“The Manhattan Killer,” Momma Peach whispered without removing her eyes from the fog. She watched the fog transform into a rainy city filled with tall buildings, wet streets crammed with yellow cabs, and crowds of people rushing here and there. “Many years ago, before you came to Georgia, I won a trip to Manhattan.”
“Won a trip?” Michelle asked, confused.
“I entered a baking contest and my peach bread won,” Momma Peach explained in a voice barely loud enough to hear. “I sure was excited to win...and two weeks later I flew to New York and got myself a room at the fanciest hotel in town, compliments of the Golden Days Flour Company.” Momma Peach pictured the fancy lobby filled with expensive, imported Portuguese tile and walls painted with romantic, brilliant murals. The smell of rain, fancy perfumes, and rare cigars filled her nose. “We're talking about a hotel that charges more for one night than some people make in a month. Only the rich and famous stayed at that hotel.”
Michelle glanced at the front door to make sure it was locked and then looked back at Momma Peach. “The man in the fog, this J.W. Wording, you met him at this hotel?”
Momma Peach nodded her head. “Wording...Mr. J.W. Wording...”
Michelle grabbed Momma Peach's hand. “Momma Peach, you said this man was the Manhattan Killer. I've never heard of him. Who is he and what is he doing in our town?”
“The Manhattan Killer was never caught,” Momma Peach told Michelle. She watched the lobby vanish and a cozy elevator lined with a burgundy carpet appeared. She saw her younger self step into the elevator dressed in a fancy blue dress, feeling mighty pretty and mighty excited about a vacation in Manhattan. Before the elevator doors closed, a tall, handsome, rugged man stepped inside wearing a fancy gray suit.
“Why, hello,” the man said to Momma Peach and pushed a glowing button with the number eight on it.
“Hello,” Momma Peach smiled and took a whiff of a cologne that screamed money.
The man smiled and grew silent and listened as Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata floated down from an overhead speaker. “My, what a lovely piece of music,” he told Momma Peach.
Momma Peach listened to the music. “I suppose it is,” she agreed.
The man looked at Momma Peach with curious eyes. “You're not from New York, are you?”
“No, I am visiting from Georgia.”
“Ah, Georgia, sweet and clear as the moonlight through the pines,” the man smiled.
“You like Ray Charles?”
“All music interests me,” the man informed Momma Peach. “Music sets the stage on which one’s life must be performed.”
Momma Peach stared at the man. “I...I guess,” she said as the elevator stopped at her floor. “Well, nice meeting you, Mr...”
“J.W. Wording. Mr. J.W. Wording.”
“Nice meeting you, Mr. Wording,” Momma Peach said and stepped out of the elevator and didn't think anything else of the man until a dead woman was found on her hotel floor.
“What did you do?” Michelle asked Momma Peach.
Momma Peach saw a fancy hotel room appear. She saw a sheet covering a dead body. “I smelled J.W. Wording’s cologne when they rolled the dead woman past me,” she told Michelle. “The scent was weak, but I sure smelled it. I smelled death that day...and death began to follow me.” Momma Peach looked at Michelle and then walked back to the kitchen.
Michelle stood silent and still. She looked into the fog. “Mr. Wording, you aren't going to hurt Momma Peach, do you hear me? If you lay one single finger on her, I'll kill you.”
Far away, J.W. Wording walked into a cozy kitchen, sat down at a round kitchen table, and pulled a very expensive cigar out of the front pocket of his gray suit. “Ah, Momma Peach,” he said and picked up a fancy crystal cigar lighter resting on the kitchen table, “It has been many years, but I’m in no rush. I'm going to give you time to understand who I am. I want you dead before the fog lifts, but I also want to enjoy the journey. There’s something so sweet about enjoying a cigar and a nice, hot bath on a foggy day. Yes, Momma Peach, you're going to have a very long night.”
J.W. lit his cigar and then rested his body at the kitchen chair. As much as he hated to admit it, being sixty-three years old meant that the body needed more rest than it did at the age of forty. Of course, being older had its advantages—such as being smarter than most. “I won't make the same mistake I made last time, Momma Peach. No loose ends. This time you're going to lose the game. This time, lady, you're going to be the one to lose face and suffer disgrace,” J.W. promised and took a deep puff on his cigar as the fog grew thicker and thicker.
Chapter 3
When night fell outside, Momma Peach carefully approached the display window in her bakery and looked around outside. The night was blanketed with the thick fog, transforming the Georgia town into a strange and unknown land of mystery and danger; a land at the mercy of the darkened mind of a killer instead of the control of rational, decent townspeople. “He's out there,” Momma Peach whispered, peering through the fog. “J.W. Wording is out there somewhere in this here fog.”
Michelle stared at Momma Peach with worried eyes. “Momma Peach,” she said and reached for a cup of coffee sitting on the front counter, “everything will—” Michelle stopped talking when the telephone rang. The hair on the back of her neck stood up.
“It's him,” Momma Peach said in a calm but scared voice. She turned away from the front display window and walked to the front counter, drew in a deep breath, and picked up the phone. “Hello, Mr. Wording.”
“Ah, so you do remember me. How wonderful,” J.W. told Momma Peach in a pleasant voice. He eased in front of a bathroom mirror and checked his face. His gray hair was thin yet stylish. The gray hair complimented his intelligent, distinguished face—a face that had deceived and lured many unsuspecting victims to their end. “I remember that you looked very dashing wearing a very nice blue dress when we first met in that elevator.”
“Listen, turkey, don't try to charm me. I know who you are. You're a piece of filth that ain't worthy to be stuck to the bottom of a rat’s paw.”
“Now, now, Momma Peach, I warned you about insulting me,” J.W. scolded Momma Peach. He tucked his cell phone against his ear using his shoulder, grabbed a pair of mustache scissors from a black toiletry bag, and began trimming the gray hairs above his lip. The mustache gave him a very charming look—however, the long scar running across his forehead did not. “Many years ago, you caused me to suffer great shame, Momma Peach. Now I have returned to repay you for your...mistake.”
“You killed five innocent people, you no-good, good-for-nothing piece of sewer trash,” Momma Peach snapped and then caught her tongue. “Your last victim was a housekeeper who was working for that hotel. Poor thing emigrated all the way from Peru just to be strangled to death by the likes of you.”
“Oh, I didn't intend on killing that woman,” J.W. replied in a bored tone. “She happened to walk into the room belonging to the man I was intending to kill. You see, Momma Peach, I always research my victims before I kill them. It makes the game much more interesting that way. The housekeeper just happened to get in the way and suffered the consequence.”
“That woman was a living, breathing human being, you turkey!”
“Come now, Momma Peach, enough with the ghetto talk,” J.W. rolled his eyes. “You're an intelligent woman. Speak as such.”
“This ghetto momma will put her foot up your backside!”
“Momma Peach, you didn't grow up in a ghetto. You were raised in Savannah, Georgia, by two very nice people. You have never suffered poverty, and from the looks of your waist, you have never suffered hunger either.”
“He just called me fat,” Momma Peach told Michelle and gritted her teeth. “Oh, you think you know me? I have crawled down into flooded caves, dealt with a crazy woman throwing dynamite everywhere, been stabbed by a crazy old clown, tangled with some bad folk…I’ve seen some things. And now I’m being called fat by a psycho.”
&n
bsp; J.W. didn't like being tagged as a psycho. The word caused anger to stir in his chest. “Momma Peach, if you do not control your tongue, I will leave you alone for a short while and punish those you care about,” he warned in a tone that forced Momma Peach to be careful. Obviously, pretending that she wasn't afraid would not work with J.W. However, she still had to hold her ground.
“Now,” J.W said and put down the scissors and checked his mustache, “tonight we are going to move to square two and start the game for real.”
Momma Peach looked at Michelle and then focused her eyes on the phone. “What type of game you want to play with me?”
“A memory game,” J.W. grinned.
“Memory?” Momma Peach asked.
“Yes, Momma Peach,” J.W. continued, “a memory game. I want you to remember the name of the cologne I was wearing at the hotel. I told you the name. You were having dinner in the hotel restaurant when I told you.” J.W. stared into the mirror. “You have until six o'clock to remember. If you fail to remember, I will end the life of a random person in this town. I will call you at six in the morning. Good night, Momma Peach.”
Momma Peach put down the phone. “I have until six o'clock tomorrow morning to remember the cologne that monster was wearing in New York,” she told Michelle. “If I can't remember...he's going to randomly kill someone.”
“Momma Peach, I need to call in some help on this case,” Michelle said in an urgent voice. “We can lock down the town and start doing a sweep and—”
“Even if you called in the Army, that ugly monster would escape and come back and attack me when we least expect it,” Momma Peach explained. “We're dealing with a madman who has a very skilled way of thinking.” Momma Peach closed her eyes. “I didn't catch J.W. Wording. I helped the police identify him as the killer, but before anyone could put handcuffs on him...he escaped into a rainy night and vanished. But not without me putting up a good fight first, let me tell you.”
Michelle snatched up her coffee. “I'm all ears, Momma Peach,” she said and waited for Momma Peach to walk her words back through time.
Momma Peach walked back over to the front display window and looked out into the foggy night. “Like I told you before…I sure smelled that monster's cologne, yes sir and yes, ma’am. If only…if only I wouldn't have decided to go up to my room when I did...if I had...maybe taken a walk or something, I would have missed standing in the same elevator J.W. Wording got on. But no, I always seem to tangle with the bad guys...I sure will never forget Mr. Sam's dead wife...the crazy dynamite lady. Oh, give me strength, give me strength, the world is full of crazies!”
“Tell me about it,” Michelle agreed. She took a sip of coffee and forced her upset mind to focus and concentrate. “Momma Peach, you must have done more than just see and smell him…you said you tangled with J.W. Wording?”
“I sure did,” Momma Peach confirmed. “But before I get ahead of myself, I need to remember the name of J.W. Wording’s cologne.” Momma Peach kept her eyes on the night. “Let's see,” she said, watching the night transform into a lovely, expansive dining room filled with crystal chandeliers, antique tables, burgundy carpet, walls covered with paintings of beautiful landscapes, and people dressed in money. The dining room was crowded, full of fancy suits and fancy dresses discussing stocks, golf, and yachts. Momma Peach was sitting at a two-person table near the front, staring at a large stone fireplace holding a cozy fire that was flickering in time with the voices in the dining room. She was thinking about her husband and missing him something awful. “Your wife sure wishes you were here,” she whispered and fought back a tear. She didn't see J.W. Wording approach her from behind.
“Hello again,” J.W. smiled down at Momma Peach.
“Huh...oh,” Momma Peach said in a startled voice. She raised her eyes and saw J.W. standing over her. That's when she smelled the man's cologne, like she had in the elevator. The cologne was powerful yet not overwhelming, potent yet not suffocating. The scent of the cologne was like money and...expensive homes, Momma Peach thought to herself. “Hello again,” she said and offered a polite smile.
J.W. smiled back, straightened the gray suit he was wearing, and cast his eyes across the sea of faces. “Dining alone?” he asked.
Momma Peach tilted her face up and studied J.W. She searched the man's eyes and felt a cold chill come over her. Something about the man didn't set well in her heart. “Yes, Momma Peach is eating alone.”
J.W. lowered his eyes and looked into Momma Peach's face. “Why do you call yourself Momma Peach?” he asked in a curious voice.
Momma Peach didn't want to answer the question, but she didn't want to be rude to a man who looked like James Bond. “Folks in Georgia know me by that name,” she explained. “I own my own Peach Bakery and well, long ago I became known as Momma Peach. I sure don't mind, either.”
“A woman never should eat alone.”
“Oh, I don't mind.” Momma Peach smelled the air. “You're wearing a very...distinct cologne, Mr. Wording.”
“You remember my name. I'm honored,” J.W. told Momma Peach. He smiled down at her with intense eyes that began to seem creepy. “My cologne comes from Europe. It's called, in German...” he spoke the name, but it did not seem to register in her mind.
“My, that's a neat name for a cologne,” Momma Peach replied, deliberately playing dumb and not paying much attention. She wanted the man away from her as soon as possible.
J.W. nodded his head. “Neat indeed,” he replied and checked his suit once more. “Well, Momma Peach, if you will excuse me, I have a lady friend that will be joining me soon.”
“Oh, of course,” Momma Peach said, relieved he would leave her alone. J.W. offered a polite bow, excused himself, and walked to a far table near the fireplace and sat down. A few minutes later, a much older lady joined him wearing pearls, diamond studs, and a dress that surely cost more than a mansion. Although Momma Peach had intended to get another drink and enjoy the glittering crowd, she saw the older lady with Mr. Wording turn to look at her with a badly disguised sneer. Clearly, the rich woman did not think Momma Peach, in her best dress that had still seen better days, was an appropriate guest for such a fancy evening.
“I see how it is,” Momma Peach said in a low voice, feeling cold. She stood up, paid her check, and walked back to her room. When the elevator let her off on her floor, she saw a bunch of people huddled around a door three doors down from her own. Momma Peach walked to the crowd and asked what was happening.
A man wearing a black suit pointed through an open door. “One of our staff members has been killed,” he said in a strong French accent. Momma Peach looked into the room and saw a body covered with a sheet.
“Oh dear,” Momma Peach gasped.
“Stand back, folks,” a cop wearing a blue uniform barked. “Let the detective through.”
Momma Peach turned and saw a man in his late fifties wearing a long brown overcoat working his way down the hallway. The man walked past Momma Peach and the others without stopping and stepped into the room. “That's Detective MacNeigh,” the French man told Momma Peach. “He's investigated cases for the hotel before...bit of a drunk and a real slouch.” The Frenchman made a sour face and walked away.
Momma Peach stood in the hallway, away from the crowd, and watched other cops arrive along with a forensic team. She heard one cop say: “The Manhattan killer has struck again.” Another cop said, “Sure looks that way.” Detective MacNeigh, Momma Peach noticed, didn't say much. He just walked away from the room and then stood outside in the hallway until the body was rolled out. “Move back!” a cop yelled. “Make room!”
Momma Peach eased against the wall and let two men roll a gurney carrying the body past her. As the gurney rolled past, a distinctive smell, faint but potent, drifted up into the air. “Wait a minute!” she cried out. The two men pushing the gurney stopped. Momma Peach threw her face down close to the sheet covering the body, sniffed the sheet, and then eased the sheet up just enough to allow h
er nose to smell the dead woman's housekeeper uniform.
“Hey, what is this?” a cop with a face like a boxer barked. “Get back, lady, before I arrest you.”
Momma Peach dropped the sheet and stood back. She looked to her left and saw Detective MacNeigh staring at her. He merely nodded his head and walked away.
“What did you do then?” Michelle asked Momma Peach.
“I went to my room and locked my door, that's what I did,” Momma Peach told Michelle in a serious voice. “I didn't come out of my room for the rest of the night...and I still had three more nights to go on my vacation.”
“You knew J.W. Wording killed the housekeeper?” Michelle asked.
“Oh, I had a hunch from that cologne smell, but I didn't want to jump to conclusions. After all, maybe the housekeeper tended to the monster's room or accidentally bumped into him. I like to think logically. At least, I liked to think logically back in my younger days. Through the years, I have learned that in order to catch a monster you sometimes have to play by their rules and think the way they do.”
Michelle sipped on her coffee. “Okay, Momma Peach, we'll stop here and try to remember the name of the cologne Wording was wearing.”
Momma Peach slowly folded her arms. “I wanted that man away from me so bad I didn't pay attention to the name of his cologne. All I know is that it was some kind of funny name from one of them countries way over there in the old country.”
“Momma Peach, please, you have to try and remember,” Michelle pleaded. “If we don't come up with the name of the cologne by six o'clock, an innocent person could die, and I have no way of stopping the killing.”
The fog swirled before Momma Peach's eyes and began taunting her. “Think woman, think,” Momma Peach fussed at herself. “Get your brain into gear and remember what that turkey told you the name of his cologne was.”
Michelle walked over to Momma Peach and touched her shoulder. “You're not in this alone, Momma Peach. I'm right here. I think together we can find the name,” she said in a supportive voice. “Whenever I would study for a difficult test, I would create acronyms to help me, or run the alphabet through my mind in order to remember a forgotten fact. Maybe if we ran through the alphabet...” Michelle glanced over her shoulder and looked at the phone. “Of course,” she said in a quick voice. “We'll have someone at the station pull up a list of every cologne from Europe that was around at the time you were in New York. After we get the list, we'll start going through it in alphabetical order.”
What a Peachy Night Page 4