Murder Sends a Postcard (A Haunted Souvenir)

by Fifield, Christy

  I put a few grapes and a piece of banana in Bluebeard’s dish. He’d had a long weekend, too, and he deserved a treat.

  “Won’t be the first time,” I continued.

  Bluebeard cocked his head and looked at me with his beady black eyes. He looked so human when he did that, as though he was thinking hard about his response. But it wasn’t the parrot who answered.

  “Sylvester.” The name came from the bird, but the voice was Uncle Louis’s. “Sylvester,” he repeated.

  I felt a slow smile spread across my face as I considered his suggestion. Sly was the one person I knew who had known my great-uncle well. Though I had only met him recently, he felt like a long-lost uncle. He wasn’t blood, but I trusted and respected Sly a lot more than Peter, who was.

  “Perfect!” I said. I gave Bluebeard another piece of banana. “Good boy!”

  I called Sly and asked him if he’d like to have dinner with me. His enthusiasm dimmed somewhat when I explained about Peter and his family, but he agreed to be my date. I said I’d pick him up in half an hour.

  Then I called Peter back. “Hope you don’t mind,” I said in a rushed tone. “I’m bringing a friend along to dinner. I had plans with him,” I lied, “so I’ll just bring him with. I’m sure there isn’t anything you need to tell me that he can’t hear.”

  I didn’t wait for Peter to break his stunned silence. “Gotta run. See you in a little bit.” I broke the connection and charged upstairs to change. My phone rang as I reached the top of the stairs and the caller ID said it was Peter.

  I didn’t answer.

  Twenty minutes later, showered and wearing a cool cotton dress and a pair of flat sandals, my hair pulled into a loose ponytail that kept it off my neck, I ran back downstairs. I said good-bye to Bluebeard, checked the locks and alarms, and hurried out the back door to where my truck was parked behind the shop.

  Five minutes later I pulled into the junkyard behind Fowler’s Auto Sales. I congratualted myself on knowing all the back roads, and avoiding the parking lot that Main Street became on a summer weekend. One of the benefits of living in Keyhole Bay all my life.

  A grin split Sly’s face when he saw the truck gleaming in the late afternoon sun. He may have sold her to me, but I knew she held a special place in his heart.

  I tossed him the keys. “Want to drive?”

  He snatched the keys out of the air with the dexterity of a man forty years younger, and the grin grew wider.

  “Guess I could do that for you, girl,” he said. But the joy in his voice belied the casual words, and made me smile.

  “By the way, if Peter asks, we had plans.”

  He nodded.

  Sly slid behind the big steering wheel and started the engine. He cocked his head, listening carefully to the muted rumble. After a minute of concentration he nodded, as though satisfied the truck was performing properly, and expertly released the clutch.

  I watched his face as he drove the few blocks to Mermaid Grotto. His delight in driving the old truck was evident, and I felt a lump in my throat as I realized how much the old man had come to mean to me.

  He pulled into the far corner of the lot, as far from other vehicles as possible, and parked protectively next to a curb. It was exactly what I would have done.

  We climbed out of the cab, and I caught Sly patting the hood when he thought I wasn’t looking. “Just making sure she isn’t running too hot,” he said. I didn’t believe it for a second.

  I walked across the parking lot, through the shimmering waves of heat rising from the blacktop. As we neared the front door, my steps slowed.

  Facing Peter was bad enough, but I hadn’t been through the front door of Mermaid Grotto since the afternoon Sly had sold me the truck. Since that afternoon in the old mermaid tank that had nearly been my last.

  “You have to face it sometime,” Sly said, offering me his arm. “But it don’t have to be today. Up to you, girl.”

  I took his arm with my left hand and straightened my slumping shoulders. “No, you’re right. And today’s as good a day as any.” I patted his arm with my right hand. “Thanks for being here,” I said softly.

  “Any time you need me,” he answered. “Now let’s go meet that cousin of yours and see what damn fool scheme he’s got in his head this time.”

  I grinned. Trust Sly to cut to the heart of the matter.

  But even with Sly at my side, walking into Mermaid Grotto turned my stomach and weakened my knees. I stopped just inside the door, unable to take another step for fear my legs would give out and send me tumbling to the floor.

  “It don’t have to be today,” Sly repeated in a whisper.

  I closed my eyes for a second and took a deep breath, steeling myself against the sight of the mermaid tank. “Yes, it does,” I whispered back, opening my eyes and looking around. “Or I have to explain to Peter why not. And I do not want to discuss my swim in that tank with him. Ever.”

  “Up to you,” Sly replied.

  I stood my ground, and Sly stayed at my side.

  After a few seconds I felt stronger, and we moved toward the hostess stand. I distracted myself by examining the T-shirts on display. The graphics were excellent, and the shirts appeared to be high quality.

  “Did I tell you we might be doing T-shirts with Bluebeard on them?” I asked Sly.

  He shook his head. “You didn’t, but it sounds like a great idea. Heck, you might even get me to wear one.”

  The idea made me smile. Sly may have worn coveralls in the junkyard, but they always looked as though they had started the day clean and freshly pressed. When he wasn’t working, he wore sharply creased khakis and long-sleeved sport shirts with the sleeves rolled up to expose his sinewy forearms.

  I had never seen him in anything as casual as a T-shirt. Especially one with a parrot on the front.

  “I’ll give you one, if you promise to wear it,” I teased.

  “You got a deal,” he answered.

  The hostess gave me an inquiring glance, and I told her we had a reservation.

  “Name?” she asked, looking at her list.

  I realized belatedly that Peter hadn’t told me what name he’d given them. I gave her Peter’s name, but there wasn’t anything. I tried Peggy. It would be just like my cousin to delegate the actual work to his wife. No joy.

  I was about to abandon my quest and just wait for Peter and his family to arrive when I had one more idea. “Southern Treasures?” I asked.

  The girl glanced down at her list and back up with a polite smile. “That’s it,” she said, as though I was a small child that had finally given the correct answer to a question. A frown creased her perfect brow. “But it says three adults and two children?”

  “Actually there are four adults,” I said, returning her false smile. “The others should be along any minute. We’re just a little early.”

  She eyed me for a moment longer, than motioned us to follow her. I gripped Sly’s arm tighter, and kept my gaze on the hostess’s back as she led us to a large round table near the enormous fish tank.

  Sly immediately pulled out the chair that faced away from the tank and held it for me. “We should let the guests watch the tank, don’t you think?” he said, taking the chair next to mine.

  I nodded, but couldn’t find my voice to answer. I could feel the mass of water at my back, and I shivered with a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

  Within seconds ice water appeared, and a young man took our order for sweet tea. After he left to fetch the drinks, Sly gave me a concerned look. “Sure you’re okay? You look like you seen a ghost.”

  I laughed, or at least I tried. What came out of my throat was closer to a gargle. “No, I only talk to a ghost.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I do, Sly,” I croaked. I took a long drink of water and tried
again. “Really, I’ll be fine.”

  To distract us both from our surroundings, I began to tell Sly about Peter and Peggy’s visit to the shop. I got as far as Peggy’s return from the restroom when Sly shook his head slightly and looked over my shoulder.

  I turned to follow his glance, and saw the hostess approaching our table with Peter, Peggy, Melissa, and Matthew trailing along behind her.

  The next few minutes were a chaos of introductions and musical chairs, as the kids jockeyed for the seats facing the fish tank, and Peter tried to control everyone’s movements.

  Sly acknowledged the children with the courtly manners of an earlier generation, and practically bowed over Peggy’s hand when she offered it to him.

  Peter maneuvered himself into the chair on my left. He leaned close as the kids and Peggy were exclaiming over the fish tank and took advantage of the hubbub to whisper, “Don’t you think we should talk about our business in private, Gloryanna?”

  I forced an innocent smile onto my face. “Whatever do you mean, Peter? You said you wanted to talk, but you never actually said it was about business.”

  He glared, but I wasn’t finished. “You know, Sly is an old friend of Uncle Louis, and he’s kind of taken to looking out for me, since I’m alone down here.”

  I stopped and bit my lip, trying to look sincere. It wasn’t exactly a lie; Sly did kind of look out for me. Not because I was alone, or because I needed looking after, but because he was my friend.

  “You know we wanted to have you move up closer to your family,” he said. “You could have come and stayed with Mom and Dad when your folks . . .” He left the rest of the sentence dangling, as though he was too considerate to actually say something indelicate.

  “No, I couldn’t have, Peter. We’ve had that conversation a million times. But that’s ancient history. Sly is here, and there isn’t anything you can say that you can’t say in front of him.”

  “You’re sure you want our family business discussed in front of him?” Peter’s voice rose slightly, and he clamped his mouth shut as though trying to stop the flow of words.

  “It won’t bother me,” I said, maintaining my innocent tone. Truth be told, I kind of wanted a witness to whatever Peter had planned, and I trusted Sly to be objective. Even though he’d called Peter’s ideas “damn fool schemes.”

  Some things were just self-evident.

  Peter, as usual, had to stall for a while before he could actually get to his point. He made a show of examining the menu, and asked me a series of questions about the offerings. Had I tried a particular dish? Did I remember if that was on the menu when we were kids? Had I been here lately?

  It was the one question I hoped he wouldn’t ask but knew he would. Like his choice of restaurant, he’d managed to find the most inane question with the most painful associations.

  “I was here for dinner a few months back,” I answered. “Before spring break. But I avoid places like this during the tourist season, they’re usually very crowded.” I neglected to mention my subsequent visit, and tried to deflect further questions. “Which reminds me, how in heaven’s name did you manage to wrangle an actual reservation? Usually they don’t take them; it’s first come, first served, and the lines are monstrous on the weekends.”

  It worked. Peter launched into a long-winded explanation about how he’d impressed the hostess and the manager and talked them into allowing him to put his name on the list and arrange to return at a particular time. “You can usually get what you want,” he said smugly, “if you know how to play the game.”

  He smiled knowingly. “That’s how it works in the city.”

  I turned my head and caught Sly’s eye. His warning frown kept me from bursting into hysterical laughter. It was the standard procedure at the Grotto during the summer, when their clientele tended toward families with children, who couldn’t wait in the bar. It wasn’t a reservation exactly, but it let them manage the waiting crowd a little better.

  While I tried to figure out how to answer Peter’s arrogance, the waitress appeared to take our orders. I was grateful for the interruption.

  Peter, naturally, had to modify everything he selected for his dinner, so it took several minutes to get the order exactly to his specifications. Eventually, though, he was satisfied and the waitress left.

  She returned in a couple minutes with a glass of white wine for Peggy and sodas for the rest of the family. I envied Peggy; if I had to spend much longer around Peter, I’d need something a lot stronger than wine.

  But that would have to wait until I got home.

  For the next few minutes, Peter held court, explaining the fish tank and its history to his family. I could see the kids rapidly losing interest, until Peter started talking about the mermaids that used to swim in the tank.

  “Real mermaids? Really?” Matthew asked, his eyes alight with the prospect.

  “There’s no such thing as a mermaid,” Melissa said, with barely concealed contempt. “Everybody knows that.”

  “They were real enough,” Peter said. “Ladies with tails and long hair. They swam around the tank in a kind of slow dance, and they did flips and loops and all sorts of things. They were all really beautiful, and really amazing swimmers, and they did a show every half hour, I think it was, all day and all night. It was really something to see.” He turned and looked at me. “You remember that, don’t you, Glory? Way back, when there were people swimming in the tank?”

  For one insane second I considered telling him it had only been a few months since someone went swimming in the tank, but the impulse passed.

  So I nodded in agreement, and motioned for him to go on.

  Peter chattered on about the mermaids, and how their show was famous all along the Gulf. I sat with my back to the tank and let his voice wash over me, wondering when he would finally get to the point of his visit.

  Dinner arrived, fish and chips for the kids, grilled shrimp for Sly, salads for Peggy and me, and a highly modified sampler platter for Peter. Everything looked and smelled good, and the conversation died away quickly as we tucked into the meal.

  Peter ate quickly, nodding appreciatively. “It’s as good as I remember,” he said when he pushed the empty platter away with a contented sigh.

  “When was the last time you were here?” I asked, searching for some way to restart the conversation.

  “Not since I was a teenager,” Peter said. He stared off into space, as though trying to remember. But the details didn’t come, and he shrugged. “A long time anyway.”

  Peter drew a deep breath and turned in his chair to look at me. “I want to talk to you about the store.”

  “I presumed as much,” I said dryly. “Especially when you made the reservation in the name of the store.”

  Peter shrugged. “It just seemed appropriate. Anyway,” he went on, “I thought I’d talk to you while we were down here, and after our visit to the shop, well . . .” His voice trailed off, as though I should know what he meant.

  “Well, what?” I played dumb. I wasn’t sure what he had in mind, but I suspected it had to do with Rose Ann’s nursery. I wasn’t wrong.

  “I think we need more merchandise,” Peter said. “Revenue is up a little, but it could be better. Have you thought about expanding?”

  “There isn’t any space. The places on either side of me have been there for years, they’re doing well, and neither one is going anywhere. I can’t expand.” I dismissed his suggestion. “Maybe someday, but not right now.”

  Peter shook his head. “I thought about that, but after I looked the place over again today, I think there’s room to bring in more merchandise.

  “If you don’t need the space in the back for warehouse space, if you can waste that area, and our money, on a nursery for a part-time employee, you can use it for more displays and more merchandise.”

  Even though I was expectin
g him to say something along these lines, his pronouncement stunned me into silence. Wrong in so many ways. I felt anger start to bubble, but I forced it back. I’d already yelled at Peter once today, with no apparent affect. It was time for a different approach. “I understand that you aren’t around the store much,” I said. Beneath the table I clenched my hands into fists, my fingernails digging into my palms in an effort to control my temper. “You have no way of knowing what works and what doesn’t. And you have no way of knowing how that nursery came to be. But believe me, there is no waste of ‘our’ space, and I did not spend any of the store’s money.”

  He started to speak, but I cut him off. “The nursery was a gift from many of Julie’s friends, a way to allow her to keep her job. Which, I want to point out, she is very, very good at, though you have no way of knowing that either.”

  Ignoring most of what I said, Peter shot back, “Well, maybe I need to be more involved then. Maybe I should spend some time here, see what works. I’m sure you could profit from a fresh pair of eyes on the operation.” He sniffed indignantly. “Of course, I have a very important job that keeps me busy.”

  He shook his head. “There isn’t any way I can personally supervise your operation.”

  He cocked his head to the side and tried to pretend he’d just had an idea. I knew we were finally getting to his real mission. And I knew I wasn’t going to like it.

  Chapter 10

  “SINCE I CAN’T BE HERE MYSELF,” HE CONTINUED, “maybe I can get someone else to take a look at the operation. A consultant maybe?”

  I controlled my mounting anger. Peter’s interference had reached a new height. He had always worked for a large corporation, and he had trouble translating what was appropriate for a big company into what worked for a small store. I had to keep that in mind, or I would explode.

  “We’ve talked about consultants before, Peter,” I reminded him. “The expense far outweighs anything they could do for a company this small.”