Peaches and Scream (Georgia Peach Mystery, A)

by Susan Furlong

  “The investigator again?” he asked.

  “Yup. He’s leaving town for a couple days, chasing a lead.” I detected a flash of some sort of emotion in Cade’s eye. Relief? It was hard to tell and I really didn’t want to put all that much thought into it anyway. I decided to change the topic. “So, what brings you into town?”

  “Lunch, actually.” We both turned our heads and glanced at the diner. I knew what was coming even before he asked, “Why don’t you join me?” He swept his hand toward the diner and added, “We never did get there yesterday and we still need to discuss your bill.”

  “Sure, why not?” I relented as we took off across the square for Red’s Diner.

  • • •

  The smell of hot meat and fried onions hit me as soon as we walked through the door. I surveyed the chalkboard inside the entrance. Today’s special: panfried chicken, corn pone, field peas and lemon chess pie. A quick glance around at once told me the panfried chicken was popular. All the guys at the bar were gnawing on bones and racking up piles of crumpled napkins.

  Ginny caught my eye and pointed us toward an empty booth in the back. We’d barely settled before she appeared and plunked two glasses of ice water in front of us. “Two specials?” she asked, turning the pages on her order pad and pulling a pen from behind her ear without even so much as a smile or a “hey y’all.”

  I hesitated, glancing over the menu.

  “Don’t bother with the menu,” she snapped. “Just get the special. It’s good. Look around. Everyone loves it.” As if on cue, one of the men at the bar turned, waved a half-chewed bone my way and shot me a thumbs-up. Ginny put one hand on her hip and shook her shoulders at me. “See what I mean?”

  I gulped. “Uh . . . okay, then. I’ll have the special.”

  “Make that two specials and two iced teas,” Cade added.

  As soon as Ginny turned away, I leaned in and whispered, “Wonder why she’s so cranky?”

  “Beats me. Probably nothing.” He shrugged and extracted a piece of folded paper from his back pocket and began scanning the columns of figures. Which just went to show how unobservant some men really were. Just watching Ginny as she maneuvered the diner, slopping coffee into cups and snatching up spent plates with a scowl, I could tell it wasn’t “nothing.” Something big was bothering her. I was double sure of it when she placed our order on the ticket spindle and spun it so hard I could feel the breeze halfway across the room. “I’ve tallied up the numbers for you,” Cade was saying. “You made out pretty well, actually.” He slid the paper across the table.

  My eyes popped at the final figure. It was much lower than expected. “Are you sure? This doesn’t seem like much.”

  “Most of the materials were scavenged from my leftover pile. I didn’t have to purchase much.”

  “Yes, but your time.”

  He pointed toward the lower portion of the paper. “If you’ll look at the bottom, you’ll see I accounted for my labor separately.”

  My eyes scanned past the figures to the bottom of the paper, where I saw the words “Peach Festival” spelled out. I rolled my eyes and giggled. “Cade McKenna, you are insufferable!”

  “That may be, but a deal’s a deal.” A slight upward turn of his lips hinted at the grin he was suppressing. But it soon faded when Ginny stomped back with our iced teas, slapping them down and turning on her heel without a word.

  “Still think it’s probably nothing?” I asked with raised brows as he mopped up the tea that’d sloshed over the table.

  “Maybe something is bothering her.”

  “Ya think?” I rolled my eyes and scanned the room for a possible reason for Ginny’s sour mood. A difficult customer? Overworked? I sipped at my tea and considered the possibilities. No, probably not anything work-related. Ginny had been waiting tables for years; she’d dealt with worse crowds than this with a smile on her face. It had to be something personal. Maybe a problem with one of their kids. Just having teenagers would be enough to send most people over the edge. Or problems with Sam? Naw. I’d never seen two people more suited for each other.

  “What are you thinking?” Cade asked.

  “I’m thinking I need to see what’s going on with Ginny,” I said, setting down my tea and excusing myself. Only I sat right back down when the door opened and Millicent walked in carrying a newspaper. She immediately homed in on the only open space—the booth right behind us.

  Oh great. Who else has the paper already? Then it struck me that maybe the article was the reason behind Ginny’s sudden shift in attitude? I glanced around nervously, wondering how quickly tongues would start wagging. I should probably call and warn Ida.

  My eyes wandered back to Millicent as she passed by our booth. I tossed her a little wave as she passed by, but she barely looked my way. While she wasn’t tuned in to her surroundings, her surroundings were definitely tuned in to her. Practically every head turned as she passed through the diner, her poured-on hot pink pants, fur-trimmed vest and metal-studded boots blazing a new trail in the Cays Mill fashion scene.

  “Get ahold of that outfit,” Cade commented, his eyes grazing her backside as she passed.

  “Shh . . .” I pressed my fingers to my lips and fought to control a sudden onset of the giggles. I raised up on my tippy toes, risked a quick peek in her direction and saw her running her finger across the text of the paper’s front-page article. Before I could glance to see Millicent’s reaction, Ginny returned and plunked our plates down before us, her malevolent aura covering the area like a wet blanket on flames and pulling my attention away from Millicent altogether.

  “Anything else?” she snarled, starting to turn away without waiting for a reply.

  I reached out and snatched her hand, pulling her back. “Ginny, what is it? What’s wrong?” Did she read the headlines already? Maybe she decided she’d rather not associate with one of Hollis’s family members?

  Her shoulders slumped. “What do you mean? Nothing’s wrong.”

  I pressed for an answer. “Oh, come on. Something’s going on. You’re not yourself today.”

  She rotated her head and glanced around the room. When she looked back I could see tears forming at the edges of her eyes. Her breath caught as she spoke. “You’re right. Something has happened, but . . .” She swiped the back of her hand across her cheek. “Now’s not a good time. I’ll fill you in later.” She offered a brave smile and headed over to take Millicent’s order.

  Cade immediately tore into his chicken, speaking between bites. “Wonder what that’s all about. Seems like everyone’s having their share of trouble lately.”

  “That’s for sure,” I agreed, feeling a bit better. It seemed her attitude had nothing to do with the newspaper headlines. Before I could even exhale with relief, however, my sense of solace was replaced with a sinking feeling. If not the article, then what? Ginny was one of the most upbeat, resilient people I knew. Something big must be happening for her to be so upset. And nothing could bring down my own mood faster than seeing a friend suffer. So, while the chicken was just the way I like it—tender-soaked in buttermilk and deep-fried in peanut oil until the perfectly seasoned skin crisped just right—I pushed it aside and opted for the immediate boost I knew the sugar-laden lemon chess pie would give.

  Cade looked up, a corn pone between his fingers. “Dessert first?”

  I filled my fork with a load of lemon filling and shrugged. “Why not? Life’s short, right?” Pausing, I closed my eyes and let the smooth, cheese-like filling set on my tongue, the smidgen of sweet tartness giving me a familiar happy feeling. This was what I’d missed most during my travels—the down-home comfort that only true southern cooking could bring, like an elixir for the troubled soul. Forgetting myself, I let a little moan escaped through my lips.

  “Good, huh?”

  I opened my eyes to see Cade grinning from ear to ear. I swallowed hard, a
hot blush stinging my cheeks. Luckily, Millicent’s cell phone trilled from the next booth, cutting the embarrassing moment short.

  “And why should I agree to meet with you?” she hissed over the phone. I strained to hear her side of the conversation over the constant din of clinking dishes and murmured conversation. “Oh yeah? What’s in it for me? . . . Fine. . . . Yeah, I know the place. . . . Eight? Why so late?” She heaved an impatient sigh, listening intently to the other side of the conversation. Whoever she was talking to must have been convincing, because she finally relented. “Fine. I’ll be there. But this better be good.”

  Cade and I exchanged a look, but with Millicent in earshot, we didn’t risk commenting. Instead, Cade steered the conversation back to the Peach Festival, and after much bantering back and forth, he agreed to meet me first thing Saturday morning in front of Hattie’s Boutique to help me get my booth set up. I, in turn, agreed to accompany him to the evening dance. As a long-standing tradition, the festival always concluded with a dance, held right out on the street in front of the stage—the same stage where the Peach Queen would be crowned and where our multitalented mayor, Wade Marshall, would be strumming along with his band, the Peach Pickers. I made a mental note to scrounge up my old cowboy boots and spend some time brushing up on my two-step.

  The rest of our lunchtime conversation passed by with several awkward moments. Not because of our looming date—yes, I was willing to call it a date—but because my own reeling thoughts about the murder distracted me from the conversation. While Cade went on about some of his latest ideas for expanding his construction business, I kept thinking about the recent fire at the lumber mill and its connection to Ben Wakefield’s murder. When he shifted the conversation to ask about things at the farm, I simply picked at my chicken and offered up a few short replies. Noticing my ambivalence, the poor guy even tried steering the conversation to more fun topics, like Hattie’s newfound relationship with Pete Sanchez, but then my mind wandered to Millicent and Ben’s marriage and whether or not their troubles might have contributed to his murder. Overhearing the suspicious snippets of Millicent’s phone conversation had turned my mind back to the case and piqued my curiosity. Was something big coming up? Something related to the case? I knew just how to find out.

  Chapter 16

  Georgia Belle Fact #054: A Southern gal can never have too many pairs of cowboy boots.

  “Tell me why we’re here again?” Hattie and I were crammed into the front seat of her fuel-efficient compact, the most recent issue of the Cays Mill Reporter and a box of MoonPies between us. “Isn’t this something your detective should be doing?”

  “I told you already, he’s out of town chasing down a suspect. And this is important. I overheard Millicent say she’s meeting with someone tonight and I need to know who.” We were parked in the shadows across the street from Millicent’s front door. I swatted at mosquitoes as I spoke. It was stifling hot outside, but Hattie’s car didn’t have enough gas to close the windows and run the air. The Wakefield mansion, as it was known around town, was located on prime property overlooking the Ocmulgee River. Well, prime, that was, if you discounted the fact the often swampy river bottom was a like a breeding ground for hungry mosquitoes.

  “And you based this on some phone conversation you overheard? Why, she could have been planning anything!” She unwrapped her second MoonPie and used the wrapper to shoo the bugs away. “What if we’re going to all this trouble just to find she was planning a surprise party for her mama or something?”

  “Believe me, this is no surprise party. It’s got something to do with Wakefield’s murder; I’m sure of it.”

  Hattie scrunched her face and pointed at the paper. “Speaking of the murder. Could Frances have been any more obvious? Where’d she come up with that picture anyway?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. She must have had to dig deep to find it. I swear, Hattie, this town has Hollis tried and convicted already.”

  She patted my hand. “It’ll all work out. It always does.”

  Spoken like a girl who’s seen her own share of trouble.

  She went on, changing the topic. “How are things at the farm?”

  She’d hit on the one bright spot of the day. “Pretty good. Joe got the tractor fixed. He’s going to start mowing the orchards tomorrow. Thought I’d head into the Mercantile tomorrow and order replacements for some of our irrigation lines. At this rate, things will be in tip-top shape by the time my parents return. And thanks to your wonderful brother, my bill for Joe Puckett’s roof came in lower than I expected.”

  The corners of her lips turned upward at the mention of Cade. I could swear I saw a conniving gleam in her eye. “What are you wearing to the festival?”

  My stomach flip-flopped. “I have no idea.” Actually, I hadn’t even given it a thought. My usual utility shorts and tank wouldn’t quite pass muster with the Peach Festival crowd. “I’d been planning to stop by and pick out some more clothes, but with everything going on . . .”

  “Don’t mention it. I’ve got something in the shop that would be perfect. Just come by a little early and we’ll get you fixed up.” She snatched up my hand. “But don’t count on me for fixing these nails. You’d better get over to the salon. You don’t want to be countin’ out bills with hands like these.”

  I frowned at my fingertips. She was right. My week-old manicure looked, well . . . a week old. Besides, ever since finding out about Millicent’s car being vandalized, I’d been wanting to talk to Laney Burns again. Call it silly, but it just seemed like too much of a coincidence that the vandalism occurred directly after Millicent dumped a casserole over Laney’s head. Knowing Laney, she wouldn’t take well to someone mussing her hairdo. It must take a lot of effort to get it teased to that height.

  “By the way,” Hattie continued. “How’s your sister holding up?” She pointed at the headline again. “All this can’t be easy on her.”

  I hadn’t been able to get ahold of Ida yet, but I could imagine the latest headlines, coupled with the damning photos, had sent her scurrying back to hermit status. A new sense of frustration enveloped me, as I thought about how stressed Ida looked last time we visited. All this couldn’t be good for the baby. I started to express my worries to Hattie, when I became distracted by the Wakefields’ garage door opening. A Mercedes-Benz, complete with custom-scratched pinstriping and a busted headlight, rolled down the drive. “There she is,” I said, motioning for Hattie to follow.

  “She’s really bookin’ it,” Hattie replied, pulling away from the curve and punching the accelerator.

  “Not too close. She’ll see us,” I warned, suddenly feeling like I was playing a part in a television detective show. “Wonder where she’s heading?” Instead of making the turn toward town, Millicent turned onto the road leading toward the freeway.

  “I don’t know, but we may have to bail on this mission if she goes too far. My gas gauge needle’s hit the red zone.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I assured her. “This is one of those fuel-efficiency models, right?”

  She mumbled something under her breath and made a sudden wild swerve. “Sorry; possum on the road,” she explained as I peeled my death grip off the dashboard and swallowed a couple times to clear my heart out of my throat. We continued following Millicent’s taillights for another couple miles until it dawned on me where we were heading—the Honky Tonk.

  “Well, hey! This evening may turn out okay after all,” Hattie surmised, after we’d watched Millicent disappear into the brightly lit roadhouse as we slowly cruised past her and found a parking spot.

  I turned stiffly in my seat and watched Hattie tear through her pocketbook, searching for something. She seemed overly enthusiastic, considering the circumstances. The Honky Tonk? Certainly she remembered all the unfortunate events that’d transpired over the years at the rowdy roadhouse. There was that time in high school when we tried to pass o
n fake IDs and the bouncer called the cops—guess it wasn’t too smart to use a Xeroxed copy of my mama’s driver’s license with my own picture transposed. The guy just couldn’t believe I wasn’t forty-two. Then there was the infamous wedding rehearsal party, when Handsy Hollis busted a move that would make every family get-together for decades seem unbearable. And . . . “You don’t really want to go in there, do you?”

  “What do you mean? Of course I do.”

  I shook my head. “Don’t you recall what happened last time?”

  She paused, one hand on the door handle, the other gripping a wad of one-dollar bills. She scrunched up her face. “No, I don’t. What happened?”

  I threw up my hands. “You ended up with a busted nose, that’s what. Don’t you remember? You were holding Bodacious’s reins with one hand, your beer with the other, and had just let loose with an ear-shattering rebel yell when you slid over the bull’s neck and ended up face-first in the sawdust?”

  She rubbed at the tiny bump on the bridge of her nose and shook the bills my way. “Well, I’m not planning on getting on that bull again. This is for beer. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about two-buck Tuesday? Besides, how we gonna know what Millicent is up to unless we venture inside? What better place than somewhere too crowded with people for her to notice us?”

  She had a point, so I reluctantly clambered out of the car and followed her across the lot. Once inside, I wasn’t sure what hit me first—the stale smell of beer and sweat or the ear-throbbing country lyrics booming from the jukebox. I practically had to yell to get Hattie to hear me. “Do you see where she went?”

  She shrugged and headed toward the bar, her wad of bills clenched firmly in her hand. I stood my ground, scanning the crowd until I finally caught sight of a familiar blond head. Bingo. Millicent was in one of the back booths, deep in conversation, only I couldn’t see who was sitting across from her. I moved toward the hall that led to the restrooms, where I hoped to get a better view and a little reprieve from the loud music.