Peaches and Scream (Georgia Peach Mystery, A)

by Susan Furlong

  “No, seriously. He makes the best chili rellenos ever!”

  “So that’s what you call it!” I countered.

  We turned the corner, still laughing, and started up Orchard Lane.

  “So, how’s Ida been doing?” she asked, bringing me back to the present situation.

  “Not so great. Worried for Hollis. Ray’s sending an investigator to help out. He should be here tomorrow.”

  “An investigator? Well, good. Seems our sheriff’s got a one-track mind.”

  “Well, admittedly, Hollis looks really guilty.” I went on to explain how Hollis hired a firm to investigate Wakefield Lumber and found that he’d loaned more than a million dollars based on fraudulent collateral. “They found the investigation report in Hollis’s pocket when they arrested him.”

  “So, Maudy thinks Hollis found out about the fraud, confronted Wakefield and things escalated.”

  I nodded. “Apparently, that’s enough of a motive for her. She thinks she’s got her man. Except I believe she’s being too narrow-minded.”

  Hattie glanced my way. “I’d say. Like I said before, Millicent seems kind of suspicious to me.”

  “Yes. And a young man named Floyd Reeves. I saw him today at the Mercantile.”

  Hattie nodded. “I know who you’re talking about. He’s been organizing protests against Wakefield Lumber. He’s got a real nasty attitude, but do you think he’d really be stupid enough to kill someone? I mean, it doesn’t make sense. Just because Wakefield’s dead, it doesn’t mean timbering is going to suddenly stop.”

  “You’re right. It doesn’t make sense.” My mind flashed back to the angry young man I’d seen earlier that day, and I shrugged. “Who knows? Hopefully Ray’s investigator will look into it all.”

  We’d reached a small, quaint house covered in dark green shakes. It had a wide porch and white-trimmed dormer windows. “This is it,” she said, waving her hand in front of the house. Everything about it was well kept, especially the yard, which reminded me of a meditation garden with little artsy statuettes hidden near bushes and wide patches of purple, yellow and white flowers adding colorful accents to the abundance of shady flora. A white picket fence seemed to bring it together into an inviting space that made me want to linger outside with a cup of tea and a good book.

  “The house is beautiful and . . . your garden. It’s magical!”

  Her lips curved upward. “I can’t take all the credit. Pete helped me. He’s a talented landscape artist,” she said, moving up the wide steps and motioning me inside before I could ask what other talents he might have. The screen door shut with a bang behind us. “Cade!” Hattie called out. “We’re here.”

  The divine smell hit me as soon as I walked through the door. “What is that?” I asked, following Hattie through the cozy family room to the kitchen at the back of the house.

  She inhaled deeply. “I’d say my big brother has made his specialty.”

  We’d come into the kitchen where Cade was bent over the stove, lifting what looked like thick brown pancakes from a large cast iron skillet. He glanced up. “Perfect timing; the fritters are almost done.”

  If I was in my right mind, I would have found the sight of him in a flowered apron that was at least three sizes too small for his well-developed physique humorous, but instead my breath caught. I stood, momentarily frozen in place, mesmerized by the sight of his muscled biceps under his rolled-up T-shirt, the sheen of sweat on his forehead, the sparkle of his eyes as he worked. I was completely caught off guard by the flips in my stomach.

  A nudge from behind pulled me back to reality. “Hey, I was asking you if you want some wine.”

  Heat rose to my cheeks. “That’d be great; thanks.” I willed myself to settle down the flutters as I eased around the island and stood next to Cade. “It smells wonderful. What are you fixing?”

  “Ribs on the grill and fried corn fritters are coming out of the pan.”

  “Wait until you taste Cade’s ribs,” Hattie said, setting wineglasses down in front of each of us. “He makes the best sauce in the county.”

  “Really?” I was fascinated. “I didn’t even know you could cook.”

  Cade had finished plating the fritters and passed the plate to me before grabbing a clean, larger platter with tongs on it. “It’s just something I picked up over the years. Here, take this, too.” He handed me a bowl of freshly chopped coleslaw. “I thought we’d eat on the deck.” He started for the door, calling over his shoulder, “Hey, sis, bring our glasses and the wine bottle out, will you?”

  I followed him out, placing the fritters and slaw on the deck table before joining him at the grill. I watched as he slathered a rich-looking sauce over the top of a couple racks of baby ribs. I inhaled the rich, smoky tomato smell and sighed in anticipation. “I can hardly wait to taste it,” I commented, my mouth watering.

  “If you think that looks good,” Hattie chimed in as she joined us on the deck, “wait until you have these fried corn fritters. I swear, I could eat these every night.” She cast a grateful glance Cade’s way, broke a piece of fritter off and popped it into her mouth with an appreciative eye roll.

  “Hey, if I didn’t know how to cook, I’d starve around here.”

  “What? I can cook,” Hattie protested, topping off our wineglasses.

  “Only if you count boxed mac-n-cheese as cooking,” Cade teased, pulling the ribs from the grill and stacking them on the big platter.

  “Speaking of cooking,” I said, as we settled around the table. “I have something I wanted to pass by you guys.” I scooped up a load of slaw while Hattie put a couple of fritters on my plate. Cade followed up with a generous cut of meaty ribs. I took a second to use my fork to pull some meat from the bone, spearing it with a piece of fritter and a running it through the slaw. I closed my eyes as I bit into the scrumptious combination. The perfectly spiced meat combined with the salty, crispy corn fritter and the tangy coleslaw was a bite of heaven.

  “What’s that?” Cade was asking.

  I opened my eyes, trying to remember what I was saying before my first bite. “Oh, my. This is so good.”

  Cade beamed with pride.

  “You were saying something about cooking,” Hattie reminded me.

  “That’s right. Sorry,” I said, setting up my next bite while I started to explain. “I was telling Cade yesterday that Harper Peach Farm isn’t doing too well financially.”

  Hattie’s smile faded. “I know; he told me. I’m sorry. Seems your family is having such a difficult time right now.”

  I nodded. “Well, I was thinking about how a lot of the farms up north sell specialty items like peach preserves, peach candies . . . stuff like that. There seems to be a demand for those types of things, especially around the holidays.” I took another bite, chewing slowly so I could enjoy all the flavors.

  Hattie spoke up. “Oh, most definitely!” She glanced at Cade. “You remember that gift box of jellies we ordered for Aunt Connie last Christmas? That came from that peach farm up around Musella—what’s its name? I can’t remember offhand, but they sell everything: preserves, syrup, peach candy and even little knickknacky things like peach Christmas ornaments and stuff. Anyway, Aunt Connie just loved it.”

  I swallowed. “Exactly! Why couldn’t we do the same thing? You know all those recipes my mama has for peach this and peach that. They’ve been handed down through my family for generations.”

  Cade reached for the roll of paper towels in the middle of the table and piped up, “And isn’t your mama always winning prizes for her recipes?” He went to work on wiping the sticky sauce off his hands.

  “That’s right. Actually, that’s how they won this cruise they’re on right now for her peach chutney recipe. And she’s placed several times at the State Fair for her jellies. And just this morning, Joe Puckett traded about two days’ worth of mowing for a dozen jar
s of her peach preserves.”

  Cade raised his brows and laughed. “Really? Too bad it couldn’t have been that easy for the last deal you struck with him.”

  I laughed and agreed, feeling more enthusiastic about my ideas by the minute. “Anyway, I thought I’d start simple. Maybe just chutney and preserves. Of course, I’ll want to test the market.”

  “What do you mean?” Hattie asked.

  “I need to see if people will actually buy the stuff. Mama has a surplus of canned peach preserves stored away in our pantry. I thought I’d try to sell a few dozen jars at the Peach Festival next weekend. I’m going to try to duplicate a few of her recipes, too. Just to get an idea of how things might come together for the business. There’s so many things to think about. I know there’s a lot of regulations when it comes to selling food products.” Not to mention everything I’d need to do just to sell a few jars next week. My mind reeled with details: I’d need a catchy sign—something to really draw customers to my booth—and maybe some professionally printed labels for the jars and . . . Oh, I’d need a slogan, a logo, or at least some sort of business name. Hmm . . . what would that be?

  “But you don’t have a booth,” Cade pointed out.

  My shoulders fell. “You’re right. And it’s probably too late to get one.”

  Hattie poured me some more wine. “Not necessarily. You could set up right outside my shop. All you’ll need is a table and a sign of some sort. You could run it by the planning committee tomorrow night. We’re having a meeting over at the diner after it closes.”

  I sipped at my wine, mulling over her suggestion. “You know, that might just work. I wouldn’t be with the main vendors, but I’d get all the foot traffic from people going in and out of the shops on the square.”

  “That’s right,” Hattie agreed. “Last year was the first festival for my boutique, but I made pretty good sales. We get people from all over the county, you know.”

  Cade shook his head. “So, let’s say you are successful this weekend. Then what?”

  “Then I set up a website and we start selling our peach products online. Plus a few of the festivals around the area.”

  “We? You’re only here for a couple more weeks, remember? Then you’ll be traipsing off to some foreign country to do your own thing.”

  “Cade!” Hattie interjected. “That’s not nice.”

  He glared across the table at his sister. “Maybe not, but it’s the truth. She hasn’t been home for how long? Now she’s just planning to waltz in here and save the day with a few peach recipes? Then leave the work behind for others to pick up.”

  I flinched at the severity of his words, heat rising to my cheeks. He was right. Who was I to show up and play hero? Still, why so vehement? I’d seen traces of this irritation with me ever since I’d arrived. What was he so angry about?

  Hattie started in, trying to cover the awkwardness. “Cade, I don’t think—”

  “No, it’s okay, Hattie,” I said, standing and clearing my plate. “How about I help you get these dishes done, okay? I should be going soon.”

  Her face fell. “But I thought we were going to watch a movie—”

  “Maybe another time, okay?”

  She shot out of her chair and snatched up Cade’s plate with hers. “Please don’t bother with these dishes. Cade will be happy to do them after he gets back from walking you to your car.” She shot him a murderous look. “That’ll give him a chance to apologize for being such a jerk.”

  Chapter 10

  Georgia Belle Fact #035: “Y’all ever heard that song, ‘The Devil Went Down to Georgia?’ Well, every Georgia Belle knows it’s true . . . so watch your back, you hear.”

  “So, you don’t seem too thrilled with my ideas,” I finally said to Cade as we approached my Jeep. I’d just endured the longest, most awkward three blocks ever and was determined not to let the evening end on a bitter note.

  “No, your ideas are fine. They might even work. I’m just surprised, I guess.” He was walking next to me with his hands in his jeans, eyes glued to the sidewalk. The sun was just starting to set, bringing a little relief from the afternoon heat. A nearby mockingbird was ratcheting up his night call, echoing the sounds of his chatty feathered friends.

  “Surprised that I’d want to help my family?” His nonchalant shrug set my blood a-boiling. “Okay, that does it. What gives, Cade? Ever since I arrived, you’ve been acting like I’ve done something wrong. What? You don’t like my job?”

  “Not your job, exactly. I mean, I’m sure it’s exciting and all. At least more exciting than this Podunk town.”

  Oh, so that’s it. Jealousy. “Hey, if you don’t like it here, why don’t you go somewhere else?” Like straight to . . .

  His head snapped up. “Who says I don’t like it here?”

  “You. You just said it’s boring.”

  “Yeah, but I happen to like boring.”

  “Well, that’s your problem, not mine. I just happen to like my job.” Even though I knew that job I liked so well no longer existed.

  He sighed. “That’s great. But you and I both know there’s more to it than that. You’re . . . Oops!” He reached out to steady me after my toe caught in a crack along the walk. “Careful!”

  I mumbled, “Thank you,” and quickly shook off his hand. “I really have no idea what you’re talking about. More to it? Like what?”

  We’d reached my car door. While I searched through my purse for the key, he put his hand on the doorframe and leaned in, his voice low. “You ran out of this town like a coon being tracked by a pack of hounds, Nola.”

  I shimmied around and glared up at his face. “Oh, lovely comparison. That sure makes me feel good.”

  “You know what I mean. You ran from something and you’ve kept running all these years. You hardly ever come back, and when you do come back for a quick visit, you avoid everyone.”

  “Well, I’m not avoiding people now. I’ve been all over town. I’m even going to the Peach Festival. Isn’t that what you’ve been on me about? Going to the Peach Festival?”

  He frowned. “It’s great you’re trying to help your family, Nola. But as soon as your parents get back, you’ll be off and running again.” His eyes searched mine. “We used to be such good friends: you, me and Hattie. Yet you never told me what drove you away. Something happened. And I thought we were friends enough that you’d tell me.”

  I sucked in my breath. He was right; I never told him and I never would. Cade was a good guy, the solid-morals type of guy who could never understand what I did all those years ago.

  I exhaled and rolled my eyes, giving him a playful little shove. “Oh, come on! Stop with all the drama already. Nothing happened. I’d just outgrown Cays Mill, that’s all. Not everyone’s cut out for small-town living, you know.”

  His lips pressed into a thin line and I caught a flash of anger cross his face. But instead of pushing it further, he let it drop. We stood there, suspended in awkward silence as his eyes lingered on mine. After a half beat too long, I looked away. No, Cade must never know my secret. If he ever found out, I’d lose his friendship, tenuous as it already was, forever.

  • • •

  An ear-busting, roaring sound jarred me awake first thing that Thursday morning. I lurched out of bed, grabbed for my robe, swinging it on as I ran down the steps as fast as my sluggish legs would carry me, and peered out the front window. My breath caught. A helmeted man, dressed in all black leather, was parking a motorcycle. I was deliberating whether or not I should go for Daddy’s shotgun, when he reached up and removed his helmet.

  My jaw dropped. Then my heart. It was him. I huddled there, mouth open, completely and utterly gobsmacked. The secret I’d been trying to outrun all these years had just returned . . . and was standing in my own front yard, looking as wickedly hot as ever—too hot for even the Devil to handle. The idea of Dad
dy’s shotgun seemed suddenly all too appealing.

  Dragging my feet, I made my way to the front door, pausing for a quick glimpse in the hallway mirror before opening it.

  “Hey, Nola,” he said as if we’d just seen each other a couple days ago. “Wow, you cut your hair.”

  My hand flew to my head, then back to my gaping robe as I watched him hang the helmet on the handlebars and reach around to a large black saddlebag, pulling out one of the tiniest basset hounds I’d ever seen. “This is Roscoe,” he announced, setting the puppy on the ground. It wrinkled its forehead and cast a large brown-eyed look my way before moseying over to Mama’s petunia bed and lifting its leg. “Well, aren’t you going to invite us in?”

  “In the house?” I croaked, cinching my robe tighter.

  “Well, yeah. Why? You got something against dogs in the house?”

  Four-legged dogs, no. Two-legged ones are another story. But before I could formulate a decent answer, one worthy of my gracious southern upbringing, he snatched up the dog and started for the porch.

  “Didn’t Ray tell you I was coming?” he said, stopping inches from me. A familiar, fresh-soap scent rushed to my nose, unleashing a whole slew of unwanted memories. I struggled to maintain my ground when what I really wanted to do was turn heel and run back inside. “Is it Roscoe?” he asked, readjusting the pooch squirming in his arms. “He’s no trouble really. Ray said you wouldn’t mind if he stayed.”

  “Here?” No way is Dane Hawkins and his mutt staying in this house. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Dane.”

  “I’m going by Hawk now. It’s more suiting for a private investigator.”

  This is our private investigator? I was going to kill Ray. “You staying here wouldn’t be appropriate.”

  Hawk stopped short, cocked his head and shot me a strange look. “Appropriate?” Then a gleam of understanding showed in his blue eyes and he started laughing. Not just some run-of-the-mill laugh, either, but a deep, husky laugh that took me back fifteen years or more to a starlit summer’s night down by the river. We’d shared a lot of laughter that night, and other things, too.