Rest in Peach (10 page)

“How’s my baby doin’?” Mama asked.

I started to answer but glanced over and saw her scratching Roscoe behind the ears and realized she was speaking to the dog, not me.
Baby?
Guess Mama and Roscoe had bonded.

She moved toward one of the wicker rockers, settled in and set the mug aside before tapping her hands against her thighs. He jumped right up and nestled in like a regular lapdog. Mama grinned and rubbed her cheek along the top of his head. “Isn’t he a good boy?” she asked.

“He sure is,” I replied fondly, reaching over to rub the soft spot on the tip of his muzzle. His eyes practically rolled with the pleasure of all the attention.

“By the way,” Mama inserted. “Why is Hattie McKenna sleeping on our davenport?”

“Sorry, Mama. We were up sort of late last night. We didn’t wake you, did we?”

“Lawd no! If I can sleep through your Daddy’s snoring, I can sleep through ’bout anything.” She stretched out a slippered foot and nudged an empty Peach Jack bottle lying next to the chair. “Looks like you two threw back a bit of alcohol. Were y’all just exceptionally thirsty or was there some sort of trouble you were tryin’ to drown?”

Leave it to Mama. She’d never really beat around the bush about anything.

“Trouble,” I finally responded, and I took a long drag from my coffee. I knew I’d just opened a can of worms. Mama couldn’t stand to see anyone she loved having trouble. I was in for a long heart-to-heart now. I took another gulp of coffee; these talks with Mama weren’t easy for me under any circumstance, but with a fuzzy brain, it’d be downright dreadful. “I’m having a little trouble with Cade—nothing to worry about, though—and Hattie’s having trouble with Pete. And we’re
both troubled over Vivien Crenshaw’s murder and the fact that Ginny’s the top suspect.”

Mama pressed her tiptoes to the ground, sending the chair into motion, her head nodding in unison with the rhythm of the rocker as she stroked Roscoe’s back and mulled over my troubles. “Problems with Cade, you say?”

“Nothing I can’t fix,” I said, backtracking and wishing I hadn’t brought it up in the first place. “Just a little communication problem.”

“I see,” she said with a pointed look.

I knew if I didn’t change the topic quickly, she’d get stuck on the Cade thing. “Really, Mama. I’ll get it figured out. Besides, my man problems pale in comparison to what’s going on between Hattie and Pete right now.”

She adopted an all-knowing expression. “Aw . . . What’d he do?”

It didn’t surprise me that she blamed him for whatever the problem was. In Mama’s eyes, men had an inherent bent toward misbehaving, their mischievous nature only held in check by a strong woman. “She seems to think he’s cheating on her,” I reported.

Mama stopped rocking and blurted, “Cheatin’? Pete Sanchez? He doesn’t seem like the type.”

“Shh!” I thumbed toward the house and motioned for her to be quiet. I didn’t want Hattie to wake up and hear us talking about her.

She lowered her voice and leaned toward me. “What makes her think he’s two-timin’ her?” Roscoe lifted his head and nudged her arm, begging for more attention, but she was too wrapped up in the conversation to notice. Disgruntled, he jumped down and started sniffing around the porch.

“Some note she found in his shop,” I replied. “She thinks it was from another woman.”

Mama busied herself picking at the dog fur that’d attached itself to the front of her robe. “You know,” she finally said, “I pride myself on being a good judge of character, and I’m just not sensing that young man is the cheatin’ type. There’s got to be some other explanation. That’s all there is to it.”

I nodded. “I agree with you, Mama. I’m not seeing it, either. She just jumped to conclusions,” I muttered into my cup, taking a sip, “like she did about Maggie Jones.”

Mama shot me a look. “What about Maggie?”

“Oh, nothing. really.” But Mama gave me one of her determined-to-know-more looks. I explained that Maggie was one of the gals on Ginny’s list of suspects for Vivien’s murder.

“Murder?” Her eyes grew wide. “The preacher’s wife? Why, I never . . .” She visibly shook off the preposterous assumption, but then a slight curl of her lips betrayed another thought.

“Mama? Do you know something about the murder?”

“Oh heavens, Nola Mae, of course not.” She shook her head, ending that possibility. But then her eyes twinkled just a mite, like she had another little tidbit to share. “I was just thinking how people are not quite what they seem sometimes.”

I was game. “Like . . . ?” I smiled back.

She drew in her breath and started rocking again. “Well, don’t go repeating this, you hear?”

I promised.

“I was at the library the other day lookin’ for some recipe books. . . . You know the fair’s right around the corner and I’m thinking about entering the baking—”

“And you saw Maggie there?” I prompted to keep her on track.

“That’s right.” Mama’s lips strained as she tried to suppress a smile. “She was using one of the library’s computers, you see. And she must not have seen me comin’, because she didn’t bother to hide what she was looking at on the screen.”
Mama covered her mouth as a few raspy laughs escaped her throat.

“Tell me,” I pleaded.

She began fanning her eyes as they watered with laughter. “A man. And my Lawd, he took up practically the whole screen.”

“A man?”

Mama clutched her midsection as she laughed some more. “A big, brawny, long-haired Scotsman wearing one of those thingies they wear. . . .”

“A kilt.”

“Call it what you want, but it was obvious from the picture that he didn’t have anything on under it.” She took a swipe at her red-tinged cheeks and continued giggling.

My brow shot up. “Nothing on under . . . ? Oh, never mind,” I said, holding up my hand. “What did Maggie do?”

“She ’bout died of embarrassment. Poor thing.” Mama chuckled some more, then with a shake of her head, she turned serious. “Only, there was something strange about the whole thing.”

Stranger than the preacher’s wife staring at naked men on the library’s computer?

Mama continued, “She had a notebook with her, and it seemed she was taking notes.”

“Taking notes? On the Scotsman?”

Mama shrugged. “Or on his . . . well, you know.”

“Mama!” I laughed right along with her. Then, I thought back to the romance novel I saw slip out of Maggie’s stack of reading material. Not a big deal to me; I liked a hot romance every once in a while. And brawny Scotsmen in kilts were nice, too, for that matter. But I recalled how Maggie blushed and scrambled to hide the risqué cover. She was
sure working hard to keep that side of herself hidden. Not that I could blame her, being a preacher’s wife and all. Still, I wondered what else she was keeping secret: an affair with Nate Crenshaw? Maybe Hattie was right after all. Or was there something more sinister going on? Preacher’s wife or not, there was more to Maggie Jones than met the eye—much more than hair tightly wound in a bun and high-buttoned blouses. . . .

The sound of the screen door pushing open interrupted my train of thought. Looking up, I saw Hattie stumble out onto the porch with her bag slung over her shoulder. She cringed and moved her hands over her ears as the door swung shut with a thump. “Mercy, but my head hurts. How much did I drink last night?”

Mama pointed down to the empty bottle. “Looks to me like you two put away a fair share of this stuff.” She playfully clucked her tongue. “Serves y’all right if you’re both feelin’ like mean little men are wrestlin’ behind your eyeballs.” Then, as she took in Hattie’s apparent misery, a look of pity crossed her face. She stood up and spread her arms for a hug. “Aw, come here, girls,” she beckoned. And when we did, she pulled us in close, one of us on each side. “I realize you both are going through some difficult times, but just remember that we Southern gals come from strong stock; what doesn’t kill us only makes us stronger, right? Besides, all these problems will pass. You’ll see.”

Over the years, I’d come to realize that Mama had a talent for spewing just the right platitude for every direful situation. Oftentimes, it was just the right twist of words to calm and soothe frazzled nerves; other times her heavily redundant clichés got on my every last nerve. Today, I just took comfort in her embrace and the fact that she truly believed a healthy
dose of grit could get us Southern gals through just about anything. Only, what Mama didn’t know—heck, what nobody knew at the time—was that “these problems” weren’t going to pass anytime soon. In fact, they were going to get a whole lot worse before they got better.

Debutante Fact #030:
Sometimes there’s nothing like a good cry to set the world straight. . . . That’s why a debutante always wears waterproof makeup.

Later that morning, I walked through the door of Peachy Keen with the old Czar radio I’d borrowed from Mama’s kitchen in my hand, prepared for a full day’s work. But I was astounded by what I saw. Somewhere between when I’d left yesterday evening and this morning, Cade had made incredible progress. Not only was the shelving done, but he’d installed my checkout counter—a solid wood piece of cabinetry I’d found at a local flea market, stained dark green and accented with white beadboard and trim. It looked perfect where Cade had placed it along the side wall of the store. I could already imagine myself standing behind it, ringing up orders and gift wrapping packages for customers. But even though I felt a huge sense of relief knowing things may get done in time after all, a feeling of sadness engulfed me. Cade must have worked all night to get this much done. Was that his new plan? Work nights so he could avoid me? Or maybe get things wrapped up as soon as possible so he could be free from me
once and for all? Either scenario was unacceptable. Deciding it was time to talk this through, I swiveled on my heel and marched outside, my head bent with determination as I made my way down Orchard Lane and toward Cade’s house.

Only as I passed by the courthouse green, I spied something that caused me to pause: Debra Bearden and Nate Crenshaw, standing by the courthouse statue, engrossed in an animated conversation. Even from where I was watching, Debra’s sweeping arm gestures suggested that she was angry about something. About what, I wondered.

My curiosity piqued, I continued down the walk, pretending to go about my own business until I was out of their line of sight. Then I doubled back across the courthouse lawn and stooped behind a row of lilac bushes that ran along the back side of the statue. Straining my ears, I could just make out part of their conversation.

“I don’t know why you’re being so obstinate about this, Nate.” I moved closer to the shrub and peered through a bare spot in the branches so I could better see them. Debra’s legs were planted wide as she leaned toward Nate with a steely expression.

“I’m not being obstinate. I simply don’t know where it would be,” Nate replied, taking a step backward.

“Vivien kept it tucked inside her purse.”

Nate shrugged. “I’m sorry, Debra. I’d like to help you, but Vivien had so many bags. I wouldn’t even know—”

“The large beige one with gold accents,” she inserted, her voice tinged with despair.

Nate sighed. “Quite honestly, there’s so many other things I’m trying to sort through right now, but I’ll keep my eye out for it. If I find it, I’ll call you.” It was a brush-off, and Debra knew it.

Desperately, she reached out and clutched his arm. “I can’t
imagine it would take all that much time to just look through the house for it. It’s awfully important to me, Nate.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t look now. I’m on my way to the bank for a meeting.” He gently shook off her hand. “But like I said, I’ll keep an eye out for it.”

I watched as Debra clenched and unclenched her fists, wrestling with the idea of ceding control over the situation. Finally, she gave up and walked away, shoulders slumped in defeat.

As I waited for Nate to move on and the coast to clear, I thought back to what I’d heard Maggie say the night before when she was leaving Nate’s house. Something about checking back later to see if he’d found it. Whatever “it” was. Were both Maggie and Debra looking for the same thing, I wondered.

“Strange finding you here, Nola Mae,” came a voice from behind. I turned my head and found Frances Simms hovering behind me. Her dark little eyes gleamed with smugness as she observed me stooped over in the middle of the lilac bushes. She leaned in and parted a couple branches, peering at Nate Crenshaw as he walked back across the lawn. “Eavesdropping, were you?”

“Uh, no. I was just . . . uh . . .” Frances practically smacked her lips as she watched me struggle to explain. Finally, I gave up and moved past her, mumbling something about needing to get to work.

She pursued me across the courthouse yard, nipping at my heels and spewing questions like a yappy little dog. “Was that Debra Bearden I saw walking away just a minute ago? Is that who Nate was talking to? And why were you spying on them?”

Picking up my pace, I kept my gaze forward and headed straight for the closest bit of safety: my shop. Luckily, halfway
across the lawn, a man called out to Frances, waving her down, and she reluctantly gave up on me—for the moment, anyway. Relieved, I wanted to head back up Orchard Lane to Cade’s house, but that would take me right past her again. I massaged my temples, trying to rub down the headache creeping up behind my eyes. I headed into the diner for another cup of coffee to give me some time to shake Frances.

Most of the morning crowd had already moved on with their days, leaving only a few stragglers who still occupied the stools along the front counter. I spied Ginny weaving between tables with a large gray tub, piling in dirty dishes to take back to the kitchen. “Hey there, Nola Mae,” she said, spritzing a tabletop with green sanitizer and giving it a quick wipe before hoisting the tub to her hip and motioning for me follow her. On the way, she nodded to one of the coffeemakers behind the bar. “Grab that coffeepot, would ya? I could use another hit of caffeine.”

Obliging, I followed her through the swinging door to the kitchen where she set the tub on the counter by the sink. Sam was there, rinsing dishes and placing them in a large divided tray that he would eventually slide into an industrial-sized sanitizing machine. Seeing me, he nodded and offered a quick smile before turning back to his work.

“Come over this way,” Ginny said, moving toward the grill area where she could peek through the pass-through window and keep an eye on her customers while we visited. “Looks like there’s somethin’ on your mind. What gives, Nola Mae?” She filled a couple mugs with coffee, sliding one my way and snatching a sugar pack from her apron pocket. She tapped it a few times against her palm before tearing it open and pouring the contents into her coffee. “And it better be good news. ’Cuz I’ve had enough of the other to last a lifetime.”

I went on to tell her about running into Maggie Jones at Nate’s house the night before. Then, about the conversation I’d just overheard between Nate and Debra Bearden. I explained how I thought the two might be connected. “Both women seemed adamant about getting something from him that Vivien had. Especially Debra. She was pleading for Nate to look around for some bag of Vivien’s. She said Vivien kept it—whatever “it” is—tucked in her purse.”

“Can I get a refill out here?” a man yelled from the dining area.

Ginny lifted her head and peeked through the window. “Be out in just a second,” she hollered, before turning her focus back to me and asking, “Something in her purse, huh? Do you think Vivien was holding something for them or owed them something?”

“Actually, I think it’s much more deviant than that.” Since overhearing the conversation, I’d begun putting two and two together and come up with a pretty good reason why Debra might have been so desperate. “Think about it. Even though her husband has a well-paying job, Debra took a job in a place she didn’t really want to work. Then, just days after Vivien was murdered, she quit. Now we know she’s desperate for whatever was inside that purse.”

“Blackmail!” Ginny concluded. “Vivien was blackmailing her, and Debra needed the extra money to pay her off. And the blackmail evidence was in her purse!”

“Exactly.” I took a long, satisfying drag of coffee and smiled.

Ginny whipped the list out of her apron and plucked the pen from behind her ear. She started furiously scribbling notes along the side of her chart, then paused and looked up, pen still hovering over the paper. “Wait a minute. You said Maggie was at the Crenshaws’ last night and she was also looking for something.”

I nodded.

“You think she was being blackmailed, too? Honestly, what would anyone have on her? She’s a preacher’s wife, for heaven’s sake.”

I didn’t have an answer yet, but a mental image of a barely kilted Scotsman popped to mind along with a racy book cover. Whatever it was Maggie was hiding, Vivien had figured it out and was using it for extortion.

“For cryin’ out loud, Ginny! Where’s my coffee?” the customer complained again. “Do I have to get it myself?”

Ginny tossed the pen aside and slapped her hands up on the counter. Sticking her head through the window, she yelled, “Would you hold your horses, Randy! I said I’d get you some coffee and I will. Just give me a minute.” Turning back to me, she lowered her voice. “Now that I’m thinking about it all, it does sort of make sense that Vivien might resort to extortion. Everyone’s been saying her husband’s business is in trouble. He owns a few of those quick oil change places, you know? I think he’s taken a hit with the economy being the way it is right now.”

My mind flashed back to something I’d just heard Nate say about a bank meeting. I made a mental note to get ahold of Hollis. As bank president of Cays Mills’s only local bank, he’d more than likely know more about Nate Crenshaw’s business than anyone else.

Ginny was still going on, pointing excitedly at her suspect list as she spoke. “If we’re right about this, then it’s just a matter of figuring out what Vivien had on these ladies.”

“And which one had the most to lose,” I added, tipping back the rest of my coffee and setting the empty mug on the counter. “For now, though, you’d better get back to work. I think I’ll head down the street and see if the sheriff’s in her
office. We’d better tell her about this latest twist in events. If we’re right, she needs to know.”

“If we’re right?” Ginny said with a set jaw. “Of course we’re right. We’re close to solving this thing, Nola. I can just feel it.” She refolded the paper and crammed it back into her apron. “And don’t worry, I’ll call Ray this afternoon and fill him in on everything.” She snatched up the coffeepot and started back out to the dining area with a little extra bounce in her step, bumping open the door with a swing of her hips.

•   •   •

Neither Maudy nor Travis was at the sheriff’s office. Deciding to try to reach them later, I headed back to Peachy Keen to get some work done. Only this time, I found the door unlocked and Cade inside on the ladder, working on putting up the pressed metal ceiling.

“You’re here,” I said, noticing how his T-shirt stretched tautly over his torso as he reached overhead to place the ceiling panels. Unable to help myself, my eyes lingered a bit, working their way up his muscular arms to the profile of his angular face, which was covered with two-day stubble. His hair was mussed, giving him that just-woke-up look. For some reason, this scruffy look of his was incredibly attractive to me. I imagined how rough his whiskers would feel against my lips.

Flustered by my thoughts, I averted my gaze and cleared my throat. “I didn’t think you’d be back today,” I added.

He squinted down at me. “Don’t you want me here?”

“Of course I do! It’s just that it looks like you worked all night. And you got so much done. It’s wonderful, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He motioned toward a stack of ceiling panels, asking me to hand one to him. “Everything should be
wrapped up by the first of next week. That’ll give you plenty of time to stock the shelves and put on the finishing touches.”

“That’s amazing,” I replied, stretching to hand him a panel of tiles. Only, it didn’t feel all that amazing. Sure, it was good that things were progressing so quickly; just a few days ago, I was stressed we wouldn’t finish in time. But the way things were going, I knew I wouldn’t see Cade much after the job was finished.

We continued to work in silence, the clicking rhythm of the automatic nail gun piercing the unnerving stillness in regular intervals. Finally, I couldn’t take it another minute. I put my hands on my hips, set my jaw and waited.

Finally, he glanced down the ladder. “The next tile panel?” he asked, hand outstretched.

I shook my head. “Cade, I think it’s time we talked this through.”

“Talked what through?”

“I don’t know what. That’s the problem.” My voice sounded shrill, even though I was trying to stay calm. “Ever since you came back from Macon, you’ve been acting differently.”

His expression tightened, and I noticed a little tick along the line of his jaw. He hesitated a second, then suddenly he was down the ladder and towering in front me. “Why do you care?”

I swallowed hard. Not because I was scared. Although maybe I should have been; anger was evident in his eyes, which were flashing dangerously as he gazed down at me. No, it wasn’t fear I was swallowing back but the rush of desire I felt from his closeness. “I . . . I do care.”

“Doesn’t seem like it. Right after you came back last summer, I thought maybe something might work out with us. We had a couple fun dates, or at least I thought they were fun, then all of a sudden you were busy. Every time I asked you out, there was some new excuse.”

He was right. Sort of. I’m sure it did seem that way from his point of view. Really, it was just a matter of poor timing and even poorer communication. Still, I
was
busy at the time. Busy trying to figure out my own life. I’d just made a career change, moved back home after years of independence, took on the task of trying to save my family’s business and became entangled in a murder case. That was a whole lot of busy. Still, instead of being honest about my feelings, or asking him to wait, I’d simply put him off.