War and Peach

by Susan Furlong

  She seemed to shrink farther into the sofa. “I’m getting by, I guess. I really miss him.”

  “Bless your heart. Of course you do, sweetie,” Ginny said. “What can we do to help you?”

  Tessa let out a shaky breath and shrugged. “There’s nothing really that anyone can do. I’m just praying that the sheriff finds out who did this. I’ll feel much better knowing that the murderer is behind bars for good.”

  “Did the sheriff mention any suspects?” I asked.

  Again, she shook her head. “No. She didn’t say.” She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders, shivering as if she’d just caught a chill. “The way he was killed . . . I can’t imagine anybody doing such a horrible thing.”

  “Are these questions upsetting you, Tess?” Lucas asked. He’d returned from his task and was hovering again.

  “Actually, it helps to talk about it,” she told him. Then she managed a small smile and said, “Lucas has been such a comfort to me. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

  I’m sure. Ginny had spoken highly of this young man, but so far I didn’t have the best impression. I took another long look at Lucas, wondering how well he got along with Clem. Maybe Clem wasn’t thrilled about the hired help dating his niece.

  Tessa continued, “I know my uncle wasn’t always the easiest man to deal with. He had run-ins at one time or another with half the people in town.”

  I could feel my cheeks grow hot, knowing that my daddy was one of those people.

  “And not everyone in town agreed with his political ideas,” she added.

  “Yeah.” Lucas spoke up. “Like Margie Price.” He’d moved to a recliner in the corner and was sitting sideways with his legs thrown over the arm of the chair. “Or maybe one of her supporters. Those people are nuts. They’d been calling here, harassing Clem about this and that. Some of them were getting nasty, too.”

  “You’re right about that,” Ginny agreed. “Everyone’s gone a little nuts about this mayoral race. Arguments start up almost every day at the diner. And you should have been at the last Chamber of Commerce meeting. After Clem and Margie finished talking, people started getting into it over the issues. It got out of hand real fast. Finally ended in a food fight, if you can believe it. The craziest thing I’ve ever seen. Grown people throwing food at each other.”

  Food was one thing, but I couldn’t see driving a pitchfork through someone because of a difference in political positions. No, this seemed more personal than politics. “Right before he was murdered, your uncle mentioned that he knew something personal about Margie. Something that might prove detrimental to her chances of winning the election.”

  “Her secret, you mean?” Tessa said, looking away. Her eyes seemed to wander absently around the room. “I’m almost embarrassed to talk about this. My uncle was obsessed with winning the election. It’s all he talked about. It took over his life, our lives. But there was more to it than just wanting to win the election.” She shifted and took a deep breath. “I really hate to say this, but my uncle didn’t think a woman should be mayor. Especially not a woman ‘like Margie,’ as he said.”

  Ginny’s head bobbed up and down. “An outsider? Lots of folks feel that way, since she’s not from around here. An up-North Yankee, actually.”

  “You’d have thought people would have given up those type of notions years ago,” Tessa said.

  Lucas snorted. “Not around here.”

  We all nodded our agreement. Sad, but true. I’d heard those very sentiments from the Crawford sisters; heck, even from my own father. Truth being that a lot of folks in town distrusted outsiders, especially ones from up North. That type of sentiment, though, mostly rang true among the older folks. I’d like to think that prejudices like those weren’t as pronounced in my generation. Thanks in part to an increase in mobility, or perhaps a broader perspective spurred by the Internet and even social media. Who knew? But, what Lucas said was true: Clem wasn’t the only person in town who didn’t take to the notion of a Yankee for mayor.

  “Anyway,” Tessa was saying, “I never knew what it was he’d found out about Margie. I didn’t have a chance to find out.”

  “He didn’t tell me, either,” Lucas said. “I think he didn’t want anything to leak out until he could reveal it at the town meeting. More impact that way.”

  “How’d he find this information in the first place?” I wanted to know.

  I caught a fleeting emotion pass between Tessa and Lucas before she finally replied, “I don’t know for sure.”

  Lucas swung his legs around to the floor and stood. “We’d better get ready to go.” He looked our way and explained, “We have an appointment at J. B. Cain and Sons funeral parlor pretty soon. I’m going along to help Tessa.”

  “Of course,” Ginny said, standing. We said our good-byes to Tessa and followed Lucas back through the house to the front door. Out on the stoop, Ginny turned back and reached out to touch Lucas’s arm. “You’ve grown into such a fine young man. Tessa is so lucky to have you.”

  Lucky? Was Tessa lucky to have Lucas on her side? I glanced again at the young man, thinking how neatly this whole deal had worked for him. He’d just gone from being the hired hand to, if those wedding magazines were any indication, soon marrying the girl who inherited the entire farm. Did luck actually have anything to do with it? Or was it a contrived outcome?

  * * *

  It was just a little before eleven when we made it back to town. Ginny scurried back to the diner, while I was greeted at the front of my shop by a disgruntled Mrs. Purvis. She was tapping her finger against the door. “This note says you’d be back at ten thirty.”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Purvis.” Henrietta Purvis, our town librarian, was a spry little woman who favored pencil skirts and sensible blouses buttoned to the collar and secured with a cameo broach. Her only other adornment, unless you counted the chain from which her readers dangled around her neck, was a reliable wristwatch with humongous numbers, which she was currently peering at with squinty eyes.

  “It’s almost eleven. You’re nearly a half hour late.”

  I fumbled with my key, trying to open the door. Henrietta Purvis was a stickler for punctuality. I knew this for a fact. I couldn’t even recall how many times she’d busted my chops over late returned books. “I’m very sorry,” I reiterated. “Ginny and I were just paying our respects to Tessa Rogers. I didn’t expect our visit to take so long.”

  “Oh, dear. In that case, your lack of punctuality is completely forgivable. It was good of you to drop by on that poor girl.” She shook her head and made a tsk, tsk sound. “So dreadful the way her uncle died.”

  I finally managed to open the door and motioned for her to step ahead of me. “Did you know Clem well?”

  “Known him since he was a kid. Of course, at my age, I’ve known about everyone since they were kids.” That was true. But not only did Mrs. Purvis know everyone—she remembered all their names. Oh, at first glance, the arthritic joints, sparse gray hair and slightly stooped shoulders indicated that she was every bit of her eighty-plus years, but the intelligent sparkle in her eyes and her quick-witted humor indicated the astuteness and vibrancy of a much younger woman. Must be all that reading.

  She continued, “It pains me to know how he died. So very sad. How’s Tessa doing? Maybe while I’m here, I’ll pick up a couple extra jars of preserves to take out to her. I could make her some of my peach drop cookies.”

  Another thing Mrs. Purvis could still do well, despite her years or perhaps because of them, was bake. In fact, those peach drop cookies she’d mentioned were well-known in these parts. She always brought at least a couple dozen to the church picnics and they were always the first to get eaten. “That’d be nice. I know she’d appreciate that.” I removed a jar of preserves from the shelf and looked her way. “How many then?”

  “Three. No, make that four.” Two bright
circles of pink appeared on her cheeks. “I’m giving a couple jars to Joe as a surprise.” Joe Puckett lived in a small cabin on a few acres of wooded land adjacent to our farm. He was known in these parts for his special recipe of moonshine, made from peaches he pilfered from our trees. Not that any one of us Harpers minded, especially Daddy. As far as he was concerned, Joe could help himself to as many peaches as he needed, just as long as he kept distilling his special brew. And slipping a bit Daddy’s way.

  “How nice!” I said. “A special occasion?”

  “No. Just because he loves them so much.” I noted the blush still on her cheeks and wondered if Joe’s visits to the library had to do with his newfound love for reading or some other newfound love.

  I smiled as I carried the jars back to the cash register. Joe did love peach preserves, especially my mama’s recipe. I thought back to the time Joe took a couple dozen jars of Mama’s preserves in exchange for mowing the farm’s orchards. A huge job, but he seemed to think it was a fair deal. “And how have things been at the library?”

  “Just fine. Been having some trouble with some of the local teens. A bunch of them like to come over after school lets out every day. They use my back tables to work on homework. Usually they behave themselves. Lately, though, a few of the boys have been acting up. Disturbing the other patrons and such, at first. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

  I’m sure of that.

  “But, now they’re turning into vandals.”

  “Vandals?” A slow heat crept over my cheeks as I remembered a time back in high school when Hattie and I carved our initials under one of the library tables. I wondered if Mrs. Purvis knew about it. “That is horrible,” I finally said.

  “I don’t believe you know the full extent of it, Nola Mae.” She lowered her chin and looked at me with raised brows. “The type of vandalism I’m speaking of is much more serious than marring library tables.”

  Yep. She knows. Nothing gets by Mrs. Purvis. “What type of vandalism are you talking about?” The missing school bleachers came to mind, and I suddenly wondered how serious this breach of etiquette might be.

  She harrumphed. “Destruction by dismantlement, that’s what. Why, those hooligans stole the downspouts right off the library’s gutters!”

  “Downspouts? Really?” I shook my head and opened the cash drawer to make change. Better than missing bleachers. “Probably their idea of a practical joke. Kids are hard to figure nowadays. Hopefully, once they’ve finished having a good laugh, they’ll put them back.” I handed over her change and started wrapping the jars in tissue. Wanting to change the subject, I recalled what I’d heard about John Whitaker going for long walks and doing a lot of reading. “There’s a new fellow in town. Mr. Whitaker? Hear he spends a lot of time reading.”

  “Oh yes. He’s been in a few times.”

  “Checking out books?”

  “No. Of course not. He’s not a cardholder.”

  “Oh. What’s he doing then?”

  “Mostly researching.”

  “Researching?” For its size, our little library had a wonderful selection of books. Many provided by the tireless fund-raising projects orchestrated by the Friends of the Library group. Still, unless you were researching root-eating nematodes or the effects of brown rot fungus—because believe it or not, the entirety of one of our seven bookcases was devoted to various peach infestations—you were out of luck. “What type of research?”

  Mrs. Purvis clamped her lips tight and shook her head. “Now, Nola. You know I never divulge such information.” Mrs. Purvis ran library business like the back room of a law firm, concealed and confidential. “But I will tell you this: He’s a nice man. Respectful of his elders, too. He even gave Joe a ride home Tuesday. Joe always comes in on Tuesday afternoon to read the library’s copies of the Tuesday edition of the Cays Mill Reporter.”

  I blinked a few times.

  Tuesday was also the day Clem was murdered. And Joe’s cabin was just south of our land. Although there was no direct access to Joe’s place, there was a well-worn path that led from his cabin out to the main road. When he caught a ride from townsfolk, they often dropped him at the head of that trail. Just a mile down from there was the turnoff to Clem’s farm. “You wouldn’t happen to remember what time Mr. Whitaker and Joe left the library, would you?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. They left the library just before my dinner break.”

  “And what time do you usually break for dinner?”

  “I break for an early dinner every day at precisely four thirty,” she answered with a curt nod of her head.

  I smiled and held up her purchase. “Thank you, Mrs. Purvis. I hope Joe enjoys his preserves.” The bag felt a little heavy, so before handing it over, I said, “Why don’t you let me carry this out to your car for you?”

  “Oh no, dear. I can manage just fine. I’m not that old, you know.”

  I knew she was going to say that.

  “By the way,” she added, “the library’s going to be closed next Monday and Tuesday.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. I plan to take some time to go up to Macon and visit my older sister.” She leaned over the counter and lowered her voice. “I’d like her to meet Joe. So we’re heading up on Saturday and won’t be back until late Tuesday.” I must have had a funny look on my face, because Mrs. Purvis quickly added, “Of course, we’ll be back in time to vote on Tuesday. We wouldn’t want to neglect our civic duty.”

  “Of course not,” I said, biting back a grin. It hadn’t been the idea they might miss voting that had struck me at all, but knowing that Mrs. Purvis and Joe would be, well, traveling together. Overnight. If it had been any other woman of any age in town I wouldn’t have been so surprised, but Mrs. Purvis was, well, Mrs. Purvis! I turned my gaze to this spunky and surprising woman and had to smile. How little we know of people. And how lovely that Joe and Mrs. Purvis had found each other. “I hope you have a wonderful trip.”

  She smiled, turned and shuffled back out the door. I watched her leave, hoping that when I reached her age, I would be as capable and independent as the plucky Mrs. Purvis. All those books she read must keep her mentally alert. One thing for sure, she undoubtedly had her facts straight regarding the time that John Whitaker left the library on the day of the murder. Which meant that John Whitaker was in the right place at the right time for murder.

  I’d be paying Mr. Whitaker a visit, real soon.

  Chapter 7

  Southern Girl Secret #081: One of the reasons we Southern women deal so well with our mistakes is because we know one day they’ll make good stories to tell our children.

  The rest of the afternoon passed by uneventfully, with only a few customers trickling in here and there. Finally, at around four, I turned my sign to “Closed” and hurried through my task list of chores. I was anxious to get home and talk to Mama.

  I found her out on the porch swing.

  “Mama? What are you doing out here? Thought you and Daddy would be sitting down for supper right about now.”

  She touched the toe of her shoe on the porch floorboards, slowing the swing and motioning for me to hop on with her. “I’ll probably just heat up some leftovers. Don’t feel much like cookin’ tonight.”

  “That’s fine. Or if you want, I could fix something for us.”

  She shook her head and we continued to rock back and forth in silence for a few minutes, my jumbled thoughts and questions calming with each movement. The creak of the swing’s rusty chains made a rhythmic click like it was the heartbeat of our family’s home. I took a deep breath and looked out over the yard, noticing that the crickets seemed to chirp in unison, their noise reaching a crescendo like a well-orchestrated concert. Time slowed. I breathed easier. Then, somewhere off in the distance, the yip of a fox reminded me of another small animal. “Thought we might have some company this week,” I said, looking around
for any telltale sign that Roscoe was on the premises.

  Mama looked my way, her face brightening. “You mean Roscoe? He’s here. Dane brought him by earlier. He’s coming back a little later with some food and other supplies.”

  I squinted back out toward the yard, looking for the dog. “I don’t see him.”

  “He’s inside. Your father has him in the den with him.”

  “Really?” I chuckled. “Daddy must be warming up to him then. Usually he just complains and grumbles when Roscoe’s around.”

  “Oh, your father likes to put on a good act. He’s quite fond of the dog, actually. And tonight he seems to need the extra comfort.”

  I knew what she meant. All this stuff with Clem’s murder was weighing heavily on him. He was probably in his den right now, soothing his worries with a glass of Peach Jack. Which might be for the best, since I wanted to talk to Mama alone. But before I could figure out a good way to bring up the topic of her and Clem, she started with her own explanation. “Suppose you’re wondering what folks are talking about. The gossip about Clem and me?” she said.

  I cocked one knee and turned to face her. “I have been wondering, Mama. But I don’t want to upset you by talking about something so personal.”

  She looked down, picking at the frayed cuff of her old cotton sweater. “It’s something that happened years ago, Nola. I was just a kid. Both your daddy and I were. It was one of those stupid things kids do, you know?”

  My heart started beating faster. Yes, I know about the stupid things kids do. I’ve done more than my fair share. But Mama? Certainly she never would have made the same types of mistakes I had.

  “Your daddy and I met for the first time at the Peach Harvest Festival,” she went on. “Oh, I’d seen him around school, but never dared speak a word to him. He was a couple years ahead of me and so handsome. Half the girls in school had a crush on him.”

  I smiled at the idea of my father as young and handsome, with girls swooning all around.