What a Peachy Night

by Wendy Meadows

  “What was that poor woman doing in that room?” Momma Peach asked.

  “Replacing a bed cover that had a cigar burn on it,” Detective MacNeigh explained. “The room was being prepared for a man who will be arriving tomorrow.”

  Momma Peach sighed. “So J.W. Wording stalked the poor woman and killed her when he felt the time was right.”

  “Yep,” Detective MacNeigh said. He walked back to the bed and sat down on the edge, looked at Momma Peach, and nodded his head. “You said you smelled a killer.”

  “His cologne,” Momma Peach explained. “I smelled the same scent when I met J.W. Wording in the elevator and again when I saw him down in the dining room.”

  Detective MacNeigh chewed on his cigar. “That won't hold up in a court of law. All Wording will have to do is say he accidentally bumped into the housekeeper in the hallway or some line like that. Even a two-bit lawyer would have him walking free in a matter of seconds.”

  Momma Peach felt anger flush through her heart. “An innocent woman was killed and I ain't leaving this here rotten city until the killer is caught. Yes, sir and yes ma’am, Momma Peach is parking her backside right here in this here hotel until J.W. Wording is brought to justice.”

  “That's commendable, Momma Peach, but the only problem is that we have no evidence to throw at the guy,” Detective MacNeigh pointed out. “About the best I can do right now is…well, it’s a little risky. But if you’re willing to help me out a little bit, you could help me lure the guy into a trap. If he knows that you suspect him to be the killer, he’ll come after you. I don't want to risk your life, but it might be our best chance.”

  Momma Peach stood up. “Detective, Momma Peach will always stand up for truth and justice, and if you have to use me as bait then so be it. We have a killer to catch, and so we better get to fishing.”

  Detective MacNeigh continued to chew on his cigar. He was surprised by the woman’s pluck and determination, and besides, it would be a nice notch on his belt to capture the Manhattan Killer before he retired. “Okay, Momma Peach, we'll play it your way and see what happens.”

  Momma Peach thought hard about the memory of that evening with Detective MacNeigh, and everything that had come after it. “We spent the rest of the evening formulating a plan,” she told Michelle.

  Michelle checked the clock hanging over the sink. “I guess we'll have to pause right there,” she said, “it's one minute till noon.”

  Momma Peach nodded her head and walked into the front room. A few seconds later, the telephone rang, right on time. Momma Peach steadied her nerves and answered the phone. “Hello, turkey.”

  “Hello, Momma Peach,” Mr. Wording said and took a sip of orange juice. “It's lovely to hear you're still in a good mood.”

  “Oh, shut up,” Momma Peach snapped. “The sound of your voice makes me sick to my ever-loving stomach.”

  J.W. grinned. He was confident that Momma Peach had failed in her second mission and that he would be able to quench his thirst for murder. “Tell me, Momma Peach, is this anger because you failed? After all this time, did you—”

  “Yeah, yeah, Momma Peach found how your victims were connected,” Momma Peach snapped and drew in a deep breath. “They all got themselves an illegal organ transplant at that hospital your old man paid to have built.” Momma Peach waited silently.

  J.W. stopped grinning. He set down his glass of orange juice and narrowed his eyes, rage coursing through his veins. Momma Peach wasn't as dumb as she appeared. And it was obvious the woman had people helping her—just like last time. It was time to tweak the rules and force Momma Peach to start playing the game alone. “Very good,” he hissed, “but not good enough.”

  Outside, the foggy landscape awaited, dense with fear and hidden obstacles, as J.W. Wording prepared his next move. He was now ready to slither outside and find Momma Peach.

  Chapter 6

  “What do you mean not good enough, turkey?” Momma Peach fumed. “I figured out the connection.”

  “Obviously with much help,” J.W. growled.

  “You didn't say I couldn't have help, you back-alley rat!”

  J.W. squeezed his cell phone. “You seem to have acquired some bonus information, Momma Peach. You revealed too much when you let me know you discovered who my—”

  “Who your daddy is?” Momma Peach interrupted him. Momma Peach took a chance and dived into the deep end. “Momma Peach knows that Jeremy Wyatt Wording and his wife adopted you, turkey. And then you stole his name. You’re not J.W. at all, you turkey—”

  “Stop calling me turkey,” J.W. snapped at Momma Peach. “My name is—”

  “Love Rich Wording,” Momma Peach said triumphantly. “Yeah, I figured out your real name...turkey!”

  Wording squeezed his eyes closed. “You're more resourceful than I expected,” he told Momma Peach in a voice struggling to keep anger at bay. “I was looking forward to searching out two victims today and satisfying my hunger. However, I have to play by the rules, too, Momma Peach. With that said, it seems that it's time to...tweak the rules, shall we say. From this point forward, you work alone. Is that clear?”

  “No deal,” Momma Peach told J.W.

  “You will work alone!” J.W. hollered and pounded the kitchen table he was standing beside with his fist. The glass of orange juice on the kitchen table spilled over and splashed down onto the gray and white tile floor. “I will make two calls in exactly one hour. I will call the police station and then your bakery. If your detective friend is not at the police station, I will kill three random people. If you are not at your bakery I will up the body count to four. Are we clear?”

  Momma Peach looked at Michelle with worried eyes. “Okay, turkey, I'll work alone.”

  “And no phone calls. I'll make random calls to your bakery. If I call and get a busy signal even one time, then I'll make the body count five instead of four. Are we clear?”

  “We're clear,” Momma Peach said through gritted teeth.

  “Good,” J.W. said. He opened his eyes and looked down at the glass of spilled orange juice. “You have until midnight tonight to tell me who my next victim was going to be at the hotel...the victim who escaped my clutches because of you. If you fail to tell me the name, then I will search out three random people and end their lives.”

  “Why you low-down, good for nothing...” Momma Peach bit her tongue. “How in the world am I supposed to know the name of someone I never met?”

  “That's the game, you see. I said there were rules. I never said they were fair,” he sneered. “You have until midnight. I advise you to get to work.” J.W. ended the call. He took a breath and delicately stepped over the mess of shattered glass and spilled juice all over the floor. He did not even give it a second glance. “In the meantime, I think I might take a little walk and get some fresh air.”

  Momma Peach put down the phone. “It looks like he’s onto our nice little teamwork situation, here. Do you know what that turkey is demanding now?”

  “Let me guess, he wants me to go back to the station without you,” Michelle said in an upset voice. “I don’t like it. Not at all. I can read your face, Momma Peach, I know this is bad news.”

  Momma Peach walked over to Michelle and hugged her. “The monster tweaked his rules. Now Momma Peach has to work alone. He's going to call the police station in one hour. If you're not there, he's going to go out and kill some innocent folk. Then he's going to call the bakery and if I’m not here he's going to kill some more innocent folk. And if the phone lines are busy, he’s going to kill even more precious innocents.”

  “I guess we have no other choice, then,” Michelle said. She hugged Momma Peach and walked to the front door. “Keep your doors locked. I'll have some of my guys get out on foot and start making constant patrols. We can’t let him win.”

  “Baby, J.W. Wording is a killer. If anyone gets in his way, he's liable to kill them. It's best if we play by his rules for now. I will lock myself inside this bakery tighter than a t
ick. Also, remember I have a place to hide just in case that foul creature decides to pay a visit.”

  “The cellar?” Michelle asked.

  Momma Peach nodded her head. “And don’t forget,” she added and pointed up at the ceiling, “the attic. Only I know where the attic door is. I’ve never even told Mandy or Rosa.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, it ain’t safe up there. The floors in the attic are very weak and one of Momma Peach's babies could fall through and hurt themselves,” Momma Peach explained. She unlocked the front door. “There are only two ways in and out of this here bakery. This front door and the back kitchen door. Once you're outside I’m going to slide a display shelf in front of this door and put some canned peaches all over it. If J.W. comes through the front door I will know.”

  “What about the back door?” Michelle asked.

  “Momma Peach is going to push the refrigerator in front of that door,” Momma Peach chuckled. She was tired but determined.

  Michelle reluctantly pulled the front door open. The thick fog crept through the open door into the front room like hideous puffs of breath from a deadly monster. “If J.W. does try to get in, call me immediately.”

  “I don’t think that monster will try to harm me just yet,” Momma Peach told Michelle and searched the fog futilely. The fog looked back with eyes as empty as a hissing snake. “He's playing a game and won't come for me until the game is finished.”

  “You said he wanted you to know who he was, Momma Peach. On the phone, you told him exactly who he was. I’m confused.”

  Momma Peach rubbed her chin. “There must be more to his game than Momma Peach thought,” she said. “You better get on down to the station. I have some serious thinking to do.”

  Michelle hesitated and then walked out into the fog. She turned, looked at Momma Peach with worried eyes, and then vanished out of sight. Momma Peach closed and locked the front door and went to work. She searched the front room and found a suitable wooden shelf, removed the loaves of peach bread displayed on the shelves, and dragged the heavy shelf in front of the door.

  “Goodness,” she said and wiped sweat from her forehead. She hurried into the kitchen and grabbed an armload of canned peaches and rushed back into the front room. “This should do,” she said, loading the shelves down with the cans. The rows of cans were right at the edge of each shelf, so that if the door knocked into the shelf even by a little bit, the tin cans would make a terrible racket, falling down and rolling across the wide wooden floorboards of the storefront.

  “Now the fridge.” Momma Peach walked over to the refrigerator, unplugged it, and began dragging it to the back door. “Goodness, give me strength, give me strength...but not a hernia!” she cried out and accidentally farted with the strain. “Well, at least no one is around,” she said and wiped at her nose. “Goodness, what a smell. Ooh, Mrs. Edwards, I knew your cooking was bad!”

  Once the refrigerator was positioned in front of the back door, Momma Peach pulled the baking table to the side to reveal the hinged door in the floorboards that led down into the old root cellar. She rolled up the floor rug covering the door, bent down, unlocked the door, and pulled it open. A blast of cold air bathed her face, along with the smell of dry earth. It was terribly dark down there.

  Momma Peach studied the darkness and then closed the cellar door. “Momma Peach thinks she'll use the attic instead,” she said, feeling cold chills sneak down her spine. “Momma Peach don't like the cellar, but I sure don’t want J.W. Wording knowing that.” Momma Peach backed away from the cellar door and left the baking table next to the refrigerator and hurried into the back bathroom. The bathroom was small but spotless. The hardwood flooring was shined with beeswax every week and the white porcelain sink and toilet were glowing with polish. “Pity to mess up all this pristine beauty,” Momma Peach said in a proud voice. She put down the toilet seat, carefully climbed up, and reached her hands up toward the ceiling. “Ah, there you are,” she said, finding a short piece of brown string that blended in perfectly with the wood paneled ceiling. “Come to Momma.” Momma Peach pulled the string down and slowly climbed down off the toilet seat. Once she was positioned safely on the floor, she yanked on the string as hard as she could. A hidden attic door moaned on its hinges and creaked with disuse and then eased down from the ceiling.

  Momma Peach grabbed the door, pulled it lower, and released a set of attic stairs caked in dust. “Give me strength,” Momma Peach said, wiping away the dust all over her face. She slapped at the dust settling everywhere in her beautiful bathroom and then, using all of her courage, climbed up the stairs and peeked her head into a dark attic. “Listen here, you spiders, if Momma Peach has to get up here real fast-like, you better move out of the way!” she called out and climbed back down into the bathroom. Just in case she had to convince a few spiders, however, she found a book of matches and stuck them in the pocket of her dress.

  Feeling confident in her preparations, Momma Peach made her way back into the front room and sat down in a wooden chair behind the front counter. “Okay, old woman, you better get your mind to working and figure out who victim number six was supposed to be...well, victim number seven, but perhaps it's best not to count that poor housekeeper, bless her heart.” Momma Peach grew silent and began to think. She jotted down the names that she knew on a notepad and stared at them, desperate for inspiration.

  A few minutes passed and then the phone rang. “Give me strength,” Momma Peach whispered and checked the wall clock. “It ain't been no hour, turkey,” she said and answered the call. “This is Momma Peach. What do you think you’re—”

  “Betty, is that you?” Aunt Rachel demanded. “Why didn't you come over for supper last night? We had corned beef and cabbage. And don't say my corned beef and cabbage gives you the runs because that would be a lie.” Aunt Rachel took a loud swig of something that might have been prune juice, or might have been wine, given her gleeful tone of voice.

  “Oh, give me strength!” Momma Peach muttered. “Aunt Rachel, Momma Peach don't have time for you today! I have some serious business to attend to.”

  Something in Momma Peach's voice made Aunt Rachel sit up straight in her recliner and actually turn off the television set. She set down her prune juice and a book of old crossword puzzles and turned serious for the first time in many, many years. “Caroline, what's this business? Who's out to hurt you? Don't lie to me. Aunt Rachel can read your voice like she can read the weather.”

  Momma Peach nearly fainted. “Aunt Rachel, I am in a world of trouble,” she replied. “A real ugly monster from my past has decided to pay me a deadly visit.”

  Aunt Rachel nodded her head. “Uh, huh,” she said, “and just who is this person, Caroline? And don't lie to me or I'll beat you bow-legged with my cane, girl!”

  Momma Peach felt tears touch her eyes. Aunt Rachel was her only living blood relative. It felt wonderful to have the old woman speaking to her like family for once. “A real mean man, Aunt Rachel,” she explained, her lip quivering a little bit. She took a breath. She had to be fast, in case he called and found the line busy. “Do you remember years back when I won the Golden Days Flour baking contest?”

  “I sure do. You always did bake the best peach pie in all of America. Your pie became famous.” Aunt Rachel smiled. “I was very proud of you, Caroline.”

  “I know you were, Aunt Rachel,” Momma Peach said and wiped her tears away. “You know I won that trip to Manhattan?”

  “I sure do remember. You stayed at one of them fancy hotels, too.”

  Momma Peach closed her eyes. “Aunt Rachel, when I was in Manhattan…at the hotel I was staying at...I bumped into a killer.” Momma Peach saw J.W. Wording's vicious and cruel face appear before her eyes. “I helped a detective try and catch the killer, but he got away...but I tangled with him before he did.”

  “And now that man has come back to settle the score,” Aunt Rachel said and grabbed her false teeth out of a water glass and popped them into her mouth
. “Caroline, you sit tight, Aunt Rachel is on her way.”

  “No, Aunt Rachel, you better stay where you are. This killer means business. But don't worry, I beat him once and I’m going to do it again.” Momma Peach opened her eyes. “It sure would be great to see you, though. Maybe after this mess is all cleared up, I can take a trip up to Virginia and see you?”

  “I would love that, Caroline. Sometimes I feel mighty lonely sitting here by myself day in and day out. Oh, I know you love me, but you have your own life to live...but I sure would love to see you.” Aunt Rachel’s voice quivered and tears of her own began to fall. “You've been so good to me. You pay for me to stay in this nice home instead of one of them awful nursing homes. I have a private room and I get served some mighty good food. The people are nice and caring and I make some good friends...but most of all I miss my family.” Aunt Rachel wiped her tears. “I know you’re busy, though. You sure have been good to this old woman, Caroline, and I love you for it.”

  “I love you too, Aunt Rachel,” Momma Peach burst out into tears. “Oh, you crazy old woman, look what you're making me do. You're turning me into a waterfall.”

  “You cry all you want,” Aunt Rachel told Momma Peach, “because love isn't meant to be held back. A person who tries to shove love into a little box is a person without a heart.”

  “I sure know that's the truth,” Momma Peach cried. She raised her eyes and looked at the heavy wooden shelf wedged up against the front door. “Aunt Rachel, I have to outsmart a killer who is hiding behind a game and camouflaged in an ugly fog.”

  “Fog? What’s this about?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Momma Peach said. “It's so foggy here you can't see the end of your nose and...I’ll admit I’m afraid to go out into that fog. And now part of his sick little game is that I have to remember someone I never even met or some innocent people are going to die. How am I supposed to remember someone I never met?”