Preserving Peaches: Jane Delaney Mysteries, #5

Acknowledgments

I want to take this opportunity to recognize my small but mighty crew of Jane Delaney first readers: Jeff Loeser, Patricia Ryan (aka P.B. Ryan), Meara Platt, and Neal Roberts. I value their sharp eyes, pithy insights, and steadfast encouragement more than they can know.

Though all the books in this series take place in quaint Crystal Harbor, Long Island (don't bother looking for it on a map), your intrepid author has recently made the big leap from Long Island to Austin, Texas. Austinites who make it as far as Chapter Six in this book might detect an eerie resemblance between that chapter's fictional setting—a piano bar I call Dawn's Depot—and the delightfully eclectic Donn's Depot on 5th Street. (See what I did with the names there? Fiendishly clever, no?) I took a few liberties for the sake of the story, not the least of which was relocating the bar eighteen hundred miles north, but trust me, the real and wonderful Donn's Depot is well worth going out of your way for. Many thanks to my new neighbor Craig Calvert for introducing me to this historic Austin night spot, where he occupies the stage on Thursday nights. Thanks, too, to Marji Calvert, who introduced me to the historic town of Gärlichnott, one of the first communities established by the German immigrants who settled in the Texas Hill Country. That's our story and we're stickin' to it.

1

All Talk and No Action

I SHOULDN’T HAVE been surprised. Even though that’s, you know, the point of a surprise party. My fortieth birthday had come and gone two days earlier, on Thursday, March 27, with barely a blip of recognition from my nearest and dearest.

Which should have been the first clue that something was in the works, but I was too busy feeling sorry for myself to make the mental leap from Nobody loves me to I’ll bet those sneaky SOBs are planning a party.

So there I stood, Slow Learner of the Year, inside the doorway of the Crystal Harbor Historical Society, wondering why the dark entrance hall was suddenly blazing with lights and everyone I knew was hollering, Surprise!

And yeah, I glanced behind me to see who they were yelling at while Sexy Beast, lounging in the straw bucket tote hanging from my shoulder, gave me a look of studied exasperation.

Poodles can, too, look exasperated! That includes high-maintenance (otherwise known as slightly neurotic) seven-pound apricot poodles with prominent buckfangs and an air of princely entitlement.

Okay, that’s unfair to Sexy Beast. His buckfang isn’t that prominent.

Look at her, Sophie Halperin cackled to the assembled guests, while gesturing at my gobsmacked expression with her beer bottle. Think we can safely say she never saw it coming.

I think I can safely say that if I had seen it coming, I’d have applied a dab of makeup, done something with my strawberry-blonde hair besides corralling it into a messy ponytail (not chic messy, mind you, more sad and scary messy), and chosen an outfit that didn’t involve saggy turquoise-and-white track pants and an ancient, once-purple sweatshirt that advertised a local tattoo and piercing shop.

That’s right, I’d once plunked down cash money for the privilege of turning myself into a walking billboard for flaming skulls and nipple rings. And before you ask: No, I personally have no body modifications, if you don’t count a couple of dental fillings and a bullet scar on my left butt cheek. If neuroscientists ever decide to map my brain, they’ll find a huge chunk of gray matter devoted to It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time.

The sweatshirt, that is, not getting shot in the butt, which had not, in fact, been my idea, good or otherwise. It hadn’t even been the idea of the person doing the shooting, who had not, you will be unsurprised to learn, been aiming for my posterior. That particular mishap had occurred two months earlier, in late January, and resulted, fortunately, in nothing more alarming than a grazing wound. That said, I can now state with authority that there is little in life more alarming than getting shot, no matter the location or degree of injury.

Sophie was having altogether too much fun at my expense. She was the one who’d snookered me into hauling my disheveled self to the venerable Historical Society building at eight p.m. (on the dot, Jane!) for what was supposed to have been a planning meeting for the town’s upcoming annual poker tournament.

A squat, graying woman in her mid-fifties, Sophie had more energy and attitude than most people half her age. I shot her a grumpy look that asked how she could do this dastardly thing to me, which she answered with a big, jolly belly laugh.

In truth, I was happy to see her enjoying herself. Not only was Sophie my closest pal, but just the day before, she’d lost her bid to remain Crystal Harbor’s mayor. It had been a tight election following a campaign marred by dirty tricks and mudslinging—by the opposition, natch. Mayor Sophie Halperin was now a civilian, or would be once Nina Wallace was sworn in a few weeks from now.

That’s right, Nina Wallace—chic, pretty, ruthless Nina Wallace—would soon be Mayor Nina Wallace. It was too depressing to contemplate, so instead I concentrated on greeting all the folks who’d shown up on that frigid March evening to help me celebrate my nosedive into middle age. Speaking of things that are, ahem, too depressing to contemplate.

A couple of dozen people had crowded into the large entrance hall, intent on bestowing hugs, birthday wishes, and absolutely hilarious barbs regarding my advancing decrepitude. As a childless divorcee of a certain age, I was tempted to cup my ear and shout, Could you repeat that? I can’t hear you over the thunderous ticking of my biological clock.

My parents relieved me of my jacket and my dog. Sexy Beast—SB for short—had no complaints as he was passed from person to person. He licked every face he could reach, tail wagging. And why not? Almost all the partygoers were, if not part of his immediate pack, certainly part of his extended pack. Do dogs have those, like we have extended family? In any event, they weren’t strangers and they weren’t dogs, so he was happy.

I proceeded from the entrance hall to the front parlor, then on to the dining and drawing rooms, swept along by the human tide of All My Friends in the World. The mingled aromas of savory finger foods competed with ladies’ perfumes and woodsmoke from the fireplaces. Clusters of colorful flowers spilled from an eclectic assortment of vases, bowls, and jars throughout the house. An antique sideboard supported mounds of wrapped gifts. Whoever had been put in charge of the music had done a commendable job. At the moment it was Billy Joel in a live recording of New York State of Mind.

I chatted with Poppy and Beau Battle, the sweet young couple who owned the local pottery studio, then with my old friend Sten Jakobsen, who’d been practicing law in Crystal Harbor for nearly five decades.

Maia Armstrong grabbed me next. I complimented her flowing silk tunic in a bold geometric pattern of garnet and ivory. She’d recently grown out her extravagant froth of Afro curls so they just brushed her shoulders. Hmm... no chef’s jacket, I observed. No apron. Does this mean you didn’t cater this shindig?

Sophie tried to hire me, she said, but I turned her down. I was determined to be a civilian tonight. I recommended someone else. He’ll do a good job.

"But not too good a job, am I right?" I teased, and she winked.

The Historical Society might seem a strange place to throw a party, but the nineteenth-century stone farmhouse—restored to its original landmark-status elegance, complete with gleaming woodwork, leaded-glass windows, and exquisitely carved fireplace mantels—was actually a charming venue for all sorts of private affairs, including the Death Diva’s surprise fortieth birthday party.

What, you have a problem with Death Diva? A tad morbid, is it? I’ll have you know I earned that nickname. And yeah, I didn’t much care for it at first, but it’s kind of grown on me.

My name is Jane Delaney, and let’s just say I operate a somewhat unique freelance business. I’m one of those creative entrepreneurs you read about who saw an unmet need and devised a clever way to monetize it.

Okay, that’s not strictly accurate. If I’m being honest, I sort of stumbled into this gig more than two decades ago when I was still in high school, first as a pet sitter for the late Irene McAuliffe, then as a sort of errand girl delivering floral arrangements to the graves of her deceased poodles at the Best Friend Pet Cemetery. The ex-dogs’ names were Annie Hall, Dr. Strangelove, and Jaws. Can you tell she was a film buff? Sexy Beast had belonged to Irene, too, until her sudden demise a year earlier when I became his legal guardian.

Here’s where it gets a little weird. Irene bequeathed her big, fancy house to Sexy Beast. No, seriously. Her multimillion-dollar home now belongs to a pampered toy poodle. Well, technically, she left it to me, but he holds a life estate in the property, so during his lifetime, he’s the owner. I know, it’s a little confusing. Bottom line: As his guardian, I get to live there with him. It sure beats the crummy basement apartment I called home until a year ago. Eventually the house will be mine, free and clear, but I don’t want to think about that since it means Sexy Beast will no longer be around to share it with me.

Anyway, Irene recommended me to her friends, and before I knew it, I was delivering similar floral arrangements to human graves at the Whispering Willows Cemetery, on behalf of clients who’d moved out of the area or were really busy or, well, just too darn lazy to do it themselves. Hiring me assuaged their consciences, and it’s not as if they couldn’t afford my services. Crystal Harbor is an affluent community on the North Shore of Long Island about an hour and a half from Manhattan. I was a lower-middle-class kid from a working-class town on the South Shore, and to me, it seemed Irene and her pals had money to burn.

Before long I was doing other odd jobs of the deathy persuasion, such as scattering ashes, donating the deceased’s belongings to charity, and helping to serve and clean up during funeral receptions. Over time the scope of my assignments expanded as clients requested services that you, or any sane person for that matter, might consider somewhat eccentric. Which is a polite way of saying ghoulish.

You’d be surprised what people will ask you to do, once they realize you’re not going to swoon at the sight of a stiff. Well, maybe you wouldn’t be surprised, but I was, at first anyway. Nowadays very little fazes me. Not that I do everything I’m asked. There’s no end to the list of prospective assignments that are illegal, immoral, or too gruesome to consider. I have no problem turning those down.

Want me to disarticulate a loved one so he fits neatly into the more economical burial vessel you’ve chosen, aka the carton your Swedish bookcase arrived in? Sorry, no can do. Looking for someone to secretly mix Granny’s ashes into your bridesmaids’ face powder so the old gal can still be part of the wedding? Keep looking. This Death Diva isn’t interested. And yes, I’d recently been asked to do both of those.

A waitress floated over with a tray of hors d’oeuvres, complex constructions involving slices of filet mignon and melted cheese and other yummy stuff piled onto little rounds of garlic toast. When my mouth was crammed good and full, I heard, Happy birthday, Jane.

It was Bonnie Hernandez, Crystal Harbor’s chief of police, looking sleek and sophisticated as always, not to mention annoyingly young. She wore a form-fitting fuchsia dress, a polite smile, and a four-carat diamond which had been placed on her slender ring finger by my ex-husband, Dominic Faso. That’s right, Dom is stinking rich, not that it does me any good since he was the exact opposite of rich back when we split.

Bonnie made no move to hug me or kiss my cheek. Ours was not a huggy-kissy sort of friendship. Let’s face it, it wasn’t any sort of friendship. Not only was she engaged to the man I’d spent far too long struggling to get over, but Bonnie and I had had our run-ins. We tolerated each other.

Her judgmental gaze flicked over me, lingering for an extra beat on my footwear. Don’t ask.

Didn’t I just say, don’t ask? Oh, all right, since you seem to think it’s so important. My feet were shod in plush orange bedroom slippers shaped like webbed penguin feet.

No, I did not wear them out of the house on purpose! I was in such a rush to get to Sophie’s fictional poker-tournament meeting at eight p.m. on the dot that I forgot to change into actual shoes before jumping into my nowhere-near-new Mazda and racing to the Historical Society.

I discovered my blunder halfway there (penguin feet have a way of catching on the brake pedal), but saw no need to run back home and change. I’d known the other members of the tournament committee forever. They might rib me about wearing slippers out of the house—again—but were unlikely to be scandalized by it. Well, except for Nina, but scandalizing that miserable woman was one of my most rewarding hobbies, so it was all good.

Now, however, the expression on Bonnie’s lovely face caused me to choke on my hors d’oeuvre and spray greasy crumbs all over her tasteful outfit. Did she know the Heimlich? More to the point, would she feel moved to perform it on me?

After what seemed an eternity of eye-bulging, tear-squirting, nose-dripping terror during which Bonnie gave my back a couple of anemic pats—what the heck was that supposed to do?—I finally managed to bully the thing down my gullet. I mumbled a tepid apology and swabbed my face with my little cocktail napkin, whereupon the two of us stood staring at each other for an excruciating half minute until Dom joined us, all smiles.

Well, he’s almost always smiling—that’s Dom—but this was the smile that said he hoped ex – Mrs. Faso Number One (that would be me) and future Mrs. Faso Number Four (you read that right) would become best buds.

And why not? After all, I got along fine with his two other ex-wives, not to mention the three kids he’d had with them. Surely Bonnie and I would hit it off eventually.

That’s one thing I’d always treasured about Dom, his sunny optimism in the face of when hell freezes over odds.

Dom had dark, wavy hair and bottomless espresso eyes, and stood a couple of inches over six feet. While not classically handsome, he nevertheless exuded a potent sex appeal. At least I’d always thought so, since the first time I set eyes on him in Mr. Bender’s eighth-grade Spanish class.

Dom gave me an enthusiastic birthday hug, which, unrepentant troublemaker that I am, I managed to prolong just past the outer edge of propriety, even treating those nice wide shoulders to a lingering caress.

What? I never claimed to be mature, so you can just zip it right now.

So, he said, extricating himself and pointedly avoiding his fiancée’s gaze—probably because he’d seen that stony expression before and it scared the bejesus out of him. What were you two girls chatting about? Not me, I hope, heh heh.

Oh, Dom, I wanted to tell him, just give it up.

His smile abruptly fell away, his attention snagged by something behind me. Before I had a chance to turn around, a masculine arm snaked around me, proffering a small snifter half-filled with a golden liquid. The ambrosial aroma informed me it was my favorite sipping tequila, the expensive añejo brand I coveted but rarely splurged on. That arm could belong to only one person.

Thanks, Padre. I accepted the glass and took a sip, savoring the luscious warmth that shimmied down my throat.

Happy birthday, Jane. Smoothly slipping between me and Dom, he pressed a chaste kiss to my cheek. I say chaste because that’s what it no doubt looked like to the casual observer. However, I’m not the only rascal who knows how to linger just a bit too long, and judging by Dom’s narrow-eyed glare, he was not all that casual an observer. I suspected the padre’s attentions toward me were motivated more by a desire to tweak Dom than any serious attraction to yours truly.

And before you get all snippy wondering how I could even think of a man of the cloth in those terms, let me assure you Padre is just a nickname, one I personally bestowed on Martin McAuliffe. You see, the first time I met Martin, he happened to be impersonating a priest.

Hey, I never said the guy was a candidate for sainthood. I knew precious little about the padre’s background, but I was fairly certain he possessed one of those pasts normally associated with the word mysterious. Maybe checkered. Okay, probably closer to felonious. The fact is, I didn’t want to know. Knowing might place me in the position of having to choose between my personal code of honor and my friendship with someone I’d come to care for.

Now, don’t get all excited. I mean care for in the sense that Martin and I had been through some intense stuff during the twelve short months we’d known each other. We’d even faced a pretty dangerous situation together. More than dangerous if you want to know the truth. We’d come darn close to buying the farm, not far from where we stood at that moment, as a matter of fact.

Well, a thing like that is bound to bring two people closer together, right? In a purely, you know, friendly way. It’s only natural. I certainly didn’t harbor girlish fantasies about the padre or lie in bed thinking about him or wondering how good a kisser he was or anything like that.

Are you buying any of this?

Martin and Dom exchanged curt nods. From the way Dom frowned at my glass of tequila, I could tell he wished he’d thought of it first.

And yeah, he was engaged to be married to Bonnie, but as you can probably tell, our relationship was complicated. And no, I don’t mean that kind of relationship, which ended eighteen years ago when we signed our divorce papers, a divorce I’d regretted almost immediately. Dom and I had remained platonic friends while he married those other women and had the kids I couldn’t help feeling should have been mine.

The complicated part was our lingering feelings for each other. At least that’s what I would have said a year ago—heck, even six months ago. Lately, however... not so much. As far as I was concerned, Bonnie could have him with my blessings. And he knew it.

At the moment, Dom’s fiancée was scowling at him the way he was scowling at my tequila. Reading his mind. I couldn’t help but notice she wasn’t holding a drink.

Martin turned to her. Chief Hernandez, you’re looking particularly fetching this evening.

Her brow furrowed for a split second before she schooled her expression and murmured a barely audible, Um, thanks. Like her fiancé, Bonnie had no use for the padre. For the past year she’d been looking for an opportunity to catch him red-handed at something—I don’t think she much cared what, as long as he ended up in the pokey. I just prayed he didn’t get careless or underestimate her.

He didn’t say anything about my outfit, for which I silently thanked him.

Bonnie said, I’m going to get a glass of wine. She turned on her heel and marched off, leaving Dom to figure it out and hurry after her.

Martin did not look sad to see them go. Have those two cute kids set a wedding date yet?

Not to my knowledge, I said.

They’ve been engaged for, what, a year?

Fifteen months, I said. With a brief break in the middle.

What are they waiting for?

Good question. I suspected Dom was the one dragging his feet, and wondered how long it would take his fiancée to run out of patience. I shrugged. I don’t know and I couldn’t care less.

Uh-huh, he said. So tell me. How does it feel to be middle-aged?

I’m not—

He stopped me with a raised palm. I seem to recall you mentioning that middle age begins at forty. Does this ring a bell?

It did, darn it. That’s right, rub it in, I said, painfully aware that my ex-husband’s fiancée was seven years younger than I. And anyway, you have three years on me in case you forgot, Padre. Or are you going to claim it’s different for men? I finished my shot of tequila and looked around for somewhere to deposit the empty snifter.

It’s different, all right. He eyed me appreciatively as he took the glass from me and set it on an antique piecrust table. From what I can tell, women age better than men.

Huh. Good save. I felt my face heat even as I reached up and yanked out my hair elastic, releasing the bedraggled ponytail and trying in vain to finger-comb the tangled mess. Martin nudged my hand away and set to work fluffing my hair, running his fingers over my scalp and pretending not to notice my shivery response. He didn’t seem to care who saw him playing hairdresser, either.

Yep, that’s right, this Harley-riding, priest-impersonating, no doubt criminally connected bad boy had a gentlemanly streak.

For the record, there was nothing wrong with the way Martin was aging. He was athletically built, his sandy hair was all present and accounted for, and those blue eyes... well, let’s just say if I didn’t know he was the bastard child of one of Irene’s stepsons, I’d wonder what Paul Newman had been up to the night he was conceived.

There are advantages to being a decrepit forty-three-year-old, he said. Such as being called Grandpa.

He left that hanging there until my brain caught up with his words. "Wait, what? Grandpa? I said, loud enough to turn heads. Do you mean what I think you mean?"

I’d never seen him grin like that. Lexie’s due in September.

Lexie, as you might have guessed, was Martin’s daughter, the product of a brief high school romance. I’d attended her wedding the previous May. I suppose I should have anticipated the prospect of her making Martin a granddaddy, but when you’re a single woman—okay, a single middle-aged woman—still pining for a baby of your own, you don’t tend to think of your age peers as grandparent material.

I threw myself at the padre and treated him to a rib-cracking hug, squealing with delight. You’re going to be a grandpa! I can’t believe it. I pulled back and took in his euphoric expression. I’m so happy for you, for all of you. How’s Lexie feeling?

She’s fine, he said. Well, mostly fine. A little queasy once in a while.

Boy? Girl? Do they know yet?

He shook his head. Not for a few more weeks. They’re talking about doing it the old-fashioned way, waiting until the birth to find out.

I punched his shoulder. This is such great news.

I flashed on Martin McAuliffe cradling an infant, a mental picture that should have appeared totally incongruous. Instead it seemed like the most natural thing in the world, and not just because I knew he’d done his share of burping and diaper changing as a teen dad—a surprising revelation that had come directly from Lexie’s mom—but because I knew Martin. I knew there were dimensions to him I never would have imagined when we first met.

All around us, the party was in full swing. A waiter paused to offer us mini crab cakes perched on little squares of fried cornbread and adorned with avocado cream and pickled onions. I knew Maia wasn’t responsible for the food tonight, but I hoped she was taking notes. The chow at this soiree was to die for.

The padre’s smile was pure silk. That’s a sound I usually associate with something else.

It took me a moment to realize he was referring to the ecstatic groan I emitted after popping the delicacy into my mouth. I was accustomed to his suggestive remarks, which could reliably be counted on to make me blush like a schoolgirl. This seemed to be his sole purpose in saying them, considering he never took the flirtation any further. My flustered reaction was a source of entertainment, nothing more.

This time, however, I did not blush. Nor did I avert my gaze or roll my eyes in embarrassment. In fact, I never broke eye contact with Martin as I masticated my crab cake in thoughtful (an astute observer might have said dangerous) silence, swallowed, and daintily patted my lips with my colorful cocktail napkin, which I’d just noticed was emblazoned with the words The Big Four-Uh-Oh!

To hell with these men who seemed incapable of figuring out what they wanted. First Dom and now Martin. Enough was enough. I was in no mood.

I snatched a glass of champagne from a passing tray, downed the contents in one long pull, and shoved the empty flute at the startled waiter. Not that I needed Dutch courage to give voice to my exasperation, but, well... maybe I did, just a little.

I got in Martin’s face. You’re all talk.

His eyebrows jerked up. What’s that supposed to mean?

I lowered my voice, having no desire to fuel the indefatigable Crystal Harbor rumor mill. I gave his chest a nice hard poke. Just what I said, Padre. You are all talk and no action.

He glanced around and murmured, What prompted this?

"Oh gee, it couldn’t possibly be the fact that here I’ve reached the big four-uh-oh— I flung my wrinkled cocktail napkin at him —and the only men in my life are clueless dolts who can’t even figure out what they want, much less how to go after it."

Martin leaned down and spoke in a near whisper. "And it couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the fact that you’ve reached the big four-uh-oh still hung up on a guy you divorced eighteen years ago."

I couldn’t help noticing that he was the one getting flushed, for a change. Interesting. I’m not talking about Dom, I said. "Well, not only about Dom. And I am not still hung up on him."

Tell me another one, he said. You’ve been mooning over the guy nearly half your life, Jane. You still have all his old love letters, every birthday card he gave you since middle school. I mean, what self-respecting divorced woman keeps her freeze-dried bridal bouquet in a glass display dome?

Okay, for the record, yes, I’d held on to the