Murder Sends a Postcard (A Haunted Souvenir) (8 page)

IT WAS WEDNESDAY BEFORE I TALKED TO KAREN
again. The store was busy, as it always was the week of the Fourth; busy enough I hadn’t had time to worry about her.

I was working alone near closing time when she showed up. The sight of her SUV reminded me of the situation with her and Riley. I hoped everything was okay.

She sat in the car for a minute, and I realized she was listening to the police scanner. She kept one in the car, one at the station, and one in her house—all in case a story broke.

As I watched, she gestured impatiently at the machine, then jerked it free of the power connection and burst out of the car carrying the scanner, now running on battery power.

She slammed through the front door, tossed her bag on the counter, and hushed me when I tried to say hello. “Something’s up,” she said. “Don’t know what, but something, and I want to hear it.”

The scanner was quiet as we waited in silence. I had learned a long time ago to hold my tongue when Karen was listening to the scanner.

The tiny speaker buzzed and crackled with static, then a voice came through clearly. We listened as Boomer Hardy, the police chief, finally responded to the dispatcher.

“Keep your britches on, Travis. I was in the head. What’s so dang important?”

“Just had a phone call from a guy up in Minnesota, works for that bank?”

Boomer—his name was Barclay, but no one ever called him that—didn’t need to ask which bank. Everyone in town knew which bank had taken an interest in Keyhole Bay.

“What did he want that was so important you had to keep calling me?” Boomer’s impatience came clearly through the transmission.

“He asked us to check up on that Yankee gal, the one’s down here snooping around Back Bay. Says she hasn’t checked in since Friday and she’s not answering her phone.”

Boomer snorted. “So he’s got his panties in a bunch ’cause she hasn’t called in a couple days? Tell him to call her at work; she’s at the bank before they open and there ’til after they close.”

“Well, that’s just it, Boomer. He did try calling the bank. They said she hadn’t been in all week. He sure didn’t like the sound of that, acted like they should’ve let him know she hadn’t shown up.”

I wondered if something had happened on Bridget’s trip to Biloxi. Car trouble maybe, or she could be sick in her hotel. There had to be a reasonable explanation.

There wasn’t anything to worry about.

I caught Karen’s eye; she was thinking the same thing I was, and we both had the same sick feeling.

Something had gone badly wrong.

“I’ll go take a look, if it’ll make him feel better,” Boomer agreed, annoyance clear in his voice. “Can’t have those Yankees worryin’ about their little gal down here. Give me the location.”

The dispatcher reeled off the address where Karen and I had been on Friday, and the image of the deserted subdivision full of empty and abandoned lots flashed in my mind. A chill passed through me, making me shiver.

I locked up while we waited, mentally ticking off the minutes until Boomer would reach Bayvue Estates.

“She’s probably stuck in Biloxi,” I said.

“Probably,” Karen agreed. “But you’d think she’d at least call and let somebody know where she was.”

“Who would she call?” I asked. “Nobody here would give a flip, probably just as glad she wasn’t at the bank digging into their records.”

“Still, you’d think there would be somebody.”

I shrugged. “You’d think.”

I wondered who would miss me if I didn’t check in for a few days. Julie would notice on the days she was in the shop, but she only worked three days a week. I talked to Karen and Jake almost every day, but if they were busy, it might take a couple days before anyone realized I was gone.

It was a creepy thought.

The scanner crackled to life with Boomer’s voice. “Travis, I’m out at the location you gave me. There’s a car in the driveway, but no sign of anyone.” He described Bridget’s rental car and recited a license number. “Verify the renter on that, would you?”

“Roger that.”

Another minute of silence, and then Travis confirmed what Karen and I already knew: The car had been rented by Bridget. She’d used a company credit card.

“Maybe she wasn’t supposed to use the company car for a personal trip?” I said.

Karen shrugged. “That could be.” She went into what I called her reporter mode, a distance that shielded against emotional distress. “After all the scrutiny banks have been under, a lot of them have adopted very stringent rules to avoid looking like anybody’s getting away with anything.”

“Call that guy up North,” Boomer instructed over the radio. “Ask him what he wants us to do. It’s his house, and his gal. In the meantime I’ll take a look around.”

Karen and I made small talk while we waited, not sure what we were waiting for. The scanner sputtered to life occasionally with routine business: patrol officers checking licenses and issuing warnings or citations, reports of shoplifting and noisy neighbors. All the usual summer calls.

Travis finally came back, calling for Boomer. “Chief Hardy? I talked to the guy in Minnesota. He said to go in and take a look around.”

Boomer’s reply was an unintelligible mutter, reminding me of Bluebeard. The words might not be clear, but the meaning was. He wasn’t happy.

“Place is locked up,” Boomer answered. “What does he want me to do about that?”

“He said if you couldn’t get in, to do—I am quoting here—whatever is necessary.”

“Got it,” Boomer answered. He didn’t sound any happier.

He sounded even less happy when he called back a few minutes later. “Travis, send a wagon and Dr. Frazier. I think I found her.”

“Roger,” Travis answered.

Karen and I stared wordlessly, hoping it wasn’t Bridget. Not if Boomer was calling for Marlon Frazier. Dr. Frazier was the county coroner.

Whoever Boomer had found was dead.

“I’M HEADING OUT THERE,” KAREN SAID, GATHERING
up her scanner and bag. “I’ll call you when I know something more.”

“I’ll go with you,” I offered.

“No. Stay here. This could be a long night, and I don’t know where I’ll end up. I promise I’ll call.”

I reluctantly agreed; there was a part of me that didn’t want to see what was out at Bayvue Estates. Besides, Boomer might tolerate Karen doing her job, but he wouldn’t be thrilled to see me with her.

“Please do,” I said. “It’s got to be some kind of mistake, or it’s somebody else. Or something.”

“I don’t think it’s a mistake; Boomer doesn’t make very many. But I’ll keep you posted.”

I followed Karen out onto the sidewalk. She jumped into her SUV and pulled into traffic.

I didn’t want to be alone quite yet, and I realized I was staring across the street again, looking for Jake. Since when did I think of him first when I needed company?

I didn’t stop to consider the answer to that question. I made sure the door was locked, and seeing a break in traffic, I hurried across.

The door was locked, but I could see Jake inside, counting the register and checking it against his computer screen. I tapped on the window and he looked up with an annoyed frown, which disappeared as soon as he recognized me.

His welcoming smile faded, though, the minute he opened the door and saw my face. “Glory, what’s wrong?”

I blurted out the news.

“Karen and I were out there on Friday night,” I reminded him. “She seemed fine. Said she might go over to Biloxi for the day on Saturday. That’s where she was headed when you and I saw her on Saturday morning. She didn’t stay long after you left; she seemed to be ready to be on the road.”

“Let me finish up here,” he said. “We can talk while I work.” He offered me a chair behind the counter and went back to closing out his register. “Do you know anything more?”

I shook my head. “Just what we heard on the scanner. Boomer was out there, said it was her, but that was all. Karen’s gone to chase down the story and she promised to let me know what she finds out.”

Jake tapped the computer keys, the printer whirred and spat out a few pages, and he shut down the machine. “Let’s get out of here,” he suggested. “We can pick up some burgers at Curly’s and figure out what to do from there.”

Jake drove. We considered and rejected a dozen places to eat as we drove toward Curly’s. “We could just eat there,” I said, unable to come up with a better idea.

But when we pulled in, the parking lot was packed and we knew the small dining room would be even worse. We pulled into the line of cars at the drive-through, still trying to come up with a place to take our burgers.

Jake handed me the bag after we reached the window, and pulled out of the lot. “How about we take them to my place?” he asked without looking at me.

He’d never invited me to his place before. We went out or he joined the Thursday dinner crew, and my place was convenient after work. But tonight was different.

“I think I’d like that,” I said quietly. I didn’t want to be out in a crowd, and I didn’t want to go home.

Jake’s small rental house was only a few blocks from Beach Books, on a dead end in a maze of narrow residential streets. The pale green single-story cottage with a covered carport sat only a few feet from the street, a white board fence defining the perimeter of the postage-stamp lot. Native grass filled the front yard, trimmed precisely around the cobblestone walkway and the fence line.

Jake pulled into the carport and unlocked a side door that led directly into an immaculate kitchen as tiny as Bridget’s had been spacious. The counters were clear of clutter, the sink empty and scrubbed until it shone, and the tile countertops gleamed in the light from the overhead fixture.

On one side of the room sat a small wooden table painted a soft blue, and two dark blue kitchen chairs. I put the bag of burgers on the table as Jake pulled colorful pottery plates out of the cupboard and filled tall glasses with ice.

“Sweet tea?” he asked, taking a pitcher from the refrigerator. He filled the glasses without waiting for an answer.

We made small talk while we ate, and when we were done, Jake offered me a tour of his house. “There isn’t much to it,” he said, leading me through into the living room.

It was no surprise to find every inch of wall space covered with packed bookcases. “You know, Jake, you have an entire store full of books,” I said, gesturing to the bulging shelves. “Isn’t that enough?”

He grinned sheepishly. “These are just the keepers,” he explained. “The books I want to have around forever.”

I stepped close to the nearest shelf, reading titles. “I’ll have to check this out, see what it is you can’t live without.” I stopped as I read a string of titles shelved together.

“You’re really taking this volunteer fire department thing seriously!” I ran my finger along the spines neatly lined up together. Firefighting equipment. Fire investigation. Arson. At least a dozen titles.

Jake’s laugh sounded forced. “Yeah, I guess.” He nodded toward the hallway off the living room. “Want to see the rest of the house?” he said, moving in that direction.

Clearly this topic was closed for the moment, but I guessed we’d come back to it eventually. Why else would he have let me see that row of books?

Down the short hallway were a single bedroom and a small bath, both as tidy as the kitchen. The real surprise, though, was at the end of the hall, where a pair of multipaned glass doors led to a screened patio.

We sat down on the patio chairs, watching the light slowly fade from the sky. A soft breeze blew through, carrying the scent of roses from an unseen bush in a nearby yard.

The neighborhood was quiet. “Your neighbors must not be home,” I said.

Jake shook his head. “May not be home from work yet,” he said, “but even when they are, it’s pretty quiet around here. No vacation rentals, just a few weekenders, but mostly they’re all permanent residents.”

“No wonder you like it here,” I replied, “if it’s this peaceful all the time.”

“Pretty much,” he said. “Makes it a good place to live. I’m kind of hoping the landlord will consider selling the house. I think I could stay right here for a good long time.”

I struggled to find an opening to bring up the firefighting books again. They appeared to be older editions, not what a newly minted volunteer would read, and they were important to Jake. I wanted to know why.

From inside the house I heard the faint ringing of my cell phone. I had left it in my purse, hanging from the back of a kitchen chair.

I got up quickly and hurried back down the hallway and through the living room, but by the time I reached my purse, the phone had stopped ringing.

Jake shot me a questioning glance as I checked the call log. “It was Karen,” I said, quickly redialing her number.

She answered on the second ring. “I was just leaving you a voice mail,” she said. “Are you okay? It surprised me when you didn’t answer.”

“I left the phone in the other room,” I explained, without giving her any details. “So what did you find out?”

Her voice shook a little as she answered me. “It’s Bridget, for sure. Boomer recognized her, and he had her driver’s license for confirmation.”

She paused, and I could imagine her slipping into reporter mode, distancing herself from what she had seen. “They’re trying to reach her next of kin, but no luck so far, so Boomer hasn’t officially released her name.”

“What happened?” I asked. “She seemed fine on Saturday when she stopped by on her way to Biloxi.”

“She stopped by Saturday?”

“Just returning my food containers,” I answered. “But what’s going on out there? What happened to Bridget?”

“I don’t know. Dr. Frazier’s here, but he’s not saying anything yet.” Karen’s façade slipped, and stress pushed her voice into a higher register. “I have to go, but I promised to call, so I did. I’ll call you back as soon as I know anything more.”

“I HEARD,” JAKE SAID, HIS HAND RESTING LIGHTLY ON
my shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“Not really,” I answered, leaning against him. “I didn’t know her very well—really just met her a couple times—but she seemed nice, and a little lonely. I thought maybe we could be friends while she was here. Felt like she could use someone to talk to.”

I stood for several minutes with my head resting against Jake’s chest, feeling the warmth of his arms around me. He didn’t speak, and I was grateful for his quiet strength, for the patience to let me deal with things in my own way.

Outside, the sunset had faded to full dark. The kitchen light turned the windows to shadowy mirrors, reflecting the image of Jake and me standing with our arms around each other.

I really didn’t know why Bridget’s death affected me so strongly. I didn’t know her for very long. We didn’t have a lot in common, as far as I could tell. There was just something about her that had clicked, and now she was gone.

From a distance we heard the whine and boom of fireworks as night fell. The Fourth was still a day away, but legions of visiting children couldn’t wait another minute. Tomorrow there would be a professional display at the football stadium, but tonight was strictly amateur hour. It reminded me why I didn’t go out much this time of year.

I knew I should get home, but I wasn’t ready to leave just yet. My internal debate was short-circuited by the squawk of Jake’s radio. I hadn’t noticed it before, silent on a shelf in the corner of the kitchen, but now it crackled to life and the voice of the dispatcher filled the room.

“Station Three, Engine One. Grass fire reported at Anderson Park. Engine One respond, Code Two.”

Answers poured in almost before the dispatcher had finished the call. Volunteers at the station radioed they were on the way, and several others responded they would meet the unit on-site.

Jake released me and reached for the microphone. “Robinson, on call,” he said. “Will report to station.”

He turned back to me. “Time to go. I’m on call to cover the station in case of a call out.”

I didn’t need any more of an explanation. I threw my purse over my shoulder and followed him to the car.

He pulled out of the carport, and propped a portable flasher in the window. “With the holiday traffic, I may need this.”

He was right. Getting onto the highway would have been nearly impossible without the red and blue strobes clearing the way. As he turned onto the main drag, he glanced at me. “I can drop you at home, or you can come with me. But you have about twenty seconds to decide.”

I didn’t hesitate. “I’m going with you.”

Jake threaded his way through the evening traffic to the low brick building that housed the volunteer fire department. Keyhole Bay could call for help and support from Pensacola, if needed, but mostly our own volunteers handled our emergencies, large and small.

The station was empty, the pumper truck and medical unit already calling in from Anderson Park. “Small grass fire,” a voice reported. “Under control. No injuries. Medical unit returning to station.”

“Roger,” the dispatcher answered.

“I have to stay until they get back,” Jake said. He led the way to the small kitchen behind the truck bays. “You want something while we wait?”

I accepted his offer of a bottle of water. I swallowed, and felt the cold slide down my throat, still tight with emotion.

I looked at Jake. He looked so at home in the station, as though he belonged there. I remembered the volumes on his living room shelf, and wondered again what they might reveal about him.

Whatever that was, though, I wasn’t going to find out tonight. While we waited for the medical unit to return, the radio continued to broadcast one call after another.

The pumper rolled in, the crew sweating in their heavy turnouts. Jake handed me his keys with an apologetic shrug. “Looks like a busy night,” he said. “They’re going to need me. Take my car. Drop the keys through the mail slot and I’ll pick it up later, or in the morning.” He gave me a quick kiss and sprinted for the truck.

I watched the activity in the station for a few minutes, flattening myself against the brick wall and trying to stay out of the way. It quickly became clear that Jake was right: the station was a buzz of activity, and he was needed.

I don’t think he even noticed when I left.

I parked Jake’s car behind the bookstore and crossed the street to the front door of Southern Treasures. In spite of all that had happened, it wasn’t that late and I realized Linda and Guy were still open.

I walked past my front door and into the Grog Shop.

Guy waved a greeting from the back of the shop, where he was filling a shelf with giant bottles of daiquiri and margarita mix. Based on past history, those shelves would be bare before noon tomorrow.

Linda was behind the counter, ringing up a steady stream of customers preparing for their holiday celebrations. I walked back and gave Guy a hand with the stocking.

It was a job I’d done every weekend my last year of high school, when I had lived with Guy and Linda after my parents died, and in a strange way it comforted me.

A few minutes later the clock hit closing time. Linda checked out the last customers and locked the front door behind them before coming over to check on our progress.

“Haven’t lost your touch,” she said, admiring the neat rows of bottles.

Guy snagged three bottles of soda from the cooler, twisting off the caps and giving one to each of us, keeping one for himself. “Stocking is thirsty work,” he proclaimed.

It was a little ritual we’d observed since I first started helping him when I was just a bored little kid who thought his store was a cool place to hang out. I didn’t realize back then just how lucky I was to have Guy and Linda.

Linda gave me a questioning look. “Something wrong, Glory? You look upset.”

I told her the same thing I’d told Jake. “Nobody knows what happened,” I said before she could ask. “Boomer went out on a welfare check and he found her body.”

“It’s just sad, thinking of her out there all alone,” I said, shrugging off any further discussion.

“I did have something I wanted to ask you about,” I said to Linda, trying to change the subject.

Guy gave us a lopsided grin. “I know girl talk when I see it coming,” he said. “I’m pretty sure I have some work to do in the back.”

He moved quickly, as though we might be contagious. Linda watched him go, an affectionate grin lighting her face. I envied her.

“What’s up, Glory?” Linda asked as soon as Guy was out of earshot. “You looked like you had something on your mind when you were here over the weekend, but we didn’t get a chance to talk.”

“It’s Karen and Riley.”

Linda rolled her eyes. “Those two! Glory, whatever is going on between them, there is nothing you can do to change it. You’re just going to have to let them do whatever they do.”

“I know,” I said. “But I still worry about Karen.”

Linda put an arm around me. “That’s what friends are for. We worry about the people we care about, even if there isn’t anything we can do.” She gave my shoulders a squeeze. “Who knows? They just might surprise you.”

I hoped she was right. They had been spectacularly unsuccessful at actually living together so far, but maybe Karen was right and things were different this time. I allowed myself a glimmer of hope that they would make it work.

We talked a few minutes longer, carefully avoiding the subject of Bridget. The whole time a part of me was waiting for the phone to ring, with an update from Karen.

I left Linda with a promise to keep her posted on whatever I heard, and went home to take care of Bluebeard.

And wait.