Rest in Peach

by Susan Furlong

  “So one competitor dropped out for some reason and the other couldn’t manage an act she’d performed numerous times before?”

  Ginny nodded. “That does seem a bit suspicious, doesn’t it?”

  “Sure does,” I agreed. “And it could be a motive for someone. Even Maggie Jones, considering that her daughter was one of the girls knocked out of the competition. But I hate to think of Maggie Jones as a murderer. She is married to a preacher, after all.”

  A skeptical expression flashed across Ginny’s face. “I understand, but we can’t rule anyone out.”

  She was right, of course. I recalled what Mama had told me earlier that morning, so I informed Ginny about Betty Lou Nix suddenly being replaced by Vivien as the church organist. “Strange, don’t you think? Betty Lou’s held that position for years.”

  Ginny shrugged. “Not really. Could be something as simple as arthritis setting in. And how would Betty Lou know when Vivien was going to be at the shop? I really think it has to be someone who was there that afternoon and overheard our argument.”

  “Oh, speaking of which, we forgot Mrs. Wheeler. What’s her first name?”

  “Stephanie. But she was only there for a little while, remember? She’d left before my argument with Vivien started.”

  I furrowed my brow. “True. Still, this is Cays Mill. Gossip spreads like wildfire here. Any one of those women could have talked about your argument with half a dozen people, including Betty Lou Nix. Heck, probably most of the county knew about it the minute it happened.”

  Her shoulders sagged. “I hadn’t thought of that. I can see people talking about what I said, especially since I was so dramatic and all.” A blush crept over her face. “But mentioning that Vivien was going to return to the shop at six thirty to pick up a dress—that part doesn’t seem quite newsworthy. Whoever did this knew she was coming back at six thirty.”

  I sort of agreed, but there was no underestimating the things people found newsworthy around here. Suddenly, something came to mind. “Didn’t Tara wonder where her mama was?” I know I’d have been worried sick if Mama went missing for an entire night.

  The corners of Ginny’s mouth drooped a bit. “Guess she talked to Vivien around six o’clock, asking permission to go to a sleepover at her friend’s house. And that was the last time . . .” She choked back her final words, her hand flying to her face to wipe away a stray tear. “I’m sorry. This is just so hard for me. Not that I was especially fond of Vivien, even before all the cotillion dress drama, but still . . . well, I just feel so awful for that girl. And I can’t help but to think of my own Emily, the same age and . . .” Ginny cleared her throat and reached for a nearby napkin, using it to dab under her eyes.

  I patted her shoulder and softly asked, “Where’d you hear all this anyway?”

  “The diner. Next to the Clip and Curl, it’s the leading source of gossip around here.”

  “You forgot the Cays Mill Reporter.”

  She sighed. “Yeah, I’m dreading tomorrow’s issue. Can’t even imagine what headline Frances will come up with. Just hoping my name’s not mentioned.”

  Hated to break it to her, but Frances wasn’t one to let a good smear go unused, especially if it meant a boost in sales. Poor Ginny. But I decided not to dwell on all that at the moment and got back to the topic at hand. “What about Vivien’s husband? Didn’t he wonder what happened to his wife? Why she didn’t come home that night?”

  “Out of town. He owns that quick oil change station out past the Honky Tonk. You know the one I’m talking about?” She waited for me to nod before continuing. “Well, he has a couple more, actually. One up in Macon and one over in Buckley. Spends a lot of time on the road.” Ginny’s voice began to thin again. “That’s why I’m so worried about Tara. Being that her father is gone so much, she was extra close to her mama. Now with her gone . . .”

  Gone. Tara Crenshaw’s mama was gone forever. Something Hattie once told me popped back to mind. One day, when we were talking about her own mama’s passing, she’d said that there’s just nothing better in the world than a mama who’s always there for you. I know I’d hate to face this world without my own mother, and the idea of Tara Crenshaw having to do so, and at such a young age, was unimaginably sad.

  There didn’t seem to be more to say on the subject, and we fell silent.

  After a little nervous fidgeting, Ginny finally abandoned her list of suspects and got busy dicing onions for our next batch of chutney. I wasn’t sure, but I was guessing that her watering eyes had less to do with the onions and more to do with the idea of a young girl left motherless. I went back to stirring, my mind wandering over our conversation. If Ginny was right, the list of suspects was quite narrow indeed. That was good news. It meant there were less people for the sheriff to investigate. Of course, it also meant that Ginny was probably her top suspect.

  • • •

  The family pickup truck sounded like it was rattling apart as I drove Ray to the orchard the next morning. When I gave up my job at Helping Hands International, I also gave up use of the company-leased vehicles, a huge perk and one that I sorely missed. Especially now that I needed to drive the orchard rows on a daily basis to pick up crates of peaches to use for my recipes.

  Over the past few weeks, my life had slipped into a regular work routine: breakfast with Mama then out to the orchard to pick up a load of peaches for my recipes, after which I’d head into town, unload the peaches at the diner, then head over to work on the shop remodel until the diner closed, when I could use its kitchen to whip up more inventory. The days were long, but I’d grown used to the predictability and steady cadence of my work. There was a certain comfort in knowing what each day would bring—something I really hadn’t experienced over the fifteen years or so that I worked as a humanitarian. Then, each day was different. One day spent reuniting a family torn apart by a devastating natural disaster, the next perhaps teaching schoolchildren the importance of personal hygiene. Always something new.

  Of course, during my years of traveling as an aid worker, I’d return home periodically, finding comfort in the stability of my family’s farm life. Through the eyes of an occasional visitor, it seemed not much ever changed in the peach orchards. However, after returning home for a few weeks last summer, then deciding to stay on permanently, I discovered just how inaccurate I’d been. Things constantly changed in the peach farming world. New markets, new technologies and an ever-changing economy toppled the old ways of thinking and pulled farmers along—some of them reluctantly, like my daddy—to a new way of life. Innovation was the key to success. That’s why my little peach product business venture was so important to my family. So far, I’d made enough money to cover expenses and then some, but I hoped the addition of the shop would boost our profit line.

  “I’m anxious to see how renovations are coming along,” Ray said, grabbing the dashboard to steady himself as the tire hit a crevice in the ground. Ray had come home the day before to talk to Ginny about the case. He’d have to head back to Perry sometime midmorning, though. Something about a deposition, or . . . I couldn’t remember. Half the time, his legal talk went in one ear and right out the other.

  I briefly smiled his way, then refocused on the road. “Afraid things are going a lot slower than I’d planned, but I’m getting there. I really want to open in time and get a couple months under my belt before the Peach Harvest Festival this summer. Plus, I’ve announced the grand opening on my website and printed up flyers. Nothing big, just refreshments and live music. I was hoping to draw some interest.”

  “Music?”

  “Wade Marshall and the Peach Pickers.”

  “The mayor’s band?”

  “Thought he could play a couple tunes and cut the ribbon. Sort of killing two birds with one stone.”

  He grinned. “That’s efficient. How’s the online business going?”

  I shrugged. �
�Okay. I think I’ll see an uptick as we head into the holidays this year. But I’ve got a good base of steady customers locally and throughout the surrounding area. Red’s Diner and Sunny Side Up Bed & Breakfast have standing orders.” We were heading down to the southern portion of our farm, the part that bordered our small offshoot of the Ocmulgee. That’s where most of our early producing trees were located. I slowed down even more as the path became more rugged. “Speaking of the diner, how’d it go last night with Ginny? It must have been late when you came in. I was already in bed.”

  “Yeah, we had a lot to talk through.”

  “You could have just called her, you know.” Only that’s not how Ray operated when it came to people he cared about. Ray thought the world of Ginny and Sam. So, in this case, his taking time from his own firm and coming to Cays Mill was more a show of support than anything else. That’s the way my brother was: generous to a fault. With both his time and his heart.

  “Could have,” he agreed with a shrug. “But it’s good to come back and see y’all.” He rubbed his stomach. “And have a little of Mama’s cooking.”

  We laughed. “Seriously, though. How’d it go?” I wanted to get the scoop before we reached Daddy and the hands.

  “I have to admit, after talking to Ginny, I was a little confused.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, although she said she was appreciative that I’d come by, she was tight-lipped, as if I was interrogating her instead of trying to help. For example, she’s elusive about where she was at the time of the murder. I’m not sure Sam even knows. Which seems strange to me. There was a certain tension when I brought it up.”

  “I sensed that, too. Wonder what she was up to? But, I guess it’s none of our business. She said she gave the sheriff an alibi.” None of my business or not, I was starting to become darn curious about where my friend was that evening. Of course, one possibility popped to mind, but I quickly dismissed it. Ginny would never.

  Ray continued, “And, she kept going on about suspects and such. As if she fancied herself as some sort of private investigator.”

  I chuckled. “I got the same impression. We actually sat down and made a suspect list yesterday.” Thinking back to the list, I added, “Actually, she made some valid points about the case. Did she tell you?”

  He shot me a warning look. “She did. And I told her she’d better leave the investigating up to the professionals. I’m telling you the same thing, Nola. Don’t get involved in this mess. It’s none of your concern, really. Besides, I’d have thought you would have learned your lesson last time.”

  I recalled all too well my narrow escape from death. To this day, even the slightest whiff of hair spray gave me the willies. I shuddered and brought the truck to a stop alongside a row of trees where a few workers were pulling peaches from the branches. I spied Daddy among them and shot him a cheerful wave before turning back to Ray. “Oh, don’t worry, there’s no way I’m getting involved. I definitely learned my lesson last time.”

  • • •

  After grabbing a few crates of peaches, I took Ray into town so he could see Peachy Keen. I was anxious to show off my plans for the shop, and, as usual, Ray was supportive of my renovation efforts. He lauded my plans for Shaker-styled cabinetry, framed shelving with simple-line moldings, exposed brick walls and freshly finished pinewood floors topped with a scattering of braided rugs. However, I could see a hint of skepticism in his expression as his gaze fell on my unfinished shelves, still-marred flooring and crumbling mortar. Then, when his eyes wandered upward to the water-stained plaster on the ceiling, I quickly explained my idea for a dropped tin ceiling painted in off-white, which I thought would add charm and reflect the abundance of light afforded by the shop’s large, deep-set transom windows and a glass-paneled double door. The ceiling tiles were on order and should arrive any day, I assured him. But the hint of incredulity that shone through his façade of well-intentioned compliments brought to the surface the doubts in my own mind about how I was going to finish this project in time. Not to mention the fact that Mama had added my peachy products as an adjunct for the cotillion dinner. And I didn’t even want to think of her concept of me as her “backup plan” for the dinner itself. So, by the time I’d finished showing Ray around, I was convinced I needed to rethink my opening day. Still, I’d announced my plans, printed flyers and even posted the date on my website. No, there was no turning back. Come hell or high water, I had to finish renovations in the next three weeks.

  Thankfully, Cade arrived about a half hour after Ray left. I’d just finished vacuuming the mortar dust produced from my brick scrubbing when I looked up to see him standing in the doorway wearing stained but well-fitting blue jeans and a T-shirt that clung to his muscular torso. “Sorry I’m running late. My other project took longer than I thought this morning.”

  Cade and I had struck a deal. Since I wasn’t a full-paying customer, he was helping me in his spare time, fitting me in around his full-paying projects.

  “But, I should be wrapping it up tomorrow,” he continued. “That’ll free up a little more time for me to devote to your shop.”

  I looked around, doubts still lingering. “Do you really think we’ll actually be able to get all this done in time?”

  He was assembling the tools he needed to start sealing the wall. “Sure. We’ll easily get this done in three weeks. No worries.”

  Only I was worried. Because, in addition to the renovations, it looked like I was getting dragged into this cotillion thing. Especially if Ginny was unable to take care of her catering responsibilities, heaven forbid, and I had to step in to pull off the cotillion dinner. I sighed. Worrying about it all wasn’t going to get my work done, so I moved on to painting one of the plaster walls as Cade got busy with sealing the bricks. While we worked, I stole glances his way, my mind wandering now and then to romantic notions. I wondered what it would take to rekindle the spark that developed between us last summer, or, more precisely, what had caused it to extinguish in the first place. I knew he’d been under an enormous amount of stress, struggling to keep his business going and care for his elderly father, who was in a convalescent home east of town. Still, if he needed a friend to lean on, I was more than willing to provide the support, something he probably would have taken me up on six months ago. Now, I wasn’t so sure.

  After a period of steady work, I caught the whiff of fried chicken from the diner next door. We’d worked straight through lunch and my stomach was grumbling. “What do you say we take a quick break and grab a bite for lunch,” I suggested to Cade.

  “Go ahead. I want to finish this wall and start staining the shelving.” He glanced over my efforts. “Looks good where you’ve painted.”

  That’s how it’d been playing between us lately—casual and distant and always polite. It was the politeness that was really ticking me off. Before he left for the job in Macon, we’d had all sorts of playful flirting going on, even a few fiery disagreements. Now, nothing. Just the darn politeness.

  “Cade,” I started, not really knowing how to approach the topic, “is everything okay with you?”

  He stopped rolling on the sealer and turned toward me. “Sure. Why? Everything okay with you?”

  I bit my cheek. “Yes, I’m fine. But you’ve seemed . . . oh, I don’t know . . . distant. Preoccupied. Not quite yourself. Is it your father’s illness? Your business, maybe?” Or me, I wanted to add but didn’t have the nerve. He shrugged. “Huh? I don’t really know what you mean. Nothing’s wrong.”

  I gritted my teeth. But just as I was about to push it further, the door rattled open. Ginny came bursting in, face red, the newspaper in hand. “Can y’all believe this malarkey? Look at what Frances Simms put about me in the paper.”

  She unfolded the newspaper and held it up. Even from where I was standing, the headline was as plain as day: “Vivien Crenshaw Murdered after Blowout over Debutante Gown.”
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  “Oh no!” I crossed the room and snatched the paper from her hands. “What lies did she print this time?” Ginny stood next to me and seethed while I started skimming the article. Certain phrases jumped out at me, like: “Several eyewitnesses claim the murder victim and Ginny Wiggins, proprietor of Red’s Diner, argued over a debutante gown prior . . .” and “Mrs. Wiggins made threatening remarks toward Mrs. Crenshaw . . .” and then the article wrapped up with a statement from the sheriff claiming she had a strong suspect in the case.

  “The problem is, none of what she printed is really a lie. I did do all that.” She started shaking her head and babbling. “Mama always did say my temper was going to get the best of me, and now it has. Oh, mercy! All this in the paper. What’s it going to do to Emily? My poor little girl. And it’s all my fault.” Her usual fire had been doused, and tears threatened at the corners of her eyes.

  “Did you ever talk to Ray?” Cade asked.

  “Yeah, he came by last night and we discussed it all.” She turned and offered me a meek and grateful smile. “I’m just so grateful you called your brother, Nola. I was being so pigheaded about the whole lawyer thing, but it looks like I may need Ray after all.”

  “Let’s hope not. Has the sheriff been over to question you again?”

  “No.”

  “She give you any indication that you were her prime suspect, like telling you not to leave town?”

  “No, but everyone knows I haven’t traveled much farther than Macon for the last twenty years.”

  I tapped the paper. “Point being, this article said the sheriff has a suspect in the case, but it didn’t necessarily say you, did it? Maybe Maudy Payne has another suspect. Or maybe there’s something she knows that’s not in the paper. Some sort of evidence that points the finger at someone else.”