Murder Buys a T-Shirt

by Christy Fifield

  Quilt Lady reached in her purse and drew out another wad of cash. “I hit two jackpots,” she said, her voice still barely above a whisper. “How much is that quilt?”

  I hesitated for a split second, then quoted her a number that took my breath away. She would haggle; they always did, and I was prepared to drop my price a few hundred dollars to make the quick sale.

  To my astonishment, she laughed. “What the heck! I’m spending the casino’s money, not mine.”

  I tried to hide my excitement as I carefully wrapped the treasure in layers of tissue and packed it into a sturdy box for the journey to its new home. Normally, I charge for special packaging, but I was just going to box up her quilt and thank my lucky stars that it had been where she could see it, right at the moment she came in with cash money in her hand.

  She chattered the whole time I was wrapping, telling me all about hitting the jackpots while her husband played poker. “He lost, of course,” she said. “But he had his allowance and I had my own, and he knows better than to argue with me about what I do with my winnings.”

  By the time she left the store, we were fast friends. She promised me she would send all her friends from “back home” in Ohio to visit Southern Treasures.

  “Do you have a website?” she asked as she picked up her package. “I could tell them about it.”

  I pointed at the business card taped to the box. “It’s on there.” I didn’t tell her the website wasn’t much more than a name, address, and phone number. I kept meaning to update it with some real merchandise, and I’d promised myself I’d do it right after tourist season. Which was now.

  Once she was out the door, I allowed myself a whoop of joy. Quilt Lady—she’d told me her name was Margie—had just made my month.

  I shoved a few twenties in my pocket and put the rest of the cash in the safe. Not only had I made a tidy profit, but I had saved a trip to the bank to replenish the cash depleted by my last treasure hunt.

  But I was sure I’d left the quilt in the storeroom, and I really didn’t want to think about how it had moved.

  Bluebeard chose that moment to repeat his phrase of the night before. “It wasn’t an accident.”

  I jumped.

  The blasted bird hadn’t made a sound since last night. This was getting creepy. No, it was creepy. No getting about it.

  I was living with a ghost.

  I PUSHED THE THOUGHT ASIDE. I WOULD THINK ABOUT it later.

  Much later.

  Right now I had to get down to the pier and see what Riley Freed had caught today.

  I left my car in the fisherman’s lot a block from the waterfront and walked down to the pier. For once my timing was excellent, and Riley was off-loading the day’s catch from the Ocean Breeze.

  “Hey, Glory!” Riley called when he spotted me headed his way. “What’s up?”

  “Dinner,” I said, stopping a few feet up the dock, out of range of the fish his deckhands were rapidly loading into totes. “What’s good today?”

  Riley bit his lip. “I was line fishing, Glory. Got some nice grouper, but it’s pricy.” He shrugged. Riley knew I was usually very frugal, even when I entertained. “You know how it is; line fishing’s expensive.”

  I fingered the twenties in my pocket and smiled. “Just for today, money’s no object. I need enough to feed four—and maybe your recommendation of how to cook it.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Must have been a real good day if you aren’t concerned about prices.”

  “Let’s just say I love tourists who hit it big over in Biloxi and stop here on their way home.”

  “Well, my price may have just gone up,” he teased.

  I grinned at him. We’d been friends for years, both before and after he married my best friend. Even through their divorce, I had managed to stay friends with both of them, just as they had stayed friendly with each other.

  “Don’t make me haggle,” I whined in mock supplication. “You know how much I hate to haggle.”

  Riley shook his head. “Yeah, right,” he said drily. He knew my reputation for bargaining with tourists, and he knew I usually came out ahead.

  He scanned the totes on the dock, quickly filling with wiggling fish the color of underripe tomatoes. After a few seconds, he plunged his gloved hand into the mass and pulled one out.

  “Should run about three pounds, which ought to do you. I’ll clean it for you.” Riley knew I hated cleaning fish.

  He slapped the fish on a work table on the deck, and with a few deft strokes, he cleaned it and cut off the head. “You cut it in steaks, season with salt and pepper, and coat with a mixture of lemon juice, mayo, and mustard.”

  I nodded as he wrapped the fish in a sheet of brown butcher paper while he continued. “Broil it until the coating’s crusty. If it isn’t done enough, finish it in a hot oven.”

  “And can I call you if I forget any of that?” I kidded.

  “You can try.” He glanced at the deckhands, who were beginning to move the totes off the dock toward the sales shed. “But I’m probably going to be buying the guys a round at The Tank in about thirty minutes, so you’re gonna be out of luck.”

  I was still chuckling when I climbed back in the car for the short drive home. Quilt Lady had definitely improved my mood, and bantering with Riley always lifted my spirits.

  But when I got home, I approached my back door with trepidation. What was I going to find inside? What might Bluebeard—and Uncle Louis—have been up to while I was gone?

  Luckily, nothing.

  I hoped moving the crazy quilt was enough disturbance for one afternoon, and there wouldn’t be any more surprises for the rest of the day.

  Back upstairs, I went to work on dinner.

  I had the pudding in the refrigerator and the field peas simmering on the back of the stove by the time Karen arrived. The alarm sounded on the front door, and she called up as she came in, “Don’t need to come down; it’s just me.”

  “Lock it behind you,” I called back. “It’s closing time.”

  I met her at the top of the stairs and was greeted with a hug before she took me by the shoulders and shook me gently. “What do you mean, there wasn’t anything to report? That’s for Boomer to decide, not you. Besides,” she continued, following me into the kitchen, “you promised.”

  “Yes, I did.” I lifted the lid on the field peas and stirred, releasing a rich aroma of earthy peas and ham hocks into the air. “And I really meant to call him. But when I looked at it again in the morning, I realized there really wasn’t any reason. Just some stuff Bluebeard moved around, and a magazine rack he knocked over.”

  “If you say so.” Karen didn’t sound convinced.

  “I do.” I took a pitcher of sweet tea from the fridge and poured two glasses without asking. Karen was always ready for a glass of sweet tea.

  “I know I promised,” I said. I took a long pull at my own glass. Cooking was thirsty work. “I take that seriously; you know that. It just seemed so silly the next morning.”

  Karen wrapped her arm around my shoulders and gave me another hug, this time without the admonitory shaking. “Okay. I’ll take your word for it.” She took a sip of tea. “Now what can I do to help?”

  I ran down the menu with her. “The corn needs about half an hour, and I need to make hush puppies. The fish is ready for the broiler, but it should only take about ten minutes to cook, so I’ll wait until the boys are here to start it.”

  Glancing at the clock, I worked backward to figure out what to do next. “Sit and relax for a few minutes,” I said. “I’ll get the corn started and then do the hush puppies. I’ll holler if I need an extra hand.”

  Karen pulled out one of my mismatched vintage dining chairs and sat down. “You don’t have to ask me twice.”

  The apartment had been furnished on treasure hunts over the years. Somehow, it all worked together, but nothing matched exactly. Sort of like my life.

  “Did you hear anything more about the accident?” I asked,
as I started the hush puppies.

  Karen shook her head. “Just what was on the news.”

  “I only heard the morning broadcast,” I admitted. “Was there anything after that?”

  “Just a statement from his folks. They’re ripped up pretty bad. Kevin was basically a good kid, and he was in line for a free ride at whatever school he decided on.”

  I added the egg and buttermilk, stirring the thick batter to mix it well. “I heard he’d got a little wild.”

  “Doesn’t everyone? Heaven knows we had our moments!” She chuckled at some memory, then immediately sobered again. “Where did you hear that? Not that I’m saying he wasn’t,” she added hastily. “Just wondering where you heard.”

  “Frank Beauford. I talked to him when I was in the store this morning. His niece—you remember little Tricia, Shandra’s girl?—used to date Kevin. Frank told me they split up a few months back because, Tricia said, Kevin was getting too wild.”

  “I heard some rumors,” Karen said. “But you hear that about all the kids, one way or another. Especially when they hit senior year. Didn’t know it was bad enough to dump the quarterback.”

  I nodded. When I attended Keyhole Bay High School, dating the quarterback was the top of the social pecking order. Breaking up with him would have been the equivalent of social suicide. “Frank said Tricia thought they might be getting back together. Said Kevin seemed to be cleaning up his act, and Tricia wanted him back. Don’t know what Kevin thought about that idea, though.”

  “Yeah, she dumps the biggest of the BMOC and then wants him back? That doesn’t sound very likely to happen.”

  “Not unless high school has changed a lot since we were there,” I agreed.

  “The other thing Frank said—” I was interrupted by the buzzer on the deep fryer, signaling the oil had reached frying temperature.

  “Now I can use your help.” I gestured at the heavy cast-iron skillet on the stove. “The corn needs to be stirred while I’m frying hush puppies. Okay?”

  TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, THE BELL RANG AT the back door. Karen abandoned her post to look out the window. “Felipe and Ernie,” she confirmed. “Right on time,” she added unnecessarily as she headed down to let them in. No surprise. Those two never arrived late for anything.

  Felipe gave me a hug, while Ernie stowed the six-pack he was carrying in the refrigerator.

  “Good to see you,” Felipe said, his dark eyes level with mine. Ten years in New York and another ten in Keyhole Bay hadn’t completely erased his Puerto Rican accent.

  “My turn.” Ernie’s long arms wrapped around me and I rose onto tiptoe to return his embrace. He lowered his face to kiss my cheek as he said, “You tryin’ to steal my boyfriend?”

  “Never,” I answered. “I know better than to mess with you!”

  He threw his head back and laughed, white teeth flashing against his cocoa-colored skin. “Smart girl!”

  “Besides,” I continued as I slid the fish under the broiler, “I wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  As if to underscore my point, Felipe slid his arm around Ernie’s waist. “True. But something smells divine in here. I just might be tempted. What are we eating tonight?”

  With Karen’s help and the heckling of Felipe and Ernie, dinner was soon on the table. Karen and I switched our sweet tea for the longnecks Ernie offered us, and we took our places at the dining room table I’d inherited when I moved into the apartment over the store.

  For the first several minutes we discussed the menu, and I answered questions about the preparation of the meal. Thursday dinners had been a tradition for nearly five years, but recently we’d decided to try adopting a theme, and traditional Southern had seemed like a logical choice.

  Finding recipes had become a kind of treasure hunt, and I was pleased to share what I’d found, along with their origins.

  “Frank Beauford gave me the creamed-corn recipe when I was in the store this morning,” I told Felipe and Ernie.

  “Which reminds me,” Karen said. “You were going to tell me something Frank had said about Kevin Stanley.”

  “Oh, right.” I put a couple more hush puppies on my plate and passed the platter to Ernie. “Frank told me Matt Fowler just gave Kevin the job of lot boy.”

  Felipe’s elegant eyebrows drew together in a scowl at the mention of Matt Fowler’s name. “Of course he gave the boy the job,” he said. “Thought he could make something off the deal. Man never does something without a percentage off the top for Mr. Fowler.”

  Karen raised her eyebrows. “Gee, Felipe, tell us what you really think!”

  Ernie quickly spoke up. “He’s a self-serving jerk, that’s all.” He patted Felipe’s hand. “We already knew about the lot-boy job—Fowler made a big deal of announcing it at the last Merchants’ Association meeting.” He gave me a reproachful look. “Which you would have known, had you been there.”

  I shook my head. “We’ve had this conversation a million times, Ernie. I’m too young and too female for that group.”

  “And it’ll never change as long as people like you take that attitude,” Karen said.

  “Et tu?”

  “Just saying, Glory. It will be an old boys’ club as long as the girls refuse to change it.”

  “Well, this girl has plenty to do without tilting at the windmill that’s the Merchants’ Association.”

  The other three let the subject drop. They knew my reasons for not joining the association, and that I wasn’t going to change my mind, but it didn’t always stop them from mentioning it.

  “Anyway,” Felipe circled back to his original point, “Fowler made a big announcement, complete with a special guest appearance by the Stanley boy. Like it was a surprise to anyone in town.”

  I nodded. We’d all expected Kevin to be the new lot boy. “But so what? He does that every year. And we all know he’s fronting for the Booster Club, funneling money to their star. I never really understood why these guys do that. What do they have to gain by basically bribing a high school athlete?”

  Karen shrugged. “On the college level, there have been scandals about gambling and fixing games, but that hardly applies to high school ball. Makes ’em feel important, I guess.”

  I looked back at Felipe. “Anyway, the money isn’t even really coming out of Fowler’s pocket. Why are you so hot about it this time?”

  “It was the way he did it. There was something almost, I don’t know, almost predatory about it. Like he was expecting something more this year.” Felipe pushed a crumb of hush puppy around his plate with his fork. “He even hinted that the kid was going to continue working for him after he graduated—like Fowler was going to be part of the University Booster Club.”

  “It’s no secret that’s what he wants,” Karen said. “He hasn’t been exactly discreet about his ambitions. Even when I have my recorder running. He intended to ride that kid’s coattails into the university athletic system. For Fowler, Kevin was just one more promotional opportunity—a chance to take his dealership places he couldn’t get to on his own.”

  “I guess that shouldn’t surprise me,” I said. “He was the same way in high school.” I shook my head at the puzzled expressions around the table. “He was a few years ahead of me, but some of my friends had older sisters and brothers.”

  Karen’s dark-blue eyes widened in sudden recognition. “Didn’t he have some trouble with Linda over the prom fund?”

  I shook my head. “Her youngest sister, actually. I never got the whole story—I was only a freshman when it happened—but it got whispered all over school.”

  Felipe’s dark eyebrows drew together. He pointed at Ernie and back at himself. “And he thinks we’re a scandal?” he asked, his voice rising. “What did he do?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t really know.”

  Karen grinned her I-know-a-secret grin. “You remember Larry Carter, the guy who used to have my job?”

  All three of us nodded for her to go on.

  “We threw
him a party for his retirement. It got a little, um, lubricated, and he told some stories he had never been able to put on the air. Annie was treasurer for the prom, but Fowler managed to get his name on the bank account. There was a rumor that he’d ‘borrowed’ some money. Had some kind of deal going on and figured he could get it back in the bank before anyone missed it, but Annie noticed. The money got repaid, and it all got hushed up, but Carter said Fowler doubled the money and pocketed the profit.”

  Matt Fowler was a prime example of why I didn’t want to belong to the good ol’ boys club. He was the kind of guy who called every woman under eighty “honey,” sucked up to anyone more powerful than he was, and stepped on anyone who wasn’t. Using Kevin Stanley as a stepping-stone to the next level of power was entirely in keeping with his methods.

  “The kid didn’t seem too happy about it, to tell the truth,” Ernie said. “Looked like he didn’t want to be at the meeting, and like he really didn’t want to work for Fowler.”

  “But that job isn’t work,” I said. I stood up and started clearing the dinner dishes. “All he had to do was stand around, look like a star quarterback, and once in a while drive a new car around town.”

  I took the banana pudding from the refrigerator and put it on the table with a fresh pitcher of sweet tea. Beer was fine with fish and hush puppies but not with banana pudding.

  I also started the kettle and put fresh grounds in the French press. Felipe always wanted coffee with his dessert, even if everyone else was drinking sweet tea.

  The conversation moved away from Matthew Fowler and his attempts to exploit Kevin Stanley. Not that it much mattered, with Kevin dead. Fowler would quickly switch his allegiance to another player.

  But in a town the size of Keyhole Bay, everyone went to the games and knew the players, and we all knew there wasn’t anyone else on the team nearly as talented as Kevin.

  THANKFULLY, FRIDAY MORNING WAS QUIET IN SOUTHERN Treasures. Karen, Ernie, and Felipe had stayed until after midnight, and after Quilt Lady’s visit, I didn’t even mind the lack of business.