A. Gardner - Poppy Peters 01 - Southern Peach Pie and A Dead Guy (11 page)

I begin walking back to my apartment when I hear Jeff shout something else. I turn around and see Jeff leaning back in his seat with a grin on his face. "Remember," he shouts, "we are even now."

I don't have the heart to tell Bree that she isn't the only one who was picked by Mr. Harris to start working at the student bakery early. I walk through the door and find her beaming as she serves Cole a plate of warm doughnut holes. He grins as he takes a handful.

"Is she always like this?" he asks me.

"Nervous baker," I respond. Bree hears me from the kitchen and shrugs at my comment. "Okay spill, sister." I take a seat next to Cole and watch him inhale the doughnuts. He chews a little slower when he sees me staring.

"Okay." Bree takes a breath and opens her notebook. "I was able to take a look at the student kitchen where you found the professor. I had to duck under the yellow tape, but I did it."

"Look at you." I place a hand on her knee as if offering my congratulations. "You are the best roomie
ever
."

"Wait a minute," Cole interjects. "Are you positive that nobody saw you?"

"You would be surprised what a couple cops would do for a slice of apple pie." She lifts her chin looking pleased with herself.

"So what did you find?" Cole asks.

"You guys said there was a mess of flour everywhere, right?"

The two of us nod.

"Yeah," I answer. "It was everywhere."

"It wasn't flour."

"It wasn't?" Cole says.

"No, it was confectioner's sugar."

"Really?" I try to think of that piece of information as a clue that might give away who the murderer is, but I can't come up with anything.

"Yes," Bree reassures me.

"Just a minute." I stand up and retrieve my laptop from my bedroom. I am starting to feel less anxious and more eager to clear my name. I don't want to feel like I am getting nowhere. I return to the living room and open my computer. I search Shurbin Farms on the internet and pull up their website.

"What are you doing?" Bree asks.

"I think I need to crank this up a notch." I turn my laptop and show her the web page. It is yellow with pictures of peaches and the farm's logo near the top. A slideshow on the side of the website shows pictures of the fields and the historic house on the property, where the owners reside. A picture of their family flashes as I scan the rest of the introduction page for more information.

"Shurbin Farms," Cole says.

"I think we should go there."

"I don't know, Poppy."

"I know it's a clue. It
has
to be. Why else would Professor Sellers carry around a piece of paper with the words
Shurbin Farms
written on it?"

"A reminder that he's out of peaches?" Cole suggests.

Bree leans forward and studies the website.

"Come on." I narrow my eyes and glare at him. "We can go this weekend."

"Poppy," he mutters. "It's probably a waste of time."

"No, she's right," Bree says. "You two should go soon. I have to work the student bakery this weekend."

"Only if Poppy agrees to drive," Cole responds.

"Look." Bree clicks on a photo of the owner and his family. "Does he look familiar to you?"

I study the man in the photo, but his face doesn't ring a bell. I don't recognize him.

"Sorry," I answer. Cole studies the picture and shakes his head.

"From chapter one on our first day? The history of the school?" She shakes her head and points to the computer screen. "The owner looks just like Thomas Calle, the founder's son."

My skin gets goose bumps. Bree grabs one of her books and opens it to a photo of Francois Calle, the founder of the school, standing next to his son. My chest starts pounding when I realize that she's right. I hold the book next to my laptop and cover my mouth.

"I don't get it," Cole comments. "How is that even possible?"

"
We
are going to find out," I reply. "Have you ever been to Alabama?"

"Nope." He looks down at the floor. "But I'm sure it's better than jail."

*   *   *

There is a line of students waiting in the hall when Bree and I get to our afternoon class. Cole and I are leaving early tomorrow morning for Shurbin Farms in Alabama. I woke up this morning thinking it would be a mellow day. The police have been off and on campus, but they haven't really made their presence known until now.

"What's going on?" I see Cole anxiously clinging to his backpack.

"The cops are questioning us all," he says quietly. "All students from all classes."

My eyes go wide.

"Seriously?
Every
student?" I respond.

"The news just broke. Everyone all over campus is talking about it. They've finally come out and said that Professor Sellers is…you know."

"Crap," Bree mutters.

"Do you think they know about the ambulance and—"

"Duh," Cole cuts in. "
I
called them with
my
phone, and then you fainted. They know we were there that night."

I take a step back towards the front door.

"No, Poppy." Bree grabs my arm. "If you run, you'll look suspicious."

"I wasn't going to run," I argue. I take a step back again and this time Bree watches me. I walk back to the end of the line. Cole stares at me like I am a genius and follows.

I pick at my nails and anxiously lean against the wall thinking of nothing else than that night. I don't know what I should say to the police. Which parts will help me and which parts will hurt me? Another group of students walks through the doors. I casually step out of line and move to the back of the line a second time.

I tap my foot as I watch time dwindle away. Some of the students are complaining about waiting. Some of them are sitting on the floor studying. Others are whispering and looking around. I keep my mouth shut and continue to casually step out of line as soon as more students congregate behind us. Eventually we are the last ones, and there aren't many people ahead of us.

The door to the classroom opens, and Georgina steps out with tears in her eyes. She wails and looks up at the ceiling. It doesn't surprise me that she's making a scene. I try not to give her the attentions she wants.

"I can't believe this!" she cries. "I just can't believe it! Why? Why him?" She wipes perfectly formed tears from her cheeks.

"Drama queen," I murmur.

"What am I supposed to do now?" Georgina says as she passes us and heads for the exit. "I need that list of judges. Do you think he left it in his office?"

"And of course all she
really
cares about is the contest," Cole comments.

We take another step forward. Bree nudges my shoulder and shows me her watch. My heart leaps. It is time for our daily lecture from Mr. Harris. We might be free for the weekend. I am next in line to be questioned but before I can give one of the officers my name, Professor Sellers' next class arrives. The officer at the door glances at the time. I test my luck by slowly stepping away to walk to another classroom.

"Wait a minute," the officer barks. My chest tightens.

"We have another class to go to," I quietly reply.

"Give me your names first," he responds. I nod and give him my name. I breathe a sigh of relief when the three of us escape to our next class. I set my bag down on the counter and anxiously stare back at the door.

"Do you think they'll pull us out of class?" I whisper.

"Maybe." Bree shrugs. "At some point all of us will be questioned. It's just a matter of when."

Georgina bumps me as she walks past us to her seat. She glares at me and then laughs as she watches Cole sit at his station. She flicks a strand of her hair until it falls straight with the rest of her shiny ponytail.

"Nice going," she comments, looking at me. "He hated your work, so you had to go and bump him off. Very classy of you."

I feel my face going hot.

"What are you talking about?"

"Uh hello," she answers. "I'm talking about Professor Sellers dropping dead right before grades were due? Don't act all innocent."

"You think
I
had something to do with it?" I swallow the lump in my throat, and I'm starting to feel dizzy. Just when I thought I couldn't dislike Georgina any more than I already do, she goes and accuses me of murder.

"You
must
have." She smirks when she notices me shifting uncomfortably in my seat. "Like every question the police asked me was about you and Mr. Fedora over there." She glances at Cole.

"I wore that hat
once
," Cole responds, looking furious. Georgina giggles when she sees him shaking his head at her.

"What kind of questions did they ask?" I wait and hope she will answer honestly. Georgina keeps giggling as she looks at me and raises her eyebrows. She's enjoying this, and she is not going to tell me.
Shoot.

"Don't listen to her," Bree whispers. "You did nothing wrong."

"I know but—"

"But," she continues, "the truth will come out. It always does."

I sit up at 4 a.m., wide awake because I couldn't sleep at all, not even with the Sleepytime Tea that Bree made me drink. The cricket living behind my dresser stops chirping as soon as I clear my throat. My thoughts are racing just as fast as they were when my head touched my pillow. I was lucky that I didn't have to talk to the police yesterday, but I feel like my luck is about to run out. All I can think about is finding the murderer, so I can get back to burning brownies and flattening soufflés. I hurriedly get dressed and throw a few clothes and toiletries into an overnight bag, just in case we stay in Alabama longer than we planned.

I walk quietly to the front door and take one last look at the living room before I step into the cool morning air. It is one of the few times of day I can breathe when I step outside. From what I hear, Alabama is just as humid and just as green.

My eyes dart to a freezer bag of double chocolate brownies on the coffee table. I smile when I see a note in Bree's handwriting wishing me good luck. I grab the bag and make the trek to Cole's apartment building. He will be happy when he sees what Bree made for us. I clutch the bag tight in my hand and scan the quad for cops. I see Cole walking towards me.

"Hey," I say, out of breath. I jog towards him.

"You couldn't sleep either?" he asks.

"Not a wink."

"Let's do this," he mutters.

We head towards the parking lot and get into my car. It's an old Honda with paint chipping on the passenger's door. I've had it since I graduated from high school. With all the time I used to spend in NYC, I left it at home in my parent's garage. There was no room for it at my studio apartment in the city, and I didn't really need it either. Mom insisted that I at least buy a new car before making my trip to Georgia, but I figured that one last adventure with it wouldn't hurt. After all, I've experienced a lot of
firsts
in this car. My first kiss. My first hangover. My first breakup.

"I hope you have AC, Lil' Mama."

"Yep," I say, starting the car. I slowly pull out of the parking lot and head towards the freeway entrance. I grip the wheel and feel my shoulders go tense when we pass the row of cop cars near the admin building. We pass them casually, and then I bolt towards the highway.

"You get anxious a lot," he comments. "Maybe you should lay off the espresso."

"Speaking of good stuff." I toss the bag of brownies at him. "From my roomie."

"Dang," he mutters as he opens the bag and basically swallows one of the brownies whole. "If that girl ever opens her own bakery I'm going to need a frequent buyer's card." He glances down at his abs which are, at the moment, tight and firm. "Or maybe a treadmill."

"I think cakes are more her thing. If she ever opens up her own business one day it will be a cake shop." I set my cruise control and head towards the Alabama state line. The freeway starts to look more and more rural. The sides of the road are covered with mossy green trees, and every few miles there are clearings in between the trees filled with murky water. I am still impressed with how similar the scenery is to back home in Oregon. If only the weather was similar too.

"What about you, Poppy? What are you going to do when you graduate?"

"Go back home for starters," I answer.

"You've never thought of staying in the South?"

"I don't know," I admit. "I guess I just assumed I would go back to Portland, because it's a familiar place. Or New York, since I spent the other half of my life there. I can't believe I used to go back and forth in between jobs just for…well, I won't make that mistake again." I prevent myself from bringing up my ex. The only reason I blew half my savings living between Portland and NYC was to see him when I could. I won't let a man con me like that ever again. Not if I can help it.

"Would you ever consider opening your own shop?" he suggests.

"Possibly." I smile at the thought of running things my way for once. Setting my own rules. Being my own boss. "I'm in love with cupcakes, you know. But there are a ton of cupcake shops back home already."

"So," Cole responds. "That shouldn't stop you."

"So are
you
going to open up a bakery?"

"Me?" Cole eats another brownie. "No. I'm going for a management position back in Atlanta. It's a guaranteed job for me once I graduate. Besides, if I open my own anything I want it to be a barbeque place."

"Tasty."

We continue talking until our conversation somehow turns to family. Cole tells me all about his older brothers, and I fill him in on the many pressures of growing up with a robot for an older brother. Mark is the kind of sibling that is absolutely perfect at everything. The kind of sibling that makes my parents sing his praises. Our discussion then turns to past relationships. I hold back as much as I can, but Cole has a way of prying information out of me. I don't mind. I feel like I can trust him with my thoughts. And I haven't had much of a chance to talk to anyone about my ex yet. Our breakup still feels fresh for some reason.

"So, what's his name?" Cole asks. "You do realize that every time you're about to say his name you stop yourself, right?"

"What does it matter what his name is?" I keep my hands firmly on the steering wheel. "He's an ex."

"Because saying someone's name out loud without cringing is the first step to getting over them." He folds his arms and stares at an upcoming road sign.

"Are you speaking from experience?"

"Maybe." He sighs and keeps his hands busy by playing with the collar of his shirt.

"Okay then, what's
her
name? Or can you not say it out loud yet either?"

"Emma," he states without cringing. "Emma, a year ago."

"And what happened? Did she cheat on you too?"

"No." He looks down for a moment and frowns. "We were engaged actually. And then one day she called the whole thing off. She said her and I just didn't click anymore. I guess we'd been growing apart for years, and we didn't even realize it."

"Until she met someone else," I comment.

He looks at me and rolls his eyes.

"Yes," he admits. "But she didn't cheat. She had the decency to tell me how she felt first."

"Well, I wish that were the case for me." I follow the next road sign with my eyes, but it passes by me so fast that I don't have time to read it. It's more of a distraction than anything. A distraction from remembering what I left behind on the West Coast.

*   *   *

"Oh," Cole blurts out. "Right here is our exit."

"Don't tell me it has already been a couple hours?"

Cole shrugs as I turn onto a county road leading to Shurbin Farms. We pass a sign saying we are a mile away from the main entrance. My stomach grumbles. Brownies aren't going to cut it. I need breakfast food. I feel relieved when I see a diner up ahead next to a tiny, ancient-looking gas station. I quickly pull up to the open sign and park the car. The small building looks as if it used to be a popular place, but the front windowsills are covered in dust, and the yellow paint surrounding the front entrance is fading. A sign on the door says
Peachtree Diner
.

"I knew you would stop for breakfast," Cole says. He hops out of the car. "Something to go?"

"Sure," I agree.

We walk into the diner. Most of the booths are empty, but a few tables are full of farmers sipping coffee. The walls are beige. The kind of beige that looks like it used to be white. The booths are red, and the floors are a white tile that feels a little sticky. A waitress looks up at us and beams.

"Take any seat you like," she shouts with a thick southern accent. The way she talks makes me forget all about the hint of southern twang in Cole's voice.

Every eye in the place is on us as we sit down. One thing about small towns like this is that out-of-towners are always gawked at. I grab a napkin and wipe the table even though it looks mostly clean. I grab a menu, but there is not much on it.

Eggs.

Bacon.

Pancakes.

Waffles.

Cheese grits.

Biscuits and gravy.

"Why do I get the feeling that not many travelers come here?" Cole whispers.

"Hi, I'm Bonnie Jean." The waitress places silverware on our table along with two cups of water. She has a pink clip in her light blonde hair and her fair skin is freckled. "Oh, I just love it when we get travelin' folk. It gives me the chance to practice my waitressin' skills. What can I get y'all?"

"Ummm." I stare down at my menu for a minute.

"Whatever you want, sweet pea, the cook will make it for you."

"Oh." I look at Cole. So much for a quick pit stop. "Can I have a few chocolate chip pancakes, some biscuits and gravy, and a side of bacon?"

"You got it," Bonnie Jean replies. "I love it when little ladies like yourselves have big appetites." She looks to Cole. "What about you, hun?"

"Do you still have any country fried chicken?"

"Of course."

"I'll have that," Cole responds.

"With a buttermilk waffle?" she asks. Cole nods. Bonnie Jean leaves our table and races into the kitchen. I hear her yell our orders to the cook like she's scolding her husband for leaving the toilet seat up.

"I guess we'll be here for a while," Cole says.

"That'll give us some time to figure out how we are going to do this," I respond. "We can't just walk up to the owner's house, ring the doorbell, and ask him if he's ever heard of a man named Thomas Calle."

"Why not?"

"Because we'll probably get kicked out if we did that," I answer. "That's why not."

"You're forgetting that people here are friendlier than you're used to. Not like New Yorkers or folks on the West Coast who rush everywhere even when they don't have to." He takes a sip of his water. "No coffee?"

"You told me to lay off, remember?"

"Oh right," he comments. "Anyway, we'll ask around and fish for an introduction. Then we can bring up CPA and see how he reacts."

"What if he doesn't?" I ask. I place my elbows on the table and glance out the window at the sun glowing over a cluster of willow trees. "What if this whole thing is a dead end?"

"It's not." Cole glances back at the kitchen as Bonnie Jean dashes out with a tray of food. "If it makes you feel any better I will mention Professor Sellers if things aren't looking good. It might be a bad idea, but I'll do it."

"Okay," I say. I watch our waitress set a plate of chocolate chip pancakes in front of me. She hands me a few packets of butter and maple syrup. The smell of fried chicken makes my stomach rumble. Cole's eyes go wide when he stares at his plate. "I wasn't expecting the food to look so—"

"Delicious?" Cole finishes my sentence.

*   *   *

Shurbin Farms looks like the pictures on the website. The entrance is a mile long road with trees planted on both sides. In between the tree are fields. We pass a section that looks like a dead vineyard. All the grapes have been picked, and the vines are thin, dark sticks swirling around each other. The look of it all shriveled like that gives me chills.

I pull up to a little hut where other cars are parked. I watch as a family with two small children, a boy and girl, jump up and down, each with their own picking baskets. My family never had time to do things like this. Weekends were always full of homework, recitals, and competitions.

We came too late in the season for blackberry and blueberry picking. A sign in the parking says what is available for picking today – okra, collard greens, persimmons, apples, and figs. Another sign next to it says, "
Tangerines and clementines coming soon.
"
Cole and I take a basket and grab a map of the farm.

"Ready?" Cole asks.

"I could use a good nap." I touch my stomach. It feels as full as it did the first time I visited the student bakery. "Why do I always binge eat when I'm around you?"

"Let's do this." He ignores my comment and focuses on finding the owner's residence. He holds open his map and points straight ahead of us. A cool breeze keeps me from overheating. It even feels a little too chilly.

I follow Cole through a field of tall grass until I see a house in the distance. It is a white plantation home with shutters and flower boxes framing each window. Two white columns support a second patio that runs the length of the second floor.

Cole and I walk as fast as we can. My heart pounds. I wipe away the sweat on my forehead. I match Cole's speed until we are standing at the front door. I wait a second before I knock. This is either the worst or the best idea I have ever had.

"Just do it," Cole mutters.

I gently ring the doorbell.

I hear barking inside the house. The door opens, and a young girl in short jean shorts and a tank top answers the door. She has an earbud in one of her ears, and her hair is in a ponytail. She slips an iPod into her pocket and clears her throat.