Frank was bagging the groceries of the first customer, and the second had already unloaded his cart onto the belt. I looked back at Julie. “Can you walk out to the car with me and get them? Or do you want me to bring them in? I mean, you can wait and pick them up, but I figured I had to come over here tonight anyway.” I picked up my grocery bags and waited for her answer.
“Hey, Frank,” she called. “Okay if I walk out with Miss Glory here for a minute?”
Without looking away from his customer, Frank nodded. “Go on; I got this.”
Julie insisted on taking one of the bags from me, as though that justified her leaving the store. She followed me to the car, and I opened the hatchback, stowing the two small bags for the trip home.
I retrieved the T-shirt bag from the front seat, and Julie dug in the pocket of her jeans for a pair of crumpled twenties.
“It’s so sad,” I said, taking advantage of the opportunity to talk to Julie alone.
“Kevin was a good kid,” she said. “A really nice boy.” She choked up, and couldn’t talk.
“That’s what everyone says,” I filled the awkward silence. “I didn’t know him, just knew some of his family, but he seemed like he was going places.”
“He was,” Julie choked out. “I mean, he had his rough spots; don’t get me wrong. I know Tricia dumped him.” She looked up at the front of the store as if she expected Frank’s niece to magically appear. “She was right to do it, too,” she said, her voice growing stronger. “A girl shouldn’t let a guy get away with being a jerk—or worse—just because he’s a football hero. That’s just wrong.”
I had a feeling Julie wasn’t talking about Kevin and Tricia. I thought her comments came from something a little closer to home, that she saw some parallels between Kevin and Jimmy. I was dying to ask about it, but I didn’t think Julie trusted anyone well enough to talk about her husband. Especially about his failures.
“I think Kevin was getting the message, though,” she went on. “He stopped partying and screwing around like some of the guys. He even tried to break up the party out at Thompson’s Corner.” She bit her lip, like she’d said too much. “At least, that’s what I heard.”
“You’re still tight with some of the cheerleaders, aren’t you? You were the captain of the squad just a couple of years ago.”
“Yeah. I guess.” She shrugged. “I just heard some of them talking, saying Kevin was getting to be a little too straight-arrow. But I guess maybe that wasn’t true, not if the police say he was drinking and driving.”
That was news to me. As far as I knew, the police hadn’t released any information about Kevin’s blood-alcohol test or the results of their investigation.
“Where did you hear that?” I asked. “About the police.”
She screwed up her face, a study in concentration. “I truly do not remember,” she said. “Maybe Jimmy told me. I just know somebody told me they were calling it an accident, but they knew he’d been drinking and they weren’t saying anything so’s not to make it any worse for his family.”
“Did you know Kevin very well?” I pressed my luck, hoping to learn more.
“Pretty well,” she said. “I was head cheerleader the year he made varsity, so we were in the same crowd. But I graduated over a year ago, so I wasn’t around the team as much.”
She looked back at the store. “I need to get back to work, Miss Glory. Thanks for bringing the shirts over.”
“Glad to help,” I said, climbing into the car.
I was out of the parking lot and heading home before the significance of her last sentence struck me. She said she wasn’t around “the team” as much after graduation.
She hadn’t said anything about Kevin.
BACK HOME, WITH THE OVEN HEATING AND A PIZZA stone on the rack, I went to work on dinner. There was usually a pitcher of sweet tea in the refrigerator, but it was running low, so I started a pot of water boiling.
I grabbed a chopstick and knotted my hair up, out of the way, while I prepared dinner.
I dumped the tomato paste into a bowl and added spices: rosemary, thyme, oregano, garlic, and onion powder, with a dash of salt and pepper. I usually spiced my sauce heavily, but I tried to restrain my usual generosity, not knowing what my guest would prefer.
I chopped the pepper and onion, sliced the tomatoes and mushrooms, washed the basil leaves, and opened the bag of cheese, putting each in a small bowl, ready for the assembly process.
The tea water boiled, and I stirred in sugar and dumped in a handful of tea bags, leaving it to steep while I chopped romaine lettuce for a simple Caesar salad. With dressing from a jar, croutons from a bag, and a sprinkle of grated parmesan, it would dress up the table and offer some color and texture contrast with the pizza.
I opened the package of pizza crusts. There were two of them, and I decided to go ahead and make both. I could vary the toppings between the two and have leftovers for several days.
I may not have spent much time in college, unless you count the night classes in business at the local community college, but I understood the value of cold pizza for breakfast.
Working quickly, I spread a thin layer of olive oil on the skins, followed by a layer of the spicy tomato paste and a light sprinkle of cheese. On top of that I arranged the sliced meats and chopped vegetables, added a few leaves of fresh basil, gave the whole thing a light dash of garlic salt, and finished with a couple of handfuls of the cheese.
Ten minutes in the oven, and dinner would be ready.
I shoved the bowls in the dishwasher, grateful to have somewhere to hide dirty dishes since my dining area was in the kitchen.
Oven heating. Check.
Pizza ready. Check.
Salad made. Check.
Dessert? Ice cream was in the freezer, so I was good.
I took a clean tea pitcher from the cupboard and filled it with ice, then poured the freshly brewed and sweetened tea over the ice and set it on the table with tall glasses. I’d ice the glasses at the last minute.
Which it nearly was. Thanks to my talk with Julie, I had about five minutes before Jake would be at my door.
Up to this point, I had been too busy to worry about myself or the apartment. Now I glanced around, surveying the room. It was mostly under control, though the floor could use a vacuum. If I didn’t take the time to do it, Jake was going to see how I really lived.
So much for first impressions.
I took the five minutes to let my hair down and run a comb through it, pulling it back from my face with a simple headband. I was still in the jeans and T-shirt I’d worn to Fowler’s that morning. I grabbed a clean pink polo out of the drawer and pulled it over my head, hoping I didn’t make a mess of my hair.
I realized there was one way to know if I had time to vacuum. I checked out the front window overlooking the highway. The rolling cart of sale books was still in front of Jake’s store, so I had at least a few minutes.
I pulled the vacuum cleaner from the closet in the bedroom and made a rapid circuit of the room that comprised most of my apartment. If it were a modern house, I guess it would have been called a “great room” and would have been a feature. Maybe I should start calling it that. It sounded better than “one-room apartment.”
I checked out the window after I stowed the vacuum. The sale cart had disappeared, and the lights were out. Jake should be at the door any second now.
The oven beeped, indicating it had reached the preset temperature. I could start the pizza now, or give the stone a few more minutes to reach the ideal heat.
Downstairs, I checked on Bluebeard and freshened his water while I waited for Jake’s knock. I kept glancing at the window, expecting to see him come striding across the street any minute, but he didn’t.
I was beginning to wonder if there was a problem when he knocked on the front door. The bag in his arms explained why I hadn’t seen him; it was from The Grog Shop.
When I opened the door, he gestured with the bag. “I asked the lady n
ext door what wine you preferred with pizza,” he said. “She said you were more a beer kind of person, so I got a six-pack of microbrew. That work for you?”
“Sure. I probably won’t be as good a student, but I never say no to free beer. Well, maybe once in a while. But not after a day like today.”
“That bad?” Jake asked, following me up the stairs.
“Just busy,” I replied. I wasn’t about to tell him I was snooping around Kevin’s death, based on the word of a parrot. Or a ghost.
“Beer first?” I asked as we reached the top of the stairs. “I have sweet tea, too, if you want to wait.”
“Beer,” he said firmly. “I’m still learning to drink sweet tea. I like it,” he added hastily, “I’m just not used to having the sugar already in it.”
“Yankee.”
“No,” he said. “I’m from the West Coast. Grew up in Northern California. Oh, wait, that’s northern, isn’t it?” he joked.
I cocked my head to the side and considered the question. “It is north,” I said. “But I think the jury is still out on the West Coast. It’s only been a hundred and fifty years. We Southerners take the long view, you know.”
While I was talking, Jake removed the caps from two bottles. I reached for the glasses on the table, but he waved me off. “I’m fine with the bottle. Why make more dirty dishes if you don’t have to?”
He handed me a bottle, and I took a long sip, feeling the cold all the way down. Now that I thought about it, I hadn’t eaten since my early morning bagel and coffee. I’d better slow down on the beer until I had some food.
I slid one of the pizzas into the oven and set the timer. Jake eyed the second pie on the counter. “You expecting an army or something?”
“Nope. I just figure when I’m messing up the kitchen, I might as well make enough to last a couple of days. Besides, cold pizza makes an excellent breakfast.”
“I’ll drink to that,” he said, tipping up his bottle. When he lowered the beer and looked around, he added, “Although it doesn’t look like you messed up the kitchen much.”
Which was true. I had managed to disguise most of it. The cutting board was washed and hung back on its hook over the sink, and my knives had been wiped down and returned to their places in the knife block.
“In a place this small, I have to clean as I go, or it gets out of hand real quick. Around here, chaos is more than a theory.”
Jake laughed at my joke, reminding me I wanted to hear more of that laugh.
I gestured to the table, set with casual place mats and heavy earthenware plates. One advantage of running a store like mine—I was able to pick and choose from the things I bought. I had furnished my kitchen with the kind of vintage pottery I liked most.
Jake took the invitation and pulled out a chair. I brought the salad to the table and joined him.
“Northern California?” I asked, filling time while we waited for the pizza to bake. “Like San Francisco?”
His answering laugh wasn’t nearly as pleasant as his earlier amusement. “Hardly. That was way out of our financial range. More like Sacramento, but farther north. Agricultural area, mostly.”
I wanted to ask more questions, but the look on Jake’s face quickly shut down the impulse. Whatever was in his past, he was clearly uncomfortable talking about it.
Maybe next time.
Next time? We hadn’t even had dinner, and I was already thinking about the next time? Time to get back to safer territory.
“You said you knew some things about websites,” I said.
Jake’s wariness relaxed, and I congratulated myself on the decision to change the subject.
“I’m no expert,” he warned me. “I’ve done my own, and I’ve helped a few friends in the past. But I have learned my way around some of the design tools, and I know how the various services operate.”
I nodded. “And where do we start?”
Just then the oven buzzed.
“We start with pizza,” Jake said.
I got up and swapped the pizzas in the oven, then returned to the table. “Let it cool a few minutes before we try to cut it,” I said. “It works better that way.”
Jake started talking me through what I’d already done to get my site running, which wasn’t a lot. I’d registered an address—what he called a domain name—and set up e-mail for Southern Treasures separate from my personal e-mail, but that was about it.
The second pizza finished baking. I took it out, turned the oven off, and cut the first pizza to bring to the table. For the next few minutes, the conversation slowed as we ate pizza and salad and finished our beer.
I cut the second pizza, and offered a piece to Jake. “Slightly different combination,” I said as I placed it on the table. “There’s no fish or fruit on either one,” I added with a little smile.
“That must be what makes it taste so good,” Jake said, helping himself to another slice. “You’ll have to give me your recipe.”
“What recipe? I got ready-made crust, spiced up some tomato paste, and added the toppings. I’d hardly call that a recipe.” I thought about the elaborate dinners Karen, Ernie, Felipe, and I had been cooking recently. “Banana pudding from scratch—now that’s a recipe.”
“Really? What’s the difference? You just slice some bananas, throw them in a bowl with vanilla wafers and pudding, and plop some whipped topping on it.”
I shook my head and launched into a description of my latest dessert accomplishment. “You can make the quick kind, and I still do. But it isn’t the same thing as cooking up your own pudding and baking it with meringue on top. Not at all.”
“Sounds good. I think I’d like to try it.”
“Maybe next time.”
Drat! Did I just say that out loud?
BY THE TIME WE FINISHED DINNER, I HAD A PRETTY good idea of what needed to be done to get my website working. I had no idea yet of how to go about it, but Jake had helped me wade through the tons of suggestions that had overwhelmed me every time I thought about the site.
“You have no idea how much help this is,” I said. “I really didn’t even know where to start.”
“You really did,” he demurred. “I just helped you sort out all the things you already knew.”
Jake was being too modest. His patient questioning and explanations had allowed me to see answers to questions I hadn’t even realized I had.
“You’re a good teacher.”
An odd look flashed across his face and was gone before I could figure out exactly what it was. “Thanks.”
“I’ll probably have a million more questions, once I get past this stuff.” I gestured at the list of notes I’d started writing halfway through our discussion. “I mean, this will keep me busy for a while, but I know I’ll get lost again.”
He looked at his watch, and back at me. “I had no idea it was this late. I didn’t mean to monopolize your entire evening.”
“I should apologize to you for keeping you so long,” I answered. “I got a lot of questions answered, and I’m not nearly as scared of making a website as I was. I owe you for this.”
His eyes twinkled with a hint of mischief. “Banana pudding,” he said. “You can pay me with banana pudding, and I’ll throw in another lesson for free.”
The mention of the pudding reminded me of the ice cream I’d stashed in the freezer. “Oh no! I had ice cream for dessert—spumoni and chocolate—and I got so wrapped up in the web stuff that I completely forgot!”
Jake patted his stomach. “I’m so full of pizza, I don’t think I would know where to put it. But for the record, spumoni is about my favorite flavor.”
I was secretly pleased with that bit of information. Spumoni was my second-favorite flavor, after chocolate. Good to know we were ice-cream compatible.
I walked back downstairs with Jake and said good night. I watched him cross the street under the glow of the street lights and wave from the far side before letting himself into Beach Books’s front door.
Ev
eryone had secrets, and Jake Robinson clearly had his. He had sidestepped my questions about his past, and left me wondering what his life was like before he moved to Keyhole Bay.
I made one last check on Bluebeard, sleeping in his blanket-covered cage, and went back upstairs. There wasn’t much cleanup, as Jake had insisted on helping me clear the table and put away the leftover pizza.
I started the dishwasher and sat back down to look at the list of tasks I had made, but my mind kept wandering.
Jake wasn’t the only person with secrets. There was something in the way Julie had talked about Kevin that made me curious, especially what she’d said about football heroes. She hadn’t been talking about Kevin, I was sure.
So what had Jimmy done that made his wife feel that way? She hadn’t said boyfriends or husbands; she’d said “football heroes,” as though that were the important part.
This was going to take some investigating. And I knew just the person to ask for help.
Unfortunately, if I called Karen at this hour, I could guarantee some serious grumbling. I would have to wait until morning.
But Sunday mornings are never restful when you work in retail. A drizzle forced a steady stream of tourists through my door and kept me busy until late in the afternoon.
Eventually, though, the tourists wandered off to their cars and clogged the highway heading home, leaving Keyhole Bay feeling quiet and empty.
I tried Karen a couple of times, but the calls went to voice mail. I wondered if she’d let her battery run down or if there was some new crisis I hadn’t heard about.
I switched on the radio as I started the laundry and put away the dishes from last night. Nothing important on the news read by the relief announcer.
I tried Karen again and talked to her voice mail. Again.
Twenty minutes later my phone rang. I saw Karen’s number on the display, and considered letting it go to voice mail. It would serve her right.
“Where have you been?” I said when I picked up the call. “I was beginning to think you’d fallen off the edge of the earth.”
Murder Buys a T-Shirt Page 18
