Rest in Peach

Praise for

Peaches and Scream

“Cozy readers will savor every word of this peach of a mystery. Ms. Furlong’s turn of phrase is delightful, her characters are endearing and the mystery will keep readers guessing until the very end. The Georgia Peach Mysteries are loaded with Southern charm, sassy characters and tantalizing recipes—a pure delight!”

—Ellery Adams,
New York Times
bestselling author

“Georgia belles can handle anything—including murder—as Susan Furlong proves in this sweet and juicy series debut.”

—Sheila Connolly,
New York Times
bestselling author

“This wonderful series is going to have you humming ‘Georgia on My Mind’ and have your mouth watering to try the five peach-inspired recipes included in the back of the book! This series has everything a cozy mystery lover could want: loyal family, fantastic friends, a wonderful juicy story line and a dog called Roscoe.”

—A Cup of Tea and a Cozy Mystery

Berkley Prime Crime titles by Susan Furlong

PEACHES AND SC
REAM

REST IN PEACH

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

REST IN PEACH

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2016 by Susan Furlong-Bolliger.

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

For more information, visit
penguin.com
.

eBook ISBN: 9780698184220

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / April 2016

Cover illustration by Erika LeBarre.

Cover design by Sarah Oberrender.

Interior map copyright © by Nurul Akmal Markani.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

For my husband, Nyle.
Thank you for your love and
support.

Any woman who’s had the privilege of growing up below the Mason-Dixon line understands the history and tradition of a debutante ball. My mother was no exception. From the time I could walk, she started grooming me for my debut to polite society. I can still remember her little bits of advice to this day—tips she called her Debutante Rules. Of course, some of them were a little offbeat; but they did encourage me to become the best woman I could be. You see, my mama’s advice taught me that being a debutante is less about the long white gloves, the pageantry and the curtsy, and more about a code of conduct that develops inner beauty, a sense of neighborly charity and unshakable strength in character that sees us women through the good times and the bad. Later, as I traveled the world, I came to learn that these rules of hers transcended borders, cultures and economic status. In essence, my mama’s Debutante Rules taught me that no matter where you’re from or who your people are, becoming the best person you can be is key to a happy life.

—N
OLA
M
AE
H
ARPER

Debutante Rule #032:
Like a magnolia tree, a debutante’s outward beauty reflects her strong inner roots . . . and that’s why we never leave the house without our makeup on.

Frances Simms’s beady eyes were enough to make my skin crawl on any given day, but at that particular moment the presence of the incessantly determined owner and editor of our town’s one and only newspaper was enough to frazzle my last nerve.

“Can’t this wait, Frances? I’m right in the middle of something.” I turned my focus back to my project. Truth was, I could have used a break; my arm was about to fall off from all the scrubbing I’d been doing in my soon-to-be new storefront. Still, I’d suffer through more scrubbing any day if it meant I could avoid dealing with the bothersome woman. And today, of all days, I didn’t need her pestering presence.

Frances persisted. “Wait? I’m on a deadline. Especially if you want the ad to run in Tuesday’s issue.” The
Cays Mill Reporter
, the area’s source of breaking news—or rather, reputation-breaking gossip—faithfully hit the usually hot Georgia pavement every Tuesday and Saturday. Since I was
a new business owner, Frances was hoping to sign me on as a contributing advertiser. For a mere $24.99 a month, I could reserve a one-by-one inch square on the paper’s back page, sure to bring in hordes of eager, peach-lovin’ customers to my soon-to-open shop, Peachy Keen.

“This offer isn’t going to be on the table forever,” she continued. “I’m giving you a ten percent discount off my normal rate, you know.”

My friend Ginny spoke up. “Oh, don’t go getting all bent out of shape, Frances.” Having a slow moment at Red’s Diner next door, which she owned with her husband, Sam, Ginny had popped over to check my renovation progress. “This is only Saturday,” she went on. “Besides, Peachy Keen doesn’t officially open for another few weeks.”

Over the past nine months since my return to Cays Mill, what started as a little sideline business to help supplement my family’s failing peach farm had grown into a successful venture. From that first jar of peach preserves sold at the local Peach Harvest Festival to a booming online business, Harper Farm’s Peach Products had been selling like crazy. Unable to keep up with the demand, I had struck a deal with Ginny and Sam: For a reasonable percentage of profits, I’d get full use of their industrial-sized, fully licensed kitchen after the diner closed each day, plus a couple hours daily of Ginny’s time and expertise in cooking. Since the diner was only open for breakfast and lunch, we could easily be in the kitchen and cooking by late afternoon, allowing Ginny enough time to be home for supper with her family. Then, Ginny offered to rent me their small storage area, right next to the diner, for a storefront—a perfect location—which now stored much of my stock until we could open. The deal worked for both of us: I needed the extra manpower, and Ginny needed the extra money. Especially with one child
in college and her youngest, Emily, finishing her senior year in high school.

Frances was pacing the floor and stating her case. “That may be true, but space fills up quickly. My paper’s the leading news source for the entire area.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Frances,” Ginny bantered, “it’s the
only
news source in the area. Besides, that quote you gave Nola is five bucks higher than what I pay for the diner’s monthly ad.”

I quit scrubbing and quirked an eyebrow Frances’s way. “Is that so?”

“Well, I’ve got expenses and—” She started to explain but was cut off mid-sentence when the back door flew open and Emily burst inside.

“Mom!” Emily cried, her freckled face beaming with excitement. She snatched up Ginny’s purse and held it out. “The delivery truck just pulled in front of the boutique. The dresses are in!”

Ginny let out a little squeal, cast a quick glance toward the window and reached into her bag. “Okay, okay. Just give me a minute to freshen up.” She pulled a compact out and started touching up her lipstick, a shocking red tint that looked surprisingly fabulous with her ginger-colored hair. “Oh, I can hardly wait! Emily’s cotillion dress. Can you imagine!” she gushed and glanced my way. “Come on, Nola. You said you’d come with us, right? You’ve just gotta see the gown we ordered.”

I peered anxiously at the stacks of lumber for the unfinished shelving, the loose plaster and the wood floors that were still only half refinished. Knowing the renovation was too much for me to handle alone, I’d hired my friend, Cade McKenna, who owned a local contracting business, to help me transform the storage area into a quaint shop. One of the interior walls sported exposed red brick and would add the perfect touch to
the country-chic look I wanted. But my vision and reality didn’t mesh easily; I’d been scrubbing loose mortar from that wall for hours already. Cade said the loose stuff really needed to be removed before he could seal the rest. I threw a quick glance through the window. I’d already known my work would be interrupted later today when the delivery truck arrived; I’d been dragged into my dear friend and her daughter’s excitement since the get-go. But, truth be told, I almost preferred flaking mortar to facing up to the debutante issues I knew would soon erupt into a community-wide frenzy. “I’d love to go, but I really should keep at it.”

Ginny waved off my worry. “You’ve been at it all morning. You need a break.”

“Hey!” Frances turned her palms upward in protest. “I wasn’t done discussing the ad.”

“Oh, shush up, Frances,” Ginny said to shut her down. She reached back into her bag, this time pulling out a small bottle of cologne and giving herself a couple quick spritzes behind the ears.

“You’re fine, Mama,” Emily interrupted. “Let’s get going. I’m dying to try on my dress.”

Ginny finished primping and shouldered her bag. “All right, sweetie. Let’s go.” She squeezed her daughter’s arm, her eyes glistening. “I just know you’re going to be the most beautiful debutante at the cotillion!” Then turning to me, she added with a mischievous grin, “Are ya coming with us, or do you want to stay here and discuss
the ad
with Frances?”

Since she put it that way, I decided I could use a little break and proceeded to rip off my apron and remove the bandana covering my cropped hair. I ran my hand through the short strands, trying to give it a little lift, the extent of my personal primping routine, as I made my way to the back door. Opening it wide, I shrugged toward Frances, who was still standing
in the middle of my would-be shop, a befuddled look on her face. “Sorry, Frances. Guess we’ll have to talk about the ad some other time.”

She opened and shut her mouth a few times, but all that came out was a loud huff. Finally relenting, she threw up her hands and stormed out the door. I couldn’t help but stare after her with a grin on my face. Usually I didn’t take so much delight in being rude, but ever since Frances’s paper ran a smear campaign on my brother-in-law last August, I’d had a hard time being civil toward her. Who could blame me? At the time, she’d relentlessly pursued, harassed and tried to intimidate information from not only me, but my then-very-pregnant sister, Ida. And, when Frances found she couldn’t coerce information from us, she printed libelous half-truths about Hollis—on the front page, nonetheless!—that all but landed him a lifetime prison sentence. Thank goodness all that misery was behind us now. What a relief knowing the only thing Frances could hound me about these days was a silly display ad for the back page of the paper.

•   •   •

Emily was right; Hattie’s Boutique, owned by my childhood friend Hattie McKenna, was already teeming with a small but enthusiastic pack of giggling debutantes and their equally excited mothers. They were pressing against the main counter like a horde of frenzied Black Friday shoppers while Hattie pulled billows of white satin and lace from long brown boxes. Carefully, she hung each dress on a rack behind the counter. “Ladies, please!” she pleaded. “Take a seat in the waiting area. I just need a few minutes to sort out the orders.”

One of the mothers, Maggie Jones, the preacher’s wife, was at the head of the pack sticking out her elbows like a
linebacker in hopes of deterring the other gals from skirting around her in line. “Did the dress we ordered come in? Belle would like to try it on.”

Hattie smiled through gritted teeth, once again pointing across the room toward a grouping of furniture. “I’m sure it did, Mrs. Jones. If y’all would just take a seat, please, I’ll be right with you.” She lifted her chin and kept her finger pointing across the room, making it clear she would not unpack one more dress until we complied.

With a collective sigh, the group, including Ginny, Emily and me, sulked to the waiting area. The mothers politely settled themselves on the flower-patterned furniture while the girls huddled off to the side to discuss the latest debutante news. It was a wonder they never tired of the topic. I, for one, could hardly take much more. For months, I’d been hearing constant chatter about our town’s spin on a high society debut: the presentation, what would be served at the formal dinner and, of course, all about how elegantly Congressman Wheeler’s plantation would be decorated for the Peach Cotillion. Usually the whole shindig was held up north at some ritzy country club, but this year, thanks to the generosity of one of our outstanding residents, congressman Jeb Wheeler (who just happened to be up for reelection), the cotillion was staying local with the ball taking place at his family home, the historic Wheeler Plantation.

“Maggie Jones is awful pushy for a reverend’s wife, don’t you think?” Ginny whispered.

Leaning back against the cushion, I inwardly moaned. That’s why I hadn’t wanted to come; Ginny was taking this cotillion stuff way too seriously. As a matter of fact, the pending cotillion and its accompanying affairs seemed to be bringing out the worst in all the town’s ladies. Like the well-dressed woman across from us who sported an expensive-looking
beige leather handbag and an all-too-serious attitude. She was seated with ramrod-straight posture and legs folded primly to one side, a proud tilt to her chin as she impatiently—and imperiously—glanced around the room.

“Who’s Miss Proper over there?” I quietly asked Ginny.

She glanced over and quickly turned back, her face screwed with disgust. “That’s Vivien Crenshaw. You know, Ms. Peach Queen’s mama.” She nodded toward the group of girls where a tall blonde with dazzling white teeth stood in the center of group. She was gushing dramatically about her date for the dance while the rest of the girls looked on in awe. “Her name’s Tara,” Ginny continued. “Emily says she’s the most popular girl in high school. Top in everything: lead in the school play, class president and head cheerleader . . . you know the type.”

Yeah, I knew the type.
A picture of my own sister’s face formed in my mind. Ida, the star of the Harper clan, always exceeded everyone’s expectations, whereas I always did the unexpected, keeping my family in a continuous state of quandary. Even to this day, there were things I just couldn’t bear to tell my parents, for fear it would put them over the edge. I shook my head, telling myself not to think about all that right now.

Luckily, a movement outside distracted me from my downward spiral. Adjusting my position to get a better look, I gazed curiously at the young girl washing Hattie’s windows. She was dressed in sagging jeans and a too-tight T-shirt topped off with shocking black hair that shadowed her features. This must have been the girl Hattie mentioned hiring for odd jobs. She was nothing like the other girls in town. I felt an instant connection to her. As I continued to look on, the girl paused, reached into the pocket of her jeans and extracted a hair band. She pulled back her hair, exposing several silver hooped earrings running along the rim of her ear and topped off with a long silver arrow
that pierced straight through to the inner cartilage.
Ew.
That must have hurt! I felt no connection now. But still, it was fascinating. It reminded me of some of the extreme piercings I’d observed in the remote African tribes during my days as a humanitarian aid worker.

I was about to ask Ginny if she knew the girl when Hattie called out from the other side of the room. “Okay, ladies. I think I’ve got everything straightened out. Now one at a time. . . .” She held up the first dress. “Belle Jones.” The preacher’s wife and her daughter scrambled to grab the dress before heading off toward the dressing rooms. “And, this one’s for Sophie Bearden,” Hattie continued, handing out the next dress to a squealing brown-haired girl.

Just as Hattie was reaching for the next gown, jingling bells announced the arrival of a short, stout woman dressed in sensible polyester slacks and a scooped-neck top. She removed her sunglasses and unwrapped a colorful scarf from her head. “Lawdy! Can y’all believe this humidity today?” She patted down her tight black curls before using the scarf to dab at her décolletage.

Hattie’s face lit up. “Mrs. Busby, thanks so much for coming in early.”

The woman waved off the thanks with, “So how many girls spied that early delivery truck?”

“Just a few, but if you could pin them up, it’d save having to make extra appointments.”