Peaches and Scream (Georgia Peach Mystery, A) (20 page)

That was when the unthinkable happened. I wasn’t sure what she’d seen, but whatever it was caused Hattie’s eyes to pop and her muscles to tense. And, as everyone knows, two-stepping with stiff muscles is like trying to herd cats—downright impossible, dangerous even. Because the very moment Hattie’s muscles tensed, her partner decided to send her spinning across the floor. Only instead of gracefully spinning like a top—a move I’d seen her do a thousand times before—the heels of her calf-hugging cowboy boots collided and she fell like a ton of bricks, smack-dab against another dancer’s elbow. Poor Hattie. It was possibly the first time in the
Honky Tonk’s history that someone had busted their nose, not once but twice, from something other than a drunken brawl.

Blood spurted, she grabbed her face, the other dancers twirled on oblivious, and Hattie rushed from the dance floor, leaving her compatriot-in-crime in the dust. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.” She scurried past me toward the door, cupping her face in her hands.

I chased after her, snatching a clean rag from the bartender’s hands as we passed by, hightailing it to the parking lot. We leaned against the hood of her car, pressing the rag against her face until the blood finally stemmed. “Let me have a look.”

“No,” she wailed. “It hurts like a son of . . .”

“Let me look,” I insisted, pulling the rag away. I angled her, taking better advantage of the light streaming from a nearby lamppost. “Hey, it doesn’t look all that bad. I don’t think it’s busted this time.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose, giving it a tentative wiggle. “Are you sure?”

I got real close and squinted. “Well, it’s a little swollen, and you’ll probably have a shiner tomorrow, but it’s definitely not broken.”

“Sure hurts like the dickens.” She started fishing through her pockets for the keys. “You’d better drive in case the bleeding starts again. I swear, the things you talk me into.”

“Me? I was willing to kick back and wait it out. It was your idea to head out on the dance floor with Mr. Cotton-Eyed Joe.” I paused for a beat, drawing in a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Hattie. I
do
appreciate you. What’d you find out anyway?”

She glanced back toward the bar just as a couple cowboys staggered out, blaring music following them through the open door. “Come on. I’ll tell you on the way back to
town.”

Georgia Belle Fact #082:
A Georgia Belle knows life isn’t always perfect, but your nail polish sure better be.

Although I’d only had half of a beer the night before, I awoke Wednesday morning feeling like I’d been on a two-day bender. Probably because the truth about who met with Millicent at the Honky Tonk kept me awake most of the night. Well, that and the guilt of knowing I’d failed miserably in the puppy-sitting department. When I’d arrived home from the Honky Tonk, I discovered Roscoe had chewed the cushion on Mama’s favorite armchair and left a yellow puddle the size of Hill Lake by the front door. Guess I’d left him alone for too long. Poor thing. Today, I was determined to make it up to him with an extra-long early-morning walk through the orchard. Besides, I needed to think through what Hattie told me she’d seen at the bar the night before: Hollis in the booth with Millicent.

I was afraid Hollis’s meeting with Millicent had something to do with that new plan Ida had mentioned. The one she said Hollis had come up with to recoup the money he’d lost. Really, though, could he actually be stupid enough to get involved with
Wakefield Lumber again? Or had his drinking simply muddled his senses? Or . . . I hated to think it, but was there possibly something going on with Hollis and Millicent? It gave me the shivers to think about either one of them in
that
way, let alone together. I shook my head. Too many thoughts to sort through at once. Especially without my usual morning caffeine fix.

So, after downing a couple cups of coffee, I grabbed Roscoe and headed out to the orchards to clear my mind and mull over this new twist of events. “Watch out for those ears!” I warned him, as we trudged along the southeast portion of our farm. As usual, his nose was to the ground, ears dragging, as he followed closely on my heels.

While moving between the rows, I found myself assessing the state of the orchard: ground moisture levels, leaf conditions and any telltale signs of crop-eating pests. I knew my father made these walks on almost a daily basis. He had to. Changes unfolded daily in the orchard and a good farmer took note of these changes, adjusting his strategy along the way. Now that I’d decided to stay and help out, I’d need to start looking at the orchard with a keener eye. I slowed my pace, moving my gaze to several trees where sucker growth shot up along the base of the trunks and some sort of invasive weed had settled in around the roots. In my mind, I made a to-do list of pruning, ground clearing, weed control . . . The tasks were endless, but since I’d committed to staying, the challenge excited me.

Still, despite my best efforts to clear my mind and focus on other things, Hollis and his meeting with Millicent remained in the forefront of my thoughts. I just couldn’t shake the thought that he was getting himself back into the thick of things. I made a mental note to call Ray as soon as I got back to the house. Until then, I tried pushing those thoughts aside and kept walking, making my way out of the trees and down a steep hill bank to one of my favorite childhood stomping grounds. The Hole, as we’d always called it, was a spot where our little branch of the Ocmulgee tumbled down the rocky hillside, forming a deep pool of water before
flowing on through the countryside. An excited Roscoe ran ahead, dipping his nose in the cool water while I stood under a far-reaching live oak and fingered the frayed rope that hung from one of its branches. As a kid, I’d delighted in swinging Tarzan-like and dropping into the cool pool of water. Lots of memories . . . good memories.

Then my eyes wandered down the river a bit, toward the secluded spot where, years ago, I’d spent those few fateful hours with Hawk. To this day, I wondered how different things would have been if I hadn’t left the dance early to steal away on the back of his bike. At the time, I’d felt so free, so wickedly rebellious. But under the stars, with the sweet smell of spring grasses and the night sounds of tree frogs to serenade us, things went too far. Then, when I discovered . . . I sighed. Best not to think too much about the past now. There were too many other things, important things, to keep my thoughts busy. Like Hollis and Millicent. What could they have been meeting about? And why so late in the evening and at the Honky Tonk? Of course, these days, mixing business and pleasure was the standard mode of operation for Hollis. According to Ida, and half the townsfolk, he spent most of his evenings at the bar. He’d probably come to think of it as his home away from home. Or, in this case, his second office.

Drawing in a deep breath, I shook my head and let it back out with a low groan. Being back at my childhood hangout wasn’t bringing as much solace as I’d anticipated. I called to Roscoe, who was poking his nose in a crawdad hole, and started back to the house. My appointment with Laney was only a few hours away, and with the festival quickly creeping up, I had several other errands to run, including picking up my jar labels from the print shop and getting enough supplies to make another batch of preserves. While there were more than enough jars in Mama’s pantry, I hated the thought of her coming home and finding I’d stripped her cupboard bare. Besides, I needed to figure the normal expenses for this enterprise to determine my proper price structure.

Approaching the house, I was surprised to find Joe out by the barn, parking the tractor. “Joe! How’s it going?”

“Just fine.” He hopped down and pulled a hanky from the back of his overalls and began dabbing his brow. As he wiped, I noticed an angry red mark on the side of his arm.

“You’ve hurt yourself.” I pointed at the blistering wound and wrinkled my brow with concern. “It looks painful, too.”

He quickly pulled down his shirtsleeve, turning his gaze downward. “It’s nothing. Just burned myself when I was repairing the tractor engine. Guess these old hands are out of practice. But I got everything mowed down. Took a while. The grass was gettin’ pretty tall.”

“Thank you, Joe. My daddy’s going to be glad that job’s marked off the list.”

He raised his chin and puffed out his chest. “When’s he comin’ home?”

“A week from this Sunday.”

He slid his eyes sideways, rolling his lips before spitting out the side of his mouth. “Is that so? Got more chores that need doin’ before he gets back? I could use some extra cash.”

I wanted to talk to him about helping me replace some of the irrigation lines, but knew better than to rush into any deal with the sly fellow. “Care to come in for something to drink?”

He grinned, reaching back into his pocket and handing Roscoe a nibble of something. “Don’t mind if I do.”

“What’s that you’re giving him?” I kept my tone in check, but I wished people would quit feeding Roscoe. He was going to get spoiled.

“Just a little bit of dried pork jerky. I keep some in my pocket while I work. Look, he’s taken to it.”

“I’d say.” Roscoe was looking up, eyes wide and licking his chops, while his tail excitedly thumped in anticipation of more. I snatched him from the ground and headed for the door just as Joe was reaching back in his pocket. “Come on in, Joe. Looks like both you and Roscoe could use a little refreshment.”

Inside, I turned Roscoe loose with fresh water and a bowl of puppy food and poured Joe an ice-packed glass of tea.

After a long drag, he sighed and swiped the back of his hand across his lips. “Boy, that hits the spot.”

“Have a seat,” I said, reaching up and flipped on the radio. The twangy lyrics of a popular country tune filled the kitchen as I glanced around for something to offer. I finally placed a couple slices of toast in the toaster. “How about some toast with a little peach jam.”

“Sounds right nice, thank you.” I turned to see him tapping the toe of his worn boots on the floor.

“You like this song?” I asked, waiting for the toast to pop up.

“It’s a good tune. Heard it played at your folks’ party, too.”

I gathered the butter and a jar of preserves from the fridge and started to explain it was remix of an older song, but stopped mid-sentence when the full weight of his words hit me. “You were at the party? I didn’t see you.”

As I set the butter and preserves on the table, I saw him lean away. His eyes grew wide and he stopped tapping. “Just for a bit.”

I heard the sound of the toast popping but his reaction made me pause.

Shrugging, he reached for another sip of tea, but his hand trembled and the ice clinked. He set it down and stood, wiping his hands on his overalls. “Think I’ll pass on that toast. Best be gettin’ back home. Got my own chores to tend to.”

“Wait, Joe,” I called after him as he took off through the mudroom and out the back door. Out in the yard, I caught up to him, maneuvering to cut him off before he could get any farther. “Joe, is there something you want to tell me?”

He rubbed his fingertips over the beads of sweat forming over his lip. “No, I don’t reckon so.” He reached into his pocket. “But here’s the keys to the tractor.”

When he reached out, his shirtsleeve crept up, revealing the wound again. “You should have Doc Harris take a look at that.”

He shook his head. “Naw. Don’t have much use for doctors. I’ll just put some salve on it. Don’t you worry none about me. I’ll be fine.”

Only I was worried plenty and not just about his injury, either. One thing was clear—Joe was nervous and hiding something. Had Joe seen something at the party, something that he didn’t want to reveal about Wakefield’s murder? Then another thought hit me: Watching him walk back across the yard and disappear into the orchard, all I could think was that this kind old man who I’d grown so fond of probably had more reason than anyone to want Ben Wakefield dead. His son’s death at Wakefield Lumber weighed heavily on him even today. And now, knowing he had been at the party that night, I realized he’d had the opportunity to kill him, just like so many others. Then there was the burn on his arm. He’d said it came from working on the tractor, but . . . I rubbed at a kink forming in the back of my neck as it occurred to me that maybe I’d been looking at this whole thing wrong. Maybe Millicent hadn’t paid Floyd to set fire to that woodpile. Maybe it was . . . No, it couldn’t be Joe. I bit at my lip, fretting over this latest revelation. It just couldn’t be Joe, could it? I bent down, scooping up Roscoe and pulling him close to steal a moment of comfort from his soft fur and warm little body before heading back into the house.

•   •   •

“You’re late,” Laney stated, rolling her eyes to the large clock that hung on the wall. From the sink across the room, Mrs. Whortlebe clucked her disapproval at my tardiness as she prepared the sink area for a client’s shampooing. She paused for a second to send a sharp look my way. “About time ya got here, Nola Mae. Didn’t your mama teach you the importance of being on time?”

“Yeah, you’re fifteen minutes late,” Laney complained. “And after I cut my lunch break short and all.”

I lowered my head. “I’m sorry, Laney. I got tied up at the
Mercantile. Sally Jo needed my help with something.” That was only partially true. Actually, after stopping by the print shop to pick up the labels for my preserves, I’d gone in to check on some drip lines to replace the faulty ones in the south orchard. When I walked in, I found Sally Jo behind the counter, crying her eyes out. She was terribly upset about something, but I never could coax out of her what it was. Still, I was hesitant to leave until I got her settled down.

I slid into the chair across from Laney and plunked my hands on top of the table, sending her a pleading look. “Do you think you still have time to work me in? I want to look my best for the festival.”

Laney tapped the corner of the desk. “Pay up now. I don’t want you smudging my work trying to fish money out of your pocket when I’m done.”

Thanking her, I laid out the bills including an extra five on top of my already promised ten-dollar tip. This seemed to smooth her ruffled feathers. As she picked up the bills, I noticed she’d added tiny little gems to the tips of her own red nails. Probably a little extra bling for the weekend’s festivities. As for my color, there was already a bottle set out along with a few of the same torturous tools she’d used last time. “That shade looks familiar. A Knowing Blush?” I asked, remembering the name of the polish she’d used before.

“A Knowing Blush? Why, heavens no!” The corners of her lips curled upward. “This one’s called Double Trouble Pink.”

I narrowed my eyes. The names of these polishes were sounding fishy to me. A Knowing Blush and now Double Trouble Pink? Like maybe trouble was coming my way, or, heaven forbid, Hollis was in for another round of trouble. Or perhaps it was Laney’s subtle comment on the town’s most recent stream of unfortunate events: murder and now arson. Then again, Laney wasn’t really the subtle-comment type.

She got down to work, her mouth moving as quickly as her fingers as she jabbered on about the weekend’s festivities,
what she planned to wear to this event and that—reminding me that I promised Hattie I’d come early to her shop Saturday morning for own my fashion fix—and other trivial tidbits that passed in one ear and out the other until my attention was sidetracked by a low moan coming from across the room. “Oooh, please don’t stop, Doris. This is the best shampoo I’ve ever had. I can just feel all my stress melting away.”