I hesitated for a microsecond before agreeing to his plan. I’d answered Clark’s questions, done a pile of paperwork, and cleaned Bluebeard’s cage. And the sooner I started the process of buying a new car, the sooner I wouldn’t have to rely on other people to get around.
I hadn’t heard from Karen all day. I’d tried to call her earlier, but her number just went to voice mail, and I didn’t want to tell her about the car in a message. It would have to wait until she called back.
I left another message for her before I locked up the shop.
I stepped outside, stopping to examine the window displays. In spite of Jake’s kidding, they had come out well. The fake jewels and bits of costume jewelry glittered against the dark blue fabric I’d used to line the space, and the candlesticks with their drizzles of wax dripping down their sides were the right finishing touch. Sometimes I actually looked like I knew what I was doing.
I ducked into The Lighthouse and waved a greeting to Chloe behind the counter. I ordered two lattes to go and a couple scones. On impulse, I had her bag a few of Pansy’s muffins. I’d take them to Sly. Even if I didn’t have much time to visit, the muffins should keep me out of trouble. I made sure there was a doggy treat for Bobo, too.
Each time I walked into Beach Books, I was struck by how warm and welcoming it had become. Jake had added chairs in many of the corners, encouraging visitors to linger and explore the books before making their choices.
He explained that he thought it actually helped sales. The longer a customer spent in the store, the more they bought. It made sense, but privately I thought the increased sales might have a lot to do with the knowledgeable and gracious owner. And a killer smile didn’t hurt, either.
That smile was on display when I came in the store, directed at a teenage girl with an armload of paperbacks. “There’s no school next week,” she said as she stacked the books on the counter, “so I need something to read.”
Jake eyed the stack as he began scanning the prices. “This ought to keep you busy for a while.”
“Only a few days,” she said with a touch of pride. “If I don’t have homework, I can read a book a day, sometimes more.”
“Well then, let’s hope for no homework.” He took the plastic card she offered and swiped it through the machine.
The girl entered her code, then flashed him an impish smile. “Oh, there is,” she said. “But I’m already done.”
Jake locked the door behind her, still smiling. He turned to me and cocked his head toward the departing teen. “Now there is a girl after my own heart. An avid reader, and not afraid to admit she’s smart. I like smart women.”
“How about women who bring coffee?” I teased, handing him a cup, “and scones?” I waved the bag, letting the sweet smell of the cranberry scones tempt him.
“That always gets my attention.”
He reached for the bag, but I kept it out of reach. “We have to save some of these for Sly.”
Jake groaned with comic exaggeration. “Well, let’s get going, then, so I can have at least one of those. The smell is killing me!”
On the short drive to Fowler’s, Jake asked me if I had any idea what kind of car I was looking for. I had to admit, I didn’t have a clue.
“I’ve thought about a truck, for the store,” I told him. “But I always figured if I had a truck I would still want something small for running around town. Like Ernie’s Miata, and Felipe’s scooter: something that worked for running errands but didn’t use a lot of gas or eat up my tiny parking space.
“Julie even joked that she should sell me Jimmy’s truck, but that thing is a monster. Besides, she’ll get more for it if she sells it to someone who wants all the tricked-out gear Jimmy put in it.”
“I’m amazed she didn’t get rid of it immediately.”
I explained to him what Julie had said about selling Jimmy’s big ol’ pickup with all the bells and whistles. As we pulled into the lot at the back of Fowler’s Auto, I shared some of her trepidation.
I hadn’t been inside the shop since the day I’d discovered who killed Kevin Stanley. I’d gone around the back, to the old junkyard where Sly lives, but I hadn’t ventured into the sales area or the repair shop, and I’d have been glad to avoid it for a while longer.
My heart sank when I saw the giant price numbers on the windshields. I had deliberately avoided looking at the price of cars for a long time, and I definitely had a case of sticker shock. A little mental arithmetic told me the payment on one of the cars on the front line would be a budget-buster.
“Ouch!” I said softly to Jake. “Now I remember why I didn’t want to buy another car.”
“I’m sure we can find something,” he answered. “We just need to keep looking.”
My unease wasn’t helped by the appearance of Joe Fowler, the owner’s son.
Matt Fowler was a walking definition of good ol’ boy. He, and the men like him, were the primary reason I would never be a member of the Merchants’ Association. Although he was only a few years older than Karen and me, we had never moved in the same circles.
His son was trying hard to be just like his father, and it appeared to be working. It wasn’t a pretty picture.
Joe stuck out his hand to Jake. “Hi, folks. Joe Fowler, sales manager. How can I help you today?” The question was clearly directed at Jake. As a female, I was just an ornament, and his disinterested glance told me I wasn’t doing a very good job of it.
It told me something else about Joe Fowler: he wasn’t a very good salesman. A good salesman remembers names and faces, he has a mental contacts file that tells him instantly who someone is and what they need. If you’ve met a really good salesman, he’ll recognize you instantly years later.
Joe didn’t recognize me. In spite of spending a lot of time last fall trying to convince me to pour a ton of money into repairing the Civic, he didn’t remember me.
“I’m looking for a car,” I said, stepping in front of Jake. “Something cheap, that gets decent mileage.”
Joe chuckled. “Isn’t that what we all want?” He gestured to a back row of the sales lot. “We have a few low-cost vehicles, but we don’t keep many of them on our lot. Frankly, most of them wouldn’t be worth your hard-earned dollars, and we take them to the auction. But we do have some excellent options that are just a few dollars more. Let me show you.”
He spent an annoying half hour trying to convince me I should buy several cars, a two-year-old pickup, and an SUV I knew wouldn’t get anywhere near the mileage he claimed.
A pair of young men walked on the lot, and I was finally able to shoo Joe away. Frustrated and miserable, I was ready to go home, crawl in bed, and pull the covers over my head.
“We can go down to Pensacola,” Jake offered as we headed back to his car. He glanced at his watch. “I think some of the bigger dealerships will be open late.”
I shook my head. Looking at the prices of the cars on Fowler’s lot depressed me. Comparing the stickers to the meager balance in my savings account had pointed out just how tenuous my financial situation remained.
Sure, there was my “secret” account, the one I tried not to think about. I’d started tucking away a few bucks from my small salary every payday. It wasn’t a rainy-day fund or an emergency account; that was what my regular savings account was for.
This was my Buy-Out-Peter Fund. And I wasn’t going to raid it for something like a car. I’d wait to see how much the insurance paid; I’d get a bicycle or a skateboard before I’d touch that account.
It wasn’t money. It was my future. A future without Peter hanging over my shoulder, offering his unwanted and unnecessary advice.
I opened the door to Jake’s car and spotted the white-paper bakery bag on my seat. The treats for Sly and Bobo. I’d forgotten them in the misery of looking at cars.
“I’ll move the car over there,” Jake said, climbing in behind the wheel. “Bobo will cheer you up. Especially if you brought anything he can have.”
�
�I did. How could I come with a bag of goodies and not bring something for Bobo?”
Jake parked next to the chain-link fence at the back of Fowler’s service area.
The junkyard, which I had initially thought belonged to Fowler, butted against the parking lot. Just inside the fence was an area the local police used for a secure impound lot. A row of mostly intact cars and small trucks faced the parking lot, grease-pencil markings telling the time and date they had been impounded. Behind them was a row of larger pickups and big trucks parked parallel to the fence, effectively creating a barrier between the vehicles and the actual junkyard.
We got out and walked around to the gate, which was chained but not locked. The padlock that would secure the chain hung open, allowing us to swing the big gate open.
At the sound of the squeaky hinges, Bobo came bounding toward us at a run. When he spotted who we were, he slowed slightly, wiggling in doggy greeting, his tail wagging.
I handed the pastry bag to Jake and crouched down to greet Bobo. I petted his broad head and scratched behind his ears. He was a mutt of the junkyard variety, but I could see clearly the influence of Rottweiler ancestors in his dark coat and large head full of sharp teeth. If you didn’t know him, he would look menacing.
We followed Bobo around the row of trucks and past the metal racks of car parts that held Sly’s extensive inventory. The shelves, reaching higher than my head, held large pieces of metal, engine blocks, cylinder heads, manifolds, and dozens of smaller parts I couldn’t identify. They crowded together in a mystifying jumble that only Sly seemed able to understand.
A small forklift, used to reach the top shelves, blocked our path, and we detoured around it.
That’s when I saw the Civic.
I gasped. My knees buckled momentarily, and I grabbed Jake’s hand to steady myself.
I knew it was being towed, but I hadn’t thought about to where. It made sense it would be here until the insurance company and fire department were through with it.
I just hadn’t been prepared to confront it.
“Miss Glory!”
Sly had come out of the cinder-block building where he lived. He caught sight of me and hurried over, trying to put himself between me and the Civic.
I gave him a hug.
Jake wandered over, peering closely at the Civic. It was the first look we’d had in the daylight. The damage was worse than I had imagined, and the stench of burned plastic clung to the wreckage like a heavy blanket.
The tires had melted, leaving the car sitting on the rims. There was no paint left, just a layer of crumbling black residue. All the windows stood empty, even though I had closed them tightly when I parked it. Headlights and taillights had broken or melted, leaving behind gaping holes.
The interior was worse. Exposed springs showed where the seats had been, stinky black puddles all that remained of the worn vinyl upholstery.
I watched as Jake walked around the car, occasionally poking at a piece of debris with the point of a pencil. He craned his neck through one of the windows, examining the back seat without touching anything.
The hood was buckled where the firefighters had pried it open to reach the fire in the engine compartment. Broken wires jutted from unrecognizable chunks of metal, their insulation melted in the heat of the flames.
It made some kind of sense to Jake, who nodded and made little humming noises every couple minutes. I guessed he’d had a class in fire investigation as part of his training, and he was getting a chance to try out what he’d learned.
At his side, Bobo’s attention was riveted on the bakery bag, his sensitive nose quivering in response to the tempting smells coming from the bag.
I took the bag from Jake, digging out one of the doggy-safe treats. “May I?” I asked Sly. He nodded, and I let Bobo see what I had.
“Sit!” I commanded. Sly insisted that Bobo mind his manners, and he’d taught me how to make the big dog behave.
Bobo immediately plopped his hindquarters down in the dust, waiting with high-voltage anticipation for the hard baked, bone-shaped treat. Pansy couldn’t let dogs in The Lighthouse, but she provided water dishes on the sidewalk and canine-friendly items alongside her chocolate muffins and lemon scones.
Like Jake’s chairs and my parrot, it was one of the things that made our little downtown shopping strip a friendly place to visit.
“Good boy.” I tossed the treat, and he leaped into the air, catching it on the fly. His massive jaws crushed the faux bone, and the pieces quickly disappeared. It was an impressive display and one that made me glad I was a friend. I wouldn’t want to be on Bobo’s bad side.
I handed the bag to Sly. “There’s a couple more Bobo treats, and some of Miss Pansy’s muffins for you.”
“That’s mighty nice of you, Miss Glory. No man in his right mind would turn down anything that came out of Miss Pansy’s oven.” He peeked in the bag, inhaled deeply, and sighed. “I do believe I could use a muffin this afternoon.”
He looked back at me. “But don’t think this gets you out of telling me about that parrot. You promised me a story.”
“You’ll get it,” I answered. “But first you need to answer a question for me: just how well did you know my Uncle Louis?”
Sly stood motionless for a full minute. He drew a deep breath and looked over at Jake, then back at me. “Y’all better come inside where we can get comfortable.”
Chapter 26
THE INSIDE OF SLY’S SMALL HOME WAS NOTHING like I’d expected. That he was close to seventy and a life-long bachelor created an expectation of dark, mismatched furniture, selected for comfort and functionality rather than decorative potential.
Instead, I found myself in a spacious room that felt like something out of a Caribbean vacation brochure. The rattan settee was covered with cream-colored cushions and littered with pillows in bright hues. Sparkling glass topped the bent-wood tables, and several large plants softened the whitewashed cement block walls.
The layout was a lot like my apartment: The kitchen opened into the living area, with a small dining table in the space between. There were two doors on the far wall, and I was willing to bet they led to a bedroom and bathroom.
A huge grin split Sly’s dark face, exposing the gaps where he’d lost teeth. “Not what you were expecting, was it, girl?”
At a loss for answers, I shook my head.
“My daddy was from around here, but my mama came from the Dominican Republic. She worked for a very wealthy American family and came here with them when she was still a young girl. She married my daddy and stayed here the rest of her life, but she always talked about her home.” He gestured at the vibrant colors and the lush greenery. “I know this isn’t how it really was, not for a poor family. But it still reminds me of my mama.”
It was the longest speech I’d ever heard him make. A wave of understanding and regret washed over me.
I had gone in the opposite direction, divesting myself and my home of everything that reminded me of my parents, shunning reminders of my loss. But Sly had embraced his mementos and honored his mama and daddy.
Maybe it was time for me to do the same. I filed that question away for later examination. Frankly, it scared the hell out of me.
“It’s a lovely home,” I said. “You must be very comfortable here.”
Sly went into the kitchen. He took cobalt blue mugs from a lemon yellow cupboard and put them on the counter. “I put the coffee on when Bobo said there was company,” he explained as he filled the mugs. “Didn’t know I’d have muffins to go with it, though,” he added as he emptied the bakery bag.
I took a mug of coffee but waved away his offer of a muffin. “I just had a scone. I brought those for you.”
Sly nodded and put the plate on one of the glass-top tables. “In case you change your mind.”
Sly gestured to the settee. Jake and I took the invitation and sat down. Sly took a chair across from me.
“I’ll tell you about your uncle,” he said. “But
first I want to hear about what happened to your car. And then you owe me an explanation ’bout that parrot.”
I gave Sly a rundown on the fire, leaving out the most incriminating parts. When I finished, he gave me a stern look. “So you two girls are out digging around in this bad business, and suddenly your car catches fire? Sounds pretty suspicious to me. Maybe you ought to take it easy for a few days.”
“Does to me, too,” Jake agreed. “But in case you hadn’t noticed, it’s pretty hard to tell this lady what to do.”
“But we have to do something! They arrested Bobby, and they think he killed that agent.”
“And you’re chasing around looking for the guys who did,” Jake said. “It appears someone is objecting to your poking around.” He turned to Sly. “You try to talk some sense into her.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Since whoever it is is already mad at me, it won’t matter if I keep looking. So there isn’t anything to talk about.”
I turned back to Sly. “You promised to tell me about Uncle Louis, and how you knew him.”
“He was a good man,” Sly said. “Treated me like a real person, even when most of the white folks ’round here didn’t agree with him.”
He got a faraway look in his eyes, as though watching the past play out on a distant movie screen. “I was just a baby when Mister Louis came back to Keyhole Bay. It was right after the war, the big one. I was one of those baby boomers they talk about, ’cept mostly they’re talking about white folks. But there were black baby boomers, too.
“Anyway, I grew up right here in this house. Went to what they called the ‘colored school’ back then, out in Piney Ridge. Didn’t have buses back then, but my daddy fixed up an old bike for me, and most days I rode my bike to school, right up to the time I graduated high school.”
I tried to imagine what Sly had gone through to get an education. Piney Ridge was five miles outside Keyhole Bay. The roads hadn’t been much more than gravel and mud when I was growing up. How much worse they must have been decades before.
“My daddy taught me mechanicin’ when I was in high school. Learned to take care of cars for our friends and neighbors.”
Murder Hooks a Mermaid Page 17
