Peaches and Scream (Georgia Peach Mystery, A) (22 page)

At the mention of Hollis, her eyes popped and her mouth pursed into a perfect little
O
.

“What is it, Candace? Is something going on with Hollis?”

She clamped her mouth shut and shook her head from side to side.

I narrowed my eyes. “I know he’s your boss and I do admire your loyalty, Candace. But he’s my sister’s husband. He’s family. If something’s going on, I should know about it. Don’t you think?”

“Your sister already knows. I made sure of it.”

Now I was really curious. However, while Candace may freely tell you more than you’d ever want to know about her own personal medical conditions, she wasn’t one to spout off about other people’s business. She was discreet. A great quality for someone who worked in a bank and one of the main reasons Hollis had kept her on all these years.

“You know, Candace, Ida hasn’t been herself these days, what with the baby and all.” Grabbing an extra jar of preserves, I started carefully wrapping it in tissue. “Honestly, I’ve been quite worried about her.”

“You have?”

“Uh-huh. All this going on with Hollis has taken a toll on her . . . and the baby.”

Candace gasped, her hand flying to her lips. “Oh Lawdy, is the baby all right?”

I let her question hang. “The whole family is so worried. Especially Hollis. You know, say what you want about Hollis
Shackleford, but he’s a good daddy. His children mean the world to him.”

Candace’s head bobbed up and down. “You got that right.”

Reaching out, I took back her bag and slid the newly wrapped jar in alongside the others. “Here. A gift—”

“I couldn’t.” She started to hand it back.

“No, take it, please,” I insisted, placing my hand on her arm, leveling my gaze on her. “For being such a good friend of the family.”

She bit back a little whimper and started fidgeting with the ribbon on her package. A part of me felt guilty for putting her into such a moral dilemma. Another part of me said to heck with morals; this was Hollis we were talking about. If something was going on, I needed to know. For Ida’s sake.

“He was drinking again,” she started. I had to lean in and listen closely, as her voice was barely a whisper. “Locked himself in his office and drank himself silly.”

“This morning?”

“I know. Awful. Absolutely awful. He kept mumbling something about not enough money.”

“Really?” It didn’t make any sense. Maybe Candace misunderstood.

“Oh, I feel so rotten for spreading this around. Yes, I do.”

I steadied my hand on her arm. “You’re only telling me because I’m family. And you know family has to look out for each other. Especially those precious young ones.”

Her back straightened as resolve firmly rooted itself. “That’s right. That’s why I called Ida. We were getting ready to close down, and I was worried Hollis might try to drive in his condition. I called Ida to come and get him.”

“Did she?”

Candace nodded her head. “She was so upset, but she made me promise not to tell anyone. Said she’d make arrangements to come get him soon. In the meantime, she told me to take his car keys and go ahead and lock up the bank.”

I glanced at my cell. A little before noon. Hollis was
probably still in his office, sleeping it off; I doubted Ida had been able to get there yet. Looking back at Candace, I could tell she was regretting having said so much. Again I patted her arm. “You’ve done the right thing by telling me. Ida doesn’t have any business trying to manhandle Hollis when he’s in that type of condition. Think of the baby. I’ll make sure she gets the help she needs. And discreetly,” I added, offering her a quick wink, at which she gave a little sigh. I looked around for an opportunity to break away from my booth. Now I needed to call Ray and let him know where he could find the elusive Hollis; not to mention I did need a restroom break.

Finally my eyes landed on Nash, who was coming my way with a handful of money. “Excuse me,” he said, nodding to Candace. “But Ms. McKenna is sending me over to the VFW stand to pick up a couple pulled pork sandwiches. Do you want me to get you something?”

My stomach rumbled in response. “That would be wonderful, Nash, but would you mind watching my booth for a couple minutes first?” I came out from behind the table and unstrapped my money apron, passing it to him. I was hoping to find a private spot where I could call Ray. “I just need to visit the restroom. Be right back.” I excused myself and trotted into the shop.

Hattie looked up from helping a customer as I passed through. “If you’re heading for the restroom, I’m afraid there’s a line back there. Seems it’s the most popular spot in the shop this morning.”

“Uh-oh.” I simply couldn’t hold it for much longer. She mentioned the port-a-johns, with an apologetic look.

On the way back out the door, I stopped by my booth and gave Nash a quick run-down on selling preserves and made a beeline for the port-a-potties. At least the lines were short. I was able to get in and out in record time plus place a quick call to Ray, who said he’d meet Ida at the bank to help her with Hollis. Ray was good at that kind of thing. Finally I could relax a bit, quit eyeing the crowd for Hollis, and concentrate on my family’s new enterprise.

The day was so nice, it was difficult not to tarry on the way back to the boutique. Glancing down Blossom Avenue, I saw a line was already forming in the church’s parking lot with people eager for their taste of the mammoth cobbler. Perhaps a little later, I’d send Nash back out to scrounge up a bowl for me. On the yard in front of the city building, the potato sack races had just begun, cheers ringing out from the crowd as they encouraged their favorite participant. I paused for a second, remembering a few races from my own youth. I usually crossed the finish line neck and neck with Ida, each of us vying for first place. I sighed and shook my head at the memory—seemed we’d spent most of our childhood competing over one thing or another.

With all the festivities, I found myself easily distracted as I weaved my way back through the booths. Everywhere I looked was awash in bright colors: banners hanging from the lightposts, children with brightly colored balloons and a rainbow of booths dotting the side streets. The lively tunes of a popular local band, the Banjo Boys, floated in the breeze along with tempting smells of roasting peanuts, kettle corn and funnel cakes. I was heading into sensory overload! First I stopped to sniff a display of soy candles, then to admire a quilt stitched by the talented ladies of the St. Francis Altar Society and, of course, linger a bit at a booth with handsomely hand-carved fruit bowls that I knew would look perfect full of peaches and resting on Mama’s dining room table. I was just about to purchase one when a familiar pair of tight jeans caught my eye.

“Hawk. You’re back,” I said, joining him by the lemonade stand.

He glanced down at me with a smile, then back at the woman taking his order. “Add one more lemonade, would ya, darlin’?”

I smiled. “Thanks.”

Hawk paid her; then we stepped aside as she prepared our order, slicing fresh lemons. After that she’d press them through a custom squeezer that emptied the juice, lemons
and all into tall plastic glasses brimming with ice along with spritzes of a sugary syrup.

Leaning against the stand, Hawk folded his arms and took in my new look. “New dress?”

“Hattie gave it to me,” I explained, smoothing out a few wrinkles that’d accumulated while I sat all morning. “I’m test-selling my new line of products today. Guess she thought I’d better look the part.”

“Well, you look real nice.”

“Thanks.” I cleared my throat and moved the conversation along. “So, Ray says you didn’t have any luck up in Macon.”

He nodded. “Seems Floyd Reeves is as slippery as a wet snake. Thought I had him pinned down at one point, but he eluded me. I’ll pick up his trail again next week. Ray wanted me to come back down and look into some other things.”

“Other things?”

“Here’s your drinks,” the woman behind the stand interrupted.

I turned to see her place three lemonades on the counter. “Three?”

As if to answer my question, Laney Burns sashayed onto the scene, her long red nails encircling the cup as she snatched it off the counter. My shocked gaze automatically wandered from her spiked heels to the top of her maxed-out head of hair, stopping for a second to ponder her latest shade of nail color. Tart Cherry, perhaps? Or Wanton Scarlett?

“Hey, there, Nola.” She flashed her best sugary smile and wrapped her free hand possessively around Hawk’s biceps. “Sweet of you to keep Hawk company while I powdered my nose, but I’m back now.”

I attempted to match her fake smile, but it was difficult with my jaw hanging halfway down my neck. Instead, I mumbled something stupid, grabbed my drink and left before someone misinterpreted the weird expression on my face. I certainly didn’t want Laney to think I was jealous. Because I wasn’t. If anything, I was disgusted. Disgusted by the fact that my brother
hired an idiot. If Hawk had really left his pursuit of a suspected arsonist to come back here pursuing other leads, then why was he wasting time messing around with Laney Burns? It was possible, of course, that his interest in Laney wasn’t personal at all. Maybe Ray asked him to check into the possibility that Laney vandalized Millicent’s car. Aw . . . I knew better than that. Hawk might be doing a little undercover work with Laney, but it wasn’t the investigating type of undercover. It was just Hawk being . . . well, Hawk. Guess some things just never changed.

Once again, I started making my way back to my booth when a frantic voice cut through the crowd. “Nola! Nola!” Off in the distance, I could see Ida running toward me, one hand on her belly and the other excitedly waving her cell in the air. Breaking into a jog, I met her halfway. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Her wild eyes searched my face as she pointed to her phone. “It’s Hollis. He’s been hurt!”

“Hold on, now,” I said, gripping her shoulders firmly. “He’s safe. He’s locked up inside the bank. Didn’t Ray call you?”

“Yes, but he wasn’t there. I came out here looking for him, but . . .” She pointed at the phone again, her fingers trembling so badly, I thought she was going to drop it.

“But what, Ida? What’s happened?”

“He called me.”

“And what did he say?”

Her hand flew to her cheek. “Oh, Nola. I could hardly make heads or tails out of what he was saying, he was so drunk. But he was moaning something awful. Like he was in pain. I just know there’s been some sort of terrible accident. I told his secretary to take his keys, but he must have had a spare set somewhere.”

“His car’s not at the bank?”

She shook her head.

I scanned the crowd again, but the noise and the crush of the onlookers for the tug-of-war made locating Hollis next to impossible. “Where’s Ray?”

“He met up with Cade and they’re both out looking.”

Hawk caught up to us, his own cell phone to his ear. “Okay. Will do,” he said, disconnecting. “That was Ray. He told me what’s going on. So far, no sign of Hollis.”

Ida let out a short sob. Then another and another. She was working up to hysterics.

“Listen,” I intervened. “I’m sure he’s okay. He’s probably just sick from drinking. Did you call him back?”

“Over and over again. But it just keeps going through to voice mail. Oh, I hope he’s not lying dead somewhere along the side of the road,” she wailed.

“Where are the girls?”

She pointed over her shoulder. “I left them with Hattie. I went to the shop looking for you and she said you came this way—” She paused, clenching her teeth and letting out a little moan.

I shot a worried look Hawk’s way. “Ida! Are you having contractions?”

She waved it off. “Oh, just little ones. I always have these my last month.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure!” she snapped. “I’ve been through this before, you know.”

“Okay, let’s go back to the shop and get the girls. I’m taking you all back to the house for a rest.”

She dug in her heels and shook her head. “No. I’m not leaving until I find Hollis.”

Hawk stepped forward. “Look, Mrs. Shackleford. Why don’t you let us guys do the searching? Besides, I’m trained for this type of thing.”

Yeah. And you did such a good job tracking down Floyd Reeves.
But I didn’t say that. At this point, I wasn’t all that concerned about Hollis. By now, his antics were wearing thin on my patience. What really concerned me was Ida’s condition and what all this stress was doing to her. I shooed him off to go search and turned back to Ida. “Come on, sis. Let’s get you back to Hattie’s shop.”

Georgia Belle Fact #084:
A Georgia Belle’s most cherished possession is her family. That means everyone in the family—even the ones we’d rather not mention.

“I bet you wanna buy some of my nana’s peach preserves, don’t you?” We arrived back at the shop just in time to catch Savannah in full swing of things. “I promise you, ma’am, it’s the best peach preservers you’ll ever taste.” She crossed two fingers over her heart and batted her lashes while her sister Charlotte, off to the side, was showing an attentive customer the great artwork on the labels. A chorus of
oh
s and
aw
s sounded from the line, which was about seven people deep, all with money out and waiting.

Nash, who stood behind the girls making change for the latest purchase, looked on with concern as we approached. “Everything okay, Ms. Harper?”

“Sort of. I’m so sorry I’ve been gone all this time.”

Hattie appeared in the doorway. “Don’t be silly, Nola. We’re fine.” Taking one look at Ida’s condition, she jumped into action. “Let me help,” she said, dashing to Ida’s side and guiding her toward the shop.

Ida shrugged her off. “Stop with the fussing, will y’all? I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine, Ida. I’m taking you to the house where you can rest and I can keep an eye on you for a while. The guys will call as soon as they find Hollis.”

“Good idea,” Hattie agreed. “And let me keep the girls here with Nash and me.”

Ida shook her head. “Oh, I don’t know. I hate to impose. . . .”

“Please, Mama! Please!” they echoed from behind the booth. “We’re having so much fun.”

Ida gave in and agreed to let Hattie watch the girls while she and I made our way back to my Jeep. She was unusually quiet on the ride back to the farm. It wasn’t until we’d reached the gate that she finally spoke. “I’m sorry to drag you away from the festival.”

“Oh, believe me, those girls of yours have everything under control. They’re much better saleswomen than me anyway.”

She chuckled, then gritted her teeth again, her hand instinctively flying to her belly. I pulled up next to the house and put my Jeep in park and turned in the seat. “You’re having more contractions, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but they’re not the real thing. Promise. They’ll go away with a little rest. Besides, the due date isn’t for a couple weeks yet.”

Hopping out, I came around and helped her out of the car and up the porch steps. As soon as I opened the door, Roscoe shot out between our legs.

“My word! What was that?” Ida cried.

“Roscoe!” I shouted after him, but he tore off through the yard and was already halfway around the barn. “Well, shoot! Wonder what’s gotten into him?” I’d given him a long outing this morning and left him plenty of food, but I sort of suspected he’d been spoiled. Ever since Ray started feeding him people food, then Joe with the jerky, the poor dog had gone nuts. He’d been constantly sniffing around for people food and only nosing at his own puppy kibble.
“That’s Dane Hawkins’s dog,” I explained to Ida, who’d already spread out on the davenport. I went to cover her with the afghan, asking if she wanted something cool to drink.

“No, I’m fine. Have you checked your phone? Any messages from the guys?”

I took a quick peek and set it down on the coffee table in front of her. “Afraid not. But don’t worry; they’ll find Hollis soon. Ray knows where to look.” I was thinking the first place they probably went was up McManamy Draw. That seemed to be Hollis’s favorite haunt. If not there, maybe the Honky Tonk. I worried my bottom lip, remembering what Candace had said about Hollis’s condition. If he really had been drinking as much as she said, he had no business driving anywhere. Hopefully, he hadn’t driven off the road somewhere.

Trying to push the thought aside, I peered back out the front window, searching the yard for any signs of Roscoe. “Ida, will you be okay here for just a second? I should chase after Roscoe. I think he’s heading for Joe Puckett’s place.”

“Joe’s? Why? Does he have a taste for moonshine?”

“No. Jerky, I’m afraid. Joe gave him some and he’s developed a taste for it. He turns his nose up at his real food now.”

She waved me on. “Go on. I’ll be just fine now that I’ve got my feet up.”

I kicked off my sandals, slipped on my field boots, and took off across the yard, calling Roscoe’s name as I searched around the barn. Somewhere off in the distance, I heard a little whimpering sound. It seemed to come from the orchard that led to Joe’s property. Just as I thought. He was being led by his stomach. “That dog is so spoiled,” I mumbled, trudging off toward the trees.

By the time I made my way through the orchard and had reached Joe’s property line, I’d worked myself into a tizzy. I hadn’t asked to have dogsitting in my basket of responsibilities at all. I needed to be back at the house taking care of Ida. And I would be, too, if Joe hadn’t fed Roscoe those
treats. I hated to be disrespectful, but I was going to have to set him straight on the matter.

“Roscoe! Roscoe!” I called, working my way over the path that led to Joe’s cabin.

My calls were answered with a low baying sound rounded off with a series of tiny whimpers. I quickened my step. It sounded like Roscoe was upset about something.

“Roscoe!”

A sharp yelp sent me scurrying into the woods behind Joe’s cabin. There I found Roscoe, pawing at the bottom edge of a small woodshed. “There you are, Roscoe!” Bending down, I lifted him to my chest and stroked his fur, but he kept whining and clawing to get back down. “What is it, boy?”

That was when I heard it. A thumping noise from within the shed, followed by a low moaning sound. “Joe?” I cried, suddenly worried for my friend’s safety. Had someone beaten him and locked him in the shed? Who would do such a horrible thing to the kind old gentleman? “Joe?” I called again, bending down and throwing my weight against a heavy log that was propped against the door. As soon as the log budged, I grabbed the handle and threw open the door, its rusty hinges wheezing as it banged open. I rushed inside, Roscoe darting ahead of me, caught up in a sniffing frenzy punctuated with a series of high-pitched yaps. My eyes quickly scanned the dark shed, taking in the crude wooden shelves, each stacked with rows and rows of jugs and sealed mason jars. The place must have doubled as food storage, because I also spied a row of my mama’s preserves along with a barrel of wild apples and a couple slabs of salt pork hanging from the rafters—which explained why Roscoe was so eager to get inside. Then suddenly, a slight movement from the dark corner of the shed caught my attention. “J—” I stopped short, my vision finally adjusting to the darkness of the shed. It wasn’t Joe, but Hollis.

“Hollis!”

He was crumpled in a heap, an empty mason jar on the ground next to him.

“Nola? Is that you, Nola?” He let out a cough, which turned to a gagging sound and ended with a heave. I stepped back, covering my face as he vomited.

“What are you doing here, Hollis?” I asked, scooping up Roscoe and taking another step backward. “And how’d you get here?” I hadn’t seen his car around anywhere.

“Took a ditch up the road a ways,” he managed, regaining some control and starting to stand, only to slump back down again. “You need to leave now. It’s Joe. Joe’s the . . .” Hollis closed his eyes and let out a little snort.

“Don’t you pass out on me, Hollis Shackleford!” I carefully circumvented the splatter zone and leaned down to tap Hollis’s face with my free hand. “Hollis! Joe’s the what, Hollis?”

“The killer.” The words didn’t come from Hollis, though. They came from Joe. I wheeled around to find him standing behind me, shotgun in hand. “I’m the one who killed Ben Wakefield.”

I looked from his dazed face to the shotgun trembling in his hands and was dumbfounded. Even though I’d had a niggling of suspicion, hearing the words straight from his mouth was shocking. Of course, the signs were there all along—the motive of his son’s death, his presence at the party the night Wakefield was killed. Only, I’d chosen to ignore them, pushing them to that remote place in the back of my mind where I put all the unpleasant thoughts and ugly truths I was unwilling to face. Only now there was no more denying it: Joe was a murderer. “Put down the gun, Joe. Let’s talk about this.”

He looked down at the gun, confusion registering on his face as if he was surprised he was holding it. “It was an accident, I swear.” To my relief, he leaned the gun against the shed wall and stepped away. “I didn’t mean it. . . .” He shook his head, raising his hands and staring incredulously at his own palms. “We were arguin’ and . . . It was an accident. You believe me, right?”

I clenched Roscoe close and glanced from Joe to the shotgun, which was still only a few quick steps away from
where he stood. “I do believe you, Joe. But let’s step outside and talk some more. I’ll help you. I promise.”

He bobbed his head, turned slowly and made his way back through the shed door with heavy steps. I glanced once more at Hollis, who was slumped backward and snoring loudly. A line of drool dribbled from his open mouth. I sighed with disgust and quietly shut the shed door to keep Roscoe from the salt pork. Then I joined Joe out at the same stump where we’d sat and shared sandwiches the other day. That seemed so long ago now.

As soon as I put Roscoe down, he started pawing at Joe’s pant legs for a treat. Joe reached down and scratched his head. “Sorry, lil’ fella. Don’t have nothin’ for ya right now.”

“Tell me exactly what happened, Joe,” I started, still keeping my distance. But as I watched his demeanor crumple—his shoulders drooping and his arms retracting tightly around his torso—my caution melted away and a feeling of sympathy took over. Crossing to the stump, I placed a hand on his shoulder. “Go on, Joe. It’s okay. Tell me what happened.”

“That music y’all were playing that night. Mighty catchy. I wanted to come closer so I could hear it better, maybe watch people dancin’. . . .” His voice caught at he spoke. “Anyways, I was back a ways, watchin’ from the orchard, when I saw him.”

“Ben Wakefield?”

“Uh-huh. Mr. Wakefield.” He clenched his midsection tighter and shot me a long, searching look before breaking eye contact again. Looking at the ground, he thumbed toward the shed. “A while back, that man in there came ’round and told me Mr. Wakefield was going to take my land.”

“Hollis? He told you that?”

“Yup. He’s your kinfolk, I suppose. He’d been up here at my place with some fancy document. Said I hadn’t paid my taxes and Wakefield was going to take my trees. Why, these trees are my livelihood.”

For a second I was confused. His livelihood? Then, as I
watched his eyes scan the forest, it dawned on me that his moonshine still was probably hidden out there somewhere, camouflaged among the thick underbrush of the trees.

He went on. “Thought I was free and clear with Wakefield dead, but Hollis came back up here again today with those same fancy papers. Drunk as a skunk, too. I dunno how he even got here. . . .” He shook his head. “Anyway, said the new owner of the mill still wanted the trees. That he was going to buy my land for back taxes and sell it to the mill for profit. He was so lit up, I thought maybe if I locked him up for a while, let him dry out, maybe I could talk some sense into him.”

“Back taxes? But you should have received some sort of notice. You should have an opportunity to pay them before your property goes into foreclosure.”

Joe shrugged, his eyes rolling over the trees that surrounded us. “Some papers came. But I didn’t understand them. That’s why when I saw Mr. Wakefield, I thought I’d explain. I told him, ‘I don’t need to pay no money for this land. It was given to my granddaddy by the Harper granddaddy.’ That’s what I told Mr. Wakefield that night in the orchard. Only he wouldn’t listen. He laughed and called me ignorant. And I—”

“You murdered him in cold blood!” We both startled, turning to see Hollis behind us, waving the shotgun in the air. “And tried to pin it on me.”

“Put the gun down, Hollis. Before you hurt someone!”

“Step away, Nola. That man’s a killer,” Hollis cried out.

Part of me wanted to step between him and Joe and part wanted to step the other way, farther outside of his wavering aim. “You’re drunk, Hollis. Put the gun down. We’ll work this out.”

Only he gripped the gun tighter, the barrel bobbing dangerously as he shouted, “Get out of here, Nola, before he kills you, too!”

I watched in horror as Hollis wobbled and gripped the gun tighter, his fingers precariously close to the trigger. “Put the gun down, Hollis; you’re not thinking—” I started to plead,
when suddenly a brown streak zipped past my feet and darted between Hollis’s legs. Roscoe was running full charge toward the open shed door and straight for the smell of pork. Hollis startled, stumbled over the dog, lost his balance, and as he fell backward, a deafening shot rang through the air. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the stump splinter and shards of wood fly in all directions. I also saw Joe fall to the ground.

“Joe!”

The old man was on the ground, clutching his side, blood seeping through his fingers. I gave him a quick once-over. He was bleeding badly, but still breathing. I looked over at Hollis, who was on the ground, looking dazed and confused, the shotgun safely in the grass a few feet away. “You shot him!” I accused.