A Dash of Peach Page 3

  “The man was plainly in hiding,” Momma Peach told Michelle. “Mandy did state, in her own opinion, that the man paced back and forth in front of the window, like he was just waiting for a living soul to walk by. Now, I can tell you that my storefront gets a lot of foot traffic. I'm sure the eyes of our murdered friend saw lots of folks walk by, too.”

  “I agree,” Michelle told Momma Peach and rubbed her eyes, trying to concentrate. “Mr. Graystone was found dead by a housekeeper, Betty Walker.”

  Momma Peach looked back to the contents of the folder. “Yes, here is her statement.”

  “Betty Walker claims she entered Mr. Graystone's room at ten past eight this morning when nobody answered her knock. Ms. Walker stated that she was to make up the bed and bring fresh towels but then she saw him slumped over the table in the room right in front of one of your pies. At first, she thought Mr. Graystone was asleep or passed out from too much booze.”

  “Understandable.”

  “When she realized Mr. Graystone was dead, she ran from the room to get the owner,” Michelle continued. “But the owner was passed out from a night of drinking. Betty said it took her about half an hour to get the man out of bed.”

  “Leaving the body in the open for half an hour,” Momma Peach pointed out.

  “Yes.”

  Momma Peach nodded and continued to examine the contents of the folder. “I want to see the motel room.”

  “Yes, ma’am, as soon as we can.”

  “I know Mr. Graystone wasn't eating my peach pie and watching television when he died. I know you know that, too,” Momma Peach told Michelle with a look from under her furrowed brow. “Someone else must have been involved.”

  “Momma Peach, I examined the motel room,” Michelle explained. “I went through Mr. Graystone's suitcase and wallet. I picked through the bathroom. I went through his car. Mr. Graystone was clean. I didn't find anything except the normal stuff...clothes, deodorant, toothpaste, cologne, a car map, some gum, nothing out of the ordinary. The motel room was a dump, sure, but it was clean of any evidence of a crime...as far as I could see. No sign of forced entry or violence. So...nobody broke in and forced him to eat a poisoned pie. Right now, as it stands, we have absolutely nothing to go on. I'll show you the motel room, but I don't think you'll find anything. That's why I wanted to talk to you first.”

  Momma Peach nodded her head. “You let me worry about the motel room. Now, tell me what kind of wheels did Mr. Graystone have under his backside?”

  “A classic 1979 Volvo 265, one of those beautiful old station wagons, green in color...with, if I remember right...close to two hundred thousand miles. I did find a receipt in the glove compartment for a recent oil change.”

  “When?”

  “Monday of last week, on the 22nd,” Michelle stated. “The deceased rented the motel room on the 24th and was pronounced dead on the 29th.”

  “Mr. Graystone was found dead on early Monday morning,” Momma Peach corrected Michelle. “Let's not become cold-hearted toward the dead.”

  Michelle nodded. She respected Momma Peach's personal approach to each homicide case. Deep down in her own heart, she wished she had Momma Peach's compassion for people. On each homicide case, she had to harden her heart even more just to get through her work in one piece, and on her worst days, she considered even the victims no better than criminals. Thankfully, she had her friend, mentor, and the best amateur detective south of the Mason Dixon line to remind her what was truly important. “Yes, Momma Peach.”

  “When a poor soul is murdered and taken away from the earth earlier than expected, we must show respect. Please don't think I'm scolding you.”

  “I know, Momma Peach,” Michelle promised.

  “Now,” Momma Peach said, “we know Mr. Graystone, the poor soul, was in town from the 24th until he was found dead this morning. So, what was he doing in town? Did he talk to his daughter?”

  Michelle shook her head. “Felicia Garland sounded shocked when I told her about her father being in town. She claimed she hadn't heard from her father in years due to a personal disagreement.”

  “You talked to Felicia personally?”

  Michelle nodded. “She’s next of kin so I had to notify her, and she’ll have to identify the body. Before I went to see you, I stopped by her home on Maple Lane to tell her the bad news.”

  Momma Peach looked impressed but wary. “Maple Lane is a very fancy neighborhood. Lots and lots of money there...lots and lots of money.”

  “Tell me about it,” Michelle replied. “The home Felicia Garland and her husband own costs more money than I could ever earn working as a homicide detective. Especially an underpaid one.”

  “Well, honor and money do not play well together,” Momma Peach warned. “There may be more to Felicia than we know. Right now, tell me how Little Miss Fancy Britches reacted when you told her about the death of her father?”

  “Fake tears, plastic emotions...same old, same old,” Michelle told Momma Peach. “I mean, let's face it, Felicia Garland isn't known for donating her time to soup kitchens.”

  “Now, I don’t know Felicia too well. I only saw her at the big First Baptist Church downtown a few times for a special sermon from a visiting preacher man.”

  Guilt struck Michelle's heart. She hadn't stepped foot in a church in years. “You'll get to know Felicia better today,” she promised Momma Peach.

  Momma Peach shook her head. “No. I don't want anyone knowing that I’m working this case. The interrogation room has a one-way window. I will stand in the viewing room and watch you talk to Felicia and her husband.”

  “Are you sure, Momma Peach?”

  Momma Peach nodded as she worked on the piece of candy in her mouth, her mind and eyes locked on the folder she was holding. “I have Mandy and Rosa to think about. Supposing Felicia Garland has absolutely nothing to do with murdering her father, but she might try and cause damage to my bakery and the people I love, out of revenge.”

  “Because Mr. Garland died eating your famous peach pie?”

  “Yes,” Momma Peach assured Michelle, “and other reasons that I won't explain right now.”

  “I didn't tell Felicia how her father died.”

  “Don't matter. In this town, people have ways of pulling splinters out of the tiger's eye,” Momma Peach promised.

  Michelle began to speak but the phone on her desk rang. Michelle grabbed it before the first ring had finished. “Yes? Okay, take them to the interrogation room. I'll be there in a few minutes.” Michelle put down the phone. “They're here.”

  Momma Peach closed the folder. She began to stand up when her ears caught the sound of a fly. “Oh, no you didn't,” she said in a voice that told Michelle a war was coming. Momma Peach slowly stood up and searched the office. “Ah,” she said, spotting a fly buzzing around the bottom of the window, “I see you...now just stay very still...”

  Michelle watched Momma Peach try to roll up the folder in her hand. She started. “Not the case file, Momma Peach!” Momma Peach looked at her in surprise and flattened out the file. “We don’t have time for this, anyway,” she said good-naturedly.

  “Oh, I will be back for you,” Momma Peach whispered to the fly at the window. She swung her purse toward it.

  The fly spotted Momma Peach at the last possible second and took flight as if it knew what the woman with the huge blue purse was up to. Momma Peach let out an outraged groan as she followed Michelle to the interrogation room.

  Felicia Garland walked into a small room with gray walls that held a plain metal table with two chairs on opposite sides. She noted a mirror on the east wall that was undoubtedly a one-way observation window. “Am I being arrested?” she asked the short, plump cop who looked like he knew more about donuts than criminal procedure.

  “No, ma’am,” the cop told Felicia, clearly admiring her overpowering beauty. “Detective Chan just wants to ask you a few questions.”

  “Very well,” Felicia said in an annoyed tone, holding h
er head high like the high school beauty queen she had once been. Now thirty-five, her long, blond hair still tumbled below her shoulders in perfect waves. Her brilliant blue eyes were flirty when she wanted them to be. Her beauty was powerful enough to force any man to his knees. Or so Felicia thought. In reality, her beauty was washed out and her pink suit looked more like a melted marshmallow than the chic outfit she probably believed it to be—at least that's what Momma Peach thought as she sat down in a wooden chair behind the one-way window in a stuffy viewing room that smelled of stale coffee.

  Felicia planted herself in one of the metal chairs and waited for Michelle. She placed her expensive white leather purse down into the metal gray table, opened it, and fished out an orange mint. Michelle entered the room a couple of minutes later, carrying two bottles of cold water. “I thought Mr. Garland was with you?” she asked Felicia without saying hello.

  “My husband had urgent business at the bank,” Felicia answered impatiently. “Honestly, detective, didn't I answer all of your questions earlier?”

  “I’m sorry, but no,” Michelle said, setting the two bottles of water down on the table. “Water?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I'll need to speak to Mr. Garland,” Michelle said to Felicia as she pulled out her metal chair and sat down. “Your father has been found dead, Mrs. Garland. My sincere condolences, again, for your tragic loss. But this is serious business. I understand your husband is a very busy man, but he needs to make time to talk with me. I want him down here at the station no later than noon tomorrow.”

  Michelle's demand did not please Felicia one bit. Momma Peach watched Felicia's expression turn annoyed and dismissive. “I’m sure my husband will come by to speak with you when he has the time.”

  “No, ma’am,” Michelle corrected Felicia in a voice like a teacher who wasn’t going to put up with a smart-mouthed student. “I want Mr. Garland down here by noon tomorrow unless he wants me to show up to fetch him in front of all his bank customers, is that clear?”

  Felicia avoided Michelle’s eyes, looking down at her soft, manicured hands. “I will speak to my husband and tell him that you need to speak to him by noon tomorrow. It's up to him if he will come or not.”

  “If he refuses to speak to me I will get a warrant,” Michelle promised. “Now, Mrs. Garland, the reason I asked you here is because I need to ask you a series of questions.”

  Felicia finally raised her eyes and looked Michelle in the face. She knew Michelle Chan wasn't just some sap off the street. Felicia saw a skilled detective sitting before her; a detective known for her mind as much as for her fighting skills. The last physical fight Felicia had been in was back in her junior year of high school when she tangled with Noelle Myers for flirting with her boyfriend. Unfortunately, Noelle Myers had wiped the floor of the girl's locker room with Felicia. After that fight, Felicia swore to never lose again, and so had learned to use different tactics to defeat her enemies. “I already told you what I know. I was never close to my family. I told you that my father and I haven't spoken since my mother was killed by a drunk driver.”

  Momma Peach observed Felicia's face carefully through the one-way glass. Most curious and heart-breaking was the fact that the girl showed no sadness at the mention of her own mother's death. It made Momma Peach wonder.

  “Why is it that you were estranged?” Michelle asked and picked up a bottle of water.

  Felicia watched Michelle open the bottle of water in her hand with careful eyes. “My mother and I were never exactly...close,” Felicia said. “My mother was very conservative in her views, as was her side of the family. As a teenager, I couldn't move an inch without her scolding me for this or that, usually for something stupid like coming in an hour past my curfew or getting low marks on my report cards. In her eyes, I had to be absolutely perfect. It wasn't my fault I failed chemistry.” Felicia rolled her eyes at this last part.

  “And her attitude made you rebel, was that it?”

  Felicia shrugged her shoulders. “You were a teenage girl once. Sometimes you see your parents as the enemy. You know how it is.”

  “My parents were murdered when I was sixteen years old,” Michelle informed Felicia in an even tone. “They were murdered for standing up for the rights of innocent people. I didn't have a chance to be a teenager. I was too busy running for my life.”

  Felicia was at a loss for words. Michelle’s look told her wordlessly to knock off the pity party and act like an adult. There was an awkward silence before Felicia continued. “Well…my mother and I had different views, detective.”

  “And your father, Mr. Graystone, did you have different views from him, as well?”

  Momma Peach leaned forward in her seat and studied Felicia's face with her keen eyes through the mirror. “My father shared my mother's views, yes. He never once played referee. I was always getting penalized by a very cruel woman who didn't care about my feelings, my views, or my thoughts.” Her voice was petulant but with an undercurrent of barely-suppressed anger. “But,” Felicia continued, forcing her tone to become more neutral, “after I graduated high school and left home, my father and I managed to talk a few times on the phone. We never became close, but he seemed to cool down...some. He even managed to convince me to come back home and see my mother a handful of times.”

  “Did you?”

  “Sure,” Felicia said, “she was my mother, after all. But after she was killed, my father changed. He became bitter. It was impossible to talk to him...so I stopped. What was the point in trying to talk to a man who blamed everyone but himself for my mother’s death?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My mother was half blind,” Felicia said in a resentful voice that Momma Peach didn't like. “Sure, she was hit by a drunk driver, but sometimes I wonder...was it just bad luck or did my mother run that red light because she didn’t see it? I guess I'll never know. But what I do know is that my mother should have never been allowed behind the wheel of a car that late at night. My father knew she was half blind...what was he thinking?”

  Michelle didn't comment, watching Felicia’s face go from angry back to neutral again. She changed direction. “Did Mr. Graystone have a will?”

  Momma Peach watched Felicia's spine stiffen. Evidently the pain of this was still fresh, despite all her nonsense about an estrangement. “Yes, he did. But don't think for a second that he left me a dime. After my mother died, my father changed his will, or so he told me in the midst of one of our last arguments. He said he was leaving everything he had to the local veterans group in Restford.”

  “Mr. Graystone was a veteran?”

  Felicia nodded her head. “He served in the Army during Vietnam,” she said. “My father never spoke about his time in the Army, though. All I knew growing up was that he flew helicopters.”

  “He was a pilot?”

  “In his younger days, maybe, though you wouldn’t have known it,” Felicia huffed. “All my father did while I was growing up was fix toilets and unclog sinks.”

  “So he was a plumber.”

  “Yes,” Felicia confirmed in a disgusted tone. “What my mother saw in my father I'll never know.”

  Michelle glanced discreetly at the one-way mirror, knowing this display of lack of respect would probably cause some choice words to come out of Momma Peach’s mouth. “Your mother left your father a large sum of money when she died. What did she do for a living?”

  Michelle could see that her question took the wind out of Felicia. A look of worry crossed her face and she smoothed back her blonde hair in an attempt to cover her reaction. “My mother's side of the family were all lawyers. She inherited some money but also practiced law for a number of years before she married my father.”

  “Okay,” Michelle said and took a long sip of water as if she had not noticed Felicia’s slip at all. “Mrs. Garland, do you have any idea why your father was in town?”

  “How should I know?” Felicia said defensively.

  Michelle
nodded her head. “Did you have any reason to kill your father?”

  “What?!” Felicia cried out in outrage. She stormed to her feet. “I don't have to sit here and—”

  “Sit,” Michelle said in a tone that made Felicia close her mouth and sit back down in her seat. “These are routine questions, Mrs. Garland. I have to ask them.” She gazed at Felicia with a neutral expression as if stunned that she would even take offense.

  Felicia folded her arms. “The questions you're asking me are simply stupid and insulting.”

  “Maybe,” Michelle said, remaining calm. “Mrs. Garland, I’ll ask you again. Did you have any reason to kill your father?”

  “Sure,” Felicia said, perhaps hoping her sarcasm would appear fierce even though Michelle clearly intimidated her, “I killed my father because he left all of his money to a bunch of wrinkly old men who sit around playing checkers all day and telling worn-out war stories.”

  “I want a direct answer, Mrs. Garland.”

  “No,” Felicia nearly screamed, “I didn't have any reason to kill my father. I don't even know why he was in town, for crying out loud.”

  Behind the window, Momma Peach shook her head. “Liar,” she whispered. She enjoyed how Michelle’s technique had drawn out such answers from Felicia Garland. Where there was smoke, there was bound to be the devil’s fire.

  “Did your father have any enemies?” Michelle asked.

  “How should I know?”

  “I wonder if perhaps Mr. Graystone might have come here seeking your help,” Michelle stated in a mild tone. Momma Peach smiled and gave out a low chuckle around the candy she was still sucking on.

  Felicia stared into Michelle's eyes. And then, she changed her tone. “I guess that's a possibility. I'm not sure. I mean, most people liked my father. He wasn't a bad person or anything. He got along well with most everyone he met. But...I guess anyone can make enemies.”

  “Did your father have any problems with drugs, alcohol...any gambling?” Michelle asked, draining the bottle of water in her hand. She could tell Felicia was pleased at the opportunity to cast suspicion onto anyone and anything else at hand.