Peaches and Scream (Georgia Peach Mystery, A) (5 page)

“The sheriff’s got Hollis,” she sobbed into the phone.

I felt my shoulders sag. “Where’d they find him?”

“I don’t know where he’s been. He’d just pulled into the driveway when they nabbed him.” Ida blew her nose and sniffed a couple times before continuing. “They’ve taken him in for questioning.”

I nodded into the phone, thinking they must have been watching the house. “Don’t worry, Ida. I’ll get ahold of Ray right away. He’ll take care of things.”

She sobbed even louder. “There’s more.”

“More?”
Pray tell, what more could there possibly be?
I steeled myself for what she’d say next.

“That nosy woman from the newspaper showed up just as they were dragging him away.”

“Frances Simms?”

“Yeees!” The word wailed over the line, causing me to pull the phone away from my ear. When I put it back, she was blabbing on like a fool. “I just know his picture’s going to be plastered all over the front page of the
Cays Mill Reporter
. How will the family ever live this down? We’ll be ruined. Absolutely ruined!”

Georgia Belle Fact #049:
A Georgia Belle always addresses someone older as “sir” or “ma’am.” Down here, we show our elders respect.

Sure enough, first thing Tuesday morning, Ray passed the paper across the counter toward me and right there, smack-dab on the front page, was Hollis’s ugly mug. “What are we going to do now?” I asked Ray, who was leaning against the counter finishing his second bowl of Crispy Flakes.

“I’ve already called the office. My docket’s not too full, so I should be able to split my time between here and my office in Perry. Hollis is going to need all the help he can get.”

I spread a dollop of Mama’s homemade peach preserves on my English muffin. “You talked to him yesterday?”

“Yes, briefly.”

“What’d he have to say for himself?”

Ray rinsed his bowl and set it in the sink. “Seems he and Ben Wakefield had a few words at the party. Apparently, Wakefield hadn’t made any payments on his loan.”

I brushed some crumbs off my shirt and nodded. “I’m sure Hollis has been pressuring him for payment. But he deals with slackers every day. He would’ve received the
money, one way or the other.”
Hopefully “one way or the other” didn’t include murder.

“If only that was all there was to it,” Ray replied, shaking his head. “When they arrested Hollis, they found an audit report in his pocket from some investigation firm in Macon. Hollis’s bank hired a forensic auditor to investigate Wakefield Lumber’s assets.”

“Let me guess. The investigation didn’t turn up good news.”

Ray nodded and reached for the coffeepot, topping off his mug. “That’s right. The report confirmed what Hollis had started to suspect: Wakefield Lumber is in big trouble financially.”

“Didn’t Hollis check into all that before putting up the bank’s money?” I refilled my own mug and leaned against the counter, mulling over this new information. “I mean, certainly he didn’t just loan money without collateral.”

“Apparently Wakefield falsified his collateral claims. Something they wouldn’t normally question until Hollis got suspicious. The proof was in the audit report Hollis got from the investigation firm.”

“How big of a loan are we talking about?” I asked.

“A little over a million.”

I blew out a stream of air. “You’re kidding?”

“Afraid not. And a million bucks looks like a whole lot of motive for Hollis. Plus, he’d sunk not only most of the bank’s assets into this investment, but some of his own personal money too, hoping to share in the profits.” Ray drained his mug and piled it on top of the other dishes in the sink. “I believe Hollis when he says he didn’t kill Ben Wakefield, but things look bad for him. The sheriff has enough evidence to make the charge stick. He’ll be arraigned on Wednesday or Thursday, but I’m not sure Ida will even be able to put up bond money. And I’m not in any financial position to help them out.”

“Me, either. But he can’t just sit in jail!”

“Why the heck not? It’s probably the best place for him right now. He needs to stay sober and out of trouble.”

Ray had a point, but I couldn’t stand to think about Ida going at it alone while Hollis sat in jail. She needed her husband and those little girls needed their daddy. “Yeah, but what about Ida and the kids? And his position at the bank? It’s his livelihood.”

Ray raised his shoulders and stretched his arms out, palms up. “I’m doing all I can, Nola,” he snapped.

I blinked slowly a couple times. I really hadn’t stopped to think how stressful this was for Ray. He was stuck in an impossible position. Representing his sister’s husband, for probably no pay and against impossible odds. Plus, if he failed to get Hollis out of this mess . . . well, he’d have to carry the guilt with him for the rest of his life.

Crossing the room, I offered him a quick hug. “Ida and Hollis are so lucky to have you on their side, Ray. We all are.”

He pulled back and ran his hands through his hair, before shoving them into the pockets of his jeans. “If you say so. But if I can’t save him, Ida will never forgive me.”

I mirrored his frown. He was right. And there was really nothing I could say to make the severity of the situation any better. Poor Ray. He had a huge burden to carry.

“Anyway,” he continued with a sigh, “I’m heading back to Perry now. I’ve got to get some things lined up at my office, so I can get back here and help Hollis.” He grabbed his cell off the counter and shoved it in the back pocket of his jeans. “What will you be doing today?”

“There’s a long list of things to keep me busy: a broken door out in the barn, painting the equipment shed. . . .” I waved off the rest. “Mostly just light maintenance stuff.”

“What about the irrigation lines that run along the south ridge?”

I squinted. “The irrigation lines?”

“Daddy didn’t mention that? The lines haven’t been working for almost a month now. The pump could be bad and most of the line needs to be replaced. With this heat we’re having, it better get done soon.”

“Why hasn’t it been fixed?”

Ray shook his head. “Money, probably. I don’t know for sure. Everyone around here has been tight-lipped lately. I’m just assuming it has to do with money, or the lack of it. I’ve offered to take a look at the books, but . . .” He shrugged off the rest.

Ray hadn’t said the words, but I knew what he was thinking. Daddy and Ray didn’t quite see eye to eye when it came to business. Which was the main reason Ray went to law school instead of taking on the farm.

“And there’s another problem, too,” he continued. “The tractor is broken. It’s been sitting out in the west orchard for a couple weeks now.”

“The tractor, too?”
Unbelievable.
We needed it to keep weeds down in the orchard, or they’d rob the trees of valuable water and nutrients. “You know, I talked with both Mama and Daddy before they left. They didn’t mention any of these things.”

Ray nodded. “Like I said, no one’s talking about it. Almost as if they just ignore it, it’ll go away.” He homed his gaze in on me. “But you and I both know that’s not how things really work.”

Yes, I knew perhaps better than anyone that problems didn’t just go away—I’d learned that early on the hard way. I’d then chosen a career where I’d been trained to face problems straight on, find solutions and, in the process, save lives. I’d been doing that very type of thing for the past fifteen years. Things like finding sources of clean drinking water, reuniting families separated by tsunamis and earthquakes . . . You name it, I’d done it. I’d always been proud of my work, but now I was feeling a little ashamed. Ashamed that I’d been busy saving families in faraway lands, while right here at home, my own family had been suffering.

I said good-bye to Ray and turned back to the sink to rinse my own cup. I stood there, sighing over the mess of dishes that’d accumulated over the last couple of days while
my mind reeled with worry. Perhaps a little mundane housework would help calm me.

Glancing around the kitchen, I spotted Mama’s old Czar radio on top of the fridge. Perfect! I brought it down and set it on the counter, tuned in to Gladys Knight and her Pips crooning “Midnight Train to Georgia” and started scrubbing, rinsing and stacking dishes. The mistress of soul’s soothing lyrics eased the monotony of washing dishes and helped me regroup some of the thoughts running wild in my mind. Foremost in those thoughts was Hollis’s situation. I’d have to stop by later and check on Ida. Maybe I’d ask her if she wanted to come out to the house and stay. That way, I could help her with the girls while she waited for Hollis to be released. If, of course, he was released. I cringed at the thought, but I had no idea what I could do to help. On the other hand, the family’s financial problem was something I might be able to help solve.

As I placed the last dish in the drying rack, I decided it was time to see the problems plaguing the farm for myself. I grabbed my hat off the hook by the back door, laced up my field boots and headed out to survey the orchards.

Outside, I stopped short. The leftover party mess hit me like a slap upside the head. After sitting for two nights and being exposed to the morning dew, everything left over from the party had a soggy, dirty look. I silently cursed Maudy Payne. Crime scene, my foot! She was possibly the bitterest woman I’d ever known. All this because Ida snubbed her? And was she going to allow an old grievance to interfere with her current-day investigation? Knowing Maudy, probably. Well, she and this droopy, dirty mess of a tent were starting to get on my very last nerve.

I wheeled around, turning my back on it all, and headed for the south orchards, my pace strong and determined. Trekking along the tree line, I eyed the tall grass growing between the rows. We’d always maintained weed-free strips directly under the trees, usually about ten feet wide, because wild vegetation will compete with the tree for water and zap
the soil of nutrients. Between the rows, however, we kept an equally wide strip of turf, which cut down on erosion and provided an area for our machines and picking crews. Judging by the current height of the grass, it looked as if things hadn’t been mowed for weeks.

As I cut through, the overgrown blades tickled my legs while the brushy weeds underneath shed their sticky cockleburs along the edges of my boots. I pushed on, though, fighting the overgrowth until I eventually arrived at my favorite spot in the orchard—the royal palace. I giggled, recalling my childhood fascination with this spot of the orchard. Looking back, it was easy to see how peach names like Ruby Prince, Majestic, Fire Prince and even Summer Lady inspired my youthful mind to imagine a full court of royals, dressed in their finest peach-colored attire, coming out at night for a starlit ball. I fingered the curled leaves one of the mature Fire Prince trees. This normally beautiful, robust tree yielded the most gorgeous red-blushed peaches perfectly ripe for the plucking in mid-August, this year’s crop already picked and shipped away. If the tree continued to be deprived of water, however, it may never produce again.

I sighed and continued on until I finally spied the top of the irrigation pump. I veered toward it, weaving through more tall grass and ducking under branches of wilting leaves until I came to it. The old diesel-powered pump backed up to a holding pond where it drew water to disperse through hose lines running along the base of each row of trees. Well, usually that was how it worked. A few pushes of the starter button yielded nothing more than a dry whining noise as the engine ground down, refusing to start. The gauge on the tank said full, so I knew gas wasn’t the problem. I walked around the pump, wiggling lines and thumping it here and there, hoping for an easy fix, but nothing I did seemed to make the darn thing work again. I swiped my damp hair off my face and mumbled a few bad words. I had no idea what to try next. But maybe . . . I looked up and squinted across
the pond. I knew someone who might know what to do—Joe Puckett. And his place was only a stone’s throw away.

I followed a well-worn footpath until I spotted the low slope of the cabin’s roof nestled along the edge of the woods that formed a border between Harper land and the neighbor’s farm. No one knew the real reason, but the story was that back in the early 1900s, my great-granddaddy sold a couple acres of our land to the original Puckett for pennies on the dollar. The Pucketts had owned the land ever since, living a peaceful, almost hermit-like life tucked away in the obscurity of the tall pines. I hadn’t been to his place since I was a teen and, quite honestly, if it weren’t for the pump, I probably wouldn’t venture there alone—the place always gave me the willies.

A little ways farther, I finally broke through the woods to the clearing where the cabin stood. Joe had let the place go since last time I’d seen it. All that remained was a skeletal portion of what was once a multiroom cabin. Now only one room was still intact, while the rest of the slatted-board structure leaned precariously to one side. The only thing keeping the whole cabin from falling over was an overgrowth of vines that engulfed the dilapidated building like a supportive hand.

“Joe! Joe Puckett!” I called out. The only response was the babbling of the nearby creek and the low call of forest birds echoing through the trees. “Joe?” I tried again, moving closer to the structure.

The outside of the cabin was littered with everything from splintered barrels and rusty buckets, to an old metal bedframe wrapped tight in creeping Jenny weed. Looking at the state of the place, I started to think I’d made a mistake coming here. If Joe had let his own place go into such bad repair, there was probably nothing he could do for me.

I was about to turn away when I heard the metallic
chung, chung
of a shotgun pump. Instinctively, my hands shot into the air.

“Lookin’ for somethin’?” came a gravelly voice from behind me.

I slowly turned and faced Joe straight on. To my relief, he immediately lowered the gun, a flicker of recognition showing in his sky-blue eyes. “Aren’t you one of the Harper girls?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied, slowly lowering my hands.

A toothy grin spread across his face. Joe had wrinkles on top of wrinkles and I could see that his skin was stretched thinly over his wiry arms, every inch covered by brown spots. What I remembered as a full head of hair had dwindled down over the years to a few patches of white tufts that encircled his head, making him look like an unruly version of Friar Tuck.