“And don’t tell me you’re ‘taking it slow’ again. That isn’t an answer either.”
Karen’s unhappy frown didn’t deflect my question. I stood my ground, not yet unlocking the door while I waited for an answer.
Finally she sighed and looked away. “We’re not together, if that’s what you’re asking,” she said without looking at me. “But we are seeing a lot of each other, and we aren’t seeing anyone else.”
She hesitated and took another deep breath. “And he’s stayed at the house a few times. That was never a problem.”
“Are you crazy?” I asked. I kept my voice low, concerned, not challenging. “You divorced him once, and now you’re going right back into”—I struggled for the right word—“into whatever this is. You two keep splitting up and getting back together, and now he’s staying over? Do you not remember how upset he got when you went to Jacksonville alone?”
I reached out, put my hand on her arm. “You got hurt bad the first time, hon. Can you handle that again when you break up for good?”
“If,” she insisted. “If we break up, not when. We’re adults this time. Sure, Riley got upset when I went to Jacksonville, but we talked it out instead of fighting. That’s progress, isn’t it?
“We know where the pitfalls are, Glory, and we’re trying to find ways around them. So we are taking it slow, even if you don’t think that’s an answer.”
I squeezed her arm. There wasn’t anything I could say that was going to change her mind, and she knew full well the risk she was taking. And maybe they could make it work. I hoped so, for both their sakes.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll be here if you need me.” As if there was any question. We’d always been there for each other, ever since grade school.
I unlocked the door.
I followed Karen inside, stopping to double-check the locks on the back door, then moving through the storage room to let her out the front, where her SUV waited at the curb.
“Thanks again for going with me,” I said.
“Glad to,” she answered with a grin. “You were right, you know. I did like her. Too bad she’ll be gone again in a couple weeks.”
“Who knows?” I answered. “Maybe she’ll come back and work here when the sale goes through. We could start a girls’ network, have our own answer to the good ol’ boys.”
“Yeah, sure.” Sarcasm dripped from her words. “I won’t hold my breath.”
I laughed. “Someday.”
I locked the door behind her, and went to check on Bluebeard.
I changed his water and fed him a shredded-wheat biscuit from the can underneath his cage.
“Coffee?” he asked hopefully.
“No, Bluebeard, parrots do not get coffee. I don’t even get coffee at this hour.” I gave him a couple scritches, checked the locks again, and headed upstairs.
• • •
I WAS DOWNSTAIRS WORKING ON A T-SHIRT ORDER when Julie arrived the next morning. She let herself in and turned over the “Closed” sign.
“Morning, boss,” she said, sliding behind the counter next to me. She pointed to an image on the computer screen. “That one’s been really popular this summer,” she said. “You might want to order a few extra in kid sizes. For some reason, that’s one they want to buy as matching mother-daughter sets.”
“Thanks,” I said, clicking back on the design and adding two dozen in mixed sizes before checking the totals and clicking on the “Order” button.
“There was one other thing,” Julie said. “I’ve been getting a lot of people asking about stuff with Bluebeard on it. T-shirts, shot glasses, postcards, stuff like that. Some of them say they saw him on the website and they are disappointed we don’t have anything.”
I’d spent months learning about websites, working for hours experimenting with ways to display my merchandise and promote the store. Adding Bluebeard’s picture to the pages had been Jake’s suggestion, a good one.
Now Julie offered a way to take it a step further.
“I’ll give Mandy a call, if you’d like,” Julie said.
“Mandy?”
“A friend of mine. She works over at Coast Custom Printers. They do the shirts for Mermaid Grotto. Started out as a uniform for the staff, but customers kept asking if they could buy them. They put a stack at the register and she says their order gets bigger every month.”
She started to say more, but the bell over the door rang as a tourist couple came in. She gave them her dazzling, cheerleader smile and called out, “Hi, y’all! Can I help you find something special?”
They shook their heads. “Just looking,” the wife said.
“Sure thing,” Julie said, still smiling. “Let me know if there’s anything you need.”
She made a show of going back to straightening the shelves behind the counter. She’d learned quickly that the fastest way to drive a customer out the door was to hover, to make them feel like they were being watched, even when they were.
Across the street, Jake’s “Closed” sign still hung in the front window. He’d changed his hours, opening later in the morning and staying open later at night every Saturday, and he said the new hours had boosted sales.
Jake emerged from his front door and crossed the street to my front door. He glanced around, spotting the one couple flipping through the vintage magazine rack against the back wall. “Got time for coffee?” he asked.
I looked at Julie, who nodded. “I’ll call if it gets busy,” she said.
I made sure I had my cell phone, and followed Jake next door to Lighthouse Coffee.
Chloe put out two vanilla lattes and two lemon scones as soon as we reached the counter. “The usual,” she said. “Saw you coming.” She grinned.
Jake tossed a twenty on the counter. “Keep it,” he said, waving away the change she offered him. “I had a good day yesterday. Besides”—he grinned back at her—“come winter, there may be no tips at all.”
Chloe shook her head. “I don’t think that’s even possible for you,” she said. “You’re far too nice to stiff the barista.”
“You’d be surprised,” he teased her, but I knew she was right. Jake was one of the most considerate people I’d ever known.
Out of habit, we sat by the front window, where Jake could watch the front door of Beach Books, even though the “Closed” sign was still up.
I took a sip of the sweet coffee. “Thanks. A good day yesterday, huh?”
Jake nodded. “I don’t know why, but the store was busy from open to close. You?”
I shrugged. “Good. Not a blockbuster, but a good day. The evening got a little strange, though.”
“Oh?” Jake cocked an eyebrow. “What happened?”
I told him about Bridget coming back into the shop, and my impulsive invitation.
“You had her over for dinner?” he asked, surprised.
I shook my head. “Not exactly.”
Jake listened while I gave him a quick summary of the previous night’s adventure. He looked alarmed when I told him about the guy pounding on the door.
“You didn’t call the cops?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Bridget chased him off, and he left. There wasn’t much they could have done anyway. Warned him, maybe, or cited him for trespassing. But the property isn’t marked, so I don’t know if they could even charge him with trespassing unless he came back after she told him to go away.”
Jake looked thoughtful. “I don’t know. I guess it depends on what the law is. I don’t even know if that’s a local ordinance or a state law.”
“I don’t know either.” I ate the last bite of my scone, and took a sip of lukewarm latte. “I’ve never had to worry about it, but I bet Karen knows. I’ll have to ask her. Not that it matters, but now I am curious.”
Jake drained his coffee cup and glanced at his watch. “Ti
me to go open up,” he said, gathering his trash.
I looked up, intending to answer, and saw Bridget coming through the door. Dressed in the gaudy T-shirt she’d bought the day before, she had on a pair of jeans that looked like they’d been custom-made for her. Judging by what I’d seen of her wardrobe, maybe they had been.
She spotted me and waved, heading for our table.
“Hi, Glory,” she said. She turned to Jake, who had started to stand. “Don’t get up on my account,” she said with a smile. “I’m on my way out of town, just stopped to return Glory’s dishes.”
She turned back to me. “I took them to the shop, and that sweet girl said you were over here having coffee. I just wanted to say thanks again for the meal, and the company.”
“You’re welcome,” I said. I gestured to Jake. “Bridget, this is Jake Robinson. He owns the bookstore across the street. Jake, this is Bridget McKenna.”
I didn’t bother to explain Bridget’s position. Jake, like everyone else in town, knew exactly who she was.
Jake was already on his feet, and shook her outstretched hand. “Glad to meet you, Ms. McKenna. Don’t mean to be rude, but I really was on my way out. Time to open up.”
“Not at all,” she answered. “I’m actually heading out myself. Taking Glory’s suggestion and going over to Biloxi for a little R and R.”
Jake nodded. “Have fun,” he said. “Glory”—he looked at me—“talk to you later.” He turned and waved over his shoulder as he walked out the door.
I gestured to the empty chair across from me. “I need to get back, but I have a minute if you want.”
Bridget shook her head. “I should get on the road, I think. How about a rain check? One morning next week?”
She glanced out the window, watching Jake stride across the street, and smiled back at me. “That one looks like a keeper.”
I felt a blush creep up my face. “Yeah. Maybe.”
Bridget laughed. “See you next week.”
I followed her out the door and went back to Southern Treasures.
More customers came in as the morning wore on. Julie and I handled questions, sales, and special requests. Bluebeard whistled and squawked and was rewarded with giggles, finger-pointing, and occasional shrieks from teenaged girls.
He had his picture taken with a steady stream of visitors, flirted with every woman, and only had to be reprimanded for his vocabulary a couple times.
The foot traffic thinned in the early afternoon as the temperature climbed and the tourists retreated to swimming pools and air-conditioned hotel rooms, or prostrated themselves on the blistering sand. Julie came back from her break, and I was free for a few minutes.
I stuck my cell phone in my pocket and headed for the front door. “Call if you need me,” I said as I went out. “Otherwise I’ll be back in twenty minutes or so.”
My first stop was back to Lighthouse, for a trio of frozen mochas. Then I walked past Southern Treasures on my way to the Grog Shop.
I tried to check in with Linda, the owner, every couple days. Linda had been a friend of my mother’s and was like the older sister I never had. She and her husband, Guy, had taken me in when my parents were killed, and she was the person I turned to when I needed advice.
Linda was at the register, ringing up a sale. I put two drinks on the counter, and wandered into the back looking for Guy. I found him checking off delivery sheets and hoisting cases of beer onto racks in their small warehouse space.
I put my drink down and started stacking cases as he marked them off. “Yours is up front, if Linda doesn’t drink both of them before you claim it.”
“She wouldn’t dare,” he growled.
I didn’t believe his act for a minute. He and Linda were as devoted a couple as I had ever seen, a relationship I both envied and aspired to. If and when I found the right man. The image of Jake, grinning as he handed me my latte, flashed through my memory. I shoved the idea into the back closet of my mind and slammed the door. Too soon. Way too soon.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
“Doing good,” he replied. “Definitely beer weather.”
I looked around, taking in the nearly empty shelves. “Looks like it.”
Guy kept working as he talked. “Would you believe I already had two deliveries this week, and I had to call for another one this morning?” He ticked off the last case and I put it on the shelf. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you. Always good when people are buying.”
Guy maneuvered a hand truck loaded with more cases toward the door. “Get that for me, would you?” he asked.
I grabbed my coffee and held the door while he steered the load through it and toward the giant walk-in cooler at the back of the store. I opened the cooler door, and he pushed the hand truck through, letting the door close behind him.
Linda was alone at the counter, and I walked behind it to give her a hug.
“Thanks for the mocha,” she said.
We talked for a couple minutes, catching up on what we’d been doing the last few days. I told her about our Thursday dinner, and about taking the leftovers out to Bayvue Estates the night before.
“You went out there with that woman?” She sounded shocked. “What made you go all the way out there, all alone with a total stranger?”
“She seems really nice.” Okay, that sounded lame, even to me. “I took Karen with me. And we got to see one of the model homes.”
“Was it as deluxe as everybody said it was?”
I hated to disappoint her, but I had to say no. “Oh, they tried,” I told her. “But the work wasn’t done right. A lot of stuff looked like it was done in a hurry, or just not finished at all. It was sad, and kind of creepy.
“Like something had died out there.”
Chapter 7
I WANTED TO TALK TO LINDA ABOUT KAREN AND Riley, to have her reassure me that my best friend wasn’t heading for a fall. It was the kind of conversation I imagined most women had with their mothers or sisters, and Linda was the closest thing I had to either one. But a steady stream of customers cut our visit short. That conversation would have to wait until we both closed for the night, or for another day.
I waved good-bye and went back to work. At least I got a cold drink, a jolt of caffeine, and a change of scenery for a few minutes.
By the time we closed up for the day, I was too tired to talk to anybody. It took me another couple hours to close out the register, balance the books, and get the store ready for the next day. When I was through, all I wanted to do was crawl upstairs and collapse in a heap. Even fixing dinner sounded like too much work.
And I wasn’t the only one. As I was checking the locks and setting the alarm, the store phone rang. I ignored it, letting it go to voice mail. I’d check the message before I went upstairs and decide if it could wait until morning.
A few seconds later my cell phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Pizza’s on the way,” Jake said. “Want some?”
“Thank you, yes. I was just thinking I was too tired to cook, so it was going to be corn flakes for dinner.”
“Neil’s said they’d have it here in half an hour, if that works for you.” There was a pause, then he continued. “I gave them your address for the delivery.”
“That’s some nerve, Mr. Robinson. What if I’d had other plans? It’s Saturday night. I might have had a date,” I teased.
“Saturday night in July,” he answered. “You never go out on the weekends in the summer. That was one of the first rules you taught me about being a local.”
“Got me,” I said. “I’ll unlock the door, if you’re coming over soon.”
“On my way,” he replied.
True to his word, I saw him emerge from his door onto the sidewalk, heading for the crosswalk in front of his store.
I dropped the phone in my pocket
and went to take care of Bluebeard. He’d had a long day of customers, and he was as tuckered out as I was.
Bluebeard spotted Jake through the big front windows, approaching my door. “Pretty boy,” he said, in a voice eerily like that of my great-uncle Louis Georges. I hadn’t heard Uncle Louis since he passed away when I was ten, but I recognized his voice coming from Bluebeard, and I knew he wasn’t talking about himself.
“Hush!” I said. “You keep your nose out of my business. Or your beak. Whatever. Just butt out, okay?”
Bluebeard cast a beady eye around the shop before glaring at me and uttering a clear profanity.
“Language, Bluebeard!”
He quieted to a low mutter, but I’d known this parrot a long time. Other people might not hear it, but I could make out several words he knew he wasn’t supposed to use. I guess I should be glad he chose to wait until there were no customers in the store.
Jake locked the door behind himself and made his way between the display racks to where I stood.
“Arguing with Bluebeard again?” he asked, slipping an arm around my shoulders for a quick hug. He seemed to hesitate about any display of affection in front of Bluebeard.
I wanted to deny it, but he was right. I was arguing. With a bird. Okay, it was a bird who occasionally channeled the ghost of Uncle Louis, but it was still ridiculous.
“Bluebeard’s misbehaving again, if that’s what you mean,” I said, sidestepping any admission of guilt. “He needs to learn to mind his own business.”
Jake cocked an eyebrow at Bluebeard. “Trying to keep her out of trouble?”
Jake knew about Uncle Louis, and it amused him to think my great-uncle chose to meddle in my life. I wondered if he would think it was so funny if he knew Bluebeard was talking about him.
“Mostly he’s tired and cranky,” I said. “He’s had a long hard day of being a celebrity.” I remembered Julie’s suggestion from that morning. “Speaking of which, what would you think about shirts and postcards with Bluebeard on them? We could use the same pictures we used for the website. It was Julie’s idea,” I added, not wanting to take credit that wasn’t mine.
Murder Sends a Postcard (A Haunted Souvenir) Page 5
