A. Gardner - Poppy Peters 01 - Southern Peach Pie and A Dead Guy

by A. Gardner

  "Okay," I say. I watch our waitress set a plate of chocolate chip pancakes in front of me. She hands me a few packets of butter and maple syrup. The smell of fried chicken makes my stomach rumble. Cole's eyes go wide when he stares at his plate. "I wasn't expecting the food to look so—"

  "Delicious?" Cole finishes my sentence.

  * * *

  Shurbin Farms looks like the pictures on the website. The entrance is a mile long road with trees planted on both sides. In between the tree are fields. We pass a section that looks like a dead vineyard. All the grapes have been picked, and the vines are thin, dark sticks swirling around each other. The look of it all shriveled like that gives me chills.

  I pull up to a little hut where other cars are parked. I watch as a family with two small children, a boy and girl, jump up and down, each with their own picking baskets. My family never had time to do things like this. Weekends were always full of homework, recitals, and competitions.

  We came too late in the season for blackberry and blueberry picking. A sign in the parking says what is available for picking today – okra, collard greens, persimmons, apples, and figs. Another sign next to it says, "Tangerines and clementines coming soon." Cole and I take a basket and grab a map of the farm.

  "Ready?" Cole asks.

  "I could use a good nap." I touch my stomach. It feels as full as it did the first time I visited the student bakery. "Why do I always binge eat when I'm around you?"

  "Let's do this." He ignores my comment and focuses on finding the owner's residence. He holds open his map and points straight ahead of us. A cool breeze keeps me from overheating. It even feels a little too chilly.

  I follow Cole through a field of tall grass until I see a house in the distance. It is a white plantation home with shutters and flower boxes framing each window. Two white columns support a second patio that runs the length of the second floor.

  Cole and I walk as fast as we can. My heart pounds. I wipe away the sweat on my forehead. I match Cole's speed until we are standing at the front door. I wait a second before I knock. This is either the worst or the best idea I have ever had.

  "Just do it," Cole mutters.

  I gently ring the doorbell.

  I hear barking inside the house. The door opens, and a young girl in short jean shorts and a tank top answers the door. She has an earbud in one of her ears, and her hair is in a ponytail. She slips an iPod into her pocket and clears her throat.

  "Can I help you?" she asks. "We stopped doing tours back in August." I put my picking basket behind my back.

  "No, I'm actually here to speak with the owner."

  "Oh my dad," she responds. "Uh, who should I say is here?"

  I glance at Cole.

  "Friends," Cole lies.

  "Right." The girl chuckles. "Wait just a minute." She shuts the door.

  "Friends? Really?" I put a hand on my hips. I grab his picking basket and set it down on the porch next to mine. "Now he's going to think we're tourist creeps or something."

  "Do you think he would come to the door if we said we were nosey students here to ask questions?" Cole answers.

  "Good point."

  The door opens again. This time a man answers it. His hair is turning gray, and his nose is pointy like the pictures I have seen of Francois Calle. He's wearing jeans and a collared shirt that brings out his hazel eyes. I try not to scare him by leaping for joy. I automatically reach for Cole's hand and squeeze it. He glances at me, and my heart beats a little faster when our eyes lock together.

  "Yes," the man says. "Do I know you?"

  "Sorry to bother you sir, but we were wondering if we could ask you a few questions?" Cole waits for him to agree.

  "Look," the man replies. "I am very busy today and—"

  "Please," I add. "It's really important." The man sighs and takes a step back like he's about to close the door. "At least tell us if you knew a man named Thomas Calle?"

  The man stops and stares at me.

  "Where did you hear that name?" he asks.

  "We are students at Calle Pastry Academy."

  "Oh." He sighs. "You two better come inside."

  I look at Cole. He nods at me and gently places his hand on my back. He follows me inside where a faint sparkle makes my eyes dart up at the ceiling. A chandelier with crystals that reflect sunlight everywhere is hanging above a circular table with a decorative bowl of apples in the middle of the foyer.

  "I'm James," the man says as he reaches out to shake my hand.

  "Poppy Peters."

  "Cole." Cole glances suspiciously up the staircase.

  "What's that smell?" I ask. I sniff the air and find myself thinking back to last year's Thanksgiving feast. I bite the side of my lip.

  "My family meets every weekend for a special lunch," James says. "Come through here." He leads us past a giant kitchen with antique, white cabinets and a wall of grayish stones above the stovetop. It looks like a kitchen straight out of Country Living Magazine.

  We end up in a large study. The walls are lined with bookshelves, and there is wooden desk in the corner. James sits on a leather couch with his hands on his knees. Cole and I sit across from him, and I notice that Cole is staring at the silver watch on James's wrist.

  "We won't take up too much of your time," I say.

  "It's okay." James smiles. "I'm surprised that no one from your school has contacted me sooner."

  "Why is that?" Cole asks.

  "Well, son." James leans forward. "That man you mentioned, Thomas Calle? He just happens to be my father."

  "But the legend of Old Man Thomas…" I don't know what else to say to make sense of the things I heard in the kitchen on my first day at the academy. I had been telling myself it really was a ghost all this time, but it turns out that Old Man Thomas might have not mysteriously died at all. "I thought he died or disappeared or something?"

  "Oh, he did," James answers. "He ran away and ended up here. Mr. Shurbin took him in, and Dad worked on the farm until Mr. Shurbin died. He had no other living relatives, so he left this place and all of its staff to him."

  "Whoa," Cole gasps. "Then technically the school belongs to you."

  "No." James shakes his head. "After Dad ran away, his father took him out of his will. The school doesn't belong to my family anymore."

  "But I'm sure you could get a lawyer and—"

  "No," James continues. "Dad didn't say much about that place until he was well-ridden with old age, but I know that he never wanted to go back."

  "Why did he leave?" I ask.

  "He opened up about it right before he passed. He actually seemed relieved to be talking about the school so openly again. He had tons of stories." James folds his arms and looks at the bookshelf in front of him as he talks. It is like he's watching his memories play out in front of him. "He had an argument with one of the teachers. The teacher had told him what a disappointment he turned out to be, and that's when Dad decided that the school would be better off without him."

  "Which teacher?" Cole asks.

  "Oh, he's probably not around anymore," James replies. "I don't even think I remember the name." He looks up at the ceiling for a moment with a grin on his face as if reminiscing about his dad. "I guess most of the founding teachers wouldn't be around anymore. Though last I heard there are still two fellows there who might have known Dad."

  "Mr. Dixon?" Cole says. James shakes his head. "He's the president of the school now."

  "Yes," James replies. "And that other old gentleman."

  "Mr. Harris?" Cole asks. "He's the oldest teacher still there, I think."

  "Yep, that must be them."

  "Wow," I comment. "All these years and no one knew that Buzz, I mean Thomas Calle, was only a state away."

  "It's funny how things work out sometimes." James nods and stands up.

  "One more thing," I add. "Do you know any of the newer teachers? Say a man named Stuart Sellers?" I can feel Cole staring at me, hoping that James admits that he does.
<
br />   "Stuart Sellers?" James asks. I lean forward until I'm on the edge of my seat. "As a matter-of-fact he called me up not too long ago."

  "Seriously?" I gulp.

  "Yeah," James says sincerely. "He wanted to know a few things about our latest shipment of peaches." He clears his throat. "Why don't you two stay for lunch? You have a long drive ahead of you."

  "Oh, um," I stammer. "I don't want to impose."

  "Don't be silly," James responds. "Come on. I was just about to make something I know you'll enjoy." He smiles and heads back towards the kitchen. I look at Cole and raise my eyebrows.

  "We shouldn't have eaten so much for breakfast," I mutter.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  James pulls ingredients from the cupboards and grabs a handful of peaches from a fruit bowl on the kitchen table. He begins peeling the peaches, and right away I know what he's making. He is making Francois's famous peach pie. I watch him curiously as he cuts chunks of butter for the dough.

  "You can probably make this in your sleep," James comments. I look to Cole. He is staring at the oven which is emitting the delightful smell of roast turkey.

  "Not exactly," I say quietly. "I kind of bombed my first day."

  "Well here." James passes me the bowl. "Let's see you at work."

  I nervously nod and begin adding more ingredients to the dough. I begin mixing it with my hands like I did the first day of class. Cole sits at the kitchen table and starts chatting with a petite woman who just entered the room with a basket full of produce.

  "Whoa." James stops me. "Take your time. We're not in a hurry here." He urges me to knead the dough slower. "You know, I've had tons of peach pies in my day but nothing beats this one. Do you want to know why?" I shrug. "Because my Dad used to make it for me."

  "I used to bake with my grandma," I respond. I smile thinking about those Sunday afternoons we spent together. "She used to make these amazing little candies that she learned how to make in South America where she grew up."

  "And I bet if you made those now you would enjoy every step of the process," James responds.

  "Yeah." I watch him mix the peach filling as I think about Grandma Liz and the way she used to tease my dad for still cutting the crust off of his sandwiches.

  "It's comfort food." James puts the pie together with little effort. His hands seem to move on their own, having memorized each step since infancy. "The food we eat that brings us back to those cherished moments. The turkey, collard greens, and peach pie will always remind me of family."

  "I don't know if I've ever thought of food that way."

  "Mary Ann, darling." James looks at the woman who is showing Cole her basket of persimmons. "This is Poppy and Cole. They're visiting from Georgia."

  "Oh really?" Mary Ann replies. She's tan with blonde hair. She looks younger than James. "What brings you two to the farm?"

  "They're from the academy," James adds.

  "Oh." She has a surprised look on her face. "We've never had visitors from there before. Isn't this a treat?"

  I smile and watch James proudly put the pie in one of his ovens. He has two that are stacked on top of each other. I help Mary Ann set the table, and Cole volunteers to make the collard greens. He immediately grabs a pot and gets to work on cooking them. James's daughter comes to the table and brings her teenage boyfriend who has on a beanie that covers most of his head. I try not to laugh when James gives him the stare down. Mary Ann's parents arrive promptly after that along with her brother and younger sister. When James's step-sister hollers at the door, I start to wonder if we are going to have enough food.

  Mary Ann pulls the turkey out of the oven as well as a giant pan of roasted potatoes. I help Cole bring everything to the table, and James's family welcomes us like we're family. The aroma in the room is enough to make me forget about breakfast. I am excited to eat and create more food memories, as James would put it.

  The last person to arrive at the table is an older man with a weathered face. He is wearing jeans paired with cowboy boots, and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up revealing thick forearms that have probably tossed thousands of bales of hay. He nods at James and glances at Cole and I suspiciously as he sits down.

  "This is my right hand man, Dirk. His dad worked with my dad." James introduces us to the man. "Dirk, this is Cole and Poppy. They are visiting from Georgia."

  "Where abouts in Georgia?" Dirk asks. He has dark hair and dark eyes that fixate on me when he talks.

  "Calle Pastry Academy," I reply. For a brief second, he looks like he's biting the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from blurting out an unwanted response.

  "Ah yes," he finally remarks. "One of our many customers. I take it our peaches are still shining in those pies of yours."

  "Yes sir," Cole answers.

  "Well, everyone," James says. He waits until the whole table is quiet. "Dig in."

  My elbow bumps Cole as I reach for a roll.

  "They used to make those rolls in the student bakery," James comments.

  "No kidding." I have half the roll already stuffed in my mouth.

  "Yeah." James takes a sip of his beer. "I guess they don't ever make them anymore."

  "They still make the orange rolls," Cole comments.

  "Yes, Dad's orange rolls." He chuckles. "I loved those when I was a kid. What about the blueberry scones?"

  "Oh yeah," Cole responds. "And the beignets."

  "Oh yes," James replies over his wife's chatter. "They've been making those since the school opened." He puts a forkful of turkey in his mouth. I copy him but add a bit of potato to mine. "As a matter-of-fact, one of the teachers was making a batch the night that Dad left. I remember him telling me that story like it was yesterday." He chuckles and takes another sip of beer. "Dad was so upset that the guy called him a no-good, lazy bastard that he knocked over a few mixing bowls. The place was covered in powdered sugar." He sighs and fills his mouth with collard greens.

  "Powdered sugar," I mutter. "Confectioner's sugar." My eyes go wide as my mind jumps back to when Bree mentioned that the kitchen where we found the professor was actually covered in confectioner's sugar, not flour. "James." He looks up at me. "So you're saying that the night your dad ran away he had an argument in one of the kitchens?"

  "Yes," James confirms.

  "And he got so upset that he knocked a few things over and powdered sugar flew everywhere?" I continue to ask.

  "Yes." James laughs. "What is it with you guys and beignets? That Stuart fellow asked me about them too."

  "Are you sure you're remembering correctly, sir?" Dirk interjects. "I seem to remember your dad mentioning that he left because of an ex-girlfriend or something. Not a kitchen debacle." He glances at me like I'm a fly in his soup.

  "It's been so long that all of Dad's stories seem to run together nowadays." James chuckles.

  "You can't believe everything you hear, ain't that right." Dirk watches me with a bothered expression as I continue asking questions. He narrows his eyes and presses his lips together when I open my mouth to speak.

  "Stuart Sellers, our teacher, asked you about our beignets?" My torso feels rock solid. I take a deep breath and try to calm myself down.

  "Yeah, he wanted to know how long, in all my dealings with the school, the student bakery has been making them. 'Since the day it opened,' I told him."

  Cole puts his fork down and glances at me. Professor Sellers was onto something. I don't know why black truffles, beignets, and powdered sugar fights led to his death, but my heart is pounding. I know we are closer to solving this mystery and clearing my name so I can remain a pastry student.

  I anxiously wait for the end of our meal so Cole and I can speed back to Georgia and tell Bree what we found out. I take another bite of turkey, but this time I am so distracted that I don't even notice how moist and spicy it tastes. I mindlessly shove more potatoes into my mouth as Mary Ann talks about their recent harvest and a new recipe she found for persimmon pudding.

  "I see y
ou've been eyeing this, son," James says across the table. I can hardly hear him, because James's teenage daughter just turned the volume of her iPod on full blast. The entire table is forced to listen to pop music as they chew their food.

  James looks down at his watch. He holds up his wrist, giving Cole a closer look at it. Cole grins as his eyes admire the craftsmanship. He nods and raises his eyebrows.

  "One day I want to get me one of those," Cole comments.

  "This watch was a gift from Dirk." James exhales and glares at his daughter until she turns down the volume of her music. "I don't think I'd ever buy a Rolex for myself, but the crops have been good this year."

  "I'd say they've been more than good," Dirk adds, looking pleased with himself, but his smirk disappears when he rests his eyes on me. It's starting to make me feel uncomfortable.

  I feel Cole's elbow bump me, and I look at him. He raises his eyebrows and takes a tiny bite of collard greens. He wants to get back to school just as much as I do. I can see his firm chest heaving. I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from overeating again. I look down at my plate, surprised to see that most of my food is gone.

  James's daughter turns her music up a second time, having been coaxed by her boyfriend. She begins dancing comically at the table, moving her hips in her chair and letting her hair fall across her face. She ignores her mother's warning to turn her music off until dinner is over. James's face begins turning red as if he's about to burst. He bangs his hand on the table. "Jessica, how many times do I have to tell you?" His daughter jumps to her feet ready for an argument. She begins spouting off a dramatic monologue that she seems to have practiced a few times.

  Cole chuckles and gently cups my elbow with his hand to pull my attention towards him.

  "Someone was in the kitchen making beignets the night Professor Sellers died," Cole whispers. "Why?"

  "Late night snack?" I suggest. Cole shakes his head. Jessica screams something about how her boyfriend isn't a tool, he is just misunderstood.