Karen looked sheepish. “Actually, I was doing research for a series I’m planning about the local businesses that have been here for a long time. The station’s fiftieth anniversary is coming up, and I’m trying to talk the manager into letting me profile any company that’s older than we are. It’s just something that came up when I was reading about some of the older businesses.”
Before I could respond, she hurried ahead. “Oh! I forgot in all this talk about your uncle—Felipe called just before I left the station. The memorial for Kevin is set for Monday afternoon. He said they intend to close Carousel for the afternoon, and he wondered if we wanted to go together.”
“Sure.”
We went back to searching. After a few minutes of silence Karen stopped, a puzzled look on her face. “Why seven years?”
I shook my head. “Huh? Where did that come from?”
She picked up the 1945 paper we had set aside and opened it on the counter again. “Why was he in the service for seven years? That seems like an odd length for an enlistment.”
It was my turn to feel smug. “It was wartime, Freed. Everybody stayed in until the war ended.”
“But we were only at war about four years. Why was he in for seven?”
“I don’t know. He went into the service, the war started, and he stayed in until the end. Seems to make sense.”
Karen shook her head and returned the paper to the back counter, along with the 1987 obituary. “Still seems odd to me.”
THE WEEKEND PASSED IN THE USUAL WHIRLWIND OF boredom and business. The shop would be empty and busy by turns, a syncopated rhythm I had grown used to over the years behind the counter.
In the quiet moments, I thought about what Karen had said. I didn’t really know why Uncle Louis had enlisted. Why did anyone enlist? My dad had talked about enlisting in the U.S. Air Force right out of high school so he wouldn’t be drafted. But there wasn’t a draft when Uncle Louis graduated—I’d been able to do a quick online search and found out the draft started in 1940.
It was one of the many questions I had about Uncle Louis, but no one seemed to know the answers.
I even toyed with the idea of calling my uncle Andrew, Peter’s dad and my mother’s brother, but that would mean talking to Aunt Missy for half an hour, listening to her tales of distant relatives I didn’t know. Missy had a standard litany of news that always involved someone I’d never met or didn’t remember, and she could not be sidetracked.
I put off calling Uncle Andrew. Maybe when I made my semiannual visit I could ask him what he knew. In the meantime, I would see what I could learn in Keyhole Bay.
It was late on Sunday afternoon, and the tourists had either headed home or settled into their hotel rooms and rental houses for the night. The shop had been quiet for more than an hour, and I was considering closing early when the phone rang.
Someday, I swear, I will learn to check my caller ID before I answer the phone. Of course it was Peter. It was as if just thinking about his family had triggered the idea of calling me. But no. It was much worse.
“You did what?!” I nearly exploded when he told me his latest escapade.
“I offered the Booster Club the services of Southern Treasures as a distribution point for the memorial T-shirts.”
“I thought I told you—”
“I did just what you said.” Peter cut me off. “You said the Booster Club would probably do something, so I called them. The high school gave me the contact information for Matt Fowler—great guy, Matt—over at Fowler’s Auto Sales. He was real happy to have a place that would stock the shirts and sell them for the club. Said he usually does that sort of stuff himself, but he’s a little shorthanded, what with one of his most valuable employees being killed in that tragic accident—”
“Peter!” I had to yell to get him to stop running on. “I told you I didn’t want to be involved.”
“You said you didn’t want any part of making a T-shirt, and I completely understood that. But this isn’t the same thing. This is providing support for the local team while they are mourning a loss. Not the same thing at all.”
I needed to count to ten. Hell, I needed to count to ten thousand. But I couldn’t let Peter start talking again.
“So you volunteered me to do all the work of handling the shirts? Because Matt Fowler is shorthanded? Peter, you do realize that I run this shop by myself? As in, there is no one else to do anything around here? You can’t get more shorthanded than that.”
“But, Glory,” his whine returned. “Just think of all the great free publicity you’ll get. That’s all Matt gets out of it, and he does this stuff all the time for various events. It’s for the kids, Glory, and for all those people who’ve been asking Matt how they could help.”
This time I stopped myself. There was no way Peter would ever understand that Matt Fowler didn’t do anything that didn’t benefit Matt Fowler in some way. The only reason he didn’t want to handle the shirts was because he couldn’t see any advantage in it. Kevin—the football star who was his ticket to the University Booster Club—wasn’t around anymore. I know it sounded awful, but the plain truth of it was that he was glad to have someone else do the work this time.
As for the free publicity, it would be worth just about what I paid for it. Keyhole Bay had about six thousand full-time residents, and Southern Treasures had been in the same place on Main Street since their grandparents had been children. They all knew the shop and saw it every day when they drove through town to the post office or the grocery store.
I let the silence stretch. There was no answer that would change what was done. Kevin’s face, square-jawed and with buzz-cut hair, would be plastered across piles of T-shirts in Southern Treasures for the next few weeks. I would have to face the tasteless reminder of this tragedy—and of my parents’—every day, thanks to my clueless cousin.
“Peter, I will do this. Just once. But if you ever pull another stunt like this, if you commit Southern Treasures to anything, I will come to Montgomery and purely knock the stuffing out of you. And then I will call whoever you made the deal with and cancel it. You do not have the authority to make a deal like this and to commit me to do the work. I know you think you’re helping, and I admire your enthusiasm. But you are not here in Keyhole Bay, and you are not in the shop.” I drew a deep breath, silently congratulating myself on holding my temper. “In the future, please make sure we are in agreement before you make these kinds of decisions.”
“Sure, Glory. But you’re the one who said to talk to the Booster Club, so I figured you were good with their tribute to Kevin.”
That wasn’t what I had said, but it was what he’d heard.
“Matt will probably call you,” he went on. “But if you don’t hear from him in a day or so, you might want to give him a buzz. I know he’s pretty busy right now.”
I think that was the point where I started wondering how I could manage to buy Peter out.
MONDAY MORNING STARTED OUT COOL. SOFT GRAY fog blanketed the bay and spread inland across houses and shops. It felt as though the entire town were shrouded in melancholy.
Perfect weather for a funeral.
The fog persisted, and as I climbed into Felipe and Ernie’s van with Karen, the chill in the air reminded us that fall was on the way. There would be several weeks of good weather ahead before winter, but not today.
The memorial service was held in the high school football stadium, which had been chosen for its size, not its significance. As we cruised the ranks of cars looking for a parking place, Ernie observed that the entire town seemed to have turned out for the service.
I wasn’t surprised. Kevin had been a local star who had died in a tragic accident, and we were all here to participate in the community ritual of grief and bonding.
But no one except me—and now Karen—knew that there was any hint of something more troubling than a young driver, a couple of beers, and an overpowered car.
No one else had heard a ghost tell them it wasn�
�t an accident.
We parked about three-quarters of the way back in the lot and climbed out. Ernie and Felipe wore white shirts and dark suits, Karen had a stylish black trouser suit, and I’d managed to find a navy-blue dress in the back of my closet.
At the entrance to the stadium, where the ticket-takers usually stood on game nights, football team members acted as ushers. Wearing ill-fitting dark suits—many of them obviously borrowed from older brothers or fathers—and stricken expressions, they struggled to control their emotions as they handed small programs to each of the mourners.
Travis Chambers thrust a program into my hand and offered a muttered, “Thank you for coming,” before turning to the party behind us. Travis headed the defense for the Keyhole Bay Buccaneers, and on any other team, he would have been the standout star. With Kevin gone, everyone was expecting him to move into the position of captain.
Bluebeard’s pronouncement came back to me again as I passed through the gate and followed Karen into the stadium. Was there someone in the crowd who knew more than he should? And if there was, how could we find him?
To one side of the entrance, a news crew from one of the local network affiliates had set up cameras to record the ceremony. A too-tan newscaster with an expensive haircut and a dark suit was interviewing anyone who would stop to talk, but he was getting few takers. I winced, thinking about Peter watching the coverage in Montgomery and congratulating himself on his publicity coup.
The stadium continued to fill with students and parents, business owners and their employees. I spotted Kevin’s family sitting on the field in a row of chairs covered with dark drapes. His parents appeared to have aged a decade in the last five days, and his younger sister sat with her head bowed, as though she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders.
Matt Fowler stood near the small podium that had been set up midfield, huddled with Coach Bradley and Principal Terhune. Fowler’s carefully tailored suit was in marked contrast to the ill-fitting, off-the-rack versions on the principal and coach. From their body language, it was clear Fowler was trying to issue orders, and the other two were having none of it.
Fowler was a powerful man in Keyhole Bay, and he was used to getting his way. His usually jocular mask slipped for a moment as I watched, his face clouding with anger. Just as quickly, the mask was back in place. He raised his hands, palms facing the other two men, as though in surrender. I doubted Fowler ever surrendered. He’d just figured out another way around to whatever it was he wanted.
The stands were a mass of dark suits and dresses on local residents who only brought them out for graduations, weddings, and funerals. A few of the older women wore hats and gloves, a nod to proper Southern manners.
Above us in the stand to our right, the students clustered together, sitting in a group apart from their families. Several of the girls clung to each other, a knot of misery and support. They were the age I had been when my parents died, and I felt a wave of sympathy, knowing they would carry this memory forever.
A few couples sat together, the girls teary-eyed and clinging to the arms of their boyfriends and the boys struggling to maintain a manly exterior though their puffy eyes and red noses gave them away.
In the center of the unofficial student section were the kings and queens of the school: the sports stars and the cheerleaders. Several seats remained empty, undoubtedly reserved for the football heroes who were still greeting new arrivals.
I spotted Tricia Lincoln, Frank’s niece, in the center of the group and remembered what he had said about her wanting to get Kevin back. Although Frank had said they hadn’t reconciled, the girls around Tricia hovered protectively, as though she deserved special consolation.
The stream of arrivals slowed to a trickle, and the football players began leaving their usher posts and making their way into the stands. One by one they took their seats, clapping teammates on the back and hugging the weeping cheerleaders.
One man, older than the rest, looked out of place in the cluster of jocks, and it took me a moment to recognize him. Jimmy Parmenter.
Jimmy had been the golden boy when he was in school, a standout athlete who thrived on the recognition and reward that went with being a star. He was scouted by several colleges and supported by the Booster Club.
I wasn’t sure quite what happened, but Jimmy had come home during winter break his sophomore year and never gone back to the university. I remembered Chloe telling me he’d had a knee injury, but I didn’t know for sure if that was what ultimately kept him in Keyhole Bay.
What I did know was that he’d married his high school sweetheart, Julie Nelson, and gone to work for her father as a maintenance man at the small hotel the Nelsons owned.
Jimmy sat with the athletes even though he had graduated before any of them were on the team. Still, they all knew Jimmy; he’d been a star when they were in junior high, and they greeted him as one of their own.
He moved easily into the group, almost as though he had never left his exalted position at the top of the high school social pyramid.
Karen nudged me, and I turned away from watching the students.
“Did you see that?” she said in a whisper. She nodded toward the field, and I followed her gaze.
Down on the field, Fowler, Bradley, and Terhune had approached the podium, but the power struggle was still taking place. Fowler was standing a step back from the microphone, with Principal Terhune in front of him, as though blocking his path.
I glanced around the stands, but the rest of the crowd appeared to be preoccupied with their conversations and oblivious to the drama playing out in front of them.
Karen and I watched as Bradley took Fowler by the arm and pulled him back toward the chairs behind the podium.
Karen nudged Ernie, who in turn nudged Felipe, and the four of us focused on the field as Bradley continued to press Fowler away from the microphone.
Clearly there was some dispute over who would speak first.
Fowler had a solid work-out-in-the-gym-every-day build, but Bradley kept up with two squads of high school football players. When it came right down to it, Fowler didn’t stand a chance. Bradley had an iron grip on his arm, and it would be nearly impossible to pull away without attracting a lot of unwanted attention.
Fowler backed off, though with poor grace. He plopped into one of the folding chairs, and Bradley took the seat next to him, his lips pressed into a tight line.
Right now I wouldn’t want to cross the coach, though I didn’t know what to expect from Fowler. The man wasn’t one to back down.
Conversation in the stands began to fall off, and Principal Terhune nodded to the band director. The director tapped his baton against his music stand, looking expectantly at the band members arrayed in the stands in front of him. After a moment, he brought his baton down, and the band began a slow, soft arrangement of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.”
The assembled crowd took the cue, and conversation died off. By the second verse, a few voices joined the band, singing in little more than a whisper.
More voices joined in on the chorus, and by the time the song finished, the entire stadium was singing softly in tribute to their fallen friend.
Principal Terhune opened the memorial, saying all the things we expected and knew were true. He spoke of Kevin’s generous spirit; his quick wit and sense of humor; his respect for his family, his teachers, and his teammates; and, finally, of his athletic talent.
When he finished, he introduced Coach Bradley, who rose and reached for the microphone. As their coach took over the podium, the entire team stood and bowed their heads.
Jimmy Parmenter stood with them.
Watching these young men fighting back tears, I found myself choking up. No matter what the reason, they had lost one of their own, and their grief and bewilderment were genuine. And heartbreaking.
It was a feeling I knew all too well.
The coach led his team in a heartfelt prayer. Maybe we were technically on school grounds, but
at that moment, I don’t think anyone in that stadium would have objected. When he finished, there were murmurs of “Amen” from most of the crowd—those who could still speak—and I saw a lot of tissues applied to eyes and noses of adults and teenagers alike.
Coach Bradley continued for several minutes, praising Kevin’s accomplishments, both as a player and as a team leader, and he asked the crowd to offer their support to the team—both on and off the field—as they faced the coming season.
When Bradley reached the end of his remarks, the band director once again signaled his musicians, and they began playing.
By the end of the number, Fowler was on his feet at the podium, waiting with barely concealed impatience for his turn in the spotlight. I caught him cutting his eyes to the cameras focused on the podium, and he stood a little straighter and arranged his expression to reflect a proper somberness.
Fowler leaned into the microphone and spoke in a low voice.
“Keyhole Bay has lost a great young man,” he said. “A leader of our younger generation, Kevin Stanley was a role model and a fine example of what a young man should be.”
From below me I heard a muffled sob, a sound that seemed to escape in spite of a futile effort to contain it. Lots of the mourners had been moved by the music and the speakers, but this was more than that.
I glanced over the crowd, curious as to who would be so overcome. I spotted a young blonde woman bent over, her hands covering her face and her shoulders shaking silently.
Next to her sat Gordon Nelson, owner of Seaside Guest House, the small hotel where Jimmy Parmenter worked. As he reached to put a comforting arm around the stricken young woman, I realized who she was. Julie Parmenter, Jimmy’s young wife and Gordon’s daughter.
It seemed odd to me that Julie was sitting with her father, while her husband—they’d only been married a little over a year—was in the midst of the high school athletes. Then again, maybe they each needed to join the group that offered them the most comfort.
Murder Buys a T-Shirt Page 7
