Peaches And Screams (A Savannah Reid Mystery)

by McKevett, G. A.

  “I can’t begin to tell you how good it is to have company,” Elsie said as she shoveled in a mouthful of the moist cake and chewed blissfully. “This place is lonely, not to mention spooky, without anybody around. Especially considering what happened right in that other room.”

  “I don’t know how you can stand it,” Gran said, shaking her head. “I mean, this old house has haunts enough just from the war, let alone with the recent goings on.”

  “Boy, howdy . . . it sure does.” Elsie leaned forward and lowered her voice, as though afraid some unseen presence might overhear. “I still haven’t gone into that library. I don’t think I ever will. The dust and the cobwebs can just pile up, for all I care. I’d rather walk on a bed of broken glass than tread those rugs.”

  “Well, actually,” Savannah said, “you aren’t supposed to go in there. It’s still cordoned off with the police tape, isn’t it?”

  “No, the sheriff came by this morning and took all that away. Said they’d done all they needed to do, you know, with the investigation and all.” Elsie glanced down into her glass of tea, as though suddenly embarrassed. “I want y’all to know . . . I don’t put no store at all by what the sheriff’s saying about it being Macon that done in the judge. I know that none of your grandchildren would do something so awful, Sister Reid. Everybody in town knows that’s just a heap o’ baloney. We were all interceding for you last night at the Wednesday night prayer meeting, asking the Lord to shine a light o’ truth on what really happened.”

  “Thank you, Sister Dingle,” Gran told her. “We sure appreciate those prayers. We can use all we can get right now.”

  Savannah decided the time was as good as any to jump in. “Actually, Miss Dingle, that’s why we’re here . . . other than to offer the cake and condolences, that is. We’re trying to help the good Lord out with that ‘light o’ truth’ business. And we were thinking that maybe you’d have some opinions on what happened to the judge.”

  “Oh, mercy! I have opinions. I’ve got more opinions than Carter’s got pills, but as a rule, nobody wants to hear them.”

  “We do,” Gran piped up. “We want to hear it all. Let ’er rip, Sister Dingle.”

  Elsie took a long drink of tea, a long deep breath, and said, “I think there’s at least a dozen people in this town who could’ve done in the judge. He sure gave folks more reason to hate him than love him. But the one I’d put my money on . . . if I were a gambling woman, which I’m not . . . is that soon-to-be divorced wife of his and her man.”

  “Her man?” Savannah was all ears. “You mean, a man other than the judge?”

  “Oh, honey, she had a dozen men on her fishing line when she hooked Judge Patterson, and she didn’t exactly cut ’em loose just because she’d slipped a diamond ring on her finger.”

  Gran frowned, confused. “But I heard she left him, because he was the one who was steppin’ out.”

  “He was. And she did. But just because she fools around doesn’t mean she’s not the jealous type. I think she figured an old fellow like his honor was past all that. But the judge . . .” Elsie covered her mouth with her hand and giggled. “. . . Just when he was starting to slow down a little, he discovered the wonders of that Viagra stuff. And it got him all riled up again. Why, he chased women till his dying day, he did.”

  “And you think that’s what got him killed?” Savannah asked.

  “Oh, no. I think she shot him for his money. She’s got her tennis instructor, that Alvin Barnes, and he’s who she wanted . . . at least, in that way. But she got used to having better, living here with the judge and all. Her standard o’ living dropped considerably when she stomped out. And she ain’t the type to be happy just living on love, if you know what I mean.”

  “And you think she actually shot him herself?” Savannah asked.

  “Either that, or she told Alvin to do it. She wouldn’t have had to twist his arm outta the socket, you know. He figured the judge had done him a great disservice by not acknowledging him as his son . . . since the whole town knows it. He’s the spittin’ image of the judge.”

  “Where were you, Elsie, when the murder happened?” Savannah said, as gently as she could.

  But it wasn’t gentle enough for Gran.

  “What do you mean, asking Sister Dingle a fool thing like that?” Gran demanded. She turned to Elsie. “I’m sorry. You’ll just have to excuse Savannah. Being a police officer just ruined her manners . . . asking a fine, church-goin’ woman for an alibi for murder! I swear . . . !”

  Elsie laughed good-naturedly. “Oh, I wasn’t offended at all. The sheriff already grilled me like a well-done steak about that night, I don’t mind saying. I was in my room, above the garage. It used to be the carriage house in the old days, and the overseer lived there. It’s a real nice room, away from everything, peaceful and quiet.”

  Savannah had a sinking feeling. “So peaceful and quiet that you didn’t hear anything?”

  “Not a solitary thing. I left work early that afternoon, went to my room, and took a nap. Slept through the whole thing, I did. I was dead to the world till the sheriff and Mr. Goodwin came pounding on my door. By then, well, it was too late for the judge.”

  Although she didn’t really want to see it, Savannah observed a definite lack of mourning on Elsie’s part, considering that the judge had been her employer for more than twenty years.

  “You left early?” Savannah said.

  “Yeah, the judge told me to.”

  In spite of her embarrassment over having a “rude” granddaughter, Gran was getting into interrogation mode herself. “Why did he do that?” she asked. “Did he usually let you go early?”

  “No. He never did. The judge was a man who wanted a day’s work for a day’s pay. Never made any bones about that. But Monday afternoon, he told me to quit early, that I looked tired.”

  “Were you?” Savannah asked.

  “No more than usual. I figured he wanted to get rid of me so he could have some new woman over, try out those pills again. I mean, why else would he miss his game of golf? He must have been staying home for somebody special.”

  “Do you have any idea who it might have been?”

  “No, I wish I did. I wish I’d been nosy enough to peek out the window a couple of times. I might have seen something, and then your Macon wouldn’t be sitting there, cooling his heels in jail.” She sighed. “But I’m not as young as I used to be. I was tired, and when you’re worn out, you’re just not as curious as you oughta be.”

  Savannah grinned. “That’s okay, Miss Dingle. You’ve been a lot of help. You don’t happen to have any concrete reason to think Bonnie Patterson or Alvin Barnes might have killed him, do you? I mean, other than your own intuition?”

  “Nothing that would hold up in a court of law.” She smiled slyly. “I know what you’re after, Savannah. I’m no dummy. I watch Court TV all the time, and I know what it takes to get a conviction. Believe me, if I had anything like that, I’d have given it to the sheriff already. I never did like that Bonnie. She’s just snooty and shallow and not nearly as bright or as pretty as she thinks she is. And, even if I did like her, I don’t cotton to people getting away with murder.”

  “Okay, then let’s put it this way,” Savannah continued. “Is there anything in particular that makes you think they did it? Did you see anything or hear anything that stands out in your mind?”

  “Well, yes.” Elsie nodded thoughtfully. “I had to throw them out of this house, Bonnie and Alvin, this past Sunday night.”

  “The night before the killing?” Gran asked.

  “That’s right. I came home from evening church service about half past seven, and I was going on back to my room, when I saw a light on here in the kitchen. Now, the judge doesn’t ever come in the kitchen. I don’t think he’s been in here once in his whole life—a woman’s place and not a man’s, you know. And his car was gone, so I figured he was still at the club, having a bit of supper there.”

  “And Bonnie and Alvin
were here in the kitchen?” Savannah asked.

  “No. I figure they came in this way and left the light on, but they were upstairs in the judge’s bedroom.”

  “I’m afraid to ask what they were doing,” Gran said. But she didn’t look afraid. She looked eager.

  “Naw, they weren’t doing that,” Elsie replied. “Although I wouldn’t put it past her. They were walking around, picking up stuff like some silver candlesticks and a crystal candy dish, and the judge’s humidor. Whatever struck their fancy, I suppose. I told her to leave everything where it was or I’d call the sheriff, ’cause according to the divorce papers, she wasn’t supposed to just waltz in and help herself. She’d already gotten everything out of the house that she was entitled to.”

  “What did she say when you told her to leave?” Savannah cut another slice of cake and laid it on Elsie’s empty plate.

  “Let’s just say she called me things that no man should say and no lady should hear. But that was Bonnie’s way. She always has had a filthy mouth on her. White trash, that’s all she is, and I don’t mean nothing racist by calling her that either. I just call it as I see it.”

  “I understand,” Savannah replied. “And then?”

  “Then I marched downstairs to the kitchen, and I got myself my marble rolling pin out of the cupboard, and I went back up there and told them they’d better reconsider.”

  “And?” Gran asked.

  “And they put down the stuff, and they left. I meant business, and they knew it.”

  “Did you tell the judge when he came home?” Savannah said.

  “I did, and I can tell you, he was fit to be tied. He called Sheriff Mahoney and told him to arrest them right away.”

  “Did he?”

  “I don’t think so. The sheriff said it wasn’t exactly breaking and entering, since she used her keys on the back door and the divorce wasn’t absolutely final yet. So, it’s sorta still her house. But he did have the locksmith out to change the locks.”

  “When?”

  “Sunday morning.”

  “The day he got killed?”

  “Yeah, I reckon it was. Do you think that’s got anything to do with it?”

  Savannah shrugged. “I don’t know, Miss Dingle. It’s like trying to put together a big puzzle when you don’t have all the pieces and you don’t know if the pieces you have even go to this puzzle.”

  “And your grandma says you do this for a living.” Elsie looked a bit puzzled herself, and Savannah couldn’t blame her.

  “It is a strange way to make a living,” Savannah agreed. “But in this case, of course, the stakes are a lot higher.” She turned to Gran. “I think we’d better get going, now that we’ve just about polished off this cake. I’ve got a few other people to talk to yet today.”

  “And there’s Marietta’s wedding rehearsal tonight,” Gran reminded her.

  “Oh, goody. I’d forgotten about that.” At the very thought, Savannah’s brief sugar fix from the cake vanished, leaving her weak with fatigue.

  Elsie stood and gathered up their dirty dishes. Savannah and Gran grabbed the glasses and the tea pitcher.

  “Like I said,” Elsie said as she carried the plates to the sink, “I was feeling mighty lonesome and a bit spooky here in this house all by myself. Or, at least, just me and the ghosts.”

  “The ghosts?” Savannah placed the pitcher into the gigantic refrigerator.

  “Oh, yes, we’ve got a whole batch of ghosts who hang out here,” Elsie said, her dark face absolutely straight. “Most of them linger in the dining room, on account of that’s where so many of them died . . . when the house was converted into a hospital for the soldiers. A lot of limbs were amputated and a heap of lives lost right there in that dining room. I don’t go in there after dark.”

  Savannah wasn’t sure what to say, so she just nodded as though she understood completely. She glanced at Gran, who seemed equally convinced.

  “And the judge himself was poking around there in the library last night,” Elsie continued. “So, now I sure won’t go in there again. They’re just going to have to hire somebody from town to clean it. This girl ain’t doing it.”

  Savannah shut the refrigerator door. “Wait a minute. What do you mean, the judge was in there, poking around?”

  “Well, I didn’t actually see his ghost, because I wouldn’t go in there, but it had to be a haunt because it wasn’t anybody human in there. I would have seen them go in or out.”

  “Unless they came or went through the window,” Savannah suggested.

  Elsie seemed to consider her theory for a moment, then discard it. “I don’t think so. Sounded more like a ghost to me.”

  Savannah opened her mouth to ask the housekeeper to explain the difference, but Gran shot her a warning look.

  Savannah chose her words carefully. “Do you think it would be okay if I were to poke my head in the library now? I mean, it’s broad daylight, and I think it would be all right, no matter what sort of activity there’s been in there. The judge knows I mean well.”

  Elsie looked questioningly at Gran, who gave her a slight nod. “I think it’d be all right,” she said. “Savannah does this sort of thing for a living, remember. She’ll know how to go about it and not upset . . . anybody.”

  “Okay,” Elsie said finally. “Go on, if you feel you have to. But tread lightly and respectfully. I can tell you, because I knew the judge well, and I know all about haunts: His honor is still mighty mad about what happened to him. And I don’t rightly blame him.”

  Chapter 14

  Savannah did tread lightly, not only out of respect for the recently departed judge, who—according to at least one expert—might now be a restless ghost. But also because she didn’t want to disturb any new evidence that might be lying about for the finding.

  “Haunt, my butt,” she said, but only in the softest whisper as she walked down the hall. There was nothing to be gained by offending either Elsie or Gran, who both believed as firmly in wandering spirits as they did in the world of flesh, blood, and concrete.

  Besides, for all she knew, they were right. And there was no point in stating her doubts so loudly that the judge himself could overhear . . . if he were still on the premises, as Elsie believed, rather than in the hereafter or in Herb Jameson’s funeral parlor along with his earthly remains.

  Little had changed about the library from when she had been there before, Savannah decided, when she pushed the heavy door open and looked inside. Sheriff Mahoney, Tom, or some assistant had wiped away most of the fingerprint dust and swept up the glass from the shattered front of the display frame. But Elsie would still be appalled if she saw the disarray and the sooty residue that remained. It was just as well that she stayed out of here for a while, or the sheriff and Tom would surely get an earful about the mess they had left behind in her otherwise spotless house.

  But the crime scene processing dust wasn’t the only residue. Elsie was right; there was still an uneasy presence in the room. And whether it was ghostly or strictly of this world, Savannah didn’t want to spend any more time in the room than necessary.

  The midday sunlight streaming through the windows lit the mahogany paneling, the soft leathers, the gleaming brass and stained glass accessories. Any other time, she might have been tempted to pull a book from the shelves and snuggle into one of the giant chairs. Except for that creepy, shivery feeling that tickled at the nape of her neck . . . and the dark stain on the oriental carpet.

  Other than being cleaner and better lit, the room appeared exactly the way it had before. But someone—and she wasn’t prepared to believe it was a ghostly someone—had been here. And she had a feeling that if she looked hard enough, she could find evidence of their visit.

  With a practiced eye, she studied every inch of the floor, looking for a dirty footprint, an indentation in the carpet, any small object that might have been left behind, even a thread, a hair, a leaf or twig.

  But she found nothing.

  Likewise, t
he surfaces of the furniture were smooth and fingerprint free, having been freshly wiped by whoever had cleaned the room.

  Nothing seemed to be out of place. The books, desk accessories, telephone, family pictures, and knickknacks appeared to be sitting where they were before.

  Having pulled on some latex gloves from her handbag, Savannah walked over to the gun cabinet and checked it. Although it was unlocked, the judge’s classic firearms seemed to be safe and secure.

  “Okay,” she said to the room’s unseen previous visitor . . . a blurry, faceless figure in her mind’s eye. “What did you do in here? You snuck in here to get something, or to see something, or to leave something behind. What was it, huh?”

  It was on her third time around, checking every piece of furniture, every nook and cranny, that she saw them . . . several small scratches on the brass hardware that decorated the top drawer of the rolltop desk.

  The lock had been forced.

  Of course, the desk was probably a hundred or more years old, which meant the damage could have been done by someone wearing a hoop skirt and pantaloons, but it was worth a look.

  She pulled a small, but powerful, penlight from her purse and pointed the beam on the scratches.

  They were new. At least, fairly recent, because the marks glowed brightly in comparison to the somewhat tarnished metal surface.

  Savannah felt her pulse quicken as she laid the penlight on the desktop and gently tried the drawer.

  Oh, yes, she thought, as it slid open with the precision of a well-made piece of furniture. Open, Sesame. And what do we have here?

  The drawer was fairly deep, the type used for storing files and papers, rather than pens and pencils, like the neighboring shallow one. And at first, all Savannah could see was green.

  Forest-green file folders, suspended from a wire rack, contained all manner of paperwork relating to the judge’s life, professional and personal.