Peaches and Scream (Georgia Peach Mystery, A) (15 page)

Georgia Belle Fact #052:
In the South, we not only love our neighbors, of course, but even for the questionable among them we make sure they never go hungry.

“I asked Hattie to join us,” Ginny said as I walked into the diner’s kitchen. I plunked down the heavy box of ingredients I was carrying and reached for the glass of iced tea she was holding out. “By the way, Reverend Jones was asking about you this morning. Wondering why you weren’t at services.”

Ah, yes, welcome back to the fold.
“I overslept, I guess,” I lied. But as soon as the words were out, I started squirming. I was raised to believe Sundays were for churchgoing, period. The real truth was that I hadn’t overslept, but opted for the soft comfort of my own bed over one of Reverend’s hard-edged sermons because . . . well, I just wasn’t ready to face down the guilt I felt over my own past sins.

Ginny eyed me strangely, but thankfully let the topic drop. Instead, she pulled a plate from the microwave and passed it my way. “Here. Try this. We can’t make preserves on an empty stomach.” Knowing that we wouldn’t be able to use the kitchen until the last of the after-church crowd had cleared out and the place was cleaned and prepared for
the next business day, I’d spent most of the day taking care of chores around the house. I’d been so busy I hadn’t even taken a break for lunch. Now it was already late afternoon and getting close to my usual dinnertime, so I was ever so grateful she’d thought to have something for us to eat.

“It’s a new recipe: hash brown casserole with beef,” she continued, handing me a fork. I took the plate and sat at the end of the stainless steel work counter. “I threw in some sweet corn, too.”

I took a bite and raised my brows in appreciation. “Mmm. This is wonderful.” The textures were amazing. Crispy and creamy at the same time, with a little extra crunch from the kernels of sweet corn. “Is that sour cream I taste?”

Ginny beamed. “Yes. Glad you like it. I made one for Ben Wakefield’s widow. Still can’t believe I never knew that man was married. Anyway, thought I’d run the casserole by their house this afternoon.”

My ears perked up. “Really. Mind if I go with you?”

Ginny shrugged. “Sure. Why not?” She sat across from me with her own plate and had just started in when Hattie pushed her way through the hinged door that separated the diner and kitchen.

“Hey, all!” she called out before stopping short and staring down at our plates. “Oh, my!” I could see her nose twitching. “That smells divine.”

Ginny started to stand. “I’ll heat some up for you.”

Hattie stopped her. “Don’t bother getting up. I can get it. You forget that I’ve worked your kitchen before. I know where you keep everything.”

“Hattie fills in sometimes in a pinch,” Ginny explained.

“And Ginny’s helped over at my place, too,” Hattie replied, scooping out a generous portion of casserole on a plate. “Speaking of helping, how’d it go at Joe Puckett’s yesterday?”

“Great. Thanks to Cade and a few of his friends, Joe’s got a new roof.”

“I’m so glad to hear it,” Ginny said between bites. “That poor man’s had his share of heartache. First his wife, then his only child killed in that terrible mill accident.”

I gasped and set down my fork. “What? Joe’s son was killed at the mill?”

“Didn’t you know that?” Hattie asked with a half-full mouth. She swallowed and dabbed at her lips with a napkin. “When was that, Gin? Do you remember?”

“Just last year. April, I think.” Ginny shuddered. “It was horrible. He was operating the chipper . . . and . . . well, it killed him instantly. Joe was so distraught over Tucker’s death, he locked himself in that cabin of his most of the summer. I sent Sam over several times with food. I was afraid the poor man wasn’t eating.”

I abandoned the last couple of bites and pushed aside my plate. “That’s awful.” It was also a good reason to feel a lot of hatred toward Ben Wakefield. Enough to kill over? I immediately dismissed the idea. No way. More than likely the conniving Millicent, or the scorned Laney Burns, or even the bitter Floyd Reeves, was responsible for Wakefield’s murder. Not Joe. Joe was simply an old man who wanted to live the rest of his life in his peaceful patch of woods making moonshine and reveling in the memories of happier days with his wife and son.

Hattie’s sigh interrupted my train of thought. “Enough of this sad talk,” she said, tapping my arm. “What do you say we get busy making some peach preserves?”

And so we did. For the next couple hours, we measured, stirred and poured until we’d filled a couple dozen jars of beautifully set peach preserves. Ginny even taught me a neat little trick for thawing my peaches. She macerated them in sugar while they thawed. She told me this was to soften the fruit and ensure that I didn’t end up with hard bits of fruit floating in a mess of juice. Which was exactly what I had the first time I attempted to make preserves with Mama’s frozen peaches. Now, after pulling one perfect jar after
another out of the canner, I felt confident I could do it on my own next time. “Thank you again for using your day off to help me figure this out,” I told them, as we dried the last pot and prepared to call it a successful day. “I think I’ve got the hang of it now.”

I was instantly sandwiched in a group hug. “We’re just so glad you’re here, Nola.” Hattie gushed into my right ear.

“And we’d do ’bout anything to get you to stay,” Ginny added from the other side. “Even if it meant we had to spend every weekend helping you make peach products for your new business.”

“Hey, speak for yourself, you old married woman,” Hattie joked. “I, for one, have better things to do with my weekends. And it has nothing to do with making peach stuff.”

“Making something else?” Ginny shot back.

The corners of Hattie’s mouth turned upward, but before she could expand on the thought I jumped in. “Making spicy Mexican food. Hattie told me she and Pete are really fond of making—what did you call it? Chili rellenos together, I do believe. Isn’t that right, Hattie?”

“Uh-huh. That’s right. Pete likes to stuff his—”

“Enough!” Ginny playfully covered her ears.

“You started it,” Hattie protested.

Ginny pointed to the door, barely able to contain her laughter. “Go on. Get out of here, you wicked harlot.”

Hattie tipped her head back and laughed as she sashayed her way across the room with a little extra wiggle. Right before exiting, she licked her finger and touched it to her bum and made an exaggerated sizzling sound.

Ginny and I were still laughing a few minutes later as we made our way out the door with the casserole and onto the walk. “Your car or mine?” she asked me. “The Wakefield place is about a half mile out of town, on the same road as the lumber mill.”

I was about to suggest we take my Jeep, when a familiar blond head caught my attention. “That’s her right over there.”

Looking back at Ginny, I noticed her eyes were wide in wonderment. “Will you check out that outfit?” she said. “I could never pull that off.”

“Me, either,” I agreed. In fact, I would have thought mixing so many animal prints would be some sort of fashion faux pas, but on Millicent, the zebra print leggings, black-and-white leopard print vest over an all-black super-short dress, and supersized crocodile bag swinging from her shoulder seemed to work. I pulled on Ginny’s arm. “Come on, let’s catch up to her.”

We darted across the street and cut through the corner of the courthouse lawn just in time to see her duck into the alley between the Clip & Curl and the VFW hall. “Where is she headed?” Ginny asked, juggling the foil-covered dish from one arm to the other as we scurried down the sidewalk.

“I have no idea, but let’s see if we can catch up to her.” We dashed into the alley and stopped short. Millicent was nowhere to be seen. “Where’d she go?”

Ginny nodded toward the back door of the Clip & Curl. “Maybe in there.”

We crossed over to the door and were about to enter when we heard voices from down the alley. It sounded like Millicent and a man. Squinting, I caught a glimpse of Millicent’s backside around the edge of one of the large blue Dumpsters that lined the alley. She was standing in the VFW’s service doorway holding a heated discussion with someone. I was almost a hundred percent sure it was Floyd Reeves, but a stack of wood pallets was blocking my view.

Turning to Ginny, I held my finger to my mouth, indicating that we should continue as quietly as possible. Crouching, I shuffled toward one of the Dumpsters and took refuge behind it, Ginny following close on my heels. “Are you nuts? What are you doing?” I heard her make gagging noises. “Lawdy! It smells like a thousand cats used this thing as their litter box.”

“Shh! I think she’s talking to Floyd Reeves.”

“The kid who hates lumbering?” The foil on the dish made crinkling noises as Ginny struggled to stay crouched.

“Yes,” I hissed. “Shh! I want to hear what they’re saying.” But their words were inaudible over the buzzing air-conditioning units that lined the alleyway, noisily pumping cool air into the adjacent businesses. Staying in my crouched position, I duckwalked along the lower edge of the Dumpster, hoping to be able to hear better. Just then, the back door to the Clip & Curl swung open and Laney Burns came bouncing out, a cigarette in one hand and her lighter in the other. She lifted the cigarette to her lips and paused. “Nola Mae? Is that you? What in heaven’s name are you doing down there?” Cooling units or not, Laney’s voice came in loud and clear. Reacting quickly, I jumped up and glanced down the alley, just in time to see Millicent shove an envelope into the hands of Floyd Reeves.

At the sound of Laney’s voice, both Millicent and Floyd turned toward us. A brief flash of terror crossed Floyd’s face as he reeled and dashed out the back side of the alley. Millicent, on the other hand, leveled a determined look our way and started toward us, heels clicking against the concrete. As she drew closer, facts started racing through my mind: Ben Wakefield was divorcing her; upon his death, she inherited the mill; she’d been spotted in town at the time of the murder; and just now she was handing something to an overzealous, hateful man who’d already stated that he was happy Ben Wakefield was dead.

One thing for sure: I was staring into the well-made-up face of my new number-one suspect in the murder of Ben Wakefield. And she was staring back with a sugary sweet smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes. “Is there something I can do for y’all?”

Behind me, I heard the rustling of aluminum foil. Ginny stepped out from behind the Dumpster. “Actually, yes. I was getting ready to bring this up to your house when we spotted
you from across the street. Thought we’d save a trip and just give it to you in person.”

“Well, isn’t this sweet?” Millicent took the dish and turned her attention back to where Laney and I were standing. That was when, all of a sudden, another fact flew to mind. Probably the most important one of all: I was standing between Millicent and her dead husband’s mistress.

Unfortunately, this realization must have already dawned on Millicent. She smiled tightly at Laney and asked, “Are you the gal that does nails here at the Clip and Curl?”

Laney calmly placed her cigarette between her lips and flicked the lighter with her signature red-lacquered nails. After lighting up, she took a long drag and blew out the smoke with a wry smile. “Why, yes, I am.”

Millicent stepped a little closer and gave her an up-and-down, her lips stretching even farther over her already taut face. “Well, ain’t this something,” she said, removing the foil the rest of the way from the top of the dish. “But it seems to me that you might need this casserole more than me.” With one smooth move, she hoisted the dish in the air and dumped its contents over Laney’s head.

•   •   •

Hours later, back at the house, I was still laughing as I told Ray about the incident. The image of Laney standing there, eyes wide and cig dangling from her lips as gooey pieces of hash browns dripped down her head, would forever be burned into my mind.

“Guess she got hers.” Ray chuckled, then sobered again as his lawyerly mind took over. “Hawk told me that Laney saw Millicent in town the day Ben Wakefield was murdered. And now you saw her hand something to Floyd Reeves?”

“That’s right. An envelope. Thick like it was stuffed full of something. Could have been money.” We were out on the front porch watching the storm clouds roll in while sucking
on chicken wings and sipping beer that Ray had picked up at the Honky Tonk. Roscoe had planted himself smack-dab between us, ogling the chicken while thumping his tail against the porch floorboards. “There’s something else, too,” I added, reaching for the roll of paper towels set between us. I hesitated a second before telling him what I’d learned about Joe Puckett’s son being killed in a milling accident. It almost felt like I was speaking ill of a friend. “But, as grief-stricken, even as angry as he must be, I can’t see Joe committing murder. Can you?”

He shook his head. “I’d hate to think of Joe as a suspect, but his son’s death does make for a strong motive. Come to think of it, I should have Hawk check into the mill. Maybe safety issues are a problem there. If that’s the case, there might be more people angry with Wakefield and the way he was running his operation.” He leaned back, wiping his hands as he mulled over this new information. After a long swill of his beer, he drew in his breath and started up again. “This mill thing aside, I’m still more inclined to think Millicent Wakefield is our killer. We’ll just need to prove that she was in town the day of the murder. Then we’ll have motive and means. I’ll get Hawk working on it tomorrow.” Ray shrugged and picked up another chicken wing, tearing a piece from the bone and tossing it over to Roscoe, who gobbled it up and immediately begged for more.