Murder Buys a T-Shirt

by Christy Fifield

  The talk drifted to work. Shiloh asked about the estimate she’d faxed over. “I heard you brought the car in Saturday.”

  “Yes. Took about ten years off my life, I can tell you.”

  She winced. “Sorry for the sticker shock. Joe is, well, I guess you could say he’s thorough.”

  Chloe snickered. “Is that a polite way of saying he was padding the bill?” she asked.

  Shiloh put her hand over her mouth. “Did I say that?” she seemed genuinely shocked.

  I patted her arm. “No, you didn’t. Chloe just likes to be an instigator.”

  “I was just asking.”

  “Right.” I turned my attention back to Shiloh. “But you could answer a question for me, if it’s not confidential or something. Does Joe work on commission? Because he sure seems anxious to make a big sale.”

  “You don’t know?” Shiloh asked, then she shook her head. “Of course you don’t, or you wouldn’t ask. Joe is Mr. Fowler’s oldest son. He dropped out of college to work for his dad, and he’s trying really hard to make his dad think it was the right idea.”

  When I thought about it, I could see some resemblance between the two men. Especially in the pushy-salesman department.

  “Oh, boy! Here come the daddy issues,” Chloe crowed. She’d taken a semester of psychology last term, and it continued to creep into her conversations.

  Shiloh shook her head. “It’s not like that, really. He’s just trying to impress his dad, just like every other guy.”

  Judging by her quick defense of the younger Fowler, I would guess that Shiloh had a crush on the man. I couldn’t see why, but she knew him better than I did. Maybe he was great when he wasn’t in salesman mode.

  “Speaking of impressing the boss,” I said, “when I was there the other day, it looked like Jimmy wasn’t doing a very good job of it.”

  “He’s a showboat,” Shiloh said. “Always thinks he can get away with cutting corners. But he’s not the big football star any longer, and he can’t get by on his looks and reputation.”

  “He told me Fowler promoted him just a couple weeks ago,” I pointed out.

  “Got him out of the shop is more like it, before one of the other guys decked him.”

  “If he’s that bad,” Chloe asked, “why even have him there?”

  Shiloh shook her head and drained her cup. “I don’t know. I think he gave Mr. Fowler some sob story about how he was going to get back on the team at the university, but I’m not supposed to know about that.”

  I filed that piece of information. Maybe Fowler had had a backup plan if Kevin didn’t work out.

  Shiloh slipped the receipt for the coffee and scones into her purse and got up. “I need to get back to the lot. Joe’s covering the phones for me, but he has his own work to do.”

  “I better get back to the shop,” I said to Chloe after Shiloh left. “But if you figure out how we can pry that recipe out of Pansy, let me know.”

  She snorted. “And pigs will fly.”

  BACK IN THE STORE, I DISTRACTED MYSELF WITH newspapers. I worked my way through two bundles of mid-1960s papers, scanning the pages for connections to Uncle Louis, putting them in protective plastic sleeves, and then logging them into inventory.

  I turned the picked-over rack of papers and magazines into an attractive display—without finding anything more about my uncle—before my appointment with Clifford Wilson.

  I coaxed Bluebeard into his cage, locked up the shop, and decided to walk. The weather was mild, and I had promised myself I would get more exercise.

  I don’t know quite what I expected from Mr. Wilson. He offered me a copy of Uncle Louis’s will and identification numbers that would allow me to search for his military records, but he wasn’t sure exactly why I was there.

  Clifford Wilson was still an imposing figure. With an upright posture that belied his age, and a snow-white pompadour that matched his ice-cream suits, he looked like someone who should be called Colonel.

  “What is it you’re looking for, Miss Gloryanna?” he asked after several minutes of conversation. “You said you wanted to know about your great-uncle, but as his attorney, and yours, there isn’t a whole lot I can offer.”

  “I’m not really sure myself,” I said, shifting uncomfortably in the ancient office chair. Mr. Wilson had furnished his office when he started practicing, nearly sixty years ago, and I don’t think he’d changed anything since then.

  “I just wondered about Uncle Louis, I guess. Now that I’m running Southern Treasures myself, I’m curious about him. I was so young when he died, I hardly remember him. I guess maybe I feel like I owe it to him to remember who he was—to have a connection with him, even though he’s gone.”

  Or, more to the point, even though he isn’t gone, though I wasn’t going to give Mr. Wilson that explanation. It might be worse than Shiloh’s tattoos.

  The old man leaned back in his chair, the worn leather creaking with his movement. “A lot of what I know I still consider confidential,” he said. “A lawyer has a sacred trust to carry his client’s business to the grave, and I will not violate that trust. But I can tell you this: Louis Marcel Georges was a good and honorable man. No matter what you might hear, no matter what tales people might carry, your uncle was a good man.”

  Okay. Not what I was expecting to hear.

  “Will I hear bad things about him?”

  “I don’t know,” Mr. Wilson replied. “You could. Arguments and feuds die hard down here, and people carry tales for generations, even if they don’t remember how they all started.” He chuckled. “Don’t forget, the Hatfields and McCoys were Southerners.”

  He turned serious again, leaning forward over the dark wooden desk, his arthritic fingers curled atop the leather blotter. “Just don’t believe everything you hear.”

  It wasn’t much, but I had to settle for what I could get. I thanked him for his time and for the copies, and let myself out.

  The receptionist gave me a receipt for the photocopying and waved away my credit card. “No charge for this visit,” she said. “Mr. Wilson’s orders.”

  I stammered my thanks. Wilson must be getting sentimental in his old age; he had a reputation for never leaving money on the table.

  As I turned toward the exit, I saw Coach Bradley sitting in the waiting room.

  It would be rude not to stop and chat.

  We traded greetings, and I told him about the boys coming in to get their T-shirts. “I guess they’re planning to wear them at the game Friday night.”

  He gave me a sly look. “Yeah, they think I don’t know about it—that they’re putting something over on me. I’m letting them think that. They need something to bond over, and the shirts are as good a thing as any. I’ll act surprised when they run out on the field, maybe even give them a little lecture about being out of uniform. But it’ll be good for team morale.”

  My admiration for Bradley rose several notches. His concern for the needs of his players, and for the team, was a sign of a good coach in my book.

  “How are they doing?” I asked. “They seemed okay when they were in the store. Travis looked like he was stepping up, too.”

  “You never know with kids,” Bradley said. “Look at Kevin. I thought he was getting himself into trouble, was afraid I might have to end up benching him. But from what I’m hearing, he tried to break up the kegger and left when he couldn’t. Probably would have messed with his authority as captain.” A shadow passed over his face. “But now we’ll never know.”

  I slid into the chair beside him, putting me at eye level with the coach. “You really think the rest of the team would have had a problem with that?”

  “Maybe. No. I’m not sure.” He frowned. “I think some of them might have challenged him, and he would have had to stand up for himself. But I think he was strong enough to do that. Unlike some of the boys I’ve coached, I think Kevin was learning to be a real leader.”

  I wondered what boys he was referring to, but I never got the
opportunity to ask, as the receptionist called to him, “Mr. Bradley, Mr. Wilson is ready for you.”

  We stood up, and I offered Bradley my hand. “Hang in there, Coach. I’ll be in the stands Friday night, cheering for the team.”

  “Thanks,” he said, his voice husky. “We appreciate all the support. It means a lot to the kids.” He released my hand, and swallowed hard. “And to me.”

  On the walk home, I kept coming back to the question of the beer. If Kevin hadn’t been drinking—as Julie and his teammates said—then where were the results of his blood-alcohol test, and why hadn’t the police released a final determination on the accident?

  I pulled my cell phone out of my purse and called Karen. I didn’t have any reason to question the police about the test results, none that I wanted to share with Boomer, anyway. But Karen made a perfect cover for me—as a reporter, she had every reason to question everything that happened in Keyhole Bay.

  She wasn’t on-air, luckily, and quickly answered her phone.

  “Karen, I know you think I’m beating a dead horse here, but have you heard anything about blood-alcohol tests for Kevin? I just ran into the coach, and he’s heard the same thing I did. Kevin wasn’t drinking; he was trying to break up the party. So where are the test results?”

  “Nothing’s been released,” she said. “I’ve been in touch with Boomer so often that he’s sick of hearing from me. Last time I talked to him, which was just this morning, he said something about the state lab being backed up.”

  “Isn’t that a simple test? Couldn’t they just do it here at the hospital?”

  “They do with live victims, or suspects,” she said. “But there’s some local ordinance that they have to send the tests to the state lab when someone dies.”

  “What?” I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “Are you kidding me?”

  “I think it’s been on the books for about fifty years,” she said. “There wasn’t a hospital in Keyhole Bay, and any serious injuries were sent to Pensacola. I know it doesn’t make sense, but once these things get passed into law, they stay there forever.”

  I sighed heavily. “Well, that’s ridiculous.”

  “Boomer agrees, for what it’s worth,” she said. “I have a hunch this is going to come up at the next City Council meeting.”

  “It should.” I started walking again.

  “I’m due back on the air in five,” Karen said. “Gotta go.”

  I said good-bye and slipped the phone back in my purse.

  I was only a block from home, on the opposite side of the street. A few yards ahead I saw the sale book cart on the sidewalk in front of Beach Books. It gave me an idea.

  I hadn’t talked to Jake since our pizza night. He was behind the counter when I walked in, ringing up a stack of romance novels for a woman in a straw hat only a tourist would wear. I waved as I went by, headed for the computer-book section in the back.

  A few minutes later Jake joined me. “See anything that interests you?” he asked.

  I did, but since it had nothing to do with the volumes on the shelf, I kept it to myself. “Just looking back through some of these, now that I have some idea what I should be doing.”

  He picked up a bright-yellow volume only slightly smaller than a telephone book. “This series is usually pretty good,” he said. “Most people are able to follow the instructions without any problem.”

  “When it comes to computers,” I said, “I’m not ‘most people.’ I’m way worse.”

  “We had this discussion the other night,” he reminded me.

  Like I didn’t remember!

  “You aren’t nearly as bad as you think you are.” He repeated his assessment from our lesson on Saturday. “You’ll get this, once you start working on it.”

  “I actually have,” I said. “I poked around a little with the various templates, but I haven’t decided which would work best for my store. Do you have a site for Beach Books? Maybe your template would be a good place for me to start.”

  I was either flirting or begging, and I really wasn’t sure which. I liked Jake and would be glad to spend some more time with him, but I was also desperate to get the website running. Maybe it was a little of both.

  He slapped his forehead dramatically. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of that the other night,” he said. “I’m an idiot!”

  “I don’t think so. If you are, then I am somewhere below plankton on the intellectual scale.”

  We continued bantering for another couple minutes, until a real customer came through the door. Jake excused himself and went to greet the new arrival.

  He was back in a minute, though. “She wanted to look through the mysteries,” he explained. “And she made it clear she didn’t need any help.”

  I glanced up, finding the concave mirrors in the corners of the shop, just like in mine. Jake saw my look and chuckled softly. “Yep, you’re a retailer.”

  I nodded. “You have to be careful.”

  “So,” he tugged at his earlobe, a gesture I’d seen before, “are you ready to make that banana pudding you promised? I’d be glad to give you another computer lesson in exchange.”

  My social calendar was pretty pathetic. The only thing I had coming up was Thursday’s dinner. “Tonight?” I suggested. “Or tomorrow?”

  “Tonight works for me,” he responded immediately. “But you have to let me bring dinner if you’re making dessert.”

  We bargained back and forth for a couple minutes, Jake occasionally casting a look at the security mirrors, where his customer was gathering up a stack of paperbacks.

  We agreed I would provide a salad and chips, and he would bring sandwiches from a local shop. It seemed like we were both using computer lessons and promised desserts as an excuse to spend the evening together.

  Not that I objected.

  But I didn’t have bananas or half-and-half, so I would have to make another trip to Frank’s. I mentally reviewed the contents of my refrigerator and pantry and decided that was all I would need.

  I left Beach Books and turned away from Southern Treasures. A few minutes later I walked into Frank’s Foods.

  Julie was alone at the register when I checked out with just the small carton of half-and-half and a bunch of bananas.

  “Pudding?” she guessed. I nodded.

  “Maybe I should make some,” she said as she rang up the purchase. “Jimmy might like that.”

  “Most guys do.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Unfortunately for us, they burn it all off. We just put it into storage.” She patted her backside, which didn’t look as though she was storing much excess.

  “It isn’t fair, is it?” she continued. “’Course if they’re athletes, they run it all off.”

  She shook her head. “Kevin sure did. I mean, Jimmy did. Does.” She looked like a deer caught in the headlights, clearly distressed at what she had revealed.

  I looked around the store, then back at her. “You knew Kevin pretty well, didn’t you?”

  She made the same visual sweep of the store I had before she answered. “You won’t tell anyone, will you? There wasn’t anything going on; it was more like a big-sister kind of thing, I swear. I just wanted him to straighten himself out before it was too late.”

  “Like it was too late for Jimmy?” It was the question I’d been wanting to ask her for days. Something had gone badly wrong in her relationship—I’d put money on it—and I hoped she was ready to talk.

  “I don’t mean to be disloyal—the man’s my husband,” she said, one hand drifting down to rest across her stomach, confirming another of my suspicions. “But he made some mistakes, and he lost a lot because of it. I just figured if I could talk to Kevin, make him see how much he was putting at risk, maybe I could save him some grief. Him, and Tricia, too. She was still in love with him, you know.”

  “I thought she was, from the way Frank talked about it.” I looked at her hand, and she snatched it away, her face coloring. “Does Jimmy know?”
>
  She nodded but didn’t speak. Maybe her young husband wasn’t so happy about becoming a young father. It wouldn’t be the first time a young buck found himself with a family before he wanted one.

  I sensed that Julie wasn’t going to answer any more questions. If I pressed, I might threaten the tentative bond I was forming with the girl.

  “It’ll work out,” I lied, in what I hoped was a convincing manner. Even if it didn’t, she needed the reassurance right now.

  I HURRIED ALONG THE SIDEWALK, ANXIOUS TO GET home. I had promised to make pudding for Jake, I had work to do in the shop, and I wanted to go through the papers I’d received from Mr. Wilson.

  Besides that, I’d left Bluebeard in his cage for far longer than I’d intended, and there was a very good chance he would be in a nasty mood as a result.

  I unlocked the front door to chaos. Bluebeard squawked from his perch, a string of curses interspersed with a screech of “Bad man!”

  The damned bird had done it again.

  But how did he get out of the cage? I was sure I had left it latched. Hadn’t I?

  I set my grocery sack on the counter and approached Bluebeard. He didn’t look injured, but his agitation was so great I worried he might be. Parrots, though they have strong beaks and sharp talons, are still fragile in many ways.

  I managed to coax him onto my arm and examined him closely for signs he might be hurt, but I didn’t find anything.

  Trying to calm him, I stroked his head and carried him to the counter, where I’d left my bag. I took out a banana and peeled it, offering him small pieces, which he eagerly devoured.

  After several minutes of attention, he nestled his head into my shoulder. He was ready for a nap.

  I finished the banana as I surveyed the damage to the shop. The newspapers hadn’t been disturbed this time, but the T-shirts were scattered, merchandise was pulled from shelves onto the floor, and as I rounded the end of the counter, I could see that every paper on and under it had been pulled out and tossed around.