Buried In Buttercream

moment she set foot in her house.
    It was quiet.
    Oh, the television was on. Upstairs, Atlanta was playing her guitar and singing. And there were several low-key conversations going on in the living room and in the kitchen.
    But for a Reid house, it was strangely peaceful.
    When she walked into the living room, the thought raced through her head, Somebody’s died . She couldn’t think of any other reason why they would be so subdued.
    Lined up on the sofa were Marietta, Vidalia, Butch, and Jesup. The children, Cordele, and Macon sat on the floor at their feet. Granny was resting comfortably in Savannah’s overstuffed chair.
    All eyes were trained on the TV, a show about the joys and attractions of the Disneyland resort.
    The room was free of fast food wrappers, empty soda cans, pizza boxes, toys, tabloid reading materials, and discarded clothing.
    On the coffee table sat an attractive tray of goodies: crackers and cheeses, all sorts of fresh fruit, and a batch of freshly baked chocolate cupcakes with pecan and coconut frosting. Iced tea glistened in her antique, cobalt blue pitcher.
    “I want to go to Pixie Hollow,” Jillian said in a voice that was barely above a whisper.
    “We will, sugar,” Vidalia told her. “Right after we take Jack on the teacups.”
    “Goody!” Jillian clapped her hands, then quickly settled down. “We’re going to Disneyland tomorrow,” she told Savannah, her eyes aglow.
    “That is ... if you aren’t figuring on trying to get married ... again,” Marietta added with an unmistakable sarcastic tone. It occurred to Savannah that the expression on her face was that of a constipated bloodhound. But she decided to keep that observation to herself.
    Blood had been shed in the Reid clan for verbal infractions less incendiary than that.
    “That’ll be enough lip outta you, Miss Marietta,” Granny said as she shot her a warning look. “Seems you’ve already forgotten that little family discussion we had earlier.”
    “No, ma’am,” Marietta said, donning a hangdog look. The same expression she and the rest of the Reid kids wore any time there was a threat of a trip to the woodshed hanging in the air.
    Oh, Savannah thought, mystery solved. They’re all behaving themselves because Gran laid down the law.
    That wasn’t quite as nice as self-imposed reform, but she’d take what she could get.
    “We figured you’d be home about now,” Gran told her. “So, Alma and Waycross are in there scrounging up some dinner for you. This troupe done ate already.”
    “I helped Aunt Alma put the cupcake papers in the pan,” Jillian said proudly.
    “And I stirred the frosting for Uncle Waycross!” Jack added with a big, chocolate-enhanced grin.
    “Thank you, sweet cheeks.” Savannah reached down and tweaked Jillian’s pigtail and ruffled Jack’s curls as she walked past them on the way to the kitchen. “And thanks to the rest of you, too,” she added. “But you don’t have to be quiet as church mice. I don’t mind you talking to each other, for heaven’s sake.”
    No sooner had the words left her mouth than bedlam erupted.
    “You better not expect me to go on that Space Mountain. I’ll toss my cookies for sure!” Marietta exclaimed.
    “Don’t be a spoil sport, Mari!” Vidalia said. “You’re always such a drama queen when it comes to stuff like that. You ruin it for the rest of us.”
    “Yeah, Mar ... you’re such a wuss.” Macon gave her a playful smack on the leg with the back of his hand.
    “O www! Dang you, Macon Elmer Reid, that hurt!”
    She hit him on the head, and a flurry of slaps ensued.
    “Stop it!” Gran shouted. “Or I swear, I’ll land on you like a duck on a June bug and whoop the tar outta the bunch of ya!”
    Savannah chuckled as she walked into the kitchen, where Alma stood at the stove, making what appeared to be a toasted cheese and bologna sandwich.
    Waycross was washing a big, red tomato at the sink. Beside him, on the counter, sat a bowl of sliced cucumbers and onions floating in a bath of vinegar, salt, and sugar water with a sprinkling of fresh dill.
    “Boy, howdy,” Savannah said, walking over to them and giving each a kiss on the cheek. “That smells plum fit to eat!”
    “It ain’t nothin’ fancy,” Alma told her, “but we figured it’d keep the sides of your stomach from stickin’ together.”
    “Yeah. You ain’t ate nothin’ all day.” Waycross cut a thick slice off the tomato. “We can’t be havin’ that.”
    He