I let it all go. He was just a clumsy, overgrown kid, used to getting by on his good looks and sports-hero persona. Give him some time and a decent role model, and he might grow up and turn out okay.
Then again, he was working for Fowler, and there had been rumors for years about Fowler and nearly every woman who worked for him. According to some people, the only way Fowler held on to his wife was expensive jewelry and a new Cadillac every couple of years.
Jimmy tossed the wire brush and the leather gloves back in the toolbox and climbed into the cab of his truck. “You be sure you get that car in for service real soon, Miss Glory.”
“Just as soon as I can,” I promised. I just didn’t say how soon that might actually be. That would depend on having a few more visitors like Margie, the quilt lady.
Thinking about Margie reminded me of another nagging problem; I’d given her my web address, but there was nothing on my so-called website except an address and phone number. I was going to have to get that taken care of one of these days.
Jimmy waved as he pulled out of the patch of gravel that passed for a parking lot. He pulled into the narrow side street at the back of my store, the truck taking up most of the width of the street. I hoped no one would come along before he reached the highway. There wasn’t room for another vehicle on the road.
Leaving my engine running for fear it wouldn’t start again, I ran back and locked the storeroom door before I followed Jimmy’s route to the highway. I didn’t see any cars run off the road, so I guessed he had made it safely back to the wider main street.
I dashed into the dry cleaners, my car idling outside the front door. At the library, I dropped my book into the slot of the drive-through drop box; I could keep the engine running a little longer—and avoid the disapproving glare of the librarian when she inspected the due date.
By the time I pulled into the bank, I felt more confident of the car. I parked, took a deep breath, and turned off the engine, with a silent prayer that Jimmy had been right when he told me it was all taken care of.
At the teller window, I handed my deposit bag over to Barbara. I nodded at the poster taped to the wall just below the counter, a notice that the bank was accepting donations for the Kevin Stanley Memorial Fund. The proceeds would help Kevin’s family with the funeral expenses and establish a scholarship fund in Kevin’s name.
“How’s the memorial fund doing?” I asked Barbara.
She didn’t answer immediately, as she finished counting and stacking the cash in my deposit, and running the thin stack of checks through her scanner.
“I’m shocked,” she said. She stopped to tap the totals into her terminal. On the counter next to her, a printer spit out a receipt.
“Good or bad?”
“Good.” She lowered her voice as though unsure whether she should tell me the details. “Several thousand already, in one week. Lots of little donations, five or ten bucks. A bunch of the teachers challenged each other to raise a hundred bucks each, and I think a lot of them just took the money out of their own pockets.”
“That’s a lot, on a teacher’s salary,” I said.
Barbara nodded. “But that wasn’t all. The Sea Witch—you know, the fish place where all the tourists go?—anyway, they came in earlier today with two grand.”
“Wow!”
“Oh,” she glanced around, making sure no one was listening. “It wasn’t from them, really. They put a jar on the counter, told every customer about Kevin, and,” another glance, “I hear they put a lot of pressure on the employees to contribute at least one shift’s worth of tips.”
Now it made sense. The Sea Witch was always getting its picture in the News and Times for something, but the owners were notorious penny-pinchers. They got their kudos for generosity by guilt-tripping customers and employees into digging into their pockets.
I shook my head as I accepted the receipt from Barbara. “That’s worse than the teachers,” I said. “Those guys live on their tips.”
I hesitated. The car was going to need repairs soon, and I wasn’t exactly rolling in dough. But this was something that the entire community should do, and I had been affected by Kevin’s death in more ways than I ever expected.
I dug in my pocket and pulled out a twenty. It wasn’t much, but it was something. I passed the bill over to Jessica. “Put this in the fund.”
She took it and smiled at me as I turned to go.
“Wait,” she called after me.
I turned back. She tapped a couple of keys on her terminal, then handed me another receipt. “We have to keep careful records,” she said. “And you may need that for your taxes.”
I climbed back in the car, fingers crossed. The engine coughed twice and sputtered to life.
Jimmy was, indeed, a miracle worker.
As I drove home, Jimmy was on my mind. There weren’t that many tow trucks in Keyhole Bay. If Fowler’s truck got the tow, maybe Jimmy would know what had really happened to Kevin’s car.
Maybe I should get the car in for service soon.
BACK AT THE SHOP, I WAS STILL THINKING ABOUT THE display window when Jake Robinson came through the front door.
Bluebeard roused himself from his nap and let out a piercing wolf whistle, too loud to ignore.
“Manners, Bluebeard,” I scolded. Trying to avoid meeting Jake’s gaze, I found myself staring instead at a broad expanse of muscled chest and chiseled arms, covered by a close-fitting polo shirt.
Safer to look him in the eye.
“Thanks, Bluebeard,” Jake said with a chuckle. “But I don’t think I’m your type.”
“You don’t like parrots?” I teased. Now who was flirting?
Bluebeard squawked and began muttering, an occasional profanity the only words that were clear.
“Language…” I dragged out the word in a warning.
The muttering muted, and I couldn’t pick up on any more recognizable words. Not that it mattered; his meaning had been quite clear.
“I like parrots just fine,” Jake replied. “But I don’t think they drink coffee.”
“No, they don’t. They can’t deal with the caffeine. There are other things, too. Kidney beans. Avocados—” I stopped suddenly, realizing what Jake was actually saying.
“Oh, yeah, I, uh. No, no, Bluebeard doesn’t drink coffee, but I do.”
Jake bit his lower lip, trying not to laugh at my faux pas. Hey, I was flirting, I just wasn’t very good at it.
“Let’s try that again,” he said after a moment. “Hi, Glory. I’m taking a break. Would you care to join me at The Lighthouse for a cup of coffee?”
“Sure.”
I gave Bluebeard a stern warning before I locked the door and walked next door with Jake. I carried the store phone with me, and I noticed Jake did the same.
He suggested I grab a table while he ordered coffee. He spent a couple of minutes at the counter, conferring with Chloe before he joined me at a table by the front window. We could see the front doors of both shops from our vantage point—we might be on a break, but we were still both on duty.
When Chloe carried her tray to our table, the rich aroma of coffee and chocolate filled my nose, mingled with the delicate tang of lemon muffins. She had obviously advised Jake on my weaknesses. At least in regard to pastries. Well, I could skip lunch; glancing at my watch, I was shocked to find I had already skipped lunch. The car trouble had taken a bigger chunk out of my morning than I thought.
“So,” Jake said once we were settled, “why a parrot?”
“I inherited him from my uncle Louis.”
He quirked an eyebrow in question, and motioned for me to continue. “You told me that much. What else? From the way you talk, your uncle must have been quite a guy,” Jake said, crumpling his muffin paper into a little ball.
“To tell the truth, I don’t know that much about him.” It felt funny saying that aloud to someone other than Linda or Karen. “I wish I knew more, but I was just a kid when he died.”
“But t
here are family stories, aren’t there? Someone like that, there are always stories.”
I didn’t answer right away, and Jake instantly caught the hesitation.
“I said something wrong, didn’t I?” He looked down at the table, crushing the muffin wrapper even smaller. “Sorry.” His voice was soft and apologetic.
I reached across the table and laid my hand over his. At the touch, he looked up at me. I pulled my hand back, my fingertips tingling from the brief contact.
“There was no way you could know,” I said. “My parents were killed in a hit-and-run accident when I was seventeen. All the family stories I thought I’d hear when I was older never got told.”
I took a sip of the cooling mocha, letting the sweet liquid slide down my tightening throat. I knew it was Kevin’s death combined with realizing Uncle Louis’s ghost was still with me that had my emotions so exposed lately. But I couldn’t tell Jake that.
“Oh, man.” Jake shook his head. “Let me introduce myself. I’m Donnie Downer, the guy with his foot in his mouth.”
That made me smile. “You didn’t know,” I repeated. “It was a completely innocent remark.”
“Right. Great way to make a first impression.”
Jake had already made a good first impression, and his reaction just reinforced it. Not that I was going to actually tell him so. At least not yet.
“You must have been reading my mind, though. Lately I’ve been trying to find out more about Uncle Louis.” I didn’t mention why.
“Any success?”
I told him about the newspaper articles I’d found, and he suggested doing an online search. “There should be some archives for the News and Times,” he said. “And if you have enough information you might be able to find his service records, too.”
“But I don’t have any information. That’s the problem.”
“I bet you could find what you need. Was it a local lawyer who drew up the will? Those guys never throw anything away.”
I got the distinct impression that was the voice of experience speaking, but he didn’t give me a chance to ask.
“If not his lawyer, then maybe yours. Or the probate records when you inherited the store. You said you were just a kid. Ten, right?”
I nodded.
“So there’s probably still people around that knew him. After all, that’s only, what, twelve, fifteen years ago?” His eyes twinkled, telling me he was deliberately guessing way low.
“More like twenty-five,” I answered.
“Not quite,” a voice said from behind me.
I turned to see Karen standing just inside the door, grinning like a crazy woman. “You’re not that old yet, Martine.”
“Close enough,” I argued as she pulled a chair over and sat down at the table with us. “Not staying,” she added hastily. “Just saw you sitting here and wanted to know if I should pick you up for dinner.” She shot Jake an appraising glance, and stuck out her hand. “Karen Freed, WBBY. I think we’ve met, but it’s been a while.”
Jake took her hand and shook it briefly. “Yes, we have. A Chamber of Commerce dinner or some such, as I recall. I’m a fan of your work, by the way.”
“Thanks!” She looked back at me. “So. Dinner. You want a ride?”
“Actually, yeah. My car’s been acting up, so I’d just as soon not have to drive.”
“Great!” She stood up again and scooted the borrowed chair back to the adjoining table. “See you about six thirty.”
At the door she turned back. “By the way, I talked to Boomer. I’ll fill you in at dinner.”
The thought didn’t fill me with anticipation as much as dread.
“I gather you’re friends,” Jake said, looking a little dazed. I understood the reaction; Karen at full throttle could be overwhelming.
“We’ve been best friends since first grade.” It seemed like an inadequate answer after Karen’s whirlwind visit, and I began telling Jake about our weekly dinners. “You know Ernie Jourdain and Felipe Vargas? They own Carousel Antiques. We trade off cooking dinner for each other every week.”
I explained about our current emphasis on traditional Southern cooking, and my recent experiment with creamed corn and hush puppies, relieved he hadn’t asked why Karen was talking to the chief of police and telling me about it.
I stopped, feeling as though I’d been babbling. Jake was way too easy to talk to, and I was running on. “You really didn’t want to know all that.”
“Actually, it’s great,” he said. “I know a few people, but mostly I’m the new guy in town, like I said yesterday. It takes a while to make friends, especially in a small town.”
“You just have to stick around. A lot of people last one season; then, when we hit the slow time, they bail. Or they can’t take the long hours during the busy season. I guess it’s not very friendly, but why spend time getting to know someone who’s going to leave again in a few months?” I shrugged and drained my coffee. “But you haven’t run away, so you’ll be fine.”
Reluctantly, I glanced at my watch. “I am going to have to get back to the store,” I said. “I have been putting off working on my website for weeks, and I really need to do something with it.” I sighed at the prospect. “Not that I know very much about setting up a website…”
Jake picked up the empty coffee cups and wadded paper napkins and tossed them in the trash. “I don’t know a lot,” he said, holding the door for me, “but I’m happy to share what I do know. And I have a couple books in the store that might be useful. Stop over when you have a minute and see if one of them might help.”
He paused on the sidewalk. “Thanks for joining me. I enjoyed it. Let’s do it again soon.”
He started across the street, his long strides carrying him to the far curb in seconds. He stopped in front of Beach Books and waved back at me with a smile.
Yes, definitely soon.
I WAS CLOSE TO A MELTDOWN BY CLOSING TIME. I’D battled the computer all afternoon, first trying to find information about Uncle Louis, without much success. While I searched, Bluebeard kept hopping back and forth between the counter and his perch, stopping to stare angrily at the display of memorial T-shirts.
His agitation showed in every movement, and each time he crossed the shop, I had to warn him about damaging the shirts. After every outburst, it took several minutes of soothing and petting to settle him down before I could go back to my research.
Frustrated, I’d finally abandoned the search and pulled up the website, determined to make some progress with the design project.
Why I thought I could do anything, though, I don’t know. I wasn’t any kind of computer whiz; just the opposite, in fact. I blamed my problems on my teacher—and I was self-taught.
I was ready to throw something when Shiloh Weaver came through the front door.
“You okay?” she asked from the doorway, as though she wasn’t sure she should come any farther into the room.
“Some days I purely hate computers,” I said. I closed my files and shut down the system. “What can I do for you?”
She walked over and leaned against the counter. “Just doing some running around for Mr. Fowler. Bank, office supply, the usual. I was driving past and figured I’d stop and check how the shirts were doing.”
“Moved maybe a dozen today,” I answered. I remembered my conversation with Danny Bradley in the gym the night before. “There is one question you can probably answer for me, though, since you’re here.”
“Happy to, if I know the answer.”
“It’s about shirts for the team.” The computer blinked off, and I walked around to the front of the counter. “I ran into Danny Bradley at the gym last night, and he said something about setting shirts aside for the team. Said Fowler usually did that for him, but he’d have to check since I was distributing them this time. This is awkward, but I kind of got the impression that I was expected to not charge them. How do I account for that?”
Shiloh put her hand over her mouth, a stricken l
ook in her eyes. “I can’t believe I forgot to tell you about that,” she said. “I am so sorry! Team shirts are at cost. Six bucks each. The guys will probably come in together, so just keep track of how many you sell at that price. You get the same handling fee, of course,” she added. “Used to be most of them had cash. Now it’s mostly debit cards, except for a few,” she rolled her eyes, “whose parents think they can trust them with a credit card.”
“A high school kid?” I was incredulous. “With a credit card?”
“I know!” She was closer to being a teenager than I was, but we were both doing the geezer can-you-believe-these-kids routine. It made me laugh.
“Lordy! We sound like we’re ancient!”
Shiloh laughed with me. “I know. Makes me feel like an old granny sometimes.” She sobered and continued. “Anyway, you aren’t expected to give the shirts away. Just let the boys have them at cost. They’ll probably want to get them for their girlfriends, too. And Mr. Fowler usually gives them the nod on that one.”
“Got it. Team shirts at cost. By the way,” I switched the subject, “I wanted to thank you for getting Jimmy out here so quickly. It turned out to be a simple fix, but I was feeling a little panicky at not having a running vehicle.”
While we talked, I fed Bluebeard and draped the old blanket over his cage. He wasn’t ready to go to sleep for the night, but I wanted him to have a dark place to retreat to when he was ready.
“You’re welcome, but it wasn’t a big deal. The truck was available, and Jimmy came in just a few minutes after you called. Just glad we were able to help.”
“Bad man!” Bluebeard screeched. “Bad man!”
I reached out and laid my hand on his head. “It’s okay,” I said softly. “I know about the bad man. But he isn’t here. We’re all safe here.”
He calmed slightly, but his agitation was evident in the way he continued to fidget on his perch and to ruffle his feathers. Even a shredded-wheat biscuit wasn’t enough to make him happy.
Murder Buys a T-Shirt Page 12
