Peaches and Scream (Georgia Peach Mystery, A) (11 page)

As soon as the screen door slammed shut, I gently lifted the dog back down to the floor and plopped down in his place on the sofa. Not more than a half second later, he stood and placed his little stubby legs on mine, raising himself up and letting out a long, soulful croon at the sound of Hawk’s motorcycle pulling away. “It’s going to be okay, boy,” I said, lifting him up to my lap. As I stroked his soft puppy fur, he cocked his head, raising one ear slightly and staring up at me with his solemn brown eyes, endearing me with his puppy-dog gaze. Unable to resist, I drew him to my chest and nuzzled my chin along the smooth warm bridge of his nose. “It’s going to be okay,” I repeated. Although I wasn’t so sure. Things had just gone from bad to downright crappy: Hollis in jail, the farm failing, and now Hawk. It was like I was stuck in a horrible nightmare.

After a few soothing minutes cuddling the dog, I took a
hot shower and quickly changed into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. Sitting down with another cup of coffee, I gave Ida a call. Just as I suspected, she was holed up in the house, still hiding from the world. “Aren’t you going to the arraignment today?” I asked her.

“I want to go, but I’m not sure what to do with the girls.”

“I’ll come by and watch them for you. Let’s see,” I said, glancing at the wall clock. “The hearing isn’t until two o’clock. Why don’t you let me bring by some lunch beforehand.”

“Don’t bother. I don’t have much of an appetite.”

“You have to eat. You need to keep up your strength. Besides, I want to talk through a couple things with you.”

A long sigh sounded over the line.

“I’ll be by a little before one,” I pressed.

She sighed again, but by the time I hung up, she’d reluctantly agreed to lunch. With that done, I started in on the next thing on my list: experimenting with some of Mama’s recipes.

Mama kept her recipes alphabetized in a wooden box in the back of the pantry. I pulled out the box, fingered my way over every type of peach recipe imaginable—peach salsa, peach cider pound cake, peach seared pancakes, sweet peach ice cream, on and on—until . . . bingo! I located the one for her peach preserves. As I fingered the well-worn recipe card, written in my grandmother’s precise script and covered with sticky pink blotches, my mind wandered to childhood days spent in the kitchen watching Mama and Nana stirring up family gossip as fast as they stirred the bubbling pots of sweet peach liquid. Always the tomboy, I’d never bothered to pay much attention to the whole preserve-making process, only hanging out in order to steal a quick lick of the sweet goo, or get first dibs on any excess preserves that didn’t make it into the pressure canner. Now I wished I’d paid closer attention. I mentally shrugged. No matter. How hard could it really be?

I glanced over the recipe again and began assembling all the ingredients. Since I didn’t have any fresh peaches, I
planned to use some of the peaches Mama had stored in the freezer. I took out several bags and stuck them under a stream of hot water. As soon as they thawed enough, I’d put them in a pot and finish heating them.

Next, I filled a large stockpot with water and set it on the stove to boil. I’d need to sterilize all my equipment before I could start cooking. As I worked, I thought back to what Cade was saying the night before. He’d made me angry with the little doses of reality he’d thrown my way, but he was right. After getting home, I’d stayed up half the night researching what it would take to really operate a peach product business on the side. There was much more to it than I’d imagined. Things like inspections, permits and licenses, product labeling . . . And what was more—who was going to do all this? Daddy wasn’t one to try new things. Come to think of it, Mama wasn’t too keen on change, either, and Ray was out of the question. He was busy with his own career and had practically abandoned anything to do with the farm. Ida had the girls and her own life, and who knew what that would be like if Hollis was convicted and sent to jail. My shoulders sagged. The only chance this had of really working was if I stayed and saw it through. Was that something I really wanted to do?

After boiling and setting the jars to dry on a clean white cotton towel, I read the recipe again. Then, as I worked through each step, I could almost hear Nana’s deep southern drawl:
Measure and set aside your sugar. Measure out your fruit into a big pot and add a smidgen of lemon juice. Start heatin’ the mixture and put in a package of pectin. Stir it until it reaches a hard boil, one that can’t be stirred down. Add the sugar and stir until it boils again. Ladle your hot liquid into clean jars.

I tuned in the old Czar radio to break the monotony as I stirred. Roscoe must have been a music aficionado, because as soon as he heard the radio playing, he wandered into the kitchen and settled at my feet. “Hey, there, Roscoe. You like Buddy Holly?” The dog answered by whapping his tail in beat to a stanza from “Peggy Sue.” We worked on together,
his little body warming my feet as music and sweet peach smells filled the kitchen. Finally, the liquid reached a rolling boil, so I dumped in the sugar and stirred some more. When it came back up to a full boil again, I excitedly removed the pot from the heat and began filling and sealing the jars.

Only, my preserves didn’t look like preserves. Instead they looked like syrup, or, more accurately, like an off-colored fruit punch with floating chunks of peaches.

“What went wrong?” I asked out loud. Roscoe stood and let out a little whine. Stepping back, I stared at the mason jars wondering if they would jell up after they cooled. Hopeful, I left the jars to sit while I got ready for lunch with Ida.

•   •   •

“Dane Hawkins?” Ida asked. “Why does that name sound familiar?” She was pushing a pile of half-eaten potatoes au gratin around her plate. I’d stopped by the diner on the way over and picked up a couple of the daily lunch specials to go: fried grouper, cheesy potatoes au gratin and a slice of pecan pie for just under seven bucks. I was having no trouble finishing mine, which I’d ordered with a side of butter beans and an iced tea.

“He used to live around here. His daddy ran the mechanics garage down in Cordele.” We were sitting at Ida’s kitchen bar, takeout bags spread around us, while the girls, long finished with their meals, watched a movie in the family room.

“Cordele, huh? Then I guess we didn’t go to school with him. I wonder why his name sounds so . . . Oh my goodness. Is he that hoodlum that you dated a couple times? The one Mama had a conniption fit over?”

I slowly nodded my head. “She forbade me to see him.”

Ida went on, “Aren’t you glad listened to her? Can you imagine what things would have been like if you’d ended up married to a private investigator?” She said “private investigator” like her mouth was full of vinegar.

Ida’s holier-than-thou attitude was wearing thin. “Well,
that
private investigator
is the one helping your husband,
the banker
, who is facing down a life sentence for murder.”
Not to mention that he’s usually drunker than Cooter Brown. And chases anything in a skirt.

Of course, I didn’t say that last part out loud. Thank goodness. Because Ida’s eyes instantly grew wide, tearing around the edges. I put down my fork and reached across the table, patting her trembling hand and trying to soften my words. “I’m sorry, Ida. It’s going to be okay.” I’d uttered those same words to Roscoe just that morning. And I still didn’t believe them myself.

She shook her head and pulled her hand back, shriveling into herself. “I’m nervous about the hearing today,” she whispered. “What if the judge sets an outrageous bail? Or what if they keep him locked up until the trial . . . or forever.” She turned away, rubbing her belly and looking out the kitchen window. I followed her gaze, noticing for the first time just how straggly their yard was looking. I bit the inside of my lip, worrying about what would happen if Hollis never returned. Would Ida move back home with the girls and the new baby, or try to go at it alone? I stared across the table at my sister, my eyes settling on her pregnant belly, worrying about the unseen effects of all this stress and cursing myself again for my harsh words. I shoved her plate a little closer. “You haven’t eaten much.”

She kept her gaze fixed out the window.

I went on, “Ray will be there. He’ll make sure Hollis gets a fair shake. Maybe he’ll even get him released on his own recognizance,” I said, grasping at straws and knowing darn well recognizance was unlikely with a murder charge. Not to mention Hollis’s recognizance would be a detriment, not an asset. At least locked up, he was sober. “Look, getting back to Dane Hawkins. I know you don’t think much of the guy. To tell the truth, he was the last person I wanted to see, but he must be good at what he does. Ray’s trusting him to prove Hollis’s innocence.” I exhaled and picked at my own food for a second before adding, “He’s already got a few leads.”

She turned back, her face brightening a little, so I went on to explain about Floyd Reeves and Millicent Wakefield. “So, you see,” I finished, “that’s why we need someone like Hawk looking into things. Heaven knows Maudy Payne won’t bother herself with these other suspects.”

“Hawk?”

I nodded. “That’s his professional name.”

She smirked, a little more of the priggish Ida returning, but I didn’t care. At this point, I much preferred Ida’s pompous attitude over her drama queen misery. I glanced at the kitchen clock. It was nearing two o’clock already. “You best get going, I guess.”

She nodded, slowly pushed back her chair and stood.

“We’ll get through this, Ida. Just have faith,” I said, standing with her.

“It’s hard to have faith, Nola, when the whole town thinks he’s guilty.”

“I don’t. And neither does Ray. Just hold on to that. And know that Ray’s doing everything possible to help you. We both are.”

In a rare moment of sisterly tenderness, Ida came toward me with her arms outstretched. I pulled her in as far as her baby bump would allow and gave her a little extra squeeze for reassurance, making her promise to call later.

I walked her to the door, watching her hug the girls good-bye while spelling out last-minute warnings of consequences for bad behavior just to turn around and temper those same warnings with extra loving pecks on their rosy cheeks. My sister was a good mama.

I shot her one last reassuring smile before she left, but deep down, I hoped Ray wasn’t making a mistake by putting so much trust in Dane Hawkins. So far, I wasn’t all that
impressed.

Georgia Belle Fact #042:
A Georgia Belle never gets upset when she sees her ex with someone else. After all, our parents taught us to be charitable with our castoffs.

It was becoming a habit to sip my morning coffee on the front porch while watching the sun rise over the treetops. This morning’s sunrise seemed unusually bright, especially since I knew Hollis was back home with Ida and the girls. The judge had set bail and Ida had readily paid it. Later, I’d dragged it out of her that she’d paid the bond with rainy-day money she’d squirreled away over the years. Lucky for Hollis that she had, or he’d be sitting in jail for a while, awaiting his trial. Of course, keeping him locked up and dry might have been the better option. Nonetheless, I knew Ida felt relieved to have him home, and I was happy for her.

During my babysitting gig the day before, I’d munched my way through a bag of popcorn and a dozen cookies while watching
The Parent Trap
and enduring a makeover that left me looking like a spiky-haired clown, before Ida finally returned home with a bedraggled Hollis in tow. Even so, the extra calories and “new look” were a fair trade-off for the opportunity to witness the sweetest homecoming ever.
Because nothing, not even Hollis’s scruffy face, stale-smelling clothes and sullen expression, could deter my nieces from giving their daddy the world’s most enthusiastic welcoming. I still smiled when I thought back to their chorus of shrieks and the way they threw themselves at him, smothering him with hugs and covering him with tiny kisses.

This morning coffee was especially satisfying because, in addition to the glorious sunrise, I was also watching Deputy Travis Hanes pull down the crime scene tape. Apparently, Maudy had finally come to her senses. Either that or she was overly confident that she had all the evidence she needed to put Hollis away. Nonetheless, as soon as Deputy Travis finished, I swilled down the rest my coffee, scooped up Roscoe, who was napping at my feet, and headed straight for Daddy’s den, where I phoned the rental place. Despite the short notice, I managed to get them to agree to come out later that afternoon to remove the tent. I certainly didn’t want to pay for an extra day’s rental. Ida, Ray and I had long ago agreed to split the cost of Mama and Daddy’s party, but as things were, I’d probably just put the extra rental fee on my own card and ask Ray to ante up his portion. It didn’t seem right to approach Ida about such things, especially with everything she was going through.

Feeling good about checking off that item, I took a small break to play with Roscoe before moving on to the other tasks on my list. I hated to admit it, but I was growing fond of the little fellow. Especially in the evening, when every single creak and groan of the old house seemed to spook me. “You’d protect me, wouldn’t you, sweetie?” I said out loud, taking the slight raise of his floppy ears as a yes. On impulse, I took his long basset ears, pulled them to the top of his head and tied them in a loose knot. “There!” I laughed at his solemn expression. “I must say, Roscoe, not even the gals at the Clip and Curl could give you a better updo than that.” He let out a playful
woo-woo
sound and shook his head until the ears flopped apart. He shot me an indignant
look; then, incident forgotten, he tooled off to his food bowl, in case some morsel might remain. I, in turn, got back to more pressing matters. I added a couple more tasks to my list: I needed to do a quick once-over of the yard and orchard again. Most of the debris had blown from the orchard by now, but there was still a lot of litter inside the tent that needed to be cleaned up. But I’d save that task for a little later in the day. First, it was off to town. In addition to picking up parts at the Mercantile and attending the planning committee meeting that evening, I wanted to run a jar of my failed preserves over to the diner and see if Ginny had any idea what might have gone wrong.

Next, I opened Daddy’s desk drawer and pulled out the petty cash envelope he’d left to cover any minor expenses, like the engine parts. With the envelope came the scent of Daddy’s cigars, which he stored in the same drawer. I inhaled and smiled. The smell always took me back to one particular fall day during my childhood. We’d gone up to Atlanta for the State Fair. Mama had entered her peach chutney in the homemakers’ exhibit—and won, too! We were all so happy, riding home that night in Daddy’s Oldsmobile: Ida, Ray and I crammed in the backseat with our souvenirs clutched in our sticky, cotton-candy fingers and Mama in the front seat with her blue ribbon and the prettiest smile on her face. I remember sometime on the way home, rain started pouring down and I fell asleep to the rhythm of the wipers, tucked in safely between my siblings and covered in Daddy’s old Muskegon jacket—the rough material laced with the scent of bourbon and spent cigars. I don’t think I’d ever felt safer or happier than that night.

Those were the good old days, filled with hard work and plenty of fun, too. Before life got complicated and before I’d made a few bad choices that sent me running from home. Funny how things changed. Coming back to Cays Mill the other day, the biggest thing on my mind was keeping a low profile to avoid stirring up the town’s gossipmongers while
I took care of the farm and figured out my job situation. Now I was facing down not one but two major family crises: losing the family business and a brother-in-law charged with murder. And, if that wasn’t enough, my past—wearing tight jeans and looking better than ever, no less—had come back to haunt me.

It was all enough to make me want to lay down my head and have a good long cry, but instead I sucked it up and turned my focus to the things I could control. Like getting the tractor and irrigation pump back up and running. I counted out the bills in the envelope, which turned out to be barely enough, if
even
enough, to pay for the parts I’d ordered at the Mercantile and Joe Puckett’s roofing supplies. Hopefully Cade could scrounge together enough supplies from his surplus stock to cut down on the overall cost. I tucked the bills into my shoulder bag along with a jar of peach goo, checked to make sure Roscoe had plenty of food and water, and headed for town.

•   •   •

“Did you follow the recipe?” Ginny was tipping my jar of runny preserves from side to side, observing the liquid as it sloshed about. I’d already run by the Mercantile and picked up parts and a few other supplies before stopping by the diner, so most of the lunch crowd had already dispersed, leaving only a few stragglers behind, sipping coffee and chatting over an extra slice of pie.

“To a T,” I declared.

“And it was your mama’s recipe, right?”

“Right.” I took another spoonful of chili. Despite the stifling heat, Sam’s spicy chili hit the spot. “I was hoping you could tell me where I went wrong.”

She swiped a red curl off her face. “Did you measure the fruit and sugar exactly like the recipe said?”

“Yup.”

“Used pectin?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Brought it up to a full rolling boil before adding the sugar?”

“Yes, I did all those things and it still turned out like that.”

“Well, how should I know, then? I’m no expert jelly maker.”

“Yes, but you’ve made it before, right?”

“Sure, but just here and there. Nothing like your mama does. Maybe you ought to wait until she gets home and ask her where you went wrong.”

I shook my head and explained my plan to start marketing and selling some of my family’s recipes. “You see, I think we could sell some of this stuff online. It seems to work for the bigger orchards up north. And we could use a little extra side income. But first I need to figure out how to make the stuff. Mama always makes it look so easy.”

“It’s not that hard, really. Just takes practice.” She swiped at the counter with a wet rag while she considered my dilemma. “I’ll tell you what,” she finally said. “Why don’t you bring your ingredients by one day and we’ll give it another try. In my kitchen this time. That way, maybe I can see what you’re doing wrong.” She lifted a huge tray of silverware and started rolling them into napkins. “You coming to the meeting tonight? It starts at six and I reckon it’ll wrap up sometime around seven thirty.” Red’s Diner only served breakfast and lunch, closing down every day at four o’clock. The schedule had worked well for Ginny and Sam over the years, allowing them to spend evenings at home as a family. Of course, they were always willing to open back up for special events like the occasional party or tonight’s Peach Festival planning meeting.

“Yeah, I’ll be there.” I explained to her my plans for testing the market at the Peach Festival. “There’s already enough jars stored up in our pantry for this weekend, but I’d love to be able to crank out a few more.”
Especially since Mama wouldn’t take well to coming home to an empty pantry.

She seemed pleased. “Well, like I said, I’ll be glad to help.”
She paused for a second and then added, “Does this mean you’re planning on sticking around a little longer this time? ’Cuz we’d sure love to have you back in Cays Mill, you know.”

It was a valid question, one I’d been tossing around in my own mind, but I didn’t have an answer yet. Deep down, I knew this plan for selling peach products wouldn’t be successful unless I stayed and saw it through. After all, there was no one else in the family who had the time or the ambition to take on a project this big. But was I ready to give up my job, however unappealing it now seemed, and stay in Cays Mill? I hadn’t decided. Truth be told, I couldn’t even make that decision until I had more information. For starters, was anyone even interested in buying Harper Peach Preserves?

I looked up from my chili, realizing Ginny was still waiting for my response. Luckily, the bells over the door jingled, momentarily distracting her. “Just take a seat anywhere. I’ll be right with ya,” she called out, leaving me to my lunch while she grabbed some menus and scurried over to a couple of well-dressed ladies.

Just then, the doorbells jingled again, and in walked Hawk with none other than the tittering, gum-chomping Laney Burns hanging on his arm. Catching sight of me, she dragged him over for an introduction. “Hey, there, Nola. This is Hawk,” she purred, looking quite proud of herself. “Isn’t he just something?” Hawk was rolling his eyes and grinning as if agreeing to Laney’s assessment.

My eyes darted from her to Hawk, and back again, getting sidetracked by her candy-red claws tracing circles on his biceps, which he flexed in response.
Unbelievable!
Is there no limit to his ego?
“Yeah, he’s something,” I mumbled.

She giggled and batted her clumpy lashes his way. “Hawk is just taking me out for a bite. Ain’t that sweet?”

“Depends on who might get bitten, I guess.”

Hawk smirked, but my comment seemed to fly right over Laney’s head. She licked her lips and continued, “Hawk’s just in town for a few days on business.” She shimmied in
a little closer to him. “But I’m thinking I might find a way to convince him to stay on longer.”

That did it. I abandoned the rest of my chili and stood abruptly. “I’m sure you will,” I said through a forced smile. I tossed a couple bills down and made a quick break for the door. Was this what he called an investigation, philandering with one of the main suspects? How dared he waste my brother’s good money! And that blasted Laney Burns. Was there any man she didn’t try to catch with those claws of hers? Of course, I could expect that type of thing from Laney. It was Hawk that surprised me—Mr. Studly Detective. All biceps and no brain—that was what he was.

I burst outside and stopped on the sidewalk, my heart pounding and fists clenched, momentarily disoriented in my own haze of anger. I was searching the square, trying to remember where I’d parked, when I spied Frances Simms making her way toward me. My anger turned to panic and I started considering escape routes. Before I could make a break for it, though, she was upon me.

“Hello, Frances,” I said, bracing myself.

She shot me a curt nod and breezed past me on her way into Red’s. I blinked in confusion. Just the day before she was on me like white on rice; today she barely gave me a second look. What was up with that? Had she already gotten the story she wanted? If so, from whom? Thank goodness the
Cays Mill Reporter
only came out on Tuesdays and Saturdays. Although, with all the days between issues, it meant that Frances had more time to build up her story. I cringed. Tomorrow’s headline was probably going to be a real eyepopper.

There’s a reason “stressed” equals the word “desserts” spelled backward. Because as my stress levels ratcheted, my eyes were naturally drawn to Sugar’s Bakery. Suddenly, nothing sounded more soothing than a sweet, sugary, sinfully scrumptious cupcake.

Ezra Sugar’s head snapped up the moment the door opened. “Nola Mae! I was hoping to see more of you. Great
party last weekend.” He patted his ample belly. “Really enjoyed the buffet,” he added, flashing a toothy grin. Ezra was a hulk of a man, nearly six and a half feet tall with dark brown skin and a bald head that reminded me of a twelve-pound bowling ball resting on top of his humongous rack of shoulders. If you saw him on the street, you’d think he was a linebacker, not a baker. But his desserts were magical. Already the yeasty smell of dough and warm sugar had relaxed my shoulders and calmed my heart rate.