Page 1 of Moonshine and Magnolias (Just Add Peaches #1)

Rob Upshaw’s list of life goals had never included larceny. Recovering the Romanov jewels, sure. Finding Excalibur and meeting King Arthur, definitely. Tracking down a hidden treasure to break a mythical family curse?

No.

The covered entrance of the Inn at Fountenoy Hall shaded the large wooden doors that loomed in front of him. He unwrapped an antacid from his dwindling supply and popped it in his mouth.

The blast of air conditioning coming from the lobby was a nice rush after bathing in Georgia’s late spring heat.

Clacking metal sounds and the thud of heavy fabric filled the space as several people lay a runner on the hardwood floor while others unfolded chairs and lined them along the walls.

Aside from a curious look when he had opened the door, no one spared him another glance.

Rob weaved through the activity, past the grand staircase, to the registration desk. A ceramic pot of peace lilies sat on the floor in front of it, with a man in dark pants and a grey shirt standing behind. He arranged a bouquet of peach-colored flowers, tiny roses, and lots of greenery.

“Excuse me,” Rob said.

The man raised his eyes from the vase and gave him a quick once-over. “Kitchen,” he said, pointing to the door to his right, barely missing a wicker basket on the counter next to him. “We’re all helping out here today, and whoever you need is going to be in there.”

“I’m Rob Upshaw. I have a reservation.” He would have lifted his suitcase as proof, but he had left it in the car while his brother went to cross off yet another lead from their list.

“Hello, Rob Upshaw. Ms. Marsh was fixin’ to flip out last I saw her half an hour ago. Kept asking if you was here.”

Rob reached for his wallet to get his credit card. “I think you have me confused with someone else.”

“Take this with you and give it to Ms. Eulalee if Ms. Marsh isn’t there.” The man handed him the towel-covered basket as if Rob hadn’t said a word. He inhaled the heavy scent of meat. “Once you go through the door, follow the hallway and the smell of cooking.”

Rob opened his mouth to ask why the unconventional location to check into an inn and why – he lifted the cloth – he was now carrying a ham.

“Go on, now. There’s lots to do this morning, and it’s already been a doozy.” The man shook his head and turned his attention back to the flowers.

The somber mood of the room reflected the man’s words.

There was barely any talking between the workers.

Rob followed the directions to the kitchen.

He passed another hallway with a door that led outside, and a large, open room that he knew from researching the Inn had served as a ballroom.

The sight of the beautiful antique furniture tickled his professional curiosity, but he pressed onward.

Other rooms branched off from the hallway but Rob continued on until the scent of fried chicken and the tang of vinegar drew him through the dining room to the kitchen. It was enough to make his stomach growl, even though he and Hal stopped to eat only an hour ago on their way up from Florida.

Two women looked up at him when he swung through the double doors. “Where’s Sarah?” the older one asked. She stirred something hot and steamy on the large six-burner stove, her white hair tied up neatly in a bun and an apron protecting her plain, grey clothes. “Did she send you instead? ”

“The gentleman in the lobby told me to come in here and bring this to you.” He held up the basket. “Is one of you Ms. Marsh? Or Ms. Eulalee?”

“I’m Eulalee. That there’s Leslie Marsh but I’m thinking you mean her daughter.

She’ll be along soon enough.” The older woman pointed her wooden spoon to the side of the massive refrigerator.

“Put that with the other one on the counter, then go put on an apron and take over for me. Don’t want to get those nice clothes all dirty. ”

These women seemed to think he was an extra pair of kitchen hands. That could be beneficial for his purpose for coming to the Inn. It didn’t matter if he checked in now or in a few hours, and working with them could start a rapport that might help later.

Hints left by his uncle in one-hundred year-old journals had led him and his brother to Fountenoy Hall.

Uncle Louis had been tracking down illegal moonshine and stumbled upon some allegedly cursed treasure.

Since there were no more journals to follow, the Curse of Angels Eyes would continue to torment the Upshaw family unless they found the secret cache of Confederate gold or jewels or whatever the hoard contained.

According to family lore, anyway. Rob didn’t believe a word of it.

“What’s your name, honey?” Leslie asked.

“Rob Upshaw.” He crossed the room and placed the basket next to its nearly-identical twin, that one overflowing with chocolate muffins instead of ham. The aprons hung on a peg near a recessed room, so he snagged one, then washed his hands.

“Here you go, Mr. Rob Upshaw.” Eulalee handed him the utensil. “I’ll be right here rolling out the biscuit dough, but you shouldn’t have any problem.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He took the wooden spoon and Eulalee nodded approval.

It would have been pretentious to say he could be called Dr. Upshaw.

She’d probably be disappointed when she learned he was a Ph.D.

in history and not a neurosurgeon or something equally sexy.

He stirred the boiling water. Little beady eyes stared up at him and he jerked back .

She peered into the pot with a grin. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little crawfish.”

“No, ma’am.” Now that he knew what they were. The critters danced around like a tortured synchronized swim team with each swish of the spoon.

The tang of alcohol and a sweet, sugary aroma filled the large area and battled with the scent of frying.

A closed, non-descript amber bottle sat on the counter next to the stovetop and he picked it up.

The label read Belle’s Medicinal Brewery – not a brand he knew.

He looked around to find the source of the smell.

Leslie stood by the island, chopping vegetables, and glanced over at him.

“Peach whiskey bread pudding,” she said, nodding toward the oven.

She was about half the age of the other woman, but her dowdy shirt and the downward curve of her lips made her seem older.

“We really appreciate your coming to help out on such short notice. Did my daughter send you back here? She’d be the one carrying a tablet or a clipboard. ”

“No, ma’am. I didn’t see her. Just people lining up folding chairs.” Correcting his mistaken identity would destroy the homey kitchen scene Rob hadn’t had many opportunities to savor. It would all get worked out eventually anyway. “Is she the one in charge?”

The women exchanged glances. The younger one with the vegetables nodded. “Yes. Wendy’s the one in charge.”

Eulalee studied the contents of the large stock pot bubbling in front of him. “Give them one more minute, honey, then drain them. After they cool, they need to be peeled and then tossed with a little bit of the lemon before going into the salad.”

“Peeled?” He swallowed around the disgust lodged in his throat.

“Just like Maybelle liked them.” Ms. Eulalee’s words caught in her throat and she stacked pots and pans next to the three-compartment sink against the far wall.

Maybelle. Maybelle. The name clicked with Rob as he located a couple of hot mitts and lifted the pot off the stove. She’s the one who assisted with his reservation.

The older woman sighed, her body folding in on itself, and she traced the countertop with her worn hand.

“You never met her, but ask your boss about her. They got along just fine, right, Les?” She turned to the woman chopping vegetables.

“It’s so strange without her. She would have loved the fuss, having everyone here in the kitchen, preparing a meal to share with her friends. ”

Leslie sniffed and walked over to Ms. Eulalee, who held her tight.

As he dumped the crawfish into a colander, the backdoor creaked open.

A woman appeared through the mist of steam with a phone tucked between her ear and shoulder, a tablet stuck under her arm and carrying a disposable aluminum tray filled with white and red lumps.

Her angled face showed off her high cheekbones and a frank gaze that narrowed on him.

“You need anything else?” she said into her phone.

She went past the women and slid the food next to the baskets. “Okay. Thanks.”

Like the others, her clothes were dark. Her black hair was tied in a neat bun at the nape of her neck. Everything from her quick movements to the pencil tucked behind her ear spoke of efficiency. Her eyes softened as she took in the scene, but paused as if unsure of her welcome.

“Is that Mrs. Golilly’s potato salad?” Ms. Eulalee extended her arm to include the newcomer. “It was always your grandma’s favorite.”

Realization choked Rob as it all fell into place. The identical pangs of misery on their faces. The chairs lining the lobby. The somber clothes and the mounds of food.

Oh, God. He was crashing a wake.

***

The unfamiliar man looming by the sink bore little resemblance to the sous chef Grandma and Aunt Eulalee usually hired when they needed additional help.

For one thing, those broad shoulders were way too large to masquerade as Sarah’s.

For another, he handled the boiling crawfish like a man whose only forays into the kitchen had involved burnt scrambled eggs and instant coffee.

Third, Sarah had just called to say she was running late .

And fourth, when his intent hazel eyes fixed on her, a rush of awareness took over her body.

Awareness of his thick brows and the scruff that covered his jaw.

Awareness of the heat that settled in her stomach.

Awareness that she better stop looking at him before she did something out of character and monumentally stupid.