War and Peach

by Susan Furlong

  Now I had to reason that if Tessa didn’t suspect Lucas of wanting to leave, maybe, as Jack assumed, it was Clem who had planned to fire Lucas for some reason. But Tessa shrugged the subject off, her eyes wandering across the floor, her mind suddenly far away. “It doesn’t even matter at this point. Uncle Clem is gone.” She let out a jagged breath. She shifted her stance, eyes darting toward the door. “I’d better be going. I’ve got to find a dress for the funeral.” She made her way to the door, turning back at the last minute. “Thanks for talking, Carla.”

  “See you tonight,” Carla answered.

  “I’m sorry I upset her,” I said as soon as the door shut behind Tessa.

  “It’s not you. Really. It’s just everything else. I’m worried about her.”

  I reached over and patted her arm. “You’re a good friend to her, Carla. She’s lucky to have you. You two have plans tonight?”

  “Yeah, a bunch of us are getting together out at the Rogers Farm. We’re having a party for Tessa. To cheer her up, you know?” I nodded and she continued excitedly, “It’s supposed to be a surprise. I’m the decoy. I’m going to pick her up after work and take her to the Tasty Freeze for a while. While we’re gone, the others are going to sneak into the house and set things up. We’re hoping a little fun will take her mind off everything going on right now.”

  A party would be the last thing I’d want to do if I were in Tessa’s situation, but what did I know? Carla and her friends probably considered me old and boring. Besides, I remember being that age; kids had a different way of looking at things. Which brought to mind something else: when I was Carla’s age, a party meant one thing . . . booze, and lots of it. “A party, you say?”

  Carla instantly caught my drift and shrugged. “Yeah, you know. Just a few friends.” Her gaze shifted, avoiding my real question.

  I had to bite my tongue not to lecture her about all the things that could happen at such a party. Booze and teens were a dangerous combination. Hypocritical of me, considering how wild I was that summer after my graduation. Hattie and I had attended our share of parties. Most held at a secluded spot on the west side of Hill Lake and most with plenty of beer to go around. Still, as much as I didn’t want to assume that parental role with Carla, I had to say something. If anything, so I could have a clear conscious if something were to happen. “You know, if you get caught drinking, you could get into big trouble, Carla. Especially considering everything that happened last spring. You’re probably still on the sheriff’s watch list.” During an especially difficult time last summer, Carla had made some poor choices and found herself in a little trouble with the law. Luckily, Ray was able to get her out of it, but I had a feeling the sheriff wouldn’t be so lenient if she messed up again.

  “It’s not a problem,” she said. “Really. Besides, I’m not drinking. And I don’t think the sheriff really cares.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Well, the guys were saying that a while back the cops busted a party up at the lake. They seemed to blow it off.”

  “Blow it off? Maudy Payne?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. I wasn’t there. Lucas was telling me about it. Said the cops were cool about it. Kids will be kids; that type of thing. Said we don’t need to worry about it. That nobody’s going to bust us over a little beer.”

  I found that hard to believe. Hard-nosed Maudy Payne blowing off minors drinking? Of course, maybe it paled in comparison with murder, something we’d had our fair share of these past couple years. I was still mulling it over when Carla moved on to something else. “Anyway, remember when we were talking about coming up with some new baskets this morning?”

  “I do.” Wow, was that just this morning? So much had happened already today. It seemed like a week ago.

  She continued, “I took a chance and put a couple samples together.” She disappeared into our storage closet, emerging a second later with a couple baskets in hand and a grin on her face. She placed the first in front of me. It contained a jar each of peach pepper marinade, peach chutney, and peach BBQ sauce. “This one’s for meat. You know how meat is sometimes slowly cooked over a fire pit?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And how we always take out the peach pit before we cook with peaches, right?”

  “Yeah?” Where is she going with this?

  She drew in her breath and tipped the basket my way. “Well, this one’s called ‘Scared Pitless!’ It’s a play on words. You know, like in ‘fire pit’ and peaches without their pits, and another phrase, which you probably wouldn’t want me to repeat.”

  I started laughing so hard tears began running down my cheeks. “I absolutely love it, Carla!”

  Encouraged by my reaction, she held up the other basket. “And I’ve dubbed this one ‘Heaven Preserve Us!’ It’s full of our specialty blended preserves: peach pepper jelly, peach pecan preserves and peach cobbler jam.”

  I was still laughing, wiping my eyes double time.

  Carla’s smile faded, her expression suddenly turning serious. “Do you think the names are too funny? I just thought they’d fit in with our other baskets. You know, like be consistent.”

  “Like them?” I came across the room and gave her a hug. “They’re perfect. You’re a genius, Carla.”

  Her chest puffed out as she set the baskets on the counter and reached for a notebook. “There’s more. I’m thinking we ought to expand our offerings to include candies. I got the idea the other day when I was working over at Sugar’s. He carries a lot of great pastries and baked goods. And of course, you have all the jams, jellies and sauces a person could ever want. But nobody has candy. I’m just thinking it’s a little niche we could fill. Nothing big. Maybe just start with peach-shaped chocolate candy at first.” She paused and pulled out a couple folded sheets from the back of her notebook. “Here. I printed off some information.”

  I looked over the printouts. The first was for candy molds. She’d researched and found a couple cute examples of peach-shaped molds. The other was a printout of recipes. Both milk and white chocolate recipes. “I don’t know what to say, Carla,” I said, as I read over the recipes. They didn’t seem all that complicated. Could I do this?

  “I even found this packaging company out of Nashville,” she added, her voice growing with enthusiasm. “They sell all types of candy boxes. Reasonable, too. But there might be better prices out there. I’ve only just started checking into it.”

  I was dumbstruck. How this young girl, who was so lost and troubled last year, had the foresight to come up with such a brilliant plan. Not only the baskets, but the candy, too. I looked up from the papers and met her enthusiastic expression with one of my own. “This is an amazing idea, Carla. I’ll have to check into it further, but I think it might work. Let’s order a couple of these chocolate molds and start experimenting with recipes.”

  Her hands formed into fists, which she lifted and waved about. “Yes! I was hoping you’d like my ideas.”

  “I love your ideas! All of them. Thank you.”

  In a rare display of emotion, she came around the counter and offered a quick hug. I happily reciprocated, hoping this young woman, who I’d grown so fond of, was making the right decisions in other aspects of her life, too. Because I didn’t think I could bear the idea of her ending up in trouble.

  * * *

  The town was abuzz with excitement the next day, especially after the headline in the Saturday edition of the Cays Mill Reporter promised a heated debate at the town hall meeting. Note: heated, not “a barn burner,” the term that Frances Simms had used to predict the last debate, which was unfortunately thwarted by a real barn burning. Not to mention a brutal murder.

  With everyone planning their day around the big event, things were slow at the shop, so we closed down early in order to make it to the meeting in time. As soon as I arrived, I spied Hattie waving at me from across the crowd
ed room. I pushed through the standing crowd in the back and made my way to the empty seat next to Hattie. “Thanks for saving me a spot,” I said, leaning forward and waving hello to Ginny and Sam, who were seated on her other side.

  “Is Cade coming?” Hattie wanted to know.

  “No. He texted me a while ago. Guess he’s tied up at the construction site.” I quickly scanned the room, noticing that the farmers were grouped in a large section up front. A few of the business owners, like Sally Jo from the Mercantile and Doris Whortlebe from the Clip & Curl, were sitting in front of us. The people I didn’t see yet were my parents. I’d talked to Mama earlier and she said they were going to be here.

  “I have a feeling things could get heated tonight,” I whispered into Hattie’s ear.

  “No need for worries.” She discreetly pointed to where Sheriff Maudy and her deputy stood. “The local law is standing ready.”

  Doris Whortlebe whipped around in her chair, her cascading ringlets, emerging from the back of a poufy crown of hair, bobbing like fishing lures with her sudden movement. “The local law, my foot. Why, the sheriff is so wrapped up in this murder business, she can’t focus on anything else. Do you know I was robbed today, and she didn’t even bother to come investigate? Sent that young deputy over instead. Like that youngin’s goin’ to know how to solve the crime?”

  I leaned forward. “Robbed? Are you okay?” I had visions of a gunman facing poor Doris, her ringlets quivering.

  Her shoulders began waggling, her voice growing louder as she went on, “Okay? No, I’m not okay. Someone made off with my air-conditioning unit. Took the VFW’s, too. Do y’all know how much that’s going to cost to replace? Thanks goodness it isn’t that hot out. Why, if this had happened a few months ago, I’d lose business. It gets hot as an oven in my salon during the summer.”

  Sally Jo had turned in her seat and was listening to our conversation. “Seems there’s been a whole rash of crime lately. I just put up security cameras at the Mercantile. Cost a fortune, but I can’t afford to be robbed, neither.”

  Doris agreed that maybe security cameras were a good idea and the two ladies veered off into their own conversation about the best camera models and how to install them for maximum coverage. I tuned out, looking up front to where Maudy and Deputy Travis stood, my thoughts wandering from the stolen air-conditioning unit—which most certainly was the work of our local scrap metal bandit—to the gas can Maudy had found out by Clem’s place. I wondered if she’d been able to trace it to Daddy yet? If so, how long would it take her to issue an arrest warrant? I glanced around again—no sign of them. Perhaps that’s why my parents weren’t here. Maybe they were trying to avoid Maudy . . .

  “You seem a thousand miles away,” Hattie was saying.

  My head snapped her way. “Sorry. I have a lot on my mind.”

  “All this trouble with Clem’s murder?”

  I nodded. Usually there’s not much I don’t talk over with Hattie, but she’d been so wrapped up in planning her wedding, and I hated to burden her with my own problems at what should be such a happy time. I tried to redirect the conversation. “I bet you have a lot on your mind, too. How are the wedding plans going?”

  She sank back in her chair and let out a little moan. “Don’t ask.”

  “Still having trouble choosing a dress?”

  “I can’t deal with it. It stresses me out.” She pressed her lips into a thin line and clasped her arms around her midsection.

  I touched her arm. “I understand. But I think I know what’s really upsetting you. And it’s not the dress. Is it?”

  She sighed and looked away. But before I could press any more, a sharp squeal of the mic cut through the air. All eyes looked to the front of the room, where Mayor Wade Marshall stood at the center podium. Big and burly with a handlebar mustache and a thin gray braid down his back, Wade Marshal looked more like a member of a motorcycle gang than a small-town mayor. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. And welcome to the Cays Mill Mayoral Debate.” He went on to introduce the candidates, both of whom stood ramrod straight behind their own podiums. Margie stole intermittent sips of bottled water and tugged repeatedly on the hem of her conservative gray suit jacket. Jack, on the other hand, looked calm and collected and quite dapper in crisply creased navy blue trousers paired with a light blue seersucker blazer.

  “I’d like to allow each candidate to open with a brief introduction,” Wade was saying. “After which I will begin presenting a series of predetermined questions. Each candidate will have two minutes to answer each question, blah, blah, blah . . .” As Wade droned on about the debate rules, I turned around in my seat and surveyed the standing crowd in the back of the room. I still didn’t see my parents, but I did spot my brother-in-law, Hollis, who smiled and shot me a quick wave. Ida wasn’t with him. But that wasn’t surprising. After all, this was no place for Junior, their tiny terror, and it was difficult enough to find a babysitter for a fun evening out, let alone a mayoral debate when half the town wanted to attend.

  “We’ll begin with opening remarks from each candidate,” I heard Wade say. I turned back around to see him lift his hand and indicate toward Margie. “Ladies first. Ms. Price?”

  Margie cleared her throat as she shuffled a few note cards before leaning in and speaking into her mic. “Thank you, Mayor Marshall, and thank you, citizens of Cays Mill. It is my privilege to stand before you today and expound on my goals and dreams for our fine village . . .”

  Already, at her use of “expound,” I felt the farmers’ side of the audience tense. After that I only half listened to Margie as she spoke. Instead, my thoughts wandered to Jack Snyder, who seemed cool and collected behind his own podium. For a man who just announced his mayoral intentions two days ago, as a write-in candidate nonetheless, he sure seemed well prepared. Not only did he have what looked to be a new suit, less formal and more appealing to our Cays Mills mind-set than Margie’s tailored ensemble, but he’d already plastered professionally printed signs all over town. Just how did he get all that done so quickly? Or perhaps the signs were left over from his last attempt to run for mayor? Or—I narrowed my eyes and watched as he confidently began his opening statement—maybe he’d been prepared for this moment all along. What was it Daddy always said about Jack Snyder? That he was a man who didn’t let life’s obstacles break him. Maybe poor Clem was simply one of those obstacles that Jack felt he needed to eliminate to achieve his goal of becoming mayor.

  “Unlike my opponent,” Jack began, “I’ve lived in Cays Mill my whole life. Why, I know most of y’all personally. I understand the struggles you face. I’ve toiled in the same Georgia dirt and I’ve watched with you as many of our local businesses have closed or moved to the bigger cities. As one of you . . .”

  “As one of you.” Boy, not hard to figure out his game plan! Jack Snyder obviously intended to alienate Margie as much as possible. Make people think that she couldn’t run the town because she was an outsider. Of course, a little part of me knew what Jack said made sense. Having lived here his whole life, he really did understand our town. But Margie brought with her fresh ideas and the possibility of change for the better. I let out a sigh. I guess, when it came down to it, I was still undecided about my own vote. Actually, I wished Wade Marshall would run again. Despite his less than mayoral appearance, Wade was a great town leader. He’d seen us through several bad harvests, managed to keep taxes low, and even succeeded in slowly bringing more businesses into town.

  As Jack finished, Wade moved back to his podium, and after blinking away a couple blinding flashes from Frances’s camera, he began reading the first debate question from a small notecard. “If elected as mayor of Cays Mill, do you plan to raise the municipal sales tax? Ms. Price, you have two minutes to respond.”

  The crowd started to stir. This was a hot topic. Margie drew in a deep breath and started, “There is no doubt that our town suffers from a lack o
f revenue. Revenue that is needed to maintain our fine school system, improve infrastructure and maintain necessary programs. However, I feel that raising sales taxes will discourage local shopping and therefore put an unfair burden on local business owners.” A few heads bobbed up and down in agreement. “What I’m proposing instead,” she continued, “is increasing the fee for business licensing renewal.” That stopped those heads from bobbing. “As well as doing away with a percentage of property tax exemptions for local agricultural business. That way, both the business owners and local farmers will share in the increased burden of—”

  “Do away with our property tax exemptions?” someone yelled from the crowd. “What are you trying to do, put us farmers out of business?”

  Margie held up her hand. “Not all exemptions. Just a percentage of—”

  But before she could get another word out, Jack interrupted. “What would y’all expect from an outsider? Like I was saying, I’m a farmer, like most of you. I also have the unique advantage of being a small business owner. I understand your struggles. I sympathize with your—”

  “That’s great, Jack,” one of Margie’s supporters called out. “But what’s your plan for runnin’ this town?”

  A ruckus arose, with questions being fired from both sides of the room. I about got whiplash trying to keep up with who was saying what. Up front, Mayor Marshall began banging his fist on the podium, trying to regain control of the crowd, while Frances scurried about taking photos. I looked toward Maudy, expecting her to intervene at any second, but she wasn’t paying any attention to the rising unrest in the room. Instead, she had her cell phone to her ear and seemed to be deep in conversation with someone. I watched her nod, say something and nod some more. Then, even as she continued to speak into the phone, her eyes shot upward, landing on me with a wicked gleam. Her mouth curled into a knowing sneer. Finishing her conversation, she turned to her deputy and whispered something in his ear and headed toward the back door, seemingly impervious to the uproar that’d broken out in the room.