“What do you mean? Of course it’s going to happen.”
I shook my head. “You didn’t see how mad Hattie was just a while ago. And poor Pete. She pretty much humiliated him in front of half the town.”
“Oh pulease! Like that’s going to scare him away. I’m telling you, he’s so in love, there’s nothin’ that’s going to keep him from poppin’ the question,” she gushed. “I’d just love to be a fly on the wall when he slides that ring on her finger and asks her to be his wife.”
Yeah, well as mad as she is, he might not get the chance.
A similar thought must have occurred to Ginny. She stopped dicing and turned to me. “I guess Hattie’s another deal, though. There’s just no predicting her.” I could tell by the sudden slump in her shoulders that a little of her enthusiasm was dying away as she thought it over. “I guess there’s a chance she won’t even listen to what he has to say.”
As much as I hated to see Hattie upset, I also hated seeing a gloom overtake Ginny’s earlier glow. Whether it meant that much to me or not, the whole romance angle meant so much to Ginny. Heck, I had glowed myself just to have a silly lunch on the floor of my shop with Cade the other day. Maybe all women needed at least a bit of romance in their lives even if it was secondhand like Pete’s planned proposal. “Maybe I’ll pop by tomorrow afternoon, after Hattie’s had a little time to cool off, and try to talk some sense into her.”
“Would ya?” Ginny perked up a bit. “And I’ll talk to Pete. Let him know why she’d been so upset and that you’ll smooth things over. But don’t give anything away when you talk to Hattie. Pete’s counting on it being a complete surprise. You promise?”
I promised.
• • •
But the next day, I found out that talking sense into Hattie wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be. She had it in her mind that Pete was cheating on her, and there was no convincing her otherwise. “I honestly don’t care if I ever see that two-timer again,” she said. “And here I thought I loved that man.” She slid a stack of dresses back on the rack, checking a list on her clipboard as she examined each alteration ticket. It was around four thirty on Wednesday afternoon, and the shop was empty except for Hattie, Mrs. Busby and me. Oh, and Carla was there, too, doing some odd jobs for Hattie. Currently, she was on the other side of the room dusting a display of accessories. I’d tried to make a little small talk with her when I first arrived at the shop, but she wasn’t in a talkative mood. In fact, she seemed downright depressed. I wondered if something bad had happened at school that day.
I lowered my chin and stepped forward, forcing Hattie to make eye contact with me. “You’re telling me that you don’t love him anymore? Not even a little?”
She flinched. “Like it matters now? It’s over. I dumped water over his head in front of half the town.” She stopped counting and tossed the clipboard onto the counter with a heavy sigh. “I still can’t believe I did that.”
“Love will make you do crazy things, no doubt about it,” Mrs. Busby chimed in from behind the folding screen where she was working at her alteration table.
“That’s right,” I agreed with a nod. “Besides, this is all just some weird misunderstanding.”
“I don’t think so, Nola.” Hattie reached under the counter and pulled up a bakery box. I leaned forward and watched her flip it open.
“What’s that?”
“Cookies,” she replied, snatching one up and taking a quick bite.
I reached over and helped myself to a shortbread cookie dipped in chocolate. The combination of buttery shortbread and deep, rich chocolate was like a party in my mouth. “You’re eating cookies? I hardly ever see you eat sweets,” I mumbled, my mouth still half full.
“She’s a stress eater,” Mrs. Busby offered from behind the screen.
Hattie nodded and grabbed one more cookie before replacing the lid and sliding her stash back under the counter. “Anyway, like I was saying. This isn’t some sort of misunderstanding. Half the town knows he’s having a fling.”
“What do you mean, half the town knows? Like who?”
She shrugged. “Like everyone.” I could see her hand itching to grab up the box of cookies again, but she refrained, drumming her nails against the counter instead. “Just this morning, Candace from the bank came into the shop to tell me she was sorry to hear of my relationship trouble. Of course, she said she had a feeling about Pete. Saw him giving roses to some woman the other day right out in front of the Mercantile.”
I threw up my hands. “He’s a florist, for crying out loud!”
“That’s what I told her,” Mrs. Busby said. I couldn’t really see her behind the screen, but I imagined her head was bobbing up and down as she spoke. At least there was another voice of reason in the room.
Hattie waved away our comments and continued, “Then Doris from the Clip and Curl came by. She was telling me that one of her clients spotted Pete driving around Perry last week.” She lifted her chin and looked over my shoulder. “Hey, Carla. Would you mind getting those shelves along the backside? The dust is horrible back there.” She turned her attention back to me and continued, “Her client didn’t get a real clear view, but she said it looked like a woman was in the car with him.”
I shook my head, wishing I could tell her the real story and put her mind at ease, but I’d promised not to give away the secret. I was just trying to figure out another approach when the bells above the door jingled. It was Frances Simms.
“Hello, Nola. I’ve been looking for you.” She nodded toward the other ladies. “Mrs. Busby. Hattie.” Then she turned back to me. “I’m wondering if I could ask you a few questions about what happened at the church the other day.”
I stiffened. I’d taken time to read the article the night before and knew it didn’t mention anything about a suicide or the real reason Maggie was in the hospital—attempted murder. “You already had an article about it in yesterday’s paper. There’s nothing else I can tell you.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, I think there’s a lot more to the story.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mrs. Busby walk around the edge of the folding screen and root herself nearby, hands on her hips and dark eyes flashing. I sucked in my breath, wondering what Frances had heard. So far it seemed the town’s busybodies hadn’t caught wind of the fact that someone tried to kill Maggie. Maybe they were too busy with gossiping about Hattie and Pete to worry too much about Maggie.
“I have my sources, after all,” Frances continued. “Every good newspaper reporter does.” She glanced around the room for affirmation. From whom, I wasn’t sure. Did she think we were going to assure her that she was a good reporter? Not a chance.
Frances’s beady eyes gleamed as she continued, “I tried to be discreet in yesterday’s article, not mentioning anything about Maggie trying to kill herself.” All around me I heard little exclamations of surprise. Hattie gasped, Mrs. Busby furrowed her brows and let out a long hmmmm sound and somewhere behind me I heard a muffled whimper. That one bothered me the most. From what I had gathered, Maggie had befriended Carla in the library, and I assumed Carla didn’t have many friends. I hated the fact that she was hearing this.
“Oh yes,” Frances went on, obviously enjoying the drama she was creating. “I knew about the sleeping pills found at the scene. As did you, Nola Mae, being you’re the one who found her.” Her tone was accusatory. Like I was supposed to rush right over to the newspaper office and report my finding to her. “But I have too many scruples to disclose something like a suicide attempt in my column. For the family’s sake.”
No one said anything. As for me, I kept my mouth shut, afraid of what I might say once I got started.
“But my source says it wasn’t suicide after all,” Frances continued. “But attempted murder.”
A sudden crashing sound averted our focus. Carla had knocked over a display of necklace
s. “I’m sorry, Ms. McKenna,” she said, scrambling to pick them up off the floor.
I crossed the room to give her a hand. From over my shoulder, Frances continued asking questions as I worked to pick up the jewelry. “Was anyone else at the church when you found Maggie?” And, “Did you notice signs of a struggle?” She’d whipped out a notebook and pen as if she actually thought I was going to answer her questions. Carla seemed to become more agitated with every question. Her fingers trembled as she tried to untangle two necklaces that had become knotted together. “Or, did you notice any unusual marks on her body? Scratches? Torn clothing?”
With that, Carla dropped the chain and clenched her fists together. Her face flushed red, and I noticed tears forming along the edges of her eyes. I clamped a hand over one of her fists. “Just calm down. I’ll take care of this.”
I stood and wheeled around. “Look here, Frances. These questions are out of line. If you really want to know the answers, I suggest you go talk to Maudy Payne.”
Frances’s head sunk back into her neck, reminding me of a scared turtle. “I did. But she wouldn’t comment.”
“Well, neither will I!”
Hattie spoke up. “I think it’s best you leave, Frances. Your questions are upsetting and inappropriate considering there’s a child in the room.”
Frances’s gaze fell on Carla. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
“You should be,” Mrs. Busby said, stepping forward and pointing toward the door. The room fell silent as Frances considered her options. Finally, she folded her notebook, tucked it back into her bag and sauntered out.
“Well, I’ll be!” Mrs. Busby said, as soon as the door shut. “The nerve of that woman.”
While Hattie and Mrs. Busby started chewing over Frances’s annoying attributions, I put my hand on Carla’s arm and gave her a little tug. “Hattie,” I interrupted. “If you don’t mind, I think Carla and I might head down the road for some ice cream. I think she could use a break.” I glanced at my watch on the way out the door. I was due to meet with Cade in an hour. He’d called earlier in the day and talked me into taking the evening off from working with Ginny and heading over to a small town just over the county line to some new restaurant that had recently opened. Cade had heard they had the best chicken fried steak around.
“I don’t really like ice cream,” Carla announced as soon as we were outside. She turned on her heel and started walking in the opposite direction. “I’m gonna head home. I’m not feeling so great.”
“I noticed that,” I said, skipping to keep up with her. “Seems you got that way as soon as you heard someone tried to kill Maggie.”
Her tennis shoe snagged a crack in the walk, and she started to stumble forward. “You okay?” I asked, my arm shooting out to help steady her. But she batted it away and kept walking.
I did a little hop and a jog to maneuver in front of her. “My truck’s parked right across the square. Let me give you a ride home.” She started to go around me, so I shuffle-stepped to block her way. “I insist. We need to talk anyway.”
“About what?”
“The purse that was stashed behind the diner. Vivien Crenshaw’s purse.”
Chapter 17
Debutante Rule #089: Learn how to cook right. After all, a good Southern meal can make a person forget bout anything.
I’d only driven about three blocks when Carla cracked. It started with a shaky admission: “I know something about Mrs. Jones.” My gaze darted across the seat to where she sat, slumped over, tapping her cell phone nervously against her leg. “And I think maybe it had something to do with someone trying to kill her,” she added, with a little sob.
Giving the wheel a sudden crank, I whipped into the nearby grade school parking lot and threw the truck out of gear. My quick maneuvering sent the empty peach crates in the back crashing against the side of the truck bed, but I didn’t care. Carla wasn’t the crying type. Something big was going on, and I sensed she needed help. “What is it, Carla? What’s happened?”
“I’m going to be in big trouble.” I noticed her bottom lip trembling as she spoke. “I did something wrong.”
“Tell me.”
She raked her hand through her hair, revealing the silver studs that pierced the sinewy part of her earlobe. “I was at the library when Tara and her friends came in. They were acting all giggly and talking about cotillion stuff, like they always do. I was sick of hearing about all that, so I packed up my stuff and left. Mrs. Jones was there that afternoon, too. She left before me.”
“And then what happened?”
She shot me a sideways glance, her dark eyes angry and untrusting.
“I’m on your side, Carla. Whether you think so or not.” I softened my tone and pressed on. “Why is it you think you’re in trouble?”
For a second, she seem to detach from the conversation, her eyes staring out across the school’s playground with an almost wistful look. I tried to imagine this girl as a young child swinging carelessly on a school playground, laughing as she pumped her legs to propel herself higher and higher into the air. Idly, I wondered what had happened to make her stop reaching for the sky.
“I was taking out the trash at the diner, the day after it happened,” she finally said, her voice just a little over a whisper. “And there was a purse in the bin. Just lying there, right on top. A nice purse.” She stumbled a bit over her words and began picking at a bracelet tied around her wrist. The edges of the bracelet were frayed and dirty. Looking closer, I could see it was made from braided shoelaces. From her friends back home in Chicago? “There was money in it,” she continued. “About two hundred bucks.”
“It was Vivien’s purse.”
She nodded. “Yeah, I didn’t know that until later, though. Anyway, someone was coming down the alley, so I pocketed the money and shoved the purse between the crates stacked by the back door. I meant to go back and throw it away again, but I didn’t get the chance.”
“I don’t understand what this has to do with Maggie.”
She shifted uncomfortably. “There was something else inside the purse. A little bag. I thought it was a makeup bag and . . .” She let out a long sigh. “I liked it.”
“So you took it, too?”
She nodded. “But later I found out it wasn’t makeup inside the bag. It was some other stuff. Weird stuff. But one of the things I knew Mrs. Jones wouldn’t want anyone else to see.”
“Something that proved she was wrote books about . . . Scotsmen?”
Carla blinked a few times. “Yeah, that’s right. You know about that?” I nodded, and she continued, “It was some pieces of paper from one of her notebooks. She would handwrite her stories and then type them out on the library’s computer.”
That made sense. Especially if she was trying to keep her Sindy St. Claire alter ego a secret from her husband.
“Somehow Mrs. Crenshaw must have gotten ahold of it. I figured Mrs. Jones would want it, so I took it to her that day. Then she ended up . . .” She swallowed and let out her breath. “There were a couple of other things, too. One of them was a picture of Sophie’s mom.”
My antenna went up. “Debra Bearden? What type of picture? Was she naked?” A slew of possibilities ran through my mind, and a compromising picture fit into every one of them. Maybe Debra quit her job at the Honky Tonk because she had another, more profitable, side business. One that didn’t involve so much time on her feet. That would certainly be fodder for blackmail.
Carla screwed up her face and looked at me like I had a third eye. “Naked? No! Yuck. She wasn’t really doing anything. Just standing there holding a dress. I think she was getting ready to work on it, because she had a pair of scissors in her hand. I didn’t think anything of it but showed it to Mrs. Jones, in case it was hers, too.”
“Scissors?” My mind flashed back to Vivien’s rigid body sprawled on the floor of Hattie’s Boutique, a pair of
scissors skewered through her throat and a blood-soaked debutante gown wrapped around her cold, lifeless hand. I rubbed my suddenly sweaty palms on the side of my jeans as I pondered this new information. A dress? Logically, I knew it wasn’t the debutante gown from the crime scene. The timing wasn’t right for that. But what dress? Then I remembered what Maggie had said about last year’s Peach Queen Pageant. That Belle had to drop out because of a problem with her dress. That must have been it! Vivien caught Debra in the act of sabotaging Belle’s dress and snapped a picture, probably with her cell phone, and was using it to blackmail Debra. “What did Maggie say when you showed her the picture?”
“Not much. At first her eyes got real wide, then I thought she was going to get angry, but all she did was just stare at it for a minute, shaking her head. Then she took it and said she’d make sure Mrs. Bearden got it back. She asked me not to tell anyone else about it. Or about the notebook pages.” She quickly glanced away. “But . . .”
I reached over and touched her shoulder. “You’ve done the right thing by telling me,” I assured her. “You said there were a couple of other things. What else?” I prompted.
“A photocopy of some old letter. The writing on it was pretty fancy.”
An old letter? A love letter, perhaps. Evidence of a scandalous affair. But with whom? “Do you remember anything it said?”
She sighed. “No. I didn’t pay much attention to it. Mrs. Jones seemed surprised when she read it, though. But she didn’t say what it was about, just that she’d make sure it got back to the right person.”
“Huh. Well, we’ll need to tell the sheriff all this, too.”
She stiffened and drew away. “The cops? No way!” Her voice became shrill. “You can’t tell them. I stole that money. They’ll put me in juvie. I’ve been in trouble before. Back in Chicago. I’ve got a record.”
Rest in Peach Page 19