The rectangular plot of grass adjacent to the projects is the equivalent of a threadbare carpet. What it lacks in lustrous green, it makes up for with small plastic pinwheels, paint-chipped Hot Wheels, primary-color Fisher-Price figures, and bedraggled plush toys who lord over the kingdom like mangy Godzillas. The breeze animates the pinwheels and stirs what little grass there is. Sunlight glints off the tiny cars. The Fisher-Price kids smile, some tilted this way or that from last night's rain. This is not the most beautiful garden in the world. But it's beautiful because whoever created it thinks it is.

Molly pushed the hound's nose away from her crotch and smoothed the front of her long dress. Walt tugged on the leash, "Down, girl." He apologized to the Sheriff's wife, "She gets that from her Pa, had some of the river bottom leghound in him." Stillwater commanded the group, "Grab your guns and badges, boys, this murder just turned federal." "Walt", he said, "get Lucy on his trail and we'll follow you on the horses." Molly tucked a loose strand of auburn hair behind her ear and thought that dog will make a stop at half the women in Fulton.

Red, blue, and yellow jimmies anchored by and yet smothering the underlying icing: thick, fluffy buttercream white, whipped in circles and contained entirely within the boundaries of each cupcake's golden bosom, themselves spilling over the edges of the foil. The scent of each, sugary-sweet, like lust, inviting a closer look, touch, taste. A nip from a corner, ilicit and forbidden, when no one is looking; this one gets tucked in back where no one can see: an affair. I whisper fervent promises; I'll send for you later.

Happy Birthday, Vicki! the card reads. A subscript: Sorry I Violated Your Cakes.