Peaches and Scream (Georgia Peach Mystery, A) (14 page)

“You look mad.” He was looking at my clenched fists.

I shook my head and relaxed my hands a little. “No. Uh . . .”

“You want to go for a drink or something?” He indicated toward his bike.

“No! No, thank you.” I pointed toward the porch. “I just have a couple things I wanted to tell you about.”

We chose a pair of rattan chairs, covered with pretty flower-patterned cushions, and sat back like two friends getting ready to catch up on old times. Only I knew the old times Dane Hawkins and I shared were better off left not discussed.

No one spoke at first; the only sound between us was the whirring of the large fans above our heads as they circulated the air, bringing little relief to the heat and humidity that lingered even as the sun sat low in the sky. From somewhere down
the street, I could hear happy sounds of children trying to cram a little more playtime into the last minutes of daylight.

“So, what’s up?” he finally asked.

I brushed away a lock of hair stuck to my forehead. “I found out something today that might be important to the case.”

He leaned back, crossing a booted foot over his knee. “I’m all ears.”

I glanced out toward the yard, wondering how much time I had before the owner, Margie Price, finished at the meeting and returned. Running into her so soon again might prove awkward. “I think Millicent Wakefield has inherited control of Wakefield Lumber.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. She had a meeting at the mill this morning. Probably meeting with employees and assessing the situation.”

He nodded. “Interesting. I’ll check into the status of the company.”

“Good. What have
you
been able to find out?”

He drew in his breath. “Well, I’ve been working a different angle than you.”

Judging from the lipstick smudges on your face, probably the horizontal angle.

“But what I’ve learned also points to Millicent.”

I leaned forward. “Really? Like what?”

He picked at the sole of his boot, dislodging tiny pebbles from the tread. “After a little finessing, Laney confided in me about her affair with Ben Wakefield. She knew about his wife all along, but Wakefield led her to believe he was getting a divorce. Seems she had her heart set on marrying the guy. But, earlier in the day, she’d seen him driving around town with another woman. She said they looked cozy.”

“Another woman?”

Hawk waggled his brows. “A well-dressed blonde, as she put it, with lots of bling.”

“Oh my goodness! Millicent! But that would mean she was down here at the time of the murder.”

“Exactly. But hear me out.”

I sat back and took a deep breath.

“When Laney found out it was Wakefield’s wife, she became furious.”

“And killed him!”

“No; sorry. Laney’s not the murdering type. She’s more of the . . .”

His face took on a faraway look as he searched for the right way to describe Laney. Obviously, Hawk had lost his objectivity when it came to her. He looked like a smitten schoolboy.

“So . . .” I prompted, quickly losing my patience. “She decided to make him jealous by flirting with Hollis at the party,” I finished for him.

“Yeah. Something like that.”

I turned these new facts over in my mind, trying to imagine the complete scenario. Something nagged at me. “You know what? I didn’t get any of this when I spoke to Laney the other day. In fact, the more I learn about Laney, the more I realize she never really tells the real story. Have you noticed that?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’s possible she’s playing you.”

“Playing me? How’s that?”

“She knows you’re here to investigate Wakefield’s murder, right?”

He nodded.

“And she knew Millicent was here at the time of the murder. Isn’t it possible she killed Wakefield in a fit of scorned jealousy and is trying to frame Millicent? I mean, don’t you think it’s weird she’s giving you this information out of the blue? When she talked to me, she was happy to give a story about Hollis being so very drunk at the time, something I’ve now heard may not be that true. Maybe she made that up to further imply Hollis’s guilt, and since Hollis was already arrested, she thought that was enough. But now,
knowing there is an investigator here to help Hollis, maybe she’s just making up other stories to throw suspicion onto Millicent. Any story that throws suspicion on anyone other than herself might be her defense mechanism.”

“Yeah, okay. It crossed my mind. Still, at least evidence is building toward other suspects. If anything, there’s enough here to create reasonable doubt about Hollis’s guilt.” He stood and motioned toward the porch steps. “Well, I’ve got an early morning tomorrow. Can I give you a lift back to your car?”

“No, thanks.” I stood and headed for the steps, turning back at the last minute, unable to resist a little jab. “A little finessing, huh? You might want to scrub all those kissy marks off your face,” I said, leaving him wide-eyed and rubbing at his jawline. Not a thing had changed about Dane Hawkins.

•   •   •

By the time Cade’s truck pulled into my drive first thing Saturday morning, I was up and dressed, and had already packed a hearty lunch. I grabbed the cooler and the box of parts Joe needed and ran outside to meet Cade. I was surprised to see two other trucks pull in behind his.

“What’s all this?” I asked, setting my stuff on the ground.

“Just some friends,” he explained, hopping out of the truck. “They decided they could spare a few hours to help a neighbor. I’ll introduce you to them once we’re at Joe’s.” He loaded my things into the bed of the truck alongside some boards and several boxes of shingles. “We’re expecting rain later this afternoon,” he said. “So we need to get a move on. Hop in.”

“Hold on a minute,” I said, running back to the house. I grabbed lunch meats, a jar of mayo, pickles and a loaf of bread, then threw it all in a bag. I found Roscoe in his usual spot on the sofa. “Come on, boy. You’re going for a ride.”

“A dog?” Cade asked when I reappeared with Roscoe in my arms.

“Just a puppy, actually. You don’t mind if he rides along, do you? I’m watching him for . . . for a friend.”

Cade shrugged. “Sure.” He glanced back at the house. “Is Ray coming?”

“He’s not due back until later today,” I explained, moving aside several stacks of paperwork as I climbed into the passenger side. It looked as if Cade’s truck doubled as an office. Roscoe let out a little whimper so I placed him on my lap and stroked his fur, trying to calm his nerves. I was surprised he was so jittery, especially considering he usually rode on the back of a Harley.

“Just like old times, huh? Minus Hattie,” I commented, once we were on the move. I was referring back to our high school days when we spent many a Saturday afternoon tooling off to town in their daddy’s Chevy.

“She wanted to come help, but Saturday’s her busiest day at the shop.” He reached over and turned down the radio. “Speaking of the old days, remember that time we all went mudding down by the Hole? I about tore the axle off Daddy’s truck trying to get pulled out of that mess. Man, was he ticked.”

I started to laugh just as we hit a bump in the road. Roscoe reacted by digging his claws into my bare legs. “Ouch! Calm down, Roscoe!” I brushed him off my lap and scooted closer to the middle, giving him his own space by the window. I looked back at Cade. “Hope these paths aren’t too much for everyone’s vehicles.” Since there weren’t any roads leading directly to Joe’s cabin, we were navigating the orchard’s access roads, hoping to get near enough to his cabin that we didn’t have to carry supplies too far.

Cade tapped the dash. “Are you kidding? No problem.”

I turned and glanced out the back window, hoping the other guys felt the same. “Sure nice of your friends to help out.”

“They’re good guys. Besides, they all owe me. The thing about being a contractor is your friends are always asking for favors—help with this and that, borrowing tools; you know how it is.”

I nodded. “Still, thanks for cashing in your favors on me. And it looks like you’ve got plenty of supplies.”

He glanced my way. “Yup, but a lot of the stuff was left over from other jobs. The shingles won’t match, but I doubt Joe will care. Anyway, I was able to keep your supply cost down. I’ll just send a bill your way, once I get it all tallied up.”

I smiled. “Perfect.” After everything that had gone wrong this week, it was good to finally have something go right for a change.

After a rough-and-tumble ten-minute ride, we finally pulled up to the edge of the woods by Joe’s cabin. He was waiting for us, standing with his hands in his pockets and his hat pulled low over his head. As soon as I opened my door, Roscoe shot to the ground and started sniffing. I pulled out a plastic bowl and water bottle I’d brought to give him a drink but he was too busy sniffing to take a break.

“Who’s this?” Joe asked, reaching down and swiping his weathered hand over the dog’s back. “Got yourself a coon dog, do ya?”

“Not exactly,” I started, but Joe had already moved on, walking around the bed of the truck, eyeing the supplies. “Looks like your word’s as good as your daddy’s. And extra help, too,” he added with a nod toward the guys who had gathered around.

Quick introductions were made before everyone jumped in and began carrying supplies along the trail leading to Joe’s cabin. That was when I realized how impossible this job would be without the extra help. Even though we’d pulled up to the edge of the woods, it was still another thirty yards over a rocky, rooty trail to reach Joe’s cabin. Then reality really set in, when I realized the actual physical strength it took to tear off and replace the rotted roof decking and roll out and attach the large bundles of black felting paper. I left the heavy work to the guys, acting as their gofer by fetching nails, small tools and anything else they needed. Joe did his part keeping the guys going with an endless supply of liquid
refreshment. Halfway through the job, I decided we’d better break for some solid food, before all the hooch went to the guys’ heads. I retrieved the cooler and my extra bag of food and slapped a few more sandwiches together.

“How about some sandwiches?” I called out. After the guys were settled on the porch and happily eating, I took my own food to a nearby stump, so I could keep an eye on Roscoe, who was shuffling between trees, his nose to the ground as it had been all morning.

I’d just started eating when Joe moseyed over. “You’d think their sniffers would wear out,” he joked.

I made room for him on the edge of the stump. “I guess it’s a good thing he’s got a good nose. His owner’s a detective. That nose might come in handy one day.”

Joe raised a brow. “A detective, eh? The sheriff still don’t have her man?”

“She thinks she does, but I’m not so sure.”

“Is that so?” he grunted, balancing a mason jar of moonshine between his knees and tearing into his sandwich. “Good fixin’s,” he said, licking his fingers between bites.

I motioned toward the cooler. “There’s more where that came from.”

We ate in silence for a while, batting at the flies that’d started buzzing around our heads. Joe took a long swig of his drink and coughed a little. “When the flies swarm like this, it means a storm’s a-brewin’.”

I shielded my eyes against the sun and peered through the trees. The sky was a clear blue, not a storm cloud in sight. “That’s what they’re saying, but it’s hard to believe. The sky’s so clear.”

“One’s comin’. Mark my word.”

I looked his way. “At least you’ll have a solid roof over your head tonight.”

He tipped his jar my way and smiled. “That’s right. I’ve been wanting to get this roof fixed for a long time now. Never could afford it, though.” He squinted up at the roof
where the guys were at it again. They’d started on the shingles, passing them hand over hand to one of the guys, who drove a single nail to hold each in place. Another guy followed up behind him, pounding in a couple more nails, making sure each shingle was securely attached. “I know it don’t seem like much to you, but this old cabin has made a good home for me and mine.”

“I’m sure it has.” I glanced his way, wanting to tell him that I’d seen much worse living conditions. People living in mud huts, with no source of clean water. Or the slums I’d seen in Guatemala where entire neighborhoods consisted of homes built with scavenged cardboard and scrap sheets of metal propped up and held together with nothing but sticks and rope. But then I realized Joe must have been feeling some of the same desperation that I’d witnessed in those faraway lands. Desperation and the desire to simply meet the basic needs of food and shelter. At least now I figured out why I’d seen that file on Hollis’s desk. More than likely, Joe had gone to the bank for a loan to fix his roof. Of course, Hollis had probably denied the loan. After all, Joe had no collateral. That also explained why Joe was anxious to make a deal with me that included a new roof.

“Yes, sirree.” He started up again, bringing my thoughts back to the present. “This has been a fine home. We had ourselves some good times here. At least back in the day before the missus went sick. She died when Tucker was just thirteen. It was hard on the boy.”

I looked away, avoiding the raw pain that showed on his face. “I’m sorry, Joe.”

“Yup, they’re all gone.” He drew my attention back by spreading his hand through the air. “This land is all I have now.” Raising his jar again, he let out a dry chuckle and added, “And this.” After tipping back the rest of the liquid, he righted himself and swiped the back of his hand across his lips. “Guess we’d best be gettin’ back to work before that storm rolls in,” he said, standing and starting toward the
cabin. I stayed put for a second, watching him amble back across the yard, his shoulders bent forward as if he was walking against the wind.

Finally, I stood and brushed off the back of my shorts, the irony of it all hitting me again. All these years, I’d traveled so far away to help people around the world when my neighbor, even my own family, needed my help. Not that I’d go back and change the last fifteen years of my life. The thing was, what had first started out as my desire to run from home had helped me actually find my place in this world—and not geographically speaking. Rather, over the years, my work as a humanitarian helped me find a purpose. Something I probably wouldn’t have been able to do if I’d stayed around here, working on the farm. But, since returning home, something had shifted. I’d found not only purpose, but a type of warmth and neighborly love that I hadn’t even realized I’d been missing. Maybe . . . just maybe, Cays Mill wasn’t so bad after all.