I glanced around the gracious room, taking in the four-poster bed covered in a pretty percale duvet, the white-mantel fireplace flanked by full bookshelves and a cozy seating arrangement. Breezy curtains framed double French doors, which opened onto a second-story veranda that wrapped around all four sides of the home. “You don’t have to convince me. You’ve done such a wonderful job with this place. It’s just magnificent,” I told her.
“Yes, and to think I almost lost it.”
I paused and turned her way. “You mean because the sheriff initially had you pegged for Clem’s murder?” Or did she think that if the secret Clem threatened to expose came to light, she’d lose her standing in the community?
She exhaled and smiled tightly. “Well, it certainly would be difficult to run a bed-and-breakfast from prison. Why, what else would I have meant?”
I checked myself. “Oh, nothing. I just . . . well, I’m so glad things have worked out for you. Even your secret seems safe now.”
She stiffened. “I suppose you’re right. There’s no chance of it getting out now.”
Yes, especially since Clem is dead and Maudy Payne is off your back. How very convenient.
She stood and adjusted her skirt. “Well, I’ll let you finish getting settled. I’m off to bed. It’s been a very long day.”
“Yes, it has,” I agreed.
Chapter 12
Southern Girl Secret #122: Dating a man is like making iced tea: boil his ego, filter his issues, add oodles of sugar and enjoy.
And it was a long night, too. After calling Cade and letting him know everything that’d happened, I climbed wearily into bed but hardly slept a wink. Instead, I tossed and turned with worries about Daddy and moments of panic about whether or not I’d be able to find Clem’s killer, all topped off with runaway thoughts of Tuesday’s newspaper headlines: “Local Peach Farmer Ripe for Arrest”; or “Local Peach Farmer Stuck in a Murderous Jam”; or, just as bad, “Peach Farmer’s Daughter Digs Up Murder Evidence” . . . Heaven only knew what that woman might come up with! Then, sometime during the wee hours, the telltale sound of Hawk’s heavy boots on the main staircase propelled me into an anger-fueled state of wakefulness. No doubt he was returning from a late-night rendezvous with Laney Burns. If that man put half as much effort into his investigative work as he did that woman, he’d have the case solved by now and I wouldn’t be worrying about headlines!
Then, certainly only seconds after I actually fell asleep, slivers of sunlight crept over the room and the slightly bitter smell of coffee mixed with the yeasty smell of fresh baking bread pulled me from my bed. After a quick shower, I checked in with Mama at the hospital. They were just waking themselves, so she didn’t have any news to share. Daddy was scheduled for more tests and she promised to call me as soon as she knew something. She also asked me to make sure Reverend Jones offered up a prayer at church this morning. I told her I’d see to it.
After giving the preacher a quick call—no need for Mama to know I didn’t actually plan on attending services this morning—I made my way down to the dining room. Margie didn’t have a specific breakfast time but instead accommodated her guests’ schedules by setting out a hot buffet every morning, chafing dishes keeping everything warm until her guests had their fill. This morning, the side bar was set with a large urn of coffee, steaming trays of eggs and bacon, fresh fruit and a basket of warm biscuits. I gladly filled my plate with a little of everything, taking an extra biscuit and a healthy dollop of Harper Peach Preserves which, I was glad to note, were nicely displayed next to the bread basket.
A few minutes later, Margie wandered in wearing an apron over a flowered dress. “Good morning, Nola. You’re the first guest up this morning.”
“Well, you know what they say about early risers. Great breakfast, by the way,” I said, munching on a slice of bacon while she checked over the food, giving the scrambled eggs a quick stir.
“Are you heading to church?” I asked, noticing how nicely she was dressed.
“Yes, and I’ll be leaving a little early. I’m on the committee for the Founder’s Day Parade, and we’re planning a quick meeting at the church before services start. Are you going? We could ride together.”
“Oh—no, thanks. I have some errands to do for Mama today. Which reminds me, would you happen to have paper and a pen I could borrow? I need to make out a list.”
“Oh, no problem.” She disappeared into the butler’s pantry and emerged a second later with several pieces of paper and a couple pens. “The pantry doubles as my office. People seem to call for reservations when I’m busy in the kitchen,” she explained. Her eyes focused on something over my shoulder. “Oh, hello, Mr. Whitaker. Heading out for your morning run?”
“Good morning, Ms. Price. Yes. Just going to grab a sip of coffee before I go.” He crossed the room to the breakfast bar, pouring himself a cup of coffee before regarding me with a tight smile. I smiled back, noticing that what I’d first thought were handsome features suddenly seemed sinister to me: his strong chin now looked brutish; his black hair just a little too slick and why-oh-why did he have his nylon running suit unzipped to reveal all that curly black hair on his chest? Ick!
“Oh, excuse my manners,” Margie said. “Mr. Whitaker, this is Nola Harper. She’ll be staying here a few days while her . . . uh . . .”
“While some remodeling work’s being done at my house,” I said, rising from my seat and extending my hand. “The drywall dust really gets to me, you know?”
He shuffled his coffee cup and offered a quick shake.
“Anyway,” I continued, “it’s nice to meet you.” I paused for a second, then added, “Whitaker? Do you have family in the area?”
“Uh, no, I don’t.”
“Just vacationing, then? Or are you here on business?”
He took a quick sip, eyeing me over the rim of his cup, before setting it back down on the table. “Vacationing.” He adjusted the zipper on his Windbreaker—thank goodness!—and turned to head for the door. “Excuse me,” he said over his shoulder. “But, I’d better hit the road.” His jogging suit made little swishing noises as he left.
I didn’t like this fellow. Not one bit.
* * *
There wasn’t much time to spare, so as soon as Margie left for her meeting, I bolted upstairs and headed straight for Whitaker’s room. After a quick check of the door, which was locked, I scurried back downstairs toward the butler’s pantry. If Margie used this area as her office, perhaps she kept other innkeeper essentials there, like copies of room keys.
Inside the little room, I looked over a few glass-front cabinets filled with serving plates and stacks of china. Then my eyes moved to the computer, which occupied the center of one of the countertops. There was a bank of drawers underneath. I started there.
The first drawer was chock-full of miscellaneous items: a minihammer, picture-hanging brackets, a pack of gum, pencils and pens . . . at home, we would call this our catch-all drawer. I pulled open the next, however, and was thrilled to find a large binder. Margie’s reservation book! I quickly paged through until I came to the entry with John Whitaker’s reservation. I noticed he listed his home address as Mobile, Alabama. Strange. His accent didn’t sound a bit like Alabama. He must’ve paid in cash, because there wasn’t a credit card number, but there was a license plate number listed. Grabbing a pen and piece of scratch paper, I scribbled down his address and the license number for his rental car, hoping to goodness that I didn’t get caught at what appeared to be identity theft.
“Need a little help, darlin’?”
I jumped and grabbed at my heart. “Hawk! You, you . . .” The phrase “scared me pitless” suddenly popped to mind.
He moseyed over and peered over my shoulder. “Whatcha lookin’ at?” I tried to shut the reservation book, but he clasped his hand over mine and leaned in even closer. His touch and that all-so-familiar scent of f
resh soap mixed with the smell of the wind and motorcycle exhaust aroused unwanted feelings. “John Whitaker, huh? You must be trying to get more proof that someone other than your daddy killed Clem.”
“More proof? What do you mean?” Although, even as I asked, a sick feeling crept over me.
“Well, I was at the diner this morning . . .”
I squeezed my eyes shut as he continued on about how everyone in town had heard that I had proof of who killed Clem. The general consensus was that I was keeping this so-called proof to myself so I could one-up the sheriff . . . just like last time there was a murder in town, and the time before that. Apparently I was developing a bit of a reputation for solving crimes.
I shook my head. “I don’t actually have any proof,” I explained. “I only said yes to Daddy not being guilty but she’d also asked if I had proof that someone else was guilty and . . . well, you know how she is.”
He chuckled and backed away. “Sounds like you’ve worked yourself into a big problem.”
I could blame it on Frances misunderstanding what I’d said, but I should have known better than to open my mouth around that woman at all. I peeled my moist palm from the page and shut the book, returning it to the drawer. “Guess you’re right. That’s why I’m doing a little more investigating of my own. I figured someone should be doing that,” I added with a pointed look. Then, I pocketed the scrap paper with Whitaker’s information and started tearing through the other drawers. “I need the spare key to his room. Do you know where it is?”
Hawk reached up and opened one of the cabinets, revealing a narrow pegboard of keys. He selected one and dangled it in the air.
“Oh. Thanks,” I said, reaching out.
He jerked his hand away at the last second. “I’m comin’ with you. Just in case.”
I hesitated, considering my options. There weren’t any. Besides, arguing would only waste precious time, because Hawk was, among other things, bullheaded. “Fine. But hurry. We don’t have much time.”
* * *
I could see why Margie chose this room for Whitaker. Its natural brick fireplace and dark wood accents were decidedly more masculine than my light and pretty room down the hall. I moved directly to the nightstand next to the bed, while Hawk crossed to the closet.
“Found his computer,” he said, pulling a satchel from the closet floor.
The nightstand drawer didn’t reveal anything, so I moved to the dresser. “I wonder if Whitaker is even his real name.” I was looking for a wallet or anything that might have some sort of picture ID.
Hawk sighed. “The computer needs a password.” He flipped it shut and ran his hand through the other compartments in the satchel.
I was rifling through the top drawer of the dresser. “Ew!” I said, holding up slick red briefs. “This guy wears silk briefs.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
I shot him a strange look and turned back to the dresser. After another pass, my hand hit on something. I pushed a stack of socks aside and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Got something.”
Hawk replaced the computer and joined me as I laid it out on top of the dresser. It was a crude but detailed sketch of Sunny Side Up and its grounds. “Look,” I pointed out. “He’s checked off certain things. And here’s that shed outside. It has a checkmark too.”
“Looks like he’s been systematically searching the place.”
“But, what for?”
Hawk shrugged, running his finger along the map and taking note of each location, stopping when he got to the storage shed. He bent forward and squinted. “Look at this.”
I leaned in, our heads touching. Once again, my pulse quickened in reaction to his closeness, a tingle at the back of my neck. Silently chiding myself, I fought to stay in control of my hormones. “What is that?” I asked, looking at the depiction of the storage shed. There was a lightly drawn line leading from the floor of the shed to the edge of the map.
“And here. What’s this?” He was pointing toward the corner of one of the back rooms on the main floor, where Whitaker had drawn what appeared to be a built-in bookcase.
I wonder if—
My thought was cut short by the sound of the front door slamming shut. Both Hawk and I bolted upright, the look of fear on his face certainly mirroring my own.
“Crap!” he said, refolding the paper and holding it over the drawer. “Where’d you get this from?”
“Here.” I snatched it from his hand, placed it back where I’d found it, and slid the drawer shut. We both started for the door, Hawk putting out his hand to stop me. Footsteps sounded on the main staircase.
“Too late,” he said, his eyes frantically scanning the room. He started pulling me toward the closet, but I yanked him away at the last second, heading for the veranda instead. We slipped through the French doors just as the doorknob started to turn. At the last second, I glanced back through a crack in the curtains to see that I’d left a pair of Whitaker’s sleazy briefs on top of the dresser.
Still holding Hawk’s hand, I pulled him across the veranda and around the corner toward the back side of the home. “Hold up,” he said, yanking on my hand. We’d stopped in front of one of the side windows. “My door’s locked, but we can sneak back in this way.” He slid the window open and stepped through, one leg at a time. Then he held out his hands to help me do the same.
After a less than graceful maneuver, I landed inside his room and threw myself into one of his chairs, sucking in my breath and willing my heart to slow down. “That was too close! But at least now we have some proof that he’s up to something. We need to let Maudy know what we’ve found.” Hopefully, our discovery would take some of the heat off my father.
“And what exactly is that?” Hawk had flopped casually on top of his bed which was unmade and covered with dirty clothing. Despite our close encounter, he seemed quite calm.
“The map.”
He shrugged. “What about it?”
“It shows that he’s up to something. Something underhanded.”
“But not necessarily illegal.”
I rubbed the back of my neck, rotating it a bit to loosen some tension. “You’re right. All it really shows is that he’s been snooping around.”
“Not that, even. Only that he’s drawn a map of this place.”
I nodded. Again, he was right.
“So what’s going on, darlin’?”
“I think he’s looking for something in—”
“Not with Whitaker. With you. Why are you here at the inn? If it’s to investigate Whitaker, I don’t get it. That’s what I’m here for. Besides, I can’t be worryin’ about your safety all the time.”
“Like you were so worried about Margie’s safety? Margie your own client? Who you leave alone at night in the same house as a possible murderer? As for me, I think I’m doing just fine, but thank you.”
“As long as I’m around to save your butt, you mean.”
What! Me? He’s the one who headed for the closet, for crying out loud. I shook my head. Hawk had an ego that just never quit.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he continued. “Why are you here? And who’s taking care of my dog?”
“To investigate Whitaker.” And Margie, but I didn’t say that. Since he thought he was still being paid by her. “And don’t worry about your precious dog—my brother’s watching him. And FYI, Margie is thinking about taking you off the case. My daddy’s being arrested for Clem’s murder. And since she’s off the hook, she doesn’t feel the need to keep you on anymore.”
He sat upright. “Your daddy’s in jail?”
“Well, not yet. Actually, he’s in the hospital right now. But Maudy has a warrant. She just hasn’t booked him yet.”
Hawk’s expression quickly changed from irritation to concern, the look on his face so sincere, it made my heart stop. We sat ther
e, quietly regarding each other until he finally he said, “I’m sorry, darlin’. I’ll do everything I can to help you. Whether Margie keeps me on or not.”
I swallowed hard. “Thank you.”
“Is your daddy okay?”
“I think so. They’re running more tests today. I’m going to head over after lunch.”
He blew out his breath and rubbed at the stubble on his chin. “Okay then. Let’s discuss this. First, the map. Looks like this house has a lot of secret hiding places.”
“It was a stop on the Underground Railroad, places where they hid runaway slaves.” I quickly filled him in on everything I’d found at the library. “And that line leading from under the shed is probably an escape tunnel.”
“So, Whitaker’s searching those spots for something. Or”—he shrugged—“he’s just a history buff.”
I shook my head. “Whitaker would have just asked Margie about the house and not been sneaking around in that case.” Hawk agreed. I took out the information I’d copied from Margie’s reservation book and showed it to him. “It says he’s from Alabama. But I don’t believe that for a second. Everything about him says—”
“He’s a Yank.”
I cringed. I did almost say that, didn’t I? Guess I wasn’t much better than some of the town folk I’d deemed narrow-minded and judgmental. “Well, definitely not from Alabama. He paid cash, so there wasn’t a credit card number. But Margie did list his car rental information and license number.”
“Wonder if he paid cash for his rental, too?”
“I don’t know. How would we find that out?”
War and Peach Page 14