A Dash of Peach

  A Dash of Peach

  Sweet Peach Bakery #1

  Wendy Meadows

  Copyright © 2017 by Wendy Meadows

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

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  Printed in the United States of America

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Thanks for reading

  Be the First to Know

  Momma’s Recipe

  About the Author

  Also by Wendy Meadows

  Chapter One

  Momma Peach was a woman who took no nonsense from anybody. She was a large African American woman in her mid-fifties 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 Momma Peach was, too—the good, the bad, the smart and the stupid all knew that she was a woman that demanded respect from everyone; one cursed soul learned the hard way that when you showed Momma Peach 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, too. 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 Momma Peach was in the kitchen of her bakery humming while she prepared her first batch of peach pie for the day. “Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,” she sang in a soft voice. “Oh yes, Lord, how sweet the sound.”

  Standing at her baking table that was always either covered with flour on baking days or wiped spotlessly clean, Momma Peach looked as natural as a bird perched on her nest. The heat of her kitchen never seemed to bother her too much. No, Momma Peach liked a hot kitchen. Hot kitchens meant good things were baking in the ovens; good, delightful, 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 a chapter from the Book of Psalms. Momma Peach 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 just like the good Lord made me, yes sir.”

  “Hey Momma Peach,” Rosa Mendez said, walking into the kitchen with her black hair tied back in a high ponytail.

  “My,” Momma Peach expressed in a voice of amazement, “don't you look all pretty in that dress.”

  Rosa blushed. At the age of 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 Momma Peach’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 side lock of hair down to try to cover her scar. “Thank you.”

  Momma Peach 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 and then shifted from one foot to another as she gazed around the cozy, hot kitchen. She loved Momma Peach's kitchen. The walls were covered with a soft blue wallpaper patterned with clouds and birds and animals and trees. Momma Peach always said the wallpaper reminded her of how the earth might have looked before the Great Flood of Noah. The floors were old and creaky, but Momma Peach 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 Momma Peach needed to bake her 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, Momma Peach's 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.

  Momma Peach nodded. “Uh, huh, I see how it is,” she said and rolled her eyes with good 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.”

  Momma Peach decided to have some fun with Rosa. She loved Rosa like the girl was 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 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 Momma Peach 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.”

  Momma Peach 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.”

  Momma Peach 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 Peach,” Rosa said, hugging her back as tight as she could. “You're the very best.”

  “No, ma’am,” Momma Peach 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. Momma Peach smiled from ear to ear and began humming her song again. “Yes, how sweet the so
und.”

  Momma Peach 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 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 be able to remember her name, let alone that she had a niece living down in Georgia. Momma Peach 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, Momma Peach 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.”

  Momma Peach 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. Momma Peach happily agreed and gave the customer a free loaf of peach bread.

  “Open for business,” Momma Peach 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 onto her hips. “No sir, not gonna have you in here today.”

  A single fly was buzzing around a beautiful display of peach cakes Momma Peach had baked and arranged the day before. The fly, oblivious to Momma Peach’s words, continued to buzz around. Momma Peach 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 Momma Peach eased forward toward the display window, Mandy Mayberry walked past the front display window. She stopped when she saw Momma Peach sneaking toward the window. “What in the world?” she said in a confused voice. But then she saw Momma Peach 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!” Momma Peach 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 Momma Peach swat at the fly with red cheeks and eyes that would scare a wild boar. “Good morning, Momma Peach.”

  “Not now, child. I'm on a mission,” Momma Peach 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 Momma Peach. Like a soldier crawling through a battlefield being bombarded with artillery, she ducked under Momma Peach's 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 blond hair? What did it hurt trying to feel good about herself? Nothing at all. And because Momma Peach taught her to feel proud about 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!” Momma Peach yelled and charged across the bakery like a soldier exploding out of his fox hole.

  “Poor fly,” Mandy whispered and stashed her pink purse behind the front counter as Momma Peach 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 Momma Peach. Momma Peach 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,” Momma Peach fussed and threw her left hand at Michelle, “I’m about to—” Momma Peach 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 and focused on Momma Peach.

  Mandy regarded Michelle's unsmiling face. Underneath all the toughness was a kind, caring, loving woman that 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, Momma Peach counted Michelle among her family.

  “Momma Peach, we need to talk,” Michelle said in a serious voice.

  “Not now,” Momma Peach exhaled.

  Michelle drew in a deep breath, looked at Mandy, and then looked back at Momma Peach. “There has been a murder.”

  Momma Peach stopped swatting at the fly and looked at Michelle. “Mandy, go check the ovens for me.”

  “Yes, Momma Peach,” Mandy replied and hurried away back to the kitchen.

  “Talk to me.” She looked at Michelle in 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.”

  Momma Peach 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 Mamma Peach 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 and pulled out a small, purple notepad and flipped it open. “Mr. Richard Lionel Graystone.”

  Momma Peach shook her head. “I sure don’t know any Richard Graystone.”

  “You wouldn't,” Michelle explained. “Mr. Graystone was visiting his daughter, Felicia Garland.”

  Momma Peach 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 poi
soned.”

  “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 that Momma Peach used in her famous peach bread. Michelle loved the bakery and she loved Momma Peach. Momma Peach 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, Momma Peach 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,” Momma Peach told Michelle in a caring voice. “I know you have rules to follow.”

  Michelle sighed. “The receipt to 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,” Momma Peach 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 to you a man. See if you can tell me if you recognize the man for me.”

  “Okay,” Mandy replied in a nervous voice.

  “It's okay,” Momma Peach promised. “You’re not in any trouble. You just ask your memory for a quick favor and we'll see what happens.”