Murder Sends a Postcard (A Haunted Souvenir)

by Fifield, Christy

  Jake looked at me, his glance quizzical. I shook my head in resignation. The two of them had started ganging up on me lately, and I knew I didn’t stand a chance.

  Privately I was pleased with the turn of events. Bluebeard—and Uncle Louis—were the only blood family I had left, if you didn’t count my annoying cousin Peter and his parents, which I usually didn’t.

  Whether Jake and I were actually a couple was still up for debate, but neither of us was seeing anyone else. So the apparent approval of my great-uncle, even when it came via his spokesbird, was treasured.

  I watched Jake pull out a small plastic bag of plump green grapes and put them in Bluebeard’s dish. He was rewarded with a quick head butt and another cooed “Pretty boy” before Bluebeard hopped over to the dish and greedily consumed the grapes.

  When he had devoured his second treat, Bluebeard went back into his large cage and settled on his perch for the night. I left the door open, which we both preferred, but I draped the cage with a blanket to block the streetlights coming through the big front windows.

  “’Night,” I whispered.

  Bluebeard murmured something soft and indistinct, already on his way to parrot dreamland. I wondered if parrots dreamed. And if Bluebeard didn’t dream, did Uncle Louis? I still had no idea what the rules were for ghosts, and Uncle Louis had done very little to enlighten me. Mostly he flirted with customers and swore a lot.

  Having given Bluebeard his due, Jake turned his attention back to me, giving me a hug and a quick kiss. As we climbed the stairs to my apartment, I told him about dinner and asked him what he’d like to eat.

  “How am I supposed to choose? It all sounds good!”

  I gestured to the table. “Sit down, I’ll fix you a plate.”

  Jake protested, but I shook my head. “I had plenty of help with cleanup, and you were stuck working. I’ll get it.”

  “It’s not like I was that stuck,” he said. But he settled for getting himself some silverware before he sat and watched me put samples of several salads on a plate. I put the plate on the table, along with a tall glass of sweet tea for each of us.

  While Jake ate, making appreciative noises with each bite, I filled him in on everything I’d learned over dinner.

  He shook his head at my description of Felicia Anderson. “Fifteen years, and she’s still a Yankee?” He lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender that was marred by the potato salad that fell off his fork and plopped back onto his plate. “There’s no hope for me then, is there?”

  “Probably not,” I agreed. “But you’re at least a Westerner, not a true Yankee.” Though Jake’s background was still a bit sketchy, I knew he’d grown up on the West Coast. “Felicia’s from somewhere in Connecticut, and even Mark Twain said people from there were Yankees.”

  “Two points,” Jake said, “for a literary reference. Very good.”

  “But it’s all about family,” I continued. “Who your family is, who you’re related to, how long you’ve lived here.”

  Families in Keyhole Bay measured their residence in generations, not years. I knew people whose families had lived in the area for more than two centuries. Family history was a popular topic of conversation, always had been. Which meant I knew hours’ worth of stories about families like the Andersons.

  “Felicia will always be a Yankee in the eyes of the old families around here.” I shrugged. “You will, too—not that it matters to me.”

  I grinned at him. “Think you can live with that?”

  Jake returned my grin. “I guess I can manage,” he said. He scraped up the last bite of coleslaw. “Do I get dessert, since I ate all my dinner?” he asked with mock innocence. He already knew there were cookies and homemade peach ice cream, and I knew he had a sweet tooth.

  I snagged another cookie for myself when I brought Jake his dessert. He looked askance at the cookies, and I had to explain their history.

  “I don’t think they’re exactly traditional,” I admitted. “But I loved them when I was a kid.”

  While Jake finished dessert, I tried unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn.

  “You’re tired,” he said. “I need to get out of here and let you get some sleep.”

  I didn’t argue. We weren’t at the staying-over stage, still far from it, and I wasn’t in any hurry to get there.

  I let Jake out the front door, and watched as he loped across the deserted street to the front door of his shop before I trudged back upstairs and fell into bed.

  • • •

  IT WAS NEARLY CLOSING TIME ON FRIDAY WHEN Bridget McKenna came back in the shop. She went straight to Bluebeard’s perch and said hello, even remembering to use his name.

  A few minutes later, after making a circuit of the shop, inspecting the handmade quilts and thumbing through the vintage magazines, she came to the counter with a couple postcards and a garish T-shirt in a size small. “I should have packed some weekend clothes,” she said, handing me the T-shirt. “Usually I plan better than this.”

  “You travel a lot?” I asked, ringing up her purchases.

  She nodded. “It used to be long-term assignments, but over the last few months it’s been every other week, with a week at home in between. This time”—she paused to dig in her wallet for a credit card—“it’s going to take a little longer than expected, so I’m stuck here over the weekend.”

  I took the postcards and turned them over to scan the price codes. “I’d swear I bought postcards when I was in here yesterday,” she said. “But when I got home, they were nowhere to be found.”

  I vaguely remembered seeing her standing at the spinner rack the afternoon before when I had gone upstairs to fix dinner. I thought she’d had postcards in her hand, though I couldn’t be sure.

  It might not be our mistake, but I bought the cards by the hundreds, and they didn’t cost a lot. Call it a gesture of goodwill, I could afford to give away a few postcards.

  “These are on me,” I said as I slipped the postcards into a small bag. “You want to put these in your purse?”

  She took the small bag and slid it into a side pocket of her purse.

  “Thank you,” she said. “If I find the others, I will be sure to return them to you.”

  “Not necessary. Consider it a gift,” I said as I handed her the large bag with the T-shirt.

  She glanced around, as though making sure there weren’t any other customers in the store. “So what’s to do on the weekends around here?”

  “Depends on what you like,” I replied. “Boat tours, museums, beaches if you can stand the crowds.” I ignored the shudder that passed through me at the thought and added, “Lots of scuba diving in the Gulf.

  “You have a car, right?”

  She nodded.

  “Biloxi’s just a couple hours west, if you want a casino. Another hour or so to New Orleans, a couple more and you’re in Cajun country, if you want to do some driving. There are some lovely places in southern Louisiana: bayous, plantations, there’s even a couple places that have sternwheeler cruises. And there’s always a festival or something.”

  She thought for a moment, then asked, “Where would you go?”

  “Biloxi, I guess, because I haven’t been there in a while,” I answered. “I usually go over a couple times a year with friends. Catch a show, gamble a little, maybe stay over one night. But mostly I can’t be gone longer than a day,” I said, glancing around the shop.

  I also couldn’t afford to gamble if I wanted to continue saving for my secret goal: to buy out my annoying cousin Peter. Which reminded me he had called the day before. My mother would be scandalized that I was ignoring the social obligation of returning his call, but my mother hadn’t had to deal with Peter the way I did.

  “One more question. Where around here is good for dinner? I’ve been living on takeout all week.”

  I shook my head. “Wish I
had a good answer to that one. There are a couple great places, but everything’s packed on a Friday night in the summer.”

  She sighed. “Guess it’s another evening of fish and chips, or burgers. I am so not ready to fight crowds.” She glanced around again. “Besides, I know I’m not exactly welcome around here.”

  The ghost of a grin played around her mouth. “Not like that’s anything new.”

  I don’t know what possessed me, but before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “If you don’t mind leftovers, I’ve got plenty to share.”

  Chapter 4

  BRIDGET—AFTER MY HASTY INVITATION, I HAD TO start thinking of her on a first-name basis—considered my offer for several seconds, but she answered before I could rescind it.

  “That’s very generous, but I wouldn’t want to put you out. Are you sure you want to do this?”

  My brain was screaming “No!” but the manners drilled into me by generations of Martine and Beaumont women wouldn’t let me take back an offer of hospitality.

  “Of course,” I lied, smiling in what I hoped was a sincere way. “I’ll just need to tidy up a little.” I frantically tried to remember if I had made the bed that morning, or washed the rest of last night’s dishes.

  “Are those leftovers portable?” she asked.

  “Uh, yeah, I guess so. Why?”

  “Why don’t you bring them out to Bayvue, and we can eat there? I have a huge house all to myself. Besides”—she lowered her voice conspiratorially—“I know everybody around here wants to see what those houses look like. Unless you’ve been out there already?”

  I shook my head. The houses had been completed just as Marshall Development cratered. Nobody from Keyhole Bay got a chance to see the models before they were locked up tight. Since then, only the bank examiners had been allowed on the property.

  “I have to admit I’m curious,” I said. I knew that my curiosity sometimes got me into trouble, but I couldn’t see any harm in getting a tour of the notorious model home. “Why don’t I give you a call when I’m ready to drive out?”

  There wasn’t any way I could get in trouble just going out to see those houses, was there? And how could I resist the opportunity to get a close-up look at the development that was causing so much dissention?

  As soon as Bridget was out the door, I grabbed the phone and called Karen. The call went to voice mail, and I instinctively checked the time; it was five minutes past the hour, time for Karen’s local news segment on WBBY.

  While I turned on the radio to catch her broadcast, I left a message. “Call me ASAP.”

  For the next ten minutes, I listened to Karen. She interviewed a local author who just happened to have a signing scheduled at Beach Books on Saturday, reported on the fresh catch at the fishing piers, and presented a recorded segment of her ongoing coverage of Keyhole Bay history.

  Karen kept her boss happy by doing the stories he wanted, the ones that cast his advertisers and listeners in a good light. But she also liked to do what she called real reporting. Digging into stories with an edge energized her more than a triple espresso, and she managed to get them on the air even when the portrayal was less than flattering.

  It took her another fifteen minutes to return my call. “Only have a few minutes,” she said without preamble. “Meeting with the station manager in five.”

  “Well, whatever plans you had for tonight, cancel them.”

  She didn’t argue. We’d been best friends for decades, and she knew I would have a good reason. But that didn’t stop her from asking, “Why?”

  “You want to see the inside of one of the Bayvue Estates model homes.” It wasn’t a question; I knew she’d want to go. The fact that I needed some moral support had nothing to do with anything. Much.

  “When?”

  “Soon as you’re off. We’re taking the leftovers from last night. Oh, and we’ll need a main dish to fill out the menu. There isn’t much chicken salad left. ’Bye!” I broke the connection, knowing she wouldn’t delay her meeting to call me back.

  I could deal with the fallout while we got ready to go out to Bayvue Estates. Besides, I was the one with the invitation. She wouldn’t get to see the house without me.

  My hands shook as I put the phone back in place. I didn’t spontaneously invite strangers to dinner, or boss Karen around. If anything, Karen bossed me around. And everyone else. It was one of the main reasons she and Riley couldn’t seem to live together. Riley owned his own fishing boat, and he was used to being the boss. Having two bosses in one house had led to some interesting times. And a divorce.

  So where did all this gumption come from?

  That was the exact question Karen asked when she showed up at my door an hour later.

  I was just closing up for the night when her SUV slid in next to the curb. How did she manage to find the exact perfect parking spot, no matter where she went? It was as if the universe acknowledged that she was in a hurry and it catered to her needs. It was part of her charm that she simply accepted her good fortune as her due.

  She came through the front door with a grocery bag in her hand, her giant shoulder bag slung over her shoulder, and a bemused look on her face.

  “Who was that strange woman who called me an hour ago and started giving orders?” she asked with a laugh in her voice as she locked the door behind her. “I don’t believe I know her.”

  “I don’t either,” I admitted. “But I need your help, and I knew you’d want to go with me.”

  “With you where?” She shook her head. “You can explain while we take care of this.” She waved the grocery bag in my direction. “An extra pound of chicken salad from the deli at Frank’s. We’ll mix it with whatever’s left of yours and no one’s the wiser.”

  She was halfway up the stairs before I caught up with her.

  I pulled the leftovers out of the refrigerator, gauging whether there was enough food for three people. I decided it was probably fine. Bridget wasn’t tiny, but she was slender, and I would bet she wasn’t a big eater.

  I don’t know what I was concerned about. Last night I had a refrigerator so full I didn’t know what to do. And now I was worrying over how much Bridget would eat, in case I didn’t have enough. But a good Southern hostess always served way more food than her guests would eat.

  Karen took my bowl of chicken salad and added in her contribution from Frank’s Foods. She mixed the two together and tasted, then transferred it to a clean bowl. I debated doing the same with the other salads, but they were all in refrigerator containers with secure lids, and they would travel better that way.

  I tried not to imagine what Memaw would have said about serving food from a plastic box. It simply wouldn’t have happened in her house.

  As we worked, I explained to Karen how the invitation had come about. “She sounded kind of lonely,” I said, “and the idea of take-out burgers, even good ones, every night?” It didn’t appeal to me, and I was certain it hadn’t appealed to Bridget. Why else would she have said yes to an invitation from a complete stranger?

  “Did you tell her I was coming with you?” Karen asked. The challenge in her voice told me she already knew the answer.

  “I will,” I said, trying not to sound defensive.

  Karen was packing the boxes and bowls into a couple canvas shopping bags. “Well, you better get on that, since we’re about ready to leave.”

  We were ready, but I suddenly felt hesitant about the whole enterprise. What were we doing, really?

  I shoved aside my trepidation and picked up the phone. It rang twice, then I heard Bridget say, “Hello.”

  “Hi, Ms. McKenna. This is Glory Martine from Southern Treasures. I’m just closing up the shop. We still on for dinner?”

  “Of course. And please call me Bridget. I’m only Ms. McKenna to clients and my boss.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Just one thing. I
forgot I was going to see a friend tonight. Do you mind if I bring her along? I think you’ll like her.”

  “I’m sure I will.” I could hear Bridget’s smile, and an undertone of something—relief?—in her voice. “Do you need directions?”

  I told her no, and said we’d see her in a few minutes.

  Bayvue Estates was a couple miles beyond the city limits, but nowhere in Keyhole Bay was much more than five minutes from anywhere else.

  Except in summer traffic.

  Karen offered to drive her SUV, but I wanted to take my truck and she agreed to ride with me. The truck was my pride and joy, purchased a few months earlier from my friend Sly.

  It was really more of a gift, though Sly would insist I had paid a fair price. The 1949 Ford pickup had belonged to Uncle Louis before Sly bought it, and he’d sold it to me for what he’d spent on it. It had just come back from the lettering shop with the name and number of my store emblazoned in old-fashioned gold script on the dark forest green paint. According to Sly, it was just the way it had been when Uncle Louis owned it.

  I thought it was the most beautiful truck in the South.

  Chapter 5

  WE CREPT THROUGH THE EARLY EVENING TRAFFIC with the windows rolled down. Auto air-conditioning was unheard of in 1949, and in spite of the Florida heat, I couldn’t bear the idea of adding it. The truck was completely original and I wanted to keep it that way. So we drove with the windows open.

  “Thanks for coming with me,” I said to Karen. “This could be really awkward, just the two of us. But you can talk to anyone anytime.”

  “I can ask nosy questions, you mean.”

  “That, too,” I answered. “But I think you’ll like Bridget. Besides, you might get something that will make a good news story down the road.”

  Traffic thinned as we moved away from the crush of motels, restaurants, and souvenir shops. Most people never got off the main drag, never saw the homes and schools that made Keyhole Bay a real town.