Not So Peachy Day Page 5

  “Baby,” Momma Peach said, bracing for a cold walk back to the inn, “how will this here truck stop stay open?”

  “Beth and me will just have to sleep over and hunker down, I suppose,” Martha explained. “Mr. Brown called earlier and said he would make it worth our while. But I'm not too anxious to sleep on a cot in the back pantry and neither is Beth.” Martha looked out at the storm. The ice had changed over into a hard, cruel falling snow. “Not that I got anyone waiting up for me at home…my husband left me last year, and my two sons are grown and live in Nashville...so I guess I will sleep over and earn a few extra dollars. Beth is in the same boat as me, so I guess she'll make up her mind to stay over, too.”

  “What will you do if the power goes out?” Rosa asked.

  “Mr. Brown purchased a very good generator a few years back. It’s enough to run the griddle and the fryer and a couple coffee pots and emergency lights. We’ve tried it out once before. We'll be okay,” Martha assured Rosa. “Well, I better get back behind the counter and make some more coffee.”

  Momma Peach reached out and patted Martha's hand. “If you get lonesome, you just carry yourself across the street and come to Momma Peach's room.”

  “I will,” Martha promised.

  Sam thanked Martha for the food and walked outside. Momma Peach and Rosa waved goodbye to Martha and followed Sam. “My goodness gracious alive,” Momma Peach cried, “this snow storm is worse than the storm we went through in Vermont, yes sir and yes, ma’am. Oh, give me strength.”

  “Hey, look,” Sam exclaimed over the icy winds and nodded toward the inn.

  Momma Peach looked across the street and spotted a black limousine pull up in front of the lobby. One of the men from earlier climbed out of the limousine and walked directly into the lobby without noticing he was being watched. “Well, I'll be,” Momma Peach said.

  “Let's go,” Sam said.

  “Not yet,” Momma Peach ordered Sam in a thoughtful voice. “That there man is on a business trip. If we go rushing into the lobby, we'll break up the meeting.”

  “That thug in a suit might try to kill John,” Sam objected.

  Momma Peach reached out and grabbed Sam's left arm. “If I thought that was possible I would be running across that treacherous street right this second. It's best if we count ten-Mississippis and see what happens.” Rosa looked worried and started counting under her breath.

  Sam focused his attention on the inn. It was slowly disappearing behind a white sheet of snow. The vehicles parked in the parking lot were still and cold. “I guess it wouldn't hurt to wait a couple of minutes.”

  “We'll wait,” Momma Peach said and began walking across the snowy road, “but not out here in this cold. We'll take our food back to the rooms, defrost a minute, and then casually walk downstairs like we never left.”

  Sam liked Momma Peach's idea. Besides, he thought, walking across the street, he doubted the man they saw entering the inn would commit a second murder; if he indeed was the murderer. It seemed to Sam, as he fought against a powerful wind, that the man had returned to the inn to offer John a deal he couldn’t refuse. Sure, Sam reasoned, squinting his eyes and looking at the black limousine. The man who went inside waited until the sheriff left, the scene cleared out, and then hurried back to blackmail an innocent man into selling his property. Maybe it was not even blackmail but a threat with deadly intent. By whatever means, Sam was sure the man in the suit had returned to the inn to carry out a criminal transaction. “Here we are,” he said and pulled open the door leading to the emergency stairwell.

  Momma Peach and Rosa hurried into the stairwell and began shaking icy snow off their coats. It melted in puddles on the floor around them. Sam stepped inside and closed the door. “Oh my, oh my,” Momma Peach exclaimed, “this storm is getting meaner by the second.”

  Sam looked down at his reddened, cold hands. “I'm sorry, Momma Peach. All I wanted to do was take you and Rosa to a warm, sunny island for a week and rest our minds some. And now look at the mess I got us into. We're involved in another murder and trapped in a snowstorm.”

  “Baby,” Momma Peach told Sam and gently touched his upset face, “in this life nothing, and I mean nothing, happens by chance or mistake. We're meant to be in this here town and this here inn for a reason. And that reason, is a man named John Minski. Now you stop kicking yourself for trying to help me get a sunburn and lift up your chin, because you, Mr. Sam, are a good and strong man.”

  Sam felt a smile touch his face. He looked into Momma Peach's loving eyes. “You're some woman,” he smiled and kissed Momma Peach on her cheek. “Let's get upstairs.”

  Rosa stared at Momma Peach and Sam. She noticed how well they clicked. Not romantically, of course, but on a level deeper than romance, a level she couldn't explain to herself. Some people, she concluded—some hearts—just simply bonded together into a beautiful, everlasting friendship. “I could use a hot shower to warm up,” she said in a cheery voice. “I'll let you two go downstairs and talk to Mr. Minski.”

  “Good idea,” Momma Peach agreed. She winked at Sam, climbed up the stairs and walked to her room. Once she was inside and Rosa was all settled, she met Sam back out in the hallway. “Rosa is going to take her a hot shower and watch some of them game shows she likes on her laptop.”

  Sam checked his watch. “Sun is setting, and the snow is starting to cripple the front street. We better hurry and get downstairs.” Momma Peach nodded her head and walked downstairs with Sam. They found John sitting in the lobby talking to one of the men they had seen when first arriving at the inn. The tension in the air was palpable. “Oh, sorry John, we were just coming down for some coffee,” Sam said. He looked at the man wearing a black overcoat. “Everything okay, John?”

  “Go on back upstairs,” John told Sam in a stern tone. “My business is my business.”

  Momma Peach studied the snake standing over John. “Why are you here, fella?” she asked. “Your buddy is dead. Someone done went and shot him in the back. You come here to point a finger at John...or maybe at yourself?”

  “Momma Peach,” John barked, “my business is my own. Now get back upstairs.”

  The man wearing the black overcoat snarled at Momma Peach. “Lady, my name is Andy Pracks. I'm an attorney representing Coplin and Morris. And as an attorney, I will point out that your subtle accusation that I killed William Krayton is not only offensive but—”

  “Oh, shut your mouth,” Momma Peach snapped at the lawyer. “I know your kind, boy. You're a rattlesnake disguised as a rabbit. So take your fancy lawyer talk and shove it, maybe wash it down with some real sour milk that's been sitting out in the hot sun for a long time.”

  Sam studied Andy. The man was in his early forties and his sharp, mean face was carved by tough days in hostile courtrooms. Andy, Sam saw, had participated in his share of legal battles, and had won; either through legal means or illegal means. The man was a criminal defense lawyer who worked for top dollar and did not care that he represented clients who were no better than filth. “John, we didn't mean to interfere,” Sam said and put his arm around Momma Peach, grateful that the woman didn't have her pocketbook in tow. Momma Peach was known to beat people with her pocketbook—especially people with bad manners.

  “Go on back upstairs,” John told Sam again.

  “This is a private meeting,” Andy Pracks warned Sam with cold eyes.

  Momma Peach locked eyes with John. “Mr. John, look down at your legs—”

  “I ain't got no legs!” John barked.

  “Exactly,” Momma Peach pointed out. “You lost your legs in Vietnam fighting a hostile enemy. Don't give up the fight now.” Momma Peach pointed at Andy. “Fight this snake.”

  “So much for being casual,” Sam whispered in Momma Peach's ear.

  John looked back at Andy with furious eyes. “I'll think about what you said,” he told the man and tossed a thumb at the front door. “Now get.”

  “We're not finished with our meeting,” Andy tol
d John in a threatening tone. “Mr. Coplin and Mr. Morris want an answer tonight. I'm not leaving without your answer.”

  John glanced down at his legs, and then, to Andy's dismay, he reached behind his wheelchair and felt the American flag he had attached to it. “Long ago this flag used to mean something...nowadays, people won't even stand for the National Anthem when it's being played. Thousands of men shed their blood and died on foreign shores for this flag...” John's voice dropped down to a whisper and then he fell silent. After a minute he looked up into Andy's eyes. “Tell Coplin and Morris that my answer is no.” John let go of the American flag and yanked out his gun. “And if you ever step foot back in this lobby again I'm willing to go to prison to teach you a lesson, and I’ll go with a smile on my face. Now get!”

  Andy made a disgusted face at John. “Old man, your day has come. And trust me when I say this: you don’t need to kill me, I already know you are going to spend the rest of your life rotting behind bars,” Andy hissed and walked over to the front door. “You were given a chance to escape a very harsh punishment and you chose to ignore the opportunity at hand. Now you're going to learn what punishment really is.”

  Sam balled his two hands into two fists. “Mister, I'm about to teach you what real pain is,” he said and walking toward Andy.

  John reached out and grabbed Sam's arm. “Don't waste your time on that rat,” he told Sam.

  Andy glared at Sam. “Anytime you want to go toe to toe with me, old man, just say the word. I’ll sue you for assault after I take you down—I'm a black belt in three different forms of martial arts.”

  “Yeah?” Sam asked. “Well, I'm a black belt in good old-fashioned street stomping.”

  “Get out of here,” John yelled at Andy, “and don't come back.”

  Andy jerked open the front door and allowed the icy winds to invade the lobby. The winds ran over to the fireplace and began slapping at the fire. “When you're rotting in prison, remember this day,” he said and vanished out into the storm.

  Momma Peach ran to the front door, pulled it open, and yelled: “Turkey!” and then slammed the door closed. “Oh, that kind I can do without,” she said and immediately thought of Michelle. “If my baby was here, she would have kicked that snake back down into his hole, yes sir and yes, ma’am.”

  “Too bad Michelle is far away in China,” Sam told Momma Peach and focused on John. “John, what did that skunk want with you?”

  “What's it any of your business?” John asked Sam in a sour voice. “I fight my own battles, mister. I don't need you putting your nose in where it doesn't belong. Now, if you’ll excuse me…I'm expecting a shuttle van from the airport in a few minutes. Seems like a bunch of business folk who thought they could rent a private jet and fly out of town got their bubbles busted.”

  Momma Peach folded her arms over her chest. “Mr. John, I am a patient woman, but I am sure getting tired of your negative attitude. Now don't go make me slap some sense in that hard, stubborn head of yours, do you hear?”

  John wheeled his wheelchair over to the fireplace and stoked the fire with another log. “Momma Peach,” he said, “this ain't your fight. That jungle snake came back here to tell me I had two options.”

  “Sell out or go to prison for killing his friend,” Sam guessed.

  John nodded his head. “There's a good chance I could end up in prison, too.” John continued to stare at the fire. “William Krayton, the man who was shot dead, was killed by a handgun registered to me. I keep it in the top drawer of my nightstand beside my bed. That slithery jungle snake showed me a photograph of my gun and threatened to send it in to the sheriff if I didn't agree to sell out.”

  “Are you sure the gun in the photograph was yours?” Momma Peach asked.

  “Yeah,” John said in a miserable voice. “I checked my bedroom. The gun is missing. Besides...” John's voice grew sad. “My wife bought me that gun and had my initials engraved on the handle, with the letters filled in with gold. Ain't another gun like that...anywhere.”

  Momma Peach looked at Sam. “Not good,” she said.

  “Not good at all, Momma Peach,” Sam agreed.

  “They have my voice on tape threatening to kill them both, too,” John added. Before he could say another word, the sound of the shuttle van from the airport filtered into the lobby from outside of the door. “Guests are here,” he said and wheeled himself behind the front counter. “You better get upstairs and settled down for the night. I'll be okay.”

  Momma Peach walked up to the front counter. “Mr. John, you can hate me all you want, but I ain't gonna let you fight this war alone. Now, I'll go back upstairs, but trust me, I'll be back down later. Come on, Mr. Sam.”

  Sam nodded his head at John. “You're not alone,” he promised and walked upstairs with Momma Peach. “So what's the plan?” he asked her in the upstairs hallway.

  “I don't have no plan,” Momma Peach said in an upset voice and walked to her room. “All I know is that I can’t let Mr. John go to prison for a crime he didn’t commit.”

  Outside in the swirling snow, the dark-suited lawyer pulled out a black cell phone and made a call. “Yes, Mr. Coplin, the answer you and Mr. Morris requested is a no.”

  “Very well,” a voice growled. “Make sure Mr. Minski is dead by morning.”

  “What about sending him to prison? I have all the evidence needed to frame him for the murder. If he’s in jail, we can simply seize his assets through the state auction process…”

  “No. Kill him as an example to all the others,” the voice ordered Andy Pracks and ended the call.

  Chapter Four

  “Oh,” Momma Peach moaned, walking out of the bathroom while clutching her stomach. “I shouldn't have had so much Tabasco sauce on my eggs.”

  Rosa paused a game show video she was watching and looked up at Momma Peach. When she did, Momma Peach winced and let out a painful fart. Rosa blushed. “Your stomach is really hurting, huh?” she asked.

  Momma Peach ran back into the bathroom and slammed the door. Ten minutes later she opened the door and eased back into the room with a shameful face. “I apologize. I sure didn't mean to let my backside be rude,” she apologized to Rosa.

  “You should hear my grandfather after he eats a plate of hot tacos,” Rosa told Momma Peach. “He sounds like a Mariachi band falling down a flight of stairs.”

  Momma Peach chuckled to herself and sat down on her bed. “I bet your grandfather doesn't mind. I have eaten some of his hot tacos and they're worth the pain.”

  Rosa smiled. “I couldn't agree more,” she replied with a vague smile and focused back on a rerun of “Password” she was watching.

  Momma Peach could tell that young Rosa was trying not to think about her grandparents too much. She grabbed her pocketbook and fished out a peppermint. “How is the game show?”

  “Comforting,” Rosa told Momma Peach. “On a night like tonight,” she said and looked at the storm out the window, “I'm very grateful to be inside a nice warm room watching my game shows.”

  Momma Peach looked at the window. The winds were howling and screaming in ways she had never heard before. The falling snow was rapidly accumulating, covering the land. Deep drifts formed along the roads and in ridges along the fields, and back roads would be crippled before another couple hours passed. “I was hoping the snow we experienced in Vermont was the last snow I would see this winter.”

  Rosa sighed. “News report said the governor is going to activate the National Guard to help dig people out when this storm passes.”

  “This here storm is going to be one for the record books, that's for sure. In a storm like this, people are reminded just who is boss.”

  “Amen,” Rosa agreed.

  Momma Peach popped the peppermint she was holding into her mouth. She checked the clock on the nightstand between the two beds. “It's almost eleven. I think I'll wander downstairs for a bit and talk to Mr. John.”

  Rosa paused her game show video. “Momma Peach?” she
asked.

  “Yes?”

  Rosa looked down at her hands and then back up at Momma Peach. “Sam is a good guy, isn't he?”

  “Yes, Mr. Sam is a very good guy. I trust him with my life. Why?”

  “Oh, I was thinking,” Rosa said in a thoughtful voice, “that Sam seems lonely, doesn't he?”

  Momma Peach gave Rosa a curious look full of love. “Why yes, sometimes Mr. Sam seems very lonely. I think it’s because he misses his old life in his old town sometimes. You have to understand, that man spent a great deal of his life building his town and he lost everything overnight, including his wife and marriage—even if it wasn’t much of a marriage, toward the end.” Momma Peach stood up. “Mr. Sam doesn't show it, but inside he's hurting. I suppose that's why he wants to buy that lodge way up there in Alaska. Now let me tell you, that lodge is a beautiful wonder,, and worth every penny Mr. Sam will spend buying it from Mr. Nate.”

  “But…?” Rosa asked.

  Momma Peach sighed. “A man like Mr. Sam doesn't do well in crowded places. I do worry that if Mr. Nate delays selling his lodge to Mr. Sam, well then, Mr. Sam may go off searching for another desert town to build and protect.”

  “But Sam has his farm,” Rosa said, confused. “Isn’t that important to protect? What about Millie and the elephant she has stabled there?”

  Momma Peach nodded her head. “Mr. Sam has a place to lay his head at night,” she pointed out, “but Georgia isn't Mr. Sam's home. Millie won’t stay forever. Someday Sam will either drift off back to Alaska or some other place and leave Georgia. But he'll never leave us, no sir and no, ma’am. You see, Mr. Sam is a faithful friend, and where he goes, we'll follow, yes sir and yes, ma’am.”

  “I was kinda hoping Sam would always stay on his farm,” Rosa said with a sad voice. “I like having Sam around, Momma Peach. He makes me feel safe...kinda like a daddy, I guess.”

  “Oh, baby,” Momma Peach said and walked over to Rosa's bed, “Mr. Sam will always be around,” she promised and tickled Rosa's ankle. “I will make sure of that.” Momma Peach heard a knock at the door. “And speaking of Mr. Sam, there he is,” she smiled. “Door is unlocked Mr. Sam, come on in.”