Preserving Peaches

by Pamela Burford

  “Who says I’m gonna skip?”

  “I just wanted to make sure you understand the consequences.” I strongly suspected I was wasting my breath. “Let’s talk about your case. What evidence do the cops have against you?”

  “None. It’s total BS.”

  “They must have had some grounds for arrest.” When he responded with another shrug, I said, “Didn’t a neighbor report an argument between you and your mom? Shortly after Thanksgiving?”

  Sean’s face twisted into an ugly sneer. “That loser Zak should mind his own business.”

  Zak was the fellow who lived across the street, the one Audrey had greeted. I said, “Apparently Zak heard you threaten your mom.”

  “She threatened me all the time.”

  “She did?” I said. “How? What did she say?”

  “Always saying she was gonna kick me out, stop supporting me. If I don’t ‘change my ways.’”

  “Change your ways how?” I asked.

  “Like get a job,” he said. “Or go to college. Or check this out—she said I could join the army. Learn some discipline. I mean, for real?”

  What a heartless monster that Peaches was.

  “And in the end, she did kick me out!” Sean was the picture of aggrieved victimhood. “Me and Dad both. I mean, what kind of person does a thing like that? But I’m back here now, and she can’t do a thing about it, can she?”

  “So this argument Zak overheard,” I said, “when he says you threatened your mom. This was a day or two after Thanksgiving, right?”

  “I don’t remember,” he said.

  “Okay, well, where did it take place? Inside the house? Somewhere else?”

  “I don’t remember.” His expression was mulish.

  I sighed. “Sean, we’ve already established that I’m not a member of law enforcement. I’m not trying to trip you up or anything, so just be straight with me.”

  An exaggerated grimace. “Mom was always bitching at me. And I didn’t take crap from her, okay? So yeah, we got into it a few times. But I wouldn’t have, like, said I was gonna kill her or anything. If I did, I didn’t mean it.”

  “So you don’t recall the specific fight Zak witnessed? Right after Thanksgiving?” I tried to spur his memory. “We’re talking the end of November. I believe that’s when we got our first snowfall.”

  “What can I tell you?” he said. “I was probably zoned.”

  How could you argue with a convenient catch-all excuse like I was too high to remember? I wanted to ask him if that was the last time he saw his mother, but what was the point when he couldn’t remember when, where, or even if that particular altercation took place?

  Sexy Beast had been dozing, catlike, in a golden puddle of sunshine on the stone floor. Now he roused himself, stretched luxuriantly, and leapt onto the bench. Dom settled him on his lap.

  “So your mom followed through on her threat to kick you out,” I said, “but was she ever physically violent or threaten you with violence?”

  “What,” he said, “turning me out on the streets wasn’t enough?”

  “You weren’t exactly on the streets, though, were you?” I said. “You and your dad moved in with your grandma Audrey.”

  “Yeah, some picnic that was. Sleeping on a lumpy old pullout sofa in her basement. Plus, Grandma wouldn’t let Cheyenne stay over.” He rolled his eyes at prudish old Grandma. “I moved back here as soon as I found out Mom was missing for real.”

  Not for the first time, I wondered what Peaches had been doing in that attic. Was she looking for something? Meeting someone? Had her murderer snuck up on her or was it someone she knew and trusted?

  “Okay,” I said, “so you don’t recall the argument Zak claims he overheard. Even if it happened, that alone isn’t enough to get you arrested for murder. What other evidence do the cops have on you?”

  “I don’t remember too much of what they said.”

  “Too high again?” I didn’t even try to mask my skepticism. How high do you have to be to forget why you’ve been arrested for murder?

  He answered with another shrug and a smarmy little smile.

  There was little I could do to help Sean if he wasn’t willing to cooperate. I intended to check in with my pal Howie Werker, a local police detective, and try to find out what they actually had on the kid. Once I’d done that, I’d consider my promise to Cheyenne fulfilled, and leave the rest of it in the capable hands of the Amazing Carlos Levine, Esquire.

  Sean held out his hand. “Gimme my phone.”

  “In a minute,” I said. “There’s something else we need to discuss first.”

  “Come on, dude.”

  “It’ll just take a—”

  “No! We’re done.” He wagged his hand toward Dom. “Give me my damn phone and get the hell out.”

  Dom withdrew Sean’s phone from his pocket. The look I gave him said, Really? You cave to this little cretin just like that? I should have known better. Instead of handing it over, he started tapping the screen.

  “Wow,” Dom said, “twenty-one texts just in the last few minutes. You’re a popular guy.”

  Sean jerked up on the chaise. “Give me that!”

  “Your pal Scott’s been trying to get ahold of you. Seems he has something for you. It’s going to cost more than last time, but it’s premium—”

  “That’s private!” Sean yelled, prompting an answering howl from Sexy Beast. “What you’re doing is illegal.”

  “Is it?” Dom asked mildly as he continued to scroll through Sean’s messages. “You’d better call the cops, then, and tell them you didn’t give me permission to read these texts from your dealer.”

  “Hmm,” I said. “Buying and using illicit drugs while you’re out on bail. Don’t the courts frown on that sort of thing?”

  “Oh, and here are a bunch of new messages from someone named Tinsel.” Dom looked at Sean. “Tinsel? Really? Please tell me she was born on Christmas. Then at least there’d be some justification.”

  Sean was turning all kinds of interesting colors, but I noticed he didn’t try to snatch the phone back. My ex might have been twice his age, but he was easily twice as strong, not to mention bigger and unencumbered by reflex-slowing felonious substances.

  I turned to Dom. “What does our girl Tinsel have to say?”

  His dark eyebrows rose. “Tinsel is one healthy girl, I’ll give you that.”

  I leaned over to check out the phone display. “Wow. So that’s Tinsel. Hey, Sean. Does Cheyenne know Tinsel is sending you nude selfies?”

  Sean affected nonchalance. “I can’t help it if some random girl has the hots for me. It’s not the first time. Doesn’t mean I do anything about it.”

  “Tinsel says you did.” Dom scrolled through her texts. “Tinsel says the two of you did a whole bunch of naughty things right here in this room, just yesterday. Why, here’s a picture of you and Tinsel on this very bench.”

  “Eww, really?” I looked at the picture. So glad we’d ditched the cushion. “That Tinsel sure is limber. Tell me, Sean, how did you meet Tinsel?”

  “Why do you two keep saying her name so much?” he griped.

  “We just like the way it sounds,” Dom said. “Tinsel Tinsel Tinsel.”

  “It sounds shiny,” I said. “Tinsel.”

  “Does Cheyenne know Tinsel?” Dom asked.

  “Yeah, they’re besties.” Sean scowled. “Don’t tell Cheyenne about this. It’s none of her business.”

  “None of her business?” I said. “I don’t know if I can keep you and Tinsel a secret, seeing as Cheyenne is my close personal friend and all.”

  “Seriously, dude.” Sean actually looked worried. “Cheyenne’s got a temper. It’s not like I planned to cheat or anything. It just happened.”

  “I hear you, man,” Dom said, tapping a picture to enlarge it. “Hard to resist a woman who can do this. That Tinsel, I’m telling ya.”

  “So you won’t tell Cheyenne?” Sean said. “Seriously, that girl’s crazy jeal
ous. She’ll kill me.”

  “Well, now, here’s the thing,” Dom said. “It’s really up to Jane here, and I sense she’s becoming a little impatient with you. Is that a fair assessment, Janey?”

  “Why, yes it is, Dom. I’m so miffed at Sean right now, I can’t wait to run straight to Cheyenne and tell her all about what he’s been up to with her best friend, Tinsel. You know what? Send me some of those adorable pictures of Tinsel in case Cheyenne wants proof.”

  “Good idea.” Dom started forwarding the texts. “Here comes Tinsel!”

  “Dude!” Sean cried. “Okay, stop, stop. If I answer your questions, do you promise to keep your mouths shut about Tinsel?”

  “That depends,” I said. “Are you going to stick to the truth? Because I’m telling you right now, Sean, if you lie to me, or if you give me more of that ‘too high to remember’ nonsense, Cheyenne gets an earful, and an eyeful, of what you’ve been up to.”

  “All right, jeez,” he whined. “What do you wanna know?”

  Time to get to work on behalf of a paying client. “It’s about your mother’s peach collection,” I said.

  “Her what?”

  “All those figurines,” I said, “the little knickknacks and things shaped like peaches that she collected over the years. She kept them in that china cabinet in the living room, right?”

  “Oh, that crap,” he said. “Yeah, I know what you’re talking about. I don’t know where that stuff is.”

  “Are you sure?” Dom said. “Because it looks like someone broke into the china cabinet to get to them.”

  “What do you care?” he asked. “I thought you were here to help me stay out of jail. Those peach things, they got nothing to do with my mom’s murder.”

  That’s what I’d originally assumed, too, but experience had taught me that assumptions can be dangerous.

  I said, “Just because the connection isn’t obvious at first glance doesn’t mean there’s no connection. Was that peach collection still in the china cabinet when you moved back here in December?”

  Sean got a cagey look. Before he could say a word, I jerked upright and stabbed a finger toward him. “Remember what I said, Sean. One lie, the teeniest, tiniest fib, and you’ll be hoping they put you behind bars for life.”

  In case this mental giant failed to catch my meaning, Dom added, “Where Cheyenne can’t get to you.”

  Sean rolled his eyes. “I don’t remember if those peach things were there when I moved back, okay? And I don’t know what happened to them.”

  “That’s hard to believe,” Dom said, “considering you’ve been living under this roof full-time. And something tells me you don’t leave the house much.”

  “People come by,” he said. “It’s a big place. I can’t keep an eye on everyone all the time.”

  I said, “So you’re telling me that one of your buddies smashed the door of that china cabinet and swiped that whole collection, all fifty or so pieces, and you never knew about it?”

  He responded with one of those indolent shrugs I was coming to despise.

  “When did you notice they were gone?” I asked.

  “Seriously,” he said, “who cares? If someone wants all that ugly junk, what’s it to me?”

  Did he really not know some of those pieces were valuable, or was he counting on me not knowing? It was hard to believe Peaches never bothered to show him the few special pieces or mention their worth. Then again, if she was aware of his fondness for drugs and aversion to gainful employment—and apparently she was—then it might have served her purposes to let him believe it was all a bunch of worthless gewgaws. Why tempt him?

  I tried a different tack, softening my tone. “You know, Sean, if you did something with your mom’s peach collection, you can tell us.”

  “Or if you know who has them,” Dom added. “It’s not like you’re going to get in trouble if you, I don’t know, gave them away or whatever.”

  Whew, what a relief it must be for the young man awaiting trial for murder to know he wouldn’t get yelled at for misplacing his mom’s tchotchkes.

  Sean’s expression said we were the biggest dummies he’d ever met. “Why would I get in trouble for getting rid of something that belongs to me? Mom told me she was leaving all those junky peach things to me if she ever kicked the bucket.” Sean held out his hand. “Now, gimme my phone and get lost.”

  5

  They’d Never Find Your Body

  BLINDING SUNLIGHT GREETED us when we left the house. I inhaled a refreshing lungful of untainted air and was about to unlock the car when Dom moved in close. For a giddy moment I thought he was going in for a smooch—totally inappropriate behavior for a man engaged to be married, of course, but that didn’t stop my heart from giving a little kick.

  Instead he murmured, “So both kids think they’re inheriting the peach collection?”

  “The result of a memory lapse, I suspect,” I whispered. “She promises them to one kid, forgets she did it, and later promises them to the other one. It happens all the time, trust me. I can’t tell you how many family squabbles I’ve been called in to referee, for just this reason.” I beeped the car locks and opened the driver’s-side door, but didn’t get in.

  “What?” Dom followed my gaze to the house across the street, the sage-green Victorian.

  “That’s where Zak lives. The guy who overheard that argument between Sean and Peaches.” The smile I gave Dom was equal parts playful and pleading. “Do you have to get right back to the office?”

  I knew that as the zillionaire owner of the Janey’s Place health-food empire, my ex didn’t have to do anything he didn’t want to, workwise, but I figured it was polite to ask.

  Dom’s long-suffering sigh didn’t fool me for an instant. He was as intrigued as I was, by both Peaches’s murder and Peaches’s peaches. “All right, come on,” he said, and led the way across the street.

  The door sported a whimsical brass knocker shaped like a woman’s hand holding a little globe. My triple tap was answered by vigorous barking from inside the house. These were loud, deep, authoritative barks. Doberman? Rottweiler? Sexy Beast, predictably, responded in kind, prompting me to reach into the tote and get a firm grip on him. I heard a muffled command from inside. The other dog quieted and the door swung open.

  Zak had shed his suede jacket and now wore a butterscotch-colored pullover with the sleeves pushed up. He didn’t ask what we were doing there but simply waited, unsmiling.

  I smiled, though, and so did Dom. “Hi,” I said. “My name is Jane Delaney and this is Dom Faso. And this little guy is Sexy Beast. You might’ve seen us going into Peaches’s house earlier?” No response. I charged ahead. “Audrey said your name is Zak, I believe?”

  He hesitated, and in truth, I couldn’t blame him for being cautious. I’m sure he’d seen all manner of lowlifes coming and going at the house across the street during the past four months.

  I added, “We’re friends of Audrey’s granddaughter, Evie.” The not-so-hidden subtext being: We’re friends of your dead neighbor’s respectable, hardworking daughter, not her good-for-nothing son. See? Don’t we look respectable, too?

  A big, shaggy, white dog that was definitely not a Rottweiler was attempting to squirm past his master to check us out. He appeared to be mixed-breed, with blue eyes, cocked ears, and one of those smiling dog faces that seem irresistibly expressive. Right now that smile, along with the enthusiastically wagging tail, was saying, Cool! New friends! Come on in! Make yourself at home! I’ll share my tennis ball with you!

  He and Sexy Beast exchanged a congenial conversation in Dog. This alone told me Zak’s pet must be a pretty easygoing fellow, because SB generally had little use for other canines. That said, he’d made significant progress during the past year since I’d become his guardian. Irene hadn’t believed in doggie socialization, while I made it a point to regularly expose him to other canines, mostly through long walks around the neighborhood and frequent jaunts to the local dog park.

&nb
sp; I couldn’t help myself. “Look at that face! Hey there, cutie.” To Zak: “May I pet him? Her?”

  Even the grumpiest stranger can rarely resist someone loving up his pet. “Him. This is Dylan.” He allowed the dog to push past him and receive scritches from me and Dom.

  “Are you as musical as your namesake?” Dom asked the friendly pooch.

  “He’s been known to howl along with my harmonica,” Zak said, “but that might be more criticism than accompaniment. Anyway, he’s named for Dylan Thomas, the Welsh poet, not Bob Dylan.”

  “‘Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night,’” Dom said. “I’ve always found that poem very moving.”

  A glimmer of respect softened the other man’s features. “I’m Zak Pryce.” He and Dom shook.

  “Nice to meet you, Zak.” I offered my hand, and he shook it. Zak’s hand was large and pleasingly rough, as if he was no stranger to manual labor, despite looking like something out of GQ.

  Now that we were all acquainted, I said, “I hope this isn’t too much of an imposition, Zak, but do you mind very much if we come in for a minute? It’s about Peaches. I’m helping the family tie up some loose ends and I just have a couple of questions for you.”

  Clearly he did mind, but how to tactfully refuse to help the family of a murder victim? “I’m kind of busy, but I guess I can spare a couple of minutes.”

  “Thanks so much,” I said, as he stepped aside to let us enter the foyer. “We’ll be out of your hair in no time. Oh, what a lovely home.” I wasn’t lying. Even in the midst of renovations, it was impressive. The original century-old woodwork was in varying stages of refinishing. The place smelled of freshly sanded wood and shellac. Assorted tools and supplies, including a wallpaper steamer, rested on a nearby drop cloth, alongside the Home Depot sacks he’d just brought in.

  “I see you’re doing some work,” Dom said.

  “I’ll be putting this house on the market as soon as I close on my new place. It’ll show better with some sprucing up.”

  “Oh, you’re moving?” I asked. “Where to?”