Peach Clobbered

by Anna Gerard

  First, however, I walked up to the front of my driveway and turned to check out Harry’s parking job.

  The drive was narrow enough and the garage set back far enough that his school bus wasn’t noticeable from the street unless someone was really looking. I wasn’t aware of any ordinances against parking a small behemoth on private property, but I darned sure didn’t want the look of my home’s charming exterior spoiled by his heap. I returned to the front porch. I had long since finished the muffin and was well into the third chapter of the story when I heard the slight squeal of the front gate and saw someone coming up my walk.

  Brushing the last crumbs from my fingers, I set aside the book and waited until the man reached the porch. Then, as he mounted the steps, I stood and stuck out my hand in greeting.

  “Why, hello,” I said with a smile. “I have to say, I wasn’t expecting to see you.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Becca Gleason’s father, Travis, smiled and nodded as he slowly managed the steps.

  “Afternoon, Miz Fleet,” he said with a wheeze as he took my hand. “Hope you don’t mind me just showing up like this. Usually I’d have called first, but I don’t have your number. I came by earlier too, but you weren’t at home, so I thought I’d try again. I hope this isn’t a bad time for you now.”

  “Ah, so that was you,” I replied in surprise, sending a mental apology to Jack Hill for continuing to think he had designs on my house. “Mother Superior mentioned a gentleman had stopped by, but she didn’t say who it was. And, actually, I was just taking a little break, so your timing is perfect. Please, sit down.”

  Curious as to what he could want, I gestured the old man to the white Adirondack-style rocker next to the swing. “Can I get you a glass of tea? Sweet or not sweet?”

  “Sweet tea would be just fine, thank you, ma’am.”

  While he sat, I went inside. By the time I returned with the promised tea, a few minutes had passed. But Travis had managed to keep himself occupied in my absence. I saw in amusement that he had picked up my book and was studying the back cover, chuckling.

  “Now, don’t tell anyone,” he said in a stage whisper as he swapped book for glass, “but I like these books with talking cats in them. Gets your mind off of … well, things.”

  “I like them, too,” I agreed, and resumed my seat on the swing while he took a long drink from his glass. “So, can I help you with something? Wait, there’s nothing wrong with Becca—”

  “Oh, no, no,” he cut me short with a careless wave. “She’s just fine. Actually, I’m here to conduct a little business.”

  At my encouraging nod, he went on, “See here, I won’t beat around the bush. Since you’ve got this new bed-and-breakfast business going, it occurred to me that you might have some handyman work around here that you need done. I’m licensed electrical, but I can do any plumbing stuff that don’t need permits, and I can do drywall and painting. Oh, and lookit here.”

  He reached into the pocket of his baggy pants and, somewhat to my surprise, pulled out a late-model smartphone. As Harry had done earlier, he brought up his photo app and started scrolling through pictures.

  “With my arthritis and all, I can’t do some of the big projects any more. I leave stuff like that to them young fellas like Jack Hill. But I started me a little sideline business that’s doing good.”

  The pictures he showed me were of wooden fireplace surrounds, ceiling and baseboard trim pieces, and those intricate ceiling medallions. Seeing my confusion, he clarified, “You wouldn’t believe how many folks buy these old houses just to rip out the original wood and make things all modern. Then, a few years down the road, they get tired of the place and sell to someone who wants to restore it back to its original state. Or maybe the house has all the original trim work, but some of it got damaged over time and needs replaced. That’s where I come in.”

  “Got it,” I said with an impressed nod. “You recreate vintage wood trim.”

  “Yep. I managed to buy some of the old-style machines, and I got a fellow who makes me the custom molding knives to match the trim profile.”

  Profile in this case meaning the decorative pattern of bevels and carvings and rounds specific to a particular style of trim. I’d learned something living in old homes over the years.

  “The machines do the hard work, but some of the smaller pieces, I mostly do by hand with knives and chisels,” he added in a proud tone. He indicated a final photo, which was a close-up of him using what looked suspiciously like a Bowie knife to make a delicate series of curlicues in a section of window cornice.

  “Pretty impressive,” I agreed, meaning it. “I’ll keep that in mind if I ever need any of my wood trim repaired. Right now, I don’t really have any projects—oh, wait,” I stopped myself, recalling that I did. “Actually, Mr. Gleason—”

  “Travis.”

  “Actually, Travis, I might have work for you. I’m looking at making the tower room livable again. I was thinking about adding a window air-conditioning unit, but I don’t want to do that without someone to check out the wiring first. And there’s a little sink up there that works, but it probably hasn’t been used in twenty-five years, so I want to make sure there aren’t any leaks.”

  “You’ve been up there?” he asked in surprise. “I did a little painting for Miz Lathrop once, and she told me the room wasn’t fit for human habitation. You probably shouldn’t be poking around there.”

  “Oh, the room itself is fine … it was just hot and covered in dust. I’m sure that’s all she meant,” I said with a laugh.

  But the old man didn’t look amused. He persisted, “Like I said, I wouldn’t go poking around, not until I check it out for you and make sure it’s safe. You wouldn’t want to put a foot through the floor or something. Best case, it costs you good money to get it fixed. Worst case, someone gets hurt. Now promise me you’ll take my advice.”

  “All right, I promise I’ll keep your advice in mind,” I told him. And I would … I just wouldn’t follow it.

  But my answer seemed to satisfy him, for he said, “Then it’s settled. Just tell me when you want me to start.”

  “Let me find out how long my guests are staying so we don’t have to disturb them with any contractor work. Do you have a card with your number, by chance?”

  He reached into the pocket of the checkered shirt he was wearing—a shirt that resembled Harry’s “Grampy Westcott” costume a little bit too closely—and pulled out a dog-eared business card. Black ink on white stock, it had his name and phone number, with clip art images of a hammer and plumber’s wrench. The tagline LICENSED AND INSURED was printed across the bottom.

  “Call me when you’re ready. I can be here anytime. Well, except Sunday morning when I go to church.”

  He set the now-empty tea glass on the porch railing, and I thought the gesture signaled that our little chat was at an end. But instead of getting up as I’d expected, he cleared his throat and shuffled his booted feet.

  “Was there something else?” I prompted him.

  He shrugged. “Just a little idle curiosity, I guess. Rumor has it you were right there on the square when Greg Bainbridge bit the big one. I heard that actor fellow—you know, Miz Lathrop’s kin—got arrested for killing him. You know anything about that?”

  I shrugged. “All I know is that the sheriff arrested him, but apparently whatever evidence she thought she had against him didn’t pan out. So she let Harry—Mr. Westcott—go free, and the sheriff’s department is still looking for Mr. Bainbridge’s killer. And hopefully they’ll find him—or her—pretty soon. I hear Sheriff Lamb is pretty good at what she does.”

  I wasn’t going to mention anything about Lana, since it still was possible her role in Bainbridge’s murder was all in Harry’s head. But my noncommittal response apparently wasn’t sufficient for his supposed idle curiosity,

  “So, who do you think done it? I mean, you must have seen something that morning. Coulda been some crazy tourist, right? Or do you th
ink maybe the killer is one of us … as in, someone we all know?”

  A bit surprised at his persistence, I held up both palms in a “Hey, I’m innocent” gesture, just like Jack had done the other day.

  “Sorry, Mr. Gleason … Travis. All I know is that it wasn’t me, and the sheriff doesn’t think it’s Harry Westcott.”

  Travis’s gaze sharpened.

  He leaned closer, and I caught a whiff of Old Spice mixed with sweat. “Let me share a little something with you. This here is a fine town; lots of fine people. But we got ourselves some secrets. Some are kind of silly, but other ones not so much. Not too many folks around these parts are upset about what happened to Greg. And sometimes, it’s best not to stick your nose into things you don’t know nothing about.”

  Then, with a “Thank you kindly,” he rose and made his halting way back down the walk again.

  I stared after him. Why he thought I had a vested interest in the town’s secrets, let alone Bainbridge’s murderer, I couldn’t guess.

  Before I could puzzle over that, however, the front door opened and Sister Mary George stuck her veiled head around the screen door.

  “I didn’t want to bother you while you had company,” she said. “May I join you now?”

  “Of course.”

  She took the seat that Travis had just vacated and settled back, smiling a little. “I haven’t sat in a rocking chair in years,” she confided. “I forgot how comforting they are.”

  Then she stopped midrock, smile fading.

  “I’m afraid we’re going to need a lot of comfort in the next few days. I have some bad news, Nina.”

  “About the convent?”

  She nodded. “Mother Superior spoke with the archdiocese again this afternoon. They have done additional due diligence, and Mr. Bainbridge’s death won’t have any impact on the convent lease. We probably could get an extension from the executor allowing us to stay until the estate is settled, but the goats are already gone and the equipment is all in storage. There’s no point in trying to start up again, only to shut down for good in another year or two.”

  “So what does that mean?” I asked when she paused a moment.

  “It means that once all the final arrangements are made on the diocese’s end, His Excellency has directed them to send a van out to pick us up and take us all to Atlanta. From what Mother Superior told me, it likely will be the end of this week.”

  “That’s too bad,” I said with a sigh, though I wasn’t much surprised. When you got down to it, the Church was basically a big corporation interested mostly in the bottom line. “I truly hate to see you sisters go, but I understand. So I assume your new convent is located in Atlanta, then?”

  Mary George shook her head. “For the moment, they’ll simply take us to the archdiocese’s main campus there. As soon as they can, they’ll split us up and reassign us to whatever convent can take us.”

  Her final words ended on a trembling note, and my surprise turned to shock. “Split you up?” I echoed. “You mean, send each of you somewhere different? But can’t they find a place you can all go together?”

  “There aren’t that many places, Nina. So many convents have shut down because young women just aren’t interested these days in a vocation. It’s hard being a nun in the age of Snapchat and Instagram and Netflix. We’re antiques … like rotary dial phones in a smartphone world.”

  She pursed her lips, and I could see she was on the verge of tears.

  “It’s not so much for myself that I’m worried,” she went on, “it’s for the other sisters. Nina, they’ve been together for almost fifty years. Fifty years! It’s like splitting up a family. And even though they don’t want to admit it, they’re old women. Reverend Mother has terrible arthritis, and Mary Julian is diabetic. Mary Thomas and Mary Christopher both have thyroid and blood pressure problems, and Mary Paul has a bad heart. Of course, they never complain, and they never stop working. But I’m afraid this sort of change won’t be good for any of them.”

  She reached into the sleeve of her habit and pulled out a snowy white handkerchief, which she used to dab at her eyes.

  “I know this is God’s will,” she added, “and so we shouldn’t question what He has determined. But the way this is all happening … well, Nina, it just tries your faith, you know what I mean?”

  I nodded silently, hard-pressed not to shed a few tears myself. It had been difficult enough divorcing after twenty years, even though it had been by choice. But to be split apart from the people who had been your family for decades without any say in the matter … I couldn’t even imagine how that would affect the sisters.

  “I really am sorry,” I told her. “I wonder if Bainbridge had any idea what his decision would do to all of you. Maybe if he’d known, he would have thought twice about not extending your lease.”

  Sister Mary George gave a very un-nun-like snort. Tone verging on anger, she replied, “Oh, he knew. And he didn’t care.”

  With that cryptic response, Sister Mary George tucked away the hankie and put out a restraining hand.

  “Now, Nina, please promise me you won’t say anything to the other sisters about this,” she said with a guilty look back toward the door. “Only Reverend Mother and I know that we won’t be all together once we leave here. She wants to wait until we know the Atlanta plans are finalized to tell them.”

  “I promise I won’t say a word,” I solemnly agreed, earning a grateful smile from the nun as she rose and went back inside.

  I gathered my things and followed more slowly, leaving the empty plate and glassware in the kitchen before heading to my room. Given the current situation, I was afraid that even reading about clever crime-solving cats wouldn’t be enough to take my thoughts off “things,” as Travis had put it.

  What I needed was action.

  Because Travis’s comments had started me thinking that maybe I should stick my nose into this particular bit of town business. I’d been right there on the scene after the stabbing happened, and I’d likely been one of the last people Bainbridge had talked to before he died. While I agreed that Gregory Bainbridge was a Class A jerk, it wasn’t right that pretty much nobody cared about the fact that he’d been murdered.

  But if I were to be truly honest, I also had a personal interest in seeing this whole murder thing resolved. Now that I was officially in business, my primary concern was making my bed-and-breakfast venture a success. My advantageous location a mere two blocks from the town square wouldn’t be a selling point if people were put off by the idea of sleeping the same short distance from the scene of an unsolved grisly murder.

  While I had every confidence in Sheriff Lamb, Travis was right on one point. From what I’d seen, not too many people in Cymbeline were concerned about who had actually killed him. If they knew—or at least, suspected—who that person was, more than likely they wouldn’t be sharing their suspicions with the authorities.

  But maybe they would talk to a fellow business owner like me.

  I sat at my desk and, sliding my laptop to one side, pulled out a pen and small notebook. I was becoming more doubtful about the whole Lana situation. Had she actually stabbed Bainbridge, thinking it was Harry in the suit, she’d have long since hightailed it out of town. Even if she was still fixated on Harry, I suspected she wasn’t so cray-cray that she would deliberately stick around and risk arrest.

  On the other hand, I knew of several Cymbeline natives who each had a strong motive to murder the developer.

  Swiftly, I drew a line down the center of the blank page and started writing names. When I was finished, I had two lists: one of possible suspects, and one of people I doubted could have done the deed but might have valuable information. At the top of the latter list was my antique shop buddy, Mason, who’d had an in with Bainbridge.

  Besides, I had the perfect excuse to see him. The other week I’d found an old oil painting wrapped in a dusty pillowcase and stashed in the linen closet. The partial painted signature I’d spied had sent dol
lar signs flashing before my eyes. Common sense told me that what I had was likely a knockoff, but a little voice kept asking, What if it’s for real? Bringing the painting for an appraisal gave me a plausible reason to drop in and casually question Mason about the murder.

  Finding out I had a heretofore unknown Picasso on my hands would simply be a bonus.

  But it was well after 5 PM, and Mason would be preparing to close his shop for the day. Though I was sure he’d stick around a little longer for me, it would be hard to remain casual if we both had one eye on the clock. Better to plan to be there in the morning soon after he opened.

  That decided, I closed the notebook and slipped it into one of my desk drawers for safekeeping. Then, curiosity getting the better of me, I decided to see what sort of progress Harry had made in the tower room.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Putting a set of linens and towels in an extra laundry basket, I carried them to the closed tower room door and knocked. Hearing a muffled “Come in,” I did.

  By the time I’d made my awkward climb with the laundry basket, I was slightly out of breath. Still, I managed a sincere “Wow!” as I took in what Harry had accomplished.

  In little more than an hour, he’d mopped and dusted the room into submission. Even the window panes behind the yellowed curtains were gleaming. All the cover sheets were neatly bundled by the ladder, ready to be hauled off to the laundry room to be washed.

  Now that’s the way to impress the ladies, I thought with a reflexive grin.

  “Not finished yet, but not bad,” Harry said with pardonable pride. “I scraped up probably ten pounds of dust. Next up is moving the furniture around a little.”

  “Here, let me help you.”