Rest in Peach (11 page)

“I couldn’t figure out what your problem was,” he was saying, his tone eerily controlled. “Then, I was at this bar one night, up in Macon, and I ran into a friend of yours.”

“A friend?”

He tipped his head lower, his eyes searching mine. “That detective guy, Dane Hawkins.”

My heart stopped.

“We had a few beers. Yakked it up a bit. He’s a nice guy actually.”

I nodded, swallowing down a lump in my throat.

“We got to talking about growing up in this area, things we did as kids, people we knew and . . . and then he said something that really surprised me.”

“I should have told you. I’m sorry. It’s just that we were so young at the time. I just wanted to forget about him and the whole—”

“But you couldn’t, could you?” he said, his tone changing from anger to resignation. “It all makes sense to me now. The strange way you started acting when he came into town last summer. The way you always seem flustered when he’s around. He’s the reason you’ve been on the run all these years, isn’t he?”

I nodded.
Yes, he was the reason.
I hated the hurt it caused Cade, but at least we were getting it all out in the open now.
This was the chance I needed to tell him about my youthful indiscretion, a lost pregnancy, the guilt and shame. . . . I started to feel a huge sense of relief. It was going to be good to come clean and move past all this, finally.

“Does he know?”

“No. I’ve never told him. Never will.”

He shook his head and let out a long sigh. “It’s obvious you’ve been in love with him all these years.”

My eyes grew wide. “In love with him? No, that’s not true.”
Where did he get that idea?
Nothing could be further from the truth.

He turned his shoulder away, holding up one hand. “Come on, Nola. I’m tired of the lies. I saw you two yesterday.” He pointed to the front of the store, where he’d seen Hawk removing my splinter. “Right out there.”

“That wasn’t what it looked like,” I started, but Cade shrugged away my explanation and was walking toward the door, his body moving stiffly and his gaze fixed straight ahead. That’s when I realized this could be my last chance.

“No!” I reached out and grabbed his arm, turning him to face me. He stared at me, shocked by my outburst, but no more shocked than I was at finally facing him, or was it at openly facing my own past? I swallowed, tried to speak, my mouth suddenly dry . . .

He shook his head, started to turn back, but I held his arm fast and found myself now pleading: “Why doesn’t anyone listen to me?”

He scowled. “Listen? To what? You don’t talk to anyone, Nola! You think we can read your mind or what? You are standoffish and don’t like anything about our community, turning us down or tuning us out time and again, and you expect what in return?”

“It’s just . . . nothing ended up the way I meant it to.”

He sighed, as if resigned or maybe defeated, and pulled his arm from me. “Yeah, you fell in love with Dane, and he didn’t fall in love with you. Well, welcome to the club.”

“No!” How could Cade be so wrong? Then a shiver shook me as his words penetrated. He was dead right. How could Cade—or anyone—know what I felt? I never talked, not
really
talked, to anyone. I kept my feelings locked inside a shell of guilt, tangled in years of self-condemnation for a sin I never intended, mixed with resentment that everyone would denounce me or maybe that no one cared enough to ask what was wrong. But would I have told them if they had asked? Could I tell Cade even now, on the brink of losing him forever? Losing him . . . I couldn’t lose him. . . .

“I lost the baby.” The words slipped out, like a frosty breath, prickling my skin. Instantly tears flooded my eyes. I squeezed them shut, stepping back, ashamed and shaking, hands clasped over my mouth to hold in the sob swelling in my chest.

I sensed Cade step closer, felt his hands take my shoulders, and at his touch the sobbing began as wave after wave of words tumbled out of my mouth in no coherent order: my indiscretion with Dane; an unplanned pregnancy; the overwhelming shame and how I prayed and prayed for the baby to just go away, and then when it did . . . the shock and guilt. Guilt that set me on a course of compensation and atonement for the next fifteen years. Guilt that still lingered and pricked at my soul every time I caught a whiff of my nephew’s fresh baby scent, or heard the delight in my twin nieces’ surreptitious giggles. I told him everything but never looked him in the eye, never raised my head. Finally, spent of emotions and my tear ducts empty, I looked up at him.

I saw a glisten in the corners of his eyes as he said, “I’d have been there for you,” and I knew he was right. All I could do was nod. Then he pulled me close, and finally, a sense of peace that had eluded me all these years washed over me, but all I could say was, “Thank you.”

Debutante Rule #023:
To be a successful debutante you have to always look like a lady, even if it means you have to work like a dog to do so.

“I just can’t believe the nerve of that Stephanie Wheeler,” Mama said in lieu of a greeting as I walked into the kitchen Saturday morning. She was facing the stove, flipping bacon in her cast-iron skillet.

“The congressman’s wife? What’d she do?” I let out a sigh and made a beeline for the coffeepot. I’d hardly slept the night before. One minute I was having the most pleasant dreams about Cade’s strong arms wrapped around me, and the next I was lying awake, tossing around blackmailing schemes in my mind. It’s like I was trying to sleep on an emotional roller coaster, with breathtaking highs and stomach-wrenching lows.

“What didn’t she do, you mean?” Mama hissed, giving the bacon strips a hard turn. Obviously Mama had been awake for a while. She was already charged up and ready to take on the world. Not me. My caffeine-depleted brain could hardly make sense of what she was saying, let alone figure out why she was so upset with the congressman’s wife. So, I got busy
filling my coffee mug as she continued, “We had a cotillion committee meeting yesterday afternoon at the diner. You know, just to make sure all the kinks were ironed out, since the ball is just a week away now.” She turned and shook the spatula my way, little spittles of grease hitting the floor. Roscoe scrambled to lap them up.

“No, Roscoe!” I corrected him.

“Don’t you dare yell at that sweet thing,” Mama admonished before turning a sugary smile toward Roscoe. “You love my cookin’, don’t ya, boy?”

Oh brother.
I opened my mouth to remind her of what happened the last time someone spoiled Roscoe with people food, but I decided against it. There was no reasoning with Mama once she set her mind on something, and she’d gone gaga over the long-eared ball of brown and white fur. Something I could completely understand, I thought, sipping my coffee and staring down at Roscoe with my own fond smile.

Mama turned back to the skillet, asking, “You did get the menu lined up with Ginny, didn’t you? ’Cuz I really talked you up at the meetin’ yesterday. Told the gals how wonderfully peachy everything was going to be.”

“We’re working on it.” I took a seat at the table and focused on my coffee, avoiding her gaze. Truth was, Ginny and I had been working more on Vivien’s murder than the peachy accents for the cotillion dinner, and things were falling behind schedule. I’d meant to stop in on Ezra at Sugar’s Bakery to make sure everything was squared away with the cake but had been waylaid by my bittersweet but oh-so-relieving reconciliation with Cade yesterday afternoon.

“Looks like I was right, as usual,” Mama said, bringing her coffee mug and a plate of bacon to the table. “You and Cade have worked out your troubles, haven’t y’all?” A little raspy giggle escaped as she nibbled on a piece of toast.

My eyes connected with hers as I reached across the table for a piece of bacon. “Yes, we have. And thank you, Mama.” I left a lot unsaid, but she knew what I meant. It’d suddenly struck me that I’d probably never outgrow the need for my mama’s advice. She was the wisest woman I knew. I wondered if she’d have any insight to my ideas on Vivien’s murder.

I was just about to ask when she started back in again. “Getting back to my story. Well, I’m supposed to be in charge of the centerpieces. So, I went in yesterday mornin’, just before the meeting, to firm up my plans with Pete over at the flower shop, and guess what? He told me the centerpieces had been changed.”

“Changed?”

“Yes, changed. Oh, he was all apologetic and everything. Said Stephanie Wheeler came in last weekend and changed the order. Apparently she didn’t approve of my choice of light coral peonies for the centerpieces. She substituted them with peach-tipped white roses. Can you believe the nerve of her?”

I made a few sympathetic noises, but really, what was there to say? Peonies? Roses? Did it really matter all that much? It did to Mama, but to me . . . certainly not compared to murder, a friend wrongly convicted by public opinion and the possibility of blackmail in our little community. I’d been churning blackmail ideas around in my mind all night. It was just a matter of proving some of my theories and I’d be able to help clear my dear friend. I started to tell Mama about my ideas, but she was still complaining about Mrs. Wheeler.

“Right from the get-go I knew it was a mistake to let her have the Peach Cotillion at her place. I told the other gals, too, but they were all caught up in the romantic possibility of having the cotillion at the plantation. Like it’s going to be
Gone With the Wind
all over again. And let me tell you what really burns my behind: Stephanie Wheeler’s attitude, that’s
what. The woman’s been on the committee for as many years as I can remember, and never once have the Wheelers offered their place for the event. It’s obvious they’re only doing it this year because Jeb is up for reelection.” She ripped the tip of her bacon strip off and tossed it to Roscoe, who practically snatched it in midair. “It’s just like tomorrow’s Mother-Daughter Tea. Usually it’s a simple affair at the diner. Ginny always fixes the place up real nice with tablecloths and special teacups that she keeps stored just for the occasion. But oh no! That wasn’t good enough for Stephanie. She insisted that the tea be moved to her place. Can you imagine a garden party in this heat? Those poor girls are going to melt tomorrow.”

“You’re right about that, Mama,” I quickly agreed. Actually, the thought of fancy dress clothes sticking to my body while I sipped hot tea and made polite chitchat was enough to send me running for the hills. Thank goodness I wasn’t roped into planning or participating in that event, too. Next weekend’s cotillion was going to be about as much “polite society” as I could stand for a while.

While she paused to sip her coffee, I took the opportunity to switch gears. “There’s something important I’d like to run by you, if you don’t mind.”

She quit sipping and gave me her full attention. I went on, “It’s about Vivien Crenshaw. You see, yesterday I overheard a conversation between Debra Bearden and Nate Crenshaw,” I started, but a knock at the door interrupted me.

Mama turned toward the sound. “Well, who in the world would that be?”

“Shoot!” I glanced at the wall clock, a surge of panic kicking in as I realized I’d lost track of time. “It’s Cade. He needed to be out this way on business so he said he’d stop by and pick me up this morning. We’re going to work on the shop and then maybe have dinner at his place this evening.”

Mama’s brows lifted enthusiastically. “Well, doesn’t that sound pleasant?” Another knock sounded. Louder this time. I got up to answer the door, but Mama intercepted me. “You’re not going to answer the door looking like that, are you?”

I ran my tongue over my teeth and patted my hair. “Well, we can’t let him just stand out there, now, can we?”

She cinched her robe tightly and started for the front of the house. “I’ll stall him for a few minutes. You run on upstairs and get yourself ready,” she said over her shoulder.

I did as she said. As I reached the upstairs hallway, I heard her voice down below. “Well, come on in, Cade. Nola’s just upstairs fixin’ up a bit so she can look her best for y’all.”

•   •   •

Cade and I spent the rest of the morning finishing the tin ceiling panels. Overall, the installation of the embossed metal panels was much easier than I anticipated, and the final result was amazing. I’d chosen a simple hammered tin, which I intended to finish with a coat of antique white paint. Still, even without the paint, the ceiling gave the room just the vintage look I was hoping to achieve. I decided I’d live with them unpainted for the time being. I rather liked the look. Along with the knotty pine floors, simple shelving and exposed brick wall, I thought it created a warm, inviting country look.

Cade moved next to me. “It’s really coming together, don’t you think?”

I nodded. “Thanks to you. You do nice handiwork, Mr. McKenna.”

“Nice handiwork?” He chuckled and turned toward me, moving his hands to my waist and tugging me forward. “That’s just another way of saying I’m good with my hands, right?”

I slapped playfully at his arms. “Don’t be getting too sure of yourself,” I teased, secretly happy that Mama had talked me into putting a little extra effort into my looks that morning. “There’s still a lot of work to be done.”

His dark eyes gleamed mischievously as he pulled me closer. “Well, let’s not waste time, then,” he murmured, his lips just inches from mine. But he quickly pulled back and dropped his hands as the door flew open.

I turned just as Emily came rushing inside, stopping in her tracks as soon as she saw Cade and me embracing. “Oh!” she exclaimed, then quickly recovered. “Daddy sent me over to get you,” she said, her face masked with worry. “There’s something you need to come see right away.”

Both Cade and I followed her next door where she led us back to the diner’s kitchen. Ginny and Sam were huddled together, their gazes fixed on a purse resting on the stainless steel worktable. It was a beige purse with gold accents.

I recalled the purse that Debra Bearden had been asking Nate about. “That looks like Vivien Crenshaw’s purse.” My eyes darted between Ginny and Sam. “What’s it doing here?”

“I just found it stashed behind those crates we have by the back door,” Ginny answered.

“Back there?” I could hardly believe my ears. What would Vivien’s purse be doing outside the diner’s back door? I shot Ginny a questioning look.

“Don’t look at me like that!” she shrieked. “I have no idea how this thing ended up out there. Someone is out to get me, that’s for sure.”

Sam took charge. “Calm down, honey. Getting hysterical isn’t going to help this situation one bit. I’m going to call Ray and tell him what we found.” He reached into his apron pocket and took out his cell, pointing it toward Emily. “Sweetie, I need you to go out there and do your best to keep the
customers happy while we get to the bottom of things.” Then he turned to Cade and asked, “Can you help me out, buddy? There’s not much to breakfast. Just eggs, bacon and flapjacks. An occasional order of toast. The hash is already prepared; all you have to do is fry it.” He pointed toward the stove. “Grits are in that big double boiler over there. We’ve got an extra apron hanging on the hook, if ya need it. Just holler if something comes up.”

Cade readily agreed, snatching an apron and tying it on. Sam started punching a number into his cell phone. “I’m going to try to reach Ray,” he explained as he waited for the call to be picked up, “but one of us needs to call the sheriff soon. Maudy would be ticked if she thought we didn’t call her. . . . Ray! Glad I reached you. We’ve got a problem.” Sam held the phone to his ear as he headed toward the office, where he could speak in private. Cade was already at the grill cracking eggs and pouring pancake batter as he squinted at the order tickets.

“This isn’t good, is it?” Ginny whispered.

I shook my head. “No, it’s not.” Leaning in, I inspected the bag. The only thing I could tell for sure was that it was expensive. “Did you touch it a lot?” I asked, thinking of fingerprints.

“Well, yeah. I just saw it and wondered who might have lost her purse, so I opened it. I was just looking for an ID, some way to figure out who it belonged to, you know?”

I nodded. I hadn’t told Ginny the specific description of Vivien’s purse I’d heard from Debra—so Ginny wouldn’t have known whose it was. “Did you see anything else inside?” I asked. “Like . . .” I shrugged.
Like something worth killing for?
I wondered.

Ginny shook her head. “No. Nothing. Just a billfold, lipstick, tissues . . . all the usual stuff.”

“Then the killer must have already removed the blackmail
fodder.” Which meant he or she would no longer be looking for it. Did that mean Maggie and Debra should be eliminated as suspects since they were looking for whatever was inside the purse? I glanced toward the kitchen’s back door. Or, did one of them recently find the purse, remove the item and discard the handbag inside the stack of crates in order to make Ginny look guilty? In reality, anyone could have snuck down the back alley and left the purse there.

Sam came back into the kitchen area, a grim look on his face. “Maudy’s on her way over. Ray told me to call her immediately but not to answer any of her questions until he gets here. He’s leaving Perry now.”

“I think that’s good advice,” Cade commented from the grill, where he was juggling a pile of breakfast hash, a heap of scrambled eggs and several rows of pancakes. Amazingly, he was keeping it all together.

Sam crossed over to Ginny and put his arm around her. “Don’t worry, honey. We’re going to get this worked out. You’ll see.”

Ginny wrapped her arms around his middle and buried her head in his chest. “Sure hope so. ’Cuz with this red hair of mine, I’d look just awful in one of those orange jumpsuits.”

“That’s not going to happen,” I reassured her. “Ray will see to it.”

“She’s here,” Cade said, peering through the pass-through window out into the diner. “And the deputy’s with her.”