Her expression clearly conveyed her continuing doubts, but she allowed herself to be propelled through the door. She turned back, watching to make sure I locked the door and threw the deadbolt before climbing into her SUV and pulling away from the curb.
Once I saw Karen pull away, I turned around to survey the mess. Magazines cascaded across the floor at the foot of the magazine rack, 1950s Popular Mechanics mixed in with midcentury Life and Look, and Ladies’ Home Journal from the 1930s. I winced at the damage to the volumes, but the ones on display weren’t the most pristine. Those were in Mylar sleeves in the locked case next to the counter, fortunately undisturbed.
The quilt that I’d retrieved from the top of the jewelry case was a modern reproduction of a Victorian classic, and it appeared undamaged.
The rest was just shelves in disarray and T-shirts unfolded and strewn across the floor. It looked like Bluebeard had grabbed whatever items were in his path with his claws and displaced them.
Except for those newspapers.
There were no rips or tears, no hint of beak or claw touching the fragile half-century-old newsprint. They lay open on the counter as though the reader had just walked away when we unlocked the front door.
Despite my claim that I was too tired to deal with the mess tonight, I started folding T-shirts and putting them back into neat stacks on the shelves. I straightened the miniature snow globes and lined up the glassware in tidy-looking rows.
I folded the quilt and left it on top of the jewelry case. Even at five-seven, I would need to drag out the ladder in order to hang it back on the line near the ceiling.
The new bakeware and quilts got stowed in the nearly empty storeroom in back. I would have to price and label them after I’d had a chance to verify the value of the cast-iron pieces.
Outside, the dark night was quiet and empty, as though I were the last person on earth. Inside, the newspapers lay on the counter, their arrangement too precise to be the accidental result of one of Bluebeard’s tantrums. I passed the counter one last time, but I couldn’t bring myself to look at them. That would have to wait until daylight.
I took a last look around and turned off the fluorescents, leaving only the pale glow of the night-lights as I ascended the stairs to my apartment.
I was sure things would look better in the morning.
I WATCHED THE SUN COME UP OVER THE BAY AS I sipped my first cup of coffee. My sleep had been fitful, filled with dreams of Bluebeard driving a tiny car through Southern Treasures, knocking over shelves and scattering merchandise.
Not too hard to figure out what that meant! But as a result, I was out of bed, though not really awake and ready to face the day, when the sun came up.
The view from the back windows of my little apartment was one of my private joys. Looking over the rooftops of the neighborhood behind the string of shops that lined the highway, I could see the bay in the distance.
I sometimes saw the look on the face of a tourist who realized I lived over the shop. Concern, a touch of pity, sometimes a smug glance that asserted his superiority because he had a “real” home.
But he didn’t know about my view.
I refilled my coffee cup and headed downstairs. I still had the newspapers to clean up, and there was the call to Boomer I’d promised Karen I would make.
Once downstairs, I switched on the radio to WBBY, hoping to catch Karen’s first broadcast of the day. I knew what story would lead: the death of Kevin Stanley, football hero.
I steeled myself, remembering the upside-down car and the blanket-covered body. It took me a few seconds to realize why this death felt so intensely personal: Kevin’s accident was a painful reminder of how I had instantly become an orphan at seventeen.
I hadn’t been at the scene of the accident in which my parents died, never looked at the crumpled remains of their imported sedan. But I would never completely be without the pain that came with their sudden loss—and the way it occasionally resurfaced.
I should have expected my response, and probably would have, had it not been for the chaos in the shop when I got home. Distracted by Bluebeard’s destruction, I had focused on the immediate problem and ignored my growing distress.
I drew in a deep breath, telling myself I could handle whatever was coming. Over the years, I had learned to allow myself a moment of sadness before I moved on, as I did now. I puttered around as I let the emotional rush pass, straightening the last of the shelves and feeding Bluebeard while I waited for the newscast.
I tried to get Bluebeard to talk, wondering if he really sounded like Uncle Louis, but he stubbornly refused to do anything but let out the occasional squawk.
I still hadn’t gone near the newspapers. I told myself I didn’t want to be distracted by the radio while I was sorting out the fragile newsprint.
In a couple minutes, WBBY’s news jingle played, followed by a recorded ad for Beach Books, the store directly across the street from Southern Treasures.
Jake Robinson had bought Beach Books when the previous owner had moved to Atlanta to be near her grandchildren. In the three months he’d owned it, he had expanded the magazine section and beefed up the stock of popular fiction. As a result, Beach Books was one of the most popular tourist attractions in town.
Jake was rather an attraction himself. A little over six feet tall, with dark wavy hair and deep blue eyes, he could have been a cover model for the romance novels he stocked.
Not that I noticed or anything.
I didn’t know much about Jake. He was friendly enough when I went into the store, and he’d been in Southern Treasures a couple times. I did know he was single—an important detail—and Felipe and Ernie swore he was straight. Beyond that, Jake was pretty much a mystery.
Karen’s voice cut through my speculation about Jake. As I expected, the lead story was Kevin’s accident. Karen played bits from an interview with Boomer, who described the accident with uncharacteristic restraint. There were also comments from Danny Bradley, the high school football coach, and the principal, Hank Terhune.
Everyone was shocked and saddened by the tragic accident. Kevin was lauded as an outstanding athlete, which he was. His tone formal and restrained, the coach spoke of Kevin’s incredible potential, demonstrated by the continued interest of the college scouts. The principal noted solemnly that Kevin was well liked by classmates and teachers alike.
Karen returned to close out the story, careful to say that the accident was still under investigation.
The station switched to an ad for the local car dealer, thinly disguised as an interview with the owner.
There had been no mention of the kegger.
I HAD UNDERESTIMATED KAREN. SHE HAD TO PUT the commercial break between her segments, but when she returned, she had the story of the kegger. Several law enforcement agencies had been involved, and they had issued more than twenty citations for “Minor in Possession.” Those arrested, their names withheld because they were minors, had all been released to their parents.
She went on with a piece on the latest city council antics and a list of upcoming municipal and county board meetings. Local government was a primary source of entertainment in Keyhole Bay, after “stupid tourist” stories.
For the most part, the visitors to Keyhole Bay were lovely people. They brought money into our little community and allowed us to live in one of the most beautiful places on the planet. But occasionally one of them did something so outrageous that it provided amusement for months on end, in conversations that always started, “Do you remember that time… ?”
The newscast concluded, and Karen segued into her morning call-in show. WBBY was a small station, and she wore a lot of hats. Usually I enjoyed listening to her, but today I switched the radio off. I had too much to do.
Setting aside my empty coffee cup, I reached for the first newspaper on the counter. It was the local weekly, the Keyhole News and Times, from May 1987, open to the “Passings” page. There, at the top of the page, was the obituary for Louis
Marcel Georges. Uncle Louis. The man whose voice I had heard from Bluebeard just last night.
Okay. That was creepy.
I carefully folded the yellowed newsprint and set it aside. Beneath it was another copy of the News and Times, this one from before my parents were born. Open to the “Business” section, it featured a story about Uncle Louis buying Southern Treasures.
I quickly closed the page, not reading beyond the lead paragraph.
I glanced at the date on the final newspaper—October 1938—but didn’t even look at the stories on the open page. I didn’t want to know if there was something about Uncle Louis.
How had Bluebeard managed to pick out those particular papers and leave them on the counter? And how had he managed to do that without damaging a single page?
A chill ran up my back. I knew the answer, but I didn’t want to think about it.
It wasn’t Bluebeard.
It wasn’t a practical joke.
The shop was haunted.
By Uncle Louis.
I shook my head to clear away the nonsense. There was no such thing as ghosts. The shop couldn’t be haunted. I was spooked by last night’s accident, and the feeling would pass.
I just had to give it a little time.
Time I didn’t really have. It was Thursday, my weekly dinner with Karen, Ernie, and Felipe. And it was my turn to cook.
I glanced at the clock. Dinner was in less than twelve hours, I hadn’t shopped or cleaned, and I needed to log my treasures from yesterday.
I tucked the folded newspapers in their proper places in the rack—out of sight, out of mind—hauled the bakeware from the storeroom, and booted the computer to log the inventory.
I didn’t have time for ghosts.
I also didn’t call Boomer.
Sure, I’d promised Karen I would, but there really wasn’t anything for him to do. Nothing was missing, there was no damage to any of the merchandise, and I saw no sign that anyone had been in the shop who didn’t belong there.
With an efficiency born of long practice, I managed to get the shop put to rights and my bookwork up-to-date in short order. No one had come in to interrupt, and it didn’t look like anyone was going to.
I made a quick list of errands, left the “CLOSED” sign in the window, stuffed my wallet in my jeans, and grabbed a shopping bag.
I’d need the car to go down to the docks for fish, but that would have to wait until the fleet returned in the afternoon. For this morning, I could walk. It might help clear my head.
I glanced at the clock. Karen would be on the air. I dialed her cell phone and waited while the call went to voice mail. “Hi. It’s me. Running out to shop for dinner. I’ll see you about six.” I paused, then hurried ahead before my time ran out. “I didn’t call Boomer after all. Nothing to report, really, and he’s got to be busy with last night’s accident.”
I gave Bluebeard a stern look before I left. “I don’t want another mess like last night.”
Bluebeard opened one eye and glared back but said nothing. Apparently, he wasn’t speaking to me.
Really? I was being dissed by a bird? I couldn’t decide if that was pathetic or just crazy.
The morning air was still cool, but I had warmed up by the time I walked the few blocks to Frank’s Foods.
I headed straight to the produce section, looking for ideas. Traditional Southern cooking included a lot of vegetables, and I needed some inspiration.
Frank was unpacking sweet corn from a farm crate and stacking it on the display table. I waved as I approached, and he waved back with an ear of corn.
“Morning, Glory.” It was an old joke, one I’d heard a million times, but coming from Frank, it always made me smile.
“Morning, Frank. How you doing?”
He shook his head, his mouth turned down. “Not so good. You heard about the Stanley boy?”
I nodded, and he continued. “Damn shame.” He shook his head again. “Just a damn shame.”
I didn’t need to ask if he knew Kevin. In Keyhole Bay, with about six thousand year-round residents, everybody knew everybody. The only question was how well.
“I didn’t know him real well,” I said. “But it sure looked like he was going places.”
“You know my sister’s girl, Tricia? They used to go out.”
“Used to?” I said, picking through the corn.
“Yeah.” Frank picked out a couple ears and handed them to me. “Broke up a few months back,” he said as he continued to examine the corn. “How much of this do you want?”
“There’s four for dinner,” I answered. “What do you think?”
“You making creamed corn?”
I thought for a minute. “That might be good, but I’ve never tried it. How’s it done?”
Frank started to tell me, and I held up a hand to stop him. I grabbed a paper bag from the bin under the table, and he offered me a pen from his pocket.
I scribbled his directions on the bag, then filled it with the eight ears he said I’d need.
“Thanks, Frank. We’re supposed to be cooking traditional Southern recipes every week, but I never learned much cooking from my mom, so I’m always grateful for help.” I glanced around the produce section. “Especially with the vegetables.”
He grinned sheepishly. “I get a little carried away sometimes, I guess. Cheryl says I do, anyway.”
I grinned back. Cheryl, his wife and co-owner of the market, adored Frank, and he returned the favor. They hadn’t had any kids, but they were deeply involved with their nieces and nephews who lived in town.
Which reminded me of our earlier conversation. “How’s Tricia handling the news about Kevin? Even if they broke up, it’s got to be hard for her.”
Frank’s expression instantly sobered. “Yeah. Especially since she thought they might be getting back together. She broke it off, said he was getting too wild. But lately it seemed like he’d got his head back on straight and was cleaning up his act, and Tricia said she wanted to get back with him. You heard he got the lot-boy job for Matt Fowler?”
I shook my head, but I wasn’t surprised.
The lot boy was usually one of the football stars, and the job mostly consisted of standing around the lot looking like a jock and occasionally driving one of the new cars on a delivery. It was basically a way for the Booster Club to funnel money to whichever player they’d anointed, in the guise of an inflated paycheck.
And a way for men like Matt Fowler to associate themselves with the local team. Sure, the Booster Club members did a lot of good. They raised money for new uniforms, and their ads paid for printing the game programs. They underwrote the cost of the annual awards banquet, and they quietly provided money to cover the activity fees of a talented player whose family couldn’t afford them.
In theory, they followed the same rules as college alumni groups, altruistically providing financial support when school budgets ran short. But, in practice, some of them turned every game and pep rally into a none-too-subtle ad for their businesses.
“Yeah,” Frank continued, “sure looked like things were going his way.”
FRANK’S WORDS ECHOED ALL THE WAY HOME. IT CERTAINLY did look like things were going Kevin’s way, right up to the point where he rolled his baby-blue Charger.
Frank had said it was a shame, and that was true. But soon some intemperate soul would have the gall—or the whiskey—to say what many of us were thinking: What was he doing at a kegger?
The answer was, unfortunately, simple. Kevin was participating in the time-honored ritual of teenagers everywhere, and he hadn’t thought about the consequences.
He believed he was invulnerable. I’d seen the same kind of reckless behavior in the kids I went to school with and in the spring-break crowd that flooded into the Florida Panhandle. The belief that they would live forever, no matter what fool thing they did.
Truth be told, I hadn’t been any better than my friends, sneaking out to parties I wasn’t supposed to attend, drinking a furtive
beer under the bleachers at a football game. But I escaped unharmed, unlike Kevin.
I tried to shake off the dark thought as I unlocked my front door, hoping there wouldn’t be a repeat of last night’s chaos.
The shop was calm and quiet. Bluebeard dozed on his perch—an arrangement of smooth wood branches hanging above a display rack on the far side of the shop—as though nothing had happened, and everything appeared to be in its proper place.
Upstairs, though, I still needed to clean the apartment and cook for tonight’s dinner.
I turned the sign from “CLOSED” to “OPEN” and set the door alarm to ring upstairs if anyone came in. I doubted I would be interrupted.
Cleaning my little apartment didn’t take long. Without a roommate or a pet to pick up after, I managed to keep the place tidy most of the time. By lunchtime, the kitchen and bathroom were scrubbed, the floors cleaned, and the table set for dinner.
Now all I needed was the food.
I still didn’t know what kind of fish we were having, since that would depend on today’s catch, but the rest of the menu was settled. I’d decided on hush puppies instead of cornbread, and there would be creamed corn, along with the fresh field peas and the banana pudding.
The alarm sounded, signaling an open door downstairs. Abandoning my kitchen duties, I hurried downstairs, hoping for a paying customer. For once I was in luck. It was my quilt lady from Tuesday, without her husband and with a large wad of cash.
“We went over to Biloxi,” she explained as she counted out twenties and hundreds on the counter. There was a twinkle in her eye as she continued. “I told Bill it was my money, I won it, and I could decide how to spend…” Her voice trailed off and her eyes went wide as she looked past me to the back counter.
“What is that?” she whispered.
I turned my head, not sure what to expect.
On the counter behind me was the silk and velvet crazy quilt from yesterday’s treasure hunt—a quilt I was sure I’d left on a storeroom shelf for when I created the perfect display space.
Murder Buys a T-Shirt Page 3
