A Peachy Criminals, page 8
“Then where do I go?”
Momma Peach thought and then grinned. “Help me move my baking table.”
“Huh?”
“Help me,” Momma Peach fussed, “and stop asking questions.”
Old Joe set down the peach pie and helped Momma Peach push the heavy wooden baking table off to the side. Momma Peach bent down and picked up the worn, braided rug in shades of pink that the baking table had been standing on. “See,” she said.
“Well, I'll be,” Old Joe said in a shocked voice. He bent down and examined a wooden trap door that felt and looked centuries old.
“Mr. Anderson, a very kind white man, used to hide slaves here, in the days before the Civil War,” Momma Peach explained. “There are statues of all kinds of folks around this old country, but not one single statue of real heroes like Mr. Anderson, rest his sweet soul.”
Old Joe stood up. “Is it safe down there?” he asked.
“I ain't been down in that old cellar in years. But the last time I checked, it was mighty safe.”
Old Joe fought back a smile at the thought—perhaps she hid her famous peach bread recipe down there? “Okay, then,” he said. He bent down again and began to fiddle with the rusted lock. He managed to pull the lock back and slowly opened the trap door. The smell of damp, cold earth struck his nose. “Mighty dark down there,” he said, peering down into a cobweb lined hole.
“Man don't need light to sleep,” Momma Peach said and then grinned. “Get on down in that hole and rest up. You’ll find a couple old wool horse blankets on the cot in the corner. I need some time to think.”
Old Joe sighed, retrieved his peach pie, and carefully made his way down a weak, wooden ladder that managed to hold his weight. “Momma—”
“Say your prayers,” Momma Peach said and slammed the trap door shut and quickly placed the pink carpet back down onto the floor and hauled her baking table back into place. Not a moment too soon. Moments later, Michelle walked into the bakery with Agent Davison at her side. This time, Agent Davison was in no mood to be flirted with.
“I did some checking,” Agent Davison told Momma Peach in a stern tone. “It seems that you rented a hotel room yesterday. Mind telling me why?”
Momma Peach calmly placed a peach pie into the oven and wiped her hands on the white apron she wore over her blue and white dress. “Is it a crime to rent a hotel room?” she asked in a calm voice that was completely different from the flirty tone she had manipulated Agent Davison with the day before.
“It's a crime to harbor a wanted fugitive. I spoke to the hotel clerk and she testified that a man matching Joseph Ingles’ description was indeed at the hotel. And furthermore, you and Detective Chan were seen escorting him up to the room.” Agent Davison pointed a hard finger at Momma Peach. “I don't like being toyed with, Ms. Johnson.”
“So go to a hardware store and play with some hammers,” Momma Peach replied in a sour voice. “An old friend came to town asking for help, so I helped by renting him a hotel room and stuffing some food in his belly. When I learned the truth, I sent my old friend to Detective Chan, who shipped him back to St. Louis. Case closed.”
Michelle leaned against the back door and watched Agent Davison examine Momma Peach's testimony with a skilled and sharp mind. “I did send Mr. Ingles back to St. Louis, Agent Davison,” she stated. “If we had something to hide, then why would Momma Peach have assisted me?”
“Why did you play dumb?” Agent Davison demanded.
“I don't trust folks who give my belly a bad feeling. Sure, Old Joe is nothing more than a back-alley con man, but that don't mean I am going to turn him over to a snake. I respect the law and turned Old Joe over to Detective Chan.” Momma Peach nodded her head at Agent Davison. “You make my belly turn sour and ugly. I don't trust you. I think you're a flat-out liar.”
“I could arrest you,” Agent Davison snapped.
“On what charges?” Michelle demanded. “Ms. Johnson obeyed the law. Maybe she didn't please your ears or do it your way, but she certainly did the right thing in the end. It's not our fault that Mr. Ingles escaped and it's not likely that man will return to this town, either. He and Momma Peach didn't exactly part on friendly terms.”
“Is that so?” Agent Davison asked Momma Peach. He looked around, uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken. He also didn't like standing in a kitchen that reminded him of his grandmother. He didn't like the smell of fresh baking pies, spices, and flour. He didn't like the clean, innocent feeling floating around in the air—the feeling clashed with his dirty, corrupted heart.
“Old Joe has problems,” Momma Peach sighed. “I wanted to help him, but the truth of the matter is...I failed. I betrayed Old Joe and sent him off to the wolves.”
“Any idea where your friend might be running to?” Agent Davison asked.
“Key West,” Momma Peach confessed. “Old Joe ain't no dummy. He knows the FBI is after him.” Momma Peach walked over to a wooden cabinet and fetched a fresh bag of flour out. “Old Joe will most likely, in my view, think leaving our country will be the best path to take. From Key West he’ll probably find a smuggler who can take him down to Cuba.”
Agent Davison nodded his head. He needed more information. “What did Mr. Ingles tell you? Obviously, he told you he witnessed a murder. Did he give any details?”
“Nope,” Momma Peach said, setting the bag of flour down onto the kitchen counter. “All Old Joe said was that he witnessed a young man being shot to death and that someone was chasing him. Old Joe didn't give a name of the young man he saw shot to death.” Momma Peach opened the bag and a puff of flour bloomed up into the fragrant air of the kitchen, making her smile for a moment. Then she was back to business. “But Detective Chan had an obligation to send him back to St. Louis, Agent Davison. I don't fool around.”
“But you certainly like fooling around with the law,” Agent Davison said in a disappointed tone, hoping to shame Momma Peach. “Mr. Ingles is wanted for murder. He didn't witness a murder, Ms. Johnson, he committed a murder. He murdered the son of a very prominent senator who, for the moment, has decided to keep the murder of his son silent until Mr. Ingles can be captured.”
“What senator is that?” Momma Peach asked innocently. She began pouring flour into a blue baking bowl right in front of Agent Davison, who stepped back to avoid getting flour on his jacket. “Good morning to bake peach pies. Yes, sir and yes ma’am.”
“Smells great in here,” Michelle agreed.
Agent Davison folded his arms together. Agent Brown and Agent Green were sitting out front in the black sedan. He was tempted to call them into the kitchen and interrogate Momma Peach using some of their less than savory techniques, in retribution for toying with him. But he knew that would be messy and cause more problems. At the moment, Senator Rarey was demanding answers and wasn't in the mood to tackle any additional, unneeded problems. Davison was acutely aware that unnecessary problems might just cost him his own life if he didn’t fix this situation. “The name of the senator is classified.”
“Oh well,” Momma Peach shrugged her shoulders, “ain't none of my business anyway. Out of sight and out of mind, right?”
“Just make sure it stays that way,” Agent Davison ordered Momma Peach. “I'm having you watched around the clock just in case your old friend decides to pay you an unexpected visit.”
“Sure enough?” Momma Peach asked. “Well now, that kinda makes Momma Peach a celebrity, doesn't it, honey?”
“It sure does,” Michelle told Momma Peach. She looked at Agent Davison. “Just as a reminder, we will need official court papers on any surveillance being conducted on Ms. Johnson. And, as I am sure you are aware, because her home is on county property and not in the city, I know Sheriff Mayton will demand papers as well. If no papers can be produced, then we will have to get in touch with your field office and make an official Freedom of Information Act request, which might get loud and messy if the media gets involved, unfortunately. And of course, Ms. Johnson has every right to sue the FBI if they violate her rights. The Fourth Amendment reads and I quote: The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.”
“Do you enjoy your job, Detective?” Agent Davison asked Michelle in a threatening tone.
“Very much,” Michelle answered and narrowed her eyes. “Produce the court papers before any official surveillance begins or get out of my town. In fact, I think I'll call Special Director Marshall McCall and inform him that he has one of his field agents in my town levelling threats at me.”
Agent Davison flinched. Marshall McCall was a straight arrow type of man who upheld the law without compromising his official and personal ethical and moral codes. Men like Marshall McCall made Agent Davison ill, but what could he do? Marshall McCall held a strong senior position; and Marshall McCall didn't hold a high opinion of Agent Davison, either. “No need,” Agent Davison muttered in an undertone and cast his eyes at the back door. What had started as a simple hit was turning messy, spreading like a puddle of kerosene that had the capacity to destroy the career of a very powerful senator. A powerful senator who was not afraid to take Davison down with him, if it came to it. “Ms. Johnson, see to it that you obey the law from now on. I'll overlook your offense this time...this one time,” Agent Davison emphasized, “but never again. And,” Agent Davison continued, hoping to sound authoritative, “if Mr. Ingles happens to show up at your back door you are to call me at once. Are we clear, Ms. Johnson?”
She did not reply, regarding him for a long moment. “You don't have pretty eyes, after all,” Momma Peach finally said to Agent Davison as she chuckled to herself.
Agent Davison made a sour face. “I'm not in the mood for games.”
Momma Peach began to add her special spices to the bowl of flour. “Agent Davison, I ain't in the mood for games, either.” Momma Peach turned and locked eyes with Agent Davison. “But I don't back down from a fight. Now, get your sorry butt out of my kitchen before I beat you senseless with my rolling pin.”
Agent Davison glanced at Michelle. Michelle nodded at the door leading back into the bakery. “I'll walk you out.”
“And don't come back without a warrant,” Momma Peach called after him sweetly. “Are we clear, Agent Davison? Am I making myself perfectly clear? If you step a foot back into my bakery without a warrant I’m going to call Mr. McCall myself. Oh yes, I will. Now, get!”
Agent Davison stormed off through the bakery and yanked the front door open. “I'm not leaving this town, Detective,” he snarled at Michelle. “My gut tells me that Mr. Ingles is close by and that your friend is hiding something.”
“Don't step outside the boundaries of the law and we'll be just fine,” Michelle replied and nodded at the pouring rain. “You might want to get yourself an umbrella. This is forecasted to keep falling longer than expected.”
“Indeed,” Agent Davison said darkly, and walked out into the pouring rain. He made his way to the front street, climbed into the back of the black sedan and slammed the door shut.
Michelle watched as the black sedan slowly pulled away, then walked back into the kitchen and found Momma Peach working on a fresh peach pie. “Good thing Old Joe isn't around,” she said. “Agent Davison seems desperate. Desperate men make desperate decisions.”
Momma Peach didn't look up at Michelle. She walked the bowl of flour over to her baking table, set it down, and looked up with an apologetic smile. “Momma Peach?” Michelle asked. Momma Peach looked down and began sprinkling flour on the baking table in preparation for rolling out another crust. She didn’t meet Michelle’s eyes.
Michelle's eyes went wide. “Momma Peach...no,” she begged. Momma Peach bit down on her lower lip and nodded her head a fraction, sneaking a look out of the corner of her eye. “Why?” Michelle begged. “We sent Old Joe back to St. Louis. We did our part for justice.”
“Well, baby,” Momma Peach struggled to explain in a voice knotted up with confusion, “Old Joe was waiting for me right here in my kitchen when I came in this morning.”
Michelle dropped her head down and moaned miserably. “Where is he?”
Momma Peach picked up her right foot and tapped the floor. “Down in the hidden cellar,” she said and cringed, waiting for Michelle to explode. “Now honey, before you go off like a fourth of July firework, let me explain.”
“Please do,” Michelle said, “because my job is on the line here, Momma Peach. It's my duty to turn Old Joe back over to the state police. And before we go any further, let me say that I did some checking with the St. Louis PD and a body matching the description Old Joe gave us was found in a dumpster behind a pool hall. As of now, though, the body is being marked as a John Doe. The St. Louis PD believes Old Joe is the killer and wants him back ASAP.”
“John Doe?” Momma Peach asked and rubbed her chin, getting flour on her face.
Michelle nodded her head. “Great pains are being taken to keep the death of this senator's son under wraps. Old Joe is the last loose end that's being tracked down.” Michelle shook her head. “Momma Peach, it upsets me to admit this, but it seems there are some cops in St. Louis who are on the payroll of someone with a heavy thumb on the scales of justice, if you will.”
“Dirty cops?”
“Yeah,” Michelle confirmed. “I spoke with a Detective Branson. This man told me to mind my own business and forget all about Old Joe unless he turned up in my town, and when I demanded information from him, he gave me the basics and nothing more.”
“My, my, what a shame,” Momma Peach said. “Dirty cops in St. Louis.”
“Dirty cops are everywhere,” Michelle said miserably. “It's a sad truth. The other day I read an article about a New York state trooper shooting down an unarmed man. In California, a cop working for the LAPD shot down a homeless man without any justification.” Michelle shook her head. “In Florida, a deputy with the Palm Beach County Sheriff Department was seen beating a handcuffed woman in the face. Dirty cops are everywhere...but the cops who go on the payroll, they're the worst in my book. They pollute justice on a level that sickens the heart.”
Momma Peach glanced down at the floor. “Old Joe must have known that this Detective Branson was on the payroll, then. He must have known that if he confessed to witnessing a murder...justice would have been turned against him.”
“Are you saying Old Joe was right for running?” Michelle asked.
“I am suddenly realizing that maybe...I might have run too, honey,” Momma Peach answered Michelle. “I'm not protecting Old Joe from the consequences of the cons he has pulled, but sometimes even a dirty alley dog knows when to run from a bad fight.”
Michelle rubbed the back of her neck. “I hate to admit this, but I agree. And I also kinda think...I was too hard on Old Joe. Maybe it wouldn't have killed me to listen to the man and evaluate his side of the story. All I saw was a sorry con man that I wanted out of this town.”
“Old Joe isn't innocent,” Momma Peach reminded her. “And folks could tell when he was around, too.” Momma Peach rubbed her chin again. “In this case, Old Joe is innocent and I have set my mind to help him. Last night I felt horrible for sending the man back to St. Louis to face certain death. Now I have a second chance to redeem myself and help a broken man become whole.” Momma Peach looked up at Michelle. “Are you with me, Michelle? Oh, please say that you are, honey.”
Michelle let her eyes fall down to the floor. She practically felt Old Joe looking up at her through the floorboards, awaiting her verdict. “Old Joe is innocent of murder. I can't let the real crooks kill him, Momma Peach. I swore to serve and protect and that's exactly what I'm going to do.”
Momma Peach beamed. “That's my girl,” she said and kicked the floor. “You can change your britches, you old skunk. We're on your side.”
Old Joe dropped down onto a damp cot in the dark cellar and threw his hands up to his face. “Well, I'll be,” he whispered into the darkness. “Good folk is actually gonna take up for Old Joe...I'll just be a son of a gun.”
Chapter Six
Old Joe narrowed his eyes. “What kind of threads are these?” he asked Michelle dubiously.
Michelle tossed a red and black plaid button-down shirt onto the kitchen counter, along with a pair of gray trousers. “Does it really matter what clothes you wear,” she pointed out, “with what’s at stake?”
“Yeah, I get it,” Old Joe said and snatched up a pair of underwear that were among the clothes Michelle had bought at the local K-Mart. “Well, at least you had good sense and went to K-Mart. You even got my size right.”
Momma Peach put two fingers to her right temple and shook her head. “Oh, give me strength,” she whispered. “How am I gonna put up with this old barnyard fox?”
“If I’m a fox, maybe you should start by getting me some decent threads,” Old Joe retorted.
“Be grateful and hush your mouth,” Momma Peach told Old Joe the way a mother tells her child to hush up and behave. “Michelle bought you good, honest clothes.”
“Honest?” Old Joe exclaimed and made a face, looking at his new attire. “I ain't Paul Bunyan! I’m a city man, I sure don't live out in no forest chopping down trees. Shoot, do you think you’re going to protect me by dressing me up like a lumberjack? Honestly.”
Momma Peach walked over to Old Joe and smacked him upside the back of his head. “Don't make me go crazy in my own kitchen, boy!”
Old Joe rubbed the back of his head. He steadied his mind, looked at the new clothes in his hand, and shook his head. “I reckon my suit was getting a stink to it and could use a good wash,” he said begrudgingly.
“You smelled like a farting cow,” Momma Peach told Old Joe and waved her hand in front of her nose for good measure. “Now go back down into the cellar and change.”
