“Over and over again. But it just keeps going through to voice mail. Oh, I hope he’s not lying dead somewhere along the side of the road,” she wailed.
“Where are the girls?”
She pointed over her shoulder. “I left them with Hattie. I went to the shop looking for you and she said you came this way—” She paused, clenching her teeth and letting out a little moan.
I shot a worried look Hawk’s way. “Ida! Are you having contractions?”
She waved it off. “Oh, just little ones. I always have these my last month.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure!” she snapped. “I’ve been through this before, you know.”
“Okay, let’s go back to the shop and get the girls. I’m taking you all back to the house for a rest.”
She dug in her heels and shook her head. “No. I’m not leaving until I find Hollis.”
Hawk stepped forward. “Look, Mrs. Shackleford. Why don’t you let us guys do the searching? Besides, I’m trained for this type of thing.”
Yeah. And you did such a good job tracking down Floyd Reeves. But I didn’t say that. At this point, I wasn’t all that concerned about Hollis. By now, his antics were wearing thin on my patience. What really concerned me was Ida’s condition and what all this stress was doing to her. I shooed him off to go search and turned back to Ida. “Come on, sis. Let’s get you back to Hattie’s shop.”
Chapter 19
Georgia Belle Fact #084: A Georgia Belle’s most cherished possession is her family. That means everyone in the family—even the ones we’d rather not mention.
“I bet you wanna buy some of my nana’s peach preserves, don’t you?” We arrived back at the shop just in time to catch Savannah in full swing of things. “I promise you, ma’am, it’s the best peach preservers you’ll ever taste.” She crossed two fingers over her heart and batted her lashes while her sister Charlotte, off to the side, was showing an attentive customer the great artwork on the labels. A chorus of ohs and aws sounded from the line, which was about seven people deep, all with money out and waiting.
Nash, who stood behind the girls making change for the latest purchase, looked on with concern as we approached. “Everything okay, Ms. Harper?”
“Sort of. I’m so sorry I’ve been gone all this time.”
Hattie appeared in the doorway. “Don’t be silly, Nola. We’re fine.” Taking one look at Ida’s condition, she jumped into action. “Let me help,” she said, dashing to Ida’s side and guiding her toward the shop.
Ida shrugged her off. “Stop with the fussing, will y’all? I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine, Ida. I’m taking you to the house where you can rest and I can keep an eye on you for a while. The guys will call as soon as they find Hollis.”
“Good idea,” Hattie agreed. “And let me keep the girls here with Nash and me.”
Ida shook her head. “Oh, I don’t know. I hate to impose. . . .”
“Please, Mama! Please!” they echoed from behind the booth. “We’re having so much fun.”
Ida gave in and agreed to let Hattie watch the girls while she and I made our way back to my Jeep. She was unusually quiet on the ride back to the farm. It wasn’t until we’d reached the gate that she finally spoke. “I’m sorry to drag you away from the festival.”
“Oh, believe me, those girls of yours have everything under control. They’re much better saleswomen than me anyway.”
She chuckled, then gritted her teeth again, her hand instinctively flying to her belly. I pulled up next to the house and put my Jeep in park and turned in the seat. “You’re having more contractions, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but they’re not the real thing. Promise. They’ll go away with a little rest. Besides, the due date isn’t for a couple weeks yet.”
Hopping out, I came around and helped her out of the car and up the porch steps. As soon as I opened the door, Roscoe shot out between our legs.
“My word! What was that?” Ida cried.
“Roscoe!” I shouted after him, but he tore off through the yard and was already halfway around the barn. “Well, shoot! Wonder what’s gotten into him?” I’d given him a long outing this morning and left him plenty of food, but I sort of suspected he’d been spoiled. Ever since Ray started feeding him people food, then Joe with the jerky, the poor dog had gone nuts. He’d been constantly sniffing around for people food and only nosing at his own puppy kibble. “That’s Dane Hawkins’s dog,” I explained to Ida, who’d already spread out on the davenport. I went to cover her with the afghan, asking if she wanted something cool to drink.
“No, I’m fine. Have you checked your phone? Any messages from the guys?”
I took a quick peek and set it down on the coffee table in front of her. “Afraid not. But don’t worry; they’ll find Hollis soon. Ray knows where to look.” I was thinking the first place they probably went was up McManamy Draw. That seemed to be Hollis’s favorite haunt. If not there, maybe the Honky Tonk. I worried my bottom lip, remembering what Candace had said about Hollis’s condition. If he really had been drinking as much as she said, he had no business driving anywhere. Hopefully, he hadn’t driven off the road somewhere.
Trying to push the thought aside, I peered back out the front window, searching the yard for any signs of Roscoe. “Ida, will you be okay here for just a second? I should chase after Roscoe. I think he’s heading for Joe Puckett’s place.”
“Joe’s? Why? Does he have a taste for moonshine?”
“No. Jerky, I’m afraid. Joe gave him some and he’s developed a taste for it. He turns his nose up at his real food now.”
She waved me on. “Go on. I’ll be just fine now that I’ve got my feet up.”
I kicked off my sandals, slipped on my field boots, and took off across the yard, calling Roscoe’s name as I searched around the barn. Somewhere off in the distance, I heard a little whimpering sound. It seemed to come from the orchard that led to Joe’s property. Just as I thought. He was being led by his stomach. “That dog is so spoiled,” I mumbled, trudging off toward the trees.
By the time I made my way through the orchard and had reached Joe’s property line, I’d worked myself into a tizzy. I hadn’t asked to have dogsitting in my basket of responsibilities at all. I needed to be back at the house taking care of Ida. And I would be, too, if Joe hadn’t fed Roscoe those treats. I hated to be disrespectful, but I was going to have to set him straight on the matter.
“Roscoe! Roscoe!” I called, working my way over the path that led to Joe’s cabin.
My calls were answered with a low baying sound rounded off with a series of tiny whimpers. I quickened my step. It sounded like Roscoe was upset about something.
“Roscoe!”
A sharp yelp sent me scurrying into the woods behind Joe’s cabin. There I found Roscoe, pawing at the bottom edge of a small woodshed. “There you are, Roscoe!” Bending down, I lifted him to my chest and stroked his fur, but he kept whining and clawing to get back down. “What is it, boy?”
That was when I heard it. A thumping noise from within the shed, followed by a low moaning sound. “Joe?” I cried, suddenly worried for my friend’s safety. Had someone beaten him and locked him in the shed? Who would do such a horrible thing to the kind old gentleman? “Joe?” I called again, bending down and throwing my weight against a heavy log that was propped against the door. As soon as the log budged, I grabbed the handle and threw open the door, its rusty hinges wheezing as it banged open. I rushed inside, Roscoe darting ahead of me, caught up in a sniffing frenzy punctuated with a series of high-pitched yaps. My eyes quickly scanned the dark shed, taking in the crude wooden shelves, each stacked with rows and rows of jugs and sealed mason jars. The place must have doubled as food storage, because I also spied a row of my mama’s preserves along with a barrel of wild apples and a couple slabs of salt pork hanging from the r
afters—which explained why Roscoe was so eager to get inside. Then suddenly, a slight movement from the dark corner of the shed caught my attention. “J—” I stopped short, my vision finally adjusting to the darkness of the shed. It wasn’t Joe, but Hollis.
“Hollis!”
He was crumpled in a heap, an empty mason jar on the ground next to him.
“Nola? Is that you, Nola?” He let out a cough, which turned to a gagging sound and ended with a heave. I stepped back, covering my face as he vomited.
“What are you doing here, Hollis?” I asked, scooping up Roscoe and taking another step backward. “And how’d you get here?” I hadn’t seen his car around anywhere.
“Took a ditch up the road a ways,” he managed, regaining some control and starting to stand, only to slump back down again. “You need to leave now. It’s Joe. Joe’s the . . .” Hollis closed his eyes and let out a little snort.
“Don’t you pass out on me, Hollis Shackleford!” I carefully circumvented the splatter zone and leaned down to tap Hollis’s face with my free hand. “Hollis! Joe’s the what, Hollis?”
“The killer.” The words didn’t come from Hollis, though. They came from Joe. I wheeled around to find him standing behind me, shotgun in hand. “I’m the one who killed Ben Wakefield.”
I looked from his dazed face to the shotgun trembling in his hands and was dumbfounded. Even though I’d had a niggling of suspicion, hearing the words straight from his mouth was shocking. Of course, the signs were there all along—the motive of his son’s death, his presence at the party the night Wakefield was killed. Only, I’d chosen to ignore them, pushing them to that remote place in the back of my mind where I put all the unpleasant thoughts and ugly truths I was unwilling to face. Only now there was no more denying it: Joe was a murderer. “Put down the gun, Joe. Let’s talk about this.”
He looked down at the gun, confusion registering on his face as if he was surprised he was holding it. “It was an accident, I swear.” To my relief, he leaned the gun against the shed wall and stepped away. “I didn’t mean it. . . .” He shook his head, raising his hands and staring incredulously at his own palms. “We were arguin’ and . . . It was an accident. You believe me, right?”
I clenched Roscoe close and glanced from Joe to the shotgun, which was still only a few quick steps away from where he stood. “I do believe you, Joe. But let’s step outside and talk some more. I’ll help you. I promise.”
He bobbed his head, turned slowly and made his way back through the shed door with heavy steps. I glanced once more at Hollis, who was slumped backward and snoring loudly. A line of drool dribbled from his open mouth. I sighed with disgust and quietly shut the shed door to keep Roscoe from the salt pork. Then I joined Joe out at the same stump where we’d sat and shared sandwiches the other day. That seemed so long ago now.
As soon as I put Roscoe down, he started pawing at Joe’s pant legs for a treat. Joe reached down and scratched his head. “Sorry, lil’ fella. Don’t have nothin’ for ya right now.”
“Tell me exactly what happened, Joe,” I started, still keeping my distance. But as I watched his demeanor crumple—his shoulders drooping and his arms retracting tightly around his torso—my caution melted away and a feeling of sympathy took over. Crossing to the stump, I placed a hand on his shoulder. “Go on, Joe. It’s okay. Tell me what happened.”
“That music y’all were playing that night. Mighty catchy. I wanted to come closer so I could hear it better, maybe watch people dancin’. . . .” His voice caught at he spoke. “Anyways, I was back a ways, watchin’ from the orchard, when I saw him.”
“Ben Wakefield?”
“Uh-huh. Mr. Wakefield.” He clenched his midsection tighter and shot me a long, searching look before breaking eye contact again. Looking at the ground, he thumbed toward the shed. “A while back, that man in there came ’round and told me Mr. Wakefield was going to take my land.”
“Hollis? He told you that?”
“Yup. He’s your kinfolk, I suppose. He’d been up here at my place with some fancy document. Said I hadn’t paid my taxes and Wakefield was going to take my trees. Why, these trees are my livelihood.”
For a second I was confused. His livelihood? Then, as I watched his eyes scan the forest, it dawned on me that his moonshine still was probably hidden out there somewhere, camouflaged among the thick underbrush of the trees.
He went on. “Thought I was free and clear with Wakefield dead, but Hollis came back up here again today with those same fancy papers. Drunk as a skunk, too. I dunno how he even got here. . . .” He shook his head. “Anyway, said the new owner of the mill still wanted the trees. That he was going to buy my land for back taxes and sell it to the mill for profit. He was so lit up, I thought maybe if I locked him up for a while, let him dry out, maybe I could talk some sense into him.”
“Back taxes? But you should have received some sort of notice. You should have an opportunity to pay them before your property goes into foreclosure.”
Joe shrugged, his eyes rolling over the trees that surrounded us. “Some papers came. But I didn’t understand them. That’s why when I saw Mr. Wakefield, I thought I’d explain. I told him, ‘I don’t need to pay no money for this land. It was given to my granddaddy by the Harper granddaddy.’ That’s what I told Mr. Wakefield that night in the orchard. Only he wouldn’t listen. He laughed and called me ignorant. And I—”
“You murdered him in cold blood!” We both startled, turning to see Hollis behind us, waving the shotgun in the air. “And tried to pin it on me.”
“Put the gun down, Hollis. Before you hurt someone!”
“Step away, Nola. That man’s a killer,” Hollis cried out.
Part of me wanted to step between him and Joe and part wanted to step the other way, farther outside of his wavering aim. “You’re drunk, Hollis. Put the gun down. We’ll work this out.”
Only he gripped the gun tighter, the barrel bobbing dangerously as he shouted, “Get out of here, Nola, before he kills you, too!”
I watched in horror as Hollis wobbled and gripped the gun tighter, his fingers precariously close to the trigger. “Put the gun down, Hollis; you’re not thinking—” I started to plead, when suddenly a brown streak zipped past my feet and darted between Hollis’s legs. Roscoe was running full charge toward the open shed door and straight for the smell of pork. Hollis startled, stumbled over the dog, lost his balance, and as he fell backward, a deafening shot rang through the air. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the stump splinter and shards of wood fly in all directions. I also saw Joe fall to the ground.
“Joe!”
The old man was on the ground, clutching his side, blood seeping through his fingers. I gave him a quick once-over. He was bleeding badly, but still breathing. I looked over at Hollis, who was on the ground, looking dazed and confused, the shotgun safely in the grass a few feet away. “You shot him!” I accused.
“Shot him?” Panic crept over his features as he struggled to stand. “I did? Didn’t mean to. I was just trying to scare him away from you.”
“Well, you did!” I spied Joe’s hanky hanging out of his pocket. Snatching it, I began pressing it against the wound.
In the meantime, Hollis stumbled over. “Is he going to die?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know.” Joe had lost consciousness and was lying motionless on the ground. His bleeding decreased with the pressure and his breath seemed steady. “We’ve got to get help. Where’s your cell?” I asked Hollis.
“It’s dead. I ran the battery out trying to call for help.”
I chastised myself for leaving the house without mine. For a second, hopelessness overtook me. Then I pulled it back together, trying to stay calm and think through the situation. “Listen, Hollis. Are you sober enough to watch over him? Make sure he doesn’t bleed out?”
Hollis’s blurry eyes took in the scene before him, b
ut he sucked it up and nodded. “Think so. What can I do?”
“Get down here and hold this against his wound. Keep pressing. We don’t want it to start bleeding again. I’m going for help.” I took off running through the trees heading for the orchard, tripping a couple times on roots that jutted out over the trail. Finally, I broke free of the forest and gained some speed on the newly mowed paths between the peach rows, the whole time my mind forming a plan. There wouldn’t be time to call an ambulance. Besides, it would never make it over the orchard paths and back to Joe’s property line. No, my best bet was to get my Jeep and transport him myself.
As I neared the house, though, I caught sight of an ambulance parked in the drive. An ambulance? My first thought was that Hollis got his phone working and already called for help. But that wasn’t even rational. Not enough time had passed for that. Then it hit me. Oh, no! Ida!
I took the porch steps two at a time, bursting into the family room, and found Ray, Cade and Hawk standing by the door watching as two paramedics attended to Ida. It appeared they were getting her ready to be transported. “What’s going on?” I demanded. “Is she okay?”
Ray steadied me by the shoulders. “Everything’s fine, Nola. She’s just in serious labor.”
On cue, Ida gritted her teeth and let out a low moan. When the pain subsided, she looked my way, worry playing between her mask of pain. “Nola, they haven’t found Hollis yet!” she managed, before stiffening with another contraction and letting out a series of quick breaths interspersed with hiccup-like sobs.
Hollis? My mind whiplashed back and forth for a second before I blurted out, “I found him, Ida. And he’s okay.” Drunker than a skunk, but okay. “He’s at Joe Puckett’s cabin. He . . . uh, he accidently shot Joe.”
“What!” Ida cried, as the paramedics moved her to the gurney. “He shot Joe?”
There was a second of confusion in which everyone froze in place. Not a word was uttered, as the men and paramedics shot looks between Ida and me until another one of Ida’s moans pierced the silence.
Peaches and Scream (Georgia Peach Mystery, A) Page 24