by Lexi George
He eyed Annie. “Who’s the whippersnapper?”
“I’m Annie. You got anything to eat?”
“You just had breakfast,” Beck said. “You can’t possibly be hungry.”
Annie shrugged.
“How about a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?” Hank asked.
Annie wiggled on the bar stool. “Peanut butter, banana, and sweet pickles?”
“You’re weird, kid,” Hank said. “I like you.” As he went about making Annie’s sandwich he talked to Beck about the menu. “I was planning to make red beans and rice tonight, but there ain’t a can of beans in the place.”
That’s because the beans had gone to feed a certain zombie.
“You sure you feel up to cooking?” Beck asked. “It’s only been a few days since you were injured. I don’t want you to relapse.”
“Duncan said I’m fine,” Hank growled, sounding more like his old self. “Never better.”
Beck looked at him closely. His color was good. For somebody at death’s door a few days ago, he looked remarkably fit. Duncan had the healer’s touch. She glanced at Verbena. And Duncan had help from the Enhancer.
“Sorry about the beans,” Beck said. “We’ll make do with burgers and dogs. Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving and we’ll be closed.”
She braced herself. Hank hated cooking what he called “that trash food.” To her surprise, he didn’t explode.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “We’ll come up with something, ain’t that right, Verbena?” He noticed the banana against her cheek and frowned. “Why you got a banana on your face?”
Verbena lowered the spotted yellow peel, revealing the discolored swelling underneath.
“Who did that?” Hank said with a low rumble of fury. “Somebody hurt you?”
“That piece of crap brother of hers showed up this morning while nobody was here and smacked her around,” Toby said.
“Earl and me ain’t kin.” Verbena tossed the banana in the trash. “Charlie weren’t my daddy and Earl’s mama was the old man’s first wife.”
“Good,” Hank said. “Then you won’t mind if I kill him.”
“Take a number,” Toby said. “Folks are lining up to kill that douche bag.” He winced as the sound of piano music drifted from the bar into the kitchen. Throwing his head back, he gave a low, moaning howl. He lowered his head again, looking embarrassed. “Sorry. Sometimes, that pi-anny hurts m’ ears. Reckon that Dalmatian must be hard of hearing.”
“Dalmatian?” Beck blinked in surprise. “What Dalmatian?”
“Junior didn’t tell you?” Toby said. “He’s got him a dog. Figured you were okay with it.”
Beck left Annie in the kitchen eating her sandwich and hurried into the bar. Junior Peterson was seated at the piano. His long fingers flew across the black and white keys to the notes of a fancy tune Beck didn’t recognize. A large black-and-white-spotted dog sat beside him, his head resting on Junior’s knee.
“Where’d you get the dog?” Beck asked Junior.
He gave her a beatific smile. “This is Trey. Son, say hello to Beck. She’s our host.”
The dog lifted his head and barked.
“By the sword,” Conall said, joining them in the bar. “Is that the shade of Trey Peterson?”
“Yes.” Beck shook her head in confusion. “The paper said he shifted before he died. Why’s he a dog in the afterlife?”
Meredith appeared on a burst of perfume. “William Blake Peterson! What do you think you’re doing?”
Junior’s song ended with a discordant bang. “There’s your answer,” he said, giving Meredith a fulminating look. “Can you blame him?”
“Well?” Meredith tapped an elegantly shod foot. “Answer me.”
Trey barked.
Meredith’s face stretched into a hideous mask. “I cannot believe this. I missed my door to the other side to be with you, and this is the thanks I get, eternity with a stupid mutt?” Her voice rose to a piercing shriek. “I. Don’t. Think. Sooooo.”
Junior waited until Meredith’s siren wound down. “Go haunt a toilet somewhere and leave us alone,” he said. “I hear there’s a dandy one with your name on it at the high school.”
“The Peterson Memorial Powder Room,” Beck said. “I read about it in the paper.”
“Shut it, you backwoods skank,” Meredith snarled. “Nobody asked you.”
“Mind your manners, shade, or I will lock you in the Pit with the djegrali,” Conall said. He paused. “Almost, I pity the demons at the thought.”
“Try it, buster, and see what you get,” Meredith said, swelling. “I’ve learned a thing or two since I bit the big one. I’ll ectoplasm your ass.”
“Whoo, somebody’s got sand in their twat.” Beck looked at the Dalmatian. “Is she always this unpleasant?”
Trey yipped.
Junior interpreted for the dog. “Trey says yes. Trey says Meredith could skin the hide off a rhino with her bitching.”
“You know, it’s a shame to let all that hostility go to waste,” Beck said, considering Meredith. “There must be something productive she could do with it.”
Meredith snapped her fingers. “Hey, shitheads, I’m right here.”
“There is one thing . . .” Junior hesitated and shook his head. “Nah, she’d never go for it.”
“Go for what?” Meredith demanded. “What? Talk to me, for God’s sake, you pitiful, piddling excuse of a piano player.”
“I’ve agreed to a haunting.” Junior’s expression was deceptively bland. “But I’m not having much luck scaring the target.”
“Oh, please,” Meredith said. “You couldn’t haunt your way out of a grammar school funhouse. Who’s the client?”
“His name is Tommy,” Junior said. “He’s a zombie. He wants to go to ground, but his maker won’t release him.”
“Show me this maker.” Meredith’s blue eyes glowed with irritation and righteous, unspent fury. “He’ll cooperate. I’ll make him so miserable he’ll throw himself on a buzz saw.” She widened her eyes at Junior in fake consternation. “Oh, wait. Somebody already did that to you, didn’t they?”
“You are such a bitch,” Junior said. “A total, pluperfect, stone-cold raving bitch. You’re perfect for the job.”
Chapter Thirty-five
Thanksgiving morning, Beck drove the Tundra into town. Conall and Annie rode with her, and Toby followed in his truck. To no one’s surprise but Verbena’s, Hank invited Verbena to his little cabin on the river for the day, promising her a meal of Cajun-fried turkey, onion and mushroom dressing, spicy greens, and sweet tater biscuits.
“That is, if you don’t have other plans,” Hank had said, turning a dull red.
Verbena blushed, too. “I’d like that.”
Hank grinned, displaying a mouth full of large, white teeth. The effect was startling against his dark complexion. “It’s a date then. I’ll pick you up at eleven.”
Hank stomped out, whistling and looking happier than Beck had ever seen him.
“He likes you,” she’d told Verbena.
“I like him, too. What should I wear?” Verbena’s expression grew anxious. “I ain’t never had a date.”
“It won’t matter,” Beck advised. “Wear whatever makes you feel pretty.”
Verbena’s hand crept to her cap of strawberry-blond hair. “That ’ud be everything. I ain’t never had so many nice things, thanks to you and Mr. D.”
Verbena refused to call Conall by his first name.
“Well, then, you can’t go wrong,” Beck said.
Verbena had nodded and hurried toward the little back room where she was living for the time being, presumably to go through her clothes.
Toby watched the girl leave with a shake of his gray head. “This ain’t good,” he’d said. “Reckon it’s too late to get one of them ‘no fraternization’ policies?”
“What’s wrong with Hank inviting Verbena to his place?” Beck asked. “I think it’s sweet. I didn’t even know Hank ha
d teeth until just now.”
“First time they get to squabbling, you’ll see,” Toby said darkly. “Never pee in your own well.”
“Meaning what, Confucius?” Beck asked in exasperation.
“Unhappy cooks make for bad digestion. It’s all buttercups and roses now, but what happens when they fall out? We ain’t got a cook, that’s what.”
Having deposited that little dollop of sunshine, Toby had strolled away.
Beck slowed the truck to a stop in front of a house. “This is it,” she said.
Brenda and Jason lived in a ranch-style house in Meadowbrook, a neighborhood of uniform dwellings built in the sixties and seventies. Homes in Meadowbrook were small and squeezed close together. Brenda and Jason’s place was red brick with blue shutters. Rings of monkey grass imprisoned two towering pines in the front yard, and a line of sickly gray-green hedges marched across the front. A few blocks over in the historic district, lawns were deep and narrow, shaded by towering oaks and maples, waxy-leafed magnolias, and frilly dogwoods, redbuds, and crepe myrtles. The houses in the older part of town were steeped in character, ranging in style from homey Craftsman bungalows to steep-roofed Victorians and staid brick Tudors. In Meadowbrook, the houses all looked like they needed Prozac.
Fall in Alabama was menopausal: hot one moment and cold the next. This morning, the sky was clear and the temperature was already in the mid-sixties by eleven o’clock. With the inconstancy of Mother Nature in mind, Beck had donned a blue ruched-sleeve sweater over a white camisole, jeans, and half boots. For a millisecond, she’d considered wearing a dress to please Brenda and decided against it. Brenda would just have to deal.
She glanced at Annie. The kid looked like a catalog model in some of her new duds, a neon pink cotton cardigan over a navy cupcake skirt and matching tee, pink and blue leggings, and navy Mary Janes. Her dark hair was brushed to a soft shine and held back by a bejeweled headband.
“Remember what we talked about,” Beck said. “No monkey business around the norms. It makes them nervous.”
“I know.” Annie clutched the teddy bear Conall had given her. “Why couldn’t I stay at the house with Mr. Cat?”
“Because it’s Thanksgiving and I want you with me,” Beck said. “The twins are excited you’re coming. It’ll be fun for Jay and Darlene to have someone to play with.”
“They’re norms,” Annie said. Her expression was pinched. “Norms don’t like me.”
“We’ll play a game and pretend we’re norms, too,” Beck said. “It’ll be fun.”
“Did you play with norms when you were little?”
“No, my daddy wouldn’t let me.”
“Then how do you know it will be fun?”
Beck sighed. “Just try and get along with them and no funny stuff.”
Brenda had insisted they didn’t need to bring anything, but pride wouldn’t allow Beck to show up at her stepmother’s house empty-handed, so she’d brought a gallon of Hank’s seafood gumbo. She’d also made Jason one of his favorite desserts: Boiled Can, a recipe from the Great Depression that consisted of caramelized condensed milk, chilled, and served over a Graham cracker and topped with whipped cream.
They got out of the truck and Beck handed Conall the heavy Crock-Pot. He wore dark wool trousers and a blue broadcloth shirt unbuttoned at the neck. His shaggy black hair gleamed in the sunlight, and he looked so freaking handsome Beck wanted to offer up her hoo-hah on the altar of his magical hotness right then and there.
She wouldn’t, of course. Not on Daddy and Brenda’s front lawn and not in front of the kid. But, wouldn’t that just send Brenda into a paroxysm of prayer?
The thought made her giggle. It came out more of a nervous snort.
“Rebekah, are you well?” the Divine Dalvahni asked.
“Fine,” Beck lied.
Annie hugged her teddy bear. “My stomach hurts. I want to go home.”
“My stomach hurts, too,” Beck said. “But we’re here and we’re going inside.”
Annie looked up at Beck, her face scrunched in concern. “Do you think you’re going to barf?”
“I sincerely hope not,” Beck said, ringing the doorbell.
A dog barked inside the house, growing louder as the animal rushed for the door.
“They have a dog.” Annie gave Beck a look of reproach. “You didn’t tell me they have a dog.”
“It’s just Boo, their miniature dachshund,” Beck said. “She’s harmless.”
The door opened and Beck almost dropped the dessert plate. “Latrisse! ”
Latrisse wore a clingy black dress that hit her right above the knees. The dress was simply cut, conservative even, but Latrisse’s shoes more than made up for it: shimmering snakeskin double-platform pumps with five-inch heels, mottled purple uppers, bright turquoise heels, and cheetah print soles. A black and tan miniature dachshund danced around Latrisse’s feet, barking nonstop.
Conall looked at the dog, and Boo shut up.
“Latrisse, this is a wonderful surprise,” Beck said. “I didn’t know you were going to be here.”
Latrisse waved them into the foyer. Boo circled them, sniffing at their ankles, before trotting off to the kitchen. The rich scents of baked ham and roast turkey, cornbread dressing with onions and celery, squash casserole topped with butter-soaked crackers, baked sweet potatoes, and warm bread wafted through the house. Brenda Smith Damian might be a Bible-thumping, holier-than-thou pain-in-the but-tocks, but she sure could cook.
“I saw your daddy at the Burger Doodle yesterday,” Latrisse said. “After he finished having a heart attack because it turns out I’m not dead, he invited me and Mama to the big feed.” She gestured with her hands. Her long nails had been painted purple and turquoise to match her shoes. “And here we are.”
“I’m so glad,” Beck said, and meant it.
Being with her norm family was awkward under the best of circumstances. Jason meant well but was always on edge with her, especially around Brenda and the kids. Oh, he tried to act like everything was okay, but it was always there, that watchful, wary look she’d gotten from him all her life, the look that said he was terrified she might do something strange. The twins were cute kids, but she’d never gotten to know them, not really. Brenda had suffered two miscarriages before she’d had Jay and Darlene and she was over protective as a hen with one biddy. She’d never let Beck babysit or, heaven forbid, let the twins spend the night at her place, because Beck lived on the river and Brenda was convinced they’d fall in and drown. Understandable—and then there was the whole you-work-ina-bar-so-you’re-going-straight-to-the-hot-place thing.
Beck looked around. Brenda had added the twins’ latest school pictures to the already groaning shrine on the foyer wall, but nothing else had changed. To the right was a combination formal living room and dining room. Through the open door that connected the dining room to the kitchen, Beck glimpsed Brenda taking something out of the oven.
The foyer spilled into a paneled den with a fireplace. Down a narrow hall were three bedrooms and two small baths.
Toby loped through the door behind them. “I brought ice and a gallon of sweet tea,” he announced in the triumphant tone of a conquering hero returning with the spoils of war.
“Awesome,” Latrisse said. “Brenda forgot to buy ice and everything’s closed.” She smiled down at Annie. “You must be Annie. The twins can’t wait to meet you.”
“I like your shoes,” Annie said, zeroing in on Latrisse’s feet. “They’re pretty.”
“Aren’t they?” Latrisse pointed one foot, tilting it this way and that. “Would you like to try them on?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Annie said.
“Me, too.” A blond-haired girl popped up from behind the living room couch like a prairie dog coming out of its hole. “Can I wear them, too. Please?”
Jason stuck his head out of the kitchen. “Happy Turkey Day, y’all. Don’t just stand there. Make yourself to home.” He hurried to take the Crock-Pot from Conall,
giving it an appreciative sniff. “Mmm, smells good. Gumbo?”
“Yep. Hank made it.” Beck held up the dessert plate. “I brought Boiled Can.”
Jason’s eyes lit up. “Hot diggity dog, you know I love it. Just set it on the sideboard with the rest of the sweet stuff.”
Beck put her hand on Annie’s shoulder. “Daddy, this is Annie. I told you about her.”
“Nice to meet you, shug.” Daddy gave Annie a distracted smile. “Toby, stick that tea in the fridge and put the ice in the cooler.” Brenda called his name from the kitchen. “I’m coming, woman,” he said. “Keep your apron on.”
Conall followed him into the living room. “I would greet your lady wife, if it pleases you.”
“Sure, sure,” Daddy said. He paused to frown at Darlene standing behind the couch. “You and Jay quit horsing around and say hello to our guests.”
The twins bolted into the den after Annie, who’d followed Latrisse of the Splendiferous Footwear.
Stepping around the card table and folding chairs Brenda had set up for the kids, Beck set her plate on the sideboard between an enormous bowl of banana pudding and two pumpkin pies. Brenda’s oak dining table gleamed with her prized Fiestaware. In the center of the table, a covered-glass cake plate filled with fall fruits and vegetables added a decorative touch.
Having made her offering to the dessert gods, Beck went into the kitchen. Steam wafted from the pots on top of the stove, and the double ovens and microwave were going full blast. Jason stood at the breakfast table carving a turkey as big as a Volkswagen, and Toby was slicing the ham. The dachshund sat at their feet, her back legs flattened behind her like bat wings, patiently waiting for some tasty ort to hit the floor.
Over by the stove, Brenda buzzed back and forth, tending to her cooking. Brenda was eight years younger than Jason, but she looked every one of her forty-nine years, and then some. She’d never lost the baby weight she’d gained with the twins. A few inches over five feet tall, Brenda was bosomy and as soft and doughy as her homemade rolls. She wore an animal print polyester dress with a vee neck and a chunky red and black necklace. Her frosted brown hair was curled, teased, and sprayed to a fare-thee-well.