Murder Buys a T-Shirt

by Christy Fifield

  I stood for a minute staring at the car, as though it would give me the answers I wanted. “So the police aren’t through with it yet?” I asked.

  “They say they aren’t. But they haven’t been out here since that first day, have they boy?” He leaned over and scratched Bobo’s ears, earning the doggy equivalent of a smile. “Bo keeps an eye on the place for me, since I don’t get around as good as I used to. Ain’t been nobody back here since then, except you.”

  “Fowler doesn’t check on his place?” I had him pegged as someone who kept his fingers in everything that went on, despite Shiloh’s assertion that she took care of the dealership’s day-to-day operations.

  “Ain’t his place,” Sly answered. “It’s mine. Been mine ever since my daddy passed, back in sixty-six. He ran this place for twenty years or more, and I’d just come back from the army. Took over when he passed, and I been here ever since. Now I lease part of the lot to Fowler, but I still live here—me and Bo—and I run the place.”

  He cast a glance toward the repair shop in the distance and spat again in the dirt. “Don’t work for Mr. High-and-Mighty Matt Fowler. Never did, never will. Be my own man till the Good Lord calls me home to be with my mama and daddy.”

  I smiled at Sly and glanced down at Bobo, who waited patiently at his master’s side. They were quite a pair.

  “May I?” I reached a hand toward Bo, stopping to let him sniff my fingers and decide if I could be trusted.

  “Sure thing.” Sly laughed. “He looks ferocious, being black as night and all, but he’s really the sweetest thing. Don’t think he’d hurt a soul, lessen they tried to mess with me.”

  I waited for Bo to register his approval by nudging my hand with his snout, then stroked his broad back. “Nice Bo,” I crooned. “Good puppy.”

  Bo rubbed his head against my leg, his bulk nearly sending me tumbling. I took a step to the side and regained my balance.

  “Sometimes he don’t realize how big he is,” Sly said by way of apology. “He forgets himself is all.”

  “Oh, he’s a sweet boy, yes he is,” I said to Bo, scratching behind his ears as I had seen Sly do. “Aren’t you a good boy?”

  I hadn’t learned anything useful in my excursion inside the secure lot in back of Fowler’s, but I’d made a new friend. Two friends, if you counted Bo, and I certainly should.

  I dragged my car keys out of my pocket and dangled them from my finger. “Thank you, Sly. I appreciate this more than you can imagine. But I better get back to the store; my clerk’s supposed to get off in,” I checked my watch, “fifteen minutes. Wow, I didn’t realize it was getting that late.”

  “We’ll walk you back to the gate so’s you can find your car and lock up after you,” Sly offered.

  As we made our way back around the rack of engines and past the row of pickup trucks, Sly asked, “What store you work at?”

  “I own Southern Treasures, the gift shop on Main, over by The Grog Shop.”

  “I know that place,” Sly said. “Used to be owned by an old guy with a parrot?”

  “I still have the parrot. My great-uncle Louis died when I was a little kid, and he left the place to me and my cousin.”

  Sly looked thoughtful. “I remember that guy, though I didn’t know him very well. Kept to himself a lot.” He glanced around the lot as we neared the gate. “Sorta like me.”

  I grinned at him as I stepped back through the gate. “Maybe I’ll come back and visit you and Bo some time,” I said. “I’d love to hear what you remember about Uncle Louis. I was just a little kid, so I don’t know a lot about him.”

  “You’re welcome back here any time, Miss Glory,” he said. “Bo says you can come back whenever you want.”

  “Well, thank you,” I answered. I leaned down and gave the big black dog a final pat. “And thank you, Bo.”

  I pointed across the lot, to where my beat-up Civic was parked. “There’s my car. I’d swear it wasn’t there before. I don’t know how I missed seeing it the first time.”

  Sly pulled the chain through the gate and snapped the padlock closed. “Don’t rightly know, Miss Glory,” he said, but the bemused smile on his face told me he’d seen through me, and it was okay.

  I waved good-bye and trotted across the lot. The car started a bit easier and didn’t seem to miss as often as I pulled into traffic and headed home.

  I’d just put a dent in my wallet trying to get information about Kevin’s car, and I hadn’t learned much of anything, except that Jimmy wasn’t as good a tow driver as he thought he was.

  At least my car was running a little better.

  I parked behind the shop, glad to have my own car back. Most of Keyhole Bay was within walking distance, but I didn’t much care for hauling grocery bags through town or carrying my dry cleaning down the sidewalk.

  Melissa was at the counter with a customer when I walked in the back door. When the customer left, she turned to me. “I can stay a few minutes if you need me,”

  I shook my head. “The car took longer than I expected, but I’m back, and it’s your quitting time.”

  She sighed with relief. “I do have a date tonight, and I really need to get my nails done.” She waved her manicured hand dramatically. The nails looked perfect to me.

  “I’m wearing a blue shirt,” she explained. “And this color totally does not go with my shirt.”

  Melissa, the daughter of my first boyfriend, Keith Everett, was a typical teenager, obsessed with clothes and boys and music.

  But she also had a strong work ethic and a quick mind. She’d worked for me nearly a year and had displayed both on a regular basis. If I’d needed her to stay, she would have, no question.

  Fortunately, I didn’t, and a few minutes later, she trotted out the front door, cell phone against her ear as she arranged to meet a friend at the beauty shop to get her manicure redone in an appropriate color.

  It would be nice, I thought, to be able to go back and have that carefree life. To have parents to take care of the big stuff and let me obsess about boys and clothes. Then again, there was acne and curfews and exorbitant insurance rates if you wanted to drive a car.

  Being a grown-up wasn’t all that bad.

  With the shop empty, I started straightening shelves and making notes of what needed to be restocked. Next week I would have to place an order with my supplier for more tourist trinkets, getting ready for the influx of snowbirds that came with the first bad storm up north.

  Bluebeard was dozing on his perch, ignoring my puttering, when the front door opened and the entire football team spilled into the shop. The noise brought him instantly awake, and he squawked an expletive-filled greeting to the delight of the crowd of young men.

  Bluebeard preened at their raucous laughter, and he bobbed his head as though taking a bow. The boys responded by crowding around his perch and talking to him. His patience wore thin, however, with the continual singsong of “Polly want a cracker?”

  “#$%#& Bluebeard!” he said, drawing more gales of laughter. “Give me a #^#^% biscuit!”

  I made my way through the crowd of young men and looked up. “Language, Bluebeard!”

  “Biscuit,” he shot back.

  “You gonna clean up your act?” I asked, keenly aware that we had an audience.

  “Biscuit?” Bluebeard wheedled in a hurt voice.

  “One biscuit,” I answered. “But no more swearing.”

  He bobbed his head as though in agreement. “Biscuit!”

  I reached in the tin under his perch and pulled out a single biscuit. He snatched it eagerly from my hand and chomped it in his powerful beak.

  When it was gone, he looked at me. “Biscuit?”

  “You had your biscuit,” I told him. “No more right now.”

  He ruffled his feathers and settled back onto his perch, muttering.

  With the show over, the boys milled around the memorial T-shirt display, looking over the selection. I made eye contact with one of them. “I have your shirts set a
side over here,” I said, motioning at the shelf behind the counter.

  He nodded and went back to examining the shirts on the display. Well, Shiloh had said some of them would want to buy shirts for their girlfriends.

  I pulled out my catalogs and started putting together the order for next week. As I worked, trying to be invisible to the boys milling around the display, I listened to their conversation.

  From what I could observe, Travis Chambers took his new role as team captain very seriously. He moved among the boys, talking with first one and then another for several minutes. Eventually, he stopped and called for their attention.

  “So we’re all agreed: we wear Kevin’s shirts to the pep rally on Friday morning. Tricia says the cheerleaders will all wear theirs, too. If it’s cold, we’ll only wear letterman’s jackets over them. And Friday night we’ll tape the shirts to the front of our jerseys for the run into the stadium, since we can’t get them over the pads and stuff.”

  Nods and murmurs of agreement went around the room. “What if we get in trouble for being out of uniform?” one of the boys muttered from the back of the group.

  “I told you,” Travis spoke sharply. “I already talked to Mr. Fowler. He said he’d get the Booster Club to back us up. Even Coach Bradley won’t argue with the Booster Club.”

  I wondered why it was even an issue, unless the coach had a problem with having Kevin’s face plastered across the chest of every player as they entered the field.

  “Okay; if you say so,” the protestor replied.

  “I say so,” Travis said. His voice carried a solid assurance and confidence in his authority.

  He was showing his leadership chops, ambition clear in his every move. And he seemed to be good at taking command. But was it a command he would kill for?

  I wasn’t sure. There was attention and adulation, but those weren’t reasons enough to take a classmate’s life. There was also scholarship money, a lot of it.

  Was that enough motive for murder?

  A few feet from the counter, two boys talked in whispers.

  “Did your folks ask you where we got the beer?”

  “You kidding? It’s been like the freakin’ Inquisition or something ever since the party. They keep bugging me to tell them how we got the stuff, and I keep telling them I don’t know.”

  “They don’t believe we really don’t know,” the first boy agreed. “I gave Travis my ten bucks, and he said he was giving it to some other guy. But if I tell them about Travis, then they’ll all gang up on him and try to make him tell.”

  “Yeah, and then we have to find someone else to buy the next time.”

  A third kid walked up and listened, then added, “Besides, if we tell anyone, the coach will go insane and start benching people, including Travis. Just what we need, to lose another captain three weeks into the new season.”

  The first boy nodded emphatically. “All because Kevin was a total lightweight, anyway.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Number Two.

  “I mean,” Number One lowered his voice, “I heard he didn’t even drink a whole beer. He was mouthing off to one of the guys about how we were all going to get in trouble if we got caught, and the coach had told him he was going to bench anybody caught drinking.”

  “But I saw him with a beer,” said Number Three.

  “Right,” One answered. “But he only had the one, and one of the cheerleaders said she saw him pour it out when he didn’t think anyone was looking.”

  “But the police said—” Number Two stopped suddenly as Travis approached the conversation.

  “You guys doing okay?” he asked.

  All three nodded a little guiltily. “Just getting ready to get our shirts and get moving,” Number One said. “Right?”

  He glanced at his two companions, and they bobbed their heads in agreement.

  Travis shrugged. “Okay. If nobody needs me, I’m gonna shove off. It’s getting late, and I got some stuff to do. I’ll see you guys on Monday.”

  Travis left the small group and came to the counter to claim his shirt and pay for it. It was a signal to the rest of the team that it was time to go.

  They drifted to the counter in twos and threes, most of them with a second, or even third, shirt. They paid for them, sometimes grumbling about not knowing the size for a girlfriend, or a parent, but anxious to get the discount for their friends and families.

  By the time the last boy sauntered out the door, with a parting glance at a dozing Bluebeard, it was closing time. Or close enough, anyway.

  I looked across the street to Beach Books. I had an evening free; maybe I should take Jake up on his offer of a good book on web design. Not that the prospect had me jumping for joy. On the other hand, there was Jake, so that was a plus.

  What was I waiting for?

  I CLOSED THE SHOP AND CROSSED THE STREET, DETERMINED to get to work on the website.

  My resolve weakened the minute I stepped into Beach Books. Stories called to me from every shelf. Romance, mystery, and political thrillers. Fantasy and science fiction. Biography and history and travel guides. Stories of places I might never see but that I wanted to read about.

  Jake appeared from behind a row of shelves, drawn by the sound of the bell over the door. “Hi, neighbor. What can I do for you?”

  I did my best to gather up my resolve. “I came to ask for your help. You said you had some stuff on web design, and I really, really need to do something about my site.”

  “Sure thing.” He came around the shelf and pointed toward the back of the store. “The technology books are back there. Just let me put this away,” he tossed the clipboard he was carrying down next to the cash register, “and let’s see what we can find for you.”

  But after several minutes, it was clear that my skills were below even the minimum requirements. “Don’t you have one of those books for complete beginners? Something that starts with ‘What is a website?’ and builds from there?”

  Jake laughed. He had a good laugh, which only encouraged my tendency to act the clown, if only to hear that laugh.

  “You aren’t that bad, Glory. I’d just bet you know a lot more than you give yourself credit for.”

  “Maybe.” I sighed. “But every time I look at one of these books, I feel overwhelmed. There’s so much to learn! I need to get the site working, and I sit down and try to figure out where to start and pretty soon I’m running for the chocolate. Or the tequila. I think I’m hopeless.”

  “If you promise to share that tequila,” Jake replied, “I’d be glad to offer some private lessons.”

  “I’ll even throw in dinner,” I said.

  Jake glanced at his wrist. “I close in an hour,” he replied. “Can you wait that long?”

  In the back of my brain a voice was shrieking “What have you done?!?” But it was too late to back out. “I have to run to the grocery store; the cupboards are a little bare. Anything I should avoid?”

  “You don’t have to cook for me,” he protested. “I’m good with takeout.”

  I considered the idea but discarded it. “It’s Saturday night. Everywhere will be jammed, and I won’t be able to pick your brain.” I mentally ran through my choices for quick and easy cooking. “You like pizza?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  I laughed. “True. What do you like?”

  “Anything, as long as it isn’t fish or fruit. Actually, I guess that isn’t technically true. Tomatoes are a fruit, aren’t they?”

  “I will take that to mean tomatoes are acceptable.” I headed for the door. “See you in an hour.”

  I crossed back to Southern Treasures, wondering what had come over me. I hardly knew this man, yet I’d invited him into my home and offered to cook him dinner.

  Well, I’d offered to bake a pizza, but it was still technically cooking.

  I grabbed my keys and wallet. I was nearly out the back door when I realized I could kill two birds with one stone, providing Julie was working tonight.

/>   I stuck a bag with her T-shirts in the car. If she was there, I’d give her the shirts.

  Cars filled the first few spaces near the door at Frank’s, but the lot was mostly empty. Most of the locals chose to do their shopping in the middle of the week, so as to avoid the crowds of tourists who, unfamiliar with the store, wandered the aisles looking for some elusive snack or treat. Often they didn’t even know what they were looking for; they just knew they wanted “something.”

  I made a beeline for the ready-made pizza crust and grabbed a couple of cans of tomato paste and a bag of shredded cheese. At the other end of the deli case, I found a package of salami and one of pepperoni. Now all I needed was vegetables.

  As I headed for the produce section, I remembered the T-shirts, still on the seat of the car. I looked around, but I didn’t see Julie. Maybe she wasn’t working tonight.

  I picked out a green pepper, an onion, mushrooms, and a couple of plum tomatoes. I even tossed in a few sprigs of fresh basil. This was a “healthy” pizza.

  At the last minute, I threw in a carton of spumoni ice cream to go with the chocolate that I knew was in my freezer.

  Julie waved at me from the customer-service desk when I got to the front of the store. “Frank’s out back,” she said. “Bring your stuff on over here, and I’ll take care of you.”

  I moved from the checkout lane to the service counter.

  “He’s sneakin’ a smoke,” Julie said as I unloaded my basket. “He doesn’t think we know, but we do. He swears to Cheryl that he’s quitting, and he does quit. At least a dozen times a day.”

  She rang up my groceries, and I swiped my debit card. As she finished packing them into my shopping bags, Frank came to the front, just as two more customers wheeled full carts up to the checkout.

  “I almost forgot,” I said to Julie. “I have your T-shirts in the car if you want to take them.”

  She looked puzzled; then I could see the connections being made. “For Kevin,” she said.

  “Yeah. One for you and one for Jimmy, right?”

  She nodded. “I told Jimmy I was getting him one, even though he probably won’t wear it. But we need to support the team. They’re going to have a rough season.”