I put Jimmy and Julie out of my mind and focused back on Fowler. He was going on about what a terrible loss we had all suffered and taking the opportunity to point out his own connection to Kevin and how much he would miss him.
Fowler droned on for what seemed like forever until finally he paused. The band director took that as his cue to begin the school hymn. Terhune stepped to the podium while the band played, and Fowler retreated in confusion.
Terhune then introduced Warren Stanley, Kevin’s father.
An oil-rig worker who looked decidedly out of place in a suit and tie, Warren’s sun-darkened face stood in stark contrast to the blazing white of his dress shirt. He gripped the sides of the podium with hands roughened by years of hard work on the rig, hanging on as though it were the only thing keeping him upright.
When he spoke, it was in a voice made husky by too many cigarettes, and thick with grief.
“My wife and my daughter and I want to thank y’all for bein’ here today. Losing Kevin…” He swallowed hard and continued. “Losing a son is about the worst thing can happen to a man. All that hope and wishin’ for the future, just gone.”
He shook his head. “It’ll be a long time before I get used to his being gone, and I don’t know that our lives will be quite right ever again. But there are so many of our friends and neighbors here.” He looked up at the crowd, shaking his head as though he couldn’t quite believe how many people had come to pay their last respects to his son. “It humbles me to see how many lives Kevin touched, and how much he meant to all of you. Thank y’all for coming. Thank you.”
He stopped, unable to go on, and Principal Terhune quickly returned to the microphone.
“Mr. Stanley,” the principal said, “we all offer our sympathy and support during this dark time. Please remember that we all are here for you and your family.”
Warren Stanley nodded without speaking and slowly moved away from the podium. He gathered his wife and daughter into his arms as he sat down, the three of them a tableau of loss.
PRINCIPAL TERHUNE MADE A FEW CLOSING REMARKS, the choir started singing “Will the Circle Be Unbroken,” and the crowd began making their way to the exits.
The four of us lingered in our places, letting the surge of departing mourners wash past us. There was no sense in trying to hurry out of the stadium; we’d just be stuck in the traffic jam leaving the parking lot.
From my vantage point, I was able to see Matt Fowler working the crowd. First he made a beeline for Kevin’s family. He put an arm around Warren Stanley as though the two of them were fast friends, though I doubted Mr. Stanley really knew him.
The two men inhabited very different social circles. Warren Stanley, a blue-collar workingman, spent weeks at a time separated from his family, living on an oil rig in the shallow waters of the Gulf. Even when he was home, he hardly moved in the socially elite, powers-that-be crowd where Matt Fowler saw himself.
I wondered as I watched him inserting himself into the family circle whether Fowler was actually as connected and powerful as he wanted everyone to believe. He certainly had the attitude; but did the other members of the Chamber of Commerce, the Merchants’ Association, and the Booster Club see him that way? Or did they see through the bluster and the posturing to the grasping self-interest that was at the center of Matt Fowler?
Finished with the family, Fowler surrendered his grip on Warren Stanley. The stricken man and his wife turned back to Coach Bradley as Fowler moved away—and directly into the path of the television cameras.
From where we sat, we couldn’t hear his remarks to the TV reporter, but we could see his chest swell with importance.
The reporter listened attentively. He occasionally asked a question, but Fowler clearly took charge of the interview, just as he had tried to take charge of the service.
The difference was the reporter didn’t know Matthew Fowler, and Principal Terhune did.
When the reporter edged away to speak with Terhune, Fowler set his sights on another target.
Travis Chambers.
Kevin’s family was still standing just a few yards away, accepting condolences from a crowd of other parents who surrounded them. Fowler was looking for a new star to hitch his wagon to.
The stands had nearly emptied, and Ernie rose to his feet. “Ready?” he said, looking at me with concern. Apparently my watchfulness hadn’t gone unnoticed.
“Sure.” I pulled my jacket a bit tighter against the damp and followed Ernie down the steps toward the exit. Behind me, Felipe leaned forward and spoke quietly.
“He’s evil, that one,” he said, his lips near my ear. “I tried to get Ernie to put a hex on him, but he swears he doesn’t know how.”
I chuckled, instantly feeling guilty for my amusement. Despite many years in New Orleans, Ernie swore he knew nothing about voodoo or black magic, and Felipe refused to believe him.
“Well,” I replied, “I can’t think of a more deserving target.”
We made our way to the exit gate, trailing along behind a group of teenagers with Jimmy Parmenter in their midst. Jimmy stopped for a second and swiveled his head, like he was looking for someone. I wondered if it was Julie, since I didn’t see her with the group. Maybe she’d already left with her dad.
Jimmy shrugged and kept moving along with the athletes and cheerleaders, as though he had never left high school.
I glanced back to check on the small group of people left on the field. The Stanleys and Principal Terhune stood together in an informal greeting line, shaking hands and exchanging hugs with the last of the mourners.
Coach Bradley huddled with Travis Chambers. Travis looked somber, but he couldn’t completely conceal his pleasure at what the coach was saying.
My guess? Travis was already the new captain of the football team.
“Travis looks happy,” Karen commented.
I jumped, startled at the sound of her voice. None of us had said more than a few words since we’d entered the stadium, each of us lost in our own thoughts most of the afternoon.
I caught sight of Fowler once again, scanning the crowd as if looking for his next target. He spotted me and headed in our direction, but I avoided eye contact and hurried toward the van.
The only thing he could possibly want to talk about was T-shirts, and I hoped it could wait another day or two. Or more. He would eventually insist on cashing in on Peter’s offer, but for today I would avoid him if I could.
We reached the van and climbed in, Karen and Felipe in the back, Ernie driving, and me next to him in the front seat. Ernie didn’t start the engine right away, since the lot was still jammed with the steady stream of cars trying to funnel through the two exit lanes.
“If you left your car at Carousel, why don’t you give me a lift home, Karen? Save the guys an extra stop.”
“Sure,” Karen answered.
Felipe leaned forward between the front seats and looked from Ernie to me and back again. “What did you make of all that?” he asked. “Fowler was up to something, and I thought Bradley was going to take him apart, right there in front of the entire town.”
Karen leaned forward, too. In the relative privacy of the van, we were finally able to talk freely. “I wonder if there was some argument about Travis,” she said. “Fowler sure looked like he was trying to get close to Travis after the service, and Coach Bradley practically body-blocked him.”
I’d missed that. “When was that?”
“Just before you about jumped out of your skin,” she answered. “I saw Bradley get between Travis and Fowler, and Travis looked like a drowning man who’d just got hold of a life preserver.”
“Is that what you were talking about? I thought the coach was telling Travis something that made him happy. You think it was just the coach rescuing him from Fowler?”
“Oh, there might have been more to it,” Karen said. “But it looks like there’s no love lost between Fowler and Bradley.”
“Bradley’s a good guy,” Ernie said.
> “Yeah,” cut in Felipe. “Anyone who stands up to Fowler is a good guy in my book.”
“On the other hand,” I said, “he may just be defending his turf. You know, as the coach, he’s supposed to be in charge of the team. He might see Fowler as a rival for the loyalty of the players. I mean, how much are the guys doing what the coach wants, and how much are they sucking up to Fowler? He acts like he has a lot of pull with the college recruiters, and I’ve heard him brag about his connections.”
Karen’s snort of derision clearly expressed her opinion of Fowler’s so-called connections.
Ernie shook his head. “Doesn’t matter, really. I heard from Sean, a friend of mine in the math department, that Fowler and Kevin weren’t exactly seeing eye-to-eye on some stuff. How much do you really think those kids are gonna listen to Fowler?”
I remembered the crowd of players leaving the stadium. “Some of them definitely will,” I said firmly. “Did you guys see Jimmy Parmenter? He was here, sitting in the middle of the team, just like he’d never graduated.”
“He was one of Fowler’s favorites, remember?” Karen said. “Lot boy, got himself a nice truck his senior year,” she stopped and looked at Ernie, and back at Felipe. “That was after you moved here. I think Jimmy graduated three or four years ago.”
Ernie started the van. The traffic had eased up and he was able to pull out of the lot.
“Still,” Karen continued from her spot in the backseat, “none of that explains why—” She stopped suddenly.
“Why what?” Felipe asked instantly.
I turned around to Karen with a don’t-you-dare look, but it was too late. Felipe knew something was up, and he wasn’t someone I could brush off easily.
“Nothing.” Karen’s voice wavered, and Felipe pounced on her hesitation.
“It’s something,” he insisted.
Ernie pulled into traffic, then shot me a quick glance.
“What?” I said.
“Something going on you’re not telling us?” Ernie’s tone was mild, but it was clear he wasn’t going to be put off.
I glared at Karen, but she just shrugged.
I sighed in resignation. I’d known all along I would have to tell Ernie and Felipe about Uncle Louis, but I had hoped I could put it off a little longer.
“All right,” I said finally. “I’ve got a story to tell.”
WE GATHERED AROUND THE SLEEK, MIDCENTURY modern teak dining table in Felipe and Ernie’s elegant dining room. Although their shop ran to more ornate vintage and antique art and furnishings, their little house on the block behind the store was very much elegant 1950s modern.
I don’t know whether telling Ernie and Felipe was easier than telling Karen, but it was certainly slower. Probably because Karen kept interrupting to add her own comments.
By the time we finished, the sun had set, the morning’s fog had turned to drizzle, and we had all abandoned any plans to get back to work.
Even though it wasn’t Thursday, Ernie had taken pity on us halfway through and thrown together a reasonable facsimile of jambalaya from leftovers in the refrigerator.
Although he was still learning traditional Southern style along with the rest of us, Ernie was already a pretty amazing cook. I attributed it to his years growing up in New Orleans, a city known for its great food. He claimed it was all about growing up poor and knowing how to get the most out of what he had.
Whatever the reason, the rice, chicken, sausage, and shrimp was just the right dinner for a rainy evening. The peppery smell cut through the chill, just as the spiced rice and hot link sausage spread a bit of fire through our stomachs.
“This doesn’t get you out of taking your turn,” Karen said as she ran a piece of bread around the inside of her bowl, soaking up the last drops of broth. “This isn’t traditional Southern, anyway.”
Ernie jumped to the defense of his home state. “Louisiana cooking is definitely Southern!”
“Traditional Southern,” Karen argued.
“This is traditional in my part of the South,” Ernie shot back with a grin, his New Orleans drawl deliberately exaggerated. It was a lighthearted argument the two of them had had several times over the last few months, and it didn’t appear to be ending any time soon.
I wasn’t sure whether Karen really believed what she said or if she just liked pushing Ernie’s buttons. Either way, the two of them seemed to relish the argument.
“Let me get this straight,” Felipe jumped in, drawing the conversation back to my story. “You think you have the ghost of your great-uncle living in your shop. And you think he’s moving stuff around and talking to you through the parrot, right?”
I nodded, trying not to feel defensive. It still sounded pretty far-fetched, even though I believed it was true.
“And he told you Kevin’s accident wasn’t an accident?”
I hesitated. “What he said was, ‘It wasn’t an accident,’ and we had just come from the scene. At first I thought he meant all the tearing up he’d done in the shop, but now I think he meant Kevin. I have no idea how he would know that, though.”
Felipe turned a questioning glance at Ernie, who held up a palm. “Do not ask me, cher. I keep telling you I don’t know about haints, or voodoo, or gris-gris neither. If the girl says she’s got a ghost, I will purely take her word for it.”
Felipe turned back to me. “So what you want to do?”
Karen interrupted, outlining the research we’d already done and the few facts we had gathered about Uncle Louis.
“No, no, no,” Felipe said, shaking his head for her to stop. “I mean, what do you want to do about Kevin? If that wasn’t an accident, and everybody thinks it was, don’t you think we should tell somebody?”
Ernie laughed harshly. “Oh, I can see it now.” He waved his hand across the air in front of him. “A headline in the News and Times, ‘Orphan, Gays, Claim Ghost Says Stanley’s Death Was No Accident.’ Yeah, that would work.”
“How about we talk to Boomer?” Karen suggested. “Like Linda told Glory, there’s a proud tradition of ghosts in the South. He might be willing to at least listen.”
“To you, maybe,” Felipe shot back. “They tolerate us, they let us have our Memorial Day gathering in Pensacola, but I can’t see the police chief taking a ghost story seriously if Ernie and I are involved.”
“Then I’ll talk to him,” Karen said, and it was settled.
So far, my friends had taken the news about Uncle Louis without telling me I was crazy, but I didn’t have high hopes for the rest of the town. And if Karen managed to get Boomer to listen, whether he took it seriously or not, everyone would eventually hear about it.
Like I said, after crazy tourist stories, gossip was the major source of entertainment in Keyhole Bay. I just wasn’t sure I wanted to be the subject of that gossip.
“Listen,” I said, trying to throw water on the idea of talking to Boomer. “He rolled the car. It isn’t like he was shot, or stabbed, or something. He died in that car.”
“Maybe he was poisoned,” Felipe said. “I bet it was Fowler. He was absolutely sure Kevin was his ticket to the big leagues, and if the kid wasn’t doing what Fowler wanted, who knows what he might do?”
“My vote’s on Bradley,” Karen said. We all turned to stare.
“The coach?” I asked, my voice squeaking. Not that I didn’t know who she meant, but I just couldn’t believe she’d said that.
“Think about it,” she answered. “Bradley has a tremendous amount riding on this season. There are budget cuts threatening, although they never touch athletics. More important, Bradley had his eye on moving up, too. Kevin was at that kegger, I’m sure. If he got caught, he could be suspended, and the scouts wouldn’t come. If Kevin screwed up, he was hurting more than his own chances; he was messing things up for Bradley, too.”
“But Bradley?” Felipe was incredulous. “I think Fowler’s a lot more likely.”
“You’re both forgetting,” I said, “that those two weren’t ou
t in the woods Wednesday, at least as far as we know. There is one person I’d bet was out there. Travis Chambers.”
Karen shook her head. “He’s just a kid. He wouldn’t do that to a teammate, would he?”
“What if he thought he had a shot at Kevin’s scholarship money?” I asked. “Don’t you think that would be an incentive?”
“But to kill him? I don’t think so.” Ernie, reasonable as always.
“What if he didn’t mean to kill him, just hurt him enough that he would be out the rest of the season? Isn’t that what happened to Jimmy Parmenter? The kids had to know that. Maybe he didn’t even intend to hurt him. Just get him caught drinking and driving and get him suspended. Then Travis could take over and look like a hero.”
“But if he didn’t mean to hurt him,” Karen argued, “then him getting killed was an accident, and we’re right back to where we started.”
“It could have nothing to do with football,” Ernie suggested, continuing his reasonable tone. We all turned to stare at him.
“Come on.” Karen was the first to speak. “He was the star of the team. Football was the most important thing in his life. How could it be about anything else?”
In the end, Ernie couldn’t convince any of us. If Kevin’s death wasn’t an accident—and none of us were quite ready to say it wasn’t, but we were all leaning that way—then it had to be about football.
“I think it has to be football,” I said. “But this is all based on the word of a parrot. Or a ghost.” I shrugged, feeling lost. “Given that, anything is possible.”
KAREN DROPPED ME OFF IN FRONT OF THE SHOP A few minutes before nine.
I had expected to be home much earlier, but I hadn’t planned on telling Felipe and Ernie about Uncle Louis, either. And I hadn’t planned on finding a note from my across-the-street neighbor, Jake Robinson, of Beach Books.
“Have a package for you,” the note read. “Stop by when you get home, and you can pick it up. Jake.”
Murder Buys a T-Shirt Page 8
