Peachy Scream

by Anna Gerard

  Between the patio and the garage was a broad strip of grass that served as an alternate path to the main lawn that lay behind the formal garden. To be sure, the riot of heirloom rose bushes growing along the garage wall was a hazard in itself, with errant blossom-and-thorn-laden canes ready to snag unwary passersby. But the crew managed without difficulty, rounding the far end of the hawthorns where Harry and Len waited.

  The next few minutes consisted of the paramedics hooking Len up to their various equipment and reading vitals off monitors. One of the crew, a baby-faced guy who looked like he was straight out of high school, remained with me and Harry, taking down Len’s information as best we could supply it. But as I answered questions, I kept glancing over at the controlled chaos a few feet from us. Though the paramedics moved with swift efficiency, it was obvious that they were simply going through the prescribed motions. Finally, the lead EMT signaled the others to stop.

  “He’s gone. Time to call for a doc to pronounce,” she said and reached for her two-way radio.

  The rest of the crew nodded, while Baby Face explained to me that, technically, they weren’t allowed to declare a dead person dead. That job fell to the coroner, whom the dispatch operator usually contacted along with the sheriff at the same time the EMTs were sent out to what likely was a fatality. That, or they had to call one of the ER doctors at the hospital to get an official okay over the phone.

  “Oh, wait,” he exclaimed, interrupting his own explanation. “Hey, Rodriguez, never mind. Reverend Bishop is here.”

  “Actually, it is the Reverend Doctor Bishop, at your service,” a mild, melodious voice corrected him. “You were fortunate to catch me on the way to my Sunday morning service.”

  I turned to see a tall, thin man wearing a black suit and clerical collar walking down the garden steps to join us. He was of African American heritage with a brick-red complexion and a neatly trimmed afro and beard, both of which had once been a deep rusty color but now were liberally streaked with gray. Yet, even given the latter, he could have been anywhere from forty years of age to two decades older than that, as his face—at least, the part not hidden by whiskers—was remarkably wrinkle-free.

  He paused in front of me and with a gentle smile plucked a business card from his suit coat pocket. “You must be the new owner of this lovely home,” he said, handing the card to me. “I am the Reverend Doctor Thaddeus Bishop, pastor of the Heavenly Host Baptist Church here in Cymbeline. You may call me Dr. Bishop.”

  He extended a long, elegant hand in my direction—a hand that had recently seen the services of a manicurist. I cringed a little inwardly at the state of my own ragged cuticles. With my inn-keeping duties, it was hard to maintain perfect nails. I tucked the card into the pocket of my T-shirt and shook hands.

  “Nina Fleet, owner of Fleet House Bed and Breakfast,” I introduced myself, confused at his presence as he obviously wasn’t a doctor. Plus it had taken me a moment to realize that Bishop was his surname and not one of his honorifics. “Are you here to give Mr. Marsh last rites?”

  “Not exactly. In addition to my pastoral duties, I am also the county coroner.”

  “And that’s not his only side hustle,” Harry said from behind me. “The Rev is also the local funeral director. Kind of convenient, if you think about it.”

  The man’s gentle smile tightened almost imperceptibly as he caught sight of the actor.

  “Ah, Harold Westcott. It has been a while since our paths last crossed, but rest assured that I do not hold a grudge. May I offer my belated condolences on the passing of your great-aunt?”

  At Harry’s noncommittal nod, he added, “As for your attempt at levity under these sad circumstances, let us just say that I am called to attend the citizens of Cymbeline at all stages of their life journeys.”

  Turning to me, he went on, “Was the gentleman here alone, or was he accompanied by family or friends?”

  “Both. He’s here with his wife, and they are part of the Shakespeare troupe staying here for the festival next week.”

  “Ah, then we will want to question them about his recent health and habits.”

  “Uh, Dr. Bishop,” the lead EMT interrupted, “can you pronounce this, er, gentleman so we can load him up? I don’t think we should let him lie in the sun too long.”

  The pastor gave a regal nod, “A valid point. Excuse me, Ms. Fleet.”

  He sidestepped me and went over to where Len lay. He pulled a pair of blue latex gloves from his pocket and pulled them on, then knelt beside the dead man. He tilted Len’s head side to side—checking to see if he’d been coshed over the head, I assumed, something we’d neglected to do—then leaned forward for a closer look at the bloody scratches on his cheeks.

  “Was he found like this, on his back?”

  “Sort of,” Harry answered for us. Indicating the broken branches of the hawthorn he went on: “He was halfway lying in the hedges. Two of us pulled him out.”

  “I suppose that explains the injuries to his face. But you moved the body?”

  The mild tone turned slightly accusatory on that last, so I hurried to clarify. “We didn’t know Len was a “body” at that point. We thought he was still alive. One of the troupe tried giving him CPR.”

  The pastor sighed. “I see.”

  To Rodriguez, he went on, “I believe we can safely agree that this gentleman is deceased. I would also suggest that the circumstances of his passing are unexplained, given the fact he appears to have been in the prime of life. For that reason, I will call for an autopsy. Of course, it might have been your garden-variety heart attack or stroke, but we should also consider drugs, allergic reactions, even insect stings or snakebite.”

  That last suggestion had both me and Harry reflexively checking our feet as we took a few swift steps backward. Not that there weren’t poisonous snakes in Georgia, but I had yet to see a serpent of any stripe in my yard. Probably Mattie kept them at bay.

  Bees were another story, however, as they visited the garden regularly. They also found my single peach tree irresistible when it bloomed, their buzzing within the branches loud enough to hear halfway across the yard. But the local beekeeper, who had half-a-dozen hives set up on his second-story roofless balcony a few blocks from me, had assured me that bees were rarely the stinging risk that most non-beekeepers assumed. Unless, of course, someone was acutely allergic.

  Dr. Bishop, meanwhile, continued, “Let me take a few pictures first, and then you are free to remove the decedent.”

  While the Reverend stripped off his gloves and whipped out a recent model smartphone, I gestured Harry aside. I wanted to know why the local funeral director had gone all forensic on us.

  Or, at least, that’s what it looked like. For he was now bent over taking pictures of Len’s body from various angles. That done, he started in on views of the surrounding grounds while the EMT crew waited impatiently.

  Had he seen something that made him decide that more than a heart attack had happened here?

  “What’s with the photos?” I asked Harry sotto voce. “Shouldn’t the sheriff’s deputies be doing that? Or is that side hustle number three?”

  Not that I truly expected him to know.

  But to my surprise the actor whispered back: “In Georgia, part of the coroner’s duties is investigating any unexplained death. They make sure evidence gets collected, and they get to decide if they want the medical examiner to conduct an autopsy. And they don’t even have to be a doctor or a cop … they just have to be over twenty-five years old and have a clean criminal record to be elected. Ask me how I know this.”

  I hesitated, sure I’d regret asking but unable to suppress my curiosity. “Fine,” I whispered in return, “how do you know this?”

  “Because I worked at the Reverend’s funeral parlor part-time when I was in high school. He’s still ticked at me because he thinks I swiped his official Georgia coroner’s coffee mug.”

  Hence the grudge. Unless a teenaged Harry had done something worse, like p
ose dead bodies in rude positions or something. But before I could delve further into this unexpected glimpse of the actor’s past, another voice spoke up.

  “You conducting an investigation Dr. Bishop?”

  The question came from a stocky, uniformed woman about my age. Blond hair in a tight French braid and eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, she cut a stern figure as she stood at the hedgerow opening staring down at us.

  Sheriff Connie Lamb—also known as the law in these here parts, as they say in those old Western movies. Unfortunately, I’d had dealings with her within days of opening my B&B a couple of months earlier. While I’d admired her tough efficiency in handling a high-profile murder, I hadn’t been in any hurry to cross paths with her in a professional capacity again.

  Behind the sheriff stood a young, red-haired deputy wearing wire-rimmed sunglasses—Mullins was his name—whom I also recognized from that previous investigation. The pair gave me and Harry cursory nods, their attention fixed on the pastor for the moment.

  “Ah, Sheriff Lamb,” that man replied, halting his photography. “I was anticipating your arrival. Yes, I believe an investigation as well as an autopsy is called for.”

  Chapter Ten

  Dr. Bishop ran down the same laundry list of possible causes for Len’s unexpected passing as he’d mentioned to Rodriguez, adding, “I saw no signs of outward trauma other than the scratches, so chances are we will find nothing amiss. But I would prefer to be safe rather than sorry. Perhaps while I finish here you would like to question Ms. Fleet and the decedent’s family and friends about the circumstances?”

  “We’ll handle it, Reverend, and keep you in the loop.”

  “Excellent. As I told the crew earlier, I was on my way to my morning service when I got the call. If I hurry with the paperwork”—he paused for a glance at this watch—“I might still make it on time.”

  The sheriff nodded to Mullins, who hurried over to the pastor and listened as he and Rodriguez conferred over some forms the Reverend had pulled out. Sheriff Lamb, meanwhile, strode down the steps to where Harry and I waited.

  “Ms. Fleet,” she greeted me, whipping out a notepad and pen. “I wasn’t expecting to do this again with you.”

  “Me neither.”

  The sheriff was referring to the fact that, earlier this summer, I’d been first on the scene to find a man who lay dying in an alley on the town square. The subsequent police investigation had us crossing paths several times until what turned out to be a murder had been solved.

  But, just so I don’t hog the glory, Harry had been involved, too—originally because I’d thought he was the one sprawled behind a dumpster with a carving knife in his chest. And later, because Harry had been convinced he was the intended victim, not the murdered man.

  The sheriff glanced Harry’s way now, and the actor breezily greeted her. “Hi, Connie. Long time no speak.”

  I knew from before that the pair had gone to high school in Cymbeline together, which was why he apparently felt he could greet her with such familiarity. The sheriff, however, wasn’t having any of that.

  “Hello, Mr. Westcott. While I’m on the clock, it’s Sheriff Lamb,” she coolly reproved him. “Now I understand Ms. Fleet’s presence here, since this is her B&B. But why do you happen to be here as well?”

  “I’m the troupe director for the Georgia Amateur Shakespeare Players,” was his lofty reply. “We’re staying here while we finish rehearsals for the Shakespeare festival next weekend. Though things are a bit up in the air right now about that, as you might guess. Len”—he gestured toward the dead man—“was our Hamlet.”

  “Tough break,” she observed, scribbling a note. “Now, let’s go over everything that happened this morning leading up to finding the body, starting with the gentleman’s full name.”

  Between me and Harry, we gave the sheriff a rehash of what we’d told Dr. Bishop a few minutes earlier. Despite that odd flash of suspicion that had swept over me at the beginning, I had no real reason to think there was anything nefarious about Len’s death. Thus I refrained from mentioning that he wasn’t the most popular member of the troupe. You know, the old no speaking ill of the dead rule that had been drilled into most of us since childhood.

  Once we’d covered the high points, Lamb asked, “And did Mr. Marsh give any indication of feeling unwell at any time since he arrived here?”

  I shook my head. “Not that I recall. Though he did have a previous knee injury that was giving him trouble. In fact, I had to turn my parlor into a guest room for him, as he was having difficulty managing the stairs.”

  She frowned. “Do you happen to know if Mr. Marsh was taking any medication for the pain?”

  “I think Susie—that’s his wife—said something about pills. Right, Harry?”

  The actor nodded. “No clue what he was taking, but I’m sure Susie can show you any bottles.”

  “And Ms. Fleet, did you serve anything unusual for breakfast—something that could have caused an allergic reaction, like strawberries or peanut butter?”

  “It was all the usual breakfasts foods I always serve my guests. Quiches and breakfast burritos and pastries and so on. The only thing slightly unusual were the peach mimosas.”

  Then, when the sheriff gave me a quizzical look, I explained, “They’re basically the same thing as your garden-variety mimosa, except you substitute half the orange juice with peach juice before adding the champagne. Oh, and you drizzle a bit of grenadine on top.”

  By then, Dr. Bishop had finished up with the EMTs. The sheriff excused herself momentarily, and the pair exchanged a few private words while Harry and I pretended we were simply hanging out in the garden on a summer’s morning.

  Finally, with a regal wave in my direction—Harry, apparently, still being in the older man’s bad book despite the protestations about grudges—the Reverend took his leave. Then it was time for the paramedics to head out. While half of them collected their scattered gear, the remaining EMTs slid Len onto their lowered gurney. Raising it up again, they blanketed and strapped the man in for the journey to wherever it was in Cymbeline they kept decedents, to use Dr. Bishop’s favorite word,

  “I’m not sure why I’m so upset,” I admitted, dabbing my sleeve against my damp eyes while we watched the crew wheel Len away. “I mean, it’s awful that Len is dead, but it’s not like I knew him that well. I’d only met him yesterday.”

  “Hey, you’re human,” Lamb assured me, sounding pretty darned human herself at that moment. “Plus it’s a shock any time you stumble across a body, especially for a civilian. And no matter what the old-time cops might tell you, it never gets easier. Believe me, there’s nothing scarier than coming face-to-face with mortality, even if it isn’t your own.”

  Then, getting back to business, she closed her notebook.

  “I think I’ve got everything we need out here. If you don’t mind showing me inside, I want to chat with Mr. Marsh’s wife to find out what medications her husband was taking so I can pass on that info to the coroner to give to the ME. Unfortunately, we can’t release his body until after the autopsy is done. But from the look of things, chances are it was a pretty straightforward cardiac event. Hopefully we’ll have a cause of death determined pretty quickly.”

  As Deputy Mullins headed off to his own cruiser, I escorted the sheriff inside. Harry followed after. I could hear what I assumed were Susie’s faint wails drifting from the direction of the dining room. Either Marvin hadn’t found the cognac, or it hadn’t taken effect yet.

  We paused outside the closed dining-room door, and I turned to the sheriff. “Why don’t I go in first and warn her that you need to ask a few questions?”

  At her curt nod, I gave a quick rap at the door and then slipped inside.

  I found Susie slumped in her usual chair, still crying while pressing one of my mid-century tea towels against her mouth as a makeshift handkerchief. Marvin sat in the chair next to her, silently patting her free hand and looking distinctly uncomfortable.
A snifter of cognac a couple of fingers full sat untouched before her.

  I grimaced as I envisioned the elbow grease it would take to remove pink lipstick from vintage linen, but that wasn’t the issue at the moment. Gently, I said, “Susie, the sheriff is here. She needs to ask you a few questions about Len’s medications.”

  She made a snuffling sound that I took for assent, so I leaned back out the door and gestured Sheriff Lamb inside.

  I saw her give the skull a quizzical look, but all she said was: “My condolences, Mrs. Marsh. I know this is a terrible time, but I really need to ask you a couple of questions for the coroner. Are you up to that?”

  Susie nodded. Then, as Marvin rose to leave, she grabbed his hand and pulled him back into the chair. “No, wait,” she choked out. “Can’t Marvin stay with me?”

  The sheriff nodded her approval, so I left the three of them and rejoined Harry in the hallway. While earlier his expression had been mildly disconcerted, he now wore a look of calculation that, in my brief acquaintanceship with him, usually boded no good.

  I gave him a stern look of my own. “What are you planning?”

  “I’m planning on saving the day,” was his airy reply. “I’ve come up with the perfect solution to our Len dilemma. The show will go on.”

  “So what’s the brilliant solution?”

  “Let’s just say I know someone who knows Hamlet’s part intimately and has the looks and stage presence to pull it off.”

  Something told me that I knew just who this “someone” was. But since the B&B bill was already paid, it mattered naught to me, as the Bard might say, who took that role. My concern at this point was doing what I could to help the authorities make a swift determination as to why Len Marsh had died on my watch.

  “So, do you think Susie will want to stay here with the rest of you until they release Len’s … er, Len? Or does she maybe have some family who can come get her?”