A Dash of Peach Page 8

  “Who is Betty Walker?” Floyd asked in an innocent tone that rang false to her ears.

  “The woman who found the dead body of Mr. Graystone. I'm sure you know who Mr. Graystone is, right?”

  “Get him,” Momma Peach whispered and bit down on the mint in her mouth so it snapped into two pieces.

  “Yes, I'm aware of who that man is,” Floyd said and shook his head. “Such a shame,” he said. “I didn't know the man personally, mind you, but for him to be killed right here in our own little town...such a shame. And his death has not been easy on my wife, either, Detective. Felicia has been very upset and—”

  “Betty Walker stated that you paid her to leave town and now she is dead,” Michelle interrupted Floyd and his casual lies. She pushed up off the wall, planted her hands on the table across from him, and looked Floyd straight in his eyes. “I want some answers.”

  “Talk to my attorney,” Floyd said to Michelle with a hint of steel gleaming behind the smoothness of his voice. “I am here of my own free will and I don’t have to say a single word. Even if you arrest me I have the right to remain silent, Detective. And I will not be intimidated by this ridiculous charade. You don’t have a shred of evidence. And whoever this...Betty Walker is...the woman is obviously a liar.”

  Michelle narrowed her eyes. “You're going to prison,” she whispered in a voice so low that only Floyd heard her.

  “Do not threaten me,” Floyd warned Michelle. “I play rough.”

  “So do I,” Michelle promised. She stood up straight and looked down at him. “I saw you at the bus station yesterday, Mr. Garland. You were there when Betty Walker boarded her bus. Later on, you visited Momma Peach and threatened to take her bakery away under the pretense of a very serious lie. That sounds like blackmail to me, with a nice touch of fraud. You also told Momma Peach that you saw her at the bus station with a 'friend' you knew. What were you doing at the bus station, Mr. Garland?”

  Floyd stiffened in his seat. “Again, talk to my attorney. Unless you intend to arrest me, I’ll be leaving.” But he did not rise from his seat.

  “The only person Momma Peach was with at the bus station yesterday was Betty Walker,” Michelle continued, ignoring his empty threats. “Strange how you paid Momma Peach a visit after bank hours to give her such terrible news and suddenly claimed it was a misunderstanding once Mrs. Hensley became witness to your visit. In fact, I plan to speak to Mr. Finney about your visit and ask him about bank protocol and see if your visit to Momma Peach was even authorized in the first place.”

  Floyd gritted his teeth. He was trapped. If Mr. Finney, the bank president, found out about his visit to Momma Peach, he would surely be terminated from his position at the bank. Also, Betty Walker was dead, and the Detective’s line of thinking, while wrong, would easily sway a judge. He had little faith that even his well-paid lawyer could find him a way out of this mess. “I did not murder that woman. Talk to my attorney,” he snarled.

  “I guarantee you I will,” Michelle said, her eyes never leaving Floyd’s. “In the meantime, I'm placing you under arrest.”

  “On what grounds?” Floyd yelled and stormed to his feet. He balled his hands into fists and prepared to strike Michelle.

  Michelle didn't waste a second. She lashed out with her right foot and aimed a kick at Floyd. As he ducked and the table slid forward, she jumped up onto it, swinging her right leg around to kick Floyd across his face. He went flying backward and crashed down against the back wall. Michelle crouched down on the table like a cat and looked at Floyd. “Never do that again,” she warned him.

  Floyd stared up at Michelle in shock. He had heard a rumor that the detective was a martial arts expert but had figured the rumors were widely exaggerated. But as he rubbed the side of his throbbing face and looked up into a pair of fierce eyes, he knew to pay attention from there on out. “I'll sue you for every sorry cent you’re worth!” he yelled.

  “You’re under arrest for attempted assault against a police officer as well as suspicion of foul play. We’ll talk about the blackmail and the fraud later. Betty Walker is dead. She claimed you paid her to leave town. You were at the bus station to ensure she left town. You threatened Momma Peach. And now Betty Walker is dead. Your attorney is going to have to dig really deep to even convince Judge Crump to let you make bail.” Michelle jumped down from the table with her handcuffs in one hand. “I haven't even begun to connect you to the murder of Mr. Graystone.”

  “I didn't kill anyone,” Floyd barked at Michelle as she cuffed his hands in front of him and helped him roughly to his feet. “I didn't even know the man was in town.”

  “Then why did you pay Betty Walker to leave town? Michelle asked. She sat him back down in his chair and returned to the other side of the table.

  Floyd ran his cuffed hands through his slick red hair. “I—”

  “Betty Walker found Mr. Graystone's body. She connects you to his murder,” Michelle interrupted Floyd. “You better think smart, Mr. Garland, because everything you say is being recorded.”

  “I didn't kill anyone,” Floyd insisted. His face turned pale as he looked up briefly, as if searching for the security cameras.

  “Why did you pay Betty Walker to leave town?” Michelle repeated. She grabbed her chair and sat down. “Talk to me.”

  Floyd raised his cuffed hands to run the fingers of one hand through his hair again. He was in a world of trouble. “Okay,” he said in a voice that was slowly losing power, “it's true...I paid Betty Walker to leave town. But I didn’t bribe her to do it. She blackmailed me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she came to our home and threatened my wife, that's why,” Floyd said in a voice that almost cracked with fatigue, desperation, and fury. “She said she would tell the police Felicia killed her old man if we didn't pay her a large sum of money.”

  “How did Betty Walker even know Mr. Graystone was related to your wife?” Michelle asked. This cast Betty in a whole new light and she glanced at the one-way mirror, wondering what Momma Peach was making of this new development. Was Floyd still just a snake and a manipulator, or was he finally revealing something useful?

  “Who knows?” Floyd ranted. “I paid Momma Peach a visit because I couldn’t have her sticking her nose where it didn't belong. If she convinced Betty to stay in town, I knew the whole thing would fall apart. I know what I did was wrong, but I had my wife to think about. Someone killed her old man,” he said in a nervous voice, “and whoever that someone is could just as easily try and kill Felicia. So I paid Betty Walker the money and I made sure she left.”

  Momma Peach crossed her arms together and listened. “Don't reel him in yet,” she whispered. “Let him talk.”

  “Betty Walker stated you threatened to kill her if she didn't leave town. We have two conflicting stories.” Michelle cocked her head to one side and regarded Floyd through narrowed eyes. She watched him sweat a little under the scrutiny.

  “Who will a jury believe...a drunk motel cleaner or a respected member of the community?” Floyd asked Michelle and rubbed the side of his face again, trying to sit up straighter in his chair despite the evident pain. “Listen to me, Detective, I took drastic measures to ensure my wife remained safe. If that makes me a bad guy and gets me fired from the bank, then so be it.”

  Michelle watched Floyd attempt to paint himself as a worried husband instead of a criminal. She glanced over at the mirror and rolled her eyes for a split second. “Betty Walker is dead. Mr. Graystone is dead. You're my number one suspect.”

  “I didn't kill anyone.”

  “So you say,” Michelle said. “I guess a lie detector test will tell me if you're being honest or not. Maybe you are...maybe you aren't.”

  Floyd stared at Michelle. Then he caved in, seeing it was his last, best option. “I...yes, okay, I'll take a lie test,” he said. “I didn't kill Felicia's old man and I didn't kill Betty Walker. I may have acted...improperly...but my intentions were merely to protect my wife. Furthermore,
I will apologize to Momma Peach personally and explain the true reason for my visit.”

  “He's a snake, be careful of him,” Momma Peach whispered. “He's telling half-truths.”

  “There's a lot of questions we can answer right here before we get to the lie detector,” Michelle told Floyd. “I want to know how Betty Walker knew Mr. Graystone was related to your wife...if,” Michelle emphasized, “she did threaten you the way you claim. And if Betty Walker did threaten you, that must mean your wife knows more than she pretended to. I want to know where you went after you left Momma Peach's bakery.”

  “Home.”

  Michelle nodded. “I'll confirm the time with your wife. I also want to know where you were the night of the murder. But for now, I'm putting you on ice. Ted!”

  A tall cop with a large pot belly stepped into the interrogation room. “Yeah, Detective?”

  “Book Mr. Garland for attempted assault against a police officer. I'll handle the other charges I have against him later,” Michelle explained. “He gets his one phone call to his attorney. We wouldn’t want to forget that.” She gave Floyd a cold smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Also, place him in a holding cell by himself. And no visitors.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the cop said and nodded his head at Floyd. “Let's go.”

  Floyd awkwardly stood up with his hands still cuffed in front of him. “I'll have your badge,” he snapped at Michelle as he was walked out of the room.

  Michelle followed Floyd out of the interrogation room and was joined in her office moments later by Momma Peach. “Floyd Garland didn't kill Mr. Graystone. He didn't kill Betty Walker, either,” Momma Peach said in a heavy voice. “But that don't make a snake innocent of eating a canary.”

  “I know,” Michelle told Momma Peach and sat down on the edge of her desk. “He can get away with fooling around on a lie detector test, too. I just said that because I wanted to watch him squirm.”

  Momma Peach walked over to the window in the office and looked up at the clear blue sky of another perfect Georgia day. She stood still for a few minutes and listened to the birds fill the outside world with beautiful songs. “Michelle?”

  “Yes?”

  “I need to go to the bank,” Momma Peach said. “I need to find the man wearing the money cologne.”

  Michelle looked at Momma Peach with a quizzical look. “What are you thinking, Momma Peach?” she asked.

  Momma Peach turned away from the window. “I think I know where a deadly fox might be hiding. And if I’m right, then Mr. Floyd Garland will lose his job at the bank and also lose his wife.”

  “You mean you think Floyd Garland is being set up?”

  “I think that ugly snake wanted Mr. Graystone dead, God rest his poor soul. But I also think he was just a pawn. We have more players on the board than we know about. I don’t know about chess now, but I like to play Monopoly. Oh, I love to land on Boardwalk, too,” Momma Peach chuckled. “But I ain't stupid. I know how to watch the other players and I know when to put motels on cheap property to wear down my opponents.”

  “Okay, Momma Peach,” Michelle said with a grin, but she fought back a yawn as she said, “let's go to the bank.”

  Momma Peach walked over to Michelle and studied her exhausted eyes. “On second thought, I will go to the bank alone. You go home and get some sleep and come by the bakery after it closes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” Momma Peach assured Michelle. “Mr. Rich-Pants is on ice right now. But his wife and the man wearing the money cologne are still on the loose. If we're not careful, they might leave town. I have to lay down a few sticky-glue mouse traps. Now, go home and sleep.”

  “Okay, Momma Peach.”

  Momma Peach smiled and walked Michelle over to the office door. “You sure showed that snake a thing or two, didn't you? The way you jumped up onto the table and kicked him in the face...I ain't ever seen anything like that before in all of my life.”

  Michelle blushed. She always felt slightly uncomfortable when someone complimented her martial arts skills. She often reacted before she even knew what had happened. “I guess I let my temper get the best of me.”

  “Remind me not to burn your supper tonight,” Momma Peach chuckled again and hugged Michelle. “I’m going to walk down to the bank, and then go have lunch at the diner. And if Mrs. Edwards brings me a day-old biscuit again I might just use some Kung Fu on her. And don't think I don't know about Kung Fu. I have seen my share of Bruce Lee movies.”

  Michelle shook her head and imagined Momma Peach wearing a karate outfit, running around an exercise floor, executing high kicks and breaking boards with her fists. Momma Peach narrowed her eyes. “What's so funny?”

  “Oh,” Michelle said and giggled sweetly. “I was just thinking that Bruce Lee would have really loved you.”

  “I think so, too,” Momma Peach said and tipped Michelle a wink.

  After walking Michelle to her Oldsmobile, Momma Peach strolled down to a two-story brick building sitting by itself on a piece of property in the little downtown area. It had a neatly paved parking lot and colorful flower beds surrounded by bright green grass along the street side. Four tall, white marble columns graced the front porch of the building, and they loomed over the street as if to announce the money and power hidden within was inaccessible. Momma Peach didn't care much for the building or the people inside – the only person she liked was Mr. Finney, the bank president, who she knew to be a decent soul. The rest of the employees had often made her feel as if...well...as if they were somehow better than her. It was as if working at a bank automatically granted them distinct privileges and someone like her or the other lower-class workers were not deserving. But, Momma Peach reminded herself, walking through a parking lot filled with both vehicles both rich and humble, it was always best to not judge and seek the good in folk. “Give me strength,” she begged and looked up at the pretty blue sky. “Oh, how I wish I were a bird that could fly far, far away into Your arms,” she prayed.

  Momma Peach stopped at the polished brass doors, steadied her mind, and walked into a large lobby that smelled of mint candy and the Pine Sol they used to polish the floors each night. Imported pink marble covered the lobby floor, which extended to walls that were painted in sedate tones of burgundy and green. But it wasn’t grand or beautiful; it was intimidating and awful, like going to visit the emperor who wanted to cut off your head.

  At the front of the lobby was a long, polished wooden counter with five teller stations where people could withdraw their hard-earned money or feed it into the mouth of the bank. To her left and right, down short hallways, Momma Peach knew were the office doors where some of the managers and other employees worked. And way above her head, the second floor of the bank looked down into the lobby over a wrought-iron railing. That was where she spotted the Off Limits To The Public sign that led to the area only for the most elite employees. “Ugly place,” Momma Peach whispered. She moseyed up to the front counter and tossed a smile on her face. A woman by the name of Grace greeted her. “Why, hello, Momma Peach. How are you this morning?”

  Momma Peach stared into a face that was lost behind the falsity of too much makeup. It wasn't that she didn't like Grace Medford. The woman, she guessed, was decent enough. It was just that Momma Peach didn't like the plastic smiles and the fake charm; she didn't like the ugly, dark pink blouse Grace was wearing either. And oh, don't get her started on the way the woman had her bleached-blond hair styled. “I’m fine,” Momma Peach told Grace. “But, please, do something with your hair and that pink...baby, there are prettier shades of pink.”

  Grace's eyes went wide. She lifted her hands to her hair, her fingers practically covered with expensive rings. “You don't like my new hairstyle?” she asked in shock. “I've been receiving compliments all morning.”

  “Looks like a cow spit up its mouthful of hay on your head. I have to be honest.”

  Grace nearly broke down in tears. “Really?”

  Momm
a Peach nodded. “I've known your folks since you were knee high to a toad frog. You come from a good family, Grace Medford. But this bank is polluting you. Go get your hair back the way it was.”

  “But...my boyfriend said my old hairstyle was boring.”

  “I bet my best peach bread that your boyfriend hasn't called you since he's seen your new hairstyle, has he?” Momma Peach asked.

  “Why...no...he said he's been busy,” Grace said. “Oh dear...” she said in a tormented voice.

  “Busy my foot,” Momma Peach fussed. “I don't like banks. I keep my money here because my accountant fusses at me if I don't. But I know what banks are and what they do to people.”

  A snotty-looking woman in her mid-fifties overheard Momma Peach and walked over to Grace. “Is there a problem here, Grace?”

  “No, Jane, there's no problem,” Grace replied, wiping away a tear hastily.

  “Yes, there is a problem,” Momma Peach said. “Grace needs the rest of the morning off to go get her old hair back.”

  “I can wait until I get off at noon. I'm working a half-day today,” Grace assured Momma Peach. The snotty woman gave Momma Peach a cold look and walked away. “Momma Peach, do you want to make a deposit or withdraw?”

  “I want to talk to a loan officer,” Momma Peach told Grace. “I want a man loan officer, you know the one I mean? I don't like fussing at a fellow lady over money.”

  Grace felt her hair again with a hand sadly. “Of course, Momma Peach. I'll go see if Mr. Connor is available.”

  Momma Peach reached out and patted Grace's hand. “I know you think working at this bank makes you special, but it don't. I know you're special, but I see this bank turning you into a plastic card that ain't worth much. Now, don't get at me for saying that, but I have to speak the truth.”

  A young, beautiful African American woman wearing a neat cream-colored suit walked up to Grace. She smiled at Momma Peach. “You tell her, Momma Peach. I put in my two-week notice four days ago. I'm tired of this place. I'm tired of being treated like dirt because I'm not a Certified Public Accountant yet. People in this bank don't seem to understand that college costs money and making money takes time.”