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.”
Chapter 13
“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.
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br /> 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.
Chapter 14
I HAD GONE TO BED WITH THE PHONE CLOSE AT HAND, but it was nearly midnight when Karen finally called. I picked it up on the first ring.
“It’s not too late, is it?”
“No, I couldn’t sleep,” I admitted, tucking a bookmark into the paperback I’d been reading. “Where have you been?”
“I went out to Bayvue, which I told you. Stayed there until Boomer chased everyone out and sealed the place. It’ll stay closed up until he has a preliminary cause of death.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“He swears it’s just precautionary. Any unattended death requires an autopsy. Anyway, nobody is in any hurry to get into the house, so he’s just covering his butt. No sense making the bankers think he isn’t doing his job.”
“Which bankers? The Andersons? Or the Yankees?”
“Either one,” Karen shot back. “Dr. Frazier is supposed to do an autopsy tomorrow, so we should know more then.”
“On the holiday? That ought to make him super happy.”
“Like I said, Boomer wants to keep everybody off his back, much as he can. No sense picking a fight with anybody.”
“What about Bridget’s family?” It was the question that had lingered in the back of my mind ever since that first dispatch call. Who would miss her?
“According to what her boss told the dispatcher, there’s a brother in Minneapolis. Boomer called the local police department, asked them to contact him.”
I didn’t have to imagine what that visit would be like. I knew. I’d experienced the knock on the door, the wall of uniforms on the porch asking if I was Gloryanna Martine, asking if they could come in, telling me to sit down. It was a memory that would never go away.
I shoved those thoughts into a deep corner of my mind, slamming a mental door on the pain. I hoped Bridget’s brother had someone to help him through the coming weeks.
“I guess th
at’s all we’re going to get for tonight, huh?”
“Think so,” Karen answered. “I’ll see you tomorrow at dinner.”
In all the stress of the evening, I had forgotten tomorrow was Thursday. Another late night.
• • •
JULIE HAD JUST RETURNED FROM A BREAK WHEN Jake came into Southern Treasures the next morning with two cups from Lighthouse. He nodded to me, and stopped to greet Bluebeard.
“Coffee?” Bluebeard asked, hopeful. He bobbed his head in excitement. I’d been told parrots didn’t have much sense of smell, but he clearly knew what was in those cups.
“Sorry, buddy,” Jake said. “We both know you’re not supposed to have coffee. And you wouldn’t want me to argue with the boss over there, would you?”
Bluebeard eyed me as though I might weaken. I shook my head. Coffee was dangerous for several reasons and I wouldn’t take any risks where my parrot was concerned.
“Told you,” Jake said. He reached under Bluebeard’s cage and took a shredded-wheat biscuit from the can. “This is the best I can do right now.”
Having paid his respects, Jake came back across the shop to where I stood behind the counter. “Vanilla latte,” he said as he handed me one of the cups. “By way of apology and thanks.”
“Apology? For what?”
Julie moved discreetly away and began dusting and straightening shelves.
“For dumping you last night,” he said, looking away. “You wanted some company and I bailed on you.”
“You were needed at the station. I understood.”
He shook his head. “Don’t let me off that easy,” he said with an embarrassed laugh. “You needed me. I should have stayed with you.”
I put my hand on his arm and squeezed gently. “I’m a big girl,” I said. “I can take care of myself. I appreciate that you were there while you could be. That’s enough for me.”
Jake hesitated, as though there was more to say.
“Now, it’s the middle of a holiday, and you have a business to run,” I reminded him with a smile. “Thanks for the coffee, even if it wasn’t necessary.”
Murder Sends a Postcard (A Haunted Souvenir) Page 9