Still Life in Brunswick Stew by Larissa Reinhart

a stringy piece of jerky than a hot, hunk of beef.
    “Pearl, how’s that Sable doe?” Grandpa scratched his whiskers. “What was her name? Muffin?”
    “Snickerdoodle,” she corrected. “You know her name, Ed. I’m going to sire her with a Sable buck with good papers. Them babies are going to be beautiful and great milkers.”
    I noticed the gleam in Grandpa’s eye and passed the thought that he might just be after this poor woman’s goats. Terrible, I know, but the idea of Grandpa and Pearl having romantic liaisons gave me the heebie jeebies.
    “Is that so?” said Luke. “And what is it about Halo that you like so much?”
    I rolled my eyes and leaned into Luke, Master Subject Changer.
    “Well, you’ve got a nice, little town here. People who appreciate goats like your Grandpa. Amy and my grandkids, of course. And I’m enjoying the bingo, too.”
    “Which church is doing bingo?” asked Uncle Will. “Methodist?”
    “No, it’s through the Ladies Auxiliary, but they don’t meet at the VFW hall. Some man offered to have it in his house.”
    “Really? I hadn’t heard that.” Uncle Will rubbed his chin. “You heard about the bingo, Harper?”
    “I don’t pay much attention to the Ladies Auxiliary, Sheriff,” said Luke.
    “You should,” Uncle Will winked. “You never know what those girls are up to. If you want to be sheriff someday, you’ve got to pay attention to the little things.”
    Sheriff someday? I glanced at Luke’s face, but it remained shuttered. Was Uncle Will grooming Luke to become sheriff? I thought Luke was hoping to transfer to a city detective position.
    Pearl hopped up and peeked in the oven. The sweet smell of cornbread mixed with the comforting aroma of chicken and beans and permeated the kitchen.
    “These will be done in a minute,” she said. “You should see this house where we play bingo. Looks like Tara Plantation. Even has a cannon in the front yard.”
    I stiffened. The only house that looked like a wedding cake with a cannon in the front yard belonged to Max Avtaikin.
    A quiet, but unmistakable groan rose from Luke.
    “You don’t say.” I circled the table to the oven. “This house has a game room for y’all to play poker, I mean bingo, in?”
    “How did you know?” Pearl slipped the cornbread out of the oven. “A big, beautiful room in his basement with a chandelier and a cashier’s booth just like on the casino boats. I went on a girl’s weekend to Mississippi once.”
    “Got a bar with a reclining nude painted on the wall?” I stepped back as she maneuvered the muffins to the opposite counter.
    “You’ve been to Mr. Max’s house? I don’t like naked pictures myself, but I guess some folks think it’s art.” She shook the muffins onto a sheet of newspaper.
    I allowed the crack about art in the interest of busting gangsters. “I’ve been there once. And I know the man who owns the house. He’s been in trouble for gambling before. Y’all better find another place to play your bingo.”
    “What?” Pearl stuck her hands on her hips. “Mr. Max is a gentleman. He says hosting bingo is a community service and even serves us tea and cookies. Calls the cookies biscuits. Isn’t that cute? We adore Mr. Max.”
    I blinked back my shock. There was nothing cute about the Bear. Maybe ruggedly handsome in a scary, linebacker sort of way. We had made our peace, but I didn’t trust him. He operated with ulterior motives for his ulterior motives. Serving little old ladies tea and biscuits had to be an underhanded way of filling his coffers.
    “I saw Mr. Max at church today, actually,” I said.
    “Church?” Cody said. “Is it Christmas already?”
    “You should talk, you heathen. You know Mr. Max was a judge at the cook-off, Uncle Will?”
    “I am aware,” said Will. “Thankfully, the judges were fine. Which makes it kind of doubtful all those folks got sick from Brunswick Stew.”
    Casey reentered the kitchen, her toenails gleaming with a fresh coat