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“Who’s your friend, Eliza?” an overly sweet Southern voice asked behind us.

Well, hell.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Reed

“You’re saying I should hop over that fence and pickle the Beast?”

—Benny “the Jet” Rodriguez, The Sandlot

Shit. I hated that voice.

Eliza and I spun around. My stomach lurched as I came face-to-face with none other than Viola “Greedy” Gratton. Of course she was here. She’d probably get enough dirt on people today to last her through at least Thanksgiving.

Maybe that was why these women wore such big hats at these things? Easier to spy on one another. Hide their beady, judgmental eyes.

TJ hummed a dramatic “dun-dun-dun” before Lauryn elbowed him in the ribs. Eliza stuck out her hand and said, “Hello, Ms. Gratton. So nice to see you.”

Damn. That almost sounded sincere. She was good.

“Eliza Crowley.” Ms. Gratton gave her hand a little squeeze. “I so miss seeing you at our book club gatherings, but I hear you’ve been…busy.” Her eyes narrowed and gave me a once-over like I was some kind of prized meat in the butcher-shop window. Or more like the kind of meat about to expire.

Eliza gestured to me. “This is—”

“Reed Fulton.” Ms. Gratton stuck out her lace-covered hand. “It’s been a long time, honey.”

Does the lace keep her snake venom away or will it still soak through her skin? “It has.” I shook her hand firmly. “Last time I saw you I think I was eight or maybe nine years old.”

Ms. Gratton’s fake smile turned into a thin line. “That’s right. That was the summer I lost my prized petunias.”

Sweet tea sprayed out of TJ’s mouth like a broken fountain. “Dude, that was you?”

“Oh my God, TJ. Do you have any self-control?” Lauryn pressed a napkin to his face.

I fought my own laugh as I spoke to Ms. Gratton. “I’m truly sorry about that, ma’am.”

Sorry your little yipping dog stopped me before I could go after your roses too.

Almost ten years ago, I found Nana aggressively weeding in one of her flower beds and had asked her what was wrong. She had told me Viola Gratton bullied the town council into voting the Fultons out of their stand at the farmer’s market because of “past discrepancies.” It was the first and only time I had ever heard Nana say the word “horseshit.” I had never been prouder and more pissed at the same time in all my life, so I got on my bike and the rest was history.

Ms. Gratton cleared her throat. “Yes, well, flowers grow back, I suppose. Mr. Mosely’s head, however, could not.”

“Mr. Mosely?” I asked.

“My poor garden gnome.” She took a sip from her champagne flute. “Less than a month after your accident with my flowers, someone decapitated him.”

TJ snorted into his glass as Ms. Gratton grabbed some funky-looking hors d’oeuvres from the tray of the closest waiter.

I turned my head and whispered to him, “You?”

“I would never, Fulton,” he mumbled in a slow Southern drawl.

Ha! Nice.

Eliza stepped forward. “You do have the prettiest flowers in town, Ms. Gratton.”

Probably fertilizes them with the blood of her enemies.