Karen laughed. “Okay, I can pass on that one.”
“So, Bobby said he could get a boat,” I prompted.
“Yeah. Of course, the boat in question belongs to his brother, not him, but that never stops him.” She shook her head. “Why should it, when he knows Riley will bail him out?”
“They’re taking Ocean Breeze on a dive trip? Have they looked at that boat? No way they’re going to be happy with her.”
Karen shrugged. “According to Riley, Bobby said they didn’t care. Or course, that’s Bobby’s story. Who knows what the truth is.”
I had to agree. Most sport divers didn’t want the cluttered deck of a commercial fishing boat for their excursions into the Gulf.
“Here.” I handed Karen a cookbook from 1950. “Chicken and dumplings.”
She glanced at the recipe. “Cut up a chicken as for frying,” she read. “Cut up a chicken?” She glared at me. “What do I know about cutting up a chicken?”
“Easy, Freed. Buy the chicken cut up. That’s hardly a violation of the rules.” Like we had any rules for our dinners. Sure, we were trying to experiment with traditional southern dishes, but nothing was set in stone. “It’s not like the dinner police are going to come and get you.”
She rolled her eyes. “Fine.”
She took the book and headed to the corner of the warehouse I grandly called my office. A minute later I heard the whirring of my printer/copier/fax machine, and soon Karen returned with a thin stack of copies. She wordlessly handed back the cookbook, unwilling to give up her pout quite yet.
“I have to get back to the station,” she announced, stuffing the copies into her oversize shoulder bag.
“Later,” I called over my shoulder as I placed the cookbooks back on the shelf, but I didn’t think she heard me. She was already on the sidewalk, hurrying to her SUV.
I looked at the vintage black-and-white cartoon-cat clock above the quilt display. Karen’s next newscast was in ten minutes, and the station was a three-minute drive. She was cutting it close.
“He’s waving,” Julie said.
I didn’t need to ask who. Julie had noticed my budding friendship with Jake, and had actively encouraged it, from her first week in the store.
“We said we’d have coffee if there was time,” I said dismissively. “I suppose I could go, since you’re here and my ordering’s done.”
A snort of decidedly unladylike laughter greeted my offhand manner. Julie still looked like a delicate southern belle, but she was more a steel magnolia with a bawdy sense of humor. “Yeah, you could probably tear yourself away for a few minutes. After all, he’s only gorgeous and single. Why would you want to spend any time with him?”
Although she intended it as a joke, the question loomed a lot larger than she could know. My romantic history was beyond anemic: a boyfriend or two in high school and an occasional date during my short time in community college several years ago.
Orphaned before I finished high school, I had been too busy supporting myself and making Southern Treasures successful. It didn’t leave a lot of time for a personal life.
Besides, dating in a small town was a dicey prospect. There were fewer eligible men each year, and I knew far too much about who cheated on his wife, who didn’t pay his bills, or who gambled too much at the casinos over in Biloxi.
Or who, like Bobby, decided to “go with the flow” and let somebody else take care of him. No thank you. I was already taking care of myself—and Bluebeard.
Jake Robinson was smart, well educated, read a lot—he owned a bookstore, didn’t he?—and he was definitely easy to look at. He defied the odds, though I had the nagging suspicion that one day I would find something that destroyed my fantasy of the perfect man.
In the meantime, though, a cup of coffee wouldn’t hurt anything. At least that was my excuse, and I was going to hang on to it as long as I could.
It was safer that way.
Chapter 2
JAKE ALREADY HAD TWO LATTES ON THE TABLE BY the time I walked into The Lighthouse, on the west side of Southern Treasures.
“Thanks,” I said, pulling out a chair at our regular table by the window. We always sat in the same place, where we could watch both our stores while we talked. “My treat next time.”
Jake nodded, but I knew he’d manage to pick up the check the next time, too. He always did.
We talked for a few minutes about our plans for the coming spring break invasion. Jake bought Beach Books just before the summer season last year, and hadn’t yet been through a spring break on the Redneck Riviera.
Keyhole Bay is on the edge of the madness. North of the intense crowds that clogged I-10, we fill with the overflow from the beachfront hotels and condos and the refugees from the inflated holiday prices.
The younger visitors flood out of town in the morning, heading for the white sands of the Gulf, straggling back when the sun goes down. Or when the bars close.
In between, families wander the streets and shops, visit the waterfront and local parks, and turn pink in the springtime sun.
“Sounds like the summer,” Jake said, sipping his coffee. “And I survived that okay.”
I shook my head. “I don’t quite know how to describe it. There’s a different energy. Sure, everyone is in a hurry to see the sun because they’ve been buried in snow for months, but they’re almost desperate to have fun, no matter what. Whatever they want, they want it right now, not in five minutes or an hour.”
Which might have explained Bobby’s pals from Mermaid’s Grotto.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
I fiddled for a moment with my drink, stirring it with the straw, trying to get the nerve to ask for more of Jake’s help.
“Uh, Jake, about the website? I was looking at what I’ve done so far, and it just seems really plain. It needs something.”
He looked thoughtful for a moment, then pulled a smartphone from his pocket and tapped at it. After a few seconds, he laid it on the table where I could see the front page of my site.
We both stared at the tiny display for several minutes. Each time the screen dimmed, Jake reached out and tapped on the display. Although it was a far cry from the simple address and phone number listing I’d started with, something was still missing.
Jake reached out and touched one of the links from the front page. Photos of one-of-a-kind quilts filled the screen, and I knew detailed information about each of them was loaded onto the site, even if it couldn’t be read on the tiny screen.
He tapped the back button and tried several of the other links. “I’m impressed,” he said, sincerity clear in his voice. “You’ve done a lot with the site since you started.”
“Thanks.” I appreciated the compliment. “But what am I missing?”
Flipping back to the front page, Jake studied it again. “Where’s your logo?” he asked. “Didn’t we talk about having an image that was on every page?”
I slapped my forehead, and said, “Duh!” before I could stop myself. “Yes, we did. But I wasn’t sure what to use, and then I got so caught up in doing the quilts, I completely forgot.”
Jake looked puzzled, and I rushed ahead, trying to explain. “You have a bookstore, that’s easy. One main product line. But I have this huge mix of things, and none of them really go together. Vintage cookbooks,” I said, thinking of my morning recipe hunt with Julie and Karen, “don’t have much in common with T-shirts and snow globes. And collectible magazines don’t go with shot glasses and seashell jewelry.”
Jake nodded while I babbled, then held up a hand to stop me. “You have the perfect logo,” he said. “Bluebeard. He’s the thread that ties everything together. And he attracts customers—I’ve seen it from across the street. They’ll stroll along the sidewalk, catch sight of him, and turn around and go in your store.”
He frowned. Something about the idea bothered him, and I waited patiently while he worked it out in his head. In the few months I’d known him, I’d learned that Jake’s thou
ghts were worth waiting for.
“Just don’t do the obvious pirate thing,” he said at last. “Everybody and their dog does the pirate thing down here.”
I knew exactly what he meant. Half the tacky souvenir shops on the Gulf Coast had pirate-something in their names. I was grateful Uncle Louis had avoided that trap when he named Southern Treasures.
“It gets worse with every movie,” Jake continued. “Those guys out in Oregon even started Talk Like a Pirate Day.”
“Aye,” I said, unable to resist.
Jake groaned. “Not you, too!”
I shook my head. I wasn’t going to join in the pirate parade. Still, I had an idea for spring break.
“You aren’t going to like this,” I teased Jake, “but you just gave me an idea.” I laughed and continued. “Just for the next few weeks, I promise.”
Jake groaned again and rolled his eyes. “You’re going to rename the place Pirate’s Treasure?”
I shook my head. “But what about a treasure chest display in the front window?” I spread my hands as though holding up a sign. “‘Find the Treasure at Southern Treasures.’ Think it’ll work on the tourists?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” he answered. He tried to look annoyed, but it didn’t last long. “I have to admit, it does fit your shop.” He paused. “But only for a few weeks, right?”
“Deal,” I said, sticking out my hand. “And I’ll throw in a home-cooked meal as compensation.”
“With banana pudding?” he asked hopefully. Jake had become a big fan of my banana pudding.
“I’ll even make the good stuff,” I promised as we shook hands.
“I have one suggestion,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“How about ‘find your treasure’ instead of ‘find the treasure?’ ‘The treasure’ sounds like there’s only one, but ‘your treasure’ sounds more like there’s a treasure for every customer.”
I nodded. He had a point. “Good idea. Thanks.”
Jake glanced across the street to the front of his shop. A middle-aged couple, sporting the standard tourist garb of straw hats and shorts in defiance of the temperature, had paused in front of his window.
“Gotta run,” he said, stuffing his phone back in his pocket.
“Go.” I waved him away as he started to pick up the debris from our table. “I’ll take care of this.”
“Thanks,” he said with a quick grin.
I watched him dash across the highway that formed the main drag of Keyhole Bay and greet the couple. By the time I had gathered up our cups and napkins, he was ushering them into the store as though they were old friends.
Which, I supposed, they could have been. Jake’s life before Keyhole Bay was still mostly a mystery; one I would like to solve.
Chapter 3
“BLUEBEARD, SIT STILL!”
With a baleful look, Bluebeard ruffled his feathers and posed on his perch almost long enough for me to take his picture. But when I looked at my camera image, all I could see was a vaguely bird-shaped blur of bright colors.
My patience with my avian companion had reached a critical level. I wanted a picture to use on my website, but in spite of two days of too many treats and massive amounts of coaxing, Bluebeard refused to cooperate.
His antics reminded me how few pictures I’d been able to find of my great-uncle Louis. A few grainy black-and-white shots in the local paper, all of them taken from a distance, and one battered photo-booth shot of a young man in an Army uniform, a cigar clenched defiantly in his teeth.
Was it Uncle Louis who didn’t like the camera?
Frustrated, I left Bluebeard to his own devices and went back to assembling the merchandise for the window display.
I had a large collection of costume jewelry that wasn’t acceptable for the sales case: single earrings, brooches with broken clasps, necklaces with missing strands, and decorative watches that didn’t keep time. Spilling out of a worn travel trunk with a smattering of brass coins, they made the centerpiece of the display. I planned to put an ornate silver candelabra filled with dripping candles on one side, and a pair of silver-plated goblets on the other.
It would be enough to fill the larger of the two front windows. I went through the door to the back of the shop, hunting through the jumble of merchandise in my storage room for something for the other window.
The phone rang, and I hurried back into the shop and grabbed it, eager for a distraction.
“Glory?”
At the nasal sound of my cousin Peter’s voice, I took a deep breath and started counting. Ten wasn’t nearly enough.
“Hello, Peter.” I didn’t ask what he wanted; he always wanted me to do something, usually something utterly nonsensical, with Southern Treasures.
Peter owned 45 percent of Southern Treasures, though I had a secret plan to buy him out, just as soon as I figured out how. It really wasn’t much of a plan, I guess, but I had to start somewhere.
Peter also had an engineering degree from the University of Alabama, and he thought his education made him an expert on everything. Including how to run Southern Treasures.
“Hi, Glory. How are you? Okay, I hope. Mother is worried about you, you know. You missed your visit last month, and you know how she is.”
I knew all too well. I visited my Uncle Andrew and Aunt Missy—it rhymes with prissy for a very good reason—a couple times a year. Andrew and Missy, and Peter and his family, were the only blood relatives I had in the world. Missing a visit was a direct violation of family responsibilities.
“I know,” I answered. “But you know how it is when you own a business. You’re working all the time.”
Of course, Peter didn’t know how it was. Uncle Andrew put him through college and grad school, and then Peter landed a good job. He couldn’t imagine a career without paid vacations and sick days. But it did no good to tell him that. He thought he understood.
“I know, Glory,” he said, as though he actually did. “But Mom and Dad are getting up there. Your visits mean a lot to them.”
I counted to ten. Again. Uncle Andrew had retired a few years back, just before he’d turned sixty. They traveled several weeks a year and played golf every other day at their country club when they were home. Hardly the frail senior citizens Peter implied.
“They mean a lot to me too, Peter.” They meant closing the store for several days, begging Karen to look in on Bluebeard, and driving a couple hours each way in my aging and not very reliable Civic.
In spite of it all, I still felt the tug of family. “Maybe after spring break,” I told Peter. “There’s usually a little lull before the summer crowds start.”
“Good. Good. Mom and Dad would like that.” Placated, he moved on to the real purpose of his call. “I was thinking about the shop, Glory.”
A bad sign. One, two, three…
“Have you considered putting up a website?”
Four, five, six, seven…
“You said most of your business is from out-of-state tourists.”
Eight, nine…
“Why not give them a way to buy from you after they go home?”
Ten.
“I have a web page. It’s not perfect yet, but I have one, and I’ve put a lot of work into it. Did you even look before you called me?”
“Of course I did. I found something about metal detectors.” His whine intensified. “Why are you yelling at me? It’s not my fault I couldn’t find the page.”
I bit my lip and took a deep breath. “That’s because I couldn’t get the exact name, so I used Southern Treasures Shop.”
“I suppose that’s okay then,” he said, though he clearly didn’t mean it. “I guess I’ll have to go look it up and see what you have there.”
“What I have,” I said through clenched teeth, “is what I’ve learned to do so far. I’m still working on it, as time allows.”
There was silence from the other end of the line. I could picture Peter pursing his lips in the way that said he was sure I ha
d more time than I let on, and I was probably wasting it on things I shouldn’t be.
I forced my jaws to unclench. “Thanks for thinking of me, Peter. Please give my love to your folks, and tell them I’ll be up to see them just as soon as I can. I have to go now. Give my love to Peggy and the kids. Bye-bye.”
I hung up before he could say another word—and before I had to start counting again.
I really needed a plan to buy him out.
I also needed a break. It had been a quiet Wednesday, and the sun was sending long shadows across the street. Between Bluebeard and Peter, I’d been frustrated enough for one day.
I locked the door, flipped over the “Closed” sign, and turned out the lights. Bluebeard realized I was closing and let out a squawk of protest.
“Enough out of you,” I answered. “You have been a huge pain all day.”
With the shop—and Bluebeard—settled for the night, I debated what to do with my evening. For about thirty seconds. Then I picked up the phone and called Karen.
“I’ll bring the pizza,” I offered when she answered. “And I’ll bet you still need help getting ready for tomorrow’s dinner.”
Her answering chuckle told me I was right.
“Meet you at your place in half an hour?” I asked.
“Sure,” she said. “Extra onion and pepper?”
“You got it.”
IT WAS CLOSER TO FORTY MINUTES BY THE TIME I pulled the Civic into Karen’s driveway. Red-brick siding contrasted with bright white trim across the front of her small rambler. Karen and Riley bought the house when they got married, determined to be the perfect young newlyweds. When they divorced, Riley kept the boat and Karen kept the house. The style didn’t fit with the driven newscaster Karen became, but in spite of the incongruity and the history, Karen loved her place.
I opened the front door, tapping on it as I walked in. “Pizza delivery,” I called out. I carried the box into the kitchen, put it down, and started getting plates out of the cupboard.
Karen came down the hall from the bathroom, wrapped in a fluffy robe with a towel turbaned around her wet hair. She sniffed the air and nodded her approval.
Murder Hooks a Mermaid Page 2
