Peach Clobbered

by Anna Gerard

  “Romeo and Juliette’s makes the best in town,” I told her. (Juliette, by clever coincidence, was the pizzeria’s owner’s actual name.) Picking up my phone, I added, “But let this be my treat.”

  Of course, there were the expected protests from the nuns. In the end, I won them over by agreeing that Sister Mary Paul, who apparently had been a Cordon Bleu chef-in-training until she decided to join the order, could cook us all supper the next night. After a brief debate over toppings (we went with one veggie pizza and one pepperoni, sausage, and mushroom), I phoned in the order.

  A half hour later, we were well into a game of charades when I heard Mattie’s woof, followed by the doorbell ringing. I followed the now-incredibly-fluffy dog to the front door and opened it, only to find myself face-to-face with a Renaissance man.

  I’m not speaking in a philosophical sense. The pizza delivery guy was dressed like a buff Henry VIII, with his courtier’s short, red-and-black velvet doublet topped by a starched white ruff the approximate diameter of a turkey platter. A soft cloth cap with a curling feather hung low on his forehead, and his long legs were encased in a pair of matching black tights that showed to advantage muscled calves and thighs.

  Definitely not how the Pizza Hut delivery guy dressed.

  While I inwardly saluted Romeo and Juliette’s for their cleverness in keeping with the theme, the courtier held out two flat cardboard pizza boxes.

  “Your order,” he said, addressing me in tones straight out of BBC America.

  I reached for the pizza boxes with one hand and held out my tip with the other. And then I got a better look at the delivery guy’s face.

  With a resigned shake of my head, I said, “You.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Harry Westcott shrugged. “Yes, ’tis I,” he confirmed, still affecting the same British accent. “If you will, please take your repast. I have other pizzas to deliver.”

  I nodded and, holding said repast well out of Mattie’s eager reach, handed over my tip. Harry eyed the five-dollar bill before pocketing it, if that’s the correct expression for sticking cash into the slashed sleeve of his doublet. “Your gratuity is appreciated. And now, while parting is such sweet sorrow, I shall say good night.”

  And this time, Harry was the one who got my mental props for slipping in a Romeo and Juliet quote while delivering pizza from Romeo and Juliette’s pizzeria while dressed in Elizabethan garb.

  He turned smartly on his slippered heel and started down the steps into the early Georgia evening. His exit was marred only a little by the arrival of the usual mosquito onslaught that always hit at dusk. This resulted in a some very non-courtier-like slapping at those biting insects as he made his way to the delivery car parked beyond the gate. Since I knew it would be a matter of seconds before I was next on the mosquito menu, I made a hasty retreat of my own back into the house.

  As expected, the pizza was a huge hit with the nuns, though the whole eating-with-your-hands thing momentarily threw the Reverend Mother for a loop. But following my and Mary George’s example, she soon was nibbling happily on a veggie slice.

  There were no leftovers.

  With dishes washed and pizza boxes disposed of, we resumed charades in the parlor. After the team consisting of me, Sister Mary George, and Sister Mary Christopher won, the nuns regrouped for their final evening prayers.

  While the women sought divine intervention, Mattie and I did our nighttime lockup routine. Even in a town like Cymbeline, one didn’t tempt Fate and the dishonest by going to bed with windows and doors unlocked. And given that one of our neighbors had just been murdered by person or persons unknown, leaving the house wide open to the night would be rash, at best.

  The light at the top of the stairway was shining brightly for the nuns to make their way upstairs once prayers were over. I shut off all the downstairs lights except the pair of tulip-shaped glass wall sconces that flanked either side of the hall near the front door. Those I normally left burning overnight. They gave out just enough light that one could traverse the darkness from door to main stairway without bumping into walls or door frames. Lockdown duly accomplished, the Aussie and I retreated to our bedroom suite for the night.

  The soft murmur of prayer from down the hallway was surprisingly comforting as I changed into a comfy oversized yellow nightshirt and settled onto my bed for some quality time with my laptop. I tried not to look at the news site that was my default opening page on the Internet. I already knew enough about the crime that I didn’t need a recap. And I darned sure didn’t want to read the snarky comments by the usual Internet trolls that were sure to accompany the story.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t click through fast enough to miss the headline at the top that read, MAN WEARING PENGUIN SUIT FATALLY STABBED IN GEORGIA. Deciding that the obligatory run-through on Facebook and Twitter would probably yield similar drama, I opted instead for a game of Candy Crush. But after a few rounds of clearing rows of bright-colored sweets, I was still feeling antsy. And that is how I found myself on a well-known movie database plugging in Harry Westcott’s name in the search box.

  I wasn’t sure what I’d expected to find, but it wasn’t the respectably long list of television and movie credits that popped up. Not that he’d had starring roles in any of it. Still, he’d guested in several cable TV dramas over the past dozen years, a few of whose series names I actually recognized. He’d also had minor (okay, walk-on) roles—“Man in Bar,” “Second Thug,” “Party Guest #4”—in five or six relatively well-known films, too. The listing also confirmed that he actually had shot the undercover cop television pilot he’d mentioned, which was currently in postproduction.

  Also, according to the database, he’d performed in various regional Shakespearean productions, which doubtless explained how he’d happened to have an Elizabethan courtier’s costume handy.

  My curiosity more than a little piqued now, I pulled up his bio. To my disappointment, it didn’t contain much more info than he’d already told me. I did learn his actual height (six one), his date of birth (which made him two years younger than me), and the fact that he was a black belt in tae kwon do and could play the piano. There were a few pictures of him that I scrolled through, both professional headshots and on-set photos from a couple of roles he’d played.

  A couple of the latter pictures showed him shirtless, and I paused over those probably a little longer than necessary. But beyond that, I was more impressed than I wanted to be by how he could go from looking like a matinee idol to a back-alley gangster with little more than a change of costuming and attitude.

  Curiosity finally satisfied, I shut down the website and leaned back against my stack of pillows. Mattie, who was lounging on the foot of my bed, lifted her head and gave me a quizzical look.

  “Yeah, that’s what I say,” I told her. “It’s got to be tough for him, being this close”—I held forefinger and thumb an inch apart—“to fame, and ending up back in your hometown delivering pizzas and dressing up like a penguin.”

  Though it was a bit strange that someone who’d worked relatively regularly as an actor was hurting as much for cash as Harry obviously was. Otherwise, why else would he take jobs better suited for high school kids? Though maybe all his earnings had gone to student loans, or an ex-wife, or maybe his attorney, given his seeming penchant for lawsuits.

  I couldn’t help wonder again, too, about the bus I’d seen him climbing into that afternoon. Tiny houses were all the rage, especially ones that had begun life on wheels. Was it possible that’s where he lived? Though that vehicle’s exterior sure hadn’t gone through the same transformation as the buses I’d seen posted on Pinterest. No wonder the guy had been royally ticked to learn he had been screwed over when it came to inheriting his great-aunt’s house.

  “Not our circus, not our monkeys,” I told the Aussie.

  I was still silently repeating that mantra next morning when the doorbell rang at seven AM. Fortunately, I’d dragged myself out of bed a half hour earlier, so I�
�d managed a quick shower and was already dressed in cropped denim capris and a crisp white man-tailored blouse tied at the waist. The sisters were already long out of bed, for I could hear the soft murmur of prayer coming from the parlor as I rushed to the front door.

  Standing on the porch was Daniel and Gemma’s daughter, Jasmine, bearing white pastry boxes that held the expected breakfast. I opened the door and ushered her in.

  “Here you go, Miz Nina,” she said through a yawn.

  Like me, Jasmine looked like she’d just gotten out of bed. Unlike me, she was wearing barely-there cutoff shorts and a sleeveless green T-shirt with the Peaches and Java logo on it. A matching Peaches and Java ball cap was crammed atop her riot of golden-brown ringlets. I smiled and took the topmost box from her.

  “Late night with your friends?” I asked sympathetically as I led her toward the dining room.

  She shook her head. “Not me. I was up late getting in some extra studying so I’ll be ready for my junior year when school starts again.”

  Her expression as she set her box on the dining table was virtuous enough that she could have been a shoe-in for joining the Sisters of Perpetual Poverty. But when I slanted a disbelieving look her way, she dissolved into teenage giggles.

  “Okay, so I was up late texting with my friends,” she admitted. “Just don’t tell my mom, okay?”

  I grinned back. “My lips are sealed.”

  I helped her carry the boxes to the dining room, then grabbed up the ten-dollar bill I’d had ready on the sideboard. On the way out, I handed it to her. “Here you go. See you tomorrow morning.”

  She brightened perceptively at the sight of the cash, and I was glad to see that a Hamilton (if that was the current urban slang) was still real money to a sixteen-year-old. With a smile and a big “Thanks, Miz Nina,” she rushed off.

  Moving with slightly less energy, I returned to the dining room to set up the food on the marble-topped antique sideboard.

  I’d had a three-tiered pastry stand I had impulsively bought years ago and never used. Somehow it had been among the kitchen items I’d brought with me to the new house. Pleased to finally have a use for the pretty vintage serving piece, I arranged the selection of mini cinnamon rolls and tarts on it. The presliced quiches went on paper doilies atop fancy china plates. I left Daniel’s famous cobbler in its foil baking pan, though I scooped the container of amaretto whipped cream into a small vintage Pyrex bowl. Unfortunately, the peach tree in the front yard wouldn’t bear fruit until the fall; otherwise, I’d have put a fresh peach at every place setting.

  “This all looks wonderful, Nina,” Mother Superior said with an approving nod as the nuns filed in a few minutes later. “I believe we need to give you five stars on TripAdvisor.”

  “Our fromagerie has a four-point-five-star rating,” Sister Mary Thomas confided in a stage whisper as she sidled past me to join the lineup at the sideboard. “You can’t please everyone.”

  Breakfast went off without a hitch. Afterward, I put up the leftovers and did the dishes before the sisters could take over those chores. Then, feeling virtuous, I paused to fill out my food spreadsheet so I could update Gemma later. Next stop on my innkeeping list was to make the guest beds and do a quick cleanup of the bathrooms.

  But the beds were already done up with crisp hospital corners, and the bathrooms were cleaner than they’d been before. Obviously, nun DNA did not allow for an unkempt room. I imagined they’d have done the same had they been staying at the local Holiday Inn. Aware that future guests wouldn’t be as neat to a fault, I used the allotted time to instead straighten up my own bedroom and bathroom to nun-approved standards.

  By then it was a little past ten. Time for my next mission—one I hadn’t realized was on my list until I was midway through my second slice of quiche. I wanted to track down Harry and get his take on Jack Hill, and also find out why he thought that he, Harry, might have been the actual target of the murderer. Something was rotten in the state of Cymbeline, and despite my lecture to myself the night before, I was in the mood to poke around.

  Leaving Mattie in Sister Mary Thomas’s care, I gathered sunglasses, phone, and purse and headed out. I’d barely passed through my gate, however, when I realized that something was different. The traffic, which normally on a weekday was almost nonexistent on my street, was heavier than usual. I saw an Atlanta television satellite truck rumble by, followed a moment later by a sister truck plastered with a Savannah network logo, and I realized what was happening. The little town of Cymbeline was officially on the national map in the wake of Bainbridge’s murder.

  I muttered a few bad words but kept on trudging. Then I heard my phone chime, signaling a breaking story on one of my news apps. I took a quick look at the headline:

  CYMBELINE SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT TO HOLD 10:30AM PRESS CONFERENCE ON GEORGIA PENGUIN SUIT MURDER

  Which, according to my phone clock, would be in about fifteen minutes.

  My bad words got a bit louder. Still, I realized that the sheriff had to do this. Like it or not, the murder was newsworthy because of the blasted penguin suit. And on the bright side, maybe all the reporters would hang around to eat and shop afterward. Heck, if I’d had brochures already printed for my new B&B, I’d probably be on the square handing them out.

  A couple of minutes later, I reached the parking lot where Harry’s bus had been parked the day before. It was still there, but unlike yesterday afternoon the lot was now packed with cars, many with Florida plates, and several more with television or radio station logos emblazoned across their back windshields. No satellite trucks were in sight, however, which probably meant they were setting up shop along the square.

  Harry, however, was still with his bus … though not exactly in the way I remembered. Sometime after I’d left him the day before, the parking spot alongside the battered vehicle had been transformed into tailgate city. A cooler, portable barbecue grill and a couple of folding lawn chairs with red webbing had been set up at one end of the space. The remaining open area was occupied by a full-length matching chaise. A camping table held a bottle of suntan lotion and a book, with brown leather huaraches tucked beneath it. Harry sprawled in the lounge chair, wearing wraparound sunglasses and red, white, and blue–spangled swim trunks, and nothing else.

  I strode over to the foot of the chaise and stood there for a couple of moments waiting for him to acknowledge me. Then I heard a faint snore from his direction and realized that beneath the sunglasses, the man was fast asleep.

  I smiled, debating whether I should let him sleep on while availing myself of some undeniably fine eye candy, or instead take a little revenge by startling him awake. Reminding myself that I could always go back to that movie database if I needed another beefcake fix, I opted for choice number two.

  “Hey, Harry, wake up,” I called, and gave the chaise a nudge with my foot. “I need to talk to you.”

  He leaped upright, sunglasses falling askew. “What in the—! I told you not to—! Oh, it’s just you. What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you. You were snoozing.”

  “I-I was not,” he sputtered, and adjusted his sunglasses. “I was resting my eyes and working on my tan.”

  “Well, it kind of looked like snoozing to me. I mean, you were snoring.”

  He shot me a look that probably would have knocked me dead had I been able to see his eyes. Meanwhile, he was shaking out the folded blue T-shirt that had served as his pillow. Tugging it on, he said, “You’ve found me. What do you want?”

  “I want to talk to you about a few things having to do with Greg Bainbridge that aren’t adding up. Do you have a minute?”

  He pulled his phone from the waistband of his swim trunks and made a production of checking his calendar. Finally, he nodded and stood. “I think I can fit you in. Why don’t you step into my office,” he said, and gestured to the pair of folding chairs.

  I sat in the farthest one while he slid his feet into the huaraches and went over to the cool
er. Popping its lid, he said, “I can offer you bottled water, flavored water, orange juice, or special parking lot–brewed sun tea—unsweetened, of course.”

  “Bottled water is fine.”

  He pulled two bottles from the cooler and handed me one before taking the other chair. As we cracked open our ice-cold drinks, he asked, “So what doesn’t add up … other than the obvious?”

  Before I could answer, our phones simultaneously chimed. We both looked at the news banner that had popped up on our respective screens, and I saw him frown. “Connie’s doing a press conference. What’s up with that?”

  “Bainbridge’s murder is trending. Didn’t you notice all the out-of-town cars?”

  He glanced around. “I guess the lot is fuller than it was first thing this morning.”

  “Yeah, while you were doing your Sleeping Beauty routine, you missed all the satellite trucks rolling into town. Seriously, this is turning into a big deal. They’re even calling it the Penguin Suit Murder.”

  “Catchy. If you don’t mind, let’s hurry and get this little talk over with. What do you want to know?”

  “I’m curious about Jack Hill. I mean, is he a decent guy? Anything in his background that’s cray-cray?”

  Apparently this wasn’t the subject he’d expected me to bring up, for he took a moment to answer. Finally he said, “I just met Jack a couple of weeks ago, when I took that mascot job. He’s okay, as far as I can tell. The only thing cray-cray, like you call it, is that he’s super jealous of his wife. He thinks every man in town is hitting on her.”

  “So why would Jack hire a superhot guy like you, then? I mean, that’s kind of like putting the fox in the henhouse.”

  Most men would have blushed and hemmed and hawed over that overt compliment, but not Harry. Because he and I and everyone else in a hundred-mile radius knew that he actually was one … as in, a superhot guy. Instead, he gave me a considering look.

  “Actually, Jill was the one who hired me. And that’s how I found out that beneath the perfect hair and makeup she’s a real party girl. She’s the one who does all the hitting on. Day one, she made a pass at me. I couldn’t afford to lose the job, so I told her I was gay.”