Peaches and Scream (Georgia Peach Mystery, A) (19 page)

“Good, huh?”

I opened my eyes to see Cade grinning from ear to ear. I swallowed hard, a hot blush stinging my cheeks. Luckily, Millicent’s cell phone trilled from the next booth, cutting the embarrassing moment short.

“And why should I agree to meet with you?” she hissed over the phone. I strained to hear her side of the conversation over the constant din of clinking dishes and murmured conversation. “Oh yeah? What’s in it for me? . . . Fine. . . . Yeah, I know the place. . . . Eight? Why so late?” She heaved an impatient sigh, listening intently to the other side of the conversation. Whoever she was talking to must have been convincing, because she finally relented. “Fine. I’ll be there. But this better be good.”

Cade and I exchanged a look, but with Millicent in earshot, we didn’t risk commenting. Instead, Cade steered the conversation back to the Peach Festival, and after much bantering back and forth, he agreed to meet me first thing Saturday morning in front of Hattie’s Boutique to help me get my booth set up. I, in turn, agreed to accompany him to the evening dance. As a long-standing tradition, the festival always concluded with a dance, held right out on the street in front of the stage—the same stage where the Peach Queen would be crowned and where our multitalented mayor, Wade Marshall, would be strumming along with his band, the Peach Pickers. I made a mental note to scrounge up my old cowboy boots and spend some time brushing up on my two-step.

The rest of our lunchtime conversation passed by with several awkward moments. Not because of our looming date—yes, I was willing to call it a date—but because my own reeling thoughts about the murder distracted me from the conversation. While Cade went on about some of his latest ideas for expanding his construction business, I kept thinking about the recent fire at the lumber mill and its connection to Ben Wakefield’s murder. When he shifted the conversation to ask about things at the farm, I simply picked at my chicken and offered up a few short replies. Noticing my ambivalence, the poor guy even tried steering the conversation to more fun topics, like Hattie’s newfound
relationship with Pete Sanchez, but then my mind wandered to Millicent and Ben’s marriage and whether or not their troubles might have contributed to his murder. Overhearing the suspicious snippets of Millicent’s phone conversation had turned my mind back to the case and piqued my curiosity. Was something big coming up? Something related to the case? I knew just how to find
out.

Georgia Belle Fact #054:
A Southern gal can never have too many pairs of cowboy boots.

“Tell me why we’re here again?” Hattie and I were crammed into the front seat of her fuel-efficient compact, the most recent issue of the
Cays Mill Reporter
and a box of MoonPies between us. “Isn’t this something your detective should be doing?”

“I told you already, he’s out of town chasing down a suspect. And this is important. I overheard Millicent say she’s meeting with someone tonight and I need to know who.” We were parked in the shadows across the street from Millicent’s front door. I swatted at mosquitoes as I spoke. It was stifling hot outside, but Hattie’s car didn’t have enough gas to close the windows and run the air. The Wakefield mansion, as it was known around town, was located on prime property overlooking the Ocmulgee River. Well, prime, that was, if you discounted the fact the often swampy river bottom was a like a breeding ground for hungry mosquitoes.

“And you based this on some phone conversation you overheard? Why, she could have been planning anything!”
She unwrapped her second MoonPie and used the wrapper to shoo the bugs away. “What if we’re going to all this trouble just to find she was planning a surprise party for her mama or something?”

“Believe me, this is no surprise party. It’s got something to do with Wakefield’s murder; I’m sure of it.”

Hattie scrunched her face and pointed at the paper. “Speaking of the murder. Could Frances have been any more obvious? Where’d she come up with that picture anyway?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. She must have had to dig deep to find it. I swear, Hattie, this town has Hollis tried and convicted already.”

She patted my hand. “It’ll all work out. It always does.”

Spoken like a girl who’s seen her own share of trouble.

She went on, changing the topic. “How are things at the farm?”

She’d hit on the one bright spot of the day. “Pretty good. Joe got the tractor fixed. He’s going to start mowing the orchards tomorrow. Thought I’d head into the Mercantile tomorrow and order replacements for some of our irrigation lines. At this rate, things will be in tip-top shape by the time my parents return. And thanks to your wonderful brother, my bill for Joe Puckett’s roof came in lower than I expected.”

The corners of her lips turned upward at the mention of Cade. I could swear I saw a conniving gleam in her eye. “What are you wearing to the festival?”

My stomach flip-flopped. “I have no idea.” Actually, I hadn’t even given it a thought. My usual utility shorts and tank wouldn’t quite pass muster with the Peach Festival crowd. “I’d been planning to stop by and pick out some more clothes, but with everything going on . . .”

“Don’t mention it. I’ve got something in the shop that would be perfect. Just come by a little early and we’ll get you fixed up.” She snatched up my hand. “But don’t count on me for fixing these nails. You’d better get over to the salon. You don’t want to be countin’ out bills with hands like these.”

I frowned at my fingertips. She was right. My week-old manicure looked, well . . . a week old. Besides, ever since finding out about Millicent’s car being vandalized, I’d been wanting to talk to Laney Burns again. Call it silly, but it just seemed like too much of a coincidence that the vandalism occurred directly after Millicent dumped a casserole over Laney’s head. Knowing Laney, she wouldn’t take well to someone mussing her hairdo. It must take a lot of effort to get it teased to that height.

“By the way,” Hattie continued. “How’s your sister holding up?” She pointed at the headline again. “All this can’t be easy on her.”

I hadn’t been able to get ahold of Ida yet, but I could imagine the latest headlines, coupled with the damning photos, had sent her scurrying back to hermit status. A new sense of frustration enveloped me, as I thought about how stressed Ida looked last time we visited. All this couldn’t be good for the baby. I started to express my worries to Hattie, when I became distracted by the Wakefields’ garage door opening. A Mercedes-Benz, complete with custom-scratched pinstriping and a busted headlight, rolled down the drive. “There she is,” I said, motioning for Hattie to follow.

“She’s really bookin’ it,” Hattie replied, pulling away from the curve and punching the accelerator.

“Not too close. She’ll see us,” I warned, suddenly feeling like I was playing a part in a television detective show. “Wonder where she’s heading?” Instead of making the turn toward town, Millicent turned onto the road leading toward the freeway.

“I don’t know, but we may have to bail on this mission if she goes too far. My gas gauge needle’s hit the red zone.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I assured her. “This is one of those fuel-efficiency models, right?”

She mumbled something under her breath and made a sudden wild swerve. “Sorry; possum on the road,” she explained as I peeled my death grip off the dashboard and
swallowed a couple times to clear my heart out of my throat. We continued following Millicent’s taillights for another couple miles until it dawned on me where we were heading—the Honky Tonk.

“Well, hey! This evening may turn out okay after all,” Hattie surmised, after we’d watched Millicent disappear into the brightly lit roadhouse as we slowly cruised past her and found a parking spot.

I turned stiffly in my seat and watched Hattie tear through her pocketbook, searching for something. She seemed overly enthusiastic, considering the circumstances. The Honky Tonk? Certainly she remembered all the unfortunate events that’d transpired over the years at the rowdy roadhouse. There was that time in high school when we tried to pass on fake IDs and the bouncer called the cops—guess it wasn’t too smart to use a Xeroxed copy of my mama’s driver’s license with my own picture transposed. The guy just couldn’t believe I wasn’t forty-two. Then there was the infamous wedding rehearsal party, when Handsy Hollis busted a move that would make every family get-together for decades seem unbearable. And . . . “You don’t really want to go in there, do you?”

“What do you mean? Of course I do.”

I shook my head. “Don’t you recall what happened last time?”

She paused, one hand on the door handle, the other gripping a wad of one-dollar bills. She scrunched up her face. “No, I don’t. What happened?”

I threw up my hands. “You ended up with a busted nose, that’s what. Don’t you remember? You were holding Bodacious’s reins with one hand, your beer with the other, and had just let loose with an ear-shattering rebel yell when you slid over the bull’s neck and ended up face-first in the sawdust?”

She rubbed at the tiny bump on the bridge of her nose and shook the bills my way. “Well, I’m not planning on getting on that bull again. This is for beer. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about two-buck Tuesday? Besides, how we
gonna know what Millicent is up to unless we venture inside? What better place than somewhere too crowded with people for her to notice us?”

She had a point, so I reluctantly clambered out of the car and followed her across the lot. Once inside, I wasn’t sure what hit me first—the stale smell of beer and sweat or the ear-throbbing country lyrics booming from the jukebox. I practically had to yell to get Hattie to hear me. “Do you see where she went?”

She shrugged and headed toward the bar, her wad of bills clenched firmly in her hand. I stood my ground, scanning the crowd until I finally caught sight of a familiar blond head. Bingo. Millicent was in one of the back booths, deep in conversation, only I couldn’t see who was sitting across from her. I moved toward the hall that led to the restrooms, where I hoped to get a better view and a little reprieve from the loud music.

“What are you doing here?”

I wheeled around to find myself staring into Laney Burns’s raccoon-lined eyes. The extra eyeliner must have been what she considered her evening look. “Laney! How are you doing?” I couldn’t stop my eyes from wandering upward toward her previously casserole-covered hair, a giggle rising in the back of my throat. Despite a poorly executed attempt to cover it with a cough, a couple of chuckles escaped.

“Y’all probably found that incident in the alley funny.” She fingered her hair. “Let me tell you, it took forever to get those tiny chunks of beef out of my hair.”

I bit my lip to keep from exploding into hysterics.

“Why, I’ve never been so mad in all my life,” she went on. “The nerve of that woman. She must be unhinged to act that way. No wonder Ben couldn’t live with her.” We moved closer to the wall so that a couple of other ladies could pass around us. The bathrooms were always busiest on two-buck-beer night.

Squaring my shoulders, I maneuvered until I was directly in front of Laney. “I bet you were mad, Laney. Anyone would be. In fact, no one would blame you if it crossed your mind to get back at her . . . somehow.”

“Get back at her? What do you mean?” I’d seen this act before from Laney. All dumb and innocent. But the sudden darting of her eyes and fidgeting with her blouse gave her away. I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t hide her reactions well. I continued to watch her closely, but didn’t offer any further explanation. I’d learned long ago that sometimes the less said, the better. Lulls in the conversation often made people uneasy and they’d rush to fill the gaps. Especially a chitchatter like Laney.

“Are you talking about that car thing? Because that wasn’t me. Don’t you read the paper? That was Hollis that did that!”

“Is that so?” I pursed my lips and stared her down for a few more seconds. When she didn’t crack, I decided to switch tactics. “Say, do you have time in your schedule tomorrow to work on my nails?”

She shook her head. “No, sorry. All booked up.”

I held out my fingers for her inspection. “That’s too bad. I got so many compliments on the last manicure you gave me, but I’m afraid it’s about worn off.”

She glanced at my nails and openly cringed. Still, she held her ground. “Nope. Too busy.”

“Really? I’d be willing to throw in a little extra for working me in on such short notice.”

She started to weaken. “How much extra?”

“Five bucks.”

She raised a finely arched brow.

“Ten. But that’s as high as I can go.” Heck, it was higher than I could afford to go already. Still, the extra time to work the truth out of her would be worth it.

“Well, I suppose I can cut my lunch short. Fine. One o’clock, then.”

Hattie sidled up next to us, two beers in hand. “Hey, there
you are!” She handed me a warm plastic cup and turned to Laney with a plastered-on smile. They exchanged a chorus of “hey alls” and looked each other up and down: Laney checking Hattie’s hair, and Hattie surveying Laney’s choice of outfit.

“Bless her heart,” Hattie started as soon as Laney excused herself. “That girl should come into my shop. I’d fix her up with something decent to wear.”

I looked over my own outfit—a pair of long khaki shorts and a white T-shirt—and back at Laney’s getup—a mini that was so short it could have doubled as a belt, and a low-cut blouse. As Laney walked away, I recalled that Hattie had invited me in early Saturday for a little “fixing up.” Obviously she wasn’t lumping me into the same fashion category as Laney Burns, but it was as likely that in Hattie’s eyes I’d fallen off the other side of the scale just as far.

“Can you believe the crowd that’s here?” Hattie was saying. “Have you found Millicent yet?”

I pointed to the booth where she was sitting. “She would have to pick that booth. Unless I walk right over there and say hi, I’m not going to be able to see who she’s talking to. I’d much rather get the information I need without her knowing I’m here.”

“Think she’d recognize me?”

“Probably. We talked awhile when she was in your shop, remember? And we asked her some pretty pointed questions. That’s why I’d prefer to stay incognito. Besides, who knows who’s sitting across from her? What if it’s someone we both know?” I took a quick sip of beer and gagged—warm, flat and really bitter . . . ick! No wonder it was so cheap. “Oh, well. Guess we can wait it out. Eventually they’ll finish talking and get up to leave. We’ll see who it is then.”

“Wait it out? I don’t have time for that. I told Pete I’d meet up with him later.”

“Oh? You two cooking up something hot and spicy tonight?” I teased.

“Not if I’m here all night, we’re not.” Taking a long drag
on her beer, she studied the crowd before turning back to me with a twisted smile and holding out her cup. “Here, hold this. And don’t ever say I don’t make any sacrifices for you.”

With a little extra wiggle in her step, she sashayed across the room and, with a devilish grin, made her own selection on the jukebox. Then she turned and made her way over to some men sitting at a table cluttered with empty beer cups. I didn’t recognize the fellows, but judging by their soiled T-shirts and steel-toed work boots, they were just a bunch of good ol’ boys kicking back after a hard day’s work. Hattie flipped her hair before leaning down to whisper in one of the guys’ ears. A wide grin broke over his face as he stood, wiped his palms across his ratty jeans and snatched her eagerly by the waist. In a flash, they were out on the dance floor, Hattie’s partner performing the most aggressive two-step I’d ever seen. Not that Hattie couldn’t keep up; I’d seen her cut loose a number of times. Although I did suck in my breath at a couple of their dizzying spins and one backbreaking dip. Soon, the dance floor filled with couples, each doing their own version of the boot-scootin’ boogie. Still, Hattie’s strategy didn’t dawn on me until, with a few well-placed spins, she and her partner danced their way toward Millicent’s booth. Then, with a curt nod and a passing spark of conspiracy, her partner picked up the tempo. With a couple quick steps and one long shuffle, he guided her directly in front of the booth.