Rest in Peach

by Susan Furlong

  “All dolled up?” I asked as we climbed into the car. “She just had her hair down, that’s all.”

  “And rouge!”

  Well, maybe, though I’d thought she was just blushing. . . . “Wait! What are you implying, anyway?”

  “That they’re having an affair!” Hattie’s face twisted into an angry scowl as she jammed the keys into the ignition and flipped the air on high.

  The cold blast hit me directly in the face as I reached to adjust my vent. “What’s wrong with you, Hattie?” I asked, wondering why so much anger. And why was she so ready to assume Nate and Maggie were having an affair? “I think you may be jumping to conclusions.”

  Hattie turned to me, tears threatening the corners of her angry eyes. “I swear, all men are dogs. Isn’t there a single decent man left in the world?” She started fiddling with the air again, her hands trembling as she adjusted the knob.

  Reaching over, I placed my hand over hers and squeezed. “Tell me what’s going on, Hattie. It’s you and Pete, isn’t it?”

  She stiffened at my words, then nodded, pulling her hand back for a quick swipe at her face before rooting in her bag for a hankie. “He’s been . . .” Her breath caught as she buried her face in her hands. “Cheattttting on me,” she wailed.

  “Cheating?” I shook my head. “That doesn’t seem like Pete.” The Pete I knew, or at least had come to know over the past several months, adored my beautiful friend. More than adored, actually. He practically worshiped her—something I’d admittedly been envious of from time to time. That and the fact that dating the flower shop owner afforded her certain perks like a constant stream of fresh-cut flowers and even long-stemmed roses on a regular basis. I swiveled in my seat to face her head-on, pausing for a second while she finished blowing her nose. “This is crazy, Hattie,” I said, hoping to talk some sense into her. “Why do you think he’s cheating? Is it just some rumor going around? Because you know how this town loves its gossip.”

  “No,” she said, dabbing at her eyes. “I have proof.” She took a long cleansing breath and started explaining the whole ordeal. Apparently, the day the debutante dress shipment came in, after the whole fiasco between Ginny and Vivien had receded and the shop cleared out, she’d left Mrs. Busby in charge to lock up while she made a mad dash down the street to see Pete. “I was just so upset. It’d been a horrible day.”

  “I understand,” I said. “The mixed-up dress order, then Ginny exploding like that. I bet you were emotionally drained.”

  “Exactly. I just needed to see him,” she replied with a drawn-out sigh, before going on to explain that while at Pete’s she stumbled upon a mysterious note, written in a distinctly feminine scroll. “I didn’t mean to be nosy, I really didn’t. It’s just that it was there. Right out in the open.”

  “What did it say?”

  “Something like . . .” Her voice caught as she struggled to maintain composure. “Like . . . ‘Meet me at the usual spot tonight after work.’” She shook her head. “I can’t remember exactly. But I knew what it meant.”

  That was it? “That could be anything, Hattie.”

  “Oh yeah? Like what? I mean, who has a ‘usual spot’ with someone other than his girlfriend?”

  I searched my brain for a plausible explanation. The fact that I couldn’t come up with one quickly enough really agitated her. “See what I mean,” she lamented. I bucked up, preparing for another onslaught of tears, but instead her expression tightened and she began angrily wringing her handkerchief. “Just ticks me off that I didn’t know what he was up to all this time. I mean, how stupid am I? But don’t go telling anyone about this, you understand?”

  I nodded.

  “Especially not Ginny. She’s got too much to worry about right now with all this murder stuff going on. And knowing Ginny, she’d take it personally. Especially since she was the one that introduced us in the first place.”

  “She was? I didn’t know that.”

  Hattie quickly swiped the hankie under her eye and nodded. “Yeah. It was so sweet of her.” She let out a long sigh. “You know what she did?” I shrugged, and she continued with a melancholy voice, “She mixed up our to-go orders on purpose one afternoon, then called me and asked if I wouldn’t mind running down to the flower shop to make a quick switch. Of course, it was love at first sight. Well, lust, at least.” Another long sigh, this one punctuated with a little sob as her shoulders drooped with the memory. “I’m telling ya, Nola, he was the sexiest man I’d ever seen.”

  “Well, not to worry,” I interjected, before she got herself all worked up again. “I won’t mention anything to Ginny.”

  The Crenshaws’ porch light suddenly switched off, and the front curtain parted slightly. Hattie, still caught up in her walk down memory lane, didn’t seem to notice, but I imagined Nate was peering through a window and wondering what in the world we were doing still parked in front of his house. “Let’s go someplace and talk about this,” I suggested.

  She sucked in a shaky breath. “I don’t know. I could sure use a drink, but I’m not in the mood for the Honky Tonk.”

  Boy, could I relate. I was never in the mood for the Honky Tonk. “How about coming out to the house. Daddy’s always got plenty of Peach Jack around.”

  She tossed the handkerchief aside with a firm nod and gripped the steering wheel. “Sounds perfect. Let’s go.”

  • • •

  I stood on the porch Friday morning, coffee mug in hand and Roscoe wallowing at my feet, as I watched the sun break over the top of the orchard. The air was heavy, tiny droplets of dew clinging to the grass like little silver beads that would soon dissipate with the first of the sun’s hot rays. Lifting my coffee mug, I inhaled its rich, nutty aroma along with the clean freshness of morning and the unmistakable sweetness of ripening peaches before taking a desperate drink, hoping the caffeine would assuage the pounding between my ears. Too much Peach Jack the night before had left me feeling like something scraped off the bottom of a shoe. I still wasn’t sure how one glass turned into several, but the longer Hattie and I talked, the more we drank, until we’d nearly finished off the bottle.

  The screen door screeched open, and Mama shuffled out, her yellow flowered robe cinched at the waist and sleep lines running down the side of her face. She was carrying her own mug of coffee. “Mornin’, hon.” Roscoe left my side and trotted to her.

  “How’s my baby doin’?” Mama asked.

  I started to answer but glanced over and saw her scratching Roscoe behind the ears and realized she was speaking to the dog, not me. Baby? Guess Mama and Roscoe had bonded.

  She moved toward one of the wicker rockers, settled in and set the mug aside before tapping her hands against her thighs. He jumped right up and nestled in like a regular lapdog. Mama grinned and rubbed her cheek along the top of his head. “Isn’t he a good boy?” she asked.

  “He sure is,” I replied fondly, reaching over to rub the soft spot on the tip of his muzzle. His eyes practically rolled with the pleasure of all the attention.

  “By the way,” Mama inserted. “Why is Hattie McKenna sleeping on our davenport?”

  “Sorry, Mama. We were up sort of late last night. We didn’t wake you, did we?”

  “Lawd no! If I can sleep through your Daddy’s snoring, I can sleep through ’bout anything.” She stretched out a slippered foot and nudged an empty Peach Jack bottle lying next to the chair. “Looks like you two threw back a bit of alcohol. Were y’all just exceptionally thirsty or was there some sort of trouble you were tryin’ to drown?”

  Leave it to Mama. She’d never really beat around the bush about anything.

  “Trouble,” I finally responded, and I took a long drag from my coffee. I knew I’d just opened a can of worms. Mama couldn’t stand to see anyone she loved having trouble. I was in for a long heart-to-heart now. I took another gulp of coffee; these talks with Mama wer
en’t easy for me under any circumstance, but with a fuzzy brain, it’d be downright dreadful. “I’m having a little trouble with Cade—nothing to worry about, though—and Hattie’s having trouble with Pete. And we’re both troubled over Vivien Crenshaw’s murder and the fact that Ginny’s the top suspect.”

  Mama pressed her tiptoes to the ground, sending the chair into motion, her head nodding in unison with the rhythm of the rocker as she stroked Roscoe’s back and mulled over my troubles. “Problems with Cade, you say?”

  “Nothing I can’t fix,” I said, backtracking and wishing I hadn’t brought it up in the first place. “Just a little communication problem.”

  “I see,” she said with a pointed look.

  I knew if I didn’t change the topic quickly, she’d get stuck on the Cade thing. “Really, Mama. I’ll get it figured out. Besides, my man problems pale in comparison to what’s going on between Hattie and Pete right now.”

  She adopted an all-knowing expression. “Aw . . . What’d he do?”

  It didn’t surprise me that she blamed him for whatever the problem was. In Mama’s eyes, men had an inherent bent toward misbehaving, their mischievous nature only held in check by a strong woman. “She seems to think he’s cheating on her,” I reported.

  Mama stopped rocking and blurted, “Cheatin’? Pete Sanchez? He doesn’t seem like the type.”

  “Shh!” I thumbed toward the house and motioned for her to be quiet. I didn’t want Hattie to wake up and hear us talking about her.

  She lowered her voice and leaned toward me. “What makes her think he’s two-timin’ her?” Roscoe lifted his head and nudged her arm, begging for more attention, but she was too wrapped up in the conversation to notice. Disgruntled, he jumped down and started sniffing around the porch.

  “Some note she found in his shop,” I replied. “She thinks it was from another woman.”

  Mama busied herself picking at the dog fur that’d attached itself to the front of her robe. “You know,” she finally said, “I pride myself on being a good judge of character, and I’m just not sensing that young man is the cheatin’ type. There’s got to be some other explanation. That’s all there is to it.”

  I nodded. “I agree with you, Mama. I’m not seeing it, either. She just jumped to conclusions,” I muttered into my cup, taking a sip, “like she did about Maggie Jones.”

  Mama shot me a look. “What about Maggie?”

  “Oh, nothing. really.” But Mama gave me one of her determined-to-know-more looks. I explained that Maggie was one of the gals on Ginny’s list of suspects for Vivien’s murder.

  “Murder?” Her eyes grew wide. “The preacher’s wife? Why, I never . . .” She visibly shook off the preposterous assumption, but then a slight curl of her lips betrayed another thought.

  “Mama? Do you know something about the murder?”

  “Oh heavens, Nola Mae, of course not.” She shook her head, ending that possibility. But then her eyes twinkled just a mite, like she had another little tidbit to share. “I was just thinking how people are not quite what they seem sometimes.”

  I was game. “Like . . . ?” I smiled back.

  She drew in her breath and started rocking again. “Well, don’t go repeating this, you hear?”

  I promised.

  “I was at the library the other day lookin’ for some recipe books. . . . You know the fair’s right around the corner and I’m thinking about entering the baking—”

  “And you saw Maggie there?” I prompted to keep her on track.

  “That’s right.” Mama’s lips strained as she tried to suppress a smile. “She was using one of the library’s computers, you see. And she must not have seen me comin’, because she didn’t bother to hide what she was looking at on the screen.” Mama covered her mouth as a few raspy laughs escaped her throat.

  “Tell me,” I pleaded.

  She began fanning her eyes as they watered with laughter. “A man. And my Lawd, he took up practically the whole screen.”

  “A man?”

  Mama clutched her midsection as she laughed some more. “A big, brawny, long-haired Scotsman wearing one of those thingies they wear. . . .”

  “A kilt.”

  “Call it what you want, but it was obvious from the picture that he didn’t have anything on under it.” She took a swipe at her red-tinged cheeks and continued giggling.

  My brow shot up. “Nothing on under . . . ? Oh, never mind,” I said, holding up my hand. “What did Maggie do?”

  “She ’bout died of embarrassment. Poor thing.” Mama chuckled some more, then with a shake of her head, she turned serious. “Only, there was something strange about the whole thing.”

  Stranger than the preacher’s wife staring at naked men on the library’s computer?

  Mama continued, “She had a notebook with her, and it seemed she was taking notes.”

  “Taking notes? On the Scotsman?”

  Mama shrugged. “Or on his . . . well, you know.”

  “Mama!” I laughed right along with her. Then, I thought back to the romance novel I saw slip out of Maggie’s stack of reading material. Not a big deal to me; I liked a hot romance every once in a while. And brawny Scotsmen in kilts were nice, too, for that matter. But I recalled how Maggie blushed and scrambled to hide the risqué cover. She was sure working hard to keep that side of herself hidden. Not that I could blame her, being a preacher’s wife and all. Still, I wondered what else she was keeping secret: an affair with Nate Crenshaw? Maybe Hattie was right after all. Or was there something more sinister going on? Preacher’s wife or not, there was more to Maggie Jones than met the eye—much more than hair tightly wound in a bun and high-buttoned blouses. . . .

  The sound of the screen door pushing open interrupted my train of thought. Looking up, I saw Hattie stumble out onto the porch with her bag slung over her shoulder. She cringed and moved her hands over her ears as the door swung shut with a thump. “Mercy, but my head hurts. How much did I drink last night?”

  Mama pointed down to the empty bottle. “Looks to me like you two put away a fair share of this stuff.” She playfully clucked her tongue. “Serves y’all right if you’re both feelin’ like mean little men are wrestlin’ behind your eyeballs.” Then, as she took in Hattie’s apparent misery, a look of pity crossed her face. She stood up and spread her arms for a hug. “Aw, come here, girls,” she beckoned. And when we did, she pulled us in close, one of us on each side. “I realize you both are going through some difficult times, but just remember that we Southern gals come from strong stock; what doesn’t kill us only makes us stronger, right? Besides, all these problems will pass. You’ll see.”

  Over the years, I’d come to realize that Mama had a talent for spewing just the right platitude for every direful situation. Oftentimes, it was just the right twist of words to calm and soothe frazzled nerves; other times her heavily redundant clichés got on my every last nerve. Today, I just took comfort in her embrace and the fact that she truly believed a healthy dose of grit could get us Southern gals through just about anything. Only, what Mama didn’t know—heck, what nobody knew at the time—was that “these problems” weren’t going to pass anytime soon. In fact, they were going to get a whole lot worse before they got better.

  Chapter 9

  Debutante Fact #030: Sometimes there’s nothing like a good cry to set the world straight. . . . That’s why a debutante always wears waterproof makeup.

  Later that morning, I walked through the door of Peachy Keen with the old Czar radio I’d borrowed from Mama’s kitchen in my hand, prepared for a full day’s work. But I was astounded by what I saw. Somewhere between when I’d left yesterday evening and this morning, Cade had made incredible progress. Not only was the shelving done, but he’d installed my checkout counter—a solid wood piece of cabinetry I’d found at a local flea market, stained dark green and accented with white beadboard and
trim. It looked perfect where Cade had placed it along the side wall of the store. I could already imagine myself standing behind it, ringing up orders and gift wrapping packages for customers. But even though I felt a huge sense of relief knowing things may get done in time after all, a feeling of sadness engulfed me. Cade must have worked all night to get this much done. Was that his new plan? Work nights so he could avoid me? Or maybe get things wrapped up as soon as possible so he could be free from me once and for all? Either scenario was unacceptable. Deciding it was time to talk this through, I swiveled on my heel and marched outside, my head bent with determination as I made my way down Orchard Lane and toward Cade’s house.

  Only as I passed by the courthouse green, I spied something that caused me to pause: Debra Bearden and Nate Crenshaw, standing by the courthouse statue, engrossed in an animated conversation. Even from where I was watching, Debra’s sweeping arm gestures suggested that she was angry about something. About what, I wondered.

  My curiosity piqued, I continued down the walk, pretending to go about my own business until I was out of their line of sight. Then I doubled back across the courthouse lawn and stooped behind a row of lilac bushes that ran along the back side of the statue. Straining my ears, I could just make out part of their conversation.

  “I don’t know why you’re being so obstinate about this, Nate.” I moved closer to the shrub and peered through a bare spot in the branches so I could better see them. Debra’s legs were planted wide as she leaned toward Nate with a steely expression.

  “I’m not being obstinate. I simply don’t know where it would be,” Nate replied, taking a step backward.

  “Vivien kept it tucked inside her purse.”

  Nate shrugged. “I’m sorry, Debra. I’d like to help you, but Vivien had so many bags. I wouldn’t even know—”