Francine Harper’s in the Pickville Springs County Jail facing felony assault charges. Her offense? She shot at her husband, Dwayne, and his lover, Carla, after catching them together— in the very bed her daddy had carved and given to Francine and Dwayne on their wedding day. Even though she hit the bed and missed the lovers, she soon learns she’s committed a felony, and the deputy district attorney—who’s never been fond of her since she jilted his brother—is determined to prosecute her to the fullest extent of the law. On the other hand, Dwayne is a local celebrity, a talented fiddle player with his own bluegrass band, the Rocky Bottom River Boys. Things are looking up for the band, and they have been selected to record the soundtrack for director Frederick Ford Gumbello’s latest film, Oh Mother, Oh Father, Where Art Thou? When Gumbello comes to town to meet the boys, he becomes enamored with the locale and stays to film the movie since Pickville Springs is the perfect setting for the film. When Francine makes bail, aided by her best friend, Ray Anne Pickles, she discovers that the checking account she shares with Dwayne contains thirty thousand dollars she can’t account for, and she starts worrying about him. Strange things have been going on, and she still loves him. But she fears that he may have gotten involved with the local mob. Soon Francine finds herself in the arms of rising movie star Clay Carson, which is the last straw for Dwayne, who assaults Clay and disappears. When Dwayne can’t be found anywhere, Francine is suspected of foul play and is arrested for his suspected murder. But Francine is determined to find Dwayne, save him from the mob, and solve the mystery—with Ray Anne’s help, of course. In the interim, she discovers inner strengths and regains her dignity. Now the situation with Dwayne—that’s another story.

CHAPTER ONE

I'm so miserable without you it's like having you here

Me and Dwayne met at a pig-pull. I only married him once, but I ended up divorcing him twice-Dwayne's a hard man to get rid of. Right now, none of that stuff matters. I'm in the Hall County jail, and being here has completely reorganized my priorities.

“You're in serious trouble, sister,” this buck-tooth cop says. “Best get yourself a lawyer.”

I found three who had their numbers plastered on the wall of my cell with what looked to be lip liner and rang up the one that smelled like Revlon's Cherry-Berry lip balm-Herbert P. Hicks. He must camp out on the front step in front of the jailhouse. He was at the duty desk asking to see me before I hung up the phone.

“Look, Mr. Hicks,” I said, “I already told the cops who brought me in, I shot Dwayne and Carla. But I missed all three times. What's the problem?”

Newsflash-apparently, it's some kind of felony even if you can't hit a squirrel standing on your foot!

Mr. Hicks said to get some sleep; he'd see me in the morning. That's asking a lot. This place is noisier than a jackhammer, and has brighter lights than a hospital delivery room. Regardless, after the deputy, who puts on the handcuffs and shackles and escorts the women inmates around this place, took me back to my cell, I did my best to do like he said. I closed my eyes and started counting sheep; they were all wearing masks with Dwayne's face on them. I buried my head in what was supposed to be a pillow, but I swear on my mama's biscuits it was a paper napkin stuffed with some fowl-smelling lumps masquerading as cotton balls, and cried myself to sleep. That is, I started to when a gal in the cell across from mine, yelled “Shuuut up, witch!” Actually, she pronounced “witch” with a “b”, but why stoop to her level? The one housed next to her threatened to remove my tongue, come morning, if I didn't do like the first one said. She looked like she could run for Mr. Universe-and win. I did what any person with reasonable intelligence would do in my situation: I shut up. I spent the rest of the night tossing and turning and thinking about Dwayne.

The first time I saw him, I nearly stopped breathing, and my body forgot it had knees, but my cousin Trudy-who's like a flesh-and-blood sister seeing as my mama raised her-said, “Are you crazy? I wouldn't look at him in a cow pasture if he was hay and I was a cow.”

I told her she could put her opinion in the part of her anatomy Mama said not to scratch at in public. I won't repeat what she told me. Trudy and me are two years and twenty pounds apart. She's older. I'm fatter.

We were born and raised right here in Pickville Springs, Georgia. Dwayne came over from Baxter City. He used to be married to Sheila, who owns the Dirty Foot Saloon down on Pike Street, till he run off with Carla, this exotic dancer from the Peel 'n Squeal, before she run off with Angelo, who owns the place, before he run off with Melody, this other stripper, before she run off with some low-life. Lots of folks run off around here. It's amazing we got anybody left in this place.

Pickville Springs is a small town. Everyone knows whose check is good and whose husband isn't. It's located up the road apiece from Snellville. You ever watch any of that American Idol? Snellville's where that cute little Diana DeGarmo's from. She was first runner-up a couple years back and got a record contract with RCA; I think she's on Broadway now. Before the hoopla died down, the governor of Georgia had everybody wearing her favorite color: pink, the same shade Mary Kay cosmetics uses. No one got sued for color infringement, but between you and me, I got so sick of seeing the entire state of Georgia wearing pale pink that I get hives in my armpits if I my tongues too pink in the morning when I brush my teeth. The point is, that sweet little Diana gal is from Snellville and Pickville Spring's is a sneeze away. Snellville's got a city limit sign that says Where Everybody's Somebody. We got one too; only ours says Where Everybody Looks Like Somebody. That's pretty much true. Except for Sheila, Dwayne's ex-wife. She gained a lot of weight the first time Dwayne took up with Carla, so Sheila looks like your worst nightmare with bleached-blond hair. Me? I look okay, except for my bottom half. It looks like it could lose some weight.

Back to Dwayne. After my folks met him, Daddy lowered one corner of the newspaper that grows out of his head and said, “Francine, Dwayne's not worth a bucket of spit,” and went back to his sports page. Daddy's a linotype operator for the Pickville Springs Daily Post; sets the type for all the headlines.

Mama said, “Well, Dwayne ain't worth losing your britches over,” and gave me a look like she figured I already had.

What'd they know? Turns out, a lot more than I give 'em credit for, but that's another chapter. 'Course, I always been one had to learn things the hard way. Ray Anne says it's because I can't see the truth till it bites me in the butt. We've been friends since first grade, so she should know. Truth be told, I think it's a tad more complex than that.

The real truth is there are people who love, and then there's the ones who love and they call it a disease. Says so right here in this magazine, but I'm not reading any further. I don't care to find out which one I'm not. I'll just stick with Fashion News Monthly. It only tells me I'm wearing the wrong kind of clothes for someone with wide hips. I can fix that with a trip to Macy's in Atlanta when I get out of here, and if I head down there on a Wednesday, I can get an extra seventy percent off.

People Magazine doesn't scare me, neither. It says who in Hollywood's managed to stay married past thirty days, and there's always a couple of interesting articles in the back. A man made a boat out of his bathtub and sailed it down the Mississippi. And some weird-looking folks trained their pet lizard to fetch the newspaper. Reading stuff like that every week is essential for good mental health. No matter how far from the coop you find yourself, there's plenty others out there roosting who don't even know there's a hen house. Would you listen to me? I'm facing enough felony charges to keep a lawyer in silk suits for life. I need to stop running my mouth and get back to the business of telling you how I managed to make a mess of things.

Have you ever had a haircut where you want to get hold of the one that cut it and yank theirs out by the roots? That's the kind of life I been having, beginning with the second year after me and Dwayne got married. It started to unravel when Carla came back in the picture-you know, that exotic dancer from the Peel 'n Squeal Dwayne first run off with back when he was married to Sheila. Then it totally went to Hades when they opened this topless barber shop together, which really fried my grits. That's when me and Ray Anne drove Dwayne's fancy new tractor-it seats two-right through the front window. I never could understand a tractor having a full cab that seats two, like some kind of airplane. Is one gonna finish plowing the field if the other has a heart attack, or what? Anyway, like I said. I'm sitting here in the Hall County jail. It doesn't have anything to do with Dwayne's tractor and that plate glass window. We got all that straightened out. But Mr. Hicks said maybe so, but there's a stack of other charges thicker'n kudzu waiting on me.

He showed up right after they served us a breakfast Dr. Seuss would be right proud of: green eggs, no ham. He motioned for me to take the seat opposite him, then folded his hands and rested them on the table like he was fixing to pray over me. Mr. Hicks is short, maybe five-foot-three inches tall and bone-skinny. He looks a lot like Wally Cox. But what's positively amazing is he talks like Clark Gable. Now, I can dance to that! Maybe a jury will, too.

“Tell me in your own words what happened, Miss Harper,” he drawled.

“For crying out loud,” I explained, “It's not like I killed them. The bullets whizzed right past their heads and got stuck in the headboard-nearly ruined the thing.”

I waved my hands above my head for emphasis, and the deputy waved her stick and told me to keep them flat on the table. When a person giving orders has a gun, a badge and a large stick, it's best not to argue. I did like she said quicker than you can swallow.

“Go on,” Mr. Hicks said, taking notes.

I told him everything I could remember, including, putting the gun down and examining the damage done to the head of me and Dwayne's bed. I was thinking we could put a little of that wood filler in the holes the bullets made-be good as new. Then, when the police got there, this guy in a lab coat dug the bullets out with a little knife and ruined a perfectly good, hand-crafted headboard Daddy give us as a wedding gift.

I said, “What in thunder are you doing-?”

“This is evidence, ma'am.”

And I told them, “Then why don't you just take the whole darn thing and be done with it?”

He ignored me. But do you know what that smart-mouthed cop said? “Turn around. Place your hands behind your back-you are under arrest.”

Can you beat that? I'm in my own bedroom, minding my own business, having a little problem with my husband. But according to Mr. Hicks, I've broken about twenty laws and am now facing multiple charges: firing a weapon without a license, two counts of felony assault, reckless endangerment, attempted murder, blah blah blah. I can't remember the entire list. It's too long. Worse, that jury trial has me more than a little bit worried.

“Mr. Hicks, I don't think there are twelve people in this town that even like me. When I ran for Vidalia Onion Queen I didn't get but a handful of votes.” I was rubbing nervously at my wrists, even though I didn't have my handcuffs on. They're kind enough to take them off when I meet with Mr. Hicks.

“Maybe we should get one of them change of venues,” I added.

Mr. Hicks still had his hands folded on the table, but I was the one doing the praying. He brought his index fingers together like a church steeple and rocked them slowly back and forth, which made me nervous. Maybe it was some kind of signal that prayer was the only hope I had.

“Quit!” I said, and motioned for him to stop rocking his steeple. “You're making me seasick.”

He cleared his throat several times-he had a bad habit of doing that-and told me that my case didn't merit a change of venue.

“Well, what's a body got to do around here for a crime to get proper attention?” I stood up and pushed my chair away from the table. “Chop folks up in little pieces and use 'em as alligator bait?”

“That would do it,” he said, and joined me in a standing position. He was a bit taller than I thought. More like five-foot-six. Even so, I towered over him. I'm five-ten in my stocking feet.

“But then you'd be facing the death penalty instead of ten-to-twenty for felony assault.”

He looked at his watch and motioned he had to leave. He gave the door two quick taps. It opened, and he was gone.

Ten-to-twenty! “Hey, come back here,” I yelled, but I don't think he heard me. They have this steel door that keeps the ones on one side completely cut off from the ones on the other. When it slides shut, their side's the one to be on.

The deputy snapped on my handcuffs. “It's your lucky day,” she said. “You're going to the spa to get the royal treatment.”

“I am?” I said, thinking it had to be some kind of joke.

“Hmmph!” she snorted and informed me the royal treatment around here, meant a shower in full view, a body search and a private cell-in that order. She handed me a bar of soap and a towel the size of a washcloth.

Her name's Gertrude, but everybody calls her Groucho. She's about seventy years old and ornerier than a hen with a hernia, but I like her. She let me stop on the way to the spa to make a phone call.

I rang up Mama.

“Mama?”

A bunch of static squawked back at me. “Are you there? It's Francine!” I yelled into the mouthpiece. “You're not going to believe this but-” I gave her the ten-second lowdown and asked her if she'd seen today's headline.

“The one on Warren Wilson batting a thousand and cracking down on crooks?”

She'd seen it alright; so had everybody in here. The inmates were in a tizzy, adding up their charges and speculating on how much extra time they were facing. It wasn't any secret that Warren Wilson, the district attorney of Hall County, who personally liked to prosecute all the cases around here, or at least as many as he could, had aspirations of being the next governor of the state of Georgia. And Daddy said he'd nail his own mother to a tree to make sure he was.

“Looks like he's using crime and punishment as his platform,” I said.

Groucho jiggled her keys and nodded her head towards the showers.

“I couldn't have picked a worse time to shoot Dwayne if I tried, Mama,” I groaned.

She said, “Honey, now don't you worry. Mr. Hicks is a fine lawyer, and don't forget: justice is blind.”

You know, I never really bought into that. view abbreviated excerpt only...

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