Free Peaches And Screams (A Savannah Reid Mystery) by G. A. McKevett

joy of waking up to the promise of such a country feast. And she could mark the moment she had become an avowed night owl: the day she had moved to California, away from Georgia and her grandmother’s breakfasts.
    As she hopped up onto the back porch, she nearly tripped over the ancient bloodhound who lay stretched out beside the washing machine, his belly resting against the cool metal.
    She noted the differences the years had made: the washer was now an automatic, not the old-fashioned wringer that Gran had sworn by, and Colonel Beauregard’s muzzle had grown white with age. Also, he had grown, if possible, even less energetic than he had been eight years before.
    “Beau Bear,” she said, bending down to stroke the long silky ears, “been chasing any coons or squirrels lately?”
    His lazy grunt made her laugh. He didn’t even bother to open both eyes, but peered up at her from beneath one drooping lid.
    “All you ever chased was your dinner bowl,” she said, tickling the floppy jowls and bristly whiskers. “You’re as worthless as those cats I feed and house back in California, and not half as good-looking.”
    Her appetite tweaked by the sounds of conversation and the rattle of cutlery against pottery, Savannah left the old hound to his daylong nap and entered the screen door. Again, she had the impression that half the county must be crammed into a tiny room, but as in the sheriff’s office, a quick scan of the occupants identified them all as her kinsmen . . . and kinswomen . . . and kinskids.
    “Pull up a chair, Savannah,” Gran said as she carried a bowl full of green beans from the stove to the table. “Marietta, set your sister a plate, and Vidalia, mind your young’uns before they tear up house and home.”
    With the beans in one hand, Gran used the other to swoop one of Vidalia’s twins off the counter, where he teetered on one foot, trying to reach a cookie jar in the cupboard.
    “Dang it, Jack,” Butch said, leaving the table and grabbing his son by the collar, “If I have to talk to you one more time, I’m gonna slap you buck-necked and hide your clothes.”
    “I don’t like standing at the counter to eat,” Jack’s twin, Jillian, complained, poking at the mound of mashed potatoes before her. “How come we have to stand up when we eat at Gran’s house?”
    Sitting at the far end of the table, Waycross shoved half a cornbread muffin into his mouth. “ ’Cause there’s not enough room at the table,” he told her. “Don’t bellyache. Standin’ up makes you grow taller. How do you think I got this big?”
    “Why can’t we eat in the living room and watch TV, like we do at home?” Jillian continued. “We’re missing my favorite show.”
    “ ’Cause we’re not heathens. . . .” Gran patted her on the back as she passed her and tucked a wayward curl behind her ear. “Eatin’ off our laps in front of the idiot box like a gang o’ Philistines.”
    “How come the grown-ups get to sit down?” Jack whined.
    “Because they worked hard all day,” Gran replied. “And some of us haven’t had a chance to sit down yet. When you get grown up and put in a hard day’s work, you’ll get to sit down at the table instead of standing there at the counter. Do you need more lemonade? Is that iced tea sweet enough for you?”
    Savannah glanced over at Marietta and Vidalia, wondering if either of them would offer their seat to their grandmother, or maybe, in a fit of generosity, even volunteer to help her serve.
    Then Savannah sighed, realizing that nothing had changed.
    As before, it was Alma who jumped to her feet. “Here, Gran, you sit down now and eat your supper before everything gets cold. I’ll refill the gravy boat.” She nudged Waycross as she hurried past him and said, “Get one of them fold-up patio chairs off the back porch for Savannah, and y’all schooch over to make some room for her. I swear, you’ve got the manners of wolves, the bunch o’ ya.”
    After a minute or