Murder Buys a T-Shirt

by Christy Fifield

  “Karen,” Ernie tried to deflect the argument, “what did the police chief say when you talked to him?”

  Karen shrugged, gesturing to her mouth, which was full of cobbler. “Not a lot,” she said after she swallowed.

  “That’s really good,” she added as an aside to Felipe. “Anyway, back to Boomer,” she continued. She gave the two men the same information she had given me. No blood-alcohol results, but Kevin had been seen at Thompson’s Corner with a beer. Nothing to rule out an accident.

  “But nothing to say it was an accident, either,” Felipe said darkly. “The man does not know what exactly happened, but he’s just going to write it off as an accident?”

  “A kid, a beer, and a hot car,” Karen repeated her earlier argument. “Sounds like a recipe for disaster to me.”

  “Disaster,” I said, “is not necessarily an accident.”

  “It also isn’t necessarily murder,” Ernie said.

  In the end, we decided that someone had to go to Fowler’s and try to find out about Kevin’s car. Because I had promised to bring my car in for service, I was elected.

  And because my friends thought I shouldn’t go alone, Ernie volunteered to go with me, ostensibly to drive me home if I had to leave the car overnight.

  It was just a question of when we would go.

  With the weekend coming, neither Ernie nor I could get away unless we did it the next day. Ernie said he could be ready first thing in the morning.

  I groaned. “I don’t want to do anything first thing on a Friday morning,” I protested. “You guys keep me out way too late on Thursday nights.”

  “If we don’t go tomorrow,” Ernie said, “we’ll have to wait for Monday, or later in the week.”

  “Can we at least make it later in the day?” I asked.

  “If you go after three, I can watch the shop for you for an hour or so,” Karen volunteered.

  “That might be better,” I said. “Fowler’s gone a lot in the afternoons, according to Shiloh. It would mean we might be able to look around a little more if he’s not there.”

  “I’ll meet you at Fowler’s at 3:30 then.” For Ernie, the matter was settled. Once he decided to do something, he was committed 100 percent.

  Our sleuthing would start tomorrow afternoon.

  BEFORE I COULD DO ANY SLEUTHING, THOUGH, I STILL had the question of Uncle Louis. None of us had gleaned much of anything from the newspaper clippings, beyond the bare facts of a few dates and his military service.

  Jake had suggested a couple avenues to explore, so I spent part of Friday morning following up on his ideas.

  I started with our family attorney. Clifford Wilson had practiced law in Keyhole Bay since he graduated from law school, which I suspected was sometime around the middle of the last century. Mr. Wilson—I couldn’t bring myself to even think of him by his first name, a concession to my proper Southern upbringing—had to be eighty if he were a day.

  He’d been the Martine family attorney my entire life, and he had worked for my parents and their parents before that, though he must have been a young man back then. He had had an established practice when he drafted Uncle Louis’s will thirty years ago.

  I wondered how much Mr. Wilson knew about my great-uncle and how much he might be willing to share with me.

  Having learned over the years how to corral my tendency to jump from one project to another, I started two lists. One for clues to Kevin’s death, and one for clues to the mystery that was Uncle Louis. I suspected the two would overlap, but I needed some way to keep the jumble of information from overwhelming me.

  On the first list I put the names of the people who might know something about Kevin’s death. Matt Fowler and football coach Danny Bradley were at the top of the list, but there were others, like Travis Chambers, whose star had been mostly eclipsed by Kevin, and Julie Parmenter, the former cheerleader whose devastation over Kevin’s death was so extreme.

  Any one of them—all people who were connected to Kevin in some way—might know something that could help me figure out why the football star ended up in a crumpled car in a cornfield.

  I tried to think of where I could look for clues, but the only place I had so far was Fowler’s secure lot.

  I put it at the top of the list.

  As for Uncle Louis, the list was much shorter and much less personal. His contemporaries were all in their eighties, the ones who were still alive. And as Linda had reminded me, he was a solitary man who kept himself to himself. No one knew him very well. Newspapers, service records, old yearbooks—they all might yield a fact or two, but the only actual person on the list was Clifford Wilson, and I wasn’t sure how much he would be willing to share with me. How long did client confidentiality extend after the death of the client? And were there things he could tell me but would choose not to?

  I dialed Wilson’s office and made an appointment for the following week. His office hours had grown shorter in recent years, down to three afternoons per week, and the earliest I could see him was Tuesday at two.

  Frustrated at the delay, I went to the computer and started searching for information. I wasn’t sure where to start, but the Veterans Affairs website seemed like a logical first step. I browsed through the various menus, not really knowing what I was looking for and not sure I would recognize it if I found it.

  There was information on military funerals, and something triggered a memory from my childhood. A flag in a shadowbox, hanging on the wall of my parent’s living room. Both my grandfathers had been too young to enlist when the war started; only Uncle Louis had served during wartime.

  It had to be his burial flag.

  But what had happened to the flag? I couldn’t remember. So many things had been packed away by Linda and a group of ladies from her church. I never unpacked most of them, and there were boxes stacked in the attic, waiting for the time when I would face the task of sorting through the personal effects of my parents. The flag was probably in one of those boxes, but I didn’t know which one, and I wasn’t willing to dig through all of them looking for it.

  Besides, how much would the decades-old shadowbox be able to tell me, really? Likely nothing more than dates I already knew. But it made me think about his funeral. I was only ten, and my parents had left me and my cousin Peter at home with Linda while the adults were gone.

  Uncle Louis had been buried in a military cemetery rather than the family plot. I did a search on the VA page, and found the address for the cemetery in Pensacola.

  How strange that I had never even visited his grave. My parents had taken my grandmother a few times, but I had always been left at home, and they stopped going after Grandma Antoinette died.

  I checked the gravesite locator and found Louis Marcel Georges. I promised myself I would go visit my uncle soon. He would like that.

  It didn’t get me any closer to his service records, however. Those would be somewhere else.

  I found a military-records site, but I needed more information to even begin a search—information I would have to get from Mr. Wilson.

  I continued that way for most of the morning, one dead end after another. The News and Times had an archive, but it required me to register and wait for a confirmation, which didn’t come.

  Bluebeard spent the morning muttering on his perch, occasionally stopping to stare at me and beg for coffee. Each time I turned him down, the muttering increased, and he would demand a biscuit.

  A trickle of customers kept me distracted. One man spent half an hour examining every pocket watch in the case before dismissing them as “ordinary.” I politely referred him to Carousel Antiques, pointing out that they carried the more unusual items, with price tags to match.

  As soon as he left the shop, I called Ernie and told him about the guy. “He won’t think it’s worth anything if you don’t make him pay three prices for it,” I said.

  Ernie chuckled. “I will see to it that he pays an adequate price for my time. And for yours.”

  I felt b
etter after I hung up. Some people didn’t feel like they got value for their money unless they spent a lot of it, and I suspected this guy was one of them. If I couldn’t sell him something he’d value, maybe one of my friends could.

  I kept checking the clock as the morning dragged into afternoon. I continued with the computer as traffic allowed, but I wasn’t getting anywhere.

  I thought about closing for a few minutes and going across the street to ask Jake for advice. Since this line of research was his idea, he ought to be able to point me in the right direction. But every time I gathered the courage to walk across and ask for help, another customer wandered in.

  When Karen finally came in, at a quarter after three, I was a bundle of nerves tied up with tightly strung wire.

  Not the best choice for a clandestine mission, but I’d promised to meet Ernie at the lot. I had to go through with it.

  Crossing my fingers, I turned the key on my battered sedan. It coughed to life, sputtering in its usual manner, and we were on our way.

  I deliberately hadn’t called ahead, in case Fowler might hide or destroy the evidence we were looking for—whatever it was. By the time I pulled into Fowler’s service entrance, I had convinced myself I was on a fool’s errand and was nearly ready to give up before I started.

  What did I really hope to accomplish with this silliness? To prove that Kevin Stanley’s death wasn’t an accident? Based on the word of a parrot? Or a ghost?

  Was I out of my mind?

  I was on the verge of driving through the lot and back onto the street when Ernie strolled up to my driver’s-side window and leaned down to peer in at me.

  “I was wondering where you were,” he said when I rolled down the glass. “I thought perhaps you had changed your mind.”

  I couldn’t admit to him how close he was to the truth.

  “No,” I lied. “I just had to wait for Karen to babysit the shop.” I parked the car and climbed out.

  “Did that guy come by Carousel?” I asked Ernie as we walked into the service department.

  His laugh was answer enough. “I sold him a pocket watch, a fob, and a wristwatch,” he answered. “And, yes, he was very happy to pay dearly for his purchases.”

  “Good.”

  I know it wasn’t very charitable of me. But if Mr. Big Spender needed a high price to make him feel he’d bought something of value, why shouldn’t we accommodate him?

  At the service desk, a young man with “Joe” embroidered over his shirt pocket asked if he could help me. Over his shoulder, I saw Shiloh in a glass-walled office, and I waved to her when she looked up.

  Shifting my attention back to Joe, I explained about the car-starting problem and Kevin’s advice to bring it in for some TLC. “I don’t know exactly what’s wrong, but it does run a little rough. Kevin said the starting problem was just dirty battery terminals but that it needed service.”

  He scribbled notes on a work order in handwriting that must have been the despair of Miss Minton at Keyhole Bay Elementary. She had drilled us on handwriting every day, expecting us to develop the graceful penmanship necessary for proper handwritten invitations, letters, and thank-you cards.

  I hadn’t had much use for elegant handwriting once I was past the fifth grade, but it was nice to know I had the skills if I ever needed them.

  As Joe continued his notes, Shiloh came out of her office and stopped at the counter. She offered to let us wait in the small employee lounge overlooking the service area while Joe got someone to pull the car into the service bay.

  “Any idea how long this will take?” I asked. “Ernie came with me in case I need a ride home.”

  Joe glanced at the intricate chart on the wall. “If there’s no calls, we can get to this in about fifteen minutes. Don’t know how long the mechanics will need, but they usually give you an idea after a quick look.”

  “Come on back and have a cup of bad coffee,” Shiloh offered. “We’ll get it all sorted out within the hour.” She glanced up at Ernie. “Unless you’re in a hurry?”

  He gave her a smile. “No, my partner’s taking care of the shop for the afternoon. I’m just here to help Glory out.”

  Something shifted in Shiloh’s eyes as she recognized Ernie and caught his meaning. “You’re one of the guys from Carousel, aren’t you?” Her posture visibly relaxed.

  “Ernie Jourdain. And you?”

  “Shiloh Weaver. A new friend of Glory’s.” She laughed a little self-consciously. “We bonded over memorial T-shirts.”

  She turned to me. “Which reminds me, have the boys from the team been in to pick up their shirts yet?”

  I shook my head. “Homecoming’s only a week away, isn’t it? Coach Bradley must have them practicing night and day, trying to get ready for the game. Especially without—” I stopped suddenly, as I caught sight of Fowler and Jimmy Parmenter behind her at the far end of the service bays. Whatever was going on, it wasn’t a happy conversation.

  Shiloh jumped into the sudden silence, trying to smooth over my apparent distress. “I know; it’s so difficult right now. I feel so bad for those boys.”

  Ernie, however, had caught the reason for my hesitation. While he closely watched the drama unfolding behind Shiloh’s back, I kept her distracted, making long-winded comments about how upset we all were and how devastated the team must be by the tragic accident that had thrown them into such turmoil.

  That much was true. I had seen those boys at the memorial service. They all seemed overcome by grief. It was possible one of them also suffered with guilt. And I was the only one in town—along with the friends I’d recruited—who believed it.

  Shiloh and I chatted for a couple minutes more; then she excused herself, saying she had to get back to work. I wondered how I had ever suspected her, even for a minute. She was too open and trusting to be on my suspect list.

  As soon as she left the room, I turned to Ernie.

  “What’s going on?” I whispered. Even though we were alone, I didn’t want anyone to overhear our conversation.

  “I’m not sure.” He spoke softly, his lips so close I could feel his breath on my face. “Looked like Mr. High-and-Mighty Fowler was issuing orders, and the ’roid ranger there didn’t care for what he was saying.”

  “Road ranger?” I didn’t quite see how that fit Jimmy.

  “’Roid ranger,” Ernie repeated. “If I’ve seen anyone who was on the needle, it’s that guy. Maybe not right now, but he has been. See how his skin’s messed up and his hair’s thinning? He’s too old for the one and not old enough for the other.”

  I glanced over my shoulder to where Jimmy was puttering around the tow truck in the far bay. It hadn’t occurred to me, but I trusted Ernie’s judgment. Still, there was that question about Jimmy’s wife.

  “Don’t steroids make you, uh,” I stammered for a moment, looking for the right word, “sterile?” It wasn’t exactly what I meant, but it would have to do.

  Ernie laughed softly. “Not usually. But that wasn’t really what you meant, was it, girl?”

  The blush that colored my cheeks was all the answer he needed.

  “They can purely mess you up in that department,” he continued. “But usually it’s only temporary—unless you’ve been on ’em a lot longer than that young buck.” He gave me a sharp look. “But what’s that to you?”

  The question took me by surprise. Certainly Jimmy’s virility—or lack thereof—was none of my business. I was just being nosy, bless my heart.

  “I saw his wife the other day,” I explained, “and for some reason I wondered if she was pregnant. Which would be a real bad thing if he couldn’t, uh, you know.”

  This time his laugh boomed through the tiny room. Heads turned from out in the service bays, and now I was the one muttering curses under my breath.

  Ernie quelled his amusement at my discomfort and continued in a serious voice. “Now they think we’re just having a grand time while we wait, and they aren’t going to pay much attention to the strange woman
and her gay best friend.”

  “Nice try,” I said drily. “But I don’t believe for a second that was the reason you laughed.”

  “I gotta admit,” he said, “you surprised me with that one.”

  “It was a serious question,” I shot back. I was a little put out by his laughing at me. I didn’t know about this stuff, and I had to ask somebody.

  “And I gave you a serious answer, darlin’,” he drawled. His voice was like honey, warm and sweet when he wanted it to be, and he could get me over a little hissy fit any time.

  Like now.

  “So what you’re saying is that if my guess is right, and his wife is pregnant, it isn’t any big thing?”

  “Not from the ’roids.” He shrugged. “There could be other things going on—you never know what’s in some people’s heads—but no, the ’roids wouldn’t have anything to do with it.”

  We fell silent for a few minutes, staring out at the activity in the service bays. The mechanics all wore a kind of dark-blue, heavy-duty jumpsuit, with loops and pockets for tools. From a distance, without being able to read the names over their pockets, it was impossible to tell one from the other.

  Jimmy stood out, though. As the tow driver, he wore a short-sleeve sport shirt and pants, both the same dark blue as the mechanics wore. I suspected if I got close I could spot the small tags that gave the size and the name of the uniform company.

  My car was in the next-to-last bay, right in front of the tow truck. A mechanic was just pulling his head out from under the hood and wiping his hands on a shop towel.

  On impulse, I opened the door into the service area. The earthy smell of motor oil mixed with the tang of solvents assaulted my nose, and the noise level was far louder than I expected. The glass wall that separated the employee lounge from the service area must have been well insulated to keep that much noise out.

  I made my way around rolling tool boxes the size of my dining room table and stepped carefully between snaking hoses that delivered compressed air to the tools the mechanics were using.

  As I approached my car, the mechanic turned and caught sight of me.