Buried In Buttercream

troublemakers were all in the living room. Only the industrious and easier-going of her siblings ventured into a room, like the kitchen, where actual labor was to be performed.
    At the sink stood quiet, gentle Alma, her arms in suds nearly to her elbows. And beside her was good ol’ Waycross. Well over six feet tall, broad of shoulders, with bright red hair and pale blue eyes, he looked as manly a man as any son of Georgia. And that wasn’t easy, as he applied a flowered dish towel to Savannah’s rose-spangled dishes with as much gusto as any housemaid.
    Lovely little Alma was a miniature version of Savannah. Not as curvaceous of figure, but the same dark curls and sapphire eyes. She had always been her big sister’s favorite, and vice versa.
    Savannah walked over to the sink, stood between them, and wrapped an arm around each of their waists. “Ah, my sweeties,” she said, giving them a squeeze. “Leave it up to that gang o’ rare-do-wells out there to leave you with all the work.”
    Waycross returned the affectionate squeeze. “Eh, we don’t mind if it means getting a bit of peace and quiet for ourselves. I’d rather dry dishes with Alma than listen to all their hens squawking any day of the week and twice on a Sunday.”
    Savannah glanced around the cluttered kitchen counters and saw the remnants of a grand feast. Giant shrimps—though most of them had been reduced to nothing but tails—littered platters with exotic cheeses, fruit cut into interesting floral shapes, crackers, and miniature bread tidbits. There were still a few deviled eggs left and half a bowl of grits flavored with bits of bacon and browned onions.
    She nearly burst into tears when she realized that the pile of crumbs, lemon filling, and white icing on that big silver platter was the earthly remains of her wedding cake. The bride and groom figurines were buried, face-first, in a mound of buttercream frosting.
    “I don’t suppose,” she said with more than a little bitterness, “that the hounds of hell out there thought to leave me even one piece of that when they were chowing down.”
    “We grabbed two big pieces off the top layer for you and Dirk,” Alma said, “and put ’em in that giant green Tupperware bowl of yours. It’s in the ice box, down in the crisper. Figured they’d never think to look for it there.”
    “Smart. It’s true that Marietta and Vidalia aren’t likely to go foraging for lettuce and carrots where there’s wedding reception grub to devour.”
    Savannah picked up a couple of shrimps and dredged them through the red cocktail sauce before popping them into her mouth. “What the heck,” she said, reaching for an herb cheese biscuit with a smoked salmon filling, “this spread cost me a pretty penny. Might as well enjoy it. When we finally do get married, I’ll do well to afford popcorn and peanut butter and grape jelly sandwiches.”
    “I’m sorry,” Waycross said as he stacked plates into the cupboard. “I tried to talk some sense into that caterer. Told her what happened with the community center there. But she wouldn’t have none of it. Said ’tweren’t her fault, and since the stuff was all made up already ...”
    “I know you did your best,” Savannah told him. “And it’s only fair. Wasn’t her fault that nitwit set that fire.”
    “What nitwit?” Alma brightened considerably. “You know who it was that done it?”
    “Better yet. Caught him. Even pistol-whipped him with my purse. Unintentionally, of course.”
    Waycross grinned. “Of course.”
    “Hey, he laid hands on me. That ain’t smart on any day, let alone on the day my wedding went up in flames.”
    Alma giggled and winked at Savannah. “My big sister don’t take no guff off nobody.”
    “I seem to remember you beatin’ the tar outta that Blalock boy for cutting off one of your braids in the second grade.” Savannah turned to her brother. “And there was that time when you left a block of Limburger cheese on Jeb Patterson’s manifold after he hit that bloodhound of yours with his pickup truck.”
    “I swear he hit my dog on purpose, ’cause Deputy Stafford used it to sniff out Jeb’s moonshine stile. The dog always did walk with a limp after that.”
    “I reckon a streak of vigilante justice just runs in our family,” Alma observed.
    “Now, now.” Savannah shook her head. “We don’t go espousing anything all that radical. We just have a strong sense of right and wrong and a serious commitment to