by Cathy Tully
“It’s not only the watermelon seeds, Marcie,” Randy said with a frown.
Susannah shot a questioning look at Bitsy, who raised her eyebrows in confusion. Marcie sponsored the Watermelon-Eating Contest at the festival and gave out free slices of melon to practically everyone on the fairground. Susannah knew that running the contest brought Marcie a huge return on her money because she flooded the festival with coupons to the Wing Shack. Marcie had once confided to Susannah that buying a few watermelons was cheaper than running an ad in the local shopper.
“I simply don’t see how you can blame slip-and-fall accidents on the contest,” said Marcie. “Watermelons don’t injure people. If you ask me, we have to keep the wrong kind of people away from Peach Grove. You should give out tickets for littering with a hefty fine. Problem solved.” She swished her hands together as if washing the problem away.
Bitsy nudged Susannah with her knee. They both were aware of Marcie’s penchant for blaming all the ills of Peach Grove on out-of-towners: they drove recklessly, they were rude and inconsiderate, and worst of all, they bypassed the Wing Shack for fast food franchises.
“It’s not that simple, Marcie,” Randy said. “I need all my manpower during the festival to focus on other safety issues. I can’t spare any officers to follow watermelon eaters around, waiting for them to spit seeds or drop rinds on the walkways.” He paused to take a swallow of coffee and caught Susannah’s eye over the cup; he gave her a nod. Nothing derogatory there. Bitsy was right—she should just relax. Glancing around the dining room, Susannah saw that all eyes were front and center except for one person, who occupied the very spot where she and Anita had been standing moments earlier. It was the new detective. Her lean build conveyed a slight and unassuming appearance, but the heavy-lidded, downturned eyes gave her a viperous aspect.
Susannah looked away, pretending not to notice. Now there were two people in town who thought she was a bumbling idiot. Her empty stomach clenched. She glanced at Bitsy’s plate and wondered if Anita would take her order too.
As if on cue, Anita appeared with a plate in one hand and a coffeepot in the other. She winked at Susannah and placed an order of huevos rancheros on the table. “I heard you were hungry.” Susannah blushed and mouthed her thanks.
“Anyway, it’s a done deal,” Randy continued, an elbow on the podium. “The City of Peach Grove was sued twice last year over slip-and-fall accidents at the fair. The Watermelon-Eating Contest is canceled. Y’all can have some other kind of contest.”
“Ooh, I think we should choose peaches,” Bitsy cooed. “I think that makes more sense, don’t you?”
Marcie shot her a glance, her green eyes the color of a troubled ocean. “Whoever heard of a peach-eating contest?”
“We can make it peach pie, can’t we? I can see it now, y’all.” Bitsy bumped her way out of the semicircular booth, the fringe on her peach-colored shawl jouncing along with her. She raised her hands, spreading her fingers wide, framing an imaginary scene.
Susannah ate her eggs while watching Bitsy. One of the first people she had met when she moved to town, Bitsy was her polar opposite in virtually every way. Never at a loss for words, she approached life with an effervescence that Susannah was unable to muster but always enjoyed watching.
“We can build a stage and frame it with peach-colored bunting. With a banner that says Peach Pie-Eating Contest, decorated with pictures of peaches. And on the dais, big ol’ piles of peaches on display, all juicy and beautiful.”
The room was silent.
“Come on. Y’all know how much I love peaches. I have bolts of peach-themed fabric in storage. I’ll do all the decorating myself.” She folded her arms across her chest as if it had been settled.
Anita broke the silence. “But where will we get so many peach pies? It’s not like watermelons. Even the biggest gordo can hardly eat one full melon, right?”
Other voices joined the debate.
A bang erupted from the front of the room. Susannah glanced around as a second and then a third bang followed. Marcie was half off the barstool, banging one of her black high heels on the podium. Past her, Randy stood with his hands on his utility belt, his face as pink as it had been the day before, his eyes hard and gazing over Marcie’s head. Susannah turned and saw the detective shake her head and walk out of the restaurant. When she turned back, Randy had moved away from the podium, his color returning to normal.
Bitsy, one hand now on her hip, faced Marcie and asked, “You banged?” Bitsy was a free spirit, a big personality who dressed in bold colors. She wore her hair in short spiky dreads and her nails long and painted in the color of the minute. When she had an idea, she took up three times the space of an ordinary human, using her entire body for emphasis.
“This discussion is not on the agenda. We are here for the Preliminary Safety briefing,” Marcie said, pointing to her copy of the agenda.
“I’m spitballin’ here,” Bitsy said breathlessly. She despised the parliamentary procedures of motions and seconds, and she often clashed with Marcie over this. “You know, throwing out some new ideas.” She inhaled, ready to go for a second round.
“You know the procedure,” Marcie shot back, chin jutted defiantly. “You can raise a motion, and we can vote on it and put it on the agenda for the next meeting.”
Bitsy raised her hand and waved it to and fro like a human windshield wiper. Marcie ignored her while she bent down to replace her shoe and then looked up, an expression of surprise on her face as if she had expected Bitsy to vanish. “The chair recognizes Bitsy Long.”
“I motion we do a peach pie-eating contest.”
“Those in favor of placing the peach pie-eating contest on the agenda for discussion.”
Susannah eagerly raised her hand.
CHAPTER THREE
Susannah was stowing her boarding pass in her laptop bag when the phone rang. She frowned. No one called her landline anymore. She glanced at the caller ID and cussed.
The alarm company. Again.
“It can’t be!” she spat, lifting the receiver and verifying her security code with the representative. No way had she locked that cat in again; there had to be another explanation. She clearly remembered Larraine shoving the cat out the door. Had Tina let him in? Could I have missed him? she thought, and then froze.
Could an actual burglary be in progress?
She glanced at her watch. Nine forty-five. She had allotted thirty minutes for her drive to the airport and now regretted cutting it so close. Atlanta’s Hartsfield Airport was notoriously busy, and traffic was bad at any time of day. If she left now, she could make it, but if there was a break-in, she might never leave Peach Grove.
She scowled. Booking at the last minute had been a harebrained idea, brought about by an overwhelming desire to spend time with old friends. She gunned the engine of her Jeep, spewing pebbles out of her driveway and onto the lawn. Grasping her cell, she dialed Larraine, who answered immediately, saying, “I thought you would be on a plane by now.”
I wish I was, she thought. “I’m on my way to the airport, but the alarm company called.”
“Must be old Rusty.” Larraine laughed. “I knew that fat tomcat was going to set off the alarm by lying on the windowsill crying for kibble. He needs to go on a diet.”
“Mmm-hmm, not sure if we can blame Rusty this time.” The left rear tire veered into a rut, and it took all her strength to hold the wheel steady and not drop the phone. “I hoped you could do me a favor and go reset it.”
“I’d love to, sweet pea, but I’m in a church van halfway to Stone Mountain. We’re having a picnic and then watching the laser show.”
Susannah chuckled, imagining Larraine’s white coif reflecting the bursts of color during the popular light show. At least that made her smile. “That’s all right. Have a good time. I’ll see you when I get back.”
Dust swirled around her as she executed the quickest three-point turn in memory, cursing herself for not heading straight to
the office. She checked the dashboard clock. Three minutes had elapsed since she left the house. Would Randy be waiting for her when she arrived, one hand on his hip, the other on his radio, smirking? What did he like to say? “I see we’ve had another episode of the cat burglar.”
She jammed the gas pedal to the floor. She had to beat him there, check the building, reset the alarm, then hightail it to the airport before he showed up. If old Rusty was locked in the office overnight, so be it. She turned onto Highway 42 and sped into the front parking lot at the ten-minute mark.
The Jeep slid to a stop, front tires encroaching on the pathway to the main entrance. If Rusty had triggered the alarm, the premises divulged no signs of him. She rattled the doors, but they didn’t budge. The windows gleamed, undisturbed. The alarm tech had told her that alarms went off all the time for no reason, but in her office, Rusty was the obvious fall guy. She examined the windows again. They showed no telltale signs of feline tomfoolery.
Susannah rounded the building to check the north-facing side, jogging on the grass, eyeing the side of the structure.
Nothing.
Her watch showed twelve minutes gone, and she still had the rear of the building to inspect. She exhaled, almost spitting. So far, her luck had held. Perhaps the Peach Grove PD was occupied with an actual crime. Maybe a fistfight had broken out over a parking place at the local supermarket.
Now, to reset the alarm and skedaddle, as Larraine would say.
A flicker of orange caught her attention, and she turned. Rusty stood about twenty-five yards off, his tawny coat standing out against a shock of green grass that grew in a drainage ditch at the side of the road.
“Well, I’ll be,” she said. “There’s my troublemaker.” Hearing her voice, he raised his chin in her direction and flicked an ear. At the same time, she heard a thud behind her. Before her brain could process the sound, she felt a blinding pain, and all went black.
CHAPTER FOUR
Susannah’s head throbbed, and though she told her eyes to open, they refused to cooperate.
Ugh. I feel like I've been hit in the face with a frying pan. And not in a good way.
A voice called from a distance. She unscrunched her lids, but bluish light drove pain deeper into her neck, and nausea bubbled up her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut and flattened herself against her bed.
Why am I still in bed?
The voice called again, and she sat up. This time, a violent surge of nausea seized her, and she rolled over, narrowly avoiding vomiting on herself. She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and groaned. The vertigo was back. She wanted to scream and rail against the condition that had changed her life, but something was different. The spinning immobilized her. When it passed, she forced herself up, unsealing her eyelids one more time. This time it took.
She wasn’t in bed.
She recognized Keith Cawthorn, Tina’s husband, dressed in his police uniform. His six-foot-five frame loomed over her, his face devoid of the usual warmth in his copper complexion. A smaller woman wearing the dark blue of Peach Grove Fire and Emergency squinted while touching Susannah’s head with gloved hands, and then she handed Susannah a tissue. The pulsating lights of an ambulance and two police cars danced against the pines. “Keith? What’s going on?”
“I hoped you could tell me,” he said, his eyes assessing her in a way she had never seen. Behind him, the female detective with the snakelike eyes, dressed in cream-colored slacks and a white blouse, peered at her and listened impassively.
“I don’t understand,” said Susannah.
“What were you doing here?” Keith asked.
The alarm. She had wanted to beat the Peach Grove PD to the office so she could reset the alarm. Obviously, that had not gone to plan. Randy had sent Keith in his place. She eyed the detective, who now wore a sour smile, and froze. Something was amiss.
Susannah shook her head, and the spinning returned, forcing her thoughts away. Her hands rested on the cool grass. She was on the ground outside the building with a blinding headache. This wasn’t an attack of Ménière’s disease. She could hear, and there was no ringing in her ears, but there were flashing lights. She blinked. The blue light bars atop the police patrol cars were flanked by red ambulance lights. Officers in black windbreakers milled about the lot. An attendant removed a stretcher from the ambulance.
How did I get here? “I work here,” she said. It was true.
“The office is closed,” said Keith. “You’re supposed to be in Florida.”
“My flight,” she moaned, struggling to sit up. “I’m going to miss my flight. What time is it?”
The EMT placed her gloved hand on Susannah’s shoulder, keeping her from moving. Keith leaned in, frowning. “You need to let her finish checking you out.”
Susannah waved them away. Her head pounded, and she blew out a breath. The nausea was subsiding. She inhaled deeply and looked up at Keith. She saw concern in his eyes, but it was not enough to keep her on her back. Before she’d retired from the NYPD, she had gone through a lifetime’s worth of medical exams, which left her as ornery as an octogenarian with her own health. She knew she had the right to refuse care. “I’ll sign whatever you want, just let me get up.”
Keith squinted at her, offered his oversized mitt, and helped her up. The detective stepped up, squeezing between Susannah and Keith. “I’m sorry,” she said, lingering on each word, her reptilian smile giving Susannah a chill. “You can’t leave until you answer some questions.”
Susannah swallowed. Had Randy shared his opinion of Susannah with this woman? The nausea returned, and Susannah coached herself to aim for the detective’s shoes.
“I know you’re not feeling well, Doc,” Keith said, “but we need to know why you were here.”
Susannah touched her head, finding a knot the size of a lemon. “I got a call from the alarm company as I was leaving for the airport. I came over to check it out.” She looked at Keith curiously. “Then, I think someone hit me.”
Keith raised his eyebrows and then glanced at the detective.
“What’s all this about?” Susannah asked.
“Doc,” Keith asked, “were you planning on meeting anyone before your flight?”
“Here?” Susannah shook her head. Sparks flew down her neck. Don’t do that again. “Why would I meet someone here? I was on my way to the airport when I got the call.”
The detective moved closer, removing a business card from her jacket pocket. “Varina Withers.” She handed Susannah the card and tilted her head. “Maybe someone needed a quick prescription refill?”
Susannah drooped, exhausted, and squinted at Keith. “Do I have to tell her?”
“Tell me what?”
“Chiropractors don’t prescribe drugs. They give adjustments.”
A raspy chuckle escaped the detective’s lips. “And if the adjustment doesn’t work?”
Susannah rolled her eyes, and her head pounded out a new rhythm. Don’t do that, either.
Focusing on Detective Withers, she inhaled, ready to explain that chiropractic was a system of realigning joints that depended on the skill of the practitioner and not the use of prescriptions. But her thoughts were leaden, and her tongue felt thick.
“Or, maybe someone couldn’t get an adjustment because you were going out of town,” Detective Withers continued, her tone patronizing. “So you helped them out with a script.”
“We don’t prescribe drugs. It’s not in our scope of practice.”
The detective smirked, bobbing her head in acknowledgment. “So you’re not qualified to prescribe?”
Susannah’s throat tightened as she bit back rising anger and resentment. Who is she? And why is she such an ass? Her attitude makes Randy seem downright neighborly. Susannah had practiced in Peach Grove for over a decade and was a respected professional and active in the community. “Why am I being interrogated?” She turned to Keith. “I have to get to the airport.”
Detective Withers leaned in, and Susan
nah smelled peppermint on her breath. “Oh, you’ll know when I interrogate you.” She narrowed her eyes and walked away. Over her shoulder, she said to Keith, “You tell her.”
“Tell me what?”
“Doc, you aren't the only person we found lying on the ground. Anita Alvarez is in your parking lot, and she’s dead.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Susannah steadied herself. The bump on her head smarted as she watched Bitsy through Peachy Things’ glass door. She had spent the morning answering the detective’s questions. The shock of seeing Anita face down in the parking lot of Peach Grove Chiropractic was made worse by Detective Withers’s insinuation that Susannah had somehow been to blame. Shaky and nauseated, she couldn’t bear to eat anything and had skipped lunch in favor of a call on Bitsy.
The idea that she could have saved Anita if she had only gone to the back of the building first taunted her. That, mingled with an intermittent fear of arrest, spurred her desire to leave the office and find solace with her friend.
Susannah understood that she had stumbled upon the crime in progress, but somehow the police didn’t see it that way. The detective had even told her she shouldn’t leave town—as if she were their primary suspect. On the quick drive from her office, she recalled the raised voices she had overheard in the Cantina Caliente: Anita and Tomás quarreling in the kitchen. At the time, she had assumed it was a minor spat. Anita had laughed it off as “trouble in paradise.” More like a devil in your midst, she thought, then bit her lip. Could Tomás have been so angry with Anita that he had killed her? That was one possibility.
Through the window, Susannah spied Bitsy leaning over the checkout counter, a cell phone clamped to her ear and worry lines intensifying her frown. A peach-colored wrap adorned her shoulders, and the tasseled edges swayed as she tapped a fine-tipped marker on her lip. Bitsy had grown up in a rural part of the county on a small family farm. She had a large family and seemed to be friends with everyone who had ever attended her high school. Though she had left Georgia for the big city to pursue her dreams of becoming a fashion designer, when she returned to Peach Grove, it was as if she had never left.
