Page 55 of Hiss and Make Up
“Where are you going?”
“Sunday. Dad time.” Sierra grabbed her phone and her denim jacket from a hook by the door. After tripping over a fluffy-ish dark gray cat with a villainous stare, she kissed Liz on the forehead. “Then, I’m setting a trap.”
“For the record,” Liz shouted at her as she ran out the door, “this is about the stupidest plan I’ve ever heard. Even from you.”
13
Sierra parked along the street and waved at three boys riding rusted bikes with a skinny yellow dog following behind them. With one hand clutching a paper grocery bag, she wound through the lettuces and herbs in small beds and planters. She passed the big crepe myrtle and entered the backyard of the freshly painted, bright orange house on pillars.
When her dad had shown her the paint sample he wanted to use, she’d cringed. But now that it was on the house, she kind of liked it. It was warm, cheerful, and inviting. All the other neighbors were now painting their own houses bright colors too.
As soon as the Freetown neighborhood—once a safe haven for freed slaves—got its historical registry designation a couple of years ago, the residents began accessing tax credits for improvements. Her dad had been living here for years, back before it began attracting artists and free spirits who enjoyed the proximity to campus, festivals, and downtown nightlife.
While Sierra hated how neighborhoods like this were pricing out poor minority communities, living here made her dad happy. So they both volunteered and attended community meetings, and they always voted in the best interest of the longstanding residents.
“There she is,” her dad said. He dusted the soil from his hands behind a table filled with seed trays. His hands and bare arms were still tanned and leathery from the summer and years of being outside.
He met her with a hug and said, “Hey, Pumpkin.” His thin frame in her arms reminded her of his age despite his healthy appearance.
They walked toward the house together. The yard was overrun with plants, seedling shelves, rabbit hutches, and compost bins. He sold veggie plants and rabbit-poop-infused fertilizer out of his back yard and at the weekly farmers market. Somehow, the whole operation still smelled better than the yoga place he used to run.
“Brought actual food this week?” he asked.
“Well, it’s made from fancy grapes, so I say it counts as food.”
He took the paper bag and pulled out the bottle of champagne. “Good thing I traded Cameron a bag of fertilizer for a dozen eggs yesterday morning.” He turned toward the house. “Come on, I’m sure I have some orange juice leftover from last week.”
“Brunch mimosas. What the good Lord intended fathers and daughters to bond over on Sunday mornings.”
“Indeed she did.”
Sierra followed him up the steps and through the back door into the tiny kitchen. He shook his head while she plopped two ice cubes into two mismatched coffee mugs and poured a shot of OJ into each.
“Hey, don’t look at me like that,” she said. “You’re the one without proper glassware.”
Her dad topped off each mug with cheap champagne, then began cracking eggs into the bowl Sierra had pulled out for him. “Go outside and cut some green onions and basil leaves. Should still be plenty of both. I’ve got a banana pepper around here somewhere and some goat cheese from St. Martinville. I think we can whip up a couple omelets.”
Sierra set her mug on the tiny corner table and went outside to snip the herbs. When she returned, her dad was already pouring half the eggs into a heated pan.
“So. What’s new this week?” he asked, exactly as he did every Sunday morning. “How are Liz and Luna?”
“Great. And the same.”
He gave a tight smile and a nod, while he sprinkled goat cheese crumbles and banana pepper slices on half of the egg. “And work?”
“Fine.” Sierra laughed and took a sip of her mug mimosa. “Except I lost my bartending job and sort of fell into this whole mystery-solving thing.”
He gave her a hairy look before working the sides of the egg loose with his spatula. “All right, Nancy Drew. Explain.”
“You’re as bad as Liz,” she said. “Remember the Dugas family?”
He folded the omelet and slid it onto a plate. “Which ones?”
“Breaux Bridge neighbors.” She took the plate and fork he handed her, then leaned against the wall in the tiny kitchen and started eating while he worked on his own omelet.
“Ah, yes. What about them?”
“Marc called. Needed a snake identified.” She stuffed a bite in her mouth before she could say anything self-incriminating.
