Peach Clobbered

by Anna Gerard

  And the noiseless protest wasn’t going unnoticed by the townspeople, either. As the sisters continued circling the square, passing drivers honked and gave them a thumbs-up, some even leaning out their windows to shout words of encouragement. The foot traffic on the square was equally enthusiastic, with passersby stepping out of the way to let the marchers go by.

  But the nuns had a bit of competition. Out on the bandstand, Freezie the Penguin was bopping and moonwalking to faint music that I assumed must be coming from a boombox. His performance was attracting the kiddie tourist set. Over the next half hour, while the nuns marched, four or five grade school–aged boys and girls took turns dancing alongside the penguin while their parents presumably were hitting the nearby antique stores.

  The occasional teen girls were focused on Freezie, too. More than once, I saw one or two of them rush up the bandstand steps to take a selfie with him before running off in a torrent of giggles. Those girls looked like locals, and I suspected they knew full well who was under the penguin costume. Hence the nervous giggling.

  “Hello. May I join you?” came a man’s raspy voice beside me as I kept watch on all the action.

  Standing beside the bench was a gentleman in his seventies wearing putty-colored pants and a bright-blue pullover that set off his full shock of white hair. He had ruddy cheeks reminiscent of Ronald Reagan, but his otherwise pallid complexion seemed a reflection more of illness than of a basic lack of melanin-producing cells.

  For a single surprised moment, I thought he was the New Yorker who’d earlier flipped me off. But a second look told me this was someone else. For one thing, he was smiling. And his soft drawl that I could hear despite his labored breathing did not originate from the Empire State.

  “Sure, let me make room,” I replied, and moved the water bottles and cookie bin to one side.

  The man lowered himself onto the wooden slats, gripping the edges with large, gnarled hands. “Thanks. I’ve got a little lung issue, and I gotta set down every so often when I walk.”

  “How far are you going?” I asked in concern. Chances were the “little lung issue” was actually a big one, like emphysema or COPD. My ex-father-in-law had suffered from the disease, and I could recall the difficulty he’d had walking even a short distance unassisted.

  “Don’t worry yourself, ma’am,” the newcomer replied, smile broadening. “I don’t have much farther to go. I’m headed across the street to the printing shop to visit my little girl. She’s the owner.”

  That last was said with a father’s unmistakable pride, and I gave him a surprised look. “You’re Becca Gleason’s dad?”

  “I sure am. And, yes, she gets her good looks from her momma.”

  He’d doubtless used that line numerous times over the years as a mild joke … or to stave off unthinking comments from people who were clueless regarding mixed marriages.

  “Oh, I’m not surprised you’re her father,” I hurried to assure him. “It’s just funny how I was talking to Becca less than a half hour ago, and she mentioned her dad. And now, here you are. I’m Nina Fleet, by the way,” I introduced myself, sticking out my hand. “I moved to town a few weeks ago.”

  “Welcome to our little town. Travis M. Gleason, at your service. Just call me Travis.” His handshake was brief but surprisingly firm for someone of his age and debility. “What’s with the nuns and all those signs? They protesting the Pope or something?”

  “Actually, they’re protesting against the developer who took over their convent and left them homeless.”

  The man’s genial expression abruptly hardened.

  “You mean Greg Bainbridge? He’s the same sorry SOB that screwed me and a bunch of other folks … pardon my French.”

  Which I already knew, thanks to Becca. I gave him a headshake to show I wasn’t worried over his mild vulgarity. “That’s okay. What happened, if you don’t mind saying?”

  “It’s no secret,” Travis replied with a shrug. “About five years back, he showed up in our neighborhood with some official-looking report that said all the groundwater there was contaminated with heavy metals. Said the scientists claimed we’d get cancer and all the new babies would be born with defects if we kept drinking it. Scared the holy hell outta us.”

  “I’ll bet,” I replied, pretty sure I knew where this story was going.

  The man nodded. “Of course, no one wanted to give up their place, especially since most of the mortgages were already paid off. But folks had kids and grandkids, and we got worried. So Bainbridge bought us all out, paid us maybe a third of what the land was worth. He said he’d just sit on the property until someday someone figured out how to fix it so folks could live there again. And we was all real grateful to him.”

  Saint Gregory strikes again.

  Travis continued, “Then, a few months after the closings, Bainbridge came back with a new report saying the first tests were wrong. Bad sampling, he said. The water was fine, he said. Next day, bulldozers were out clearing everything so he could build that new subdivision of his.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “Yeah. He gets his new subdivision. Meantime, I’m stuck in a trailer in a park with a bunch of other old geezers, instead of living in my nice, paid-off house where my late wife and I raised our baby girl. I retired ten years ago, but now I’ve gotta go back to doing handyman work again to pay my rent.”

  The bitterness in his tone was obvious. I could understand why Becca was ready to jump in on the protest. “I assume you talked to an attorney about the deal?”

  “More than one. But all the lawyers who reviewed our case said they wouldn’t be able to prove in a court of law that he’d done anything illegal.” His gnarled hands tightened into blocky fists. “If I wasn’t sick, I’d of taken him out somewhere and beat the crud out of him long ago. But my girl says not to worry. She says he’ll get his comeuppance someday.”

  “Maybe the nuns will have better success than the lawyers. Cookie?” I offered, hoping to lighten the mood a bit.

  A flicker of a smile returned. “Thanks, young lady, but I’d better go. Becca said she’d treat me to lunch at Peaches and Java.”

  “Well, enjoy. And nice meeting you.”

  We made our goodbyes, and he ambled off in the direction of the printing shop. It was then that I heard the shrill bleat of Sister Mary George’s whistle. At the signal, the nuns made a sharp turn and headed back to where I was waiting at the bench.

  “We are taking a short break,” Mother Superior explained once they’d returned and set down their signs again. “Perhaps you can distribute those cookies to the sisters now. We’ll make a decision on lunch after that.”

  “Of course.”

  I opened the bin and began handing out napkins and snacks. Mother Superior, meanwhile, drew Sister Mary George to one side and asked, “How are all the sisters holding up?”

  “I’m afraid Mary Paul is a bit overheated. She should rehydrate and rest for a while. And Mary Thomas appeared to be limping.”

  “Just a blister,” that nun bravely confirmed as she bit into cookie. “Maybe we can find a bit of sticking plaster at the drugstore?”

  “A good idea,” Mother Superior agreed. “Mary George can handle that. Someone please make sure that Mary Paul sits down and finishes her water. Speaking of which, we should probably have someone go to one of the shops to refill our bottles. Sister Mary Christopher?”

  “I’m on it, Reverend Mother,” the nun replied, her usual warble toned down a few notches in the heat. She began gathering the reusable containers as swiftly as the thirsty women drained them.

  Mother Superior gave an approving nod. “As for the rest of you, if you wish to visit the facilities across the way, now is the time to do so. I plan to take advantage of them myself.”

  “Anything I can do to help, Reverend Mother?” I wanted to know.

  “Yes. Please stay with Sister Mary Paul until I return, and make sure she drinks her water.”

  While the other nuns disp
ersed, I closed up the cookie bin; then, spreading one of the extra napkins atop it, I set the container in front of the bench where the tiny nun was sitting. “Here, Sister, prop your feet on top of the box so you’re more comfortable.”

  “Thank you, child,” she said with a smile, and complied as I sat beside her. “I just need rest for moment.”

  She leaned against the bench back and closed her eyes. Once I was certain she was merely taking a snooze and not sinking into some sort of heatstroke, I glanced around the square.

  It was lunchtime now, and the foot traffic was clearing out as people headed home or to one of the restaurants for a bite. Even the boiled-peanut guy was taking a break. The gazebo was empty, too, except for a couple of young boys chasing each other around it. My penguin friend had apparently left for alternate climes, for I saw neither hide nor beak of him. I pulled out my phone and spent a few minutes checking my social media, reminding myself that I probably needed to set up a page for my new B&B. Though, of course, I still needed to think up a snazzy name for the place before I filed the official incorporation papers with the state. A few ideas flitted through my mind. Magnolia Manor … Peach Tree Inn …

  By the time I looked up again, a quarter of an hour had passed, and Sister Mary Paul was the only nun in sight. I was mentally kicking myself for forgetting to pull a cookie for myself before turning the food bin into a footstool when I heard what sounded like a woman’s scream.

  The nun’s eyes flew open. “What that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I jumped from the bench and spun about, looking for the source of the cry, but saw no one. It had to be one of the teenage girls acting silly again, I told myself. Ignore them, and when they don’t get any reaction, they’ll go away.

  But as I sat back down again, a plump middle-aged brunette came trotting around the corner from the Weary Bones Antique Shoppe. I noted in passing that she was wearing almost the exact same outfit as me. Her pink top was sleeveless and more blouselike, however, and she was wearing knee-length black shorts instead of cropped jeans.

  She caught sight of me and halted. Then, to my surprise, she began jumping about and waving her arms.

  “Help! Help!” she called. “You’ve got to call an ambulance!”

  Tourist with heatstroke was my first guess. Maybe a heart attack. I glanced about the square again. Sister Mary Paul and I were the only ones in sight.

  “Wait here, Sister; I’ll find out what’s wrong,” I told Mary Paul, and rushed toward the jumping woman.

  “What’s wrong?” I demanded as I reached her. She merely shook her head.

  Channeling Sister Mary Julian, I waved my phone and bellowed, “Look, lady, I know you’re upset, but you need to get a grip. Tell me what’s happened so I know what to tell the 911 operator!”

  Eyes wide and brimming with tears, she glanced behind her, and then turned back to me. With a wail, she finally managed, “Someone’s stabbed him. He’s dead!”

  My heart did the proverbial leap into my throat. Stabbed? Dead? Almost choking now myself, I demanded, “Who’s stabbed? Who do you think is dead?”

  “Him … that cute actor guy. You know, the one dressed up as Freezie the Penguin!”

  Chapter Eight

  I grabbed the woman by her thick, sunburned arm, fleetingly registering the bright-colored parade of tattooed cartoon bears wrapped around her beefy bicep. I’d seen that design before, but I didn’t have time to recall what it meant.

  “The penguin!” I demanded. “Tell me where he is!”

  “He’s lying in the alley behind the antique store. I-I was taking a short cut, and … no, no, I don’t want to go back there again!”

  But I was dragging her alongside the building toward the alley anyhow. I darned sure didn’t want to see a dead guy, either—especially not one I knew. But if he really was dead, I needed to know where to direct the cops. Plus, I didn’t trust the woman’s diagnosis. Maybe Freezie—I didn’t want to say Harry, because that made it way too real—wasn’t dead yet. Heck, maybe he hadn’t even been stabbed. Maybe he’d tripped on those big mascot feet and fallen on a ketchup bottle. Maybe …

  “OhmygodHarry!” I choked out as we rounded the corner.

  Sprawled ten feet away from us on the ground next to the dumpster was a motionless black-and-white figure. He lay on his back, one furry flipper reaching out in our direction. The other was flopped atop his belly beneath the upright blade of a very large kitchen knife that had been plunged into his chest. Just for emphasis, a bright red stain was beginning to seep through the oval of white faux fur that ran from chin to belly.

  What could I say? He looked pretty damned dead to me, too.

  Breathe, breathe, breathe, I told myself as the woman and I gripped each other for mutual support. Not that I liked the guy all that much, but he was young and vital and good-looking, and less than an hour earlier he’d saved my life. And who in the heck would want to kill an unemployed actor?

  And then the flipper on his chest gave a barely noticeable quiver.

  “He’s still alive! We need the paramedics now! Wait,” I shrieked as the woman pulled her arm free from my grasp. “Where are you going?”

  “Away from here!” she shrieked right back.

  She took off running in the same direction from which we’d come, leaving me alone with a guy with a knife in him. I took a swift breath and shut my eyes for an instant as adrenaline surged through me to dizzying effect. Or maybe it was simply the wafting odor of rotting garbage that was getting to me.

  That first aid class I’d taken had helped when Harry had been on the verge of heatstroke, but this was a thousand times over my pay grade. One thing I did remember learning, however, was never to pull an impaled object from an injured person. Chances were said object was keeping the victim from bleeding out. So I used the best first aid tool I had at hand and started punching keys on my phone.

  “Nine one one, what’s your emergency?” the tinny voice in my ear asked.

  The next few moments passed in the clichéd blur you always read about as I identified myself and relayed the information to the 911 dispatcher as best I could.

  Having been assured that both an ambulance and the sheriff’s department were on their way, I hung up, shoved the phone back into my pocket, and frantically wondered what in the heck to do next. But I already knew the answer. At this point there was nothing I could do for Harry except maybe pray.

  Problem was, I was pretty rusty at that.

  “There she is!” Sister Mary Julian bellowed from somewhere behind me.

  Then, again, I could always find the right people to do that praying for me.

  I whipped about to see Mary Julian and the other nuns clustered at the corner. Apparently, Sister Mary Paul had pointed them in my direction once they’d returned from their respective errands.

  Mother Superior didn’t wait for any explanation.

  “Quickly, Nina, have you already called 911?” she demanded as she rushed past me and dropped to her knees beside the injured man. Sister Mary George was right behind her. The other nuns followed as well, lining up behind the pair and beginning a silent prayer.

  I nodded. “The paramedics and sheriff are both on the way. Reverend Mother, I think he’s still alive … but I didn’t dare touch him.”

  Mother Superior nodded, glasses flashing in the sunlight.

  “You did the right thing, my child. But we should remove that silly head so the poor man can breathe. And we should find out if there’s someone on the square with medical knowledge—a doctor, or a nurse—who can help while we wait for the paramedics to arrive.”

  “My sister-in-law, Gemma Tanaka,” Sister Mary George promptly exclaimed. “She used to be an emergency room nurse. Let me run to Peaches and Java and get her.”

  “No, let me,” I broke in. “I can’t just stand here and watch, and I’m not really good when it comes to praying. And I’m wearing running shoes.”

  Mother Superior gave me a curt no
d, and I took off. I didn’t bother trying to call Gemma on my cell first. It was lunchtime, and she probably wouldn’t have her phone on her. And even if she did, she might not answer on the first try. By the time I could get hold of her and explain the situation, I’d already be on the shop’s doorstep.

  Actually, it was close to a minute later—hey, I said I was wearing running shoes, not that I was the Flash!—when I burst through the front door of Peaches and Java. Gemma was near the front taking an order from a table of four retiree tourists, and I all but fell into her arms.

  “Nina, what in the heck?” she demanded, though her initial annoyance swiftly morphed into alarm as she saw the look on my face. “Girl, what’s wrong?”

  “We need a nurse. Sister Mary George said you could help. Grab some towels and a first aid kit if you have one, and let’s go!”

  To my relief, she didn’t question me. Leaping into ER mode, she rushed behind the counter where Daniel was working. She bent and searched a moment, then straightened back up with a red plastic case in one hand and a stack of bar towels in the other.

  “Emergency, gotta go,” she told her husband, and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.

  Daniel nodded, apparently flashing back to the old days when his wife was still an ER nurse and on call. “We got it, honey.” Then, turning in his daughter’s direction, he called, “Jazz, need you to fill in for your mom!”

  “Where are we going?” Gemma snapped as the shop door slammed behind us.

  I pointed. “The alley behind Weary Bones.”

  “Okay, let’s move. Nine one one’s already called?”

  Still panting, I trudged after her. “They’re on the way.” To punctuate that, in the distance now I could hear sirens. “Mother Superior and the other nuns are with him.”

  “What happened? Someone pass out?”

  “No, stabbed. It-It looks pretty bad. The sheriff’s department is on their way, too.”

  I expected a shocked reaction, but apparently Gemma had seen it all in her hospital days. “You can’t always tell with things like this. Any idea who the victim is?”