Rest in Peach

by Susan Furlong

  I stepped aside from the chair, holding it out for her as she approached the table. “Everything okay?”

  “Yes, thanks to that brother of yours,” she whispered back. Then, quickly glancing around the patio, she added, “I take it the word’s out?”

  “Yes, out and traveling fast. I haven’t seen today’s edition of the Cays Mill Reporter,” I hedged.

  She waved her hand through the air. “Nothing interesting. But I’m dreading Tuesday’s edition. Especially after the pictures Frances must have got this morning.”

  I nodded discreetly toward Emily. “Well, at least she’s doing fine. Especially now that you’re here.” I motioned for Ginny to take my chair. After she settled, I leaned down and said, “I could stick around a little longer if you want.”

  Ginny glanced up with a brave smile. “Thank you, Nola, but I’ll be just fine. But would you mind terribly if I canceled for tonight? I’m afraid I’m just not up to working on the menu today. I’m exhausted. But tomorrow, for sure. Regular time.”

  I placed a hand on her shoulder. “Of course. I understand. I should probably spend some time with Ray anyway. I haven’t seen much of him lately.”

  She shook her head. “Sorry, hon. He’s already left. Said something about a dinner engagement tonight.” She reached up and squeezed my hand. “Thanks for everything today. You’re a good friend, Nola. Now get going,” she said, shooing me toward the door. “Certainly you’ve got better things to do than hang out here.”

  • • •

  Back inside the Wheeler home, I searched the sunroom and adjacent hallway for Maggie but didn’t see her anywhere. In the main hallway, waitstaff whizzed by, carrying trays of sandwiches and other treats toward the patio while I pretended to linger and admire the artwork—mostly colorful renditions of Civil War scenes. I recalled seeing a collection similar to this one hanging in Doc Harris’s waiting room.

  “My boss is a huge Civil War buff,” came a voice from behind.

  I turned to face Hawk. “Sure seems that way. Liking your new job?”

  “It’s a job,” he said with a frown. “What are you doing in here anyway? Looking for the bathroom?”

  “No, I was actually looking for someone.” I described Maggie to him. “Have you seen her?”

  “Yeah, she came in a few minutes ago, asked me where the restroom was. You can cut through here. There’s a hallway off the far wall that leads to the kitchen. The bathroom’s on the right.”

  “Great,” I replied, shooting him a quick wave and heading off in that direction.

  The bathroom door was shut, so I folded my arms and leaned against the wall to wait for Maggie. From my vantage point, I could see directly into the kitchen, where several employees were bustling about, pouring tea into pots and filling plates. They were generating quite a bit of noise, but even at that, I could hear Maggie’s voice inside the bathroom as she spoke on her cell to someone. I moved closer, pressing my ear against the door and catching a spurt of her conversation. “But it’ll only be a matter of time before everyone finds out, and it’ll ruin my husband. . . .” I stood upright as a server walked by and gave me a strange look. Then suddenly, the doorknob jostled and Maggie emerged from behind the door.

  “There you are! Is everything okay?” I asked, noticing the puffiness around her eyes.

  “Yes, of course,” she replied, trying to move past me.

  I shifted to block her way. “Are you sure? You seem upset about something?”

  A perturbed look crossed her face. “Thank you for your concern, Nola. But it’s personal.” Again, she started past me, obviously anxious to get away.

  “Did Vivien know something about you, Maggie? Something you were afraid she might tell everyone?” I asked.

  She turned toward me, her face tight with tension. “That’s ridiculous. Why would you say something like that?”

  I took a step closer, wishing there was an easier way to approach the topic. I hated to hurt Maggie’s feelings, but I needed to get to the bottom of things. “Because I think it’s true. That’s why you became so upset when you learned her purse had been found this morning. There was something she was keeping in her purse that would be terribly embarrassing to you, wasn’t there?”

  Maggie took a step backward, her eyes widening, but she quickly recovered. With an upward turn of her chin, she launched into fervent denial. “You’re acting crazy, Nola.”

  “Am I?” I hesitated, then decided I needed to come right out with it. “Was Vivien blackmailing you?”

  “Extortion! Why, maybe that’s something you came across while traipsing through third-world countries, but you’re back in civilization now. Things like that don’t happen around these parts.”

  “Things like what, Maggie? Murder?”

  “Are you suggesting that I . . .”

  “No, I don’t think you killed Vivien Crenshaw. But if you were being blackmailed, then it’s more than likely someone else was, too. Someone with more to lose. Someone who decided to permanently remove the threat of exposure by murdering Vivien.” I paused to let the implication sink in before continuing, “Perhaps if you went to the sheriff, told her about what you know, it might convince her to take a look at other possibilities, maybe consider other suspects.” Someone other than Ginny, hopefully. “In fact, if the wrong person is convicted of this crime because you held back evidence . . .” I left the rest unsaid, allowing her to fill in the blank.

  “Evidence?” Maggie echoed. Her face took on a pained expression, and she started wringing her hands. For a second I thought she was going to cave, but suddenly she pulled her shoulders back and leveled her gaze. “I don’t appreciate your impertinence, Nola Mae. Your mama would be ashamed of you speaking to the preacher’s wife this way.” With that, she turned on her heel and stomped away.

  For a second, I wondered what had caused her to flip-flop so quickly, but then I noticed Stephanie Wheeler was hovering in the entrance to the kitchen. I hoped she hadn’t overheard our conversation. How embarrassing for Maggie if she had.

  “Hello, Mrs. Wheeler,” I said, feeling a bit awkward. “It’s been a wonderful party, thank you.”

  “I’m so glad you’ve enjoyed yourself.” She looked down the hall where Maggie had stormed off. “Mrs. Jones seemed upset. I hope it’s not something I’ve done.”

  I waved her off. “Oh no. Nothing like that. Everything about this afternoon has been just lovely. She’s just going through something personal, I think.”

  Stephanie’s expression seemed to relax. “Is there something I can do for you?” she asked, pointing toward the kitchen. “More tea, perhaps? Or something else to eat?”

  “Oh, that’s okay. But thank you.” Gosh, did this woman have Southern hospitality down pat, or what? “I was actually just filling in for Ginny today, and she’s here now, so I’ll just be on my way. Thanks again,” I said, taking a step backward. Only when I turned to leave, I ran smack into Hawk. He placed his hands on my shoulders to steady me.

  “There you are, Mr. Hawk,” Stephanie said from behind. “Be a dear and show Ms. Harper to the door, will ya? I really should be getting back to my other guests.” Then, she graciously added, “It’s been lovely meeting you, Ms. Harper. Please do come back anytime.”

  As soon as we were outside, I took a deep cleansing breath and yanked off my hat. “Thank goodness that’s over with,” I said, running my fingers through my hair. I probably had the worse hat head ever, but I couldn’t stand the thing one second longer. “For the life of me, I can’t see why women like these types of things.” I rolled my eyes and added, “So boring and stuffy.”

  “You think that’s boring, you ought to work security for these people.”

  “Not liking your new job?”

  He shrugged. “It’s just not what I thought it would be.” We’d reached my truck. I opened my purse and retrieved my keys. “I
hired on for security, but I’m more like an errand boy,” he continued, taking the keys and unlocking the door for me.

  “Errand boy? What do you mean?”

  He held the door. “Well, I act as security when the congressman goes out, but when he’s here at the house, the missus finds other things for me to do. Like this morning, I had to help the kitchen staff set up for this shindig, and yesterday she had me cleaning out the attic ballroom for the dance. I even hauled a bunch of junk down to the church for her.”

  “Sounds more like grunt work than security,” I sympathized. The front door opened, and the other security guard walked out, crossed the drive and hopped into a dark SUV with darkened windows. “How’s your coworker?”

  Hawk shrugged. “Franco? Better off than me, that’s for sure. Haven’t seen him doing any crap jobs. ’Course he’s been with the congressman for a few years. Maybe it’s a seniority thing.”

  “Maybe things will get more exciting closer to election time,” I offered. I started to get into the truck, struggling to figure out a way to lift my leg high enough to climb into my seat without having to hike up my dress.

  Hawk watched with amusement. “Need a boost?” He started to reach for my hips.

  I slapped his hand away. “No, thanks. I can manage.”

  He raised his hands in mock surrender and stepped back, watching with a smirk as I turned this way and that. Finally, I gave up, lifted the hem of my dress to my thighs and clumsily worked myself into the seat. Midway, I glanced over my shoulder and caught him ogling my legs. Sliding behind the wheel, I adjusted my dress and shot him a dirty look. He answered with another smirk and a solicitous wink.

  Chapter 12

  Debutante Fact #064: There’s one thing debutantes should know about religion: Good Baptists always recognize one another at church, but never at the bar.

  Sunday morning before church, Mama loaded me down with a large coffee thermos and a bag of carefully wrapped muffins to take out to the orchard for the workers. Roscoe tagged along, his short, stubby legs propelling him forward on the grassy path between the rows as his nose hugged the ground in search of interesting scents. Every once in a while, I turned around to make sure he was still following. I’d found out the hard way that one tempting whiff could set him off on a wild goose chase.

  As I walked, I basked in the feel of the warm sun on my shoulders and inhaled the familiar smell of fresh-cut grass mixed with the tanginess of ripening peaches. Every once in a while, I’d hear the hollow din of doves as they called out their morning greeting. Spring had always been my favorite season on the farm. I had such fond memories of spring morning walks with Daddy, each of us kids following him as he wandered the orchards testing peaches for readiness. We’d squeal with excitement when he picked the first ripe gems of the season, holding them out for us to taste and laughing as peach juice dribbled down our chins.

  This was my first harvest since coming back home last summer, and I was too busy with other aspects of the business to help pick peaches. Not that I minded running Harper’s Peach Products. In many ways it was just as satisfying to take our peaches and turn them into a product that could be enjoyed any time of year. It was like providing people with a bite of summer all year long. Still, I missed the familiar earthy connection I’d always felt after spending the day working the crop.

  Suddenly, the rumbling of the bin tractor coming down the path caused Roscoe to whimper and scamper for my heels. “Fraidy cat,” I teased, squatting down next to him and running my hand along his fur for comfort. Manny Rosales maneuvered the tractor alongside us and cut the engine.

  “Good morning, Nola.” He nodded hopefully toward my bag. “Something from your mama?”

  “Sure is,” I said, pulling out a muffin and holding it out to him. “Peach streusel muffins; still warm, too.”

  He graciously accepted my offering, biting in and rolling his eyes with pleasure. I retrieved a paper cup from the bag and poured some coffee from the thermos. “Is that your first pick of the day?” I asked, eyeing the packed bins in the back of the trailer.

  “Yes, ma’am. We’re on the second round in the west orchard and will probably start picking the Sunbrite peaches this afternoon.”

  I nodded. Peaches were picked in rounds, starting at the top of the tree where the fruit ripened first. Workers would pick only peak fruit, leaving the rest to mature until a later date. Eventually, after three or four rounds, the entire tree would be harvested. The whole process could take up to two weeks per variety, with pickers rotating through the orchards to ensure that all fruit was harvested at the height of ripeness.

  “Your papa’s working us hard today,” he added with a grin, finishing off the last of his muffin and reaching over to shove the tractor into gear.

  “How’s he holding up?” I asked. Sometimes I worried about my daddy working too hard. Just last summer the doctor told him to take it easy, even recommended a vacation so he could rest up a bit.

  Manny thumped his fist against his chest. “Don’t worry. Mr. Harper’s a strong man,” he assured me. Then he cranked the engine to life and took off with a spurt and puff of blue smoke. Like many things around the farm, the old tractor had seen better days. But hadn’t we all, I thought, my daddy flashing to mind. He’d hinted more than a few times that he and Mama were ready to retire. I knew they were hoping I’d take over the farm, since Ray was busy with his law firm and Ida had her own life with Hollis and the kids. Guess I was their last hope of preserving our family heritage. Not that I was feeling pressure or anything.

  “Come on, boy,” I beckoned to Roscoe as I continued down the row toward the work site. A few minutes later, I came upon the crew. They were busy packing peaches into front packs that were strapped to their bellies like baby carriers.

  Daddy spied me as he was emptying his peaches into one of the bins. “Hey, darlin’.”

  “Hey, Daddy.” I eyed the way he was rubbing his lower back. “You doing okay? Are you working too hard?”

  “Now don’t you get started on me, Nola Mae. I get enough of that from your mama. She’s always fussin’ at me. Says I’m too old for this, too old for that.”

  “Sorry, but it wouldn’t hurt to take a break and sit down for a while.” I held up my wares, trying to entice him away from his work. “Mama sent coffee and muffins.”

  “Tempting, but I best not.” He glanced up at the tree branches. “They’re really coming on fast. It’s the heat. If we don’t get this entire parcel picked today, they’ll over ripen and we’ll lose money.”

  I nodded. “Take it you won’t be coming in for the noon meal, then?”

  “No, we’re going to have to take our lunch out here. Let your mama know, okay?”

  I didn’t even try to talk him out of it. Mama would be furious that he was missing Sunday brunch, but once Daddy decided on something, there was no changing his mind. So, I left the goodies, waved good-bye to a couple of the fellows and called Roscoe. We’d barely started back to the house before he let out a high-pitched howl and took off through the trees. “Roscoe!” I called. “Come back here!” For heaven’s sake, what does he smell now?

  But I didn’t have to wonder for long, because I spied Joe Puckett up ahead working over one of the trees and filling a large white bucket with peaches. Roscoe reached him first, jumping anxiously against his legs. Joe immediately took out a piece of jerky from the reserve he kept stashed away in the front pocket of his bib overalls and offered it to an eager Roscoe. “I see you have a friend visitin’,” he said as I approached.

  “You remember Roscoe, don’t you?”

  Roscoe rolled onto his back, eliciting a belly rub from Joe. “’Course I remember Roscoe. I might not be standin’ here if it weren’t for this little fellow.” True, Roscoe—or more accurately, Roscoe’s nose—saved Joe from taking a chest full of buckshot last summer. “Only he’s not so little anymore. Looks ’bout full
grown,” Joe was saying. “Is he a good coon dog?”

  “Heck if I know. You’d have to ask his owner. I’m just taking care of him for a few days.” I nodded toward his bucket. “Preparing to make a batch of brew?” Joe lived in a shack in the woods that bordered our property on a piece of land his granddaddy won—“fair and square,” as Joe liked to say—from my granddaddy over a hundred years ago. The Puckett family had lived a self-sufficient lifestyle on the land ever since. Somewhere along the line, my father struck a deal with Joe, allowing him to take as many peaches as he needed to continue making his special brew—a sort of peach-infused corn whiskey that people around these parts referred to as peach shine. Much like the legally distilled Peach Jack that my Daddy was so fond of, but a whole lot more potent.

  “You bet,” he replied, reaching up high with his good arm to squeeze a peach. Satisfied, he plucked it from the branch and placed it in his bucket. “What do y’all call this type again?”

  “Sunbrites.”

  He rubbed at his whiskers. “Sunbrites, eh? Well, they’re my favorites.”

  “Mine, too.” The Sunbrite was a firm yellow flesh peach, great for making cobblers and pies. Apparently they made good hooch, too. I picked a few more and added them to his bucket. “Ms. Purvis suggest any good books lately?” I asked, noticing his face light up when I mentioned the librarian’s name.

  “As a matter of fact, I’m ’bout through with a book called Soldier’s Heart. It’s all about the Civil War. Ms. Purvis suggested it.”

  That reminded me of something Joe had told me earlier. “Remember when I gave you a ride into town the other day?”

  “Yup. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with my memory.”