on his chili in shredded cheese. “You feelin’ okay?”
Margot slumped slightly against the table and pointed a fork full of chicken at her cousin. “I blame you.”
“Me?” Marianne scowled. “What did I do?”
“You were the one who duped me into the Founders’ Festival with your adorable children and their big eyes and precocious sense of civic duty. And of course, I did an amazing job because I’m incredibly good at what I do. And now I’m in charge of the Trunk-R-Treat, and planning the Trunk-R-Treat is like some sort of psychological torture designed for one of those really awful prisons for political dissidents.”
“It can’t be that much harder to plan than a big festival,” Duffy protested.
“Yeah, it can, and you know why? Because there are Lake Sackett moms involved,” Kyle said, scrubbing a hand over his sandy beard. When Marianne squawked in protest, Kyle added, “You know I respe
ct and admire you, Marianne, but you’re all crazy.”
Marianne pursed her lips together for a moment while she considered. “Fine. So what are the moms giving you trouble over?”
“They want to have a series of meetings about which costumes should and shouldn’t be allowed.”
“Which costumes do they not want allowed?”
Margot ticked off her list with her fingers. “Anything involving witches, demons, or the devil. No ‘deliberately scary’ costumes. Nothing violent or bloody, so no ghosts or vampires or zombies. You can be a princess, but your belly button must be covered. You can be a pirate or a ninja, but you can’t carry a sword or weapons of any kind. Then again, if Karen Coleson gets her way, ninjas will be out, too, because she doesn’t want any costumes involving ethnicity or homelessness.”
“Homelessness?”
“She finds the whole hobo thing to be offensive.”
Frankie jerked her shoulders. “Well, it is, a little.”
Marianne asked, “So basically, the kids will be able to be dinosaurs and butterflies and that’s it?”
“Not meat-eating dinosaurs,” Margot muttered. “But of course, there’s another group of moms who think this whole thing is silly and the kids should be allowed to wear whatever violent and culturally offensive getup they want. And after we settle the issue of costumes, we have the debate over appropriate treats and whether peanut allergies actually exist. If I get through this damn festival without getting arrested, I’m buying myself a bottle of Cristal and hiding in my cabin for a week.”
“Jar!” Tootie crowed, rattling the glittery container at Margot.
“I barely cursed!” Margot exclaimed.
“But it was in front of the babies. So it counts,” Tootie insisted as Margot dug a quarter out of her pocket.
“You’re reaching,” Margot told her.
“That couples’ massage in Aruba won’t pay for itself,” Duffy told her. Margot shuddered.
“I’m sorry the Trunk-R-Treat is spiraling into, well, what community events always spiral into in Lake Sackett, but in the long run, it will be worth it, because it will make the kids happy. And those kids are awesome.” Marianne nodded toward the end of the table.
“They are. I never thought I would be the sort of person who looked at a child and thought, ‘I want to kiss her face off,’ but I totally do,” Margot said as June shoved overbuttered cornbread into her mouth. “But don’t tell them that, because then they’ll know they have all the power and I’m toast.”
“One of us . . .” Marianne intoned.
“Don’t go crazy. I said I liked Kyle’s children. Not all children.”
“Still progress,” Frankie insisted.
“I’m sorry that I sucked you into our community by forcing you to organize public celebrations. Even though you’re really, really good at it,” Marianne said.
“Don’t guilt me and try to prop up my self-esteem at the same time,” Margot said, though there was a hint of a smile quirking her lips. “But, according to my informal poll, the town already has a steady stream of hotel and rental bookings since the festival. And now that there’s a concerted effort to advertise fall activities and events around here, it’s going pretty well.
“So, enough about me. Frankie, how are things going with the highly attractive and yet astonishingly single sheriff?”
Frankie shrugged. “Fine.”
Marianne smirked. “Just fine? That’s all you’re going to say?”
“There’s nothing going on with me and the sheriff,” Frankie said. “We’re on friendly terms, which is nice. But that’s it.”
“Friendly terms? Is that what they’re calling it now?” Marianne asked her.
“Look, Eric is a tolerable enough guy, and there’s no denyin’ he’s good-looking, but I know almost nothing about him. And not because I haven’t asked, but because he won’t tell me.”
Marianne made a noise suspiciously close to “Hmph.”
“What do you mean, ‘hmph’?” Frankie asked.
“It’s just that ‘knowin’ almost nothing about’ someone has never stopped you from seein’ the guys you’ve—”
“Let’s call it ‘casually dated,’ ” Frankie told her, glancing at her parents. She was grateful that they were distracted by the kids’ Viking-style table manners. While it was refreshing to talk to people who knew about her . . . extracurricular activities, Bob and Leslie didn’t need to overhear details.
“Okay. You’ve never really cared about knowin’ any of the men you’ve ‘casually dated.’ ”
“Exactly. And I’m not dating or anything resemblin’ dating Eric Linden.”
“Right, because there’s clearly no attraction there at all,” Marianne said, her tone arch.
Frankie picked at her chili and made a raspberry noise.
“There is a distinct eye-sex vibe,” Margot agreed.
“There is no eye sex!” Frankie insisted.
“Who’s havin’ sex with people’s eyes?” Bob asked from the opposite end of the table. “Honey, have you been reading those crazy forensics journals again? I told you they’ll give you nightmares.”
Margot, Marianne, and Frankie froze while Duffy laughed into his plate.
Frankie pressed her lips together. “Yes, Daddy, I have been reading disturbing articles in forensics journals.”
“You’re lucky there’s no lie jar,” Marianne whispered.
THE TILT-A-WHIRL SPUN and she ended up smacking into Eric again.
Frankie yawned and leaned her head against the cool glass of his police vehicle. Eric had called her and Stan out of bed at 4 a.m. when a Jeep carrying a couple of tourists veered off the highway just across the county line and into a ditch, killing the driver. For once, Eric didn’t suspect foul play, but he did need Frankie to declare the driver dead and sign off on the death certificate. Uncle Stan had transported the body back to McCready’s, but Frankie had stayed at the scene to take some samples and pictures.
Frankie was rather proud that she and Eric had finally managed to get through a death scene without an argument. In fact, the whole process had been smooth as glass, right up until the moment when Herc the German shepherd started barking from the back of Eric’s SUV.
“You brought your dog?” she’d said. “To an accident scene?”
“I wasn’t payin’ attention when I was stumblin’ out of the house, half-asleep,” Eric had said with a shrug. “He keeps jumpin’ into my truck when I leave in the morning. I guess he rode in to work with his handler. He got past me when I was leavin’ and jumped through the window. Nothing would get him out. I even Googled ‘Get out of my truck’ in German, in case there was some sort of training command for it. And he ignored me, other than giving me the shiniest, most pathetic puppy eyes I’ve ever seen. I figured it was better to bring him with me than to be late.”
Once Herc had received some reassuring pats, he’d stayed quiet for the hour or so Frankie and Eric needed to document the scene. Now he was riding semi-shotgun, propping his paws on the console between them as the good sheriff gave her a ride home. While the canine former officer was generally aloof, he seemed to especially resent that Frankie had taken his seat, given the way he leaned all his weight against her. Every few miles, Herc would nuzzle Eric’s arm and receive a scratch behind the ears.
“So you two seem to be gettin’ along pretty well,” Frankie noted.
The corner of Eric’s mouth lifted. “Herc’s a pretty low-key roommate. He doesn’t chew or pee on things. He doesn’t drink my beer. He doesn’t try to control the TV.”
“I had a college roommate who wouldn’t stop doing any of those things,” Frankie said to Herc, reaching out slowly so he could sniff her hand. “You are a very good dog.”
Herc lolled his head onto Eric’s shoulder and gave a repeat performance of the puppy eyes.
“You, you don’t play fair,” Eric said, pulling a dog biscuit out of his pocket. Herc snapped it up.
“Is there
a reason you couldn’t bring him in to work?” Frankie asked, scratching the thick fur at Herc’s neck. Herc leaned into the scratching but did not make eye contact, which she supposed was the doggy version of aloofness.
“Yeah, most of them having to do with liability insurance. He’s not a police dog. The work is too different from airport security,” he said. “It wouldn’t be safe for him or the people he would interact with. Besides, he’s worked long enough. He deserves a rest. He deserves to be a pet.”
“That’s sweet of you,” Frankie told him. “To look out for him that way.”
“Well, don’t tell anybody.”
“Not even Tootie?” Frankie asked. “She’d be real happy to know that the ‘temporary’ foster care thing is going to be permanent.”
He arched his brows. “You assume a lot.”
Frankie snorted as they turned onto the highway near the McCready compound. “You’re never going to give this dog up, you giant man-shaped marshmallow.”
Eric was about to deliver a no-doubt-scathing retort when he suddenly jammed his foot down on the brake.
Frankie shot him a severe look as the car shuddered to a halt. “What in the hell, Linden?”
“There!” Eric pointed a few feet down the highway, to where a little boy of two or three was toddling down the other side of the road in a red T-shirt and a pull-up diaper. Hercules sat up, ears perked, and started barking.
Slipping the truck into park, Eric jumped out, glancing back and forth for traffic as he ran across the road. He scooped the boy up into his arms. The toddler let out an alarmed squawk and struggled to get out of Eric’s hold.
Frankie climbed out of her seat, opening the hatchback of the SUV and searching through her kit for first aid supplies. Herc huffed and leaped out of the truck. He followed Eric to the backseat, where Eric set the squirming boy on the upholstery.
Frankie looked the toddler over. He was a chubby little thing, a towhead with big brown eyes and a streak of some gummy red substance on one of his rounded cheeks. His bare legs were covered in bug bites and grass clippings, but his pull-up was dry and his Lightning McQueen shirt was relatively clean. He had to be at least three, but he’d yet to speak, other than fussing at Eric for picking him up. He eyed both of the strange adults warily.
