When Bobbie Sang the Blues (2 page)

“This has to be the most beautiful place on earth,” Bobbie said to Christy.

“I know. Sometimes I forget how lucky I am to live here.”

On their way to the storage units, Bobbie drove the scenic route out of Summer Breeze, winding past long stretches of open beach. The emerald waves of the Gulf capped sugar white sands, inviting sunbathers to take advantage of the autumn sun. A purple umbrella protected a mother and her little boy as they gathered buckets of sand for their half-built sandcastle.

Christy looked across at her aunt. Bobbies short blond curls billowed in the breeze coming through her open window. Christy remembered her aunt loved the ocean breeze; it never got too cold for her. She found herself hoping Bobbie would stay.

“Your shop might really catch on,” Christy said, glancing through the back window to the pickle barrel lumbering around on its side in the bed of the truck. “It’ll be something different.”

“Wait’ll you see my doors and windows!”

“Excuse me?”

Bobbie laughed. “I find old doors and windows and turn them into coffee tables, planters, and so forth. My pride and joy is my hall tree made from a picket fence. They were tearing down a picket fence from a yard a few blocks from me in Memphis. I grabbed the last two pieces just before they were tossed in the trash bin.”

“Up ahead on the right,” Christy pointed. “Those are the storage units.”

“Great.” Bobbie slowed down and turned into the graveled area, parking her red truck in front of the office.

Their white truck cruised along, and Roseann turned to stare at the storage facility. “That sign says the gate opens at eight o’clock and closes at one in the morning.”

“Thanks for the information,” Eddie drawled. “Don’t know what good it’ll do me.”

“They’re standing in front of a unit with the door up. It looks empty. Think she’s going to rent a unit? It’s the one next to the office.”

Eddie slowed the truck and glanced over his shoulder. “Maybe that’s where she’s gonna hide the money till she gets it all spent.”

It took less than twenty minutes for Bobbie to rent a unit from a man who introduced himself as Hornsby. “It’s my last name, but I
like it better than Leonard, my first name.” He was tall and lanky with a long nose and tousled dark hair, and he wore a Hawaiian shirt and Bermuda shorts with a three-inch tear above the left knee. Christy couldn’t tell if his brown eyes naturally protruded or if they had popped when Bobbie swayed into his office and asked if he had anything for rent.

“Happen to have a ten-by-twenty next to the office,” he said, after an awkward moment.

Bobbie plopped her purse down on the counter, and they followed him to the adjoining unit. As he rolled up the metal door, a blast of stale, hot air greeted them.

“These metal units get pretty hot,” he said. “But I’ll leave it open for a little while, air it out.”

“What about those stains on the concrete?” Bobbie pointed.

“Something from the previous owner. If you want, I’ve got some two-by-fours in an empty unit that I can lay down over the stain.”

Bobbie nodded. “I only have a few boxes, but I’d like to protect them.”

While Hornsby went after the wood, she turned to Christy. “What do you think?”

Christy shrugged. “I wouldn’t want to stay in here long, but it’s the middle of September. Soon the weather will cool down.”

Hornsby returned, balancing several pieces of wood in his arms. He laid them over the stain.

“Okay, I’ll take it,” Bobbie said.

“Come back in the office, and we’ll do the paperwork,” Hornsby suggested.

Bobbie and Christy followed him back to his tiny office, where he opened a squeaky drawer and removed a file folder.

Bobbie didn’t bother asking rates. She glanced carelessly over the contract he handed her, signed the forms, then pulled a wad of bills from her sequined shoulder bag. “I’ll pay three months in advance,” she said, slapping three one hundred dollar bills in Hornsby’s sweaty palm. She turned to Christy. “I have a moving van set to bring my stuff as soon as I call them.”

As they walked out of the office with Hornsby following, Bobbie turned to him. “Honey, you think you could help us put a couple of things in the unit?”

“I don’t usually—,” he began, following them to Bobbies truck. His gaze slid over the boxes and settled on the sixty-gallon barrel.

“It’ll only take a few minutes of your time.” Bobbie laid a hand on his arm. “And I’m afraid we girls will throw our backs out.” She turned to Christy. “I can’t wait to work on that pickle barrel. I haven’t seen anything like it at the flea markets or antique shops.” She inspected the dusty barrel.

“Neither have I. But then I’ve never even heard of an antique pickle barrel,” Christy said as Hornsby wrestled the barrel from the truck.

Bobbie slapped the dust from her hands and glanced at Hornsby as he set the last box on the storage unit’s floor. “I’ll call the moving van as soon as I get a place to live, and the rest of my stuff will be delivered. Thank you, Hornsby.”

He nodded, looking from the women to the items in the unit.

“Is there anything in those boxes you’ll need?” Christy asked.

“No. They’re just decorating books and magazines that I packed up at the last minute.”

“What’s that?” Christy asked, pointing at an object protruding from one of the boxes.

“A jack handle. That box holds some things I had in my truck, but I’ll leave them here so they don’t rattle around anymore. I was ready to pull my hair out the next time something slammed across the bed of my truck.”

“You ready to lock up here?” Hornsby asked.

“Yes, thanks.”

He pulled down the sliding metal door, and Bobbie inserted a padlock on the handle and turned the key.

Christy nodded. “Then if we’re done here, how about breakfast at Miz B’s?”

“Great! I’m starved, aren’t you?”

Bobbie waved to Hornsby as they got in the truck and slammed the doors.

“I’ll bet you my line-dancing boots that Hornsby’s the biggest gossip in town,” Bobbie whispered as she started the truck.

Christy glanced through the back window. Hornsby leaned against Bobbie’s locked unit, one bony foot slung carelessly over the other, staring after them. “Why do you say that?” she asked.

“Lesson in character, honey, since that’s your trade as a writer. I never met a human with a real long nose like Hornsby, narrow suspicious eyes, and a mouthful of questions who wasn’t nosy by nature.”

“Reminds me of Roy Thornberry,” Christy said. “A real thorn in my side. He’s my former boss at the local newspaper. For almost two years, I wrote a weekly column, ‘The Beach Buzz.’ But after Labor Day, when tourist season ended, I resigned. I just couldn’t put up with Roy anymore. He has to know everything that goes on in twelve counties. He claims it’s his business to keep up, but he goes way beyond the call of duty and interferes in private lives.” She recalled how he had pestered her endlessly about her relationship with Dan Brockman.

Bobbie turned back onto Front Beach Road and studied her reflection in the visor mirror. “Where did you say we’re going for breakfast? Is it somewhere I can tuck my napkin into my collar? I’m awfully messy,” she said, laughing at herself.

The white truck pulled into a service station with a view of the storage unit. Eddie stopped at a pump and put the hose on automatic. Then he climbed back behind the wheel and watched the road.

“Who’s that with her?” Roseann asked. “She looks young enough to be her daughter.”

“Bobbie can’t have children,” Eddie said. “She got pregnant when she was dating me, but a month after we got married, she lost the baby. The doctor said she couldn’t have kids. That’s when her personality changed.”

“Yeah, well, I’m gonna get us something to drink and stake out that storage facility.”

Ten minutes later, she left her look-out point near the phone booth at the edge of the service station and jogged back over to the truck.

“They’re pulling out of the gate and are heading this way,” she told Eddie. “They’ll pass us in a minute.”

“Get in!” he said. “Quick!” He bent toward the floor as though he were looking for something, and Roseann jumped in the seat and ducked her head. They heard the little red truck rumble past. Eddie had already paid for the gas, and he cranked up the engine and eased toward the road.

Roseann stared at him, thinking about what he had told her the night before. She cleared her throat. “Last night you said you signed your life insurance over to me last week. Why would you do that? You got a good thirty years left!”

A wide smile filled his round face. “You deserve it for putting up with me.”

She smiled. Eager to help Eddie now, she leaned forward in the seat and peered at the truck.

“So who is that young woman?” Roseann asked again.

“I don’t know, but if she’s connected to Bobbie, we’re sticking to her like a tick on a hound.”

As they sped down the highway, Christy wondered how her wild aunt and her proper, perfectionist mother could be related. They grew up in rural Minnesota, but Bobbie had married young and
moved away. She had spent most of her life in the South, and as a result, her southern accent sounded as pure as Georgia honey.

“Miz B’s is my friend Bonnie’s restaurant,” Christy explained. “It used to be a steak and seafood house. Bonnie said there were enough of those up and down the coast, and what we needed was ‘home cookin’. Nobody does that better than Miz B—that’s what we call her since she took over the restaurant.

“Bobbie, do you mind swinging by my place so I can pick up my car? After we eat breakfast, I need to get back home for a phone conference with my editor. I’m sure you have things to do as well.”

“Sure,” Bobbie replied good-naturedly. She slowed the truck and turned down Christy’s street. “I’ll follow you. By the way,” she said as the truck whirled into Christy’s driveway, “are there any sharp guys around? About my age? Maybe a little younger?”