I’d never thought of things quite that way. And the fact that Hawk did left me quite speechless. Maybe I’d misjudged him. Did he actually have a sensitive side buried under all that tight denim and leather? It made me wonder what might have happened all those years ago if I’d just told him about the—
“Why are you looking like that?” he asked.
I could feel my eyes widen. Mama always did say I should never play poker. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. You suddenly had an odd look on your face. Is there something going on with your family I should know about?”
I immediately cleared my expression. Mama was right. I was an open book. “No. Nothing at all.” The sound of crunching gravel interrupted us. I looked over Hawk’s shoulder, surprised to see Cade’s truck coming down the driveway.
“Looks like you’ve got company. I’ll catch up with you later.” He skipped down the steps. By the time Cade parked his truck, Hawk had already crossed to the magnolia tree and kick-started his bike. From inside the house, Roscoe let out a long, mournful bay.
Cade slowly walked my way, one eye on Hawk as he thundered down the drive. “Who was that?”
“The investigator Ray hired. Dane Hawkins. Calls himself Hawk. I would have introduced you, but as you can see, he’s not much on manners.”
Cade came up the steps and stood by me. “That’s the investigator?” He stared after the gravel dust left behind from Hawk’s bike. “He rides a motorcycle?”
I exhaled. “Yup. Guess he likes to stay inconspicuous.” I glanced at Cade, but he seemed to have missed my sarcasm.
Instead, he stared longingly down the drive, watching the last specks of dust dissipate from Hawk’s quick retreat. “I’ve always wanted one of those. Asked for a dirt bike for Christmas once.”
“Oh really? Didn’t you get it?”
“Heck no! Are you kidding? My folks thought it’d be too dangerous. Said I’d probably kill myself.” He hesitated for a second, obviously searching his memories. “That’s okay, though. They got me a really nice shotgun instead.”
I did a double take, chuckling at the irony of his statement, then realized he wasn’t joking. Of course, once I reconsidered what he was saying, it did make sense. Around these parts, most kids learned how to shoot right along with reading and writing. “It’s good to see you, but what brings you all the way out here?” I asked.
He held up his hand. “Hold on.” He jogged back to his truck and extracted a heavy box. “To bring these by,” he said, struggling to balance the box as he ascended the porch steps. “Your preserves. Get the door, will ya?”
I skipped ahead and held the door open. “My preserves?”
“Yeah. Went into the diner for some coffee first thing this morning and Ginny said you’d left them there. I knew I was going to be out this way, so thought I’d bring them by for you.”
I followed him through the house and to the kitchen where he slid the box onto the counter. “Well, that’s so sweet of you. Thank you, Cade.”
He turned back to me. “No problem. Hope they didn’t get too hot in my truck. I had to run a load of supplies to a new job I’m doing down the road.” He reached down and scratched between Roscoe’s ears. “Hello there, boy.”
I peered over the side of the box, a sense of pride welling inside me. Silly that I’d feel so happy about a few jars of preserves. “I’m sure they’re fine. Speaking of jobs, how much do I owe you for the roofing supplies?”
He tapped the back pocket of his jeans. “I’ve got the list right here, just haven’t had time to tally it up yet. I’m about starved, though, so what you say we head to the diner and discuss it there. I’ll buy.”
His proposition flung me into an immediate eternal debate. Was it really a good idea to go to lunch with Cade? Something had shifted with us since I returned: sly looks, little sparks, bated innuendos and even some heated emotions. Truth was, there’d been more than just a little innocent flirting going back and forth between us, but so far that was simply all it had been, just flirting. I sensed, however, that Cade wanted more to come of it. Was he thinking of this lunch as a date? And, if I said yes, would I be giving the impression that I was ready to take things to the next level?
He cleared his throat, bringing me back to focus. “Make up your mind, Nola.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m about starved, and the diner closes at four, remember?”
My rational voice kicked in, along with my growling stomach, and overpowered my doubts. Certainly, if we were going to discuss business, it really wasn’t a date. “Sure.” I shrugged. “Why not? But I’ll buy my own,” I added.
“Suit yourself,” he replied, a temporary flash of triumph showing in his eyes. He motioned for me to lead the way. “We’ll take my truck. I’ve got to head back this way anyway.”
Asking him to wait, I ran back inside to make sure Roscoe had enough food and water before heading out to the truck. Once again, I found myself removing a stack of papers from the passenger seat. “Is this your truck or your office?” I teased.
“A mess, isn’t it?” He pulled from our drive and onto the main road, one hand up on the dash keeping a clipboard of papers from sliding to the floor.
“You always were a slob.” I’d remembered visiting the McKennas’ house as a kid, always amazed at the contrast between Hattie’s ultra-organized room and Cade’s room, which usually looked like a tornado had just hit.
He laughed, his eyes sliding across the cab to me. “What can I say? Old habits die hard.”
“Yes, they do,” I agreed, gazing out the window. I was watching peach orchards and pecan groves roll by, paired together like siblings: the looming pecans, standing straight and tall, towering over the smaller, burgeoning peach trees, which, if not sharply pruned and restrained, would grow rampantly wild. Sort of like me and my own siblings. And it was pretty easy to guess which one of us would be considered the wild-growing peach tree. Especially if they knew about all the things I’d done that summer before leaving. “Joe got the pump up and running,” I commented, trying to keep my mind off the past and on more important, present-day matters. “He’s supposed to be working on the tractor this afternoon.”
“Your daddy will be happy about that.”
“Yup. I wonder if he’ll be happy about my plans for selling peach products.”
I kept my gaze averted, but I could feel Cade glancing my way as he spoke. “I’m sure he’s always proud of you, Nola. No matter what you’re doing. But don’t expect him to be enthusiastic about coming back to a new enterprise loaded onto him. He’s got his hands full, just trying to keep up with the farm. Like I was telling you before, I can’t see him adding an Internet business to the mix.”
He was sure right about that. My daddy wouldn’t take well to an Internet business. He still kept most of the farm’s records in an old ledger book. “You know,” I went on, “Margie Price over at the Sunny Side Up wants to buy our preserves for her guests. And Ginny said she’d carry them, too.” I continued to explain my thoughts for marketing locally. “I’m thinking there’s small towns all around here that have places like the diner where we could pitch our products. Really, if you think about it, Macon’s not all that far and there’s tons of opportunities up there.”
“I agree. Just don’t go getting your hopes up that your parents are going to be able to keep up with all that. Making the product is only the start. Then there’s the initial contacts to make and constant resupplying afterwards.”
We were passing by several white clapboard houses that bordered the edge of town. An old man sitting on a lawn chair under the branches of a shade tree raised his hand and tossed us a slow wave. Cade was right. I’d known all along that my parents wouldn’t—couldn’t—do what it took to get our farm back on firm financial grounds. What was it they said about teaching new tricks to . . . Well, perhaps that wasn’t the best saying for this particula
r situation. But I’d already realized there was only one way this would work: if I stayed on to see this thing through. It had been admitting it, and then committing to it, that was the hard part. “I thought I’d stay. See to it myself,” I blurted out.
“What?” Cade glanced over his shoulder and swerved to the side of the road. Hitting the brakes and throwing the truck into neutral, he turned in his seat and faced me. “Did you just say you’re staying in Cays Mill?”
The look on his face made me laugh. “Yup. That’s what I’m saying.”
He tipped his head back and let out a little whoop. “That’s great!” Then, calming a little, he turned back to his serious self. “But what about your job? And I thought you couldn’t stand it here. Too boring and backwards for you.”
I held up my hand, still laughing. “That’s not exactly what I said! It was your interpretation. And about my job . . .” I sighed. “Well, it’s a long story.” I pointed back to the road. “Let’s get to the diner and talk about it over lunch. I’ll tell you all about it, but I swear, I’m going to pass out if I don’t get something in my stomach soon.”
“Sure thing!” His head bobbed up and down as he maneuvered back onto the road. “Have you told Hattie? She’s going to be—” His voice was cut off by the sound of sirens screaming up behind us. Cursing, he swerved back to the side of the road again, making room for the sheriff’s car. “Holy crud! We almost got creamed!”
Taking a deep breath, I tried to quiet the squall of adrenaline from the near miss. “That looked like Travis,” I said, staring after the cruiser, which had already become just a white speck on the horizon. The sirens from the first vehicle had barely faded when we heard a second set coming from behind. The intensity of the wailing increased until finally another sheriff’s cruiser appeared and whizzed past us so quickly that the sides of the truck shook. “And that was the sheriff.”
“Both of them? Something big must be going on.” Checking over his shoulder, he wrenched the truck back onto the road and punched the accelerator. I grabbed the little handle above the door and braced myself as we sped after the cruisers.
“What could it be?” I asked, adjusting my seat belt, which had automatically cinched up on the first wild curb. Cade must have had a little NASCAR know-how buried in him, because he was keeping up well with the sheriff’s car.
He clenched the wheel and shook his head. “No way of telling.” We were headed away from town, toward the freeway.
Then I saw it. A black plume of smoke rising over the treetops. “Look!” I tapped my window. “It’s coming from the direction of the mill.”
My knees bounced nervously as he punched the gas and gained speed on a straight stretch of the road before whipping onto the mill turnoff. Then we slowed to navigate the twisty road leading uphill to the mill. As we grew nearer, the smoke grew thicker, and an acrid smell assaulted us.
“It must be bad,” I said, but I had no idea how much of an understatement that was. As we turned onto the service road leading directly to the mill, large flames came into sight. Their peaks lashed out at the blue sky like angry lizard tongues. “Oh no!”
We parked back a ways and walked closer on foot. As we neared, I saw the blinking red lights of a couple fire engines through the smoke as yellow-clad volunteer firemen scurried with hoses. It also became apparent that things weren’t as serious as we first thought. “It isn’t the mill buildings. Looks like it’s just a stockpile of wood on fire,” I commented, my eyes scanning the bigger buildings for any sign of flames. Off to the right of the main building, a large group of workers was gathered. A middle-aged man with a clipboard scurried about, jotting down notes as he talked to several of the employees. “I hope no one’s been hurt.”
Cade nodded, craning his neck around as more cars pulled into the clearing behind us. After a few minutes, people ventured out of their vehicles and gathered to watch the spectacle, some on top of their car hoods, lying back and watching the scene as if it was Friday night at the drive-in movie.
I spied Ginny and hurried over to her, Cade right behind me. “Ginny!” I gave her a quick hug. “Can you believe this?”
She frowned. “No. I left Sam to finish up while I came up to see what was happening.” She shook her head. “Thank heavens it isn’t the mill itself!”
I turned my gaze back to the scene, watching as the firemen kept their hoses steady against the flames. A smaller crew of men was busy hosing down adjacent stacks of wood in hopes of preventing the fire from spreading. Fortunately, it looked like the responders were starting to get things under control.
I thought back to what Ray had said earlier that morning about someone vandalizing Millicent Wakefield’s car. Could it be this fire was started on purpose, too? Did someone have it out for Wakefield Lumber? Of course, my mind instantly flashed to Floyd Reeves. Scanning the grounds again, I now paid more attention to faces in the crowd, searching for Floyd. He wasn’t there. Who I did see, though, was Millicent.
Excusing myself, I broke away from Ginny and Cade and pushed through the crowd until I reached Millicent. She was standing all alone, watching intently as the firemen worked.
“Millicent?” I said, approaching from behind. She turned and glanced my way, but didn’t bother to answer. Instead she tightened her lips, folded her arms across her chest and turned back to watch the fire.
“I’m so sorry, Millicent,” I persisted, coming up alongside her.
She shot me a cold look, but I continued. “You must be in shock. First Ben, then your car and now this . . .”
Her expression loosened a bit. “You heard about my car?”
“Yes, and I can’t believe someone did that to you.”
“Probably that crazy nail woman.”
I didn’t respond to that. Of course, Laney would be the first person that jumped to mind for her, and had been originally for me, too, but I knew the police suspected Hollis, so I thought it was best to just let the whole car vandalism issue drop.
Then the sound of applause arose from the crowd behind us, as the firemen successfully put out the last of the flames. She glanced back and scowled. “Sickos. Treating this like some sort of source of entertainment.”
I nodded toward a group of employees that had gathered outside the mill. Frances Simms was buzzing about asking questions and taking pictures. “At least it looks like no one was hurt.”
She brought both hands to her face and rubbed her cheeks. “That’s true. Thank goodness no one was injured. Still, this is a nightmare. Like you said, someone doing all these terrible things to me.”
I offered a sympathetic nod before her words fully sank in. I narrowed my eyes. Did she, too, think this mill fire might be deliberate? Or know it was?
I glanced back at the now-smoldering woodpile just in time to see one of the firemen poking at the ashes with a long-handled shovel. “Hey, Sheriff!” he called out, scooping something out of the ashes. “Take a look at this!” He raised the shovel in the air, revealing a burned-out metal gas can.
A gasp arose from the crowd, followed by the breakout of low murmuring. Frances Simms shot out of nowhere, camera clicking away. They all knew there was only one reason for a gas can to be in a woodpile—arson!
The exited buzz of the crowd died down momentarily until something else captured their attention. It was Maudy Payne, who’d been kicking at the ground around the burn site. Suddenly she bent down and picked up another item. “Well, I’ll be,” she declared, grasping it carefully with her handkerchief and raising it into the air for all to see, or perhaps for Frances to get a good shot for the next issue of the Cays Mill Reporter. “An empty Peach Jack bottle. Why, who might that belong to?”
Judging by the instantaneous bending of heads and excited whispering, the crowd thought they knew the answer to that question. By the looks of things, the rumor mill had just kicked into high gear. And, unfortunately, Hollis was goi
ng to be ground to pulp by its fiercely spinning axle.
Chapter 15
Georgia Belle Fact #004: Sisters are like two different flowers from the same garden. But Georgia Belle roots are always connected—try to uproot one and you’ll have the other to contend with, too.
“Tell me again how you plan to use Mama’s recipes to save our family farm?” Ida was sitting across from me at her kitchen table, Savannah and Charlotte flanking either side. We’d covered the table with an oilcloth and laid out every art medium possible: markers, crayons, colored pencils, even finger paints. The idea was to have the girls brainstorm a cute logo for Harper Farm’s new line of peach products.
Biting my lip, I fought hard to keep my patience with Ida. I’d already explained my plans to her a couple of times, but her mind seemed to be elsewhere. “I told you all about it, Ida. Weren’t you listening?”
She picked up a stack of scratch paper and began fanning herself. “Of course I was. I’m just a bit distracted, that’s all.” She glanced at the girls and drew in a deep breath, her eyes roaming over the tabletop. “Don’t you think this peach business thing is a whole lot of trouble to put yourself through for something that might not even work?”
My shoulders sank. “I was hoping you’d believe in me, that’s all. Maybe show some support.”
She stopped fanning and stared at me for a couple beats. “Why, of course I believe in you! You’re my sister, aren’t ya?”
I smiled. “Good. Because your girls are the next generation of Harpers, after all. Don’t you think it’s worth trying something, anything at all, to preserve their heritage?”
The girls’ heads popped up at the mention of their names. “Mama, what’s a heritage?” Savannah asked, her blue eyes wide with question.
Ida brushed a strand of hair out of her daughter’s eyes and tapped a finger on her freckled nose. “A heritage is like a big ol’ present your parents and grandparents work their whole life to give to you.”
Peaches and Scream (Georgia Peach Mystery, A) Page 18
