Murder Sends a Postcard (A Haunted Souvenir) (5 page)

“How’s it going?” I asked.

“Doing good,” he replied. “Definitely beer weather.”

I looked around, taking in the nearly empty shelves. “Looks like it.”

Guy kept working as he talked. “Would you believe I already had two deliveries this week, and I had to call for another one this morning?” He ticked off the last case and I put it on the shelf. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you. Always good when people are buying.”

Guy maneuvered a hand truck loaded with more cases toward the door. “Get that for me, would you?” he asked.

I grabbed my coffee and held the door while he steered the load through it and toward the giant walk-in cooler at the back of the store. I opened the cooler door, and he pushed the hand truck through, letting the door close behind him.

Linda was alone at the counter, and I walked behind it to give her a hug.

“Thanks for the mocha,” she said.

We talked for a couple minutes, catching up on what we’d been doing the last few days. I told her about our Thursday dinner, and about taking the leftovers out to Bayvue Estates the night before.

“You went out there with that woman?” She sounded shocked. “What made you go all the way out there, all alone with a total stranger?”

“She seems really nice.” Okay, that sounded lame, even to me. “I took Karen with me. And we got to see one of the model homes.”

“Was it as deluxe as everybody said it was?”

I hated to disappoint her, but I had to say no. “Oh, they tried,” I told her. “But the work wasn’t done right. A lot of stuff looked like it was done in a hurry, or just not finished at all. It was sad, and kind of creepy.

“Like something had died out there.”

I WANTED TO TALK TO LINDA ABOUT KAREN AND
Riley, to have her reassure me that my best friend wasn’t heading for a fall. It was the kind of conversation I imagined most women had with their mothers or sisters, and Linda was the closest thing I had to either one. But a steady stream of customers cut our visit short. That conversation would have to wait until we both closed for the night, or for another day.

I waved good-bye and went back to work. At least I got a cold drink, a jolt of caffeine, and a change of scenery for a few minutes.

By the time we closed up for the day, I was too tired to talk to anybody. It took me another couple hours to close out the register, balance the books, and get the store ready for the next day. When I was through, all I wanted to do was crawl upstairs and collapse in a heap. Even fixing dinner sounded like too much work.

And I wasn’t the only one. As I was checking the locks and setting the alarm
,
the store phone rang. I ignored it, letting it go to voice mail. I’d check the message before I went upstairs and decide if it could wait until morning.

A few seconds later my cell phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Pizza’s on the way,” Jake said. “Want some?”

“Thank you, yes. I was just thinking I was too tired to cook, so it was going to be corn flakes for dinner.”

“Neil’s said they’d have it here in half an hour, if that works for you.” There was a pause, then he continued. “I gave them your address for the delivery.”

“That’s some nerve, Mr. Robinson. What if I’d had other plans? It’s Saturday night. I might have had a date,” I teased.

“Saturday night in July,” he answered. “You never go out on the weekends in the summer. That was one of the first rules you taught me about being a local.”

“Got me,” I said. “I’ll unlock the door, if you’re coming over soon.”

“On my way,” he replied.

True to his word, I saw him emerge from his door onto the sidewalk, heading for the crosswalk in front of his store.

I dropped the phone in my pocket and went to take care of Bluebeard. He’d had a long day of customers, and he was as tuckered out as I was.

Bluebeard spotted Jake through the big front windows, approaching my door. “Pretty boy,” he said, in a voice eerily like that of my great-uncle Louis Georges. I hadn’t heard Uncle Louis since he passed away when I was ten, but I recognized his voice coming from Bluebeard, and I knew he wasn’t talking about himself.

“Hush!” I said. “You keep your nose out of my business. Or your beak. Whatever. Just butt out, okay?”

Bluebeard cast a beady eye around the shop before glaring at me and uttering a clear profanity.

“Language, Bluebeard!”

He quieted to a low mutter, but I’d known this parrot a long time. Other people might not hear it, but I could make out several words he knew he wasn’t supposed to use. I guess I should be glad he chose to wait until there were no customers in the store.

Jake locked the door behind himself and made his way between the display racks to where I stood.

“Arguing with Bluebeard again?” he asked, slipping an arm around my shoulders for a quick hug. He seemed to hesitate about any display of affection in front of Bluebeard.

I wanted to deny it, but he was right. I was arguing.
With a bird
. Okay, it was a bird who occasionally channeled the ghost of Uncle Louis, but it was still ridiculous.

“Bluebeard’s misbehaving again, if that’s what you mean,” I said, sidestepping any admission of guilt. “He needs to learn to mind his own business.”

Jake cocked an eyebrow at Bluebeard. “Trying to keep her out of trouble?”

Jake knew about Uncle Louis, and it amused him to think my great-uncle chose to meddle in my life. I wondered if he would think it was so funny if he knew Bluebeard was talking about him.

“Mostly he’s tired and cranky,” I said. “He’s had a long hard day of being a celebrity.” I remembered Julie’s suggestion from that morning. “Speaking of which, what would you think about shirts and postcards with Bluebeard on them? We could use the same pictures we used for the website. It was Julie’s idea,” I added, not wanting to take credit that wasn’t mine.

“Brilliant! Those oughta sell like crazy, if you can make the numbers work out.”

“I don’t know about the costs yet,” I said. “Julie said she had a friend at a print shop where they do the shirts for Mermaid Grotto.”

Jake’s eyes widened for a moment. “Of course. I saw those at the hostess stand the night we were there. Don’t know why I didn’t think of doing them for Southern Treasures.”

“You were busy taking in the atmosphere.” Mermaid Grotto was all about the atmosphere. A giant fish tank separated the restaurant from the bar. The tank was home to a live mermaid show when I was a kid; now it held tropical fish and aquatic plants.

It had also had one very unwilling swimmer. I’d become far too familiar with that tank a few months earlier when I’d been shoved into it, and a shudder passed over me at the memory.

Jake put a comforting arm around me and drew me close to his side. Clearly he was remembering my visit to the mermaid tank, too.

I shook off the memory, refusing to dwell on an unhappy might-have-been.

“What kind of pizza did you order?”

“Pepperoni and tomato with extra onion and bell pepper. Right?”

I was impressed. Jake had clearly been paying attention.

In a few minutes Neil’s delivery van pulled up in front and a kid jumped out holding an insulated carrier. Jake met him at the door with his wallet in hand.

Soon we were upstairs with hot pizza and cold beer. A far better end to the day than I had imagined possible.

We talked about watching a movie, but neither of us could work up enough enthusiasm to actually pick out something and put it in the player.

Instead we hung out eating pizza and talking about putting Bluebeard’s image on T-shirts and postcards.

“You could also do mugs,” Jake said. “See what other things the printer has, and what they cost.”

“I wonder what Mermaid Grotto sells their shirts for,” I said.

The question began to eat at me, and I had to get up and find my laptop. “Maybe they have them on their website.”

“If they have a website,” Jake said.

“Everybody has a website, according to you,” I said. “You said I had to have one, because everyone else did. So they better have something.”

It took me a couple minutes of searching, but I finally connected to the Mermaid Grotto site. “Look,” I said, briefly turning the screen so he could see it, “here’s their page. Lunch menus, dinner menus, entertainment . . .”

I ran the cursor along the tabs at the top of the page, stopping over the one that said
Merchandise
. I clicked and a new page loaded showing shirts, mugs, decals, and calendars.

Jake moved to share the display, coming close enough that I could feel the warmth of his shoulder pressed against mine. I liked the feeling.

We checked out the prices on the shirts. They were comparable to the graphic shirts I already sold at Southern Treasures. Definitely something I should look into.

But it would have to wait for Monday when Julie came back to work. I shut the laptop and leaned against Jake’s shoulder, stifling a yawn.

“I saw that,” he said, kissing me gently. “You need to get some sleep, and I need to get home.”

I kissed him back, tempted to ask him to stay, but the reality of our respective responsibilities quickly drove the idea from my mind.

“I’ll walk you down.”

“You don’t have to come downstairs,” Jake replied, closing the pizza box and taking it to the refrigerator. “I can lock up.”

I shook my head. Even though I’d given him the alarm codes, I couldn’t relax without my daily ritual. “You know I have to check the locks and alarms for myself.”

I followed him down. We checked the back door and the alarms, and kissed good night at the bottom of the stairs. We walked silently to the front door so as not to wake Bluebeard. I locked the door and watched Jake lope across the street and around the building to where he parked his car.

Bluebeard, however, wasn’t nearly as cooperative. He stuck his head out of his cage and glared through the dim light.

“Trying to $&#$&$% sleep here.”

I took the hint and went back upstairs.

A FREAK SUNDAY MORNING THUNDERSTORM CHASED
the tourists off the beach and into coffee shops and stores like mine. As soon as the sun broke through, though, the shop emptied as the crowds headed for the water.

In the lull that followed, I straightened and restocked the shelves, filling in the bare spots with merchandise from the warehouse. The shirts were stacked, the mugs and glassware lined up, and I was refilling the postcard rack when I heard Bluebeard mutter, “Uh-oh.”

I glanced at him, realized he was staring at the door, and turned to see what caused his distress.

Peter.

Peter was coming through the front door, with his family close behind. Peggy waved at me, a harried look on her face as she headed directly for the back of the shop, seven-year-old Matthew clinging to her hand. Judging from Matthew’s awkward gait, I suspected they were headed for the small bathroom tucked into a corner of the warehouse. Eleven-year-old Melissa followed at a more leisurely pace, her expression making it quite clear that she considered her brother’s distress an affront to proper etiquette.

“Peter?” My voice came out with a quaver. I swallowed hard and tried again. “Peter, what a surprise! What brings you here?”

Peter shrugged, not meeting my eye. “We were visiting the folks for the weekend, and the kids wanted to come to the beach, so we figured we’d come down for the day.”

There was more to it than that, I was sure, but I knew Peter—and he would take his time getting around to the real reason for his visit. Meanwhile, I was stuck with him, Peggy, Matthew, and Melissa in the store.

I asked Peter how he’d been, and let him rattle on about his job while I worked on the postcard rack. I wasn’t listening carefully, but I gathered his success was just beginning and he would undoubtedly be running the company soon.

After a few minutes of Peter’s chatter, Peggy returned from the bathroom with Matthew still in tow.

Melissa trailed behind, as though trying to keep as much distance between herself and the rest of the family as possible without risking a public scolding. Clearly, adolescence had hit full force. Going to the beach was good. Going with your parents was barely tolerable. Going with your little brother was clearly unacceptable.

I’d always gotten on well with Melissa when she was younger and I was the cool independent auntie with an apartment, a store, and a parrot. But I hadn’t seen her in nearly a year, and it looked like I had joined the ranks of the other adults in her life.

The verdict was crystal clear when she greeted me with “Hello, Aunt Gloryanna. It’s good to see you.” Gone were the excited hugs, the “Auntie Glory,” the begging to feed Bluebeard. I bit back a sigh. Most kids went through this stage; I had just hoped it would be different for Melissa and me.

“Good to see you, too”—I hesitated—“Melissa.” Somehow, calling her Mel, which I had always done, felt wrong. She gave me a perfunctory hug, immediately pulling away as though anxious that someone might see her. With a shock I realized she was nearly as tall as me. When did that happen?

When you were busy avoiding her father, Martine.

Fortunately for my bruised ego, Matthew still thought I was cool. He waited impatiently until I released Melissa, then charged up and grabbed me around the waist. “Hi, Glory!”

Peter cleared his throat and looked hard at Matthew. His smile slipped and he released me. “Hello, Aunt Gloryanna,” he said.

Ignoring Peter, I crouched down to Matthew’s eye level and gave him a quick hug. “Hi, Matthew. I’m very glad to see you.”

I stood back up and patted his mop of unruly sun-bleached hair. “How are you?”

“Good. Can I feed your bird?”

Bluebeard muttered again. I think Melissa had hurt his feelings, and I was grateful for Matthew’s little-boy enthusiasm.

I led Matthew to the biscuit tin and let him extract a couple of the shredded-wheat squares that were Bluebeard’s usual treat. Looking at the parrot, I said, “If he behaves himself, I’ll let you give him some banana a little later.”

His grin told me I had scored some important auntie points.

Peggy hadn’t spoken a word since she’d emerged from the back of the shop. In fact, she didn’t seem able to even look me in the eye. Her gaze seemed rooted somewhere around my navel, her brow furrowed as though she was trying to unravel a particularly puzzling problem.

“Peggy?” I said.

Her eyes flickered to my face and then back down.

“Honey?” Even Peter, oblivious as ever, had noticed her concern. “Is something wrong?”

Peggy pulled her lips in, biting them as if to prevent her thoughts from spilling out. She shook her head slightly and unclenched her lips. “No,” she said, but she didn’t sound convinced.

Matthew was feeding Bluebeard, ignoring the grown-up drama taking place a few feet behind his back, and Melissa had moved several paces away as though once again putting as much distance as possible between herself and the adults.

Silence stretched as we waited for Peggy to continue. Something was clearly bothering her, but I didn’t know what, and Peter, as always, didn’t have a clue.

Finally Melissa broke the uncomfortable silence with a dramatic sigh. “Mom, just
ask
, for God’s sake!”

“Melissa! Do not take the Lord’s name in vain!” Peter seized on his daughter’s expression as a way to extract himself from whatever was upsetting his wife. But Melissa wasn’t having any of it.

“Oh, Dad,” she said in her most disgusted almost-a-teenager tone. “Really? Mom is about to lose it, and you’re worried about my language?” She shook her head, clearly incredulous that her parents could be so clueless.

Peggy, meanwhile, still hadn’t spoken, and didn’t look as though she was going to.

Melissa tossed her long dark hair over her shoulder with a flip of her head, dismissing her father. “Mom, if you won’t ask, I will.”

Peggy didn’t respond. Melissa turned and looked at me. Something in her expression told me I was being tested. I hoped I wouldn’t fail.

“Aunt Gloryanna, why is there a baby crib in your back room?”

It took a few seconds for her question, and the meaning of Peggy’s stare, to sink in. I started to laugh, but before I could explain, Peter broke in angrily.

“Is that why you wouldn’t come visit Mother and Dad? Why you’ve been avoiding us? Glory, what were you
thinking?
”

I stopped laughing, anger bubbling in my stomach like a cup of bad coffee. I felt my face flush and my hands clenched into fists.

“Oh, no,” Bluebeard said softly.

I had to control my temper.

One.

Two.

Three.

I couldn’t punch Peter in front of his wife and kids, much as I wanted to.

Four.

Five.

I would not swear at him with Melissa and Matthew listening.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Even if he was being a judgmental asshat.

Nine.

Ten.

Like hell I wouldn’t.

“What the hell?” My voice was loud, but I didn’t scream, and my language was milder than it might have been. I’d had Bluebeard as an example, after all. But I got my point across.

“A—a crib?” Peter stammered.

“So what if there is?” I shot back. “Would you just hold off on your judgmental BS for a minute?”

I turned my back on Peter and addressed Melissa. “Yes, there’s a baby crib back there. And a changing table, a rocking chair, and a chest full of diapers. They are for my friend Julie who works here part-time, so she can bring her baby with her when she doesn’t have a babysitter.”

I felt a hand on my arm. I turned and found Peggy standing at my side. “Sorry,” she said, a blush in her cheeks. “I just saw the crib, and I thought . . .” She hesitated, then shook her head. “I didn’t know quite what I thought, or how to ask about it. I’m sorry.”

Melissa’s attitude relented. “That is so cool, Aunt Glory! You really let your employee bring her baby to work?”

I nodded. “Rose Ann usually stays with her grandma, but some days her grandma can’t keep her and she comes here. She’s a very good baby.”

I turned to Peter. “Do you have any other questions?”

Peter didn’t answer. Not that I expected him to.

In a too-bright voice, Peggy tried to change the subject. “Have you been busy, Glory? There was a lot of traffic on the way down.”

“It was a pretty good morning,” I answered. She was trying desperately to ignore the tension that remained after her husband’s outburst, and I went along. But in the back of my mind another strike was added to Peter’s list of offenses. It was growing into a long list. “You’re getting your reports and checks all right every month, aren’t you?”

“Of course we are.” Peter spoke up again, now that his wife had smoothed things over. “In fact, that was one of the things I wanted to talk to you about.” He looked at Peggy, a clear reminder that she had a specific role to play in his little performance.

She looked relieved, and called to the children. “Let’s go!” She turned back to me, her cool, impassive mask back in place. “I promised the children ice cream when we got here. We’ll be back in a jiffy,” she said with an insincere smile.

Obviously, her moment of embarrassment had passed. She took Matthew by the hand and led the way back to the sidewalk, Melissa trailing along in her wake.

Melissa looked at her father and me over her shoulder, her expression telling me quite clearly that she would rather listen in on our conversation than hang out at the ice cream shop with her mother and little brother.

A rush of warm air flowed through the door, then the three of them were outside and the door closed behind them.

The old air conditioner droned on, battling against the heat, its constant whirring the only sound in the shop. Even Bluebeard remained silent, waiting to see what fool thing would come out of Peter’s mouth next.

But I didn’t get a chance to find out why Peter had dropped in. He got as far as “I wanted to talk to you,” when the bell sounded over the door and a trio of thirtysomething women came in.

I smiled at the new arrivals. “Can I help you find something?” I asked in a friendly voice. Even if Peter had angered me beyond endurance, I couldn’t let it change the way I treated my customers.

“Thanks,” said a leggy blonde, clearly the alpha of their little group. “Just looking for some souvenirs for the family before we have to head back.”

The other two giggled in a way that said “girls’ weekend” more clearly than their sunburns and the slight air of one-too-many umbrella drinks last night that clung to them.

“Anything in particular?” I asked, stepping closer. “Kid stuff, or something for the men in your life?” I had stopped using
husband
and
boyfriend
a few years back, in a moment of extreme caution, and the habit had stuck.

“Kids,” the blonde’s companions said in unison, and burst into giggles again, which the blonde didn’t share. I revised the umbrella drink hypothesis to mimosas with brunch, with the blonde as designated driver.

I moved to the spinner rack full of T-shirts and hoodies with garish slogans emblazoned across them. I was already wishing I had Bluebeard T-shirts. These women would have snatched them up. “Boys or girls?”

Before the giggling women had a chance to answer, Peter clamped his hand on my arm. “We need to talk,” he said. “But this isn’t the time. Let’s have dinner together. I’ll call and tell you where to meet us.”

Without waiting for an answer, he hurried out onto the sidewalk just as Peggy and the kids approached from down the block.

I turned back to my customers, wondering just what it was we had to talk about.