Did that mean he gave the shirts to the team? Since I was supposed to pay the Booster Club for the shirts, the added costs of the free shirts would pinch, but I could do it for the sake of the team, and the town. Still, it was another reminder of how Peter had dragged me into this situation and how little information I really had.
Danny moved away, toward a stair-climber in the far corner. He looked back over his shoulder, a sad smile on his face.
“Thanks for asking, Glory, and for everything else. I’m getting by, one day at a time.” He flipped his hand in a desultory wave, as though dismissing his previous outburst, and mounted the machine.
Within a minute he was sprinting up an imaginary flight of stairs, working himself into a sweat. He ran with a desperate energy, as if some unseen demon was chasing him.
Maybe he was looking for the kind of physical exhaustion that would make him sleep soundly enough to forget the hurt and the anger.
I propped my book open and started the treadmill, blocking out the rest of the room.
When I looked up thirty minutes later, the stationary bike was empty, and Danny was climbing off the stair-climber with a red face and rubbery legs. He stumbled and caught himself against the handrail of the machine, wincing. He saw my glance and made a show of rubbing his calf as though he had a muscle cramp.
I gave him a few minutes as I finished my session on the treadmill. I didn’t really want to run into him in the lobby or the parking lot; I needed time to think about what he’d said, and what it might mean.
The treadmill timer reached zero, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I hadn’t been getting enough exercise over the summer—I told myself I didn’t have time when I was busy in the shop, even though I knew that wasn’t true—and I could feel the burn in my legs. Tomorrow I might be sore, and it would be my own fault for not sticking to a regular schedule.
I grabbed my book and my water bottle, wiped down the machine, and walked gingerly down the stairs. My legs were as rubbery as Danny’s had been. The difference was he had been running stairs for thirty minutes and I had done a barely brisk two-mile walk on the flat treadmill.
I was nearly home when I realized I needed to buy groceries. My kitchen was getting bare, and even though Felipe was in charge of tomorrow night’s dinner, I would have to eat tonight. Worse, I was out of treats for Bluebeard and had run out of apples, which he loved.
In spite of my sweaty T-shirt and baggy sweatpants, I turned into the lot at Frank’s Foods and dragged myself out of the car. I grabbed my wallet and headed for the door. Might as well get this done.
I took a cart from the front of the store and headed for the produce section. Bluebeard loved fruit, and it was one way to get him to do what I wanted.
Frank waved to me from where he was working, stocking sweet potatoes. “How did your corn turn out?” he asked.
“It was great,” I said. I walked back to the mound of lumpy, red-skinned tubers and picked out a couple to share with Bluebeard. Generally, he could eat anything I could—with the exception of chocolate, caffeine, and a couple other things—and I often gave him whatever fresh vegetables I was having.
“Did you go to the memorial service?” Frank asked.
I nodded. “I think most everybody in town was there. I didn’t see you and Cheryl, but then, I didn’t see a lot of people in that crowd.”
“Yep.” Frank moved on to piling bags of russet potatoes on a dry table, and I walked along with him. “We were up behind the Booster Club, down to the end of the field. Closed down the store for the afternoon; so many of the crew asked for time off to go that it just seemed easier to close.”
“It looked like a lot of places were closed,” I said. “I was, and I know Carousel was. I guess Fowler must have closed, too, since I saw him there. Although,” I paused a moment, thinking, “he did have someone deliver those T-shirts to my shop that afternoon. Maybe he was the only one who got time off to go to the service.”
Frank made a disgusted face. “That would be just like him. Make everyone else work while he plays the big man.”
Was there anyone in this town who liked Matt Fowler? It sure didn’t sound like Frank was in that category.
“Gee, Frank,” I kidded, “why don’t you tell me how you really feel?”
He reddened and ducked his head, suddenly intent on arranging the bags of potatoes. “Don’t take that too serious,” he said. “You know me, I’m just a country boy. I get my back up pretty easy over the salesman type of guy. It ain’t Fowler’s fault he’s one of ’em.”
In spite of his disclaimer, I wasn’t sure I believed Frank. His distaste had been clear. And it wasn’t just him. Plenty of other people had the same opinion.
Besides, I didn’t buy Frank’s “just a country boy” routine. He was a smart businessman who ran a successful grocery store, in competition with a chain store nearby and Pensacola just a few miles away.
No, he wasn’t a bumbling country boy, despite what he said. As for Fowler, being an overbearing jerk wasn’t criminal, just annoying, and he was arrogant enough not to care who he irritated.
I chatted with Frank a couple more minutes, as I picked out apples and carrots and some fresh okra.
“That came in yesterday morning,” Frank gestured to the okra. “You’re gonna want to cook it tonight, ’fore it turns.”
“Sounds like a plan to me,” I said, plopping the bag of small green pods in the cart. “Bluebeard will help me finish it if I don’t eat it all.”
Frank grinned. “That parrot eats better than some people I know.”
“Some people won’t eat their vegetables,” I answered. “And Bluebeard doesn’t get fast food. So, yeah, he probably does eat better than some people.”
As I wheeled my cart down the next aisle, I caught sight of a young woman moving into the checkout stand to relieve Cheryl.
Julie Parmenter. I’d forgotten she worked for Frank.
I hurried through the rest of my shopping and wheeled my cart to the check stand within a few minutes. Julie was at the register, her puffy eyes and blotched complexion testament to her continued mourning.
She didn’t speak as she took the groceries from my cart and passed them over the scanner, but she smiled weakly.
When I handed her my card, she swiped it through her machine and read my name. Recognition flashed in her reddened eyes as she looked up at me. “You’re Miss Glory from Southern Treasures, aren’t you? Sorry; I didn’t recognize you at first. Did you do something different with your hair?”
Without thinking I reached up and patted my head. My hair, usually hanging long down my back, was twisted into a knot atop my head for my workout, as I was reminded by the presence of a pair of chopsticks holding it in place.
“Just put it up to go to the gym,” I explained.
“That makes sense,” Julie said, smiling a little more warmly. Her face clouded up again as she remembered what she had started to say. “You have Kevin’s T-shirts, don’t you? I need to get over there…” Her voice trailed off as tears welled in her eyes.
I nodded, a gesture of both agreement and sympathy. “When you get time, there’s no rush. If you tell me what size you want, I can set one aside for you to pick up whenever.”
Julie brightened a little at the prospect of putting off the chore, though I still didn’t understand why she was so upset by Kevin’s death. “I’d need a medium,” she said. “It’ll be kinda big, but that’s okay. And could you give me a double-X, too? For my, um, husband?” Her mouth twisted on the last word, as though she had trouble saying it.
“Sure,” I agreed. “I’ll set them aside.”
“How much?” Julie asked, reaching for the pocket of her jeans.
“Twenty bucks apiece,” I said. “Just pay me when you pick them up,” I added quickly. “It’ll be easier for me to keep track that way.”
Julie glanced past me to the next person in line. A look of dismay flitted across her features, gone in an instant as she pasted a wan sm
ile in place.
“Hey, hon,” a deep voice behind me said. I looked back to find Jimmy Parmenter looking at his wife, an easy grin on his face. “You okay?” he said, concern furrowing his brow.
“I’m fine,” Julie said. The hastily suppressed dismay and the quaver in her voice gave the lie to her words. “Just a little tired is all.”
“Hey, Miss Glory,” Jimmy said, acknowledging my presence. “Just stopped by on my way home from work to check on my little woman here. She’s been a bit under the weather this week.”
Under the weather? She’d been crying her eyes out. But he could call it whatever he liked.
Julie didn’t respond to his expression of concern, turning back to me with my card. “Do you need some help out with that, Miss Glory?” she asked, carefully not looking at her husband.
“No, no,” I replied hastily. “I’ve got it.”
I grabbed the plastic handles of the three grocery bags and hefted them. They were heavy, but I could manage. “I’ll try to remember my own shopping bags next time,” I said to Julie.
I nodded to Jimmy and took a couple of slow steps, turning my back on the couple. I took my time moving away, straining to hear their voices behind me.
“What do you really want, Jimmy?” Julie’s voice was low, a combination of misery and anger.
“I just wanted to be sure you were okay,” Jimmy insisted. “I know you didn’t feel none too good when I left for work, and I’m kinda surprised you didn’t stay home.”
“Like we could afford that,” she snapped. “Besides, if you were so concerned, where were you at the memorial? Sitting with all your little friends.”
“They’re our friends, Jules. We’re part of the team. You’re the one who didn’t want to be with them.” Hurt tinged his words, and he was perilously close to whining.
“We were part of the team—” Julie’s voice cut off.
“You need a break, Julie?” Frank spoke gently, but there was an undercurrent of reproach. He wasn’t paying her to argue with her husband; he was paying her to wait on customers and stock shelves.
“I was just leaving, Mr. Beauford,” Jimmy cut in. “Just checking up on Jules since she wasn’t feeling so hot this morning.”
“That’s thoughtful of you, son. Julie, do you want to go ahead home? If you’re not feeling good?”
“N-n-no,” Julie stammered. “Jimmy’s heading home. I’ll just get back to work.”
With no one else in line to wait on, Julie hurried away. In a few seconds, Jimmy spoke again. “She’s real tore up over that poor kid, Mr. Beauford. You keep an eye on her for me?”
“Sure thing, Jimmy.”
I was nearly to the door when Jimmy caught up to me. He reached out and held the door for me, then followed me out to the parking lot.
“Let me help you with those bags.” He took the grocery sacks before I could protest, lifting them effortlessly into the hatchback of my battered compact.
Up close, he towered over me, probably six-four or -five to my five-foot-seven, and his chest looked as wide as my hatchback. Even though he wasn’t playing football anymore, he was clearly working hard to maintain the athletic build that had made him a star.
“Thanks, Jimmy.” I opened my door and climbed in the car.
The boy shrugged off my thanks and turned away. As I wrestled with the seatbelt, I saw him lope across the lot to a nearly new pickup with heavy-duty suspension lifting it high off the ground.
Julie said she couldn’t afford to miss a day’s work, but Jimmy was driving a new gas-guzzler with all the extras.
I watched him pull away and wondered which image was the truth. Was Julie’s concern misplaced? Or was the real fight over something else? Something that had nothing to do with money?
I finally battled the seatbelt into submission and started the engine. As I shifted into gear, I remembered the visit of Julie’s friends that morning with the strollers and maternity clothes, and another explanation occurred to me—one that would account for Jimmy’s solicitous actions and for Julie’s fragile emotions.
I wondered if Julie was pregnant.
EARLY THURSDAY MORNING I GATHERED UP MY BANKING, a couple pieces of dry cleaning, and an overdue library book for a quick multi-errand run before I opened the store.
Which was a great plan, until the car wouldn’t start.
I tried all the tricks I knew, which mostly meant opening the hood and staring at the maze of wires and tubes that make up a modern internal-combustion engine. I checked for dangling wires and glared at various mysterious pieces of metal.
Finally I gave up and called for help.
I don’t know if it was thanks to Peter’s generosity with my time, or my newfound pal Shiloh, but Fowler’s promised to have a service guy out to look at the uncooperative beast.
It only took him an hour to get there, which was pretty quick by service standards in Keyhole Bay. One of the problems with a small town—you don’t have a lot of choices when it comes to things like electricians, or plumbers, or mechanics.
While I waited, I straightened up the storeroom and looked for something to perk up the front window. I should do something with an autumn theme, something to attract the snowbirds who would flock to the Gulf Coast as soon as the cold weather hit up north.
I totally understood that. I had taken a class trip my junior year in high school, a January swim meet in Missouri. Leaving the overheated pool building with my hair still wet from the meet, I’d sworn I would never live anywhere that had snow.
I had a great deal of sympathy for people who lived in snow country as long as I didn’t have to be one of them.
I heard the service truck pull into the tiny lot behind the store. When I stepped outside, I was surprised to see Jimmy Parmenter at the wheel. I thought he worked for his father-in-law as the maintenance man for their small hotel.
“Hey, Jimmy.”
Jimmy jumped down from the cab of the truck. “Hey, Miss Glory.”
That made me feel about a million years old. But it was how all polite Southern youngsters referred to people older than themselves, and I couldn’t change that.
“What seems to be the problem?”
I shrugged and waved at the open hood of my high-mileage relic. “Won’t start.”
He ducked his head under the hood and looked around the inside of the engine compartment as though he actually understood what all the wiring and tubes and plastic and metal pieces were for.
I hovered nearby, trying to stay out of the way, but too anxious to go back to work. Car repairs were one of those great unknowns that could ruin an otherwise-profitable month.
I remembered that I had the T-shirts for Julie and Jimmy set aside behind the counter. I could send them home with Jimmy and save Julie a trip.
I hesitated, thinking back to the conversation in Frank’s the day before. Julie told me to hold a shirt for her husband, but immediately clammed up when Jimmy appeared.
Maybe I should just wait for her to pick them up.
As I watched, Jimmy tugged on a couple of wires and tapped on the carburetor. At least I think it was the carburetor.
“I thought you were working for Stan Nelson,” I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking with trepidation. Car trouble always made me extremely nervous.
Jimmy didn’t look up from his exploration of my recalcitrant engine. “You know how it is,” he said, “working for family. Not always a good idea.”
He pulled a screwdriver out of his back pocket and tapped on something else.
“I suppose so,” I answered. I’d never actually worked for anyone in my family, unless you counted Peter’s part-ownership of Southern Treasures. Which I didn’t. From my own experience, I could easily imagine the emotional landmines that could result from mixing family and business, though, especially for newlyweds. It wasn’t a pretty picture.
“I worked for Matt Fowler before college,” Jimmy said, pulling his head out from under the hood and straightening his back. �
��When I wanted to change jobs, he offered me a spot in the service department.”
I remembered that Jimmy had been the lot boy when he was the football star, though I didn’t think that really constituted working.
He walked to the back of the truck and dug around in a chromed toolbox, coming up with what looked like an oversize scrub brush with dangerous-looking wire bristles.
“Been with Matt for almost six months now. Just got promoted last week to driving the truck.” His broad chest puffed up a bit with pride. “Matt says that’s the fastest he’s ever put anyone on the truck.”
Jimmy pulled on a pair of heavy leather gloves and ducked back under the hood. He disconnected some wires, scrubbed at the connection points with the brush, and reconnected them.
“Give it a try,” he said, gesturing to the front seat.
I climbed behind the wheel and turned the key. To my delight, the engine coughed twice, just like it always does, and putt-putted into life.
“Wow! You’re a miracle worker!” I called to Jimmy as he lowered the hood and latched it tightly.
He grinned and shook his head. “Nah,” he said. “Just corroded battery terminals. It’ll be fine now. All I had to do was clean ’em up a little.”
He patted the hood. “You oughta bring it in for a checkup, though. Looks like you could use some attention.” He glanced at me, looking for a reaction to his obvious double entendre.
I kept my expression as neutral as possible. I wasn’t much of one for flirting, especially with someone young enough to call me “Miss Glory.”
He held my gaze for a second longer, then lowered his eyes to the car again. “You know, let one of the mechanics crawl under the hood. Check the brakes. The usual.”
His attempts to be suggestive and charming were both obvious and clumsy, and for a moment I felt sorry for Julie. Was he like this with all the women he met?
When I didn’t react, he looked confused and quickly backpedaled. “I’m not gonna charge you for the service call,” he said, “if you promise you’ll bring the car in for service soon.” He gave me a goofy grin designed, I was sure, to dispel the tension he’d created with his inept flirting.
Murder Buys a T-Shirt Page 11
