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  Praise for

  Peaches and Scream

  “Cozy readers will savor every word of this peach of a mystery. Ms. Furlong’s turn of phrase is delightful, her characters are endearing and the mystery will keep readers guessing until the very end. The Georgia Peach Mysteries are loaded with Southern charm, sassy characters and tantalizing recipes—a pure delight!”

  —Ellery Adams, New York Times bestselling author of the Charmed Pie Shoppe Mysteries

  “Georgia belles can handle anything—including murder—as Susan Furlong proves in this sweet and juicy series debut.”

  —Sheila Connolly, New York Times bestselling author of the County Cork Mysteries

  “This wonderful series is going to have you humming ‘Georgia on My Mind’ and have your mouth watering to try the five peach-inspired recipes included in the back of the book! This series has everything a cozy mystery lover could want: loyal family, fantastic friends, wonderful juicy story line and a dog called Roscoe.”

  —A Cup of Tea and a Cozy Mystery

  “Susan Furlong really captures the heart of Southern traditions in her characters . . . [A] fantastic start to a new cozy mystery series . . . From the yummy-sounding recipes to the wonderful ambiance of Cays Mill, Peaches and Scream has it all!”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Furlong kicks off this new series with a great mystery . . . Very entertaining.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Susan Furlong

  PEACHES AND SCREAM

  REST IN PEACH

  WAR AND PEACH

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2017 by Susan Furlong-Bolliger

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY is a registered trademark and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the B colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN: 9780698184862

  First Edition: February 2017

  Cover art by Erika LeBarre

  Cover design by Sarah Oberrender

  Map copyright © by Nurul Akmal Markani

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

  Version_1

  To Patrick Nyle Bolliger

  Contents

  Praise for Peaches And Scream

  Berkley Prime Crime Titles by Susan Furlong

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Map

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Recipes

  My Southern mother’s life is bound by rules. Rules she believes are key to raising strong, confident children who cherish tradition, know hard work, have good manners and, above all else, treasure family. For as long as I can remember, she’s been doling out these regulations in hopes of turning me into not only a proper, polite and oh so polished woman, but a woman who’s independent, strong and indestructible.

  Over the years, depending on the situation, she’s called these rules different things: Southern Belle Facts, Debutante Rules and even Southern Girl Secrets. Most of these little gems of advice are the same bits of advice mothers everywhere have handed down to their daughters. Of course, my mama always adds her own peculiar slant, but nonetheless, I’ve come to treasure her quirky tenets. I’ve also learned that no matter how far I travel from home, if I remember my mama’s rules, I’ll be okay. Because simply put, I’ve been blessed to be raised by a woman whose well-maintained exterior is only exceeded by her dogged determination and unsurpassable inner strength. And by passing on her special codes of living, she’s taught me how to tackle life with just the right blend of toughness and kindness.

  Mama has always told me that one day I’d thank her . . . and I do—every single day.

  —NOLA MAE HARPER

  Chapter 1

  Southern Girl Secret #045: A Southern gal never starts a fight, but she sure the heck knows how to finish one.

  “I do say, this election business has folks as divided as the states during Mr. Lincoln’s war,” one of the Crawford sisters was saying. I glanced from one gray-haired sibling to the other and stifled a chuckle. The Crawford sisters were old, but not that old. Although, I had to agree with them. Our little Georgia town was definitely divided.

  “And did y’all read the latest issue of the Cays Mill Reporter?” her sister asked. “Seems the paper’s predictin’ an excitin’ debate. You’re going, aren’t ya, Nola Mae?”

  “Of course,” I replied, putting on my best shopkeeper’s smile as I passed their bag of peach preserves across the counter. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” When our esteemed mayor, Wade Marshall, announced his plans to leave his political office to launch a back-road bar tour with his blue-grass band the Peach Pickers, the political scene in Cays Mill exploded. In the aftermath, two candidates emerged: Clem Rogers, a local peach farmer who quickly won the support of the agricultural community, and Margie Price, owner of Sunny Side Up Bed & Breakfast, and the favorite contender of local business owners.

  The sisters exchanged a sly glance before narrowing their eyes on me. “Town folks are wondering just which side you’re on,” said the older sister. “Sister here says that since you own this new shop and all, you’d be for Ms. Price. But I’m bettin’ you’re going to stand by your peach farmin’ roots and cast your vote for Clem Rogers.”

  “Uh . . . well. I’m still undecided.”

  “Undecided?” they asked in unison. The younger sister clucked her tongue and shook her head. “What would your daddy say, if he heard you talkin’ that way?”

  Oh, I already knew what he’d say. I’d been hearing it all week. The election had been a point of controversy at our house. Daddy, of course, was all about supporting Clem Rogers, one of our own. Clem had rallied support among most of the local farmers by promising tax cuts for local peach producers. Unfortunately, he planned to engineer those cuts by raising municipal retail taxes. A prospect that business owners, like myself, worried might send shoppers to nearby Perry or down to Hawkinsville, maybe even up to Macon, to save a few bucks. Still, I was surprised by Daddy’s veheme
nt support of Clem Rogers. The two of them had a contentious history that went way back when. I’d never quite known what started their rivalry, but whatever it was, Clem Rogers had been a thorn in Daddy’s side ever since. Still, Daddy was backing his candidacy and expected all the Harpers to follow suit. I just wasn’t entirely convinced yet that Clem was the man for the job. It was one thing to run a successful farm; another altogether to handle the politics of even a small town like Cays Mill.

  The older sister tugged at her sweater and shook her head. “How anyone can vote for an outsider is beyond me. I’m castin’ my vote for Clem. He may be ornery as an old bulldog, but least we know what we’re gettin’ with him.”

  “That’s right, sister,” the other agreed. “Ms. Price isn’t one of us. How’s she supposed to know our ways?”

  A few years back, Margie Price, owner of the Sunny Side Up Bed & Breakfast, had moved from somewhere up North and bought a neglected, dilapidated antebellum home over on Majestic Boulevard. She’d spent over a year painstakingly restoring every inch of the three-story home to its original glory and was now running a successful inn. To me, she’d more than proven herself an asset to the community, but to many she’d always be considered an outsider—or, worse yet, a Yankee.

  “Well, maybe someone with a fresh perspective would be a good thing for our town,” I offered, struggling to maintain my smile. I knew what it was like to feel like an outsider. After more than a few youthful indiscretions, I had fled Cays Mill and embarked on a career as a humanitarian aid worker. My job took me to some of the most remote areas of the world and immersed me in cultures so different from my own southern roots that I often felt like an outsider. I’d felt that way again, more recently, upon my return to Cays Mill, as I struggled to reinsert myself into this tight little community. Sure, Cays Mill was a wonderful place to grow up, but the people here, my own family included, were so rooted in culture and tradition, they were sometimes slow to be accepting of others.

  “What on earth are you talkin’ about, Nola Mae?” the older sister asked. “Fresh ideas? Why, everything’s been just fine the way it is. There’s nothing around here that needs changin’.”

  “Could be,” the other sister jumped in, “that all that traveling Nola’s done has made her forget her roots and what’s important.”

  I shook my head. “Now both of you know that’s not true. I’ve always been grateful for my raising. I came back, didn’t I?” I waved my hand through the air, taking in the expanse of my shop with its rustic country charm and displays of peachy products. “And I opened this place to help my family.”

  The sisters exchanged glances and nodded. “That’s true, dear. But you’ve always been one of us. You understand how it is ’round here. Just like Clem Rogers does. Why, that boy’s been livin’ here his whole life.”

  “That’s right. Livin’ here his whole life,” her sister echoed. “I was good friends with his grandmama, rest her soul. She made the best peach pie. Always said it’s best to use yellow peaches. Not white peaches. The white ones are too sweet. Did you know that, Nola?”

  I breathed a sigh of relief, glad the conversation had shifted from politics and my apparently inflammatory, too-worldly concept of “fresh perspectives” back to something neutral—peaches. “Yellow peaches, for sure,” I nodded, recognizing a sales opportunity. “Which is why, being that it’s November and all and since there aren’t any fresh peaches available for pie, I put up some of the best canned spiced yellow peaches you’d ever want to taste.” I came out from around the counter and directed their attention toward the far wall of shelves, which held several straight rows of bright yellow peaches in sparkling jars. “We always heat them and serve with a dollop of vanilla ice cream. My nana’s recipe,” I added in a conspiratorial whisper, which garnered an appreciative smile from the women.

  “Then they must be good,” the older sister said, reaching back into her bag for her pocketbook. “We’ll take a couple of those, too. Then we better get going. We want to have time to get some supper before the town hall meeting tonight.”

  My focus quickly shifted out the front windows and across the street to the courthouse lawn, where I noticed a man unloading folding chairs from the Baptist church’s minibus. They must have needed to borrow extra seating for the meeting. “Looks like it’s going to be a big crowd,” I said, ringing up and packaging their additional purchase. “Hopefully, people will remain civil tonight.” I was referring to the last debate, held in conjunction with the Chamber of Commerce’s monthly luncheon. After several rounds of heated bantering about who should carry the tax burden, the farmers or the business owners, Doris Whortlebe, the owner of the Clip & Curl Salon, got so mad she stood up and chucked a chicken leg across the room at Harley Corbin, who in retaliation slung a spoonful of potato salad her way, and on and on until a full-fledged food fight was underway. What a mess!

  The oldest Crawford sister leaned across the counter, an unmistakably mischievous glimmer in her blue eyes. “Don’t bet on it, Nola. Rumor has it that Clem Rogers is going to drop a bombshell tonight. Something that’s goin’ to change everyone’s opinion about Ms. Price.”

  “Really?” What could that be? Margie was an honest businesswoman and always willing to lend a helping hand to those in need. I couldn’t imagine what Clem would have to say that could possibly change everyone’s opinion of such a wonderful person. “Who told you about this?” I asked.

  The older sister dipped her chin my way. “Why, everyone in town is talking about it, dear. Supposedly it’s something that has to do with Margie’s past. She’s from up North, ya know.”

  “And,” the other sister added, “haven’t you ever wondered what brought Ms. Price all the way down here in the first place? She doesn’t have any kin in the area.”

  I shrugged. “I just assumed she’d stumbled upon a good business opportunity with the bed-and-breakfast.”

  The sisters harrumphed in unison. “Not likely,” one of them said. “There’s more to that woman than just business. And whatever this bombshell is, it’s going to be big. Why, even Frances Simms said she thinks it’s going to be big news. She’s plannin’ a special edition this week.”

  Now I did roll my eyes. Frances Simms was the editor of the Cays Mill Reporter, our town’s one and only source for breaking gossip—oops, I mean news. Normally, the paper released every Tuesday and Saturday, but something really big might spur the printing of a special edition. Although, I only remember it happening one time before, and that was when Bobby Tindale picked the winning numbers for the Georgia Powerball lottery. Thanks to the Cays Mill Reporter, the news of his eleven-million-dollar win spread so fast the poor guy couldn’t walk down the street without someone holding their palm out. Finally, he ended up packing it in and leaving town. I certainly hoped Frances would exercise more prudence this time around. Of course, Frances wasn’t known for her prudence, a fact I’d learned the hard way: once when she published a series of innuendos that almost resulted in a lifelong prison term for my brother-in-law, and another time when she published a completely biased story that turned my good friend Ginny into an overnight social outcast. “You certainly don’t believe everything you read in the newspaper, do you?” I countered. Especially not the Cays Mill Reporter.

  The sisters exchanged a glance. “Well, of course we do,” one of them said, giving me an incredulous stare. “It’s the newspaper, after all.” Then she turned to her sister. “Come along, sister. If we don’t get home and get supper fixed, we’ll miss that meetin’. And it’s supposed to be the biggest barn burner this town’s ever seen.”

  * * *

  The enticing smell of Mama’s cooking wafted through the screen door and greeted me as I mounted the steps of our front porch. As I did every evening, I paused and leaned against one of the posts, letting my eyes wander over our farm. Autumn was one of my favorite times of year. Summer was behind us, along with the hard labor and pressu
res of the harvest season, the fruit long ago packed and shipped. Then, late summer brought the Peach Harvest Festival, where we celebrated our successes, and oftentimes placated our losses, in the company of good neighbors and family. Now, in November things had finally settled down, the cooler night air bringing relief to the burdensome heat of summer and the heavy workload of the previous seasons. Of course, there was still a lot to be done: mowing, pruning and fertilizing, planting new trees, record keeping and strategizing for the next season, but for the most part, life on the farm had slowed to a manageable pace. A time to catch our breath and count our blessings.

  Blessings were something I’d had plenty of lately. We’d enjoyed a bountiful harvest, punctuated by a surge in peach prices that resulted in enough to cover our operating costs, plus some to sock away for harder times. And my new shop, Peachy Keen, was experiencing success beyond my imagination. Not only had foot traffic picked up in the storefront, but online orders had almost doubled. With Christmas quickly approaching, I was hoping to see even more sales, especially with the addition of a new line of peachy gift baskets.

  And to top it all off, my personal life was on the upswing. Just recently, my friend Hattie had asked me to be the maid of honor for her upcoming wedding to Pete Sanchez, love of her life and owner of Pistil Pete’s Flower Shop. They were perfectly suited for each other and I was so happy for them! Best of all, my relationship with Hattie’s brother, Cade, was blossoming. After working through a few minor hitches last spring, we had started seeing each other on a regular basis. With all the excitement over Hattie’s wedding lately, I couldn’t help but dream a little about the day Cade and I might . . . well, maybe I wasn’t ready for all that. But I was happy. In fact, the past year or so since my return to Cays Mill had proven to be one of the best times in my life. Except for the murders, that is. I shuddered, squeezed my eyes shut, inhaled the smell of woodsmoke, probably a neighbor burning off his recent pruning, and exhaled the unpleasant memories of the murders that had occurred over the past year, one right here on Harper land.