Peaches and Scream (Georgia Peach Mystery, A) Read online

  “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

  “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

  Fallen peaches aren’t the only things on the grounds of the Harpers’ orchard . . .

  I kept on reminiscing as I snatched napkins off the branches and filled my bag. I was working my way through a row of late-harvest trees, mostly freestones, meaning they peeled away from the pit easily. My favorite was the O’Henry peach. As a kid, I used to climb the branches and eat them until my stomach hurt. I thought of how good a sweet, sun-warmed peach would taste about now, especially since I’d passed on the muffins earlier.

  My stomach grumbled as I finished one row and cut through to the next. I reached up and plucked another napkin from a branch and surveyed the rest of the row. Down a ways, I spied someone sitting on the ground, propped against one of the trees. Obviously one of last night’s guests had had too much to drink and was sleeping it off. Well, of all things!

  “Hey,” I called out, ducking under a couple more branches and heading toward the lazy drunkard. I had a thing or two to tell this guy. Only, halfway there, I stopped in my tracks. I recognized a man from the party. But he wasn’t sleeping it off. His blue-tinged, open-eyed face was slumped to one side with my sister’s brightly colored scarf cinched around his neck . . .

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  PEACHES AND SCREAM

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2015 by Susan Furlong-Bolliger.

  Penguin 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 to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  For more information, visit penguin.com.

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-18384-1

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / July 2015

  Cover illustration by Erika LeBarre.

  Cover design by Sarah Oberrender.

  Interior 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

  For my mother.

  Your advice has always served me well.

  Thank you.

  Acknowledgments

  The making of a book is a team effort and I’m fortunate to be part of an awesome team of people. A huge thank-you to my amazing agent, Jessica Faust, of BookEnds Literary Agency; and my editor, Kate Seaver, and her assistant editor, Katherine Pelz. Thanks also to Danielle Dill, publicist extraordinaire, and all the hardworking people behind the scenes at Berkley Prime Crime.

  A special thank-you to my editing friend, beta reader, and best pair of second eyes around, Sandra Haven. Your advice and support are indispensable. Also, to Nurul Akmal Markani, who created an awesome map of the fictional town of Cays Mill, Georgia.

  I depended on a whole host of experts including the fine folks at Dickey Peach Farms, Jaemor Farms, and Lane Southern Orchards. A special shout-out to the staff at Lane Southern Orchards who took time from their schedules to show me the complexities of a peach packing operation. Thank you also to Sergeant Bruce Ramseyer, who patiently answered my police-type questions. All these people are experts in their fields. Any mistakes you find within these pages are mine and mine alone.

  A special thank-you to Patty and the staff of the historic New Perry Hotel, Perry, Georgia. Your warmth and graciousness epitomize the term “southern hospitality.”

  Finally, to my wonderful husband, Nyle. I’m so very grateful for your encouragement and steadfast support. And big hugs all around to our children: Patrick, Quinn, Regan, and Fiona—the best cheerleaders a mom could ever hope to have.

  Contents

  Praise for Peaches and Scream

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  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

  A preview of Rest in Peach

  All my life, no matter where I travel or what adventure I’m living, I hear my mama’s voice in my head, repeating over and over lessons she instilled in me during my youth. Lessons about what it means to be a proper Southern woman—feminine, sweet, charming . . . and most of all, strong. A handbook, of sorts. She calls these little gems of advice her Georgia Belle Facts—little bits of southern know-how passed down from Southern mothers to their daughters for generations. (Of course, she’s put her own peculiar spin on a few of these southern tenets.) But overall, these facts are about living life to the fullest, with class, dignity and a sense of responsibility to care for our neighbors. Most important, though, her tidbits of wisdom have taught me that the Georgia Belle attitude isn’t really about a particular region of the country. Nor is it about a person’s heritage or financial status. In fact, because of my mama’s tried-and-true advice, I’ve come to learn that the essence of southern spirit is for everyone—no matter who they are or where they live.

  —NOLA MAE HARPER

  Chapter 1

  Georgia Belle Fact #027: In the South, we greet one another with bits of juicy gossip, not some ol’ boring Yankee-like salutation.

  I was idling on the corner of Blossom Street and Orchard, when the words came sailing through my open car window. “My word! Is that Nola Mae Harper I see?”

  I snapped my head and squinted to the sidewalk where I spied the Crawford sisters sauntering along. I hadn’t heard my full name, let alone that drawl I’d taken for granted in childhood, for a long time. I shot them a quick smile and waggled my fingers before moving down the road. As I continued, I noticed more than just a few of the locals rubbernecked a
s I passed, the sight of me eliciting curious stares and sudden whispers. I could imagine the return of the Harper family black sheep was going to crank the village’s local rumor mill into full gear. Gee, it was good to be back.

  They may have dubbed Georgia as the “Peach State,” but what they weren’t saying was my hometown of Cays Mill was the pit. I should know; I was born and raised in this two-stoplight town and had spent most of my adult life trying to shake its loamy soil from my boots. That’s why I surprised myself when home was the first place I thought of when my work situation took a turn for the worse. Then I really surprised myself when I agreed to spend time at home watching over the family’s one hundred–plus acres of peach farm while Mama and Daddy took their dream trip. But I guess I did owe them. Or so I’d been told—or had it implied in Mama’s southern sweet talk—often enough.

  Truth be known, they had been the world’s best parents; and I, well . . . I hadn’t always been the best daughter. At least that was what my older sister, Ida Jean, kept telling me. Of course, maybe she had a point. She’d stuck around Cays Mill, married the banker’s son and was busy adding little twigs to the Harper family tree, a set of twins so far and another baby on the way. I, on the other hand, headed north of the Piedmont the first chance I got, took a job with a humanitarian organization and had been traipsing from one country to another for the last fifteen years or so, seeing the world or, perhaps more accurately, escaping from my own world. Heaven knows, if I hadn’t left Cays Mill when I did, hard telling what type of shame I’d have brought to the Harper family name.

  Anyhow, it’d been almost three years since I was home last and it looked like not much had changed in town. The city building, still the most formidable structure in the area, occupied most of the town green and acted as an unsurpassable anchor for Cays Mill’s business section. Not that there were many businesses around these days. Like many small towns, the recession had hit our village hard. As I drove about the square, I saw more than a few vacant buildings, their empty windows only partially obscured under the bright awnings that served to protect the storefronts from the scorching Georgia heat. However, I was happy to see Red’s Diner was still going strong. A line was formed outside the door, probably the after-church crowd, heading in for Red’s famous breakfast hash, served with grits and a side of toast with—what else?—peach preserves.

  At the next stoplight I stole a quick glance in the rearview mirror and swiped a short piece of cropped hair from my forehead, before gripping the wheel and turning off the square. I traveled southeast, winding my way a mile or so out of town, heading for the family farm.

  If I had to describe Georgia, I’d say it was like a handmade quilt, tossed out all lumpy-like over the bed. The northern part of the state would be the biggest bumps, where the Appalachian hills offered a beautiful blue hue and the winding rivers ran through like errant stitching. Then came the Piedmont, with big cities like Atlanta and Columbus acting as the nubby knots holding the fabric and the batting in place. Next, the Fall Line, where the rivers made a showy descent like colorful fabric bargellos, cascading over rocks and flowing to the smooth coastal planes where scenic towns like Savannah provided a decorative binding, sealing the quilt’s overall beauty. My family’s little block of the fabric was located on the Fall Line, where the northern rivers dumped their sandy deposits, making soil conditions just right for growing peaches, which my family had done for as many generations as I could count.

  Heading down the road out of town plunged me into the orchard area, where the sullenness of the weathered town stood in sharp contrast to the peach trees, standing row on row, like sturdy soldiers, their green uniforms shining in the Georgia sun, holding guard over this community. Even the late-August sun couldn’t extinguish the bristling green of the leaves, whispering their welcome to me in the light breeze.

  Even though I’d all but had my fill of peaches during my youth, I had to admit my heart kicked up a beat in anticipation as I neared home. It’d been so long since I’d been back, and I was craving a little time at home with my family. So much so that by the time I passed under the gate that marked the entrance to Harper Peach Farm, I was practically giddy with excitement. Or sick with nerves; I wasn’t sure which. I couldn’t believe I’d agreed to take over the family farm for three whole weeks. Even though the last of the peaches had been picked, packed and transported out, taking care of the farm was a huge responsibility. Still, it was going to be good to be home for a while. At least until I figured out what to do about my job. I’d been beside myself ever since my boss told me they were downsizing and I’d been allocated to a desk job in Atlanta. A desk job! After all these years of fieldwork, they expected me to be satisfied twiddling my thumbs behind a desk. Not this girl. No way.

  “Nola Mae Harper!” I heard my daddy yell from the deep porch of our two-story farmhouse. Seconds later, the slamming of the screen storm door yielded a stream of ebullient Harpers.

  “Whoa! One at a time.” I laughed, embracing them warmly until I got to my sister, Ida Jean. Her hug felt stiff compared to the others. “Hello, Ida. You’re looking good.” I patted her expanding belly before turning to the oldest Harper child, my big brother, Raymond Junior—Ray to me, Bud to my parents and Raymond Harper II to his colleagues at the law firm. “I’ve missed you, Ray!” I buried my head in his chest, coming up for air to greet my sister’s twin girls, who danced about our legs. In true southern fashion, they were properly named Savannah and Charlotte. Although I could never tell which was which. In the three years since I’d seen them, with only occasional photos for reference, I was astounded by how big they’d grown.

  “Your hair sure is short,” one of them said, gripping my legs, her eyes wide. I ran a hand through my dark cropped hair and chuckled. Both the girls were towheads—a combination of my brother-in-law’s blond hair and my sister’s light blue eyes. Typical little belles, they sported long curls that suited their sleeveless butter yellow sundresses and white sandals. By contrast, my khaki-colored utility shorts and black tank top, walking boots and knee-high socks—which all served me well in jungle situations—seemed apparently exotic to my nieces as their sparkling eyes took it all in. They possessed equal amounts of devilish energy that would be expected from any six-year-old, the problem being that with twins, the trouble was always times two.

  Managing to break away, I headed straight for my parents, embracing Mama first. “Good to have you home, honey,” she said against my shoulder. I swear, she’d shrunk another half inch. Although the whole county knew better than to let my mother’s petite stature fool them. Della Wilkes Harper may be tiny, but she was a force to reckon with.

  On the other hand, there was nothing small about my father. Daddy always loomed larger than life. Right then, he was hanging back, watching us with a grin spread wide over his face. I turned to him and held out my arms. He skipped forward, scooping me off my feet into a giant bear hug. “I can’t believe you’re finally home, darlin’. Now the party can get started!”

  I peered over the top of his wide shoulders, ignoring the look of disgust on Ida’s face, and let my eyes roam the orchard line, where a white tent had been set up to accommodate at least two hundred guests. In my quick glance at the tent, it almost appeared as if miniature peach trees held up each corner, but before I could figure it out, Daddy had released me from his hug for a close-up look at my tanned face and short hair. With a tousle of my hair he gave a laugh, loving me in his own way, always accepting of me, no matter what. I felt tears start to well and knew coming home had been the right choice.

  Besides, this trip was extra special. My parents were celebrating their fiftieth wedding anniversary and this “dream trip” of theirs was really a second honeymoon, or first honeymoon, since they never got to go on a trip after their wedding. Anyway, this evening’s party was sure to be a wingding. The trip had actually been a prize Mama had won for her peach chutney recipe in the National Condiments Competition, wi
th the timing for the cruise set by the competition. Because no way would they have left at this time of year otherwise—the Peach Harvest Festival was only a couple weeks away. Since our parents had never, ever missed a festival, Ida had decided to give their anniversary celebration a peach festival flair, so they were technically not missing this year’s festivities either. I was anxious to see what she’d come up with. Knowing Ida, it’d be perfect.

  Speaking of whom, as soon as Daddy swung me around to head for the porch, Ida started in. “It’s just like you to show up for the fun. Never mind all the work it took to get ready for this party.”

  Aw . . . so that was it. “Sorry, Ida. I got tied up in traffic outside Atlanta. But I’ll do double the work cleaning up after the party. I promise.”

  She harrumphed and stormed ahead, heading straight for the house. Mama waved away the bad air left in her wake. “Don’t pay any attention to her. She’s just exhausted. Hollis has been working long hours and the kids are wearing her out.” My mother had been making excuses for Ida’s behavior since we were children. I knew, on the other hand, that my behavior was always open for discussion. As if to prove that point, she looped her arm in mine and said, “Come sit awhile. I’ve made some tea; we’ll get caught up on all your latest adventures.” Which translated to: Come in and sit with me so I can pick apart your life and remind you that you should be settled down, married and having children by now.

  I sent a pleading look Daddy’s way, hoping he’d rescue me from the pending lecture. Instead, he patted my back and shot me a half-apologetic look. “Go on ahead. Bud and I have a few details to tend to. We’ll have time to get caught up tonight.”

  “Yes, come on, dear,” Mama insisted. “And don’t worry about your bags. Your brother will put them in your room. Won’t you, Bud?” She continued walking, not waiting for a response from Ray. Mama’s questions were never really questions, but orders laid out with the type of charm that only a true Southern lady could pull off. “We’ve kept your room the same,” she continued. “Even though you hardly ever come home anymore. Oh, and Hattie called. She’s so excited you’re back. Said she might stop by early to visit before the party.”