Peaches and Scream

Book 1: A Georgia Peach Mystery

by Susan Furlong

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

To help run the family peach farm during her parents' absence, Nola Harper returns to her childhood home of Cays Mill, Georgia, and soon discovers that things back at the farm aren't exactly peachy. A poor harvest and rising costs are threatening to ruin the Harpers' livelihood, and small-town gossip is spreading like blight thanks to Nola's juicy reputation as a wild teenager way back when. But Nola really finds herself in the pits when she stumbles upon a local businessman murdered among the peach trees.

With suspicions and family tensions heating up faster than a cobbler in the oven, this sweet Georgia peach will have to prune through a list of murder suspects—before she too becomes ripe for the killer's picking . . .

Release date: July 7, 2015

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 304

Sample

Acknowledgments

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 as 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, with 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.”

The thought of seeing Hattie again thrilled me. Her family used to live just down the road and she’d been my best friend all through school. There was a time when she, Cade—her older brother—and I were inseparable. A smile tugged at my lips as I remembered the trouble we’d get into and how much fun we had annoying Ida and her friends. Of course, thinking back to the scowl Ida had greeted me with, I figured I still annoyed her.

I opened the screen door for Mama and followed her in. “Are you excited for the party tonight, Mama?” I asked, glancing around with a happy feeling. Our house was exactly the same as when I left, right down to a lingering smell of fried chicken mixed with the faint scent of Daddy’s cigars. Today, there was also a little fruity smell mixed in. Ida must’ve been cooking up something peachy in the kitchen.

Mama nodded, motioning for me to sit at the dining room table as she headed for the kitchen. “Yes, I can hardly wait,” she said over her shoulder. After a few seconds, she came back through the swinging kitchen door with a couple glasses of sweet tea. “Your sister has really put herself out getting everything ready.” She took a sip of tea and swiped a napkin under her sweating glass before placing it back on the table. “I hope she’s not working too hard, with the baby so close and all.”

I looked away, feeling guiltier than ever for not coming home earlier and helping more with the party. I’d begged off on coming home a week earlier, claiming, correctly, that I had things to tie up at the Helping Hands International headquarters before I could leave. What I had to tie up was every string I could find to keep me out of a desk job—but to no avail in the end anyway. In retrospect it might have been more pleasant blowing up balloons with Ida. “I’m sure she’s happy to do it. Fifty years, Mama.” I patted her hand. “That’s something to celebrate.”

“Yes, it is!” she said, although I noticed her smile didn’t seem to reach her eyes.

“Are you worried about the farm, because I’m sure I can handle—”

“Oh heavens no! I know you’ll take good care of things around here.”

I studied her for a moment. Something was off. “Are you sad to miss the harvest festival? I know it means so much to you.” She and Daddy first met at the peach festival, and they’d never missed a single one in the fifty years they’d been married.

She tilted her head back and chuckled. My mama had a deep, raspy laugh that seemed too big for her tiny frame, but I never tired of hearing it. “How could I be sad when your sister has practically re-created the whole festival for tonight?” She leaned forward, eyes twinkling. “Oh, Nola. Wait till you see what’s she’s come up with. Why, the decorations, the flowers, the food . . . It’s all just divine.”

Boy, I owed my sister big-time. “I’m so glad, Mama. And I can’t wait to see Hattie. When did she get back?”

“A few months ago when her father took ill. He’s in the convalescent home east of town. Alzheimer’s, I think. That family’s had its share of trouble—that’s for sure.”

I dipped my eyes, running my hand over the marred top of our family table. Poor Hattie. I never understood how some people had to bear so much sadness while others seemed to breeze through life without a care. Maybe that was why I’d loved my job so much. It gave me a chance to try to right the off-balanced nature of life. Something I knew wasn’t going to be possible from behind a desk.

“You know, she’s started a dress shop down on the square,” Mama added, bringing relief to the downturn in the conversation.

My mood lightened. “A dress shop! Hattie?” Although I shouldn’t have been surprised. Hattie was always the epitome of southern fashion. “How about Cade?” I asked, wondering if he was still around.

“Cade McKenna? He’s still here. He started his own contracting business.”

“Really? He always did like building things. Do you remember that old fort we made over by the Hole?” The Harper farm included more than a hundred acres of land, most of which were planted in peach trees. The other part was wooded, with a branch of the Ocmulgee River cascading over large rocks and forming a deep, cool pool at the bottom. Growing up, we’d called it the Hole, short for the swimming hole. I’d spent many a hot afternoon cooling off there.

“Yes, you kids were always up to something.” She paused and took a long sip of her tea. I could hear Ida knocking around in the kitchen and wondered if she would join us soon. Mama swiped her napkin around the sweating glass again and continued, “You three were a menace. I had to keep a constant eye on you. Heaven only knows all the trouble you got into.”

I smiled, thinking she didn’t know the half of it. And, never would, if I could help it. “I wonder if Cade will show up tonight.”

She leveled her gaze on me, her blue eyes twinkling. “Of course he’s coming, dear. Everyone’s going to be here.”

•   •   •

My mother wasn’t exaggerating. In fact, the crowd started arriving early. It was only a little before five when I heard the first set of tires crunching on our gravel drive. Ray was already in position outside to direct the parking of the cars to strategically avoid a complete block-up of the property. Ida was no doubt directing everything downstairs. I was still in my room trying to decide between my only formal attire—a black halter-top dress, great for hot tropical climates, or a deep blue silk dress with long sleeves for countries with modesty codes—when a knock sounded on the door.

“Nola?”

I looked up to see Hattie standing in the doorway. “Hattie!” I screamed, running to hug her. “You haven’t changed a bit.” She hadn’t, either. Hattie always looked like she’d just stepped out of the pages of a southern fashion magazine. Tonight was no different. She was wearing a cute little flowered sundress that barely glanced her knees and mid-calf rhinestone-studded cowboy boots. She even had her dark hair done up big, with a glitzy barrette holding back one side. I glanced down at the bed where I’d laid out my choices. Suddenly, neither dress seemed right. I was going to stick out like a sore thumb at the party.

“This suits you,” she said, reaching out and fingering my hair.

“You think? I cut it earlier when I went to Darfur. Long hair just didn’t work in the refugee camps.”

She sighed. “Well, bless your heart. I can’t even imagine. How long have you been gone this time? Three years?” she asked.

“At least. I don’t think I’ve seen you since your mama . . .” I let my words trail off. A few years ago, Hattie lost her mother to cancer. I came back to support her during that awful time, but since then, I’d let our friendship slip. “Hattie, I’m sorry I haven’t called more often. I haven’t been a good friend to you.”

She clasped my hands, squeezing tightly. “It’s just as much my fault. The phone line runs both ways, you know? And you were here for me when I needed it most. It’s just that after Mama passed, I lost my bearings.” Her eyes grew moist. “You know, Nola Mae, there’s just nothing better than a mama that’s always there for you. You remember that, okay?”

I swallowed hard, trying to understand her sorrow, yet not wanting to think too much about the day I might not have my own mother. I just couldn’t face the possibility of such significant grief. I reached out and hugged her again. This time when I pulled back she wore a happier look on her face.

“Well, let’s not dwell on all that,” she said. “What’s important is that we’re here now and are about to celebrate a happy occasion.” She glanced down at the bed. “Having trouble picking your dress?”

I fingered the silk dress. “I bought this on a whim at an Indonesian market a few months back, but haven’t worn it yet.”

“For heaven’s sake, why not? It’s gorgeous! The color is perfect for your blue eyes.”

“Really?” I stood and carried the dress to the mirror and held it in front of me. I wasn’t sure. I’d never really considered such things. Most of my time was spent doing things like roaming field sites in search of water supplies, teaching English to slum orphans and searching rubble for earthquake survivors—strictly jeans and T-shirt type of stuff. I was out of practice when it came to dressing up. Usually, I just applied sunscreen, threw on a baseball cap and got busy. “You really think this one looks good?”

Hattie slid into the mirror next to me. She fingered the fine silk embroidery of songbirds in gold thread that edged the sleeves and matched the flowered trim around the scooped neckline. “Yes, I do,” she said, brushing aside a piece of my wispy bangs. “Especially after I fix your hair and makeup for you.”

I giggled. “The last time you said that was right before senior prom. I had a date with . . . Oh, what was that guy’s name?” I’d stripped down to my skivvies and was pulling the dress over my head.

“Danny Hicks.”

“Oh, that’s right. Was that night ever a disaster! Especially when”—I choked on even saying his name, as that night flooded back on me—“you-know-who showed up. He’s not still around here, is he?” I had a horrible vision of running into him at the party.

Hattie wheeled me around and started working the dress’s buttons. “Last I heard he was somewhere up by Macon. I haven’t seen him since I’ve been back, though.”

“Good.” I let the image of that night, the wonder of it at the time, the horror of it later, pass by. I’d left that behind me, I reminded myself. Forever.

“Well, don’t worry,” she assured me. “All that’s in the past now. And tonight’s not going to be anything like our senior prom. Fifty years of marriage! Can you imagine? What could possibly go wrong when we’re celebrating something so wonderful?”

I turned back to the mirror and smiled at my image. At the moment, everything did seem right with the world. My parents were celebrating their marriage and embarking on an adventure, I had three weeks to hang at home, rest and catch up with my best friend . . . and the dress did look darn good on me. “You’re right,” I echoed her sentiments. “What could possibly go wrong?”

Chapter 2

Georgia Belle Fact #012: The reason Georgia women have such big hair is because all the gossip and secrets overflowing from their heads has to go somewhere!

I had to admit, Ida had done a wonderful job planning our parents’ party. The atmosphere did remind me of the peach festival, only slightly more refined. The most stunning feature was the columns that held up the massive tent. I’d been right at my first glance—they did look like miniature trees but with gigantic clumps of peaches topping each one, right under the tent’s white canopy. Each tent post had been wrapped in an oversized tube of cardboard that had been covered with crumpled tissue paper and painted brown to resemble the rough bark of a tree trunk. As I stepped closer, each peach cluster at the top seemed even larger, all fuzzy and blushed like the most perfect watermelon-sized peaches ever grown.

“Auntie Nola!” I heard the stereo echo of Savannah and Charlotte. “Aren’t they wooonderful?” Their giggles spoke of their participation in creating this miracle. As I inspected the “fruit,” the girls quickly related every step in the process of blowing up balloons, banding them with a string just tight enough to create a peach crease, flocking them with a fuzzy craft spray and then airbrushing them into the peachy hues with a sun-kissed blush. Mischievous laughs and twinkling eyes belied some trouble in getting the sprayed flock off their skin and off who knew what else. Yes, Ida, accomplished mother and craftsperson, had certainly outdone herself, especially considering the “helpers” she’d had on hand!

In the next heartbeat, the two scampered off, calling out to someone else, leaving me in their wake. I shook my head—the decorations were, in fact, wooonderful, but these little Southern belle nieces of mine were marvels. A moment of melancholy that I’d missed out on seeing them grow up, or on having any little ones of my own, prickled my skin. I rubbed my arms; I’d simply chosen another path.

I quickly glanced around at the rest of the affair. Ida had picked a beautiful, peach-inspired palette for the decorations, from deep crimson red-orange to pale yellow. I felt like I’d just stepped into the orchard at harvest time. I was glad she’d chosen to celebrate at the farm and not at the church hall or the local VFW. I was sure it cost a fortune to rent the three-tiered frame tent from as far away as Macon and the two hundred–plus chairs. But as I stood watching the sun set over the rolling peach grove, I knew there was no better place to celebrate this milestone than where my parents had built their life together.

“Nola Mae?”

I turned at the familiar sound of his voice. “Cade?” It’d been so long, I was caught off guard by his appearance. The three years since I’d seen him at his mother’s funeral had caught up to Cade McKenna. He still looked a lot like his sister: the same dark hair, chiseled features and large solemn eyes. Only his were dark brown, almost black, while Hattie’s were an unsettling blue-gray color. Now, though, his dark hair was prematurely tinged with gray and his eyes lined at the corners. I self-consciously touched my own cheek, wondering if the telltale signs of a decade and half since our high school days were visible on my face as well.

“You haven’t changed a bit,” he remarked, as if reading my mind. “Except your hair’s lot shorter.”

I chuckled and reached out with a hug, then quickly backed away. For some reason, our reunion felt awkward. Strange, because with Hattie it was as if we picked up where we’d left off. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“I’d say. Not since my mother’s funeral. But I’m glad you’re back, Nola.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans, his gaze moving to the ground, obviously feeling as awkward as I did.

I ducked my chin, trying to make eye contact. “Mama says you’ve started a contracting business.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Mostly remodels and repair work. There’s not much need for new builds in this area. But I’m doing okay. And what about you? Guess you’re still traveling and helping people.”

I had to smile at the way he simplified my job. Cade had always spoken in a direct, straightforward way. He had an easygoing manner about him. Just the opposite of Hattie, who was more of a little ball of energy. “Yup. I’ve spent most of my time traveling. Haiti, then a few months in Indonesia, plus a little time in Sudan . . . and if you think the summers are hot here in Georgia . . .” I rambled on. Cade nodded politely, but I knew I was probably boring him to death. I couldn’t help it; I loved my job. Well, at least the job I used to have.

“That’s great,” he jumped in when I finally came up for air. “How long are you going to stick around here, then?”

I hesitated. The day before I left headquarters up in Atlanta, I found out that I’d been reallocated from fieldwork to a position as an operations coordinator—with no chance of changing the minds of the bosses. Which meant I’d be stuck behind a desk planning relief efforts instead of actually providing hands-on help. I hated the idea of a desk job.

“Just until my parents return,” I finally answered, not wanting to go into too many details about my current dilemma. “I’ll be looking over the place for them while they travel.” My eyes swept over the view to where the land rolled away in a series of ridges and then eventually turned into the dense green wooded areas along the river bottom. I’d seen a lot of the world since leaving the farm, places and scenery that Cade could never imagin