After leaving Hattie, I popped into Sunny Side Up to grab my laptop and keys. On a whim, I knocked on Hawk’s door, hoping he’d have some more information for me, but there was no answer. So, I hightailed it out of there. I definitely didn’t want to run into Whitaker again. I shivered at the memory of him bearing down on me out on the sidewalk. Hard telling what he might try next.
It was well after eleven by the time I unlocked the door to Peachy Keen. Fortunately, the town seemed deserted—probably everyone was still at the funeral luncheon—so it was doubtful anyone had even missed me. I whipped through my opening chores: counting out the bills in the cash register, checking and straightening the displays, restocking bags and packaging tissue, a quick dusting . . . all the while, my thoughts wandering back to Clem’s murder. Now, more than ever, I needed to get it figured out. Daddy didn’t need to have the idea of another appearance in front of Maudy hanging over his head when he was trying to heal up from heart surgery! I felt as if I was so close to figuring out Clem’s murder. But how many times before had I jumped to conclusions? Certainly Hawk’s friend would have had a chance to dig up some more information by now. If Hawk and I could just compare notes, maybe that would clear up a few of the loose ends. Because I wanted to be sure, really sure, before I took this any further.
Deciding to try to reach Hawk by phone, I placed a call to the Clip & Curl Salon. I didn’t have Hawk’s cell, but certainly Laney would. “Hello, Doris. Hi, this is Nola Harper. . . . Yes, my daddy is doing better. Thank you. . . . No, I don’t need my hair done. . . . No, that’s quite okay, Doris, maybe some other time. . . .” I sighed. “Is Laney there? Yes, Laney . . . what? She doesn’t have time to talk to me?” That’s weird. How busy could they be on a Monday morning? Especially since half the town was at Clem’s luncheon. “Could you tell her that this is important? . . . Please, try again, Doris. . . . I really need to talk to her.”
Doris must have put her hand over the mouthpiece, because there was a long stint of garbled talk before Laney finally came to the phone. “What do you want?” she grumbled.
“Hi, Laney. Sorry if I caught you at a bad time. But do you know where Hawk is? I need to—”
“’Course I know where he is. He is my boyfriend.”
“I know that. I just need to talk to him about something. It’s important.”
“I’m sure it is.”
Huh? I scrunched my face at the phone. “Uh . . . could you give me his cell phone number, please?”
“Give you his cell phone number?” There was a little pause in the conversation where I heard her call out to whomever was in the room, “Did y’all hear that? Now she wants his cell phone number.” Laughter broke out in the background as Laney came back on the line. “Sure,” she said sweetly. “I’ll give you my boyfriend’s cell phone number.” Finally we’re getting somewhere, I thought. I reached for pen and paper, just to hear Laney yell over the line, “When hell freezes over!”
I stared down at the phone. She’d hung up. What in the world? Oh shoot! Laney must have heard the rumor about Hawk and me holding hands on Sunny Side Up’s veranda. And judging by her curt phone conversation, had jumped to the wrong conclusion. I shrugged it off and dialed Ray’s number instead. He’d used Hawk’s investigative services before; maybe he’d know his cell phone number. Only I couldn’t reach Ray. Nothing new there. To his credit, though, he was probably at the hospital, where he planned to spend most of the day. Cell reception was lousy out there. Then, I remembered I’d promised to swing by the house and let Roscoe out for a yard break sometime after lunch. Maybe I could find the number there. I recalled that he kept an address book with his contacts mixed in with the briefcase full of work stuff he usually carried around with him.
The bells above my door jingled, drawing my attention upward. I expected to see Carla coming in for her shift, but it was a couple of young ladies from town. “Hi there!” I greeted them. “Welcome to Peachy Keen! Just holler if you have any questions.” They smiled and made a beeline for my candle display. I’d just added the new line of homemade peach-scented, soy-based candles. A while back, I’d happened upon a local woman peddling them at a nearby festival and convinced her to sell some on consignment in my shop. Packaged in tiny mason jars with rustic lids and taffeta labels, they were as cute as could be and smelled absolutely divine. They’d become wildly popular. A great deal for both of us.
While the candle ladies were sniffing away, another customer came in for a quick purchase. She was having company this week and wanted to treat her guests to some homemade peach preserves. We exchanged some pleasant chitchat while I quickly wrapped her purchase. Then, just as I started ringing up the candle ladies, the bells over my door announced another customer. Or two customers, that is. The Crawford sisters shuffled in, a strange-smelling cloud wafting behind them. I sniffed the air. Burned popcorn? “Are you ladies just coming from the luncheon over at the church?”
“No, we couldn’t make it to the luncheon on account of our hair appointments this mornin’.” I glanced upward at their matching heads of slightly damp poodlelike curls.
“Perms,” the older sister explained, patting her head.
“That’s right,” the other said. “We want to look good for tomorrow’s parade.”
“And for the dance,” her sister added with a gleam in her eye.
I put the finishing touches on the gift bags for the candle ladies and handed it over. They seemed pleased. “Enjoy the candles, ladies,” I told them. “And come back again soon.”
As soon as they left, the Crawford sisters came up to the counter with their merchandise and started up again. “We’re so sorry to hear of the trouble your daddy’s havin’ with his heart.”
“You should know that we prayed for him at church yesterday,” the other sister added with a nod. Then, she leaned forward and, even though we were the only ones in the shop, added in a hushed tone, “Of course, all the added stress he’s been under, with the sheriff houndin’ him like she is, well, that can’t be good for his ticker.”
I turned my focus back to the jars of pepper jelly they’d brought to the counter and changed the subject. “So, you ladies are planning on attending the dance?”
“Why, of course, dear,” one of them answered. “We were quite the dancers in our day, weren’t we, sister?”
The younger sister’s cheeks flushed. “Yes, we were. Though can’t quite keep up with the fast songs like we used to back in the day.”
“Speak for yourself,” her sister countered. “Besides, the slow songs are much more satisfyin’, especially if there are a few young studs around.”
They both giggled. I fumbled with the second jar of pepper jelly, finally getting it wrapped and tucked safely into a paper bag along with the first.
“But you don’t need any help in that department, do you dear? You’ve got your hands full with two hunky men. How do you do it?”
“Two? What do you mean?” I started tallying their purchase.
The older sister pulled out her pocketbook and shook her head. “No need to play coy, Nola Mae. We completely understand. Cade McKenna is a handsome man, but that Dane Hawkins, well, that man is hot enough to make the house paint peel.”
“You got that right, sister,” the younger one agreed, cheeks practically blazing now. “You should hear some of the things Laney says about him. Makes me wish I was thirty years younger.”
Aw . . . so that’s it. My eyes darted from their devilish grins to their all-so-tight curls. The Crawford sisters had been at the salon when my call came in for Laney. Laney, no doubt, had not only jumped to the wrong conclusions, but had embellished it as she related my call to the patrons. Heaven only knew what the story had grown into by now. Or how far it’d spread. Maybe that was part of the reason for Whitaker’s little stunt this morning. Perhaps he’d heard about Hawk and I roaming the veranda, put two and two together, and deduced that we really were snooping
around in his room. One thing for sure: I would not be staying another night at Sunny Side Up.
The older sister leaned forward and continued, “Is that why you’re staying at Margie’s place? Because no one can figure that out. At first I told sister here that you were probably staying there to help Margie with her campaign, being that you seemed to have crossed over to the other side. But now we’re all wonderin’ if Hunky Hawk isn’t the reason you’re stayin’ at the inn. Laney Burns sure seems to think so.”
“Or maybe it has something to do with your sleuthing,” the other sister added. “Heard you got some sort of proof—”
I waved my hand through the air. “That’s just some silly rumor going around town. Not a speck of truth to it.”
They didn’t look convinced. It was time to steer this conversation in another direction. “No, no ladies. I’m just staying at the inn to help Margie.” Not exactly with her campaign, but they didn’t need to know that. “She’s had to step up her game ever since Jack Snyder decided to run for mayor.”
“Bet that’s the truth.” The older Crawford sister handed the bag of peach pepper jelly to her sister so she could put the change in her pocketbook. “Jack ran a hard campaign last time. He’ll be hard to beat this time around.”
“That’s right,” I said, glad for the topic change. “He ran against Wade Marshall, didn’t he? And I heard it was a close race.”
“Yes. Jack was fit to be tied when he lost,” she said. “He had the votes recounted, you know.”
“Twice,” the other sister added. “But it turned out that Wade Marshall won it fair and square.”
The younger sister shook her head. “Although Mayor Marshall never got a chance to celebrate properly. Poor man.”
I tilted my head. “He didn’t? Why’s that?”
“Had a terrible accident that evening. Guess he was makin’ his way to the inauguration dance and wrecked his car out on that twisty road that leads to McManamy Draw. Bad breaks, if I remember. He was darn lucky to survive.”
I hadn’t heard that story before. Could it be that it wasn’t an accident? Perhaps the übercompetitive Jack Snyder had tampered with Wade’s brakes way back then. I shook my head. Talking about jumping to conclusions. But before I could think too much more about it, the door burst open and Carla flew inside. “Sorry, I’m running so late,” she said, shooting the ladies a quick smile. She’d reverted back to her all-black garb, which was appropriate considering she really had come from a funeral today.
“That’s okay. How was the luncheon?” I asked.
She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Poor Tessa. It didn’t go quite as planned.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, you know how the town hall had to borrow chairs from the church because so many people went to the debate?” I nodded, remembering that I’d seen the bus from the Baptist church unloading chairs at the courthouse the other day. Carla continued, “Seems they’re all missing.”
The sisters gasped.
“The chairs are missing?” I asked.
Carla nodded. “Yup. The church custodian went to unload the bus this morning, getting ready for the luncheon, and all of them were missing. Someone broke in to the van and took them during the night. Crazy, huh?”
The Crawford sisters exchanged a look. “We’d best get over to the diner and see what’s goin’ on,” the older one said. I suppressed a roll of my eyes—from beauty shop gossip to diner rumors—these ladies were out to get their fill today. Instead, I tossed them my usual friendly shopkeeper’s wave, but they were already on their way and too busy chewing over the latest news to even notice.
Carla moved behind the counter and booted up the laptop to check for online orders. “Did anyone report the theft to the sheriff?” I asked, because this was obviously the work of our local scrap metal thieves. I briefly thought of Lucas and the air-conditioner connector I’d discovered in his truck.
“Yeah,” Carla answered. “Well, not the sheriff exactly. But her deputy was there at the luncheon. I saw him talking to Reverend Jones about it.” She paused to type in the password and then changed the topic. “I’m looking forward to tonight.”
“Tonight?”
She glanced my way and chuckled. “Did you forget? It’s Monday.” I must have had a blank look on my face, because she went on to clarify, “Monday. Our usual cooking night.”
“Oh, that’s right. I did forget. We’d better plan on it, too, because we’re running low on preserves.”
Carla nodded. “Yeah, and tomorrow’s the election and the parade. I bet we get a few extra customers. If there’s time tonight, I might try a new chocolate recipe I found online. The peach molds haven’t come in yet, but I could figure out something else to use. Just for testing. Half the trick is going to be finding the perfect recipe.”
“That sounds good,” I said, hoping I sounded enthusiastic. My mind was still stuck on the missing chairs and now all the things I needed to get done before our cooking session. Plus, I’d just added talking to Lucas to my long checklist. And I really did want to get ahold of Hawk. “You know, Carla, I need to run out to the farm and take care of a couple things for my mama. Do you mind being in charge for a while?”
Her face brightened at the prospect. “Sure thing, boss. I can handle things, no problem.”
I reached out and touched her arm. “Great. Thanks, Carla. I’ll be back by four.” I glanced up at the clock. It was already a little after noon. And If I hurried, I might be able to get everything done and still go by the Pack & Carry by the time Lucas finished his shift. He and I had some serious talking to do.
* * *
I had the strangest feeling as I pulled in front of our home. Something seemed off. Putting the truck in park, I sat behind the wheel staring at the house and trying to figure out what had me spooked. It wasn’t like anything was out of place. The house looked the same as it always did. Except for the peeling paint along the roofline. When did that happen? I sighed. Just one more thing to add to my list of things to do.
My eyes roamed the area directly around the house, then out to the barn and the orchards beyond. Even from here, I could see we’d fallen behind on the pruning. It was a huge job. Too much for just one person. Daddy usually hired a crew to come in and help. Looked like I’d have to see to it now. Pruning was one job that couldn’t be ignored. By removing the thinner limbs and damaged branches, we could prevent weak spots, which would eventually cause breakage, invite disease and lead to the tree’s early death. Was I ready to take all this on? More to the point, was I even willing to take it on? No wonder I had a strange feeling when I pulled up: I was seeing it for the first time from a new perspective, one where every bit of the burden and responsibility could weigh on my shoulders. I blew out my breath and hopped out of the truck. I had to tread carefully with this new decision.
I was about to open the front door when out of nowhere, Roscoe came scurrying up the porch steps, his claws making little click-clack noises on the weathered boards. Bending down, I ruffled the fur between his ears. “Hey, fellow. What are you doing out here? Did Ray leave you out?” He whimpered and began pawing at the screen door. I pulled it open and unlocked the storm door, holding it as he shot under my feet. The poor thing must be dying of thirst! Sure enough, he went straight to his water bowl and started lapping water. “Sorry, Roscoe. I should have known better than to leave Ray in charge of you.” Or this house, I thought, throwing my bag on the hall table and turning for the kitchen.
I froze.
Prickles of fear raced up my spine as I turned my gaze back to the living room. Davenport cushions were all cattywampus, drawers left partially open . . . even Mom’s favorite potted philodendron lay on its side . . .
But this wasn’t Ray’s lazy housekeeping—this was the mess left by someone in a hurry searching for something. Who? John Whitaker, no doubt! Was he still here? I str
ained my ears, trying to hear something other than my own frantic heartbeat. Nothing, except the sound of Roscoe crunching on kibble. Still, I slowly started backtracking toward the door, my eyes darting about, scanning every nook and cranny in the room. Then suddenly, a sharp yap from Roscoe pierced the air and sent me running helter-skelter. I nearly put my hand through the screen as I burst through the front door.
Out on the front lawn, I stopped, my stomach lurching as I realized I’d left my bag, and keys, inside. I was standing there, suspended between fear and confusion, when I heard the telltale rumble of Hawk’s Harley coming down the drive. I turned and ran toward him.
“Whitaker’s been in the house!” I hollered, as he parked his bike. “He may still be in there. I think he knows we were looking through his stuff and—”
Hawk threw down his helmet and started for the door. “Where’s my dog?”
“Your dog? Roscoe’s inside.” I followed behind Hawk, too freaked-out to stand outside by myself.
On the porch, he turned and grabbed my arm. “Does your daddy have a gun?”
I swallowed hard and nodded. “In the den. There’s a closet behind his desk. It’s on the shelf.”
“What type is it? Do you know?”
“A shotgun. The shells should be next to it.”
He lowered his face, looking me directly in the eyes. “Go back and lock yourself in your truck. Don’t come out, you hear?”
“I can’t. I—”
“Just do what I say,” he bit out, giving me a tiny shove toward my truck before turning and heading inside. Normally, I would have shoved back, but in this case, I made an exception. Besides, there was no arguing with stupidity. If he wanted to run in there and play hero, then more power to him.
So, I nervously paced on the porch until he finally came back outside, shotgun cradled in the crook of his arm and Roscoe at his feet. “Thought I told you to lock yourself in your truck.”
“The keys are in my bag, which I left in the house.”
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