Peachy Scream

by Anna Gerard

  I nodded. “I like it.”

  He had taken the old Peaches and Java design, a fat cartoon peach plopped in a cartoon coffee cup, and made it smaller. Now a caricature of the Bard, drawn from the waist up, cradled that peach-filled cup in his arms. The slogan, P&J’s … a Peach by any Other Name was emblazoned below the Shakespeare figure.

  “And even better,” Daniel went on, holding out the plate, “I’ve created a special PB&J sandwich for the festival. Peanut butter, thinly sliced cooked peaches coated in peach jam, and a layer of cream cheese all grilled between two slices of cinnamon pound cake.”

  The aroma of peaches and cinnamon wafted enticingly in my direction. Daniel handed me a clean fork, so I obediently cut off piece of the freshly grilled sandwich and took a bite.

  “Wow,” I managed a moment later through the sticky mouthful. “I’m not a big peanut butter fan, but this is fabulous.”

  “It is pretty good,” Gemma agreed, reaching with a second fork for a bite of her own. “We’ve already made arrangements with the SOCS committee to set up a grill station on the square right across from here. We’ll be selling Shakespeare’s Peachy PB&J sandwiches during the festival.”

  “I’ll be your first customer,” I promised.

  Satisfied, Daniel left the rest of the sandwich for Gemma and me to finish off and returned to his spot behind the counter.

  “So, where were we?” I asked as I took another bite.

  Gemma finished chewing and swallowed. “The dead guy. You said Dr. Bishop was there to pronounce him. Did he mention having an autopsy done?”

  At my affirmative response, she gave a satisfied nod. “Good. Nothing against the Reverend, but he’s a funeral director, not a trained medical professional. Though I suppose hanging out with dead people all the time qualifies him for the job to some extent.”

  “Actually, I just came from the Heavenly Path Funeral Home,” I told her. “I found the glass Len was drinking out of before he died, and there seemed to be some sort of residue in it. I brought it to Dr. Bishop so he could have it tested.”

  Gemma set down the forkful of PB&J she was about to eat and frowned.

  “I thought you said everyone thought the man had a heart attack. But it sounds like maybe an overdose, or a drug interaction.”

  “That’s what they’re going to find out. But as I told Dr. Bishop, I know it’s horrible, but I’m really worried about what people will do if they find out someone died in my garden. What if no one ever wants to stay at Fleet House again?”

  Gemma snorted and raised her fork.

  “Actually, there are plenty of folks who’d love to stay at a B&B where someone died. People who think they’re psychic, paranormal groups. Wait until we get close to Halloween and you’ll find plenty of takers. Heck, regular hotels have folks die in them all the time, and it doesn’t affect business.”

  When I gave her a doubtful look, she persisted, “Let it go, Nina. Just plant something nice in the garden in the poor man’s memory and be glad you don’t have to throw out a mattress.”

  I winced a little at that final blunt advice. What Gemma said made sense—except that I couldn’t let it go. Not until I knew whether Len’s death was a result of natural causes or something else. And despite Gemma’s blithe assurances that a little thing like a dead body wouldn’t hurt my business, I wasn’t so sure. Especially since everyone else involved seemed a bit too eager to rubber-stamp the man’s death as your garden-variety (no pun intended) heart attack.

  But because I knew Gemma would try to talk me out of pursuing the matter, I merely nodded and took another bite of Daniel’s gourmet PB&J. By then diners were beginning to trickle in with the start of the lunch rush. Gemma reached for the now empty plate and stood.

  “Back to work,” she declared. “I’d love to drop by the B&B and say hi to Harry, but things are busy for us all with the festival coming. So let him know I asked about him and that I’ll be in the front row on opening night.”

  Once outside on the square, my ears were again assaulted by the sounds of hammers and electric saws as construction on the main festival stage moved along at rapid speed. Despite the noise and heat, I paused a moment to watch the workers’ progress. This was no simple platform, but a full-blown stage with roof, backdrop, and wings that was going up. I was surprised as well—though perhaps I shouldn’t have been—to recognize one of the carpenters who was busy cutting a series of planks on a table saw.

  The lean, dark-haired man in question was Jack Hill. He was owner with his wife, Jill, of the Taste-Tee-Freeze Creamery on the square next door to Mason’s antique shop. I’d gotten to know the couple because of Harry and the unfortunate incident with the penguin mascot suit earlier in the summer.

  Like me, Jack had worked at a different career before buying the creamery. He’d been a professional carpenter and still did occasional woodwork on the side. I’d already spoken to him about the fancy wooden arbor I wanted constructed for future outdoor weddings at the B&B. But apparently he also worked as a volunteer for the Shakespeare festival.

  I caught Jack’s eye and waved. He waved back, but it was obvious he was too busy to chat. Which was just as well, because I suddenly had another place I needed to be. And that was the Cymbeline Public Library.

  I turned and headed in the opposite direction. My destination was a three-story Queen Anne that was almost an architectural twin sister to my house. Located a block off the main square, it had been converted decades earlier from a private home into Cymbeline’s first true library. Of course, a modern main branch had long since been built not far from the suburbs and shopping mall, but I enjoyed the charming vibe of this red, white, and blue painted lady.

  I already had a library card, so once I slipped inside the blessedly cool building it was simply a matter of taking a seat at one of their half-dozen computers. Of course, I could have waited and done my research at home, but I didn’t want to be interrupted—or, worse, accidentally leave any incriminating browser history behind. Besides which, if my search proved fruitful, I might need to access the library’s periodicals archives.

  I spent the next hour or so doing web searches for all of the GASP troupe members, starting with the Benedicts. The expected academic references as far as papers and conferences came up, along with a few articles that featured the pair in various GASP productions over the years. The only hit that raised any flag had to do with Bill. He had managed—probably purposefully—to get himself arrested during a handful of campus protests over the past few years. All the better for that professorial cred, I thought with a snicker. But my amusement faded when, scrolling down, I read that one charge against him had been battery. Apparently, he had punched some counter protester at a recent climate-change rally. The charge had been dropped, but it did indicate that good old Professor Bill could be provoked to violence.

  Mentally filing that information for future reference, I moved on to Susie. I found the expected references to Atlanta society events and charity functions, along with a few mentions of GASP performances. Nothing about her past working at a sports bar, but then, I didn’t know her maiden name to do a more detailed search.

  Chris proved a bigger puzzle. For one thing, my search brought up any numbers of Chris, Christian, and Christopher Boyds. For another, someone his age didn’t typically have much of a Google presence. Knowing that Twitter, Snapchat, and Instagram were the preferred social media for college students, I gave those platforms a try. But either he had his privacy settings locked down or else didn’t use his real name, because I couldn’t find an account that seemed to tie to him.

  Radney’s online presence held no real surprises. He had the expected LinkedIn page with numerous endorsements and an impressive list of awards and recognitions listed. He was mentioned in a few electronics magazine articles and in press releases put out by Atlanta International Communications Group, otherwise known as AICG—apparently, the company he and Len both worked for. As I’d not known that company name before, I ment
ally filed that info too and kept searching. I smiled at a couple of ancient photos from his University of Georgia days. Radney had gone in on a wrestling scholarship and left with a mechanical engineering degree. Back then, the bulging biceps had more resembled stovepipes, and he’d sported a full head of hair. But there were no blotches on his record that I could see.

  Marvin was a different story.

  I stopped short at the first result, a several-years-old article about Peachtree Communications going into Chapter 11 bankruptcy. That hadn’t been part of Marvin’s story that Harry had told me.

  I did a quick check of Wikipedia, finding a generic piece on the company’s history and founders. What caught my eye, however, was the paragraph that read, A year after the partnership between Lasky and Marsh was dissolved, leaving Lasky at the helm, Peachtree Communications lost a lucrative contract with Atlanta International Communications Group. Eighteen months later, the company filed for bankruptcy protection. One year later, Peachtree Communications was acquired by AICG, with all of Peachtree’s personnel, including Lasky, subsequently let go.

  So much for Marvin’s supposed millions he’d got when he had sold the company. Chances were he’d ended up with pennies on the dollar. Worse, I had a bad suspicion that the lost contract and subsequent bankruptcy and acquisition had Len Marsh’s neatly manicured fingerprints all over it.

  And that could give someone quite the motive for murder.

  Feeling suddenly shaky inside, I checked out the references at the bottom of the listing. Several articles from the Atlanta Business Monthly seemed pertinent, and so I scribbled down the numbers of the issues containing them. Hopefully the library would have copies in their magazine archives.

  But before I could make it to the information desk, my phone rang. I checked the caller ID to see that it was our friendly neighborhood coroner-slash-funeral director on the line. Shoving my note and pen into my purse, I hurried out the door while answering the call.

  “Ah, Ms. Fleet,” came the Reverend Bishop’s dulcet tones on the other end of the line. “I am glad I caught you. You may drop by anytime it is convenient to retrieve your champagne glass.”

  “That’s wonderful,” I replied. “Does that mean you’ve finished your analysis?”

  “I have. And let us just say that the results were not what we were expecting.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Was that good news or bad? Still feeling a bit unsteady, I sat on the library’s front steps and asked, “Can you tell me what those results were?”

  The Reverend was silent for a moment before replying, “Technically, I should keep this information to myself, as the lab in Atlanta will have the final word. But as my findings are not official, I do not think there would be any harm in sharing. Though I do ask that you keep this between us.”

  “I understand. So what was in the drink?”

  “As I told you, there is not a single magical test that can determine an unknown substance. And so I began with the list that Sheriff Lamb provided to me to see if the specimen proved to match any of those chemistries.”

  He rattled off the names of several prescription drugs: Oxycodone, and others that I recognized from television ads. “Interestingly,” he said, “there was no match.”

  “No match?” I echoed, picturing Harry’s I told you so look when he found out. “So you’re saying there wasn’t any sort of drug in the glass after all?”

  “I said there was no match with any of the medications on the list. However, it occurred to me that perhaps that list was, shall we say, incomplete. And so I tested for a few other common pharmaceuticals. Once I eliminated the usual illicit substances, I decided to test for other common but legal drugs. To my surprise, I was successful in my first attempt.”

  “So what was the drug?”

  “Benzodiazepine,” he replied, and then clarified, “It is a sedative. You might know it by trade names like Xanax or Pazaxa.”

  I reached for my pen and the piece of paper where I’d written down the magazine issues for reference. I’d heard of Xanax and Pazaxa before, but …

  “Benzo-what?”

  The Reverend repeated the word and spelled it out, adding, “That is the class of drugs. They are known more colloquially as benzos. Oh, yes, there was colorant still remaining on a bit of the crumbled coating, so from that I narrowed my guess to Pazaxa as the medication in question.”

  I jotted all that on my paper and then asked, “But aren’t those drugs for anxiety or depression? Why would Len take one without it being prescribed?”

  “I am afraid I cannot answer that,” the man intoned. “Moreover, all I can confirm is that the drug was in the glass. Of course, I’ll mention my findings to Sheriff Lamb, but we won’t know until the toxicology results come back whether or not that same drug was actually in Mr. Marsh’s system.”

  Which will take weeks, as the lab in Atlanta is backed up, I silently finished for him.

  “Thanks, Dr. Bishop. But I wonder if—”

  “I am afraid I have shared everything with you that I can, Ms. Fleet,” the coroner smoothly cut me short. “And now, you must excuse me. I have a client waiting in my office who has been more than patient. Be sure to drop by and see Sister Malthea for your glass.”

  And with that, the line went dead.

  I stuck my phone back in my purse and stood, uncertain whether this was progress or not. Because until the autopsy was complete, no one would know for sure how Len died. And even if the drug in question was found in his system, there was no way to prove that he hadn’t purposely taken the pill himself.

  “Not unless someone confesses to spiking his drink,” I said aloud as I headed back toward the square to retrieve my car.

  And the chances of that happening were slim and none, I grimly told myself. Which left me with two choices. I could forget what I knew about the drugs in Len’s peach mimosa and leave the investigation up to Sheriff Lamb. Or, I could poke around and see who of the troupe had access to that particular drug.

  I hadn’t yet come to a decision when, a couple of minutes later, I was back at the square. The stage had continued to take shape, with Jack and his crew still hard at work. This time, however, when the man spotted me passing by, he flipped off his saw; then, with a word to a retirement-aged gentleman standing nearby whom I didn’t recognize, the pair headed in my direction.

  “How’s it going, Nina?” Jack asked as they approached, reaching out a sawdust-covered hand in greeting. “You’re looking good, but then you always do.”

  He was wearing a dark-gray Taste-Tee-Freeze logoed T-shirt. As usual, he’d rolled up the sleeves almost to his shoulders, displaying a respectable set of tanned biceps for a guy in his late fifties. Away from his wife, he tended to be chummy with the ladies. However, I knew that Jill—who bore an uncanny resemblance to the current Duchess of Sussex—kept her man on a tight lead.

  Indicating his companion, Jack went on, “Have you met our SOCS committee chair, Professor Joy?”

  A flash of panic swept through me. This was the guy Harry had to report to about the Len situation. As far as I knew, he hadn’t done that yet. And it wasn’t my job to spill the beans, particularly if the man hadn’t heard about the death.

  Praying that the professor wasn’t much for Internet neighborhood gossip, I managed a casual smile and shook hands with him. With his rumpled red vest and collar-length gray hair tied back in jaunty pirate style, Joy reminded me of a taller, bluffer version of Bill Benedict.

  “The pleasure is mine,” the man insisted, sounding as if he meant it. He vigorously pumped my arm with an oversized hand better suited to manual labor than pedagogy. “I understand that not only are you one of our town’s chamber members, but you are also a sponsor of our little event.”

  “Only indirectly, but next year you can count on me for more. And I must say how impressed I am by everyone’s hard work. That stage could be on Broadway when it’s finished. I can’t believe how quickly you put it together.”

&n
bsp; The men chuckled, and Joy explained, “Actually, we built that behemoth a few years back. We just break it down after every festival and store it in Mayor Green’s barn until the next year.”

  Mayor Green being Melissa Jane Green, a hard-charging sixty-something businesswoman who’d been running the town for more than a decade and a major force behind Cymbeline’s resurgence. She’d also been responsible for fast-tracking the paperwork for my B&B, but her assistance had been contingent on a favor on my end. Fortunately, it had worked out well for all of us.

  “Still impressive,” I told him. “Well, lots to do at the B&B, so I’d better let you gentlemen go. Nice to meet you, Professor.”

  I gave the pair a nod, pleased that I’d dodged the issue of Len’s death. Jack thumbs-upped me in return and headed back to his saw. But I’d barely made it a dozen steps away when, from behind me, Professor Joy called, “Ms. Fleet, one moment.”

  Grimacing, I turned again. The man’s expression was flustered now as he said, “I realize this is an indelicate subject, but I really need to ask. What is the situation with the gentleman who passed away at your establishment yesterday? My understanding is that he was one of the Georgia Amateur Shakespeare Players … which is the troupe headlining our festival.”

  I gave the professor a somber nod.

  “Unfortunately, yes. Mr. Marsh suffered what we believe was a medical incident and passed away. Haven’t you heard from Harry Westcott yet about this?”

  “I haven’t, which is of even greater concern,” Professor Joy replied, features sagging in dismay. “With all I have on my plate right now, I’d appreciate some reassurance. Not to sound callous about the situation—certainly, we send our condolences to the poor man’s family—but we do have a contract with GASP. The Shakespeare performance is the festival’s big draw, and it is vital that they put on the play as scheduled.”

  I hesitated. Should I toss this hot potato Harry’s way? Or should I be a lamb, to quote the actor, and try to mitigate the damage on his behalf?