Peaches and Scream (Georgia Peach Mystery, A) (6 page)

“You’ve grown up some,” he observed.

“Yes, sir,” I said again. My parents had taught me to always “ma’am” and “sir” my elders. Failure to do so would result in a quick swat on the rump. I’d been swatted enough in my youth that such terms of respect now came naturally.

He dipped the shotgun toward an old bench by the front door. “Won’t you sit a spell?”

I nodded and crossed to the bench, careful of where I sat. Most of the bench was either splintered or splattered with who knew what. Joe, not quite as cautious, plopped down on the far end and leaned the shotgun up against the doorjamb. Just as soon as he settled, he jumped back up again. “Where are my manners? Let me get you some refreshment.”

I held up my hand to protest, but he was already halfway inside the cabin. Kicking at the boards below my feet, I thought back to the first time I’d met Joe Puckett. I was a young teen, helping the hands during harvest, when I caught sight of him carrying off a bucket of our peaches. Caught up in being a Harper and all, I ran right over to him, accused him of being a thief and demanded he give back the peaches.

Was I ever surprised when I got back to the house that evening and caught heck from my father. Daddy apparently knew all about Joe and his family taking fruit from the trees along the back acreage. I thought he was crazy for allowing such a thing; I even told him so, but he corrected me, saying that men like Joe Puckett—men who lived from the land and
followed the old ways—were a part of the South that should be honored and cherished. “A dying breed,” he’d said. “Besides, we’ve got plenty of peaches to spare.” To this day, my face still turned red when I thought about my father dragging me up to the Pucketts’ cabin with a basket of peaches and making me apologize for being so disrespectful.

Of course, what Daddy didn’t tell me at the time was that he and Joe had long ago worked out a deal, a trade of sorts. Many years later I learned the
real
reason Daddy tolerated Joe’s “pilfering”: Joe distilled some of the finest moonshine in all of Georgia. My father must have been partial to the stuff, because over the years the Pucketts had been helping themselves not only to peaches, but to half the vegetables in Mama’s garden. I can’t think of how many evenings I’d looked out my window to see Joe’s son, Tucker, out in our vegetable patch, his pockets stuffed full.

“Here,” Joe said, coming out with a couple jars of clear liquid in hand. “Some of my finest.”

I thanked him and took a cautious sip. So nasty! It felt like I was swallowing fire, but I tried not to let on. I’d been offered many unpalatable cultural treats during my travels. Things like crispy fried tarantula—a rare and prized delicacy in Cambodian refugee camps—and chewy ant larvae, generously offered from a food-poor South American mother with several children to feed. All heartfelt gifts offered with the same kind, giving spirit in which Joe offered me his specialty. So, I bravely drank on, and offered my praise. “That’s good stuff,” I choked out, swiping at the perspiration forming on my upper lip. I managed another enthusiastic sip before getting down to business. “I came by to ask you if you know anything about engines.”

He swiped at his brow with his big paw of a hand and shrugged. “A bit, I reckon. I worked on Jeeps and such in Nam.”

“There seems to be something wrong with the engine on our irrigation pump. I wonder if you’d have a look at it. I’d be willing to pay you for your time, of course.”

He nodded, but remained silent, taking occasional sips from his jar and staring out at the woods.

I continued, “But if I can’t get it running, we’re likely to lose some of the trees. They’re already showing signs of stress. I’ll also be needing someone to help me place new drip lines. Some of ours are in bad shape.”

“Where’s your daddy?”

“He and Mama are on a trip. They left me in charge while they’re gone.”

He shifted his weight and heaved a sigh. “Your daddy and I never dealt much in cash. We usually bartered. Maybe that’s been a mistake.”

I cocked my head to study him. He was still staring off, his eyes darting from tree to tree, but the rest of his body seemed calm and relaxed. I knew what was next. He was going to want me to pay him in cash. Problem was I didn’t have hardly any to offer. “I have to be honest, sir. I don’t really have any cash to offer. Our family is going through tough financial times.”

He stood up, kicking at a few pebbles with the worn toe of his boot, and hitching his thumbs in his suspenders. “Aren’t we all?”

I also stood, trying to make eye contact, although his eyes continued to look everywhere but at me. I recognized the signs from remote villagers uncomfortable with strangers; Joe just wasn’t used to holding conversation with folks. “Is there any way you’d be willing to barter with me?”

He shrugged. “If you don’t have no cash, then I guess I’ll have to.”

I nodded. “What do you need, then?”

His eyes roamed up to the roof of his cabin. I followed his gaze, noticing the airy patchwork of shake shingles.

“A roof?” I asked, my heart sinking when he nodded. He extended his hand toward me, and before thinking, I grasped his callused hand and shook. The second his keen eyes met mine, I felt instant regret.
A roof!
It was a small roof, being
that his cabin was only a little bigger than the average supply shed, but still, I had no idea how I was going to own up to my end of this bargain.

“Our tractor is also broken,” I said as an afterthought, hoping to at least sweeten my end of the hasty bargain.
What have I done?
I knew Daddy had left some cash for miscellaneous expenses, but certainly not enough to cover roofing supplies. Or a roofer, for that matter.

He spat off to the side and bobbed his head up and down. “You payin’ for all the parts?”

“Yes, sir,” I quickly replied.

“I’ll take a look at it, then.”

Just like that, the deal was
sealed.

Georgia Belle Fact #072:
No one should have to grieve on an empty stomach. So, when someone dies, the first thing we do is start cookin’ for their loved ones.

Back at the house, I found Cade McKenna standing on the front porch. “I was just getting ready to leave,” he said as I approached. “Thought I missed you.”

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t,” I replied, marching up the steps. My hand involuntarily flew to my head. My hair must’ve looked terrible, not to mention my scratched-up legs and the mess of cockleburs clinging to my socks and boots. “What brings you out here, anyway?”

He shoved a foil-covered pan my way. “Food. Ginny at the diner made a casserole for you. On account of the death and all.” A strange look must have crossed my face because he went on to explain. “Ben Wakefield’s death. You know how it is around here. The ladies like to cook up a storm whenever someone passes.”

I nodded. “Yeah, but why are you bringing this to me?”

Cade shrugged. “Seems Wakefield didn’t have any family in the area. As far as we all know, he just lived by himself in that old Colonial out on Gala Avenue. So, since he died
at your place, I guess Ginny figures you might be needing some comforting. You’d better get used to it; the story was all over this morning’s paper. There will probably be more casseroles coming your way soon.”

“Well, isn’t that . . . thoughtful,” I replied, thinking the real person who needed comforting was Ida; it was her husband in jail. Balancing the dish in one hand, I pulled open the screen door with the other. “Why don’t you come in for a while and help me eat some of this?”

He hesitated, his dark eyes sliding down to his shoes. “I should really be getting back to work. I was just on my way to the Pearsons’ place down the road. They have me re-siding one of their outbuildings.”

“Well, you need to eat, don’t you? Besides, I won’t keep you long. I just need to run something by you, get your advice.”

He shrugged and followed me inside to the kitchen. I glanced around at the tidy butcher-block countertops and freshly scrubbed soapstone sink and was secretly glad I’d taken the time to clean up this morning. Uncovering the casserole, I placed it in the microwave and starting pulling out plates. “There’s glasses up there,” I said, thumbing toward the cabinet. “Pour us some tea, why don’t you? We can eat in the other room at the table.”

“How’s Ida doing?” he asked a few minutes later, after we’d settled at the table with two steaming plates of a crust-topped, creamy chicken casserole set between us. “This must be so hard on her.”

I nodded. “It is hard on her and the girls, too. Ray is going to represent Hollis,” I added.

“He’s a good lawyer; he’ll be able to help, I’m sure.”

I shoved the casserole around my plate, but didn’t take a bite.

Cade looked up from his own plate and commented, “Not hungry?”

“Just thinking about Ida. She needs comfort food much
more than me. It’s her husband in jail. She’s all alone at home with those kids and all. I’m thinking of asking her to come out here and stay.”

“Good idea. She’ll need your support through all this. Especially if Hollis is convicted.”

I shot a look at him. “Why would he be convicted? He didn’t do it.” I narrowed my eyes, fully realizing the implication of his statement. “You don’t think he killed Wakefield, do you?”

Cade’s brows shot up. “I don’t want to think that; but I have to tell you, there’s been a big change come over Hollis since you were here last. He’s been drinking hard. Folks are saying things, like that he’s stepped out on Ida.”

Folks are saying things!
Gossipmongers was all they were, as I knew all too well. True or not, those
folks
made things all the worse. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to control my anger. “That’s because the people around here have nothing better to do than spread gossip. I’m surprised at you, Cade McKenna. I thought you were better than that.”

He held up his hand. “Whoa! I’m just telling you what he’s up against, that’s all. And don’t expect any help from Maudy Payne. It’s a well-known fact that there’s no love lost between her and Ida. Nothing would probably please the sheriff more than to lock Ida’s husband away for good.”

I nodded. “Don’t I know it! She won’t even finish up with the crime scene. I’m going to have to pay a couple extra nights’ rent on that mess outside.”

He shook his head and went back to eating.

I sat there watching him, trying to figure a way to bring up something that had been niggling at my mind ever since I discovered Ben Wakefield’s body in the orchard. “Cade,” I started, “this is silly, but I’ve just got to ask.”

He looked up, shuffled his fork to his other hand and reached for a gulp of tea. “What?”

“I saw you arguing with Ben Wakefield the night of the party.”

He slowly put down his glass, his lips tightening. “Yeah? So?”

I shrugged. “I just thought I’d ask what the argument was about.”

His brows furrowed. “Just about some business dealings we have. Why?”

“Just wondered. You seemed so angry, that’s all.”

He tipped his head back and let out a nervous laugh. Then, leveling his eyes on me, he said, “You don’t think I killed him, do you? Because that’s what this is sounding like.”

“No! I would never think such a thing!” I said with as much guile as I could muster, before pressing on in my sweetest voice. “But if even someone like you has disagreements with Wakefield, others with really bad tempers might have had similar or worse troubles with him. What was the argument about exactly?”

He gave me an uncertain once-over and shook his head. “All it was about was a load of lumber I paid for but didn’t get. Wakefield was holding out on me and it ticked me off. That’s all.” He went back to eating, indicating the subject was closed. I paused, watching him shovel in the casserole. For some reason, the sight of him wholeheartedly enjoying his food did more to put my mind at ease than anything. Certainly, a man with a guilty conscious couldn’t go after his food with such gusto.

I picked up my own fork and took my first bite, then stopped mid-chew and studied the concoction on my plate with renewed interest. It was good. Really good. Sort of like a chicken potpie, but better: creamy with all the right seasonings and a hint of wine in the sauce. It was the flaky, buttery sourdough topping, however, that really made it scrumptious. Still, as good as it was, I didn’t feel much like eating. So, I put my fork down again, letting out a long sigh and folding my hands on the table in front of me. “I need your advice.”

He kept on eating, nodding for me to continue.

“Harper Peach Farm is in financial trouble.”

He briefly looked up, swallowed, then reached for some
tea to wash it down before replying. “The whole area is in financial trouble. We had a bad season last year; people are hurting all over.”

I shook my head. “No, I mean, we’re in serious financial trouble. There’s not even enough cash to keep up with the basics. I was just out at the south orchards this morning and the irrigation pump has been down for . . . for I don’t know how long. The trees are stressed.”

He scraped the last bite from his plate to his mouth and sat back, regarding me with a serious look. “You know, you haven’t been around for a while. Maybe things aren’t really as bad as you think. All the farmers in the area have been cutting corners where they can. That’s just how it is these days.”

“I see what you’re saying and I wish that were the case. But things around here are more serious than that.” I reached for his plate. “More?”

His hand shot out and covered mine, stopping me from removing the plate. “No, I’m fine. But thanks.”

My eyes shot to his and a spark passed between us. Shocked, I jerked my hand away, accidently bumping his glass and causing tea to slosh over the rim. “Oops. Sorry,” I mumbled, dabbing at the spill with my napkin.

We both laughed a little trying to cover the awkward moment. “So,” he said, exhaling. “Your family’s pulled through a lot of difficult seasons over the years. What makes you think things are so bad this time around?”

“Just what I’ve gathered from talking to Ida and Ray.” I looked down at my uneaten food. I really did need to see if I could access the business accounts, check out the bottom line for myself. “Daddy’s been under so much stress that his health is starting to suffer.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Cade’s voice was genuine. I didn’t dare look him in the face, worried that the compassion I’d see in his eyes would send more sparks flying. I had enough going on without mixing romance into things.

He continued, “I’ll do anything I can to help; you know that.”

“I appreciate that. Thing is, I made a barter this morning with Joe Puckett.”

“The old moonshiner?”

I glanced across the table and chuckled. “Yeah. He’s going to try to fix the irrigation pump and one of the mowers, too. Seems he knows a little something about engines.”

Cade smiled. “I imagine he would. Sounds like a good plan.”

“Only . . . I promised him a new roof in exchange.”

His smile faded as he sat back in his chair and regarded me with a curious expression mixed with perhaps a little irritation. “And how do you plan on accomplishing that?”

I toyed with my plate, rotating it this way and that, trying to think of a good way to impose on our friendship. If Mama were here, she’d certainly know how to handle this situation; a couple sweetly put words and a few bats of her lashes, and most men were putty in her hands. She once told me that a true Southern woman never did anything she could charm someone else into doing. I’d never really warmed up to that philosophy, always more of the do-it-yourself type of gal—at least until now. Roofs were not my forte.

I cleared my throat. “Well, you do own a construction business,” I started in a sugary tone, throwing in a wink for good measure.

He scrunched his face and shot me a weird look.

I sighed. Although I’d witnessed the fine art of womanly wheedling from the master—whose cunning wiles never ceased to amaze—somehow over the years, I never picked up the ability to employ my own feminine charms. I decided I’d better just take a straightforward approach. I sat up taller and continued, “I was thinking you’d be able to help me with the roof. I’d pay for the cost of supplies, of course. And it’s just a tiny roof. Not much bigger than this room,” I added, waving my hand around the confines of the room to emphasize my point.

He didn’t respond.

I started in again. “As for your time, maybe there’s something
we
could barter for. Is there anything you’d want from me?”

His expression quickly changed from irritation to . . . to something else. I watched in horror, realizing too late my unfortunate choice of wording. The crinkles around his eyes deepened as a slow grin formed on his mouth. The look he was giving me made me blush, all the way down to my toes.

I laughed nervously. “Would you stop?”

He raised one brow, his grin widening. “Stop what?”

“You know darn well what I’m talking about, Cade McKenna,” I bantered back. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

My heart was beating so hard, I was sure he could hear it across the table. I touched my fingertip to my hot cheek, half-afraid it was going to erupt into flames any second.

He broke into raucous laughter, stood and gathered his plate and glass. “No need to get all worked up. I’ll help,” he said. “And you don’t even have to worry about keeping your virtue intact. All I was going to ask for was a date to the Peach Festival.”

“I wasn’t worried about my virtue,” I said, completely avoiding his mention of the Peach Festival.

He chuckled again and headed to the kitchen. I grabbed my still-full plate and followed. “So you’ll help?” I asked, a little confused about what sort of agreement we’d struck. Seemed I was having a day of deals, none of which was quite in my control.

“I said I would.” He rinsed his plate and set it in the sink. “My schedule is packed, but I’ll figure out a way to make it work. Just let me think on it.” He pushed past me on his way to the door. “We can discuss it more over dinner,” he added, over his shoulder.

I placed my plate on the counter before it slid out of my suddenly moist palms. “Dinner?” I scurried after him. “When?”

Out on the porch, he turned back and looked down at me
with another sly smile. “Tomorrow night. At the house. Hattie asked me to invite you over. You know how it is with the ladies around here.”

I smiled. “Food equals comfort.”

“That’s right. She wants you to stop by the boutique around five, right before she closes.” He leaned in and winked. “Probably wants to show off her new place of business.”

“Absolutely. I’ve been wanting to see her shop anyway.”

He wheeled around and skipped down the porch steps. “It’s a date, then,” he said, with a final wave and another round of teasing laughter.

Food does equal comfort,
I thought, watching his truck rumble back down the drive. And I knew someone who could use a little comfort. I marched right back inside, snatched up the casserole and headed straight for Ida’s house.