Southern Fried (28 page)

I nodded. “Sounds good.” Well, maybe not good, per se. But

it was a plan. And it didn’t involve any breaking or entering. Or

horse tranquilizers. Though, truth be told, those did indeed come

in handy. Who knew?

We sat at a table for four. By then, we were starving. Over

lunch, we rehashed what we knew. And what we didn’t. Sadly,

there was a still a lot in the latter column. Hopefully, soon, we

could put an end to that.

“Anything else?” asked the waitress when we were done.

“Dessert?” we all asked.

She shot us a withered smile. “Peach pie, peach ice-cream,

peach pudding, or peach cobbler?”

182 Rob Rosen

“Uh,” I uhed, “no cherry or strawberry anything?” I was still

smarting from all that peach brandy.

“This is the South, hon,” she replied. “And it’s peach pickin’

season. You want strawberries, come back in a month.”

I groaned. “I’ll take the cobbler.”

Zeb sighed and ordered the cobbler as well. As did my other

friends. A la mode, with peach ice-cream. Might as well go whole-

hog, we figured. In any case, it was delicious. And homemade.

And a heck of a lot better than peach brandy.

Full now, we left. We had a long drive ahead of us, after all,

and it was getting late. Though, to be honest, the thought of

leaving and driving five hours away was a welcome relief. At least

we were free from those nasty Pellinghams for a spell. However

briefly.

There was little to see along the way, just endless miles of

road. We could’ve been anywhere; one highway looks just like all

the others, I suppose. Though, five hours later, Atlanta loomed

ahead in the distance. An oasis in an otherwise bleak, southern

desert, so to speak. It wasn’t New York, but still it filled my heart

with something resembling hope.

We skirted the city, our necks craned upward at all the glass

and steel, at the smaller brick buildings, older remnants of the

city, at newly built condos for the downtown dwellers. It was

all sleek and clean looking. Like I said, not New York. Not by a

mile. More like a genteel version of it. And it passed by us all too

quickly.

We followed the signs to Decatur, driving through upscale,

small suburbs, past rolling green lawns, beautiful brick houses,

trendy shops and sidewalk cafes. Even a gay bar, its rainbow flag

flapping in the mild breeze. I smiled at the sight of it. Like a

beacon in the night. Which, by the way, was fast approaching.

“Better find us a motel,” I said to Zeb.

“Uh, Trip,” he said, playfully squeezing my knee. “You’re rich

now, remember?”

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Stella tapped me on the shoulder from her seat behind me.

“And rich people don’t sleep in motels,” she added.

Jake pointed out the window to a beautiful Victorian-looking

house, the wood painted purple, the shutters blue, with rounded

steeples, trellises laden with winding ivy, and a lawn brimming

with color. Very fairy tale. And I just love fairies. “Sissy’s bed and

breakfast,” I read off the dangling shingle as we slowed down to

a stop.

“Hey,” said Stella. “You two are sissies. Must be a sign.”

I looked at Zeb and he looked at me. “She has a point,” he

said. “However slightly insulting it might be.”

She snickered. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

“Please, no mention of shooting,” I said, wincing, as I opened

the passenger side door. “Come on,
staff
,” I said, with a flick of

my index finger. “And bring the bags around.”

They all hopped out and followed. “What bags?” asked Zeb.

I knocked on the door and whispered, “It’s what the master

says to the underlings.”

One of the said underlings elbowed me in the ribs. Judging

by the force, I’d say it was Stella. But before I could say anything,

the door swung open. “Afternoon, ya’ll,” said the proprietor, a

stately woman in her early seventies or well-preserved eighties. In

the South, it’s sometimes hard to tell. “What can I do you for?”

I nodded and smiled. “We were just passing through, ma’am,

and were wondering if you had two spare rooms for the night.”

Her smile grew bright, revealing perfect teeth, her eyes

twinkling. “Well, sure I do, sugar, this being a bed and breakfast,

and all.” She looked behind me. “But where’s your luggage?”

A slight flush of red worked its way up my neck. “Um, we

weren’t planning on this long of a trip, ma’am. Kind of got

sidetracked. We should’ve been home hours ago.”

She hesitated. “Where is home?” She asked because one’s

home can often be one’s calling card, I figured. It’s the same

question Granny would’ve asked.

184 Rob Rosen

And so I told her. And her eyes grew even wider, her face

suddenly growing pale, mouth slightly open. “Can’t be,” she

murmured.

“What can’t be, ma’am?” I asked, my heart suddenly racing.

“What’s your name, sugar?” she asked, a question for a

question.

I smiled. “Trip Jackson, ma’am.”

She sighed and fanned her face. “Thank the Lord,” she said.

“For a minute there, I thought you were your daddy. You two

are the spitting image of each other.” She paused and clutched

her pearls. Yes, they really do do that in the South. “God rest his

soul,” she quickly added.

And that flush of mine burnished its way across my face.

“You, you knew my father?”

The door opened wider. “Hon, your granny and I go way

back.” The pause returned, her face cast downward. “Sorry,

sugar, I heard the news. I mean,
went
way back.” She motioned

for us to come on in, which we gladly did. Then she closed the

door behind us. “Your granny was one hell of a woman, Trip.”

I looked at the charming living room in front of us and then

to her. “Yes, ma’am, I know.”

The smile remained in full-force. “But where are my manners,”

she said. “Let me give ya’ll the grand tour.” Which she did, my

three cohorts introducing themselves as she led us this way and

that. And what a beautiful home, too. It was once hers and her

husbands, but when he died, she needed the extra income, so she

moved to the bottom floor and rented out the rooms on the top.

Apparently, it was enough to keep her head above water.

As for my granny, Mary had lived not far from the mansion

in her early twenties. And as for my parents, she’d been at their

wedding. And, sadly, their funeral. Weird, but it made me have

an instant connection with her. After all, other than Jeeves,

I really didn’t know anyone that had known my parents. And,

all things considered, namely that it was looking like Jeeves had

possibly killed them, maybe it was best if I kept his name off that

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exceedingly short list.

“And these are your rooms,” she said, at the end of the tour,

indicating one room on each side of the hall, both with a four-

poster, queen sized bed and decorated with a very southern lady’s

touch. In other words, we were being laced and embroidered to

death. Still, since I was speaking figuratively, we were quite happy

with the accommodations. “Dinner is in an hour. It’s just the five

of us tonight. No other guests are booked until the weekend.”

And with that, she turned and walked away, sensible heels clicking

down the hallway.

Zeb and I looked at Stella and Jake. They looked like mice

that suddenly had access to the cheese. Or they were just horny.

Probably the latter. “See you in an hour,” Stella said, quickly

shutting the door behind them.

“And probably hear you sooner than that,” I whispered,

shutting our door behind us.

And then we hopped onto our bed, both with contented

sighs. “Pretty weird week,” he said, his fingers caressing mine.

“Gross understatement, Zeb,” I replied.

He paused. “Do you, do you think he did it?”

My pause was longer. “As much as I hate him, Zeb, Jeeves has

always been family. Always. And I can’t see Granny keeping him

on if he did. I mean, he was accused of it and she never fired

him. So, no, I don’t think so. At least I pray he didn’t.” I gulped.

“Still, I hope we find out tomorrow and put an end to all this.”

He rolled over and our eyes met, my tummy, as usual, swirling

with butterflies. “Not an end to
all
this,” he cooed, a warm,

perfect kiss placed on my lips. He pulled an inch away, eyes still

locked, searching, drilling down deep inside me. “I know this isn’t

perfect timing, but, uh…” And those butterflies of mine went

full-on swarm, eager to break free. “… I, uh, may be in love with

my boss.”

And damn if those butterflies didn’t start winging their way

around that room right there and then. I kissed him, hard, harder

still. “Please don’t tell the stable boy union,” I whispered into his

186 Rob Rosen

mouth. “Because the boss is definitely in love with his employee,

too.”

He laughed and squeezed my hand. “The union is okay with

that.” He rolled on top of me. “In fact, they encourage it.”

“Good union,” I said, my hands working their way into the

back of his jeans.

He sighed as my index finger tickled his hole. “Best union

ever.”

“Amen,” I sighed back, our lips again shoved together, his

body writhing on mine as the tip of my finger poked its way

inside of him.

“Not on the bed,” he whispered.

“Why not?” I whispered back, knuckle-deep now.

“Have you ever tried to get spooge out of a crocheted blanket

before?”

I winked at him. “Got it.” He rolled off of me. “Shower,” I

grunted, the both of us shucking off clothes as we tore to the

bathroom, where we were quickly overwhelmed with passion and

the stink of lilac and lavender, which seemed to permeate almost

every square inch of the tiny, purple room.

“Smells like old lady,” he said, pulling me under the spray.

“I hope you’re talking about the bathroom,” said I, already

tugging at his steely rod.

“For now,” he replied, soaping up my cock with enough

potpourri-infused soap to cover up the stench of the entire

Savannah River. Then he held his nose. “Uh oh.”

I laughed, my fist working in double-time. “Too late?”

He nodded and matched me stroke for stroke. “Uh huh. Now

you smell like the garden behind my house.”

His head tilted back, the water rushing over his handsome,

stubbled face, his legs quaking a split second later as he shot.

And shot some more. His moans bounced off the purple tile,

my groans joining them a split second later as both of our hefty

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187

loads got washed down the drain.

He pulled me in to him, smiling brightly as the full moon.

“Did I mention that I love you?”

I nodded. “I believe we covered that,” I said. “Did I mention

that I love you back?”

He nodded, too. “I think so. Better say it again, just in case.”

I kissed his neck, nibbled on his ear, his warm body pressed

up snugly to mine. “I love you, Zeb.” And damn if it didn’t feel

awesome saying it. Then I looked up to the ceiling with a happy

grin.
You sure do know how to hire ‘em, Granny.

We were dressed and at the dining room table soon thereafter.

Stella and Jake joined us a minute later. It was hard to tell which

couple was glowing more. Or which stunk more like old lady.

Though neither said as much. Mainly because we didn’t need to.

“Phewee,” said Sissy, walking in with a plate of cheese and

crackers. “I’m changing the soap in those bathrooms as soon

as ya’ll skedaddle.” Four faces blushed red as four sets of hands

reached for the crackers, all eyes cast around the room and not

on one another. Or Sissy, who just shrugged, and added, “Dinner

will be ready in ten minutes.”

And so it was. And, man, was it like heaven. A southern,

artery-clogging heaven of pork chops and spiced-up greens and

honeyed yams, downed with sweet iced-tea and biscuits so light

that you could practically float on them. And not a peach in sight.

Thank goodness. But we were exhausted after we finished with it

all, and said our thanks to Sissy and our early goodnights. After

all, we needed to be fresh for tomorrow’s library investigation.

Because finding information from thirty years prior wasn’t going

to be easy. Or fun.

The four of us hugged Sissy in turn and then returned to

our bedrooms. Zeb and I hopped in bed and watched the small

television off to the side. The news was on, the upcoming

election at the forefront, seeing as the candidates were all starting

to throw their names in the hat now. And there, soon enough,

were the Pellinghams: the senior Senator and his lawyer son, both

188 Rob Rosen

of them running for seats, the elder in South Carolina for the

Senate, the younger in Georgia for the House. Needless to say,

the conservative Republicans were ecstatic. Zeb and I, of course,

were downright glum.

“Time’s running out,” I sighed.