Chapter 1
Momma Peach was a woman who took no nonsense from anybody. She was a large African American woman in her mid-sixties who had a heart as soft as ice cream on a sunny day. But make no mistake about it, she also had a rolling pin she wasn’t afraid to use when “someone running their mouth needed a good whack,” as she was sometimes heard to say. Everybody in Pine Falls, Georgia, knew who she was, too—the good, the bad, the smart, and the stupid all knew that she was a woman who demanded respect from everyone. One person learned the hard way that when you showed her disrespect, you got a taste of discipline that you wouldn’t soon forget. Everybody in Pine Falls also knew that she ran the best bakery in the entire state of Georgia. People came from all over just to get a taste of her famous peach pie—oh boy, there was nothing like Momma Peach’s famous peach pie, either.
It was a hot, humid morning in Pine Falls, and she was in the kitchen of her bakery humming a soft tune while she prepared her first batch of peach pie for the day.
Standing at her baking table, which was always either covered with flour on baking days or wiped spotlessly clean, she looked as natural as a bird perched on its nest. The heat of her kitchen never seemed to bother her too much. No, she liked a hot kitchen. Hot kitchens meant things were baking in the ovens—good, delicious treats that warmed the heart. She liked her kitchen to be in a particular order and kept her short, graying black hair always tied up in the same pink headscarf. Every day she wore the same blue dress with white stripes. Her closet at home was filled with all sorts of finery, but crammed in the middle were ten identical dresses. Every night she ate a spoonful of her homemade cayenne pepper hot sauce before bed and read for a while. She didn’t mind being a creature of habit. “Good habits make the world go ‘round,” she hummed and smiled as her gifted hands worked the dough for her famous peach pie. “Good habits make a good pie and a good life, yes sir.”
“Hey, Momma Peach,” Rosa Mendez said, walking into the kitchen with her black hair tied back in a high ponytail.
“My,” she expressed in a voice of amazement, “don’t you look all pretty in that dress.”
Rosa blushed. At twenty-two, she didn’t always feel beautiful or attractive. She didn’t have a boyfriend and still lived at home with her grandparents. But Momma Peach always had a way of making her feel special and beautiful. And the truth was, Rosa was special and very beautiful, especially in her yellow and red cherry-patterned dress that looked as good as one of the bakery’s pies tasted. Most boys shied away from her, though, because she had a long scar down her right cheek that was a reminder of a gas explosion that had occurred in her old home in Mexico when she was three years old. Self-consciously, Rosa tugged one lock of hair down to cover her scar. “Thank you.”
She made a sound in her mouth like she was sampling delicious chocolate. “My, what a lovely dress. You look mighty beautiful in yellow, Rosa. But tell me, you’re not here to work in that dress, are you?”
“Oh, no,” Rosa promised, then shifted from one foot to another as she gazed around the cozy, hot kitchen. She loved the kitchen. The walls were covered with a soft blue wallpaper patterned with clouds, birds, animals, and trees. Momma Peach always said the wallpaper reminded her of a peaceful countryside. The floors were old and creaky, but she would never hear of having them redone. She said the old floors gave character to a room and that every squeak was a voice that folks needed to listen to. Two stoves that Rosa thought were antique sat against the back wall like old friends sharing stories. A large refrigerator stood against the right wall, and old wooden cabinets held everything needed to bake wonderful pies, bread, cakes, and muffins. A simple kitchen sink stood on the left wall, clean as a whistle.
Rosa rested her hand on the wooden counter that ran around the entire kitchen. Everything was in perfect order, as usual. It made her feel that everything was right with the world. And of course, the baking table stood in the middle of the room, covered in flour as she rolled out the pie dough. A bowl of perfectly ripe peaches stood to one side, ready to be sliced.
She nodded. “Uh-huh, I see how it is,” she said and rolled her eyes with humor. “You want the day off, don’t you?”
Rosa looked down demurely. “I already called Mandy. She’s agreed to cover the shift for me, Momma.”
She decided to have some fun with Rosa. She loved Rosa as if the girl were her own daughter and enjoyed having fun with her. “You got a boyfriend?”
“What?” Rosa exclaimed and turned red. “No, Momma Peach... I...”
“You win the lottery and are holding out on me?”
Rosa shook her head. “No, Momma Peach. I didn’t win the lottery.”
“You running off to the Caribbean without taking me?”
Rosa smiled as she realized she was having fun with her. “No, Momma Peach.”
“You want the day off to rub my sore shoulders?”
Rosa giggled to herself. “No, Momma Peach.”
“Then tell me why you want the day off.”
Rosa drew in a deep breath and prepared to tell her, as uncomfortable as the truth was. “José, the boy I knew from my childhood, is visiting his grandparents. He’s going to be in Pine Falls for two weeks. He’s arriving today. Mr. and Mrs. Acosta have asked me to come over to their apartment today and see José. They’re having a small welcome party.”
She grinned at Rosa. “And you want to see if little José is still the same boy you remember, is that it? Of course, it is. Tell me the truth, Rosa.”
Rosa blushed again. “Well, I guess I’m a little bit curious.”
She wiped her flour-covered hands on the white apron around her waist and walked over to Rosa. “Rosa, go see little José and satisfy your curiosity. I bet he’s not so little anymore. Who knows,” she said and embraced Rosa with a love that Rosa cherished with her whole heart. “Maybe you might become Mrs. Acosta someday?”
“Thank you, Momma,” Rosa said, hugging her back as tight as she could. “You’re the best.”
“No, ma’am,” she said and pointed at her table. “My peach pie is the very best, or so folks around here tell me. Now get those cute feet of yours moving, Miss Cherry Dress.”
Rosa grinned and hurried out of the kitchen. She smiled from ear to ear and began humming her tune again. “How sweet life is.”
She loved to see Rosa going out to have a good time, perhaps because she didn’t have any children of her own. Her husband had died in a fatal car accident only four years after their marriage. She had started the bakery not long after and had been so busy with it that she never remarried. Her parents died three months apart from each other when she was forty-three. And because she had been an only child, and her parents had come from small families too, the only relative left was her Aunt Rachel, who lived in Virginia. Poor old Aunt Rachel was as forgetful as a two-year-old being told to clean her room. Some days, Aunt Rachel was blessed to even remember her name, let alone that she had a niece living down in Georgia. She was alone in the world. But she never felt alone or thought of herself as being alone. Not when she had friends all around her. Blood didn’t make folk family, she would always tell people; the heart did.
After sticking the last peach pie into the oven, she checked the kitty-cat clock hanging over the back door. “Oh goodness,” she said in a hurried voice and wiped her hands on the apron, “I better open up.”
She bustled out of the kitchen and danced out from behind the front wooden counter lined with peach cakes. The front of the bakery was a sight to see. Wooden shelves neatly displayed peach bread, peach cakes, muffins, pies, candies, brownies, and other delights to fill the stomach with goodness. Wooden baskets holding fresh peaches from the small orchard out back sat against the back wall like prizes waiting to be claimed. A small cooler of bottles of homemade peach cider sat next to the baskets of peaches. The front of the bakery looked antique and old-fashioned but tended with infinite care and love, exactly like her kitchen—which was what drew the customers in. The walls were decorated with old quilt squares and baking tools, the old floors creaked while the customers waited in line, and the air always smelled of peaches and times past. The atmosphere, a customer once told her, was the secret ingredient. She happily agreed and gave the customer a free loaf of peach bread.
“Open for business,” she said and unlocked a simple wooden door with a circular window set in it. After unlocking the front door, she turned her attention to the front display window. “No, sir,” she exclaimed and perched her hands on her hips. “No, sir, not gonna have you in here today.”
A single fly was buzzing around a beautiful display of peach cakes she’d baked and arranged the day before. The fly, oblivious to her words, continued to buzz around. She narrowed her eyes, crept back to the front counter, and picked up the morning newspaper. “Come to Momma Peach,” she whispered and slowly rolled the newspaper into a tight roll. “It’s on, Mr. Fly. You and me are gonna do a little dance.”
As she eased forward toward the display window, Mandy Mayberry walked past the front display window. She stopped when she saw her sneaking toward the window. “What in the world?” she said in a confused voice. But then she saw her holler out loud, charge forward, and swat a newspaper roll furiously in the air. “Oh, the fly must be back,” she said and giggled to herself. “Poor Momma Peach.”
“Don’t be afraid to meet your end, Mr. Fly; we all gotta go sometime!” she yelled as she took one swing after another at the fly, nearly knocking over the display of peach cakes. “No, don’t be afraid of ol’ Momma Peach. I’ll send you down the river nice and easy, sure enough.”
Mandy opened the front door and watched her swat at the fly with red cheeks and eyes that would scare a wild boar. “Morning, Momma Peach.”
“Not now, child. I’m on a mission,” she hollered and swatted at the fly again. She missed and knocked a few loaves of peach bread onto the floor in their packaging. “Pick those up for me, will you?”
Mandy closed the front door and dimpled as she watched her. Like a soldier crawling through a battlefield being bombarded with artillery, she ducked under the swinging arm and scooped up the fallen loaves of peach bread, placing them back on the shelves. She stood and straightened out the soft, pale green dress she was wearing with a pair of white tennis shoes. Mandy used to get down on herself for her long, skinny legs and pointed nose until Momma Peach asked her one day, what did it hurt trying to look pretty? What did it hurt to braid her long, blonde hair? What did it hurt trying to feel good about herself? Nothing at all. And because she taught her to feel proud of who she was as a twenty-year-old woman, Mandy was fiercely loyal to her. “It’s over there, Momma Peach,” Mandy said and pointed across the bakery. “It got away from you.”
“Die!” she yelled and charged across the bakery like a soldier exploding out of his foxhole.
“Poor fly,” Mandy whispered and stashed her pink purse behind the front counter as she continued to attack the fly.
“Where did it go?” she asked Mandy, breathing hard. “Where did the little booger get off to? Come on, Mr. Fly. Now, don’t hide from me.”
Mandy looked around the room but couldn’t spot the fly. “I don’t see the fly, Momma Peach. Maybe it—” she stopped when the front door opened and a smart but tough-looking Chinese woman walked in wearing a stylish black leather jacket over a long gray dress. “Good morning, Mrs. Chan... I mean, Detective Chan.”
“I wish it were a good morning,” Michelle Chan said in a serious voice and looked at her. She was sneaking up on the far left corner of the room like a shopkeeper sneaking up on a child stealing a piece of candy. “The fly is back, I see.” She suppressed a tiny smile.
“Quiet,” she fussed, throwing her left hand at Michelle. “I’m about to—” She let out a loud yell and began swatting the newspaper into the air in a flurry of useless blows.
Michelle looked at Mandy. Mandy shrugged her shoulders with a smile. “I like the way you did your hair. You always look nice with your ponytail braided like that.”
Michelle tried to smile but failed. “Thanks,” she told Mandy, focusing on her.
Mandy regarded Michelle’s unsmiling face. Underneath all the toughness was a kind, caring, loving woman who would lay down her life for almost anyone. On the outside, Michelle Chan was a tough cop who was an expert in several styles of martial arts, but on the inside, she was a hurt woman who had lost her entire family in China before emigrating to the United States. Like Mandy, she counted Michelle among her family.
“Momma Peach, we need to talk,” Michelle said in a serious voice.
“Not now,” she exhaled.
Michelle drew in a deep breath, looked at Mandy, and then looked back at her. “There has been a murder.”
She stopped swatting at the fly and looked at Michelle. “Mandy, go check the ovens for me.”
“Yes, Momma Peach,” Mandy replied, hurrying back to the kitchen.
“Talk to me.” She looked at Michelle with concern.
“A man was found dead this morning,” she said in a regretful voice, nodding toward the goodies surrounding her, “hunched over a plate of your peach pie.”
She stared at Michelle. Instead of becoming panicked or upset, she walked to the counter and put the newspaper down with calm hands. There was one more thing to know about her, beyond the blue striped dress and the famous peach pie. Everyone, including Michelle Chan, knew she was the best detective east of the Mississippi. “Who was this man? Leave nothing out for me.”
Michelle reached into the right pocket of her leather jacket, pulled out a small purple notepad, and flipped it open. “Mr. Richard Lionel Graystone.”
She shook her head. “I sure don’t know any Richard Graystone.”
“You wouldn’t,” Michelle explained. “Mr. Graystone was visiting his daughter, Felicia Garland.”
She tilted her head back as she searched her memory. “Ah, the little petite thing that’s married to that rich banker.”
“Mr. Floyd Garland, yes,” Michelle confirmed. “Momma Peach, it appears that Mr. Graystone was poisoned.”
“Well, then some foul soul put poison in my pie,” the older woman told Michelle in a calm and thoughtful voice. “Feel free to search my kitchens, pantry cupboards, anywhere you like. You won’t find a trace of poison here. But you knew that before you even walked in my door.”
Michelle nodded and leaned her right elbow onto the front counter. Before answering, she slowly drew a breath of the delightful aroma of the spices she used in her famous peach bread. Michelle loved the bakery, and she loved her. She was the only real family she had left in the world. Even though she knew it would turn up very little, she had to ask her closest and dearest friend to come down to the police station for questioning. Of course, she thought, she knew this already. “I don’t know a lot about Mr. Graystone right now. I’m running a check on him as we speak. I should know more later. In the meantime—”
“I’ll come down to the police station and write out a statement and answer your questions,” she told Michelle in a caring voice. “I know you have rules to follow.”
Michelle sighed. “The receipt for your peach pie was found in Mr. Graystone’s pants pocket, Momma Peach. The man was in your bakery yesterday.”
“Maybe Rosa or Mandy sold the pie to him,” she suggested. “Mandy,” she called out, “come here.”
Michelle waited for Mandy to appear at the kitchen door. “Yes, Momma Peach?” Mandy asked in a worried voice.
“Michelle is going to describe a man to you. See if you can tell me if you recognize him.”
“Okay,” Mandy replied nervously.
“It’s okay,” she promised. “You’re not in any trouble. You just ask your memory for a quick favor, and we’ll see what happens.”
Michelle stood up to face Mandy. “Mr. Graystone, a man in his mid-fifties with short, coppery red hair. He was a little overweight, but not much, and stood about 5’10’’ even though his driver’s license claimed he was 6’2’’. His face,” Michelle said and paused as if thinking, “well, he looked like that actor who played the dad on the sitcom Happy Days and—”
“Oh, my goodness,” Mandy exclaimed, “I know who you’re talking about. I wouldn’t have noticed him, but that’s one of my favorite classic television shows.”
She smiled proudly. “That’s my baby. Now tell me about this man.”
“Well,” Mandy said, trying to think back, “he came in here yesterday, right before closing. Momma Peach, you were in the kitchen cleaning up, and I was sweeping up front. I remember thinking that he did look like Tom Bosley, the actor who played Mr. Cunningham.”
“Did this man say anything to you?” Michelle asked.
“Not really,” Mandy replied and shook her head. “All he did was look around some. Wait—he did ask me if there was anything I would recommend. So I recommended Momma Peach’s famous pie, of course. He paid for the pie, told me to have a nice day, and left.”
Michelle looked at her and then back at Mandy. “So Mr. Graystone came into the bakery, randomly browsed around, bought a pie, and then left?”
“Pretty much,” Mandy confirmed and then added, “He did seem a little distracted.”
“Distracted how?” she pressed gently.
Mandy rubbed the tip of her nose with her right finger and then looked at the front display window. “He kept walking past the display window, kind of back and forth. At first, I thought he was just browsing, but it almost looked like he was waiting to see someone walk by outside. I mean, that’s how it seemed to me, anyway.”
“How did Mr. Graystone pay for the pie?” Michelle asked.
“Cash,” Mandy said ruefully. “I remember that because it was right after I had the money drawer counted down, too. I really wasn’t expecting any more customers. I guess you live and learn.”
“We all live and learn,” she reassured Mandy and turned her attention to Michelle. “We have our work cut out for us, baby girl.”
Michelle nodded. “Yes, we do.”
She looked at Mandy and was about to tell her to hold down the fort when the phone on the front counter rang. “Should I get that first?” Mandy asked. She nodded. “Hello, Sweet Peach Bakery, this is Mandy; how can I help you? ...Oh... sure, Momma Peach is right here.”
“Who is it?” she asked.
“Aunt Rachel’s assisted living center.”
“Oh, give me strength,” she moaned and took the phone from Mandy. “This is Caroline Johnson... I see... okay... yes, put her on.” She rolled her eyes and waited. When a confused voice repeated her name, she braced herself. “Hello, Aunt Rachel, this is Caroline.”
“Who?” Aunt Rachel’s voice was so shrill that Mandy and Michelle could hear it plainly. Mandy suppressed a giggle, having overheard one or two of Aunt Rachel’s phone calls in the past.
“Caroline... your niece,” she repeated in a loud voice. “Are you okay, Aunt Rachel?”
“Who are you?” Aunt Rachel demanded again.
She sighed in exasperation. “It’s Caroline, your niece... I’m the daughter of your brother, Ralph Johnson.”
“Ralph is over at the Jenkins house playing with Roger. Now, he knows better, but he don’t care,” Aunt Rachel told her in a gossipy tone that made her roll her eyes.
“Aunt Rachel,” she said, feeling her patience wearing thin and her blood pressure rising, “Ms. Halcomb said there was a problem with your monthly check. I sent your check out. Did you get it?”
“Ralph knows better than to play with Roger. Roger broke our kitchen window. Everyone knows it was Roger.”
“Focus, Aunt Rachel,” she practically hollered into the phone. She could hear another voice in the background, perhaps one of the nurses.
“Who are you?” Aunt Rachel repeated in confusion.
She closed her eyes and gently smacked the phone against her head with each word. “Aunt Rachel... pay attention!” she yelled.
“Who am I talking to? Is this you, Louise?”
“No, it’s Caroline!” she howled and threw one hand into the air like she was testifying in church on a Sunday. “I’m going to lose it... one of these days... oh, give me strength. Aunt Rachel, please... you know your friend Louise died over ten years ago,” she finished in a patient voice. But as she watched, Mandy couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps she wouldn’t rather go after Aunt Rachel one day with a rolled-up newspaper instead of that fly.
“Louise cheats at rummy,” Aunt Rachel said as if she hadn’t said a thing. “I caught her cheating, but Louise claims she wasn’t. I know better.”
“Why me?” she whispered and smacked the phone against her head again. “Listen, Aunt Rachel... did you get my check or not?”
“Check? Oh yes, the nurse checks my blood pressure every morning,” Aunt Rachel said proudly. “I had eggs this morning.”
“Put Ms. Halcomb back on the phone,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Is this you, Louise?” Aunt Rachel asked.
“No!” she cried out, “it’s your niece Caroline!”
“Who’s calling from North Carolina? Who am I speaking to?”
She handed the phone back to Mandy. “Get Ms. Halcomb on the line for me before I go insane.”
Michelle’s tough demeanor finally cracked into a grin. Mandy took the phone from her and got Ms. Halcomb back on the line. “Here you go.”
She took the phone, drew in a deep breath, and closed her eyes. “Ms. Halcomb?”
“Yes.”
“I’m mailing out a second check. I’m sure my first check is somewhere in my aunt’s mail. But just in case the first check got lost in the mail, I’m mailing out a second check. Please see to it that the check is deposited into my aunt’s account.”
“Of course,” Ms. Halcomb promised. “I’m sure we’ll locate the first check soon, Mrs. Johnson. If we do, we’ll cancel the second check and send it back to you, like last time.”
“Thank you. Have a good day.” She slowly hung up the phone, leaned over the phone where it sat on the front counter, and rested her head against the wood. “Oh Lord, give me strength...”
Mandy let out a giggle and headed back into the kitchen. Even Michelle had to bite down hard on her lower lip in order not to laugh. “How is Aunt Rachel?” she finally asked.
She stood up straight and sighed, gazing at the phone. “She had eggs for breakfast. But that’s okay because she thinks I’m Louise Jones and my Papa, rest his soul, is playing over at an old friend’s house.” She turned to look at Michelle, her eyes saying she was ready to explode. “And it seems that she has either lost the monthly check I sent her or the check was lost in the mail. But I’m not stupid, no ma’am. I know that old bat has my check. This is the ninth time she’s played this game. That old woman just loves to torment me,” she finished in a near-hysterical voice and threw up her hands again. “Oh, give me strength.”
Michelle gave her a sympathetic look. “Tormentors aside, are you ready to go?”
“Let me get my pocketbook,” she sighed and walked back into the kitchen.
As soon as the coast was clear, Michelle let out a disbelieving laugh. She mused that Aunt Rachel wasn’t nearly as senile as people assumed, but she got bored sometimes.
