Preserving Peaches

Home > Other > Preserving Peaches > Page 14
Preserving Peaches Page 14

by Pamela Burford


  “And you believed her?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Figured it was a waste of money, like she said. Wasn’t until Evie got involved that we realized what’s what.”

  “I assume she got her results at around the same time.”

  He nodded. “Only, she was a little better at figuring out the site. She showed us how you find your relatives on it. And guess what. Me and Evie? Not related. Me and Sean? Ditto.”

  “What about Evie and Sean?” I asked.

  “Turns out they’re half siblings,” he said, “based on how much DNA they share, which is twenty-five percent. I know for a fact they got the same mother.”

  “But different fathers. And neither of them is you. That must’ve come as quite a shock.”

  “Ya think?”

  “Did Peaches continue to deny it?” I asked.

  “She tried to, but Evie wasn’t having it. She forced her to admit the truth. Anyone else that did what she did, they’d be groveling, begging our forgiveness. Not Peaches, no sirree. She was just angry that her little secret wasn’t so secret anymore.”

  “So she kicked you out,” I said. “You and Sean.”

  He nodded, his face contorted in outrage. “She acted like we were the ones that did something wrong, can you believe it? Cut me off without a dime, just like that. After promising me I don’t know how many times that we’d always be together, that she’d support me for the rest of my life. And to top it off, Sean was now a hundred percent my responsibility. She wanted nothing more to do with either of us.”

  “Your responsibility? Even though it had just been scientifically proven that he did not spring from your loins?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “Peaches knew my mom would never let me just cut him loose.”

  What I thought but didn’t say was that Sean was not a kid anymore and should be his own responsibility at this point. As should his father, for that matter. What would the two of them do when Audrey was no longer around to take care of them? I couldn’t see Evie supporting them, cleaning and cooking for them, and making sure they don’t run out of their favorite sodas.

  “Evie told me her mother had started dating,” I said.

  “Started dating?” He snorted. “You’re assuming she ever stopped.”

  “Do you happen to know whether there was anyone special? Or did she, you know, play the field?” Before he could respond with a nasty comment, I added, “It’s always possible that one of her, um, new friends might have made off with the peach collection.”

  “They could’ve been lined up outside her bedroom, taking tickets and waiting their turn, for all I know. I stopped caring after she gave me the boot.”

  “So you would have been willing to stay with Peaches,” I asked, “even knowing how she’d deceived you?”

  He spread his arms, indicating his current living situation. “It’s not like I had a lot of options.”

  “Can I ask why the two of you never got married?” I said.

  “I wanted to from the get-go,” he said. “Peaches didn’t believe in marriage. She was a... a free spirit, I guess you’d say. Eventually I realized there was more to it than that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She wanted to keep me poor and dependent on her,” he said. “Wanted to make sure I never had a legal right to anything that was hers, even after she was dead.”

  “How did the kids react to the news that you’re not their biological dad?” I asked.

  “Sean’s relieved to find out he’s not related to a loser like me.”

  Lovely. “What about Evie?”

  “She kept hammering away at her mother, demanding to know who her real dad is. If Peaches knew, she took it to her grave.” He glanced toward the entrance to the kitchen and lowered his voice. “Mom keeps saying I’m their real dad, in the ways that count, you know? But I gotta be honest, I’m having a hard time with it.”

  “That’s understandable, Carter. You’ve had quite an emotional blow. I have a feeling that with time, you’ll come to see it your mom’s way,” I said, with more conviction than I felt.

  From the kitchen, Audrey called, “More coffee, Jane?”

  “Oh, no thanks, Audrey. I’m good.”

  She came back in and parked herself next to me once more. “Sorry that took so long. I decided to put a couple of chickens in to roast. There’s just enough room for them in Sean’s freezer. Ever since that boy was little, he could never resist Grandma’s roast chicken, with my ‘secret spices.’”

  “No problem,” I said. “Carter and I have just been chatting.”

  I thought about Evie’s version of her parents’ breakup versus what I’d just learned from Carter and his mother. The only point of intersection in the two stories was the date: October 30. Carter and Peaches might indeed have argued about trick-or-treat candy that day, as she’d claimed, but the conflict that tore them apart was far more painful and destructive.

  Evie had deliberately misled me. If it had been a onetime thing, I’d have let it slide, considering she was such a private person and that we were dealing with a particularly scandalous family secret. But there was also that tall tale about her mom’s incredibly lucrative modeling career. How many other lies had Evie fed me?

  And where had Peaches’s money come from?

  “Peaches was an attractive woman,” I said. “I understand she was a model at one time.”

  “Only for a little while,” Carter said, “after she quit school.”

  “Yeah? I have this image of her as a glamorous supermodel.”

  “Nah, it was nothing like that. A few clothing ads.”

  Audrey turned to her son. “I believe she gave it up by the time you two met. Isn’t that right?”

  “Uh-huh.” He kept his gaze on the cookie he was reaching for.

  I adopted a teasing tone of voice. “So she didn’t make the kind of outrageous fortunes you hear about?”

  “I wish,” he said, before cramming the whole cookie into his mouth.

  “Well, but at least she had her advice column,” I said. “‘Peaches Preaches.’ That’s pretty glamorous, too. I’ll bet she made a nice living from that.”

  Audrey said, “Oh, she didn’t start writing that column until just a few years ago.”

  “Eleven years,” Carter said.

  “Has it been that long?” she said. “It really is true what they say. The older you get, the faster time flies.”

  “And that magazine didn’t pay her that much, believe me,” he said. “She did it mainly for the attention. Same reason she got involved in modeling.”

  “Well, that’s surprising,” I said, “considering her comfortable standard of living. Of course, it’s none of my business where she got her money.”

  As those words left my lips, I kept my eyes on Carter, who suddenly found his empty soda bottle of absorbing interest. His mother broke the silence.

  “It’s no big secret,” Audrey said. “Peaches inherited a nice little bundle from her father. She told me so.”

  “But didn’t her father die just four years ago?” I asked. Meaning how did she support herself and her family during the decades before that?

  “You know,” Carter said, “I think her old man was giving her money every year while he was still alive. For tax reasons or something. She never really explained the ins and outs, but it was enough for us to live on, so I wasn’t about to complain.” His chuckle sounded strained.

  “Well, I never knew that,” Audrey said, “but I guess it makes sense. It must be nice to just have money handed to you like that.”

  Evie had told me that not only did her grandfather die with no assets beyond his house, but that Peaches had been paying the upkeep on the house the entire time her family had lived there with him—more than twenty years. In other words, Peaches was helping to support her father, not the other way around. Which one was telling the truth, Carter or Evie?

  The heavenly smell of roast chicken began crowding out eau d
e lasagna, sparking a mental debate of momentous consequence. Where to order takeout tonight? The Italian place or the chicken place?

  “Okay, this might seem like it’s coming out of left field,” I said, “and the connection might not be obvious at first, but trust me, it pertains to Peaches’s missing knickknacks. Both of you know the neighbor across the street there on Rayburn, right?”

  “Of course,” Audrey said. “That nice boy Zak Pryce. He’s a widower.” Was she capable of saying the word without whispering?

  “It’s about him being a widower, as a matter of fact,” I said. “His wife died eleven years ago. She drowned in her bathtub.”

  “That poor girl,” Audrey said. “I remember when it happened. Awful, just awful. Carter, you must recall it better than I do. You lived right across the street from them, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Sure.” Her son gave a dismissive shrug. “Stuff like that doesn’t happen every day.”

  I said, “Oh, I’m sure Carter remembers it better than he’s letting on. After all, he and Peaches provided Zak’s alibi.”

  Audrey’s eyes grew round. “Alibi? What does she mean, Carter?”

  He looked like he wanted to slink upstairs and change back into his jammies. “It’s no big deal,” he said. “The cops asked Zak where he was when Stacey drowned, and he told them he was at our place, watching tennis. We backed him up, is all.”

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me about this?” she said.

  “’Cause it’s no big deal, like I said. The guy needed an alibi and we gave him one.”

  She pressed a hand to her heart. I’ll admit I was content to sit back and observe while Audrey did the heavy lifting in this conversation. “You lied to protect him?”

  “No. You’re twisting my words. I never said we lied. Jeez, Mom.”

  Okay, you got me. There was, in fact, no connection between Stacey Pryce’s death and Peaches’s missing knickknacks. I just told them that to justify my snooping. I felt terrible about the fib and braced myself for a lightning strike.

  There. Now, may I continue?

  Audrey said, “But I thought you told me Zak was just a neighbor, that you just waved to each other.” She helpfully demonstrated by giving a little wave.

  Carter was getting antsy. “Yeah, and the one time we decide to be nice and invite him over, his wife croaks on him. So much for getting chummy with the neighbors.”

  “I suppose.” His mother wore a troubled frown.

  “Now, see, you’re getting yourself worked up, I can tell,” he said. “Why do you think we never mentioned it, Mom? ’Cause we knew how you get.”

  “They decided it was an accident, though, right?” she said.

  “That’s right, just a tragic accident.” Carter wagged his empty soda bottle at her. “I could use another one of these next time you get up.”

  9

  Lather, Rinse, Repeat

  SO ABOUT THAT dog lovers’ dating site. Obviously Howie considered the very idea laughably bizarre, as if anyone who sought a relationship based on a mutual devotion to their pets had to be, well, more than a little desperate. Whereas to me it seemed like a perfectly reasonable and totally not desperate thing to do. Can you guess why? Oh, come on, guess.

  Yep, I’d been a member of dog-loving-singles.com since the previous summer, after concluding that the men in my life were far less reliable companions than man’s—make that woman’s—best friend. I’d ended up suspending my membership a few weeks later, after suffering through a handful of the Worst Dates Ever. After Howie’s offhand comment about Burke Fletcher, however, I reactivated it and started noodling around on the site, hunting my quarry.

  For security reasons, members don’t post using their actual names. They choose silly usernames that say something about themselves. There’s a subtle art to this, which I belatedly discovered after signing on as Sexy_Beast’s_Mama. What can I tell you? I was new to this whole computer dating thing. When I finally connected the shockingly salacious invitations I was receiving with my unwittingly salacious username, I wised up and changed it to Doggie_ Style.

  Just kidding. My fellow dog lovers now know me as Must_Love_Poodles. Fortunately, members don’t have to rely on usernames alone. The site lets us filter results by geographical location and (drumroll, please) dog breed. You’ll never guess how many members of dog-loving-singles.com live in Rego Park and own three Cirnechi dell’Etna.

  Okay, you guessed right. Needless to say, I lost no time setting up a date with the one and only gentleman who satisfied both those criteria. I_Didn’t_Name_Them was the proud human guardian of Lather, Rinse, and Repeat. Yeah, guardian. Using the term owner will get you banned from the site.

  The pictures Burke had posted showed smallish dogs that looked a little like greyhounds, but with tan coats and large, upright ears. The dogs were handsome specimens, as was their owner. For some reason, this came as a surprise, partly because of his age—I knew him to be in his early sixties—and partly because he was, well, a stalker. Maybe. I still wasn’t clear on that. Perhaps even a murderer. At the very least he’d harassed Peaches and scared her enough to try for an order of protection.

  Burke’s photo showed a fit older guy with an appealingly craggy face, light gray eyes, and thick salt-and-pepper hair cut in an attractive spiky style.

  We exchanged cordial messages in which we arranged to meet for lunch at a café in Roslyn, a village situated approximately halfway between Crystal Harbor and Rego Park. The weather lady promised one of those unseasonably warm early April days that are downright intoxicating after a long, frigid winter—an ideal day to enjoy the café’s dog-friendly outdoor patio.

  Before my face-to-face meeting with Burke Fletcher, I had a little homework to do. A quick online search in the “Peaches Preaches” archives turned up the particular column that had marked the beginning of the end of his marriage.

  Dear Peaches,

  I can’t believe I’m writing to you, but I’m at my wits’ end and don’t know where else to turn. I’ve been married for thirty-one years to a man so mean and controlling, I can’t believe I’ve put up with him this long.

  He’s verbally abusive. He doesn’t let me take a job outside the house. I’m not allowed to visit my family or friends. I’m a virtual prisoner in my own home. Lately he’s been trying to get me hooked on drugs.

  There’s no telling what he’s going to do next. I’m honestly afraid for my life. Please help me.

  It was signed “Prisoner of Love.” This is how Peaches responded:

  Dear Prisoner,

  Please help you? Yeah, right, that’ll happen. There’s only one person who can help you, you whiny little doormat, and that’s you. You can’t believe you’ve put up with him for so long? Well, I can. You’re just another sniveling complainer who refuses to take responsibility for her life.

  Since you seem to need step-by-step instructions, here they are:

  Step 1. Divorce him.

  There is no Step 2. Just jettison that controlling bastard from your life and file that blighted marriage under Better Late Than Never.

  And good luck being a grownup for the first time in your namby-pamby life.

  It was trademark Peaches, all right. I’d read plenty of her columns, but I must admit, none had made me cringe the way this one did. In part it was because I knew how it turned out—Burke’s wife actually did leave him, on the recommendation of a stranger—but also because, let’s face it, her letter to Peaches was pretty alarming.

  I left the house early so I could get to the café before Burke did, watch for his arrival, and make a run for it if he looked like a homicidal maniac.

  Thank you for the reminder. Yes, I’m well aware that homicidal maniacs tend to look like regular folks until it’s too late. I’ve met my share of them, in case you’ve forgotten. Would it hurt you to indulge my delusions, just this once?

  I hadn’t mentioned this so-called date to either my ex or the padre, not wanting to put up with their so-called ratio
nal objections. And after all, I’d be meeting Burke in an open-air eatery in full view of the staff and other diners, and I still had the so-called self-defense spike Dom had given me, so I was so-called safe, right?

  And for the record, I was no longer trying to convince myself that my poking and prying was all about those pesky peach tchotchkes. But I mean, what was I supposed to do when faced with the irresistible opportunity to chat up a guy who’d clearly had it in for the murder victim? And yeah, I know Howie and Cookie already interviewed him, but who knew what he might let slip when he had his guard down?

  The café’s hostess escorted me through the charming restaurant and onto its charming patio. It might have been the first warm, sunny day of spring, but it was also a weekday, so only a handful of the dozen or so tables were occupied. The other diners wore business attire and were unaccompanied by pets, so I assumed they worked in the area.

  Even though I’d arrived a good fifteen minutes before our scheduled meeting time, wouldn’t you know it, there was Burke, comfortably seated at a table on the far end with a direct line of sight to the doorway. His canine trio lounged at his feet, gnawing on the homemade dog biscuits the restaurant provided its canine customers.

  Well, dang. The guy was one step ahead of me already.

  My date stood as I approached, prompting his dogs to do the same. He wore a dark blue linen shirt, open at the collar, and neat khakis. “Lovely to meet you, Jane. I’m Burke.” Instead of shaking my hand, he placed a chaste kiss on my cheek.

  I mumbled some words which I can only hope were appropriate to the situation, because the second surprising thing about Burke Fletcher, apart from his good looks, was his British accent.

  A totally distracting combination, and so not fair. At least he was a lot older than I, but for the life of me, as his appreciative silver-gray gaze took me in, I couldn’t remember why that was supposed to matter.

  “And here’s Sexy Beast, in the flesh,” he said.

 

‹ Prev