by Molly Harper
“One, you should know that already. Hollywood airbrushing is real and rampant,” Margot told her, pressing on Frankie’s laptop touchpad, tapping in the password, and opening her own e-mail account. “And two, nothing’s wrong, but I found out why Eric lost his job in Atlanta.”
“How do you know my password?” Frankie asked.
“I know everybody’s password,” Margot said. “Uncle Bob had them written on the back of his blotter in his office, which I destroyed because if Jared Lewis or some other burglar broke in and found it, that could be a disaster.”
“Good call,” Frankie agreed as Margot opened an e-mail and clicked on a video attachment to one of her messages. Margot clicked PLAY and the screen showed a horde of zombies stumbling by what looked like the World of Coca-Cola in Atlanta. The sun was setting and the cameraman was cleverly backlighting his subjects against the eerie orange glow.
“What the . . . ?” Frankie scrunched up her face in confusion. “Why?”
“Just watch,” Margot told her.
The cameraman, who appeared to be made up like Bub from Day of the Dead, turned the camera toward his face and gave a guttural zombie groan.
The camera panned over zombies in all shapes, sizes, and stages of decay. Some of the makeup was expertly applied, ready to shoot for any respectable horror movie. And some of the undead were very clearly covered in cheap store-bought prosthetics and food-dyed corn syrup. There were zombie doctors, zombie prom queens, zombie chefs, zombie marching-band nerds, and . . . a zombie nun? That was a little distasteful. Also nightmare fuel.
“It’s a zombie walk?” Frankie said.
Margot nodded. “I looked it up. As far as zombie walks go, it’s a big one and pretty well-regarded. The walkers stay respectful of the ‘normies,’ don’t damage property or hold up traffic or try to intentionally scare people. From what I’ve seen, they actively avoid children unless the kids call them over and want to look at their makeup.”
“Considerate zombies, who’da thunk it?” Frankie said. “And what does that have to do with anything?”
“Well, in any group, there are assholes.”
Margot nodded toward the laptop screen. Bub the cameraman moved among the zombies and seemed to be zeroing in on three zombies dressed in tattered clown suits. They were stumbling in more of a “hundred proof” fashion than a walking-corpse style. And they were laughing. Zombies weren’t supposed to laugh. It was decidedly creepy.
The rowdy zombies’ aggression got worse the longer they walked. They dragged their fake-blood fingerprints over cars, knocked over garbage cans, and took swipes at tourists. Bub sighed heavily and finally moved toward the troublemakers with purpose, groaning, “Noooooo.”
One of the zombies lurched toward a car parked near a corner and raised what looked like a bloodstained juggling pin. Frankie heard Bub break character entirely and yell, “Hey, man, don’t do that. Not cool.”
The zombie smashed the pin through the car window. Before Bub could stop him, he started in on the windshield. The other zombies stopped in their tracks, breaking character and yelling for the clown to stop even as his friends egged him on. Suddenly, a cop on a Segway turned a corner and hopped off the machine.
“Atlanta PD! Stop!” Frankie instantly recognized Eric, even in the unfamiliar dark blue uniform. Eric’s brow furrowed at the sight of a zombie herd ambling through Atlanta’s museum district, but as the windshield broke, he shook it off and moved toward the destructive zombie trio.
The clowns seemed to think an armed man on a Segway was hilarious and staggered toward Eric, growling and swiping at him like they were going to punch him. Eric pulled his radio mic close to his face and seemed to be asking for backup.
“Guys, there are kids here. And lots of bystanders,” Eric said. His voice rang with authority she’d never heard him use in Lake Sackett. This was a guy who was in charge, even when he had his palms raised as if he could calm them with the right hand gesture. “You seem to be intoxicated. You’re in public. You just destroyed private property. That’s a problem. You will sit on this curb and let everybody pass by. And then we’re going to talk about this.”
Hopped up on booze and undead confidence, the clowns lunged for Eric. One of the zombies tried to grab Eric’s arm, only to be thrown into his idiot friend. Another took advantage of Eric’s distraction and punched him in the side of his head.
In a normal human voice, Bub said, “Oh, shit.”
Eric told the puncher he was under arrest for assault and began to handcuff him. The guy’s friend took great offense and rammed his fist into Eric’s belly. Eric barely reacted beyond shoving the guy back. His face was set in harsh lines as he methodically kept the clowns away from him while attempting to handcuff the third. His adrenaline levels had to be sky high to take a hit like that and not even flinch.
Frankie noted that while he had one hand on his gun to keep it secured, Eric never pulled it. Even though it prevented him from being able to maneuver with his dominant hand, there were too many people around for him to risk it.
The zombie horde circled closer, yelling for the clowns to stop. Eric shoved them away and reached for the one weapon he had that wouldn’t hurt a bystander. He picked up the Segway by the frame and threw it at them. It was an impressive feat of upper-body strength, heaving the machine at the three men hard enough to knock them to the ground.
And then the video ended.
Frankie sank back in her chair. “What in the hell did I just watch?”
“Apparently, he fractured that guy’s arm,” Margot said, pointing at the clown zombie frozen on the screen, pinned under the Segway’s front wheel. “The other two suffered scrapes and bruises, and the misfortune of being jackasses, but that’s it.”
“Jar,” Frankie said weakly, still trying to process what she’d seen on her screen. She recognized the expression on Eric’s face, that abject fear and absolute certainty that life was about to end. How could someone feel that sort of fear and still manage to fight off three assailants and lift a Segway? The amount of adrenaline in his system must have been staggering.
“I only got it because I made friends with that tourism board bigwig in Atlanta during the festival planning. Kevin works in city hall and I thought maybe he might have heard something about Eric. The video was kept quiet and there wasn’t any media coverage because of mutually assured destruction. The zombie jerks didn’t want their event shut down and the police department clearly didn’t want the bad press. The zombie assholes had enough to worry about with all the charges stacking up against them. And they were on very thin ice with the zombie walk coordinators. Apparently the threat of ostracism in the zombie community is a heavy one. Kevin only knew about it because the zombie group met with the tourism board to discuss PR for public events,” Margot said.
“I wouldn’t want that crowd turning on me,” Frankie said. “So, that’s Eric’s big secret? That’s why he ran to Lake Sackett? He got fired for throwing a Segway at people who were attacking him? Not to make light of the violence, but, honestly, this could have been much worse. No one was seriously injured. None of the other people in the crowd were hurt. By comparison to some other incidents over the last few years, this seems kind of minor.”
“Officially, he resigned before the disciplinary process started,” Margot said. “While throwing a Segway at people who are trying to hurt you may have been a reasonable human response, the police department didn’t think this was an appropriate use of force. I imagine quitting was to keep his ability to get hired somewhere else.”
“Well, still, it’s not that . . . There are worse . . .” Frankie began. “Yeah, okay, fine, that’s pretty awful all around. And it definitely explains why he reacts the way he does to dead bodies and the mortuary. He’s probably having zombie PTSD flashbacks.”
“Do you feel bad, having called him all those awful names, knowing that he had a humiliating public incident that pretty much ended his career?”
“No, I feel co
mfortable callin’ an asshat an asshat, even when he has good reason for being an asshat.”
“It’s good that you’re so flexible and considerate,” Margot told her, shaking her golden head.
The intercom buzzed and her father’s voice rang out of the speaker. “Frankie, honey, can you come upstairs?”
“Is there a problem with Mr. Truman?” Frankie asked.
“Just come on up,” Bob told her.
Frankie looked to Margot, who shrugged. She slipped out of her lab coat and washed her hands. She hoped a customer wasn’t upstairs complaining about a recent service, because that never went well, particularly if the customer had time to sit at home and stew over the grievance. She looked professional enough for a customer conversation, she supposed, a vibrant blue print dress over black tights and Mary Janes. It took a lot of close staring before an observer could see that the print was tiny Harry Potter–related constellations.
Frankie took time to straighten her side braid as she walked up the stairs, Margot close at her heels. “You were very brave to face down the big scary mortuary.”
“It won’t happen again for at least another year,” Margot told her.
Frankie arrived upstairs to find Eric standing in the lobby with her father, E.J.J., and Stan. The wave of uncomfortable anxiety that washed over her caught her by surprise. How was she supposed to make eye contact with him after she’d seen that video? Also, why was he here? Had there been another suspicious death in town? Or had Jared Lewis faked his own murder and framed her for it? Her dad and uncles were all grinning, which pointed toward no. Then again, McCreadys were known for putting a pleasant face on sucky situations.
Eric took out his handcuffs and her heart dropped into her stomach and then to her knees. Because seeing Eric with handcuffs was doing destructive things to her common sense.
“Frances Ann McCready, I’m takin’ you into custody.”
“I didn’t do it,” she said quickly, and Eric frowned at her.
“You’re this week’s prisoner for Lock Down Hunger,” he told her, carefully cuffing her hands in front of her body. His fingers were firm and warm around her wrists, sending a little shiver down her spine. “Why do you think I’m here?”
Frankie groaned and her head dropped, precariously close to resting on Eric’s chest. She’d forgotten that she’d agreed to be McCready’s representative at the annual Lock Down Hunger benefit. Throughout October, people from all over Lake Sackett would be “arrested” and their family and friends could bail them out by delivering a collection of groceries to the jail. The groceries would go to the local food bank, just in time for the poorer residents in Lake Sackett to stock their pantries for winter. The “prisoners” got their mug shot in the Ledger with a public thank-you for time served.
While that gave her a little bit of relief, she was still uncomfortable with how to act around Eric. It was like she’d seen him naked without him knowing, and now she couldn’t make eye contact, which was a problem because her head was currently resting on his firm chest. Eventually she would have to lift her head. She also noted that Eric smelled pretty damn good: woodsy, with a smoky undertone of gunpowder.
“Wait,” she cried, lifting her head and locking eyes with Eric. The space between them seemed to charge and contract all at once. Her cuffed hands came to rest against his stomach and his nose bumped precariously close to her hairline. She thanked good sense and Margot’s influence that she’d taken to using a shampoo that was heavy on lavender oil. It was considerably more pleasant than the scent of formaldehyde.
She cleared her throat and Eric took a step back. Because they were in the same room as her family and that was not the place for surreptitious touching or hair sniffing. “I can’t leave. I have work! Mr. Truman’s service is in an hour. He might need a touch-up or something. And I still have Mrs. Wannamaker’s paperwork to file and—”
Bob nudged her toward the door. “Sweet pea, we can handle it, and what we can’t handle can wait until tomorrow. You’ve been workin’ real hard lately and it won’t hurt ya to enjoy a little time off.”
“In jail?”
“Think of it as time in for good behavior,” Bob suggested.
“Wait, we need to make the most of the handcuffs,” Margot said, whipping out her phone and opening the camera app. “Okay, people, pretend that you’re concerned and upset that your dearest undertaker is being hauled into the pokey. I can post it on the business’s Facebook page to try to drive up bail donations. Couldn’t hurt to mention the looming candy donation deadline for the Trunk-R-Treat, too. Double PR points score. Thanks, Frankie!” Margot dashed down the hall toward her office.
“She likes to find the bright side of things,” Bob told a slightly befuddled Eric.
“Frankie, do you need your purse or anything?” Eric asked.
Her father, ever helpful, held out the shoulder bag he’d been hiding behind his back. “Here, hon, I picked it up for you. Mom says you get her special macaroni and cheese as a welcome-home dinner when you’re sprung from the clink.”
Frankie’s cheeks flushed, because nothing makes you look like a mature, responsible adult like your mommy promising you mac ’n’ cheese for dinner. “Thanks, Dad.”
“Just remember, the first thing you have to do is find the biggest gal in the yard and then pick a fight with her so the other prisoners know you’re not scared,” Stan told her.
“Well, as of this afternoon, she’s our only prisoner, so she should be okay,” Eric said.
“No more Investigation Discovery for you,” Frankie told him. “Turn off my computer, but don’t touch anything on my desk!” she called as Eric pushed her outside and toward the police SUV.
“Your family is . . . not like other families,” Eric told her, opening the front passenger door.
“Don’t I know it,” she muttered. She appreciated that he was letting her sit in the front. She’d seen what drunks were capable of doing to the backseat and she really liked this dress.
The drive to the county courthouse/jail was quiet and awkward. After establishing that Eric had followed up on Chase Wollmack and the little boy was just fine, they couldn’t seem to find anything to talk about. Frankie realized that they’d never been alone in a space this small without some other person (or body or dog) as a buffer. She felt like she couldn’t say anything without blurting out, “I know your zombie secret!” And Eric pretended to be busy, playing with the buttons on the radio and asking Landry if he’d completed various tasks around town.
Frankie realized that she didn’t really know what happened to the “prisoner” during Lock Down Hunger. Uncle Junior had done this duty when she was a kid, and then E.J.J., who was giving it up only because the conditions were a little extreme for a man in his advanced years. Stan never took it on because he’d spent some time in Lake Sackett’s cells during his drunker years and didn’t want a return visit, even for charity. The handcuffs were for show and photo opportunities, but would she actually be kept in a cell? Or would they let her play with some of the equipment? She’d always wanted to know how a beanbag gun worked. And now that Eric had supposedly cleaned out the hoarder’s rat’s nest that had led to Sheriff Rainey’s early “retirement,” maybe she would be able to find some of that equipment without digging.
Janey, the sheriff’s department dispatcher and desk clerk, greeted her at the jail door with a big hug, which Frankie didn’t think was part of the usual incarceration protocol.
“We’re so excited you’re being arrested this year!” Janey cried, her rounded cheeks flushed with excitement. “Last week, Chuck Smiley came in and he just napped the whole time. It was so borin’!”
Eric cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows. “Entertainin’ us isn’t really the point of the fund-raiser, Janey.”
Janey’s flush turned to an all-out blush and she grabbed Frankie by the wrist and dragged her to the mug shot area. Frankie only had time to refresh her bright red lipstick before she was handed her LOCK DOWN
HUNGER placard. She struck a pinup pose with an exaggerated wink. Because why not?
Eric’s lips twitched. “Well, that’s gonna go over well in the Ledger.”
“I make it a point to needle the masses,” Frankie told him as Landry uncuffed her. Tall, perpetually pale, and lanky, despite his mother’s earnest efforts to fatten him up, Landry grinned as he led the way to the three cells lined up against the back wall. The institutional gray space was open to the office, Mayberry style. Each cell contained a toilet and a cot spread with a log cabin quilt hand-stitched by Landry’s mama. The bars were ancient, but the county’s crime rate didn’t merit anything more and the county commission was loath to spend money on unnecessary upgrades in an economic slump.
There were also several bottles of water on the cot, courtesy of Janey. But considering the open plan bathroom facilities, Frankie was going to pass.
“My mama thinks it’s real nice of you to take over the Lock Down duty,” Landry said, his cheeks flushing as he closed her cell door and turned the key. Frankie smiled at him. Landry had always been a sweet guy. He was one of the few boys who’d invited her to dances in high school. Unfortunately, he was so dim that he posed a danger to himself and others. He’d gotten the job as a deputy only because Sheriff Rainey was his uncle.
“Thank you, Landry. How’s your mama?”
“Oh, she’s doin’ real well. Recovering from her elbow surgery just fine,” he said. “Never did figure out how that shelf collapsed on her. I fixed it myself.”
“Yeah . . . it’s a mystery,” Frankie said.
Eager to change the subject, Janey asked, “You know you’re the first lady we’ve had in the cells all year?”
“Not even Sara Lee Bolton?” Frankie asked, her brows furrowed.
“Sara Lee raised such a ruckus when she was taken into custody, we had to send her to a more secure facility two counties over,” Landry said.
“Now, that I believe,” Frankie said. She noticed that Eric had appeared behind Landry and seemed none too pleased that his two employees were loitering outside her cell.