War and Peach Page 5

  I maneuvered our old farm truck off the square and turned onto Majestic Boulevard, driving slowly and taking in the scenery. I loved this part of town, with its deep front yards and mature trees. The fall colors had already peaked, the last of the bright rust and reds fading a few weeks ago. All that was left was the dull yellow and brown leaves that still stubbornly clung to almost bare branches. But it was such a clear, crisp day that even these muted colors seemed to pop out against the bright blue sky.

  Parking the truck in the alley behind the inn, I carried my box of preserves through the garden gate and along the path leading to the home’s back entrance. While Sunny Side Up boasted a lovely formal front entrance with a deep pillared porch and three stories of true southern antebellum architecture, I found the back entrance to be all the more charming with its informal gardens and white picket fence.

  I was just ascending the wooden steps leading to the screened back porch when Margie called out my name. She waved me over to the corner of the yard, where she was tending to a perennial bed.

  “Hey, Margie. Just making a delivery,” I said, joining her by the small garden. I slid the box onto a nearby bench.

  “My goodness,” she said, removing her garden gloves and tucking a loose strand of silver-blond hair under her wide-brimmed hat. “Is it that time already?”

  “I’m a week early, actually.” I glanced around. Margie, an avid gardener, had managed to turn her once-ordinary backyard into a relaxing oasis of private gardens and intimate seating areas, all connected by a meandering stone path. “I haven’t been back here for a while. You’ve done a great job with your gardens.”

  “I can’t take all the credit. I hired Pete Sanchez to help. He’s got quite the eye for landscape design.” Then she cocked her head at me. “But surely you didn’t come here a week early with my delivery just to discuss gardens.” She lowered her chin and shot me a pointed look. “Did you?”

  This seemed like such a good idea when I started out this morning, but now I found myself tongue-tied and unsure how to broach the subject of Clem’s murder. “I just thought you might need . . . I mean, want . . . a little company now with. . . .” With what? Obviously I hadn’t thought this through well enough.

  “With Clem’s murder, you mean? That’s what’s brought you over here today.” She tossed her gloves onto the bench. “You can’t possibly think I might have had something to do with it.”

  “No. Of course not! That’s why I came by. I thought you might, you know, want some company.”

  “Because that’s what people are saying, aren’t they? That I killed Clem over the secret he was about to expose?”

  I nodded.

  She wiped some dirt from the front of her shirt and sighed. “You might as well come in and sit for a while,” she said, motioning toward the back porch. “I didn’t sleep well last night. I could go for some coffee. Care to join me?”

  That sounded good to me. I hadn’t slept all that well, either. Visions of my father, pasty-skinned and sweating it out in Maudy’s hot seat, had caused me to toss and turn all night. “That would be great,” I said, scooping up the box. I followed her down the path and up the porch steps. Once inside, she removed her hat and placed it on a peg inside the door. “There’s a nice breeze coming through this morning.” She took the preserves and indicated toward a cozy seating area. “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable and I’ll get us some coffee. Cream?”

  “Just black. Thanks.” I used to be a cream-and-sugar person, but I’d lost my taste for it while working abroad. Such luxuries, let alone the basic necessities like food and water, weren’t readily available in most of the remote regions I’d worked.

  I sat down in a pretty pinstriped rattan chair and admired my surroundings. Margie was right—a refreshing breeze was coming through the screens, ruffling the leaves of several potted ferns. In front of me, a rustic table held a large photo album. I picked it up and leaned back into the cushion. The pictures showed the different phases of Sunny Side Up’s remodeling: from the complete kitchen redo to the addition of two bathrooms upstairs. It was amazing how Margie had managed to make so many changes to the house, yet maintain its historical character.

  “Here you go,” she said, returning a few minutes later with a full tray. I returned the album to its spot on the coffee table and eyed the contents of the tray. My stomach rumbled its approval at the sight of a plate of Ezra Sugar’s peach scones. I struggled to remember my manners and not take one until it was offered. “I see you found my album,” she said.

  “It’s amazing, everything you’ve been able to accomplish in such a short time. You only bought this place, what, three, four years ago?”

  “That’s right. I’ve been here almost four years already. Still a newcomer by most folks’ standards.” She chuckled, reached for the carafe and filled my cup then filled hers. “But to some, I’ll always be a newcomer, no matter how long I live here.”

  “Just how it is in small towns,” I offered.

  “Guess so,” she conceded, holding out the plate of scones. I took one with a grateful smile. “But despite all the small-town gossip, I love it here.”

  I understood how she felt. I’d come to think that living in a small town was like being part of an oversized, dysfunctional family—you had your share of squabbles and petty jealousies, and a few crazies, of course, but somehow you all stayed together and made it work.

  “And this old house,” Margie was saying. “Well, it’s always been a dream of mine to own a place like this. Be my own boss . . .”

  “Yes, but it must be a lot of work to keep this place up.” I popped a piece of scone into my mouth and savored the salty, buttery softness and little sweet peachy pieces. Delicious!

  “Oh, believe me. It’s a lot of work.” She dumped a spoonful of sugar into her coffee and stirred. “In a house like this, there’s always something that needs fixing.”

  “I can imagine.” I took a quick sip of coffee before continuing, “Weren’t you worried about throwing the responsibilities of being mayor into your busy schedule?”

  She shrugged. “A little. But I feel very strongly about this town and want to see it succeed.” She set her cup down and leaned forward. “Truthfully, I think Wade Marshall did a good job while he was in office, especially considering the economic slump that’s hit this area. But there’s still quite a few empty businesses on the square, and I know with my business savvy I could bolster our downtown area. Bring in some new stores.” She raised her chin defiantly. “Oh, I know the farmers are worried that I’m going to achieve all this on their hardworking backs, but that’s simply not true. Peaches are the heart of this town. I believe if we could get more businesses, perk up the town a bit, we might be able to bring in more tourists during peach season. Maybe even create some sort of agritourism venues: peach farm tours and such. It’d be a win-win for everyone.” She let out a long sigh. “But I’m not sure what’s going to happen now. With Clem gone and me as the primary suspect, there may not even be an election next week.”

  “Did the sheriff say you were her primary suspect?” Part of me hoped she had—only to get Maudy off Daddy’s back—but I knew Margie couldn’t be guilty, either.

  “Not yet, but she might as well have. Maudy always worries me just a bit. She’s sort of a loose cannon, don’t you think?”

  I swallowed and nodded. “Oh yes! She’s possibly the narrowest-minded person I know. Not a good quality for a sheriff, if you ask me.”

  She lifted her mug to take a sip, but paused and scrunched her brow. “That’s right. Maudy went after your brother-in-law a while back.”

  Yes, and once again, Maudy has set her sights on a Harper. “Do you happen to have an alibi?” Realizing how crass that sounded, I hurried to backtrack. “I mean, an alibi would prove your innocence to her. Not that you have anything to prove to me.”

  “Unfortunately, no. I wa
s here at the house preparing for the debate when Clem was supposedly murdered. No one else was here.”

  “Not your houseguest?”

  “Mr. Whitaker?” She shook her head. “No, he’d gone out that afternoon.”

  That piqued my interest. “Do you know where?”

  “Probably for a walk. Or maybe for a drive. He often goes out for a couple hours at a time. I don’t really know what he does.”

  “I bet Maudy asked you the same questions.”

  She shook her head. “No. She didn’t bring him up at all. I couldn’t have told her much anyway. I don’t know anything about him really except that he’s a good guest. Quiet. Keeps to himself.”

  My gaze slid toward the double French doors that led to the kitchen and the rest of the house beyond. “Is he here now?”

  “No, he’s out for a run. Left about a half hour ago. Goes every morning at this time, like clockwork. Then he comes back and locks himself in his room until early afternoon.”

  “Interesting.” I glanced at my watch. It was a little after eight o’clock.

  “Are you thinking that he might have something to do with the murder?” She sat back. “That’s a scary thought. Considering I’m alone in this house with him.”

  “You don’t have any other guests right now?”

  “Nope. But one should be coming in tonight.” She set her cup down and sighed. “I know this sounds silly, but I’ve got too much to lose to just sit back and let this accusation stand. I intend to be proactive about this. That’s why I’ve called on a past guest for a favor.”

  I closed my eyes for a second and took a deep breath. “Let me guess. A private investigator.”

  “Yes. Dane Hawkins.” A spark of realization crossed her face. “Oh, that’s right. You already know him, don’t you?”

  Oh yes, I thought. Do I ever. I nodded and offered a little smile, but didn’t comment. “Margie, I hate to ask, but is there any truth to the rumor that Clem knew something that could ruin your chances at becoming elected for mayor?”

  She focused her gaze on the gardens beyond the porch screen, the corners of her mouth drooping as she spoke. “I’m afraid so, Nola. But please don’t ask me to tell you what it is. I couldn’t bear to think of you knowing about . . .” She reached for the fringe of a nearby throw pillow, absently rubbing the yarnlike material between her fingers, letting out a labored sigh. “I hope you can understand. I’m not exactly proud of everything in my past.”

  I leaned forward and touched her hand. “I do understand, Margie. Really I do.” Besides, who am I to judge? Especially since my own sordid past is due to roll into town any time now.

  Chapter 5

  Southern Girl Secret #065: The key to a happy life is to let the good times roll and the bad times go.

  And roll in he did. Just twenty minutes later, as I was opening the door to my shop, a loud rumbling noise drew my attention upward and to a tight-jean-wearing, leather-clad Dane Hawkins cruising down the street on his Harley with his canine buddy safely tucked behind him in a custom-designed dog carrier. I stood there, hands on hips, shaking my head as he rounded the corner and parked his bike in front of the Clip & Curl. Stopping in to see his sweetie, no doubt. When Dane first reappeared in Cays Mill last year, he took up with Laney Burns, a local nail tech with a penchant for red nail lacquer and hair as big as Dane’s ego. As far as I was concerned, they perfectly suited each other. Still, as much as the sight of Dane Hawkins got on my nerves, the one good thing about him being back in town was the thought of spending time with his adorable hound, Roscoe. Since Margie adhered to a strict no-pets rule at Sunny Side Up and Laney was highly allergic to dogs, Roscoe usually ended up at our place. Not that we minded. Actually, we’d grown quite fond of the little fellow. Especially Mama, who spoiled him as much as one of her grandbabies.

  The idea of seeing Roscoe again made me smile as I continued into my shop, turning on the lights and flipping the sign in the door to “Open.” But no sooner had I stashed my bag under the counter than the bells above my door jingled. I glanced up to see my sister, Ida, with my little nephew in her arms. Glancing at the clock above the door, I realized Ida must have just dropped his twin sisters at school.

  “Hey, sis!” I came out from behind the counter to give her a hug and snatch my nephew from her grip. “And how’s my little buddy today?” I nuzzled his chubby cheeks and planted tiny kisses all over his face. In return, he let out a hearty little laugh and clutched a handful of my hair in his tiny fist. “Ouch!” I cried, trying to hand him back, only to find he had a death grip on my hair. “Help,” I pleaded.

  Ida grabbed his hand and shook. “Stop that, Junior!” she admonished. Only the harder she shook, the tighter he gripped. I stepped forward and craned my neck in an effort to lessen the tension, but Junior pulled harder.

  “Oh for cryin’ out loud, let go of Aunt Nola’s hair,” Ida said with one final jerk.

  “Eeeouch!” I yelped as a few of my hairs were ripped from their follicles. I straightened up and eyed the little monster suspiciously. Was that a devilish gleam in his eye? If you asked me, Junior had a lot of his daddy’s mischievousness in him. And to think he hadn’t even hit those “terrible twos” yet!

  “Sorry about that,” Ida said, pulling a few of my dark hairs from between his fingers and releasing them to the floor. “I’m surprised he was able to get such a firm grip, being that your hair’s so short and all.” My eyes were immediately drawn to her shoulder-length, honey brown tresses. Both Ida and I were natural brunettes, but her frequent trips to the Clip & Curl resulted in a bouncy, carefree, sun-kissed look, while I’d kept my flat brown shade. I’d long ago traded my long tresses during my stint as an aid worker for a more practical, no-fuss, cropped style. And I’d kept it that way upon my return to Cays Mill over a year ago, much to the dismay of my Southern girlfriends, mother and sister.

  “He’s been a handful lately,” Ida continued. “Gettin’ into everything, makin’ messes . . . his shenanigans have ’bout worn me out. Like I need any more stress, what with everything goin’ on with Daddy and all.”

  “You mean this stuff with Clem Rogers?” I asked, still rubbing my sore head.

  She nodded. “Yes. It’s just awful. Poor Daddy. And with his bad heart. Why, this is the last thing he needs!”

  A while back, Daddy had been diagnosed with heart palpitations and the doctor had recommended he cut back on strenuous activity and stress. Problem was, running a peach farm had plenty of both. And now all this stuff with Clem . . . “I agree. But I’m not sure what we can do about it. Maudy has her sights set on Daddy. She won’t just give it up.”

  “Yes, she has it out for us Harpers. And it’s all my fault. Had I known all those years ago what trouble it would cause, I never would have laid into her behind the bleachers that day. She’s been set on vengeance ever since.” She set Junior down and immediately he toddled toward a shelf of my neatly stacked glass jars of spiced peaches.

  “Speaking of past grievances, do you know whatever happened between Daddy and Clem Rogers?” I asked, quickly grabbing my nephew and redirecting him back toward Ida. “Because whatever it was has Mama all upset.”

  Ida paused, a strange look crossing her face. She quickly recovered and waved her hand through the air. “I wouldn’t worry about all that.” She shifted her weight and started rummaging through the diaper bag hanging from her shoulder. “Did I just see that detective friend of yours riding into town?” She pulled out an oversized set of plastic keys, which Junior quickly tossed aside. This time he headed straight for my corner cabinet, where I kept my handmade soap display.

  I intercepted him midtoddle and returned him to Ida. “Yeah. Dane Hawkins is back in town.”

  “Well, I know at least one person who’s probably overjoyed to see that man.”

  A vision flashed through my mind—Hawk and Laney reuniting, right at this momen
t, in a passionate embrace, Laney gripping his taut muscles with those red claws of hers, while he ran his fingers through her teased-out tresses. I tried not to gag. “He’s here to investigate Clem’s murder. Margie Price hired him.”

  Ida rolled her eyes. “Suppose he’ll be taking that mutt of his out to the house again.” Ida didn’t feel as kindly toward Roscoe as Mama and me.

  “Suppose so,” I replied, making another dive for wandering Junior and plunking him back at Ida’s feet.

  “Lawd help us,” she said. “First Maudy and now that private investigator. They’re both about as dumb as a box of rocks. We can’t trust Daddy’s well-being to either one of them.”

  I nodded. She was right. “Good thing Ray’s working on things.”

  “Ray?” Ida’s looked at me like I was crazy. “Ray’s a lawyer—a darn good lawyer—but he’s no investigator. That’s why I stopped by to talk to you this morning. What Daddy needs is someone resourceful. Someone who understands people and what motivates them. Someone with a little experience with these types of things. Someone like you.”

  Me? Experience? If she meant my little forays into crime solving, that wasn’t experience. It was dumb luck. With an emphasis on “dumb.” And both times I’d gotten involved, I’d almost found myself defunct and departed. Still, this was Daddy we were talking about. And while I didn’t relish getting involved, there was no way I was going to allow my own father to go down for a crime he didn’t commit. And besides, I’d already been thinking about who might have had the motive and opportunity to kill Clem Rogers. I’d even done a little poking around myself, hence my visit to Sunny Side Up that morning. Still, it wouldn’t do to have Ida think I was on board with her crazy suggestions.