Reverend Jones stood as I approached. “I’m so sorry about Maggie,” I told him.
“They’re still working on her, but the doctors think she’ll be all right. Thank God you came along when you did. I’d hate to think what would have happened if . . .” His words trailed off as he plopped back into his chair and buried his face in his hands. Nash moved closer and tried to comfort his father. After a few seconds, Reverend Jones collected himself and looked up at me, his brows wrinkled with confusion. “I just don’t understand this. I just saw her a few hours ago and she was fine.”
I slid into one of the plastic molded chairs near them. “She didn’t seem depressed or upset?”
“No, nothing like that. Maybe a bit frazzled. She’d been awfully busy with the church bazaar and Belle’s cotillion coming up this weekend.”
With the mention of the cotillion, Belle let out a little sob. “Is it something I did?”
“No, sweetie. It’s nothing you did,” Mama immediately assured her.
“Absolutely not,” her father reiterated, reaching over to rub his daughter’s shoulder. Nash remained silent, his eyes like two empty holes, his face pale. I’d first met Nash last summer at the Peach Harvest Festival. I’d known him to be a sensible young man, but there was no sense to this situation, and he, like the others, appeared at a loss to understand this tragedy.
Looking at her family, I couldn’t imagine Maggie would ever do something to hurt them. Still, if she was depressed or overwrought with guilt or afraid that her secret was about to be discovered, maybe . . . “Had Maggie been acting strangely at all? Maybe distracted or going out more than usual?”
The preacher shook his head. “Going out? No, not at all. Other than the couple nights she spends researching her project, she hardly goes out.”
“Her project?”
“Yes, she’s working on a self-help book for women.”
My eyes popped. So she was a writer. More proof that Sindy St. Claire and Maggie Jones were one and the same. But a self-help book? Was that what Reverend Jones really believed his wife was writing? Or, did he already know about Sindy St. Claire and was just covering for his wife?
“Isn’t that just like Maggie?” Mama spoke up. “Always doing what she can to help others.”
Not knowing what to add to that, I simply nodded and tightened my grip on my purse. For a while, we all sat engrossed in our own thoughts as the whir of emergency room activity continued around us. Twice the automatic front doors slid open, the first time for a man with his hand wrapped in a bloody dish towel. He was immediately admitted and taken away by wheelchair. The second time, a young mother came in carrying a bundled child. She moved around the reception counter to a small desk where a nurse was waiting to enter her information into a computer.
I offered to go look for coffee, but no one was interested. So I sat back and let my eyes wander to the show playing on a small television mounted in the corner of the room. A few minutes later I turned again to the sound of the front doors sliding open. This time it was Maudy Payne. She glanced our way briefly before leaning in to say something to the front desk nurse. Then she quickly disappeared through emergency room doors. Finally, after another ten minutes or so, both the sheriff and a man in scrubs emerged and approached our group.
“Are you Margaret Jones’s family?” the man asked. His name tag identified him as a nurse.
The preacher stood and nodded. “Yes. I’m her husband.”
“I’m afraid your wife has slipped into an overdose-induced coma, Mr. Jones. This sometimes happens in these cases.” I jumped up to put my arm around his crumpling shoulders as the nurse continued, “But I want you to know that the doctors have done everything they can. We’ll be transferring her up to the ICU soon.”
“I’d like to see her,” Reverend Jones said, his voice wobbly with emotion. Behind me, I could hear Belle starting to cry. Nash had stood and was pacing in front of us.
The sheriff stepped forward. “I’ll need to ask you a few questions first, Reverend.” She glanced toward Mama and me. “I’d appreciate it if you two ladies would stay here a minute with the children.” Then she nodded at Reverend Jones. “Come with me,” she stated, leaving no room for discussion about it and leading him toward a private registration room behind the reception area.
Mama and I exchanged a look but didn’t express our surprise at this latest turn of events out loud. Instead, Mama continued to try to calm Belle while we waited for the sheriff to finish with the preacher. When he finally did return to our group, his face was ashen and he was noticeably trembling. Mama jumped up and placed her arm on his shoulder. “What is it, Reverend? What’s going on?”
He looked at us with a dazed stare. “Maggie didn’t try to kill herself,” he answered, his words coming out slower than usual. “The sheriff says it was an attempted homicide.”
“You mean someone tried to murder Mama?” Nash asked, his expression turning from confusion to anger as his gaze flitted around the room. “Like they killed Tara’s mother?”
I was afraid of what he might be thinking. “The two might not be connected,” I started, but his icy gaze had moved across the room and landed on the sheriff. For a second he stood there, his facial muscles tense as he watched Maudy give the nurse some paperwork. Then, with an explosion of energy, he sprang forward and barreled toward her. I went after him. Reverend Jones was right behind me.
“What are you going to do about this, Sheriff?” Nash demanded, jabbing his finger at Maudy. She stepped back in a defensive position, her hand moving instinctually toward the baton on her belt.
I inserted myself between them and held up my hands. “Easy now, Nash. I’m sure Sheriff Payne is doing everything she can.”
Reverend Jones stepped in and grabbed his son’s shoulder. “Calm down, son. This isn’t going to help anything.”
Nash shook his head and backed down. I breathed a sigh of relief.
Maudy gave us all a once-over before turning to leave. “I’ll be in touch,” she mumbled on her way out the doors.
“Wait!” I called out, dashing back to retrieve my bag where I’d left it on my chair. “Excuse me,” I said to the others before running to catch up with the sheriff.
She must not have heard me calling after her, because I was barely able to reach her before she climbed into her cruiser. “Wait!” I yelled again. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
She stepped back out and turned a shrewd eye my way. “What?”
Slightly out of breath, I quickly relayed seeing Debra leaving the church right before I discovered Maggie unconscious in the basement. She cocked an eyebrow at me, obviously wondering why I hadn’t mentioned that earlier when I’d explained about why I went into the church in the first place, but I ignored the unspoken question. “There’s something else, too,” I continued and told her about what Mrs. Nix had seen in the church office that day and everything else I’d theorized about Vivien blackmailing both Maggie and Debra. “I’m not sure what she had on Debra, but this is what I think she was holding over Maggie.” I pulled out the book we’d found at the church earlier and explained what I was thinking. “So you see. If Vivien was blackmailing these two ladies, it was possible she was blackmailing someone else, too. Someone with more to lose.”
Maudy ran her tongue along the inside of her cheek and drew in a deep breath. “My, but you’ve been busy, Nola.” She widened her stance and folded her arms across her chest. “I’ll check into what you said about Debra being at the church, but as for the rest of your story . . . got any proof?”
I shook my head. “No, but—”
“Well then, I’ve got my own theory I’m working on, and it’s based on facts, not a bunch of cock-and-bull ideas about porn writers and blackmail schemes.” She unfolded her arms and pulled her mirrored sunglasses from her shirt pocket and tapped them against the book in my hand. “In fact
, Nola, I think you need to lay off the readin’. You’re starting to get quite the imagination.”
I clamped my mouth shut and slowly slid the book back into my bag.
Maudy tipped her Stetson my way and shot me an arrogant wink before putting on her glasses and climbing into her car. “Be seein’ ya around, Nola Mae.”
Chapter 15
Debutante Rule #014: Good manners, grace, poise and style are the ingredients for a happy life, and friendship is the egg that binds them together. Just make sure y’all aren’t mixin’ with bad eggs.
I woke up Tuesday morning, still groggy from a late-night conversation with Mama. After leaving the hospital, I stopped by the Pack-n-Carry and picked up a frozen pizza to bring home. By the time I got back to the house, Mama had returned with quite the story to tell. Over iced tea and a few slices of pepperoni and mushroom, she told me all about Maudy Payne’s theory. Apparently Reverend Jones confided everything to her after I left the hospital. And was Maudy’s theory ever a doozy!
According to Maudy, the doctors began to suspect foul play when they discovered some defensive wounds on Maggie’s arms along with scratches and some bruising that appeared around her mouth and on her throat. It looked like someone had tried to force her to swallow the pills and then strangled her. And the sheriff figured that “someone” was Reverend Jones.
Evidently, Maudy heard through the grapevine that Maggie Jones was seen leaving Nate Crenshaw’s house the night of Vivien’s funeral. I’d already known that, of course. Hattie and I were there when Maggie left Nate’s house. Which made me wonder if Hattie hadn’t told someone about seeing the preacher’s wife at Nate’s house. It wasn’t like her to gossip, but she was really upset over the whole ordeal. Only since then, we’d come to realize that Maggie was there looking for whatever was supposedly inside Vivien’s purse, not because she was having some sort of fling with Nate. But in this town, once a rumor got started, it spread like wildfire.
So, Maudy had heard a rumor and jumped to the crazy conclusion that Maggie killed Vivien so she could have Nate to herself. Then, according to her, after Maggie realized what she’d done, she become overwrought with guilt and confessed everything to Reverend Jones. In return, either in a fit of jealous rage or fearing a ruined reputation—Maudy wasn’t quite sure which—the preacher staged the whole suicide thing in an attempt to kill Maggie. Of course, I’d had some of my own doubts about the preacher, still did, but nothing that far-fetched. And truth was, I really didn’t want to believe that Reverend Jones was capable of killing anyone, let alone his own wife. My only solace was that Maudy obviously didn’t have the evidence to back up her addlebrained theory or she would have already arrested him.
Anyway, after running it through my mind over and over, I’d come to the conclusion that I’d better hurry and find the truth before something else happened. The first thing I intended to do was find out if Maggie really was Sindy St. Claire. And I knew the best place to start looking—the Cays Mill Library.
• • •
So, later that afternoon, after finishing some work in my shop, I took a break and headed on foot for the library. Back when I was in school, the library occupied a couple spare rooms inside the city building. However, just a few years back, thanks to fund-raising efforts by Friends of the Library volunteers, the library acquired the old brick railroad station on the west side of town, just a block away from the high school. The railroad had long ago deserted the line that connected our little village to the bigger towns up north, leaving behind a sizable station, which now housed over four thousand books—and growing! Of course, the abandoned tracks next to the building made for a bit of an eyesore where the disjointed ties jutted up between splotches of overgrown weeds. Nonetheless, the station itself—maintained by tax dollars and ongoing fund-raising by the Friends of the Library volunteers—was in great shape.
Walking up what used to be a loading platform and past colorful window boxes full of trailing petunias, I pushed through the heavy wood door and into the marble entry. Fortunately, when they converted the station to a library, they left much of the original charm: the black-and-white tiled floor, palladium windows with thick wavy glass trimmed out in dark wood and the old ticket counter, which now served as the library’s checkout counter.
The bulk of the building was taken up with bookshelves, but toward the back of the room, a space was set aside for study tables. I spotted Carla sitting at one, books spread around her as she worked. My friend Joe Puckett was also there, sitting at another table with his nose buried in a paperback novel.
Pulling the Sindy St. Clair novel out of my purse, I made my way over to the checkout counter where Ms. Purvis was seated, dressed in her usual lacy collared blouse, buttoned to the neck and secured with a cameo brooch. Her gray head was bent in concentration as her nubby-knuckled finger skimmed over a page of a book. She looked up as I approached, removed her glasses and let them dangle from their chain. “Nola Mae! I haven’t seen you in ages. How’s your mama doing?”
“Just fine, Ms. Purvis.”
“Well, you be sure to tell her I said hello.” Her bright eyes twinkled. “And I hear you’re opening your shop soon. I can hardly wait. You’re selling Della’s peach preserves, right?”
“Yes, ma’am. The very same recipe that’s been in my family for generations. Mama’s chutney, too, and a lot of other family recipes.”
“Then I’ll be one of your best customers.” She leaned in, her eyes roaming to the back of the room where Joe was sitting. “I’ve been wanting to thank you, Nola, for all you’ve done for Joe. You’ve opened up a brand-new world for him.”
I briefly glanced at Joe, who was fully engrossed in his novel, his eyes scanning the page as a small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I’m glad I could help,” I told her. “Joe’s a good guy.” Ms. Purvis batted her lashes nervously, a hint of pink rising to her cheeks as she busied herself righting a stack of flyers on the corner of the counter. “Did you hear about Maggie Jones?” I asked.
As soon as the words were out, Ms. Purvis’s face sank. I regretted bringing up such an awful matter, but I needed to get some answers. Not just for me, but for everyone involved, including Maggie.
Ms. Purvis stopped fussing with the papers and glanced away. “Yes, I did.” She sighed. “Such an awful thing. Maggie’s such a sweet girl.” She focused on me again, this time with misty eyes. “You do suppose she’s going to be okay?”
“I certainly hope so,” I answered softly. “I know my Mama’s been calling around to get a prayer chain started.”
“You tell her to mark me down, too.”
“Of course,” I promised, placing the novel onto the counter where she could see it. “Do you carry this series here, Ms. Purvis?”
She placed her readers back on the end of her nose and picked up the book for a closer inspection. Her eyes grew wide, then she handed it back and started working over the pile of papers again. “Sorry. We don’t carry that type of romance. Maybe in one of the bookstores up in Macon. Or online, perhaps.”
I picked it up and pointed at the author’s name. “This book is written by Sindy St. Claire. Do you know if that’s a pseudonym?”
She squared her shoulders and looked me directly in the eye. “I couldn’t really say.”
And she didn’t have to. I could tell by her defensive reaction that I’d hit on something. Henrietta Purvis was as sharp as a tack. Nothing got by her. I knew this for a fact. I couldn’t even recall how many times she’d busted me over the years for every library infraction possible from sneaking in food to dog-earring book pages. Still, as quick as she was to call foul when it came to library business, Ms. Purvis was discreet when it came to other people’s business. I’d never be able to coerce her into betraying someone’s confidence.
I noticed her eyes narrow as she glanced over my shoulder toward the door. “Stop right there, young lady!”
; Cringing—a knee-jerk reaction from past years of being on the receiving end of Ms. Purvis’s scolding—I snapped my head toward the door, where Carla Fini was frozen in place.
“That book you put in your bag is a reference book,” Ms. Purvis accused. “It’s not to be removed from the library.”
Carla stiffened, clenched her fists and shot Ms. Purvis a dark look. The room fell quiet as the two of them engaged in an ominous stare down. From the back of the room, Joe cleared his throat and broke the trance. Then he stood slowly, homing his eyes in on Carla as he tapped his book against his open palm Clint Eastwood style. And just like that, Carla dropped her tough-girl posture. “Sorry, Ms. Purvis,” she said, loosening her fist and extracting the book from her bag. She crossed the room and placed it on the counter. “Won’t happen again.”
“Let’s see that it doesn’t,” Ms. Purvis said, casting a look of awe toward Joe.
Carla nodded and shuffled back toward the door. I shot Joe a quick wave, bid Ms. Purvis good-bye and hurried out the door.
“Carla, wait up!” I caught up to her outside. “How’ve you been?”
She kept going, her eyes focused downward as she walked. “Fine,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
I did a little skip to keep pace with her. “A lot of strange stuff’s been going on around here, huh?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Well, Vivien Crenshaw’s murder, and now all this about the preacher’s wife. You heard, right?”
“Yeah. Too bad. She seemed like a nice lady.”
“That’s right. She spent a lot of time here at the library, didn’t she? Is that how you got to know her?”
The girl shrugged. “She helped me with my homework and stuff.”
“That was nice. Did you happen to know what she was working on?” I probed.
Carla’s expression hardened. “Maybe. But it isn’t anybody’s business but hers.”
Rest in Peach Page 17