His look told me the subject wasn’t closed, but he let it drop. “The other reason I came over was to let you know Felipe called and invited me to dinner tonight, if that’s okay with you?”
“Of course it is. Felipe doesn’t need my permission to include you.”
“That wasn’t him asking, it was me,” Jake explained.
“Either way,” I said. “It’ll be fun to have you there.”
“Good.” He hesitated. “Will you ride with me? I promise not to abandon you this time.”
“Don’t promise,” I warned him. “This could be another busy night for the department. Besides, if you have to leave, I can always ride home with Karen.”
We agreed to meet at Beach Books at six, and Jake headed back to his store.
Julie came back behind the counter without a word, but her look said a lot.
“It wasn’t anything, really,” I said. “I just wanted somebody to talk to. We got burgers from Curly’s and then he got called out.”
Julie already knew what I had wanted to talk to Jake about. The news of Bridget’s death was all over town; gossip was an industry second only to tourism in our small town, and we were good at it.
“They called the fire department out there?” Julie asked, puzzled. “Why would they do that if she was dead?”
“No, they got called to Anderson Park. A grass fire. But there were a bunch of calls just after dark, when the tourists started setting off their fireworks.”
Julie’s confused expression cleared. “Oh. That makes more sense.”
A steady stream of customers kept us busy until closing time, and beyond. It was nearly six when the last ones straggled out the door with their T-shirts and postcards.
As the last group of customers milled around the entrance, holding the door open, an orange cat slipped in. Sydney, who lived a couple blocks over, the official greeter at Molly Young’s B and B.
Sydney was supposed to be an indoor cat, but she sometimes managed to escape. And when she did, she went exploring.
The door closed. I quickly turned the lock, trapping Sydney inside the shop, and reached for the phone to call Molly.
“Molly’s Magnolia Bed and Breakfast,” Molly answered. “How can I help you?”
“Hey, Molly,” I said. “How are you?” Even if I was rescuing her cat, good manners dictated that I at least ask after her.
“Doing fine, Glory,” she said. “How about you?”
“Can’t complain. The tourists are spending, and the weather’s not too hot.”
“I hear that,” she chuckled. “What can I do for you, sugar?”
“Well, I thought I ought to let you know, Sydney’s come calling. I locked the door behind her, but I know you’ll be wanting to get her back home.”
“I’ll be there quick as I can,” she said.
Before I could say good-bye properly, Bluebeard let out a shriek.
I turned around just in time to see him half jump, half fly toward one of the hanging light fixtures. The shop wasn’t really big enough for him to fly, but he was clearly agitated and trying to get to as high a perch as he could.
The fluorescent lamp swung wildly, and Bluebeard slipped from his precarious spot, losing his footing.
“@&%&%%^* cat!” he screeched. “Cat here!”
He flapped his wings wildly, managing to slow his fall somewhat, and he landed clumsily on a stack of T-shirts, sending several of them cascading to the floor.
Sydney, curious about the commotion, jumped onto the lower shelf and batted at Bluebeard with one paw, as though playing with a particularly noisy toy.
Bluebeard leaped away, cursing nonstop, his outburst punctuated every few seconds with the phrase “$%^#%& cat.”
Sydney followed her new prey across the shop, crouched low, tail twitching. She’d gone from curious to hunting, and while Bluebeard was bigger, stronger, and a lot more aggressive when he wanted to be, he wasn’t a predator by nature.
Bluebeard lit on top of the postcard spinner, and Sydney leaped up against the rack, trying to claw her way up the slippery chrome rungs.
The spinner teetered, spilling cards out of the pockets, and unseating Bluebeard. He slipped off the rack and onto another display table, hopping quickly across the shop and into the relative safety of his cage.
I moved faster that I thought possible, beating Sydney to the cage, and closing the door before she could follow Bluebeard inside.
She glared up at me, like I had interrupted an especially amusing game, then lay down and started grooming herself as though nothing had happened.
In the cage I could hear Bluebeard cursing and ranting. I reached over and rattled the cage door gently. “It’s closed,” I told him. “No one can bother you. Even the cat.”
The cursing grew softer, more like his usual muttering, but it didn’t stop and I didn’t argue with him about it. This was the first time I’d seen him encounter a cat, and his obvious distress was far beyond anything I would have imagined. I wondered what had happened to make him react so badly, but that was a question for later.
Right now I had to deal with Miss Sydney.
I managed to pick the cat up and carry her back to the counter, where I’d left the phone. The line was dead, which didn’t surprise me, though I had to wonder what Molly had heard before she hung up.
I put Sydney on the counter, holding her in place with one arm while I picked up the phone and called Molly again.
I identified myself, and Molly immediately asked, “What happened, sugar? You were talking, and then there was a terrible commotion and the call dropped. I was about to send Ronnie over to make sure you were okay!”
I thanked her for her concern, and reassured her that I was fine. “But Bluebeard apparently has a serious issue with cats. He pitched a huge fit when he saw Sydney. He’s in his cage now, and she’s just sitting here like nothing happened.”
“I am leaving right this minute,” she said. I heard her holler for Ronnie, and tell him she had to go out. She turned back to the phone and said she would be right over.
True to her word, she was at my door in about three minutes, her plump cheeks bright red, and huffing and puffing like she’d run the three blocks. In her hand was a cat carrier with “Sydney” written on it in marking pen.
Sydney wasn’t happy about getting in the carrier, but Molly wrestled her in and slammed the door shut, scolding the cat in a singsong voice the entire time.
“She knows she’s not supposed to go out,” she said. “But since when does a cat care what she’s supposed to do?”
I shook my head. I had no idea what a cat cared about. I’d never had a cat, and judging by Bluebeard’s reaction, I never would.
I thanked Molly for coming so quickly, and she apologized for upsetting Bluebeard.
I shrugged. “I had no idea,” I told her. “I don’t know why he got so freaked out. But now I know to watch out for cats.”
Molly left with Sydney in the carrier, her plaintive yowls clearly indicating her indignation at her treatment.
When they were gone, I opened Bluebeard’s cage. I never closed it, giving him the freedom of the store, but this had been an emergency.
I reached my hand in. He came close enough for me to scratch his head, but he refused to leave the cage. The encounter had upset him badly, and he just needed to be left alone to recover. I retreated, and began repairing the damage to the displays. There were a few shirts to fold, but not much else.
Except for the postcards.
The postcard spinner rack was a disaster area, but I didn’t have time to straighten and stock it before dinner; it would have to wait for tomorrow morning.
I groaned at the thought of having to get up early to take care of it, but it was one of the delights of running my own business. In the end, it was all up to me.
Chapter
15
JAKE WAS WAITING AT THE FRONT DOOR WHEN I crossed the street. On the drive to Felipe and Ernie’s, Jake asked if I’d heard anything more from Karen.
“She didn’t learn much. They were trying to reach Bridget’s brother in Minneapolis, and Dr. Frazier was supposed to do the autopsy today.”
We threaded our way slowly through the crush of tourist traffic, my usual back-road routes blocked. Normally the drive would take five minutes, but with the holiday swelling our population tenfold, we crawled along for closer to twenty.
I chuckled as we waited for yet another knot of visitors to dash across the street in the middle of the block, on their way to who-knows-where.
“What’s so funny?” Jake asked, glaring impatiently as the last straggler passed in front of us.
“Those are the same people who were in the shop earlier today, asking how I could stand to live here with all this traffic.” I chuckled again at the memory. “I didn’t tell them it was only like this when they’re here.”
I shook my head at the scowl on his face. “Come on, you’ve been here long enough to know that. You’ve seen what it’s like in the winter. These people go home, and we still live here.
“It’s worth putting up with the traffic for a few weeks out of the year.”
Jake crept forward with the slow-moving traffic. He glanced over and gave me a wry smile. “I suppose you’re right,” he said, turning back to watch the road. “But traffic has always been one of my hot buttons.”
Hard to imagine that Jake, one of the calmest people I knew, even had hot buttons. Most people do, sure, but I hadn’t seen anything upset him. Worried, yeah, like after my little adventure in the mermaid tank. But not upset or angry.
Then again, how much did I really know about Jake? He’d been in town a couple years, but I didn’t know exactly where he came from, or what he did before he bought Beach Books. In many ways he was still a mystery.
We pulled up in front of Felipe and Ernie’s tidy house, parking on the street behind Riley Freed’s pickup. Looked like tonight was going to be a full house.
Ernie greeted us at the door in sharply creased khaki shorts and a garish Hawaiian shirt. No one should be able to make that outfit look elegant, but somehow he pulled it off.
On the patio out back, Felipe was hard at work over a top-of-the-line gas grill, his naturally olive complexion flushed with the heat and a bandanna tied jauntily around his brow to keep the sweat out of his eyes.
He waved a pair of grill tongs in our direction. “Hi! There’s beer in the cooler. Help yourself!”
Before we could make a move, Riley grabbed a couple bottles from the bed of ice in the vintage metal cooler. He popped the tops and offered them to us.
“Thanks.” Jake accepted the bottle, and clapped his other hand on Riley’s shoulder. “Good to see you.”
I thanked Riley for my beer with a hug. “How was Bobby’s birthday party?”
“Great. Great,” Riley answered, returning my hug. “You probably should have been there.”
“No, it was a family time. You didn’t need any outsiders.”
His voice grew serious. “Glory, you’ll always be family to us.”
I gave him a last squeeze and pulled away. “Thanks for that. But there are times . . .”
I let my voice trail off. He knew what I meant.
“Speaking of family,” I resumed, “wait ’til you hear what my cousin pulled this last weekend.” I gave them a greatly abbreviated version of my Sunday encounter with Peter and his family.
“They thought the crib was for you?” Karen laughed.
I nodded.
“I’m trying to imagine the look on his face,” Karen said between bursts of hilarity. “And you actually stood up to him? Good for you!”
Peter’s scheme seemed forgotten in the midst of Karen’s amusement. Just another of his crazy ideas.
Jake and I walked over to the grill to inspect Felipe’s work. Chicken sizzled softly above the gas flame, glistening with a clear glaze.
Looking closer, I was able to identify the long needles of rosemary. I glanced back at Felipe. “Rosemary? Since when is that traditional Southern?”
“It’s Independence Day, Glory. I am declaring myself independent of dinner rules for the day. We’re having a grilled feast. Besides, you bent the rules last week. Or have you forgotten?”
“Bent, not broke,” I argued. “It was something I remembered from my childhood. My Southern childhood,” I added pointedly.
“Puerto Rico is south of here, amiga,” he shot back. “And it is still too hot to cook inside.”
“And New York is way north.” I raised a hand in surrender. “But it is too hot,” I agreed. “So what else is for dinner?”
Felipe pointed to a foil-covered baking dish tucked to one side of the grill. “Baked beans and”—he gestured at a tray of filled skewers waiting on the table beside the grill—“lots of vegetables. Grilled tomatoes. Tortillas.” He held up a hand. “I know those aren’t Southern, but they’re good with the chicken.”
Ernie appeared at my side with a plate of cocktail shrimp in tiny lettuce leaf bowls, topped with a spicy dressing. “Not traditional either,” he said. “But tasty!”
I laughed and relaxed. The boys had invited Jake and Riley, and they had discarded our recent tradition for a far older one: the Fourth of July backyard barbeque. This was a night for a celebration with friends.
So be it.
We settled around a rustic picnic table on the screened porch, leaving the formal dining room and its mid-century modern furnishings for another night. And just like most Thursdays, we spent the first part of the meal talking about the food.
“The sauce is simple,” Felipe said, passing the platter of juicy chicken pieces. “White wine, butter, rosemary, a little lemon juice. Careful grilling so it doesn’t dry out, and you’re done.”
I helped myself to a skewer of vegetables from the pile on the tray in front of me. It held colorful peppers, onions, broccoli, mushrooms, several kinds of squash, and cherry tomatoes. Next to the tray of skewers were plates of grilled eggplant and grilled tomatoes.
“Delicious,” Jake said, taking another piece of chicken and more tomatoes. He scooped part of the tomato into a tortilla, added chicken he’d pulled from the bone, and rolled it into a sort of taco.
I had to admit, traditional Southern or not, the food was sensational. Across from me, Karen and Riley sat close together on the wooden bench, their shoulders touching. They giggled as they occasionally stole bits of food from each other’s plates.
When we had finished eating and I’d helped Ernie clear away the leftovers, we moved to the cushioned patio chairs clustered at one end of the porch. In an hour or so we would move outside, where we could watch the fireworks from the high school stadium as they exploded over the heads of the crowd. We were all content to watch from a distance, avoiding the crush of people and vehicles that filled the stadium.
Karen hadn’t mentioned Bridget during dinner, but I had waited as long as I could. “Did you find out anything more about Bridget?” I asked her once we were seated.
“Not a lot. Boomer has finally released her name, now that he’s talked to her brother.”
Felipe and Ernie both sat forward. “So it was her? We’d heard rumors, but you can’t always believe everything you hear,” Ernie said.
“Even from the Merchants’ Association?” I asked with false innocence. “I thought they had all the latest news.”
He shot me a withering glance. “I trust what I hear officially at the meetings. Not so much what I hear fourth-hand from an individual with an agenda.”
“Agenda?” Karen responded to the whiff of gossip. She always said that gossip meant a story, just like smoke meant fire.
“He means Felicia Anderson,” Felipe cut in. “That woman was in
the shop already today, nosing around some of the merchandise.”
“But she can’t really be planning any shopping,” I blurted out. “Just because Bridget’s”—I hesitated—“gone doesn’t mean the bank won’t send somebody else down here.”
“Oh, she made all the right noises about ‘that poor woman,’” Felipe said, his words dripping with contempt. “Not that I believed her for a minute. But she was right there, trying to talk me down on the price of an old chest that she was just sure used to belong to her husband’s dear uncle, the General.”
“You know, General Anderson never even lived in this area,” I said. “I looked him up after we got to talking about Felicia the other day. He commanded the troops when they attacked Fort Pickens, but he was only here for a short while. He never really lived here, and his wife and family were all in South Carolina.”
Karen laughed out loud. “You know, I always just took their stories at face value,” she said. “Never thought about checking them out. You know how it is down here”—she waved her arm, encompassing the entire region—“you measure your time by generations, and we all knew the Andersons had been here forever.
“I wonder who started that story,” she said quietly. I could see the wheels already turning on the piece she’d write.
“But Felicia can’t possibly think this ends here, can she?” I asked Ernie. “I mean, the bank is sure to send another auditor.”
“I don’t know what that”—Ernie paused, and I could see him struggle with the word he wanted to use—“that witch thinks. If she thinks at all. She just assumes she will get everything she wants because she always has.”
“Oh, there will be another auditor,” Karen said. The note of certainty in her voice told us there was more to the story. We all turned and looked at her expectantly.
She let the silence stretch out, taunting us with the hint of news to come. I let her have her moment, but impatience soon got the better of me. “Spill, Freed! I’ve been waiting all day to hear what you found out.”
“Like I said, Boomer talked to her brother. He’s on his way down. Apparently he works for the same bank, and he’ll report to her manager about everything he finds down here.”
Murder Sends a Postcard (A Haunted Souvenir) Page 10
