Rest in Peach

by Susan Furlong

  Ginny nodded, wiping at her eyes with the bottom of her apron. “Still, poor Emily. She’s going to be mortified when she reads this paper. And, the kids at school? You know how cruel they can be. Once they get ahold of this . . . why, it’s going to be awful for Emily. Me and my hot temper!”

  “You’re underestimating Emily. She’s stronger than you think, and so are you. You two will get through this just fine.”

  A tear ran down her cheek. “But she’s been dreaming about her cotillion ever since she was a little girl. This is all so unfair. First the dress and now all this.” Suddenly her eyes grew wide. “Oh no. The etiquette class is tomorrow evening!”

  “Etiquette class?” This was the first I’d heard about any sort of etiquette class. Then again, there’d been so much debutante talk lately, I’d pretty much tuned it all out. And honestly, the idea of anyone being interested in a class on etiquette at the moment didn’t fit my lingering vision of Vivien’s scissor-skewered neck one bit.

  Ginny’s head bobbed up and down frantically as she began wringing her hands. “Yes! At the diner tomorrow evening. It’s sort of a practice run for the girls to work on their table manners before the big dinner. They’ll be bringing their marshals, too.”

  I scrunched my brows and blinked a few times until Cade spoke up from across the room. “Their dates, Nola. Marshals escort the debutantes to the dinner and dance.” I did a double take. Why would Cade know something about marshals when I didn’t recall it at all? Had he been one once? I racked my brain trying to remember who he would have escorted to the cotillion dance way back when. Then I shrugged it off. What did that really matter anyway?

  “How am I going to face down all those people after this?” Ginny was pointing at the paper. “Everyone’s probably talking about me right this instant. Saying things like, ‘Emily’s mom is a murderer’ . . . and, oh Lawd!” She glanced at her watch. “I got to get back to the diner. Emily will be out of school soon.”

  Placing my hands on her shoulders, I leaned in and looked directly into her eyes. “Simmer down, Ginny. You need to hold it together for Emily, okay? Now tell me, who’s helping you with the etiquette class tomorrow?”

  She sucked in a jagged breath. “Well, Ida is in charge of instruction, of course—she’s a master of etiquette.” I rolled my eyes and nodded as she continued. “And a few of the other mothers. We’re acting as servers. It’s all set up like role play. Like a real dinner, minus the food. That’s why the committee asked if it could be at the diner, so we could use the tables and chairs.”

  “Okay. No biggie. I’ll come and help, too. That way you know you’ll have some support in case some of those mothers come with gossip on their minds. I’ll talk to Hattie, see if she can also help.”

  “Y’all would do that?”

  “Of course. What are friends for?”

  Ginny seemed to breathe easier. “Sure. That’d be fine. Maybe I’ll even wear those new blue jeans Hattie helped me pick out.”

  “That’s the spirit,” I said. “Now, you better get back to the diner and take care of Emily. Remember what I said, though. She’s a strong girl, just like her mama.”

  As soon as she left, I trotted across the room and handed Cade the paper. “Ginny’s never going to live this down. Take a look at this! This is a hot mess. I’m so sick of Frances Simms and her antics. I swear, that woman is the bane of my existence. She’s always causing trouble. Remember those articles she printed about Hollis last summer?”

  Cade nodded and reached for the paper, glimpsing over the article with a creased forehead. “Yes, but a scandal like this sells copies. Problem is that Ginny’s right: Frances really hasn’t printed anything that can’t be substantiated. She’s just put it together in a way that makes Ginny look bad. ’Course, Ginny has done a pretty good job of making herself look bad, going off on Vivien like she did. Hattie told me all about it. Said Ginny pretty much lost it.”

  I thought back to the argument, the murderous look on Ginny’s face as she spewed threats and hurled insults. “You’re right. Still, Emily doesn’t deserve the inevitable backlash this article is going to generate. I feel sorry for her. I can still remember how hard it was to navigate high school under the best of circumstances. And this is supposed to be such a special time and all.” I shook my head, wondering what could be done, if anything, to help the situation. I hated to just stand by and watch people I cared about suffering. Maybe Ginny’s suspect list deserved a little more consideration. It couldn’t hurt to just ask around a bit, could it?

  Chapter 5

  Debutante Rule #095: Even if a debutante has nothing else, she still has her manners . . . and a monogrammed handkerchief.

  “Don’t worry, Ginny,” Hattie said as we worked on folding a stack of cloth napkins. “We’ve got your back. Just think of us as your posse. No one’s going to dare say anything nasty with us around.” After explaining the whole situation to Hattie the day before, she’d instantly rallied to Ginny’s defense. So there we were at the diner Wednesday evening helping Ginny set up for etiquette class and acting as her posse—ready and willing to run interference if any mother coming to help became gossipy about Ginny being a murderer.

  “I do feel much better with you girls here,” Ginny replied. “And you know, Nola, you were right. My Emily is a strong girl. After reading that article yesterday, she just gave me a big ol’ hug and told me not to worry, that it would all be okay. Can y’all believe that? I’d be crying or breaking down or something.”

  I shot a glance at Ginny. That “or something” no doubt had me visualizing how our redheaded friend would have likely issued threats aimed at Frances if put in poor Emily’s situation. Thankfully, Ginny was right about one thing: Emily was one strong—and smart—girl.

  Ginny went on, “But, I’m telling you, these girls in town can be nasty. The best thing I can do for Emily is clear my name.” She reached into the pocket of her blue jeans and pulled out the list we’d made the day before.

  Hattie glanced over her shoulder. “What’s that?”

  “It’s my list of suspects. You see, the way I figure it, I’ve been framed.”

  Framed? I knew she suspected the killer heard Vivien say she was returning to the shop at six thirty, but how had that translated into someone framing her? Of course, it was convenient that the murder happened right after Ginny’s big blowout with Vivien. Maybe there was something to this new theory of hers.

  “This is a list of all the ladies who were in your shop and heard my little tirade,” she was saying. “Like I was telling Nola yesterday, I’m thinking it had to be one of these gals. They all heard me say those things, and they heard Vivien make plans to come back to your shop at six thirty, right?”

  Hattie moved in closer to study the list, bobbing her head enthusiastically and agreeing with Ginny’s assessment. She was being sucked right into Ginny’s plan. Not a good thing. Not a good thing at all.

  “Don’t you think this should be left to the authorities?” I said, trying to intervene before this got out of hand.

  Hattie turned a cynical eye my way. “By ‘authorities’ you mean Maudy Payne?”

  Ginny sniggered. “Yeah, we all saw how well that went when Hollis was suspected of murder. Besides, it’s all easy for you to suggest I leave it up to the sheriff when it’s not you in the hot seat for murder. This is my life. And just think what Emily is going through with me being a suspect and all.”

  She was right. Still, I didn’t want to encourage this behavior. I gave a noncommittal nod, grabbed a stack of white tablecloths and started shaking and smoothing them, one at a time, over the tables. Hattie did the same, working her way down the row of tables next to me.

  Ginny paced around us, list in hand. “Anyway, I’m thinking all we need to do is figure out everyone’s alibi for the time of the murder. We can start with Debra Bearden. She’s one of the helpers tonight.”

&nbs
p; “And how do you plan to do that?” I asked, giving the tablecloth an extra-hard snap. “Are you just going to walk up to her and ask where she was at the time of the murder?” I chuckled. “Like that’s going to work.”

  Ginny hesitated, raising a finger to twirl one of her curls. “I haven’t figured that part out yet.”

  “Leave it to me,” Hattie suggested. “I’m good at finessing information from people. Besides, she’s a customer of mine, comes in the shop all the time. She trusts me.”

  The gleam in Hattie’s eye worried me. She was way too gung ho about all this. Doing my best to steer the conversation in a different direction, I asked, “By the way, how’s business been at the dress shop since . . . since the murder?” Grotesque images filled my mind: Vivien, the scissors, the bloodied dress . . . I shivered. It might be a while before I’d be able to go back into the shop.

  Hattie paused, a troubled look crossing her face. “I hate to say it, but sadly enough, business has never been better. All of a sudden ladies I haven’t seen for months are coming into the shop. Of course, they have all sorts of morbid questions. I swear, I don’t know what compels people to be interested in such horrible things.”

  I knew how she felt. I’d often witnessed that magnetic pull toward catastrophic events during my days as an aid worker—people drawn to the horrid scenes left behind after earthquakes and tsunamis. But I’d come to realize that it wasn’t necessarily voyeurism or morbid curiosity that drew them, but a strong, inherent instinct for survival. The idea of such a horrible event, especially so close to home, upsets the balance of our psyche, and some of us need to face it down in order to reassure, or fool, ourselves into thinking we’re immune to such atrocities. At least I’d like to think that was the case with the curious ladies Hattie had mentioned and not that they were simply vicious gossipers who derived their entertainment from the tragic death of one of their own. I shook off the thought and changed the topic. “Emily’s coming tonight, isn’t she?” I asked Ginny.

  “Yep. When I left home she was still fussin’ over her hair. Nash is bringing her by soon.”

  That name sounded familiar. “Nash Jones?” I recalled the handsome young man who helped me with my booth at the Peach Harvest Festival last summer.

  Ginny nodded and starting working her way around the tables smoothing out wrinkles in the tablecloths. “That’s right. Belle is his twin sister. The Reverend Jones and Maggie just have the two.”

  “Oh, I see.” That made sense. I wondered why I hadn’t put that together before now. Mama was right. I needed to pay more attention at church. “He seems like a nice boy,” I added.

  “Sure is,” Hattie said, gathering a few extra chairs from around the room to place at one of the tables. “I used to hire him all the time for odd jobs around the shop. Now he’s working at the Tasty Freeze, though. With that and school, he’s been too busy.”

  Which reminded me of the dark-haired girl I’d seen at both Hattie’s and the diner. “Who’s the girl helping you now? The one with all the piercings?”

  “That’s Carla Fini,” Ginny answered for Hattie. “She’s been working for me, too. Just busing tables and washing dishes. She’s a good worker.” She passed me a tray of silverware and went to the counter for a stack of plates, which she started placing on the table. I walked behind her, setting out the silverware. Hattie followed both of us, placing a neatly folded napkin atop each plate.

  “She’s moved here from up north somewhere,” Hattie added. “Living with her aunt for a while. I’ve hired her on for some odd jobs. Nice girl, but seems a little troubled. . . .” She paused for a second then belted out, “For Pete’s sake, Nola. Who taught you to set a table like this?”

  My head snapped up. She was glaring down at one of my place settings, which looked perfectly fine to me. “What’s wrong with it?”

  Ginny clucked her tongue, scurried around the table and started rearranging the forks and spoons. “Here, the salad fork goes first then the dinner fork, both on this side. Then over here, put the dinner knife closest to the plate, then the teaspoon and soup spoon.” She finished with a flourish. “See, just like that.”

  I backed up and started over. “Sorry.” I knew better than to mention that I had been happy to have any utensil when I worked in Indonesia where the natives preferred to eat with their hands or that I became expert with chopsticks in the autonomous mountain villages of Vietnam or found a sharp knife the only implement considered necessary in some remote parts of Africa. I had certainly been indoctrinated in my early years with table-setting protocol by Mama; I just hadn’t used it often enough in the years since for it to be second nature anymore. Probably wouldn’t have much opportunity in the future, considering the way things were going between Cade and me. Of course, from the way Hattie acted the other day after church, things weren’t going well with her and Pete, either. I was about to ask if they’d made up yet when the door popped open and then slammed shut with a bang. It was Emily, and she looked upset.

  Ginny rushed right over. “Emily! What is it?”

  Emily’s emotions seemed to hover somewhere between despair and rage. Hattie and I maintained our distance, busying ourselves with the rest of the place settings but still keeping one ear on the conversation unfolding between Ginny and Emily.

  “Nash canceled our date for tonight.”

  “He did? Why?”

  Emily bit her lip and swallowed hard. “He wouldn’t say, but he barely talked to me at school today. I expected it from all the other kids, but not from Nash. I thought he . . .”

  She didn’t finish the sentence, but it wasn’t hard to fill in the blank. She thought Nash really cared for her. Maybe loved her. The poor thing. Her first heartbreak. Little did she know, it probably wouldn’t be her last. Hattie went to the counter and fished a handkerchief out of her purse, crossing over to where Ginny and Emily were. “Here, sweetie. Looks like you need this.”

  Emily drew the pretty pink lace handkerchief to her face and began sobbing.

  “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.” Ginny pulled her daughter close and patted her back.

  Then the door opened again. This time, it was Ida carrying a couple small boxes and dressed in an elegant cream-colored pantsuit, which even to me, Ms. Fashion Challenged, recognized would benefit from a splash of color. Perhaps a brightly colored silk scarf? I shook my head; Ida hadn’t worn one of those since . . . well, never mind. I sighed. Would I ever be able to move past the horrid events of last summer? But I didn’t have much time to dwell on it, because right behind Ida was a pack of giggling girls, all of them looking pretty in their spring dresses and finely styled hair. Upon seeing them, Emily pulled away from Ginny and turned for a quick throat-clearing, handkerchief-wiping propping up of her debutante self. Then she quickly turned around again, with a brave smile, and hurried over to join the group.

  Next through the door strode an aftershave-infused wave of young men who strutted nonchalantly in their crisply ironed khakis and freshly trimmed hair. They immediately mixed with the girls, separating into couples. I almost cried as I noticed Emily standing off to the side, her eyes scanning the crowd, probably holding out hope for Nash.

  Quickly finishing the last of the place settings, I marched over to say hello to Ida, who’d joined Ginny and Hattie in the back of the restaurant. “Thank you so much for letting us use the diner,” she was saying, “and for putting all this together.” She handed Ginny the boxes. “I brought a little something for the kids to eat afterward.”

  “How thoughtful! They look simply scrumptious,” Ginny replied warmly.

  A hint of pink tinged my sister’s cheeks. “It’s just a quick little recipe I have for peach cobbler cupcakes; there’s really not much to making them. Wish I could have done more, but Junior’s been so fussy. I think he’s cutting a tooth.” Her gaze swept over the tables. “It all looks so lovely.” She dipped her chin toward the group of
kids, who were getting rowdier by the second. “Looks like we’d better get busy, don’t y’all think? What do you say we try to impart some manners on this motley crew?” She moved toward the tables, clapping her hands several times in an attempt to draw their attention. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll pair up, debutantes with your marshals, please, and approach the tables, we’ll start with the proper way for a gentleman to assist a lady into her chair.”

  Her statement brought about an undercurrent of groans from the crowd, which she effectively thwarted with a single sharp look. I knew that expression. Ida inherited it from our mama. And speaking of expressions, I also recognized the type of look on the faces of the trio of women who, at that moment, entered the diner. I’d seen it before when my work took me once to the remote grasslands surrounding a sub-Saharan African village. En route—from the safety of my guide’s jeep, thank goodness—I’d witnessed a female lion take down and ravage its prey. I shuddered. These ladies had that same bloodthirsty look, and they were eying Ginny as their quarry.

  With an exchange of a knowing glance and an unspoken agreement, Hattie and I scrambled to intercept the women. “Thank you so much for volunteering tonight, ladies,” Hattie greeted them.

  I immediately recognized Debra Bearden—actually, she was hard to miss with her perfectly highlighted locks and rhinestone-studded jeans—but I had no idea who her two toadies were. There wasn’t much time for introductions, however, because from across the room, I could hear Ida moving things right along. “At the cotillion dinner, we adhere to long-established decorum such as knowing the proper utensils for each course of the meal. For example . . .” Blah, blah, blah . . . I tuned her out and refocused on the lionesses. “We’re supposed to be acting as servers tonight. The pitchers and trays are on the counter. There’s no food or drinks, as we’re just pretending, but please make sure to serve from the right side.”