A Peach of a Murder

by Livia J. Washburn

  “Why, Miz Newsom,” Sam said with a grin, “if I didn’t know better, I’d say that was sort of a catty remark.”

  “Oh, no, Eve admits it. She’s very open about how she likes to have men wait on her.”

  “Yeah, come to think of it, she did say something about strong backs and weak minds … I guess I qualify.” Phyllis couldn’t help but laugh, and it felt good. After the past two weeks, with all the bad news they had contained, anything that brought a smile to her face was welcome.

  “I don’t think it’s a matter of a weak mind,” she said. “More like a good heart.”

  Sam shrugged. “I try.” He changed the subject by saying, “So, what’s the plan for tomorrow?”

  “Well, the cooking contest judging isn’t until two o’clock in the afternoon, so I’ll wait until in the morning to fix the

  cobbler I’ll be entering. I’ll probably go downtown with Mattie and Eve for a while when the festival opens, then come back here and get everything ready.”

  “I hear there’s music at these things.”

  “Oh, yes, it goes on all day, and then there’s a street dance in the evening.”

  “You ever go to the dance?” Sam asked.

  There was a look on his face that seemed vaguely familiar to Phyllis, and after a second she was able to place it. She had seen it on the faces of countless adolescent boys who had finally worked up the courage to dare all the unutterable terrors of the universe and ask some girl on a date.

  She shook her head and said, “No, I don’t dance. I’m a Baptist, after all.”

  “So am I, but I thought it was all right now for Baptists . to do a little boot-scootin’ “

  “No, I don’t think so.” She was a little annoyed with him but tried not to show it. Why had he picked a time like this, when her mind was already packed with worry over the contest, to broach such a subject? I swear, she thought, if men didn’t have bad timing, they wouldn’t have any timing at all.

  “Well, maybe I’ll just listen to the music,” he said. His face, rugged and grizzled with years, bore the same sort of crestfallen expression those adolescent boys exhibited when the objects of their desires explained that they were already dating high school boys-with cars. “I don’t figure even W. A. Criswell could find anything wrong with that, if he was still around.”

  Phyllis threw him a bone by saying, “Yes, it might be nice to listen to some of the music.” He brightened up at that. She added, “And I know Eve would be happy to dance with you.”

  “Yeah, I expect she would.” He started drifting toward the doorway. “You let me know if there’s anything I can do to help you.”

  “Don’t worry, I will.”

  Sam nodded and left the kitchen. Phyllis turned back toward the counter and resumed her study of the ingredients. What had just happened here was at most a minor problem, and she soon put it out of her mind completely. There were much more important things to think about.

  She had a contest to win.

  The big day was here at last. Phyllis got up early, having slept surprisingly well the night before. She had expected to be nervous and restless, but instead she just felt confident. She didn’t know if that was a good sign or not.

  Since she was already up, she got started fixing breakfast for everyone, getting the coffee perking and the pancakes and bacon cooking. Mattie and Eve and Sam came into the kitchen one by one, drawn by the delicious aromas. Phyllis poured the coffee and served the food. The air had a festive atmosphere to it, like this was a holiday. In a way, it was. It was certainly one of the biggest days of the year in Weatherford and Parker County.

  As one of the exhibitors, Mattie would be allowed into the fenced-off downtown square early, along with anyone who came to help her set up. After breakfast, Sam loaded the three big cardboard boxes containing the quilts Mattie had made into the back of his pickup. Mattie and Eve got into Phyllis’s car, and she said to Sam, “Just follow me on downtown.”

  He nodded. “Will do.”

  Even though it was early, the parking spaces, along the streets that were still open, were already filling up as they approached the square. Later in the day, things would be so crowded that people would have to park in the lots at the junior college and take a shuttle bus downtown. Now, though, Phyllis was able to find a couple of places on a side street two blocks away. Sam pulled his pickup in behind her Lincoln.

  “Will this be too far for you to carry those quilts?” she asked as they all got out.

  “Nope,” he said. “Strong back, remember?” Stacking the boxes on top of each other, he lifted them out of the pickup with a slight grunt of effort. “Somebody else may have to navigate, though, since I can hardly see over these boxes”

  “I’ll be glad to help you find your way, Sam,” Eve said quickly. She stepped up beside him and took his arm. “Just come this way.”

  The sidewalks were already getting crowded, too. Phyllis went first, to clear a path, and Mattie brought up the rear. Portable fencing had been brought in and set up, and brightly painted ticket booths sat at all the entrances to the festival area. A man at one of the gates saw them coming and opened it for them, ushering them in. “Good mornin.” “good mornin’, Miss Phyllis,” he boomed heartily. “And Miss Eve, lookin’ as pretty as ever. And Mattie, I swear, you’re just as pert and spry as you were sixty years ago.”

  “Well, why wouldn’t I be?” Mattie shot back crisply. “You’re as old as I am, Donnie Boatwright, and you’re here workin’ this festival.”

  “Where else would I be?” Boatwright spread his arms to encompass all the growing hubbub around them. “I’ve been comin’ to the peach festival my whole life!”

  Donnie Boatwright was more than a local character in Weatherford. He was a local legend. As a businessman, he had made small fortunes in several different enterprises, as varied as a funeral home and a drive-in theater. As a politician, he had served lengthy terms on the city council and as the mayor. As a civic leader, he had been the president of the Lions Club and the Rotary and had held seats on various boards and commissions. He’d been on the school board and headed up the Chamber of Commerce. Now retired, he poured most of his considerable energy into the peach festival-and more importantly to Phyllis, Donnie Boatwright was the head of the judging committee that would select the winner of the cooking contest.

  Like Mattie, whom he had dated briefly many, many years earlier, Phyllis recalled, Donnie was a firm believer in keeping busy to ward off advancing age. He had to be well over eighty, but he was still a big, vital man with thinning, snow-white hair worn rather long and sweeping white mustaches that had been his trademark for years. He looked past Mattie at Sam and said, “I don’t believe I know you, son.” “He’s with me,” Mattie said.

  “I can see that. Those your quilts in those boxes, Mattie?” “That’s right”

  Donnie leveled an arm. “The Quiltin’ Society’s booth is right over there.”

  As the four of them walked past, Sam nodded to Donnie and said, “I’m Sam Fletcher, sir. I’d shake hands, but mine are sort of full right now.”

  Donnie laughed. “Come on by and say hello later, Sam. I’m glad to meet you.”

  “Likewise, and I’ll do that.” Guided by Eve, Sam walked on across the square, past the towering limestone courthouse that was built in 1886, when Weatherford was still a wild frontier town.

  They came to an area set up with folding chairs and large, easel-like frames over which the quilts would be draped for display. Some of the ladies from the Quilting Society sold their work at the festival, while others just put it up for people to look at and admire. Mattie fell into the latter category. Phyllis happened to know that most of the quilts Mattie made wound up being donated to local charities, which provided them to underprivileged families in the area. That was just one more way Mattie tried to serve the community where she had spent her entire life.

  In what Phyllis regarded as an admirable display of patience and tolerance, Sam let Eve and Ma
ttie boss him around as he unloaded the quilts and arranged them on the display stands to the women’s satisfaction. When that was done, he tucked the boxes. safely in a corner so that they could be used to carry the quilts back to Phyllis’s house when the festival was over.

  Mattie took a seat in one of the folding chairs. Big beach umbrellas had been set up over the chairs to provide some shade, an absolutely necessity on a sunny July day in Texas. Even under the umbrellas, it would be plenty hot before the day was over.

  “I’ll stay here with Mattie,” Eve said. “I know you have to get back home and get started on your secret project, Phyllis’”

  With a nod, Phyllis said, “I’ll see you later.”

  Sam started to leave, too, but Eve latched on to his arm again. “Why don’t you stay a while and keep us company, Sam, dear? This is the best spot on the square. You can sit right here and see the whole panoply of humanity go past.”

  “If I didn’t already know you were an English teacher, that vocabulary’d give it away,” Sam said with a smile. That brought a laugh from Eve. “Yes, I know all sorts of words. And all sorts of things.”

  Sam glanced at Phyllis and raised his eyebrows, but she just shook her head. He should have made his escape while he had the chance.

  As for Phyllis, she had work to do. It was time to cook. Time to, as the kids said, take names and kick … well, she supposed she wasn’t going to kick anything.

  But there was a peach cobbler waiting to be baked, and a blue ribbon to be won.

  Chapter 12

  If Phyllis hadn’t known someone who lived just a few blocks from the square, she would have had to park at the junior college and take the shuttle when she returned to the festival right after lunch. As it was, she was able to leave the Lincoln in her friend’s driveway and walk the rest of the way downtown, carrying the dish that contained her cobbler. The dish was still warm, but not too hot to handle.

  The preparation and cooking had gone off without a hitch. She had practiced so much, both in reality and going over everything in her mind, that by now she knew the recipe by heart, and her movements as she put the cobbler together were like the muscle memory of a highly trained athlete. Her confidence was still high, too. She had a good feeling about the way this day was going to turn out.

  Several long tables were set up on the courthouse lawn, just east of the imposing edifice. Red-white-and-blue striped awnings on metal posts shaded them. Numbers were taped onto the front of the tables, marking off the spots for each contestant. Those numbers corresponded to the entry forms that had been turned in earlier to the contest coordinator, who was also the head judge, Donnie Boatwright.

  In addition to the cobbler, Phyllis carried a cardboard stand-up with her name printed on it, and a stack of recipe sheets she had done on the computer. It wasn’t a requirement of the contest that the entrants had to provide their recipes to the public, but most of them usually did, including Phyllis. She would set the sheets next to the cobbler, and anybody who wanted one could pick it up.

  She didn’t see Donnie as she approached the square, but the clip-on badge she wore identifying her as one of the participants in the contest got her past the man at the gate where she entered. She circled the courthouse to get to the area where the tables were set up.

  Not surprisingly, the first person she saw there was Carolyn, who already had her entry sitting on the table in front of her. Phyllis tried not to stare as she walked past, but curiosity compelled her to check out what Carolyn had prepared for the contest. It was some sort of cheesecake/pie with a white cream covering the fruit layer, and a graham cracker crust. Carolyn had also put a few decorative slices of peaches on top. The cake/pie sat enticingly in a pie plate layered in another plate filled with crushed ice, and covered by a clear plastic cover that kept bugs off it but still let it be seen.

  Carolyn had brought a sign, too, a fancier one than Phyllis’s, with her name on it and the name of her creation: PEACHES-AND-CREAM CHEESECAKE. She didn’t have a stack of recipe sheets, though, since she tended to be a little territorial about such things. Phyllis had to admit that the dessert looked awfully good.

  “What have you got there?” Carolyn asked as Phyllis walked past.

  Phyllis didn’t hesitate in answering, since it was much too late for secrecy to make any difference now. “Peach cobbler,” she said.

  Carolyn smiled. “Peach cobbler,” she repeated. “Well, it’s hard to go wrong with the old standbys,” she added in a condescending tone.

  Phyllis smiled, too, and went on, “Spicy peach cobbler, with candied ginger.”

  That made Carolyn’s superior expression waver a bit.

  “Spicy peach cobbler with ginger,” she repeated. “Mat sounds interesting.”

  “And delicious,” Phyllis said.

  “Well …” Carolyn sniffed a little. “That will be up to the judges, I suppose.”

  Phyllis didn’t make any retort to that comment, but instead walked along the tables until she came to the spot assigned to her. She went behind the table and set her cobbler down. She had a clear lid on the dish, and while she had to admit that her entry wasn’t as visually appealing as Carolyn’s, the true test was in the taste. That was what would win or lose this contest.

  The toe-tapping sound of bluegrass music came from the bandstand set up on the other side of the courthouse. The air was also filled with voices, as people thronged around the square. The festival spilled over into some of the side streets as well. There were face-painting booths and games for the kids; dozens of arts and crafts displays, including the one set up by Mattie and the other members of the Quilting Society; and an almost endless array of food vendors, many of them featuring peach ice cream and peach smoothies in addition to corn dogs, chili dogs, pretzels, barbecue sandwiches, popcorn, giant dill pickles, cotton candy, and funnel cakes. Several radio stations were doing remote broadcasts, and a TV satellite uplink truck was parked near the square, so that a features reporter could do a live report. The peach festival was a human interest extravaganza and had a little something for just about everybody.

  Phyllis stood there and took it all in. Later, after the judging, she would wander around and get a better look at all the displays, as she usually did. For the moment, though, most of her attention was focused right here on these tables. Trying not to be too obvious about it, she stole glances at the other entries.

  As usual, there were several peach pies, and she hoped none of the other cooks had hit upon the idea of adding ginger to their recipes. One contestant had an ice chest under the table, and the sign at her spot announced that her entry was a peach icebox pie. She would keep it on ice until the actual judging took place. There was also a peach pizza, and some other dishes that Phyllis couldn’t identify. They didn’t look any too appetizing, but it was hard to tell how something would taste just by looking at it.

  She spotted Sam Fletcher making his way through the crowd, coming in her general direction. When he saw her, he grinned and raised a hand in greeting. It took him a few minutes after that before he finally reached the contest area.

  He came to Carolyn first and said to her with a smile, “Afternoon, Miz Wilbarger. My, that is one fine-lookin’ dessert.”

  Sam was a smart man, Phyllis thought. He knew how proud Carolyn was of her cooking. Most of his other overtures toward friendliness had been met with indifferent or even chilly receptions by Carolyn, but this time she returned his smile and said, “Thank you, Mr. Fletcher. Perhaps you’ll come back by for a taste-after the judging, of course.”

  “Of course,” Sam said with a nod. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  He moved on down the line of tables, stopping here and there to comment on one of the entries. When he reached Phyllis, she said, “Are you really going to eat some of Carolyn’s cheesecake?”

  He glanced around as if to see whether or not Carolyn was watching. She was engaged in conversation with some other festivalgoers, though. In a voice loud enough for Phyllis t
o hear but quiet enough to be lost quickly in the hubbub of the crowd, he said, “I don’t know. It looks good, but to tell you the truth, Phyllis, I’m so blasted stuffed already I don’t know if I’ll be able to eat again for a week.”

  “I take it you’ve been sampling all the food around the square?”

  Sam rubbed his stomach and groaned. “I never could

  resist chili dogs and homemade ice cream. Not to mention cotton candy and pretzels and …” He stopped and shook his head. “Lord, it’s making me more full just to talk about it.”

  Phyllis laughed. “I suppose you won’t be wanting any of my peach cobbler, then.”

  “Oh, after that dish of it I had before, I want it. I just don’t know if I can handle it. But we’ll see. I have amazin’ recuperative powers.”

  She just smiled and shook her head. After a moment, she asked, “How’s Mattie? Have you seen her lately?”