Not So Peachy Day

by Wendy Meadows

  Sam walked up to John and looked down at the dead man. The man was lying face down. “He's been shot in the back.”

  Momma Peach reluctantly approached the dead man and looked down at him. “Oh, give me strength,” she said. “I am supposed to be on a warm tropical island right now getting myself a good old-fashioned sunburn. Instead, I’m trapped in a blizzard with a dead man. Oh, give me strength, give me strength.”

  John slowly raised his eyes and looked at Momma Peach. “Momma Peach,” he said in a strained voice, “I didn't shoot this man. I sure wanted to. But wanting and doing are two different things.”

  Momma Peach put her hand on John's shoulder. “I believe you.”

  Sam rubbed his neck with nervous hands. “John, if you didn't shoot this man, then who did?” he asked and walked over to the front door and studied the icy parking lot. As he did, a few other guests began trickling down into the lobby to see what all the commotion was about. A middle-aged woman wearing a thick pink bath robe spotted the dead man and let out a horrible scream, which made a man holding a small dog nearly wet his pants.

  “Everyone get back to your rooms,” John snapped, suddenly taking charge. “The police will be here shortly.”

  Momma Peach watched a man with a thick mustache and a portly belly shrug his shoulders and work his way back upstairs. A young couple who appeared newly married quickly ran back to their rooms. “Good grief,” Momma Peach mumbled under her breath and walked over to Sam. “Mr. Sam?”

  Sam shoved his hands down into the pockets of his jeans. “Momma Peach, my gut is telling me John was just set up for murder,” he said in an angry voice.

  “I was just thinking the same horrible thought,” Momma Peach told Sam. She cast her eyes outside and looked around the parking lot. “Whoever killed that man is escaping into the storm.”

  Sam nodded his head. “The killer knows we're about to be covered in heavy snow and is probably making his getaway as we speak.”

  Momma Peach watched a few semi-trucks crawl past the inn and turn into a truck stop that reminded her of a vintage sixties diner. The right side of the truck stop, with long rows of parking lanes for semi-trucks of every shape and size, was only half full. It seemed the truckers were all driving south to escape the storm. “Mr. Sam, the killer might be escaping into the storm, but I feel that the dead man's partner in crime will be returning soon enough with the police.”

  Sam looked at Momma Peach. He read her eyes and then nodded his head. “Yeah, I wouldn't be surprised one bit.”

  “Oh goodness,” Momma Peach heard a voice cry out. She turned around and saw Rosa standing at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Rosa,” Momma Peach cried out and ran across the lobby and wrapped Rosa in her arms. “Momma Peach told you to stay in the room.”

  “I was worried,” Rosa confessed, putting her hand over her mouth. “Is that man...dead?” she asked.

  Momma Peach nodded her head. “Yes, he is.”

  Rosa looked at John. “Did he kill him?” she asked in a trembling voice. “He did, didn't he?”

  Momma Peach shook her head no. “No. That man didn't kill anyone. But you better know that the real killers will be back. Now come on with me and get back upstairs.” Momma Peach walked Rosa back to their room.

  Sam walked over to John and put his hand down on the man's shoulder. John raised his eyes and looked at Sam. “I'm in some serious trouble,” he said.

  “Yeah, but you're not going to fight this war alone,” Sam promised.

  Outside, the day turned darker and colder.

  Chapter Three

  “Give me strength, give me strength,” Momma Peach exclaimed as she examined the little packs of coffee arranged on a wooden counter outside of the bathroom in the room she shared with Rosa. A small coffeemaker was on the right side of the counter, staring off toward an iron and box of tissues by the clean porcelain sink. Momma Peach shook her head and tossed down a pack of decaf coffee, turned on the hot water impatiently, and began filling the small coffee pot with water. “Mr. John sure owns a nice inn, but he's sure cheap on his coffee. I need some strong coffee beans down me, not this weak watery stuff you can buy at a discount store.”

  Sam sat down in a comfortable chair beside the window and put his face into his hands. “I wish we could be downstairs with John,” he said in a tired voice.

  “I wish the same thing, Mr. Sam. But that old fart of a sheriff ran us back upstairs to our rooms,” Momma Peach fussed as she poured the water into the coffeemaker and started the pot of coffee brewing.

  “Sheriff Maples seemed like a nice man,” Rosa told Momma Peach.

  Momma Peach turned away from the counter to face Rosa, who sat on her bed with a gray laptop resting in her lap. “What are you looking at on that there laptop?” she asked.

  “The weather,” Rosa sighed. “The storm is now being predicted to last a lot longer than before and drop a lot more snow, too. The news reports I've been reading are claiming this storm is going to set new records. Snow is even being predicted to fall as far south as Orlando.”

  Sam removed his hands from his face, pulled back the curtain covering the window, and looked outside. He spotted snowflakes mixing in with the ice. “We're trapped in this town for a while, that's for sure,” he told Momma Peach and Rosa. “I guess I better try and get across the street to that truck stop and get us some food while I can. I know John said the owner stays open regardless of the weather, but I don't want to take a chance.”

  “But Sheriff Maples said to stay in our room,” Rosa told Sam in a worried voice.

  Momma Peach threw her hands into the air. “You let the grownups make these decisions, okay? Besides, I don't like being told to stuff myself inside a room and starve to death. I am mighty hungry and I ain't about to let my tummy fuss at me because some old fart told us to stay put, no sir and no, ma’am. When you come between Momma Peach and a good meal, watch out, because Momma Peach will take on a wild bull.”

  Sam stood up and pointed to the small refrigerator tucked under the counter where a microwave sat. “At least we have a way to keep and heat some food. I'll get enough food to get us through a few days,” he assured Momma Peach and grabbed his coat from the reading table in the room. “I'll go out the back stairs and stay out of sight. What the sheriff don’t know won’t hurt him.”

  Rosa put down her laptop and quickly stood up. “I'll go with you, Sam. I could use some fresh air.”

  Momma Peach glanced at the small coffee pot. “Well, I better come along, too,” she said and hurried to her coat. “Ain't no sense in waiting for that water to turn into sludge. Maybe that there truck stop across the street will have some decent coffee. Let's go.”

  Sam walked to the door, cracked it open, and looked toward the main stairs. The hallway was empty and silent. “Clear,” he whispered. Momma Peach waited for Rosa to put on her coat, took her hand, and walked out into the hallway and closed the door. “Ready?” Sam asked.

  Momma Peach shoved her room key down into the right pocket of her coat and nodded her head. “Let's go,” she said.

  Sam turned left and walked down the hallway toward an emergency stairwell. He opened a thick wooden door and held it open for Momma Peach and Rosa, and they walked down a flight of wooden stairs. When they reached the bottom of the stairs Sam pushed open another wooden door and they walked out into a powerful, screaming wind pelting them with ice and snow. Sam quickly tucked his head down and waited for Momma Peach and Rosa to exit safely. “This wind is colder than the wind up in Vermont,” he said, holding the door firmly so the wind wouldn’t snatch it from his hands. Out on the street, three semi-trucks crawled past the inn. The trucks all had their lights on and glowed like brave but worried warriors preparing to battle a dark night. “Those trucks better hurry,” Sam said, smelling exhaust in the air.

  Momma Peach threw her head down under her arm to avoid the stinging ice pellets in the wind. “Oh, I am going to turn into a peach daquiri,” she howled as the
winds attacked her face. “My, oh my, this here storm is turning out to be a mean one, yes sir and yes, ma’am.”

  Rosa joined Momma Peach. “It sure is miserable out here,” she agreed.

  “It's the wind,” Sam explained. “The wind makes it feel colder than it really is. But when the sun sets, which won't be long from now, the temperature will drop below freezing and stay below freezing, and then it'll really turn cold.” Sam nodded his head toward the truck stop. “Let's go.”

  Momma Peach grabbed Rosa's hand and carefully walked up the west side wall of the inn and then stepped onto an icy parking lot. She looked to her right and saw Sheriff Maples’ brown car, an ambulance, and a black hearse. A man wearing a thick gray coat was loading a gurney into the back of the hearse; a black body bag was strapped down to the gurney. “There goes a lost soul,” she sighed. “It's always tragic when a person decides to live their life outside of love and inside of hate...and when their ends come, it comes in disgrace.”

  Sam looked at the hearse. The sight of the hearse standing in the wintry weather made his heart feel very cold inside. He stopped walking and folded his arms together. “It's a shame,” he agreed and looked at Rosa, who was watching the hearse with shock on her face. “Rosa, now do you understand why murder cases are ugly? Television can distort reality and make even the ugliest and worst crimes seem appealing. But in reality, murder is cold, cruel and hateful.”

  Rosa stared at the hearse. “Death is…the end,” she whispered and grabbed Momma Peach's arm. “I guess I can understand what you and Michelle go through now, Momma Peach. I mean, I always knew, well, that danger was involved. But in my mind...well, I pictured it like the old movies, you know. Dick Tracy or Sherlock Holmes, or Nancy Drew.”

  Momma Peach watched the man in the gray coat close the back door of the hearse, lock it, then peer up at the dark, gray sky before hurrying to the driver's door. “Baby,” Momma Peach said as the man jumped into the hearse and cautiously drove away, “I sure do wish I could team up with Nancy Drew and solve some silly mystery where the only criminals to be found are a buncha two-bit numbskulls. Come on.”

  Momma Peach walked Rosa across the street behind Sam, and they entered the warm truck stop that smelled of grease, coffee, cigarette smoke, pancakes, eggs and hash browns. Country music was blaring from an old jukebox pushed up against a back wall. Worn-down tables ran in a crooked line down the middle of a large room with wooden walls and a green linoleum floor. A simple but inviting long front counter at the front of the room waited, its old stools worn down from years of truckers resting on them. “Ah, my kind of place,” Momma Peach said and took in a deep breath of strong, almost burnt coffee. “The coffee is gonna be strong in this here truck stop, too.”

  Sam looked around. He overheard a few truckers sitting at the tables talking about the weather. A couple of truckers resting at the front counter kept their heads hunched over plates of pancakes and eggs. “Be right with you, folks,” a woman called out from behind the front counter. “Just go ahead and grab a seat anywhere.”

  Momma Peach spotted a table near a window and hurried over to it. She looked through the window, spotted the front of the inn, and nodded her head. “This table will do,” she said, quickly removed her coat, and sat down.

  Rosa examined the truck stop. She had never been in such a place before. The smell of grease seemed to stick to the tables and chairs. “Is it okay to eat here?” she asked in a concerned voice.

  “Right as rain,” Sam promised. He sat down next to Momma Peach and studied the front street and then walked his eyes over to the inn. He spotted Sheriff Gables walk outside, get into his car, and drive away. The ambulance followed. “Well, at least John wasn't arrested,” he told Momma Peach in a relieved voice.

  “Sheriff Maples might be a rude old fart, but he's an old timer who isn't about to throw his old friend into the slammer,” Momma Peach pointed out as Travis Tritt began to sing about giving a quarter to someone who cares. The song didn't fit well with the weather, yet it seemed to paint the inside of the truck stop with perfect strokes. “I sure like to hear that man sing,” Momma Peach said and allowed her mind to step away from her stress.

  “You like country music, Momma Peach?” Rosa asked.

  “I like all kinds of music.”

  “You always listen to jazz music in your kitchen back home. I just assumed jazz was the only music you liked,” Rosa told Momma Peach.

  “Assumptions make a you-know-what out of you and me,” Momma Peach smiled. “Though in this case you are a smart cookie,” Momma Peach patted Rosa's hand. “Because Momma Peach sure does love her jazz. However, I’m crazy over country, but give me the old-timers…Ray Charles, Conway Twitty and my all-time favorite: Elvis. Oh, when that man sings ‘Are You Lonesome Tonight,’ I cry every single time, yes sir and yes, ma’am.”

  Rosa couldn't imagine Momma Peach being an Elvis Presley fan. “Momma Peach, you're an Elvis fan? You, of all people?” she asked, amazed.

  “Now what’s wrong with liking Mr. Peanut Butter, Banana and Bacon Sandwich?” Momma Peach asked and gave Rosa a curious eye. “Huh?”

  Rosa blushed. “Well...I just figured, well...nothing, Momma Peach. I just figured Elvis was a tabloid star rather than someone people really liked.”

  Momma Peach chuckled. “Tabloid star. Did you hear that Mr. Sam?”

  Sam grinned. “Well, the poor guy was spotted on the moon last month. Probably singing a new hit tune, too.”

  “Very funny, ha ha,” Rosa told Sam and gently slapped his hand.

  Sam winked. “If you spot Elvis at the local ice cream shop in town, let me know, Rosa. We'll snap a photo of him and make millions.”

  Momma Peach chuckled to herself again. “Make sure you catch the man eating peanut butter and banana ice cream.”

  “Oh, you two,” Rosa fussed. She looked to her right and spotted a short, chubby lady with short gray hair hustling up to the table. “Here comes the waitress.”

  Momma Peach spotted the waitress and smiled. “Sorry, hon,” the waitress said and snatched an order pad from the pocket of the brown apron she wore over a thick gray sweater and heavy maroon dress, “it's been a madhouse in here today. Neil, our cook, called out and then Wanda and Freida called out. It's been me and Beth all day. It's just now slacked off a bit. Most of the truckers are trying to get out of town. A few brave souls have decided to stay parked outside and weather the storm.”

  “What's your name?” Momma Peach asked.

  “Martha.”

  “Well, Ms. Martha, I'm Momma Peach, this here is Mr. Sam, and that beautiful doll is Rosa. And we are all three very hungry,” Momma Peach told Martha in a warm voice. She then tossed a thumb at the inn sitting across the street. “We're staying at Mr. John's.”

  “Yeah, I heard a shooting took place over at John's earlier. Dave came in and gave me the scoop.”

  “Dave?” Sam asked.

  Oh, Dave is a deputy sheriff,” Martha explained and then rolled her eyes. “Well, he's more of a scarecrow that couldn't shoot the broad side of a barn, bless his heart.”

  Sam bit his lip. “Martha, what did Dave tell you?”

  Momma Peach eased in. “We were there when the shooting happened,” she explained.

  “Oh,” Martha said in a quick voice, “well, then I guess you would know more than Dave.” Martha looked out of the window and studied the weather. “All Dave told me was that a man working for Coplin and Morris was shot and killed. Now let me tell you,” Martha focused her eyes on Sam, “this old gal sure isn't going to shed any tears. Coplin and Morris are two evil men who are bound and determined to destroy my home. They're after poor John and Mr. Brown.”

  “Mr. Brown?” Momma Peach asked.

  “Oh, Benny Brown, he owns this truck stop,” Martha explained. “Coplin and Morris are trying to force him to sell out, but Mr. Brown is holding his ground.” Martha shook her head. “Coplin and Morris figure once they take John out they can force Mr. Brown to sell,
too. Anyway,” she said, “I don't want to ruin your appetite, so let's get you all some food, huh? Because we're so short-handed today, all we're cooking up is eggs, pancakes, grits, hash browns, oatmeal, pepper gravy, biscuits, coffee, juice and leftover pecan pie. I know it's not much of a menu, but—”

  “Baby,” Momma Peach beamed, “you just bring me a plate full of everything you just mentioned, and I will be just fine. Just make sure the coffee is strong enough to make a spoon stand up.”

  “The coffee is super strong today,” Martha promised Momma Peach and looked at Sam and Rosa. “The same for you two?” she asked.

  “Please,” Rosa asked in a polite voice. “And I'll have some orange juice if that's okay.”

  “You got it, hon.”

  “Coffee for me,” Sam told Martha.

  “Three Happy Plate Specials, two coffees and a juice, coming right up,” Martha said and rushed off.

  “She seems like a nice lady,” Rosa said and touched a greasy salt shaker.

  Sam leaned back in his chair and studied the front road. Momma Peach glanced back at the inn. She saw John open the front door, look outside, and then vanish.

  After filling her hungry belly with hot, delicious breakfast food, and drinking three cups of the best coffee she had ever had, Momma Peach tipped Martha a hundred-dollar bill and put on her coat. “Martha, I sure hope this here truck stop stays open during the storm.”

  Martha stared at the hundred-dollar bill. “Oh, I can't accept this.”

  “Oh, yes you can,” Sam smiled and took a paper bag holding three to-go orders from Martha. “And you'll take this,” he said and handed her another hundred-dollar bill.

  “I...well, thank you both so much,” Martha said. “I just hope this isn't a bribe to stay open. I know Mr. Brown is a stubborn man who makes sure this truck stop stays open every day except for the sabbath. But money’s not the issue here…with this weather, we might face bigger problems. I don't see how we're going to stay open all through this storm.”