Read Deep Fried and Pickled (Book One - The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles) Online
Authors: Paisley Ray
Deep Fried and Pickled (Book One - The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles) (47 page)
“Rach, I’m sorry I ever lent it to her. I’m completely gobsmacked. She was always so sweet.” Hugh shook his head. “I had no idea she was crazy.”
“Forget it. She’s gone. A couple of days after the police finished searching her room, her mom drove up and packed up her things.”
“Wait a minute. I thought her mom died when she was young.”
Clay wrapped his arm around my shoulder. “She lied. Her mom divorced her dad last summer.”
“How do you know?”
I shoved my hands into my pockets. I was tired of the Bridget story. Katie Lee, Macy, Francine, Chantal and I had stayed up all night after the Bridget-gun encounter. We analyzed everything, down to her dental floss routine. I’d already told Clay the whole sordid story, and he thought I was telling a tall tale until Francine showed him her bite mark.
“Chantel introduced herself to Mrs. Bodsworth. Helped her pack up Bridget’s things.”
“Are you leaving Friday?” Hugh asked.
“Tomorrow, after my final. What about you?”
“I’m driving Sheila home on Friday then heading to Florida. Are you working on masterpieces this summer?”
I stared at Hugh. The thought of spending a summer with Dad and his girlfriend wrecked my emotional balance. I hadn’t heard from Mom in months and guessed she hadn’t found her inner-self yet. It was weird knowing that she was alive, but not knowing anything about what she was doing. I rubbed the trinket on my neck. After nine months of freedom and independence, thoughts of leaving North Carolina for an Ohio summer horrified me. “Not sure what summer has in store for me.”
“May I?” Hugh asked Clay before hugging me. “It’s been a hell of a year. Don’t be a stranger.”
He and Sissy strolled away, and I wondered if he had a thing for complicated relationships. Sheila Sinclair? I whispered, “Good luck.”
Clay folded me in his arms and led me toward his dorm. Finally, we’d have some drama-free, quality alone time.
The year was over. My last final was Professor Schleck’s blue book written exam. I had tonight to refresh myself on a few facts. I was ready. A few hours spent with Clay would be harmless. We settled onto his futon, his leg touching mine. It took under a minute for us to maneuver into a lip lock. A wave tumbled over me. His hands were crafty, and my bra disappeared. This was it, and I wouldn’t have regrets. We both ignored the knock on the door, but Clay was a southerner and had left the latch unlocked.
Someone cleared his throat, “Rachael.”
Clay and I detached our lips, and I wiped the spit shine with my fingertips. “Storm?”
“Katie Lee said I might find you here. I need to verify a statement. Could I borrow you for a few minutes?”
NOTE TO SELF
Southerners--do any lock doors?
The End
Epilogue
Being home for the summer spun my emotional balance in a manic dance. Separated by hundreds of miles from the crazies that tried to kill me was a relief, but I missed Clay my almost-boyfriend, who I almost-had sex with, and the girls I’d befriended on the seventh floor of Grogan Dorm.
I tried not to think about how wrong everything could’ve ended. Some decent juju had channeled my way, and I’d breathed a deep sigh every morning since. Clementine Hunter and The New Orleans Museum of Art had filed charges against Billy and Jack Ray, Stewart Hayes, and Bridget Bodsworth for heisting and forging artwork. The case files were in the hands of lawyers and courts to sort out.
There still was some open-ended business–-namely Bubba Jackson. He slipped through the cracks of the FBI raid on his apartment, which amounted to seizing a stockpile of forged paintings, invoices that linked New Bern to an art dealer in New Orleans, illegal fireworks, and a heap of cannabis.
Storm Cauldwell, the smoking-hot FBI agent in charge, confided that the confiscated marijuana was the largest North Carolina bust so far this year. Jackson’s refrigerator, freezer, kitchen cabinets, and storage facility below his deck didn’t contain household items and sporting equipment. Every inch had been stocked with blocks of cellophane wrapped happy grass. No one in New Bern admitted to knowing his whereabouts. But once authorities found Bubba, he’d be facing an additional set of charges for possession and distribution.
Two weeks into the Canton, Ohio, summer, a certified package arrived at Dad’s shop, addressed to me. A painting of a chorus group, wearing white robes, sang inside a country church. There was one vanilla face amongst the singers. Clementine Hunter titled the painting, “Awakening.” It came with a typed thank you note initialed in a Sharpie pen.
I called Francine at home in Louisiana to tell her I’d received the painting. She said it would make a fine addition to our dorm room in the fall. After I hung up, I flipped through the calendar and counted the weeks. I had to survive ten weeks of a Canton, Ohio summer where my biggest obstacle wouldn’t amount to anything life and death. Worse, I’d have to combat lengthy bouts of boredom, pesky midwestern-mosquito’s and their close relative, Dad’s girlfriend Trudy Bleaux.
Personal message from Paisley Ray
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Paisley Ray
Acknowledgements
“How’s the book going?” Those four words kept me accountable, and I want to thank everyone that kept asking.
Along the way, I’ve met some extraordinary writers that helped guide and inspire me. Lou Nelson, writing mentor extraordinaire and the Tuesday night writer’s, Blake, Kristin, Cynthia, Michele and Alison, whose Oreo cookie critiques helped light the long and twisty path.
I also want to thank Kristin Lindstrom for her sharp editorial eye. My mother-in-law, D. Vout, my husband Marcel and my niece Paige, for listening to endless jabber about character and plot and for giving my story a fresh set of eyes. Merci’
Also by Paisley Ray
Freshman: Deep Fried and Pickled
Freshmore: Summer Flambe’
Sophomore: Shelled and Shucked
(coming summer 2013)
Table of Contents
