8
FRANKIE PARKED HER van on the recently repaved drive of the Lewis residence. Marnette had convinced Vern to bulldoze his family’s beautiful eighty-year-old brick home in favor of this beige vinyl-sided McMansion.
This is just one more reason to dislike Marnette, Frankie thought, stepping out of the van. She’d intentionally dressed in one of her more “conventional” outfits: jeans, a plain black T-shirt, and her green utility jacket. She actually needed a light jacket, which was a sign that autumn was setting its teeth in and they were heading toward Georgian winter . . . which was a lot like Georgian autumn.
Trying to be a little more understanding of Eric had been . . . sort of . . . effective, in that he hadn’t arrested her for attempted kissing of a law enforcement officer. So she’d decided to take her father’s advice and try a more logical approach to the Jared problem. Jared’s parents weren’t entirely rational, but they did share a common goal with Frankie: keeping Jared out of trouble and away from McCready’s. She had to try to use that to her advantage.
She was relieved that Jared’s SUV was not parked in the driveway, because if he was home, she wasn’t sure she could get through the conversation she had planned civilly. Taking several deep breaths to steel her nerves, she rang the doorbell, which was a two-bar bell-chime rendition of “Jesus, Take the Wheel.”
Marnette’s eyes were the size of saucers when she answered the door. Her face fell from the pleasant “company” expression to a deadpan frown. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Yes, it’s me. I’d like to speak to you and Vern, if you have time.”
“You couldn’t have called ahead? Your mama has my phone number.”
“I wasn’t sure you’d pick up,” Frankie said.
Marnette pursed her lips as if Frankie had just dropped something gross on her doorstep. “I guess you can come in.”
“Thank you.”
Marnette had clearly used a Pinterest board labeled “French Provincial Designs Rejected by Reality Show Housewives” as her decorating guidebook. Everything from ceiling to floor was painted stone-effect gray. Every single surface was covered in some rendition of an overblown flower. Frankie had never seen so many unnecessary carved pillars in her life. And cherubs, so many cherubs. No wonder Jared was lashing out. She’d been inside the house for two minutes, and she was overcome with the urge to punch someone.
Marnette led Frankie to an equally overdone “living room,” where the mounted TV was meant to be hidden behind a swinging portrait of two kissing cherubs. Vern lounged on a very uncomfortable-looking couch, watching professional bowling. “What’s going on?” he asked, glaring at her.
“I was hoping to talk to you about Jared,” Frankie said, noting that she had not been invited to sit.
“I’ve already talked to your mama, and I’m gonna tell you the same thing I told her. Leave my son alone,” Marnette barked.
Vern sighed. “We’ve told you, Frankie. Jared hasn’t been out to your family’s place for years.”
“Yeah, you’ve told me that. The problem is, it’s not true. Someone has played several pranks at McCready’s recently, and we’re very lucky that no one got hurt. That person dumped over a cage full of bait crickets, setting them loose in the tackle shop. They’ve put hot sauce in the ketchup bottles—”
“I’m assuming that you have proof that Jared did this?” Vern sneered. “Because I don’t think I’d go around town sayin’ things like that unless I had proof.”
Frankie breathed deeply. “You’re right. I don’t have any proof that Jared is doing these things, other than Jared taunting me about our ‘difficulties’ after the fact, but—”
“My Jared wouldn’t taunt you. He doesn’t even like talking to you.” Marnette sniffed. “He’s scared of you, has been since he was little.”
“If only,” Frankie said. “We’ve seen your son, with our own eyes, trying to break into the funeral home.”
“But you don’t have photos,” Marnette said smugly. “You don’t have video. It’s just your word against ours, and we’re not the creepy family that plays with dead bodies. Who do you think people are gonna believe?”
Frankie took a deep breath while shaking her head. Telling Marnette that her parenting style was as useful as a glass hammer would only derail the conversation . . . more.
“Look, let’s just say for the sake of argument that Jared isn’t causing any problems at McCready’s. Could you do me a personal favor and keep a closer eye on him for the next few weeks? Keep him closer to home? That way, when we have more ‘difficulties,’ I can come to you and ask about it, and you can say, ‘Impossible, I was with Jared every single minute of that evening, and he never left the house.’ And that will narrow my search.”
“Are you saying I don’t know how to supervise my own child?” Marnette demanded.
“I’m saying that if you would like to prove me wrong and make me look like a jackass, which I know would please you very much, keep Jared closely supervised over the next few weeks.”
Marnette slapped her hand down on her carefully antiqued coffee table. “And I’m saying that I don’t appreciate some childless weirdo telling me how to parent. If you breathe one word of these silly, stupid accusations to anybody, we’re gonna sue you for defamation of character.”
Frankie thought of Peggy at the Rise and Shine, and whether she would testify to the sort of “character” Jared was known for at the high school.
Vern nodded, adding, “And it would be real hard for you to hold on to your job as coroner if you’ve got a lawsuit filed against you by the county manager. Your boss.”
“So you’re telling me that there’s nothing I can say to you that will persuade you to stop Jared’s behavior?”
“I’m telling you that there’s nothing you could say that would convince me the sky is blue,” Marnette shot back.
Well, she could honestly tell her father that she’d tried. If the Lewises weren’t going to be reasonable, she didn’t have to try to reason with them.
Frankie smiled so sweetly it made her teeth hurt. “All right, then. I’ll be going.”
“That’s it?” Vern asked, frowning at her.
“Yep,” Frankie said, crossing her arms over her chest. “If you’re not gonna listen, there’s no point in me wasting my breath.”
“Oh, well, all right. You should go,” Vern told her.
“Oh, I’m going.”
“And don’t go talkin’ to Jared, either,” Marnette told her as she walked back toward the door.
“Marnette, when Jared eventually gets caught doing something awful that lands him in a cell with a roommate named Big Larry, I want you to remember something. People blame the mother for a reason.”
Marnette’s eyes narrowed. “Get out of my house.”
“Gladly,” Frankie said, slamming the front door behind her.
She yanked open the van door and slid behind the wheel. She’d tried. She’d tried to work with Jared’s parents instead of against them. She’d tried to appeal to their common sense, their duty as parents. And they’d thrown it back in her face. So anything that happened from here? It was on their heads.
She put the van in gear and backed out of the driveway, speeding toward home. “Game on, Jared Lewis. Game on.”