A Peach of a Murder

by Livia J. Washburn

  “Yeah, she said she’d be over here to wish you luck before the judging starts. She seems to be having the time of her life showing everybody her quilts.”

  “I’m a little surprised you don’t have Eve hanging on your arm,” Phyllis said.

  “I think she’s workin’ the crowd.”

  Phyllis raised her eyebrows. “Mr. Fletcher”’

  Instantly, a flush spread over Sam’s face. “I mean, she’s fillin’ up her dance card for the street dance tonight,” he said hastily in his embarrassment. “I’ve already promised her a few dances myself.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find it enjoyable. Eve’s quite a dancer … despite being a Baptist.”

  They chatted for a few more minutes and then Sam moved on, saying that he wanted to see all there was to see at the peach festival. Phyllis glanced at her watch. It was a little less than half an hour until the judging was to begin.

  She heard Donnie Boatwright’s booming voice and looked around to see him working his way along the tables, speaking to all the contestants and looking at their entries. Visual presentation wasn’t an official part of the contest, but a good-looking dish just somehow seemed to taste better, Phyllis knew. She thought her peach cobbler was quite attractive, for a cobbler.

  “There’s Donnie, the center of attention as usual.”

  The voice made Phyllis look around. She saw that Mattie

  had come up and was standing there, hands on her hips, half glaring at Donnie Boatwright as he approached.

  “I thought you and Donnie were old friends,” Phyllis said.

  “Oh, we are,” Mattie said, “but that doesn’t mean he’s not loud and obnoxious sometimes.”

  “Well, I guess that’s true of everyone.”

  Mattie snorted. “True of Donnie Boatwright, that’s for sure.”

  Donnie carried a large bottle of water. All the judges did, because they took a drink or two between tasting each entry. Clearing the palate, Donnie called it, like he was at some fancy wine-tasting or something instead of a cooking contest. When he came to Phyllis’s place, he set the bottle down on the table next to the cobbler and said, “What have we here?”

  “Spicy peach cobbler,” she said proudly. “With candied ginger.” She patted the stack of printed recipes. “Here’s how you make it.”

  “Oh, I don’t need one of those,” he said with a laugh. “I’m an expert at tastin’ things, not cookin’ ‘em.” He turned to Mattie. “I saw your quilts a while ago, Mattie. They’re beautiful, as always.”

  “Thank you, Donnie,” she said.

  “But not as beautiful as you, of course.”

  Mattie crossed her arms and said, “You hush up your flattery, Donnie Boatwright. It doesn’t mean a thing to me.” “Feisty as ever,” he said with a chuckle. To Phyllis, he added, “I’ll be back with the other judges later.”

  “You won’t be disappointed,” she promised.

  Donnie moved on to chat with the other contestants, and several minutes later Phyllis noticed that he had gone off and forgotten his water bottle. She picked it up from the table and called his name. When he turned to look at her, she held up the bottle so he could see it.

  Chuckling, he came over to retrieve it. “Thank you,

  Phyllis,” he said. “It’s like the old saying: I’d forget my head if it wasn’t fastened on.”

  A few more minutes passed, and Phyllis caught herself tapping her toe restlessly. Time was short now; soon the judging would begin. The confidence and anticipation she had felt earlier evaporated like spilled water in the hot Texas sun and was replaced by worry. She couldn’t help but look at her common cobbler and compare it to Carolyn’s beautiful peaches-and-cream cheesecake. Why hadn’t she come up with something better? Carolyn was going to beat her again, and even though they were friends, that wouldn’t stop Carolyn from gloating over her victory all year, until the next summer and the next peach festival rolled around again, and then it would happen all over again and Carolyn would win….

  Phyllis drew in a sharp breath and told herself to stop it. This was just a silly little cooking contest. It didn’t matter a hill of beans who won it. Probably in a year’s time no one would even remember who won this year.

  No one except Carolyn. And Phyllis, who knew somehow that no matter what the outcome, she would never forget how this year’s cooking contest at the Parker County Peach Festival ended.

  Chapter 13

  Mike and Sarah Newsom walked slowly around the square, Mike holding his son, Bobby’s, right hand, Sarah holding Bobby’s left. The little boy could walk with somebody holding his hand, but he was being stubborn about taking that first step on his own. Of course, in the middle of a crowd like this, Mike and Sarah didn’t want him even trying. They held on tightly to him. Mike had been carrying Bobby earlier, but the boy had wanted down, and kicked his legs until Mike lowered him to the ground.

  “I don’t know where he gets that stubborn streak,” Mike said.

  Sarah laughed. “I do.”

  “Hey! What do you mean by that?” The grin on Mike’s face showed that he didn’t take any real offense at the comment.

  “Let’s get a smoothie at that booth over there,” Sarah said, instead of answering the question.

  “I think I’ll get a frozen lemonade and share it with Bobby.”

  “He won’t want it. It’ll be too sour. But I can give him some of my smoothie.”

  “Okay.” The crowd was getting thicker, so Mike leaned down and got hold of his son under the arms. “C’ mon, hoss,” he said as he picked up the boy. “Don’t want you getting trampled in this sea of humanity.”

  Bobby didn’t fuss this time about being carried. He had walked enough, so that he was probably tired.

  Mike and Sarah bought a frozen lemonade and a peach smoothie and went in search of a relatively quiet place to enjoy them. That wasn’t going to be too easy to find in Weatherford’s town square on this particular day. Sarah suggested, “Let’s go around on the other side of the courthouse where they’re having the cooking contest. It’ll probably be a little more peaceful over there.”

  “Good idea,” Mike agreed. “We can give my mom some moral support, too. The judging ought to be starting soon.” “You think she’ll win this year?” Sarah asked.

  “I hope so. I think the contest means more to her than she’ll admit, especially since it seems like Miz Wilbarger nearly always wins.”

  As they made their way across the courthouse lawn and around the big limestone building, Mike spotted Darryl Bishop and his son, Justin, getting some popcorn at one of the booths. Justin looked like he was enjoying himself, but Darryl wore his usual hangdog expression. He just had the look of somebody who had been beaten down by life until he didn’t want to fight it anymore.

  Over the past couple of weeks, Mike’s investigation of Newt Bishop’s death hadn’t turned up any new information that amounted to anything. He had talked to quite a few people who had known both Newt and Darryl, and while the consensus was that father and son had never been close, nobody knew of anything that might have driven Darryl to murder, either. Of course, Mike had been careful not to come right out and tell people that Darryl was a suspect, but some of the folks he had questioned had probably gotten that idea, anyway.

  Nor had he found any fingers of guilt pointing toward Alfred Landers. As had been the case with Newt Bishop, the real estate man wasn’t particularly well liked, but lots of people were acquainted with him, and none of them had anything really bad to say about him. Mike had checked all the records and found that Landers had never been in trouble with the law. Not only that, but he didn’t have a history of suing people, or being sued. The legal tussle with Newt Bishop was the only litigation in which Landers had been involved. He was hardly your typical murderer.

  But there was really no such thing as a typical murderer, Mike reminded himself. Anybody, no matter how spotless his background or sterling his reputation, could snap and lash out under the right circumst
ances. Anybody could have gotten angry enough to knock that jack out from under the bumper of Newt’s Cadillac. It was just that most folks, when they saw what they had done, would have been horrified and tried to help the man pinned under the car.

  To do such a thing and then walk away from it … that required cold blood, rather than hot.

  Mike pushed those thoughts out of his mind. He was at a festival where hundreds of people were having a great time, he had his son in his arms and his pretty wife at his side, and this just wasn’t the time or the place for dwelling on morbid things like murder. He had come to the peach festival to have fun. It was just pure chance that he had seen Darryl and Justin and started thinking about the Bishop case.

  They walked behind the tables where the cooking contest entries were set up. Phyllis saw them coming and smiled. “Let me see that grandbaby,” she said eagerly as she held out her hands. Mike gave Bobby to her and she snuggled the boy against her. “Hello, Bobby. Can you say Grandma? Grandma?”

  Bobby just gurgled.

  “He’s not saying much of anything yet,” Mike said. “And he still hasn’t taken that first step on his own, either.”

  “It’ll come, don’t you worry,” Phyllis said.

  Sarah asked, “Wasn’t the contest supposed to start before now?”

  A worried expression appeared on Phyllis’s face. “Ten

  minutes ago, in fact,” she said. “I don’t know what the holdup is, but I wish they’d go ahead and get on with it. I don’t like this waiting. It’s too hard on my nerves.”

  “There’s nothing to be worried about, Mom,” Mike told her. “You’re a lock to win this year.”

  “I wish I felt as sure of that as you do.” Phyllis looked along the row of tables and stiffened. “Here they come now. The judges, I mean.”

  “I’ll take Bobby,” Sarah said. She lifted him out of Phyllis’s arms.

  Mike leaned over and kissed his mother on the cheek. “Good luck, Mom.”

  “I’ll need it,” he heard her mutter.

  There were four judges. Donnie Boatwright, of course; Marcia Hannigan, a home economics teacher at the high school; Bud Winfield, the publisher of the local newspaper; and Harley Sewell, a disc jockey from one of the radio stations, who had been playing oldies since those particular records were brand-new. Phyllis knew all the judges, although none of them that Well, and she watched as they moved along the line of tables, stopping to eat a small sample of each contestant’s entry. They made notes, conferred with each other, drank some water, and went on to the next contestant.

  Phyllis knew from experience that once they had tasted all of the entries, they might go ahead and declare a winner then and there, or they might go back and taste a few of the dishes a second time if they were having trouble reaching a decision. She hoped they wouldn’t draw out the torture for too long.

  Her heart sank a little when the judges lingered over Carolyn’s peaches-and-cream cheesecake. Bud Winfield even exclaimed how good it was, and the others nodded. The smile on Carolyn’s face was huge. She glanced along the tables toward Phyllis, and Phyllis thought she saw the gleam of triumph in Carolyn’s eyes.

  It’s not over yet, Phyllis told herself grimly. There was still her peach cobbler to be eaten, along with peach strudel, peach preserves, peach fritters, peach salsa, and all the other entries that hadn’t been sampled so far.

  Donnie Boatwright took a big swallow of water from his bottle and moved on, the other judges following him. He paused to pull a handkerchief from his pocket and mop sweat off his high forehead. He downed another long drink of water.

  “Well, well, what have we here?” he said as he paused in front of the next contestant. His voice was as loud and hearty as ever, but Phyllis thought she heard a slight note of strain in it. Maybe the heat was getting to Donnie, or his stomach wasn’t reacting well to all the different peach dishes he was eating. She hoped he wouldn’t get sick before he had finished judging the contest.

  At last Donnie and the other judges arrived at Phyllis’s spot. Donnie smiled at her and said, “Now we get to try this nice-lookin’ peach cobbler. Spicy peach cobbler, isn’t that right, Phyllis?”.

  “That’s right;’ she said as she dipped small servings of the cobbler into bowls that she had ready. She added a plastic spoon to each one and handed them to the judges. “Spicy peach cobbler with candied ginger.”

  “That sounds good,” Marcia Hannigan said. “I’m eager to try it.”

  “Well, let’s dig in, folks,” Donnie said. He began spooning the sample into his mouth.

  Phyllis waited anxiously. She glanced around and saw that Carolyn was watching the judges’ reactions. To Phyllis’s surprise, Carolyn looked nervous, too. Maybe she wasn’t as confident of victory as she sometimes acted.

  Sam had joined the crowd looking on, too, along with Eve and Mattie, and Mike and Sarah and Bobby were still there. She certainly didn’t lack for people rooting for her, she thought. She just hoped that she wouldn’t let them down.

  Donnie finished his cobbler and set the empty bowl on the table. “Mighty good, Phyllis, mighty good,” he said, but then he gave a little shake of his head and put a hand on the table to steady himself.

  “Donnie, are you all right?” Phyllis asked.

  “Yeah, yeah, just a little dizzy. Must be the heat.” He lifted his water bottle and drained the rest of the liquid in it. “I’ll be all right in a-” he began.

  But then he stopped abruptly, and his eyes rolled up in their sockets. The water bottle slipped from his fingers, hit the table, and bounced off to fall on the ground. He lurched back a step.

  “Donnie!” Harley Sewell shouted. “What’s wrong?” Marcia Hannigan let out a choked cry, and Bud Winfield lunged toward Donnie, reaching out in an attempt to grab his arm and steady him.

  Bud missed because Donnie staggered into a half turn, stiffened, and then pitched forward onto his face, toppling like a felled tree. He hit the ground hard, without any attempt to catch himself. Startled yells came from the men in the crowd, and one woman even screamed.

  Phyllis just stood there behind the table, shocked into motionlessness by Donnie’s sudden collapse, but Mike’s emergency training took over and sent him hurrying to Donnie’s side. He rolled the old man onto his back, and Phyllis recoiled in horror as she saw Donnie’s glassy eyes staring sightlessly up at the red, white, and blue canopy over the table.

  Donnie was dead. Phyllis knew that as surely as she had known it about Newt Bishop on that other terrible day. And to make things even worse, in the middle of all the sudden commotion and chaos, she heard Carolyn exclaim as plain as day, “Oh, my God! Phyllis’s peach cobbler killed Donnie Boatwright!”

  Chapter 14

  Phyllis was so stunned that all she could do was stare at Donnie’s drawn, lifeless face and wonder if somehow her cobbler had killed him. But then she realized that wasn’t possible. The other judges had eaten it, too, and they were standing there just fine, other than being as surprised and upset as everyone else.

  Police and emergency personnel were on duty at the festival, of course, and the uproar caused by Donnie’s collapse quickly caught their attention. Mike had been kneeling at Donnie’s side, checking futilely for a pulse, but he stood up and stepped back as a couple of EMTs from the Weatherford Fire Department came running up. Even in her rattled state, Phyllis recognized them as Calvin Holloway and Ted Brady, two former students of hers and friends of Mike’s.

  Calvin was six-foot-six and almost three hundred pounds and had been all-state on both the offensive and defensive lines for the Weatherford High School Kangaroos before going on to Grambling State University over in Louisiana. He had played a year for the Cowboys as an undrafted free agent before coming home to Weatherford and becoming an EMT.

  Ted was about half the size of his partner, with red hair and a multitude of freckles, a terrier to Calvin’s Great Dane, as Phyllis often thought of them. Or Mutt and Jeff, although come to think of it she hadn’t s
een a Mutt and Jeff comic strip for thirty years or more, and didn’t think the newspapers even published it anymore.

  “What happened?” Calvin asked Mike as Ted dropped to a knee beside Donnie and started checking his vitals, even though it was obvious the man was dead.

  “Mr. Boatwright just collapsed,” Mike replied. “I didn’t find a pulse. I guess it was probably a heart attack or a stroke, something like that.”

  He glanced at Phyllis, and she knew suddenly that he had heard Carolyn’s ridiculous accusation, too. But he had to realize. how crazy the idea was. A bowl of peach cobbler couldn’t kill anybody.

  Could it?

  “Was he showing any signs of distress before he collapsed?” Calvin asked.

  Mike shook his head. “Not that I noticed.”

  Phyllis felt like she had to speak up. “He was sweating,” she said. “And he said he felt dizzy.”