“What’s so funny?” I asked, wishing my voice didn’t sound so weak.
He finally stopped laughing and leveled his gaze on me. “I’m not staying here, just Roscoe. So don’t worry, darlin’. I’m here on business.” He pushed past me, his boots making a determined clomping sound as he opened the screen door and walked into the house.
Inside the living room, he set the dog on the davenport and started pacing around. “Well, after all these years, I finally get to see the inside of the Harper farmhouse. Interesting.”
“I’m sure it is.” I shooed the dog onto the floor. “Ray hired you to look into Hollis’s case?”
“Yup. I’m your man.”
No, you’re not. Nor will you ever be. “I see. Well, if you’re not staying here”—and you’re definitely not—“then where?”
“Someplace called the Sunny Side Up.” He laughed a little more. “Sissy-sounding name, huh? Anyway, they don’t take dogs.” He grinned down at the tiny ball of brown and white fur.
I hated this man, this situation, this darn dog—well, maybe not the dog per se—but the facts were that Hollis and my family needed help and I had to forget the past, grow past my personal feelings and move on. I cinched the belt of my robe tighter. “Look, if Ray thinks you’re the right man for the job, then so be it.”
He looked at me with a mix of surprise and indignation, as if confused that anyone would question his abilities. I just shook my head. Ego just never grows up.
He started for the back of the house, his hands swinging confidently at his sides while his eyes took in his surroundings. I followed, becoming more irritated by the second. “Your daddy’s room, I bet,” he commented, stepping inside the distinctly masculine den and running his hand along the top of the desk. “I always envisioned myself sitting across from your daddy in a room like this, talking with him, man to man.”
I closed my eyes for a second, took another deep breath and opened them again. “There’s some things you should know about Hollis and his case. But, we’re not discussing it in here. This is Daddy’s private study.” I pointed a rigid finger toward the hallway. “We’ll talk in the kitchen.”
He waved his hand toward the door, indicating that I should lead the way. I shuffled ahead, back through the living room and down the hall that led to the kitchen, distinctly aware of how big my heavy chenille robe must make my hips look. “Coffee?” I asked, once we’d reached the kitchen.
“Black.”
I worked my way through the motions of measuring the coffee and filling the maker, feeling his eyes on my back the whole time.
“Why’d you cut your hair?”
“Long hair didn’t suit my work.” Not wanting to continue this conversation any longer than necessary, I slid a mug under the stream as soon as the liquid starting dripping. Then another for me, cringing when the hot liquid hit the burner and sent up an acrid-smelling puff of burnt coffee. “Here you go,” I said, placing his mug down before settling in across from him, gripping my own mug between my cold palms, hoping the hot porcelain would calm my trembling fingers.
“Ray told me about your work. Is it the travel you like or helping people?” he asked, shedding his leather jacket on the back side of his chair. I quickly averted my eyes from his tautly stretched T-shirt.
I nodded. “Both. And you? You’re a private investigator?”
“Hey, it’s more lucrative than my old job.” I must have looked confused because he went on to explain, “I used to be a cop. Up in Atlanta.”
“I see.” I focused on drinking my coffee. I’d never kept tabs on Dane, or Hawk as he called himself now, but it didn’t surprise me to find out he’d gone into law enforcement. He was always a take-charge type of guy.
“I’m good at what I do,” he assured me. “That’s why your brother hired me. He says Hollis’s chances will be slim if it goes to trial. Ray wants me to find something before that happens.”
I nodded, glad the conversation was on point now. Nothing really mattered, I told myself, except helping Hollis, and Ray was right—we really had to come up with something solid before any trail. “I’ve picked up a few things that may help.” I went on to tell him about Floyd Reeves, the overenthusiastic protester, and my encounter with Millicent Wakefield at Hattie’s Boutique. He pulled a notepad and pencil out from his leather jacket pocket to take notes as I talked. “There’s something else, too. Hollis is. . . .” I rolled my eyes up toward the ceiling, trying to think of the right way to put it. “Well, he’s sort of a womanizer.”
Hawk leaned forward. “Is that so? Thought he was married to your sister?”
Unfortunately, he is. I nodded. “That’s true. But I’ve been hearing things about him around town.”
He gave me a scrunched-face look. “Substantiated ‘things’ or the typical gossip stuff?”
I sighed. “Just hear me out, will ya? There’s this gal that works at the salon, Laney Burns. She was messing around with Hollis after the party, right before the murder supposedly happened. And that’s not gossip; I got it straight from her own lips.” Highly glossed, sneering lips, but still . . . “Anyway, she saw the scarf—the one used to strangle Wakefield—tangled up in a tree branch. It was still there when she left Hollis that night, half-drunk, she said, in the orchard.”
“Okay. So, it could have been picked up by someone else later.” He shrugged. “Or not.”
“Okay, so that’s not much,” I admitted. “But there’s something else.”
The chair creaked as he shifted his weight. “What?”
“This isn’t something we’d want to necessarily get out, but I think maybe Laney was also seeing Ben Wakefield.” I explained to him what Millicent told Hattie and me.
A flicker of understanding crossed his face. “Uh-oh.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. It’ll look bad for Hollis if it comes out that he was caught up in a love triangle with Laney Burns and Ben Wakefield.”
Hawk nodded. “It sure will.” He stretched his arms above his head and yawned. “Anything else I should know?”
I shook my head, a little surprised at his nonchalant attitude. He didn’t seem to be feeling the same anxious urgency that I did. Maybe because he handled this type of stuff all the time, or, more than likely, because the stakes weren’t as high for him. After all, it wasn’t his sister’s husband facing down a murder charge.
Hawk stood and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Thanks for the coffee. I’m going to get settled at the B and B for a little rest. I’ve ridden half the night.” He started for the door.
“Rest?” I followed on his heels. “Aren’t you going to get started?”
“I’ll work better after I get some sleep.” He bent down and started running his fingers over Roscoe’s flappy ears. “Be good, fella,” he said to the dog, who I noticed was back up on the sofa again. He looked over at me and winked. “I’ll be in touch, Nola.”
As soon as the screen door slammed shut, I gently lifted the dog back down to the floor and plopped down in his place on the sofa. Not more than a half second later, he stood and placed his little stubby legs on mine, raising himself up and letting out a long, soulful croon at the sound of Hawk’s motorcycle pulling away. “It’s going to be okay, boy,” I said, lifting him up to my lap. As I stroked his soft puppy fur, he cocked his head, raising one ear slightly and staring up at me with his solemn brown eyes, endearing me with his puppy-dog gaze. Unable to resist, I drew him to my chest and nuzzled my chin along the smooth warm bridge of his nose. “It’s going to be okay,” I repeated. Although I wasn’t so sure. Things had just gone from bad to downright crappy: Hollis in jail, the farm failing, and now Hawk. It was like I was stuck in a horrible nightmare.
After a few soothing minutes cuddling the dog, I took a hot shower and quickly changed into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. Sitting down with another cup of coffee, I gave Ida a call. J
ust as I suspected, she was holed up in the house, still hiding from the world. “Aren’t you going to the arraignment today?” I asked her.
“I want to go, but I’m not sure what to do with the girls.”
“I’ll come by and watch them for you. Let’s see,” I said, glancing at the wall clock. “The hearing isn’t until two o’clock. Why don’t you let me bring by some lunch beforehand.”
“Don’t bother. I don’t have much of an appetite.”
“You have to eat. You need to keep up your strength. Besides, I want to talk through a couple things with you.”
A long sigh sounded over the line.
“I’ll be by a little before one,” I pressed.
She sighed again, but by the time I hung up, she’d reluctantly agreed to lunch. With that done, I started in on the next thing on my list: experimenting with some of Mama’s recipes.
Mama kept her recipes alphabetized in a wooden box in the back of the pantry. I pulled out the box, fingered my way over every type of peach recipe imaginable—peach salsa, peach cider pound cake, peach seared pancakes, sweet peach ice cream, on and on—until . . . bingo! I located the one for her peach preserves. As I fingered the well-worn recipe card, written in my grandmother’s precise script and covered with sticky pink blotches, my mind wandered to childhood days spent in the kitchen watching Mama and Nana stirring up family gossip as fast as they stirred the bubbling pots of sweet peach liquid. Always the tomboy, I’d never bothered to pay much attention to the whole preserve-making process, only hanging out in order to steal a quick lick of the sweet goo, or get first dibs on any excess preserves that didn’t make it into the pressure canner. Now I wished I’d paid closer attention. I mentally shrugged. No matter. How hard could it really be?
I glanced over the recipe again and began assembling all the ingredients. Since I didn’t have any fresh peaches, I planned to use some of the peaches Mama had stored in the freezer. I took out several bags and stuck them under a stream of hot water. As soon as they thawed enough, I’d put them in a pot and finish heating them.
Next, I filled a large stockpot with water and set it on the stove to boil. I’d need to sterilize all my equipment before I could start cooking. As I worked, I thought back to what Cade was saying the night before. He’d made me angry with the little doses of reality he’d thrown my way, but he was right. After getting home, I’d stayed up half the night researching what it would take to really operate a peach product business on the side. There was much more to it than I’d imagined. Things like inspections, permits and licenses, product labeling . . . And what was more—who was going to do all this? Daddy wasn’t one to try new things. Come to think of it, Mama wasn’t too keen on change, either, and Ray was out of the question. He was busy with his own career and had practically abandoned anything to do with the farm. Ida had the girls and her own life, and who knew what that would be like if Hollis was convicted and sent to jail. My shoulders sagged. The only chance this had of really working was if I stayed and saw it through. Was that something I really wanted to do?
After boiling and setting the jars to dry on a clean white cotton towel, I read the recipe again. Then, as I worked through each step, I could almost hear Nana’s deep southern drawl: Measure and set aside your sugar. Measure out your fruit into a big pot and add a smidgen of lemon juice. Start heatin’ the mixture and put in a package of pectin. Stir it until it reaches a hard boil, one that can’t be stirred down. Add the sugar and stir until it boils again. Ladle your hot liquid into clean jars.
I tuned in the old Czar radio to break the monotony as I stirred. Roscoe must have been a music aficionado, because as soon as he heard the radio playing, he wandered into the kitchen and settled at my feet. “Hey, there, Roscoe. You like Buddy Holly?” The dog answered by whapping his tail in beat to a stanza from “Peggy Sue.” We worked on together, his little body warming my feet as music and sweet peach smells filled the kitchen. Finally, the liquid reached a rolling boil, so I dumped in the sugar and stirred some more. When it came back up to a full boil again, I excitedly removed the pot from the heat and began filling and sealing the jars.
Only, my preserves didn’t look like preserves. Instead they looked like syrup, or, more accurately, like an off-colored fruit punch with floating chunks of peaches.
“What went wrong?” I asked out loud. Roscoe stood and let out a little whine. Stepping back, I stared at the mason jars wondering if they would jell up after they cooled. Hopeful, I left the jars to sit while I got ready for lunch with Ida.
• • •
“Dane Hawkins?” Ida asked. “Why does that name sound familiar?” She was pushing a pile of half-eaten potatoes au gratin around her plate. I’d stopped by the diner on the way over and picked up a couple of the daily lunch specials to go: fried grouper, cheesy potatoes au gratin and a slice of pecan pie for just under seven bucks. I was having no trouble finishing mine, which I’d ordered with a side of butter beans and an iced tea.
“He used to live around here. His daddy ran the mechanics garage down in Cordele.” We were sitting at Ida’s kitchen bar, takeout bags spread around us, while the girls, long finished with their meals, watched a movie in the family room.
“Cordele, huh? Then I guess we didn’t go to school with him. I wonder why his name sounds so . . . Oh my goodness. Is he that hoodlum that you dated a couple times? The one Mama had a conniption fit over?”
I slowly nodded my head. “She forbade me to see him.”
Ida went on, “Aren’t you glad listened to her? Can you imagine what things would have been like if you’d ended up married to a private investigator?” She said “private investigator” like her mouth was full of vinegar.
Ida’s holier-than-thou attitude was wearing thin. “Well, that private investigator is the one helping your husband, the banker, who is facing down a life sentence for murder.” Not to mention that he’s usually drunker than Cooter Brown. And chases anything in a skirt.
Of course, I didn’t say that last part out loud. Thank goodness. Because Ida’s eyes instantly grew wide, tearing around the edges. I put down my fork and reached across the table, patting her trembling hand and trying to soften my words. “I’m sorry, Ida. It’s going to be okay.” I’d uttered those same words to Roscoe just that morning. And I still didn’t believe them myself.
She shook her head and pulled her hand back, shriveling into herself. “I’m nervous about the hearing today,” she whispered. “What if the judge sets an outrageous bail? Or what if they keep him locked up until the trial . . . or forever.” She turned away, rubbing her belly and looking out the kitchen window. I followed her gaze, noticing for the first time just how straggly their yard was looking. I bit the inside of my lip, worrying about what would happen if Hollis never returned. Would Ida move back home with the girls and the new baby, or try to go at it alone? I stared across the table at my sister, my eyes settling on her pregnant belly, worrying about the unseen effects of all this stress and cursing myself again for my harsh words. I shoved her plate a little closer. “You haven’t eaten much.”
She kept her gaze fixed out the window.
I went on, “Ray will be there. He’ll make sure Hollis gets a fair shake. Maybe he’ll even get him released on his own recognizance,” I said, grasping at straws and knowing darn well recognizance was unlikely with a murder charge. Not to mention Hollis’s recognizance would be a detriment, not an asset. At least locked up, he was sober. “Look, getting back to Dane Hawkins. I know you don’t think much of the guy. To tell the truth, he was the last person I wanted to see, but he must be good at what he does. Ray’s trusting him to prove Hollis’s innocence.” I exhaled and picked at my own food for a second before adding, “He’s already got a few leads.”
She turned back, her face brightening a little, so I went on to explain about Floyd Reeves and Millicent Wakefield. “So, you see,” I finished, “that’s why we need someo
ne like Hawk looking into things. Heaven knows Maudy Payne won’t bother herself with these other suspects.”
“Hawk?”
I nodded. “That’s his professional name.”
She smirked, a little more of the priggish Ida returning, but I didn’t care. At this point, I much preferred Ida’s pompous attitude over her drama queen misery. I glanced at the kitchen clock. It was nearing two o’clock already. “You best get going, I guess.”
She nodded, slowly pushed back her chair and stood.
“We’ll get through this, Ida. Just have faith,” I said, standing with her.
“It’s hard to have faith, Nola, when the whole town thinks he’s guilty.”
“I don’t. And neither does Ray. Just hold on to that. And know that Ray’s doing everything possible to help you. We both are.”
In a rare moment of sisterly tenderness, Ida came toward me with her arms outstretched. I pulled her in as far as her baby bump would allow and gave her a little extra squeeze for reassurance, making her promise to call later.
I walked her to the door, watching her hug the girls good-bye while spelling out last-minute warnings of consequences for bad behavior just to turn around and temper those same warnings with extra loving pecks on their rosy cheeks. My sister was a good mama.
I shot her one last reassuring smile before she left, but deep down, I hoped Ray wasn’t making a mistake by putting so much trust in Dane Hawkins. So far, I wasn’t all that impressed.
Chapter 11
Georgia Belle Fact #042: A Georgia Belle never gets upset when she sees her ex with someone else. After all, our parents taught us to be charitable with our castoffs.
It was becoming a habit to sip my morning coffee on the front porch while watching the sun rise over the treetops. This morning’s sunrise seemed unusually bright, especially since I knew Hollis was back home with Ida and the girls. The judge had set bail and Ida had readily paid it. Later, I’d dragged it out of her that she’d paid the bond with rainy-day money she’d squirreled away over the years. Lucky for Hollis that she had, or he’d be sitting in jail for a while, awaiting his trial. Of course, keeping him locked up and dry might have been the better option. Nonetheless, I knew Ida felt relieved to have him home, and I was happy for her.
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