Rest in Peach (24 page)

The room fell silent for a while as the tragedy of it all sank
in. Ginny finally spoke up. “You know, Stephanie worked really hard to frame me for this whole thing: timing the murder for the evening after Vivien and I had that big argument, tossing the purse in the trash can behind the diner. . . . But how’d she know about my argument with Vivien in the first place? She wasn’t even in the shop when the fight broke out.”

“I think I know the answer to that,” Hattie said. She glanced at Ginny and then looked down toward the floor, a small blush creeping over her face. “She feels just awful, and she didn’t mean for anything like this to happen, but I’m afraid it was Mrs. Busby who told Stephanie about the fight. You see, I left Mrs. Busby in charge of the shop and left early that afternoon. I’d had a bad day. . . .” She looked my way. “You remember, with the dress mix-up and all. Then that fight between Vivien and . . . well, you know.” She sent an apologetic look Ginny’s way. “Anyway, I left early and went down to see Pete, just to vent, you understand.” She took a deep breath before going on. “Well, while I was at the flower shop, Stephanie Wheeler stopped in to pick up her alterations. It seems Mrs. Busby told her all about the things that transpired that afternoon, including the argument. I’m afraid she does like to dabble in gossip now and then.”

There it was again—gossip. The cause of so much destruction.
“So, after hearing the story about Ginny and Vivien’s argument, she must have decided it would be the perfect opportunity to take care of Vivien,” I said.

Ginny splayed her hand across her chest and shook her head. “And to think, all these years I’ve served on committees with Vivien and I never would have suspected her to stoop to something as low as blackmail.” She shot me a sly glance. “You still haven’t said what exactly Vivien had on Debra and Maggie. I imagine it must be something downright shameful.”

Maudy’s bushy brows shot up her forehead, and she pressed her lips into a thin line, waiting to see, I supposed, if I was going to disclose the whole truth. The rest of the room fell silent, everyone hanging on the edge of suspense. I knew that the congressman had pulled a lot of strings to bury Stephanie’s involvement in the murders as deep as he could, so it was very unlikely that the full details of Vivien’s blackmail scheme would ever see the light of day. “I don’t think that’s really relevant,” I finally said. As far as I was concerned, Debra and Maggie could keep their secrets.

Hattie slapped her hand down on the counter, startling us all. “Enough with all this talk of murder and blackmail. This is supposed to be a joyous occasion.” She signaled toward Cade, who disappeared into the storage closet for a second, returning with a white cake box in hand.

“I had Ezra make something special for today,” he said, opening the box’s lid to reveal one of Ezra’s hand-designed cakes.

My hands flew to my face as I stared down at the perfect replica of the sign that hung outside my shop. The one Cade had designed. I looked up, happy tears pricking along the edges of my eyes. “This is too pretty to eat.”

“No cake is too pretty to eat,” Ginny said, reaching under the counter to pull up a bag full of paper plates and napkins. That’s when I realized they were in cahoots, planning this little surprise all along.

Hattie reached back under the counter, this time pulling out a bottle of champagne, a corkscrew and a bag of plastic champagne flutes. “And don’t y’all forget that we’ll be needing a little something to wash it down with,” she said, with a mischievous grin.

The sheriff started to don her hat. “Guess it’s about time I headed back to the office.”

“No, don’t go, Maudy,” I said, smiling warmly. “I’d like it if you stayed.”

A hint of color rose on her cheeks as she tossed her hat back down. “Well then, don’t mind if I do.”

Cade stepped forward, taking the bottle and corkscrew. “Let me do the honors,” he said, popping the cork.

I watched the champagne bubble up and overflow the rim of the bottle, thinking I felt exactly the same way—bubbling and overflowing with joy. I could hardly believe all the blessings I’d incurred since returning to Cays Mill: my family’s business was slowly getting back on track, Cade was back in my life, my best friend was engaged to a wonderful guy and now, my first day in business had been a success. Most importantly, though, the trials and challenges I’d overcome since returning home had taught me something—family and good friends are life’s truest gifts.

“To Peachy Keen,” Hattie said, lifting her champagne. “Many years of success.”

I tipped my own glass and smiled. “And here’s to good
friends.”

Cupcakes

1 box yellow cake mix plus ingredients as listed on package

½ cup applesauce

1 15-ounce can diced peaches in heavy syrup

1 teaspoon cinnamon

Frosting

1 stick butter, softened

⅓ cup diced peaches

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

2 cups powdered sugar

Reserve ⅓ cup of diced peaches and set aside for the frosting. In a large bowl, combine the yellow cake mix ingredients according to the package instructions. Add ½ cup of applesauce, the remaining peaches with syrup and 1 teaspoon of cinnamon. Mix well. Line a cupcake pan with cupcake foils and fill each approximately ⅔ full. Bake at 350 degrees for 15-20 minutes or until baked through.

Frosting

Using a hand mixer, blend 1 stick of softened butter, ⅓ cup of diced peaches and 1 teaspoon of vanilla extract until creamy. Slowly add 2 cups of powdered sugar, mixing as you add. Mix on high until the frosting becomes light and fluffy. Frost the cupcakes once they are cool. Leftover cupcakes (if there are any!) are best if stored in the refrigerator.

Yields 24 cupcakes

1 head Boston Bibb lettuce, washed and dried well

3 fresh peaches, peeled and diced, or 1 cup of canned diced peaches

1 cup chopped pecans

3 ounces Feta cheese

Dressing

¼ cup extra virgin olive oil

4 tablespoons apple cider vinegar

1 shallot, finely chopped

Salt and pepper to taste

Peel and dice 3 fresh peaches. Chop washed lettuce and place into a large bowl. Add peaches, 1 cup of chopped pecans and 3 ounces of crumbled Feta cheese and toss.

In a separate bowl, whisk together ¼ cup of extra virgin olive oil, 4 tablespoons of apple cider vinegar and 1 finely chopped shallot. Add salt and pepper to taste.

Best if dressing is added to the salad immediately before serving.

(For a little something extra, add crispy cooked bacon. Yum!)

Yields 4-6 servings

64 ounces peach nectar (chilled)

4 cups lemon-lime soda (chilled)

4 cups ginger ale (chilled)

1 cup lemon juice (chilled)

In a large punch bowl, mix 64 ounces of peach nectar and 1 cup of lemon juice. Slowly add 4 cups of lemon-lime soda and 4 cups of ginger ale. Serve immediately.

(According to Hattie, peach punch, mixed with a little schnapps, is the perfect libation for a hot Georgia day.)

Yields approximately 16
cups

Keep reading for a special preview of Susan Furlong’s next Georgia Peach Mystery . . .

War and Peach

Coming soon from Berkley Prime
Crime!

My Southern mother’s life is bound by rules. Rules she believes are key to raising strong, confident children who cherish tradition, know hard work, have good manners, and above all else, treasure family. For as long as I can remember, she’s been doling out these regulations in hopes of turning me into not only a proper, polite and oh-so-polished woman, but a woman who’s independent, strong and indestructible.

Over the years, depending on the situation, she’s called these rules different things: Southern Belle Facts, Debutante Rules and even Southern Girl Secrets. Most of these little gems of advice are the same bits of advice mothers everywhere have handed down to their daughters. Of course, my mama always adds her own peculiar slant, but nonetheless, I’ve come to treasure her quirky tenets. I’ve also learned that no matter how far I travel from home, if I remember my mama’s rules, I’ll be okay. Because simply put, I’ve been blessed to be raised by a woman whose well-maintained exterior is only exceeded by her dogged determination and unsurpassable inner strength. And by passing on her special codes of living, she’s taught me how to tackle life with just the right blend of toughness and kindness.

Mama has always told me that one day I’d thank her . . . and I do—every single day.

—
N
OLA
M
AE
H
ARPER

Southern Girl Secret #045:
A Southern gal never starts a fight, but she sure the heck knows how to finish one.

“I do say, this election business has folks as divided as the states during Mr. Lincoln’s war,” one of the Crawford sisters was saying. I glanced from one gray-haired sibling to the other and stifled a chuckle. The Crawford sisters were old, but not
that
old. Although, I had to agree with them. Our little Georgia town was definitely divided.

“And did y’all read the latest issue of the
Cays Mill Reporter
?” her sister asked. “Seems the paper’s predictin’ an excitin’ debate. You’re going, aren’t ya, Nola Mae?”

“Of course,” I replied, putting on my best shopkeeper’s smile as I passed their bag of peach preserves across the counter. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” When our esteemed Mayor, Wade Marshall, announced his plans to leave his political office to launch a back-road bar tour with his blue-grass band “The Peach Pickers,” the political scene in Cays Mill exploded. In the aftermath, two candidates emerged: Clem Rogers, a local peach farmer who quickly won the support of
the agricultural community and Margie Price, owner of Sunny Side Up Bed & Breakfast, and the favorite contender of local business owners.

The sisters exchanged a sly glance before narrowing their eyes on me. “Town folks are wondering just which side you’re on,” said the older sister, thumbing toward her sibling. “Sister here says that since you own this new shop and all, you’d be for Ms. Price. But, I’m bettin’ you’re going to stand by your peach farmin’ roots and cast your vote for Clem Rogers.”

“Uh . . . well,” I stammered. “I’m still undecided.”

“Undecided?” they asked in unison. The younger sister clucked her tongue and shook her head. “What would your daddy say, if he heard you talkin’ that way?”

Oh, I already knew what he’d say. I’d been hearing it all week. The election had been a point of controversy at our house. Daddy, of course, was all about supporting Clem Rogers, one of our own. Clem had rallied support amongst most of the local farmers by promising tax cuts for local peach producers. Unfortunately, he planned to engineer those cuts by raising municipal retail taxes. A prospect that business owners, like myself, worried might send shoppers to nearby Perry or down to Hawkinsville, maybe even up to Macon, to save a few bucks. Still, I was surprised by Daddy’s vehement support of Clem Rogers. The two of them had a contentious history that went way back when. I’d never quite known what started their rivalry, but whatever it was, Clem Rogers had been a thorn in Daddy’s side ever since. Still, Daddy was backing his candidacy and expected all the Harpers to follow suit. I just wasn’t entirely convinced yet that Clem was the man for the job. It was one thing to run a successful farm; another altogether to handle the politics of even a small town like Cays Mill.

The older sister tugged at her sweater and shook her head. “How anyone can vote for an outsider is beyond me. I’m castin’
my vote for Clem. He may be ornery as an old bulldog, but least we know what we’re gettin’ with him.”

“That’s right, sister,” the other agreed. “Ms. Price isn’t one of us. How’s she supposed to know our ways?”

A few years back, Margie Price, owner of the Sunny Side Up Bed & Breakfast, had moved from somewhere up north and bought a neglected, dilapidated antebellum home over on Magestic Boulevard. She’d spent over a year painstakingly restoring every inch of the three-story home to its original glory and was now running a successful inn. To me, she’d more than proven herself an asset to the community, but to many she’d always be considered an outsider—or worse yet, a Yankee.

“Well, maybe someone with a fresh perspective would be a good thing for our town,” I offered, struggling to maintain my smile. I knew what it was like to feel like an outsider. After more than a few youthful indiscretions, I had fled Cays Mill and embarked on a career as a humanitarian aid worker. My job took me to some of the most remote areas of the world and immersed me in cultures so different from my own southern roots that I often felt like an outsider. I’d felt that way again, more recently upon my return to Cays Mill, as I struggled to reinsert myself into this tight little community. Sure, Cays Mill was a wonderful place to grow up, but the people here, my own family included, were so rooted in culture and tradition, they were sometimes slow to be accepting of others.

“What on earth are you talkin’ about, Nola Mae?” the older sister asked. “Fresh ideas? Why, everything’s been just fine the way it is. There’s nothing around here that needs changin’.”

“Could be,” the other sister jumped in, “that all that traveling Nola’s done has made her forget her roots and what’s important.”

I shook my head. “Now both of you know that’s not true. I’ve always been grateful for my raising. I came back, didn’t I?” I waved my hand through the air, taking in the expanse of my shop with its rustic country charm and displays of peachy products. “And I opened this place to help my family.”

The sisters exchanged glances and nodded. “That’s true, dear. But you’ve always been one of us. You understand how it is ’round here. Just like Clem Rogers does. Why, that boy’s been livin’ here his whole life.”

“That’s right. Livin’ here his whole life,” her sister echoed. “I was good friends with his grandmamma, rest her soul. She made the best peach pie. Always said it’s best to use yellow peaches. Not white peaches. The white ones are too sweet. Did you know that, Nola?”

I breathed a sigh of relief, glad the conversation had shifted from politics and my apparently inflammatory, too-worldly concept of “fresh perspectives” back to something neutral—peaches. “Yellow peaches, for sure,” I nodded, recognizing a sales opportunity. “Which is why, being that it’s November and all and since there aren’t any fresh peaches available for pie, I put up some of the best canned spiced yellow peaches you’d ever want to taste.” I came out from around the counter and directed their attention toward the far wall of shelves which held several straight rows of bright yellow peaches in sparkling jars. “We always heat them and serve with a dollop of vanilla ice cream. My nana’s recipe,” I added in a conspiratorial whisper, which garnered an appreciative smile from the women.

“Then they must be good,” the older sister said, reaching back into her bag for her pocketbook. “We’ll take a couple of those, too. Then we better get going. We want to have time to get some supper before the town hall meeting tonight.”

My focus quickly shifted out the front windows and across the street to the courthouse lawn where I noticed a man unloading folding chairs from the Baptist church’s mini-bus. They must have needed to borrow extra seating for the meeting. “Looks like it’s going to be a big crowd,” I said, ringing up and packaging their additional purchase. “Hopefully, people will remain civil tonight.” I was referring to the last debate held in conjunction with the Chamber of Commerce’s monthly luncheon. After several rounds of heated bantering about who should carry the tax burden, the farmers or the business owners, Doris Whortlebe, the owner of the Clip & Curl Salon, got so mad she stood up and chucked a chicken leg across the room at Harley Corbin, who in retaliation slung a spoonful of potato salad her way, and on and on until a full-fledged food fight was underway. What a mess!

The oldest Crawford sister leaned across the counter, an unmistakably mischievous glimmer in her blue eyes. “Don’t bet on it, Nola. Rumor has it that Clem Rogers is going to drop a bombshell tonight. Something that’s goin’ to change everyone’s opinion about Ms. Price.”

“Really?”
What could that be
, I wondered. Margie was an honest business woman and always willing to lend a helping hand to those in need. I couldn’t imagine what Clem would have to say that could possibly change everyone’s opinion of such a wonderful person. “Who told you about this?” I asked.

The older sister dipped her chin my way. “Why everyone in town is talking about it, dear. Supposedly it’s something that has to do with Margie’s past. She’s from up north, ya know.”

“And,” the other sister added. “Haven’t you ever wondered what brought Ms. Price all the way down here in the first place? She doesn’t have any kin in the area.”

I shrugged. “I just assumed she’d stumbled upon a good business opportunity with the bed and breakfast.”

The sisters harrumphed in unison. “Not likely,” one of them said. “There’s more to that woman than just business. And whatever this bombshell is, it’s going to be big. Why, even Frances Simms said she thinks it’s going to be big news. She’s plannin’ a special edition this week.”

Now I did roll my eyes. Frances Simms was the editor of the
Cays Mill Reporter
, our town’s one and only source for breaking gossip, oops, I meant news. Normally, the paper released every Tuesday and Saturday, but something really big might spur the printing of a special edition. Although, I only remember it happening one time before and that was when Bobby Tindale picked the winning numbers for the Georgia Power Ball Lottery. Thanks to the
Cays Mill Reporter
, the news of his eleven million dollar win spread so fast the poor guy couldn’t walk down the street without someone holding their palm out. Finally, he ended up packing it in and leaving town. I certainly hoped Frances would exercise more prudence this time around. Of course, Frances wasn’t known for her prudence, a fact I’d learned the hard way: once when she published a series of innuendos that almost resulted in a life-long prison term for my brother-in-law, and another time when she published a completely biased story that turned my good friend Ginny into an overnight social outcast. “You certainly don’t believe everything you read in the newspaper, do you?” I countered. Especially not the
Cays Mill Reporter
.

The sisters exchanged a glance. “Well, of course we do,” one of them said, giving me an incredulous stare. “It’s the newspaper, after all.” Then she turned to her sister. “Come along, sister. If we don’t get home and get supper fixed, we’ll miss that
meetin’. And it’s supposed to be the biggest barn burner this town’s ever seen.”

•   •   •

The enticing smell of Mama’s cooking wafted through the screen door and greeted me as I mounted the steps of our front porch. As I do every evening, I paused and leaned against one of the posts, letting my eyes wander over our farm. Autumn was one of my favorite times of year. Summer was behind us, along with the hard labor and pressures of the harvest season, the fruit long ago packed and shipped. Then, late summer brought the Peach Harvest Festival where we celebrated our successes, and often times placated our losses, in the company of good neighbors and family. Now, in November things had finally settled down, the cooler night air bringing relief to the burdensome heat of summer and the heavy workload of the previous seasons. Of course, there was still a lot to be done: mowing, pruning and fertilizing, planting new trees, record keeping, and strategizing for the next season, but for the most part, life on the farm had slowed to a manageable pace. A time to catch our breaths and count our blessings.

Blessings were something I’d had plenty of lately. We’d enjoyed a bountiful harvest, punctuated by a surge in peach prices which resulted in enough to cover our operating costs, plus some to sock away for harder times. And my new shop, Peachy Keen, was experiencing success beyond my imagination. Not only had foot traffic picked up in the storefront, but online orders had almost doubled. With Christmas quickly approaching, I was hoping to see even more sales, especially with the addition of a new line of peachy gift baskets.

And to top it all off, my personal life was on the upswing. Just recently, my friend Hattie asked me to be the maid of
honor for her upcoming wedding to Pete Sanchez, love of her life and owner of Pistil Pete’s Flower Shop. They were perfectly suited for each other and I was so happy for them! Best of all, my relationship with Hattie’s brother, Cade, was blossoming. After working through a few minor hitches last spring, we started seeing each other on a regular basis. With all the excitement over Hattie’s wedding lately, I couldn’t help but dream a little about the day Cade and I might . . . well, maybe I wasn’t ready for all that. But I was happy. In fact, the past year or so since my return to Cays Mill had proven to be one of the best times in my life. Except for the murders, that is. I shuddered, squeezed my eyes shut, inhaled the smell of wood smoke, probably a neighbor burning off his recent pruning, and exhaled the unpleasant memories of the murders that had occurred over the past year, one right here on Harper land.