Preserving Peaches Read online

  PRESERVING PEACHES

  a Jane Delaney Mystery

  Pamela Burford

  Copyright

  Ebook edition published by Radical Poodle Press, 2019

  Copyright © 2019 by Pamela Burford

  Author photograph © Jeff Loeser

  ISBN 978-1-939215-75-8

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.

  Also by Pamela Burford

  Double Dare

  Twice Burned

  Jane Delaney Mysteries

  Undertaking Irene

  Uprooting Ernie

  Perforating Pierre

  Icing Allison

  Preserving Peaches (Coming Soon)

  The Wedding Ring Series

  Love's Funny That Way

  I Do, But Here's the Catch

  One Eager Bride to Go

  Fiancé for Hire

  Standalone

  Snatched

  Snowed

  Too Darn Hot

  The Boss's Runaway Bride

  Rags to Bitches

  In the Dark

  Going Commando

  Storming Meg

  A Case of You

  Watch for more at Pamela Burford’s site.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Also By Pamela Burford

  Acknowledgments

  1 | All Talk and No Action

  2 | That’s Why They Call You the Death Dame

  3 | Mummy Dearest

  4 | Here Comes Tinsel!

  5 | They’d Never Find Your Body

  6 | Cute as the Dickens

  7 | It Wouldn’t Not Be Fun

  8 | Daddy Issues

  9 | Lather, Rinse, Repeat

  10 | Pork Rinds for Everybody!

  11 | No More Dates of Any Kind

  12 | A Good First Impression

  13 | Who’s Your Daddy?

  14 | Apathy and Stultifying Torpor

  15 | Lusting in Her Heart

  16 | Another Mouth to Feed

  17 | A Slot Machine in Church

  Preview of Snatched

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  About the Author

  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 fireplaces 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 sw
abbed 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.