Rest in Peach (22 page)

Next to me, Carla’s eyes widened and settled on the center of the table. I followed her gaze, admiring the three-tiered stand filled with miniature cakes decorated with peach and cream fondant. They were like tiny pieces of art and sure to be the talk of the town all next week. Ezra was going to be in high demand from here on out, that was for sure. I nudged Carla. “The punch bowls are right down there,” I said, moving down the table to where two large crystal bowls were surrounded by neatly stacked matching punch glasses. Off to the side, a separate bar was set up for the adults. A bartender was already busy filling wineglasses. “I saw you admiring the cakes,” I said to Carla as we filled the punch bowls. “That’s the baker I was telling you about. His business is growing, and he’s going to be looking for help.”

She shrugged. “I’ll be long gone as soon as school’s out. Some of my friends in Chicago are getting a place of their own. I’m going to move in with them.”

I decided not to push it. She seemed dead set against sticking around here. Who was I to argue? I’d said many of the same things at her age. “We’d better get back downstairs. Hattie’s probably got her hands full.”

Back on the first floor, I took a little detour to the restroom. All that punch was catching up to me. Only when I tried the handle, it was locked. Shoot! I really had to go. Deciding my restroom break couldn’t wait another second, I raced through the kitchen, told Hattie I’d be right back and headed for the back stairs again. Halfway there, I realized the third-floor bathroom would probably be crowded with primping debs. My best bet was to find a restroom on the second floor.

I knew it was bad manners to be in the Wheelers’ private
quarters, but in this case, urgency seemed to overrule convention. So, I ducked into the master suite and quickly located a bathroom. Thank goodness!

A few minutes later, on my way out of the bathroom, I lingered a bit to admire the master bedroom. Stephanie had wonderful taste, I thought, rubbing my hand along the wood banister of the four-post bed, which was done up in a luxurious gold and taupe covering and piled high with fringed pillows. The entire room was the epitome of understated class with bold white crown molding offsetting neutrally painted walls and tasteful gold-toned accent pieces. The only thing that distracted from the room’s elegance was another gaudy oil painting of General Aloysius Wheeler. Man, these people must really think highly of their steely-eyed ancestor. I shuddered. I know I sure wouldn’t want to wake up and see those eyes first thing every morning.

From the floor above, I heard the soft strains of orchestra music punctuated by the clicking sound of a microphone snapping to life. I needed to get a move on; the presentation was about to start. But just as I turned to leave, something caught my eye. Something red on the floor next to the nightstand. Blood? I walked over and took a closer look. No, not blood, but a pill. A red pill. The same color and shape as the ones I’d discovered under Maggie’s limp body.

I stiffened and shuffled back a step or two, rubbing down the tiny hairs raising on my arms. Then moving forward again, I picked up the pill for a closer examination. I wasn’t positive, but they sure looked like the pills I’d found by Maggie. I scanned the stand’s surface but didn’t see any sign of a prescription bottle, so I opened the drawer a little and peered inside. Nothing. I yanked the drawer open further, letting loose with a couple cusswords when it slid off its track and crashed to the floor. My hand shot out, grabbing a
prescription bottle before it rolled under the bed. I didn’t recognize the name of the prescription, but the pharmacy directions said take one pill before bedtime to induce sleep. I opened the bottle and peered inside. Yup. Red tablets. Another quick look at the label told me the prescription was filled just a little over a week ago for a three-month supply. But now, there were only a few left. I thought I knew where the rest had gone. Could Stephanie be involved somehow with the attempt on Maggie’s life? But why would Stephanie want to kill Maggie? I was more confused now than ever.

In the background, I heard the announcer start to present the debutantes:
“Ms. Amelia Forbes, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Forbes . . .”

Hastily, I slid the drawer back on its tracks and started replacing its spilled contents, while my mind reeled with details of Vivien’s murder case. All along I thought it had to do with blackmail. But I must’ve been wrong. What could Vivien possibly have had on Stephanie, or any of the Wheelers for that matter? These people lived a charmed, exemplary life. They were pillars of the community going way back—

“What are you doing in here?” came a voice from behind.

I jumped up and wheeled around, finding myself face-to-face with Stephanie. “Mrs. Wheeler! Uh . . . I just popped in to use the restroom. The one downstairs was locked,” I explained. “But I should probably get back down to the kitchen now.”

She looked down at the pill bottle in my hand and then to the floor where some of the contents of the drawer still lay strewn on the carpet. Her eyes narrowed into tiny slits. “So you’ve got it all figured out now.”

“
Ms. Janie Stanton. Daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Leonard Stanton
,” the announcer was saying.

My heart pounded as I watched her expression darken with
anger. There was no doubt in my mind now. Stephanie Wheeler was a killer. I grasped the bottle even tighter and started to make my way past her, but as I did, she snatched my arm and jerked me back.

“Give me that,” she hissed.

I shook off her arm and pushed past her, breaking into a run as soon as I hit the hallway.

“Ms. Sophie Bearden. Daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Bearden.”

My palm was so sweaty, I could hardly manage to open the door to the stairwell. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Stephanie coming down the hall, talking into her cell. Who was she calling? The congressman? Was he in on it, too? Vivien’s blackmailing tactics may have worked on Debra and Maggie, but she’d crossed the wrong people when she threatened the Wheelers. And if I didn’t get out of here fast, I may end up just like her.

Still looking over my shoulder, I stumbled into the stairwell, my foot slipping on the first step and twisting underneath me. Before I knew it, I was sliding down the stairs, each rung cutting into the small of my back. Somehow I managed to snag the railing and stop myself halfway down the sharp wooden steps. Just then, the door at the top of the stairs opened and Stephanie started toward me. “The back stairs,” I heard her say. My back was screaming in pain, but I righted myself and kept going.

Reaching the bottom, I burst through the door and collided with Carla. “There you are,” she started. “Man, is Hattie ever ticked—”

“Run!” I yelled, pushing her forward. But I was too late. Our path was blocked by a bulky, dark-haired man who I recognized as the other security guard from the Mother-Daughter Tea.

He pulled a gun from under his jacket just as Stephanie stepped up behind us and hissed into our ears, “Scream or make another stupid move and I’ll have Franco shoot you.” I believed her.

Suddenly, the house filled with music. The cotillion waltz had started. I imagined my mama and sister, seated at the Board of Governesses table, their chins held with a prideful tilt as they watched the culmination of their hard work over the past months. I don’t know why I ever thought the cotillion waltz was so stupid. Suddenly, I wanted more than anything to be there with them, watching the belles in their beautiful gowns twirl around their white-gloved marshals.

“I’ll be taking this,” Stephanie said, snatching the pill bottle from my hand and pushing us toward the sunroom. She was forcing us toward the double doors that led to the back patio.
Then where?
I wondered.
Down to the river?

“You tried to kill Maggie, but why?” I said over my shoulder, but as we made our way into the sunroom, something clicked in my memory. The photocopied letter Carla found in Vivien’s purse—it was old, she said, with fancy writing. I’d seen something like that recently, right here in this very house. . . . My eyes slid over to the wall where the framed commendation from Robert E. Lee hung next to the portrait of General Wheeler. “It was the letter, wasn’t it? Vivien was blackmailing you with it.” I wondered what was in that letter that would be worth killing for. An old deed to property? Maybe a birth certificate that would upset their pristine lineage?

Stephanie’s lips formed a strange sneer as she stared blankly at the portrait of the congressman’s famous ancestor. Suddenly her voice took on an eerie monotone. “All these years my husband’s been bragging about his famous ancestor, and no one knew Aloysius Wheeler was a traitor.”

Oh my!

“Come to find out he sold secrets to the Yanks. That’s how he kept all this—” She waved her hands to encompass the room. “It’s why every other plantation in the area suffered at the hands of the enemy but the Wheeler Plantation persevered.” She shook her head. “Just Vivien’s bad luck that she found that letter inside the field desk. Who did she think she was anyway? Trying to extort money from me. That letter would have ruined our family heritage. And this close to the election! I really had no choice but to have Franco kill her. Just like I have no choice but to have him kill you two.” She looked toward Franco and nodded her head, giving him the go-ahead to carry out her evil plan.

“It was only a photocopy,” I said, thinking hard to form some reason to stop this madness. “The original is still out there. Someone will eventually find it and figure out what you’ve done.”

Stephanie tilted her head back and let out a strange little cackle. Then she leveled her gaze on us, her eyes taking on a dark, menacing look. “I’ve already taken care of that. Besides, once you two are gone, no one will know about any of this.”

Next to me Carla began to tremble with fear or anger, or maybe both. Was she putting it all together in her mind, realizing that Stephanie was the one who tried to have Maggie killed? I eyed the muscles bulging under Franco’s shirtsleeves. Now it all made sense. He was definitely strong enough to force those pills down Maggie’s throat and then strangle her. He was probably strong enough to plunge scissors into Vivien’s neck, too. And he was definitely strong enough to carry out Stephanie’s latest orders—killing us!

I reached over and clasped Carla’s hand in mine, hoping
to keep her calm. We both needed a clear mind in order to get out of this alive.

“Take them down by the river, Franco.” There was no mistaking the undertone of evil in Stephanie’s voice as she spoke. “And make sure no one ever finds their
bodies.”

Debutante Rule #018:
A debutante is more than just a pretty face. Look again. We wear boots under our dresses, and they’re made for kickin’.

As Stephanie turned away, Franco grabbed Carla and held the gun to her back. “Here’s the deal,” he said to me, jerking his head toward the patio doors. “We’re going to take a little walk. You’re going first, and this lovely young lady and I will be right behind you. If you run or do anything to attract attention, I’ll pull the trigger. No one will even hear it over the music upstairs. Got it?”

I swallowed hard and nodded. My legs felt like lead, but I managed to move forward and open the doors. As soon as the familiar smell of fresh-cut grass and magnolia blossoms hit my nostrils, I started to lose it. This had always been my favorite time of year. I remembered many a hot May evening out on the porch, escaping the bottled-up heat of the house. Mama and Daddy would be in the cane chairs, discussing the day’s events, maybe even some new strategy about peach growing, while Ida swung on the porch swing with one of her dolls. After a while, Ray and I would grow restless and
run out to chase fireflies as they rose from the tall blades of grass along the edge of the orchard.

The poignant memory made my eyes sting, tears blurring my vision. I stumbled a few times and then fell all the way to the ground. “Get up!” Franco ordered.

As I got up, I dared a glance backward. My eyes briefly met Carla’s. I knew the look of terror on her face mirrored my own fear. The music had stopped, and the only sound coming from the house was the clinking of pots and pans from the open windows of the kitchen. The cotillion waltz was finished, and the guests would soon be seated for dinner. Hattie must be frantic trying to get everything together by herself. What would she think when we didn’t show up? Certainly she would send someone looking for us. Wouldn’t she?

“To your right and head toward that building,” Franco ordered.

I obeyed and walked toward a barnlike structure. When we reached the side of the building, Franco ripped open a large sliding door and motioned for us to go inside, where he led us to a four-wheel utility vehicle, the type with a roll bar, two front seats and a back cargo area. My senses heightened. I was familiar with this type of vehicle. I’d driven them many times over the years, especially in rough terrain when it was necessary to get medical supplies and water to remote mountain villages.

“See those blocks over there,” Franco said, indicating toward a stack of cement blocks. “Load a couple into the back of this vehicle.” He stood with the gun trained on Carla as I did what he said. Her shoulders shook as she softly sobbed. “Now get that rope over there on the tool bench.”

I knew what he was planning. He was going to tie the blocks to our dead bodies and sink us to the bottom of the river for eternity. Fish bait. Suddenly, I remembered Ginny
joking about her own daddy threatening to make fish bait out of Sam. She’d meant it to be funny, but now I was facing that very fate. For real!

I walked slowly toward the workbench, the sound of Carla’s sobs echoing around me. I knew I had to do something. I couldn’t let this monster kill us. I could try to jump him, but attempting to overpower a man of his size would certainly prove fruitless. Then, I saw my answer. Next to the rope was a utility knife, its razor-edge blade fully extended.

“Move it!” Franco yelled.

I startled and snatched the rope, sliding the utility knife into the side pocket of my cargo pants. Turning around, I carried the rope to the utility truck and threw it on top of the cement blocks. Franco told us to get in the front, then he climbed into the back and positioned himself on top of the blocks, one hand on the roll bar above our heads and the other pointing the gun our way. “The keys are in the ignition,” he said. “Turn it on.”

I did as he said, starting the engine and slowly backing up until I had enough head room to turn the vehicle around to face the door. “Nice and easy, now,” he said. I was acutely aware of the gun trained at our heads as I reached down and put the vehicle in gear. But instead of putting my hand back on the wheel, I pulled out the utility knife, thrust my arm up quickly and sliced it into the meaty underside of the arm holding the roll bar. He screamed out in agony and aimed the gun directly at my head.

I ducked and punched the accelerator, gunfire zinging past my ears. The sudden forward momentum threw him off balance momentarily. I floored the pedal then yelled, “Hang on!” as I slammed on the brake and cranked the wheel as hard as I could. Franco flew forward, hitting the back of the seat. That’s when I rammed the utility knife into his shoulder.
This time, he dropped the gun and reeled up, screaming in pain. I punched it again, and he toppled over backward off the vehicle.

“Get out of here!” Carla screamed. But I glanced behind us and saw that Franco was starting to stand. I needed to make sure he wouldn’t follow, possibly with a backup gun. So I threw the gear into reverse and pressed the accelerator again, this time ramming Franco with the back bumper. His body flew through the air and landed in a heap several yards away.

•   •   •

“Don’t you two come showing your sorry faces around here after all the work is done!” Hattie complained the moment we ran into the kitchen. She was standing amidst piles of pots and pans, crumpled wads of tinfoil and greasy utensils. Two members of the waitstaff were there with her. Apparently she’d recruited help.

“Call the police right now,” I screeched. “And stay with Carla. I’ve got to find Stephanie.”

“What’s going on?” she called after me.

“Carla will fill you in. Just call the cops, will you?” I started toward the back of the kitchen then halted, realizing I didn’t want to chance being on the deserted back stairway again. What if Stephanie was lying in wait for me? Or, maybe she had another goon working for her. Who knew how many of those she had up her sleeve.

After a quick shuffle step, I headed out the other way, sprinting down the hallway toward the front foyer. My feet pounded as I bolted up the steps, slowing a little as I passed the landing between the second and third floors. By the time I reached the top floor, I was sucking wind. Leaning forward, I placed my hands on my knees and took a few deep breaths.

“Is there something I can do for you, miss?” one of the door ushers asked.

I righted myself and held up my hand. “No . . . no, thanks. I’m fine,” I managed, trying to slip inside the ballroom.

“Hold on a minute,” he said, taking in my ragged appearance. “The waitstaff use that door down there.”

Not willing to take the time to argue, I shuffled down the hall and entered through the service door. The door opened up on the far side of the ballroom, near a bank of large potted ficus plants.

I hung close to the back wall and surveyed the room. If circumstances had been different, I would have taken time to really appreciate how elegant everything appeared: sparkling gowns in the candlelight, white-gloved waiters . . . oh, and there they were, the congressman and Mrs. Wheeler, sitting at the head of the room at the table of honor. And about five yards behind them, practically blending into the wall, was Hawk with his arms folded across his chest and his eyes scanning the room of people in front of the congressman. Stephanie was next to her man, of course. And by the looks of it, she was thoroughly enjoying her shrimp skewer. Guess murdering people didn’t curb her appetite.

I deliberated for a second then decided my best bet was to stand my ground and keep an eye on her until the sheriff arrived. I stepped to the side, trying to look casual and not call attention to myself. Only my mother, who was sitting at the Board of Governesses table across the room, caught sight of me. She pointed to her dinner plate and shot me two thumbs up. I smiled and shot her a tentative wave, sinking further back into the wall and hoping no one else noticed my presence. But then, Ida, who was right next to Mama, decided to come over and say a few words.

I tried to shoo her away as she approached, her chiffon dress swishing and her heels clicking, but she was a woman on a mission and there was no stopping her. “I just had to come over and tell you how wonderfully tasty the food is tonight. I’ll admit, when Mama recommended your assistance to the board as part of the catering committee, I thought she was crazy. Why, the whole family knows you can’t cook worth a . . .” I tuned her out, arching my neck to see past Ida’s impossibly large hairdo. But when I caught sight of the Wheelers’ table again, I saw Stephanie stand and quickly excuse herself. Uh-oh! She’d spotted me and was making her way down the opposite side of the ballroom, making a break for the front door.

What if she gets away? Where is that sheriff anyway?

“And did you see those gorgeous cakes? They’re almost too pretty to—”

“Excuse me,” I said, starting to break away. There was no way I was going to let Stephanie get away. Except Hawk intercepted me before I could get very far.

“Hey, darlin’, why don’t you come with me?” He grabbed me by the crook of my arm and escorted me through the ballroom doors, waving away the concerned usher as we passed. Back out on the front landing, he looked down at me with concern. “You’re not lookin’ so good.”

“That’s because your friend Franco just tried to kill me,” I hissed into his ear.

That got his attention.

I continued, keeping my voice low, “And, your boss is a murderer.” I gave him a quick lowdown on everything.

What I said must have induced mental whiplash, because his expression changed from shock to anger and then back to shock again. But when his features finally settled, it was definitely rage I saw. With a sudden lurch, he broke into a full
sprint. I took off after him, barely keeping up as he bolted down the stairs and out the front door. We paused on the front porch. There was no sign of Stephanie anywhere. Or the sheriff. What was keeping Maudy?

We were about to head back inside to look for Stephanie when off to the right we heard the sound of an engine firing up. “It’s coming from the carport,” Hawk said. “Come on!”

He half pulled, half dragged me across the lawn until we reached his bike. I hesitated. “No way, Hawk. I can’t.”

He snapped his helmet in place and handed me the one from the bike’s back rack. “Get on,” he ordered.

I shook my head. “I just can’t.”

“Fine. Stay, then.”

I couldn’t do that, either. So, abandoning all caution, I buckled the helmet into place and threw a leg over the seat just as he revved the motor to life. Leaning into him, I wrapped my arms around his torso and tightened my grip as we roared into action. The sensation of the engine and the feeling of air as it moved over my face took me right back to that fateful night. For a second, I felt the same reckless abandon I did then, flying free as we tore over the road, scenery flashing by. . . .

“Those are her taillights,” Hawk yelled over his shoulder, then accelerated the bike to full throttle. I clung harder, melding against his back as we moved in unison, leaning through each turn and racing ahead toward Stephanie’s vehicle. I knew where she was heading. To the freeway. Only at this speed, she was never going to be able to navigate the turnoff.
What is she doing?
She wasn’t slowing down a bit; instead she was speeding up. I watched in horror as her car blew past the exit ramp and hit the ditch on the opposite side of the road, the impact sending her vehicle hurtling through the air. In an explosion of metal and glass, the car flipped over and over before finally settling on its roof.

Hawk screeched to a stop and kicked down the stand. Immediately, I slid off the back, shedding my helmet and dodging pieces of metal and glass as I ran toward the decimated vehicle. I could hear Hawk’s heavy boots pounding the ground behind me.

Dropping to my knees, I crouched down and peered through the shattered glass. What I saw would stick with me for the rest of my life: Stephanie’s head, slumped at an unnatural angle against the steering wheel, blood trickling past her lifeless eyes.