Murder Sends a Postcard (A Haunted Souvenir)

PRAISE FOR

Murder Hooks a Mermaid

“A whodunit with a dose of the supernatural,
Murder Hooks a Mermaid
is a worthy successor to the series opener and showcases Fifield’s talents for plotting, characterization, and humor.”

—
Richmond Times-Dispatch

“Author Christy Fifield creates the kind of characters that stay with you for a long time. Fifield’s new Haunted Souvenir Shop mystery,
Murder Hooks a Mermaid,
has it all: a sunny, relaxed setting, captivating locals, delicious food, and—of course—murder! Delightful amateur sleuth Glory Martine is back with her wisecracking parrot and charming group of friends in this thoroughly entertaining adventure. Don’t miss it.”

—
Julie Hyzy,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Manor House Mysteries and the White House Chef Mysteries

“Quirky and unique, a heroine for whom you can’t help but root. The story sucks you in.”

—
The Maine Suspect

“With a lovable cast of characters, good conversations, and a great setting, this well-written book is a terrific read.”

—
Dru’s Book Musings

Murder Buys a T-shirt

“A cantankerous parrot, a charming heroine, and a determined ghost vanquish a villain in Christy Fifield’s appealing debut mystery.”

—Carolyn Hart, national bestselling author of
Ghost Gone Wild

“A businesswoman, a parrot, and a ghost inhabit a souvenir store. That’s not the set up for a joke, but for Christy Fifield’s debut,
Murder Buys a T-shirt
, which packs a paranormal punch. Fifield expertly shifts the focus among the possible culprits and establishes Glory as a charming protagonist, sometimes impulsive, sometimes wary. And she invests the small-town setting with Southern spirit (and at least one spirit), as well as numerous recipes for traditional Southern food. A traditional mystery with an offbeat angle,
Murder Buys a T-shirt
will have readers, like Bluebeard, greedy for more.”

—
Richmond Times-Dispatch

“An entertaining and clever Florida whodunit.”

—
Midwest Book Review

“Fifield offers a nice blend of the cozy and contemporary with a hint of the paranormal. I look forward to getting to know Glory and her friends better. Good writing, an appealing ensemble cast, and a tightly woven mystery; definitely a series that’s a promising addition to the ‘cozy’ genre.”

—
Once Upon a Romance

“A fun book that will make the dreariest of days a little brighter! Socrates’ Great Book Alert.”

—
Socrates’ Cozy Café

“Very enjoyable . . . [A] delightful cozy mystery, and I will definitely be reading more of the series. Yummy recipes of traditional Southern dishes are also included.”

—
Novel Reflections

“A great murder mystery with well-written characters, an unpredictable villain, and a nice setting.”

—
Paranormal and Romantic Suspense Reviews

“A thoroughly Southern atmosphere with a dash of Cajun spice provides a nice backdrop, with plenty of great sounding food (and recipes) making readers feel at home and anxious to learn more about Glory, her family, and friends.”

—
The Mystery Reader

Berkley Prime Crime titles by Christy Fifield

MURDER BUYS A T-SHIRT

MURDER HOOKS A MERMAID

MURDER SENDS A POSTCARD

Murder Sends a Postcard

Christy Fifield

This one’s for you, Mom.
Lois Jeanne Nouguier Fifield, 1931–2012.
You will live forever in my heart.

Acknowledgments

In a perfect world, a writer sits down in an immaculate garden full of unicorns and rainbows and creates a perfect book. Unfortunately, this writer lives in the real, far-from-perfect world. Fortunately, I have incredible people helping me navigate that world.

When I should have been in my perfect garden, I was instead learning firsthand the meaning of “Code 3.” It really does mean the ambulance driver gets to use the lights and siren all the way to the hospital—even if it’s ninety miles away. I also learned many new medical terms, and got up close and personal with amazing advances in medical technology.

I am indebted to the physicians, surgeons, nurses, and technicians at Oregon Health & Science University, especially Dr. Patrick Worth (my personal guardian angel), my amazing home health nurse, Erik, and all the wound care staff. I cannot imagine the last months without your help.

My thanks, also, to everyone who helped at home: Sue and Sue (both of them!), Dan, Kris, Dean, and Debbie. And to the many people who provided much-needed support for my husband, especially Sean and Rose, Stephanie, Greg, Scott, Lynette, and Colleen.

And as always, I am grateful for the usual cast and crew: Michelle, incredibly savvy—and patient—editor; Susannah, dedicated agent; Colleen (again), first reader, cheerleader, chauffeur; the Oregon Writers Network crowd, especially Dean and Kris; my sisters, Jan, Jeri, and Jeri (yep, there are two of them), who did more than I could have ever asked.

And most of all to Steve, who saved my life.

Literally this time.

I KNEW WHO BRIDGET M
CKENNA WAS THE INSTANT
she stepped through the door of Southern Treasures. Not because she’d been in the gift shop I owned here in Keyhole Bay, Florida, but because she hadn’t.

I’d only heard about her.

Our tourists usually fit in one of several categories: the young and single, the families, and the empty nesters, with the occasional girls’-weekend-without-the-husbands group.

Bridget was none of those. With her designer suits and stiletto heels, she appeared overdressed for the Florida panhandle. Careful makeup masked her age, though I suspected she was a few years north of my mid-thirties.

She looked good. Good enough to earn a wolf-whistle from Bluebeard, the parrot I’d inherited along with my 55 percent of Southern Treasures. My cousin Peter owned the other 45 percent, but he lived in Montgomery and didn’t work in the store. He just meddled from a hundred miles away.

“Bluebeard!”

Harassing customers wasn’t good for business, and he knew better.

To my relief, Bridget laughed, a clear, almost musical sound. “I’ll take it as a compliment.”

“Pretty girl,” Bluebeard cooed, shooting me a triumphant look. He seemed so human sometimes. At least now I understood why.

“What’s your name?” she asked, approaching his perch.

For one crazy moment I actually expected him to say “Louis,” the name of my great-uncle, the previous owner of Southern Treasures—and the ghost who lived in the shop.

Uncle Louis used Bluebeard as a spokesbird, and I was never quite sure when he might decide he had something to say.

Fortunately, today Uncle Louis decided to stay quiet.

“Bluebeard,” the parrot and I answered in unison.

“Well, I’m very glad to meet you, Bluebeard,” she said, a smile in her voice. She turned around to face me. “And you, too.”

She walked back across the shop to where I stood behind the counter, and stuck out her hand. “Bridget McKenna.”

I shook her outstretched hand, answering her smile with one of my own. “Gloryanna,” I said. “Gloryanna Martine, owner of this place and the rude parrot.”

Up close, I could see my estimate of her age was at least five years low, maybe more. Her hair, expertly streaked dark honey-blond, hung low over her forehead, concealing the beginnings of frown lines between her perfectly arched eyebrows.

Her handshake was firm, and her friendly smile reached her eyes, instead of stopping at the empty gesture of her lips.

“Welcome to Keyhole Bay,” I said.

She glanced down at her suit and shoes, so out of place in our little tourist town. “That obvious, huh?”

“Well,” I admitted with a grin, “I already heard about you.” I shrugged. “It’s a small town.”

It wasn’t such a small town in the middle of summer, actually. Tourists swelled our population and a steady stream of people came through the door. Quiet, even just long enough to say hello, was rare.

Her expression sobered. “I’m not surprised. Big-city woman coming down from Minnesota to take over the local bank.”

Candid
and
perceptive. I instantly liked Bridget McKenna.

I started to ask another question, but the bell over the door interrupted as a gaggle of youngsters poured in, followed by a harried-looking woman.

The gaggle surrounded the toy rack, the mass of suntanned arms and legs sorting themselves out into three kids: a boy about twelve, a girl of seven or eight, and a boy whose gap-toothed grin pegged him as five or six.

Their mother quickly took the two younger ones by the hand, pulling them back a step from the display. “Look with your eyes,” she said. “Not with your hands.”

It was a phrase Memaw used to use when she took me shopping, and I smiled at the memory.

I turned back to say something to Bridget, but she had walked over to the postcard spinner and was gazing at the offerings. She glanced up and smiled briefly, then went back to her perusal.

“Getting busy again?” a voice asked behind me.

I turned to see Julie Nelson, my part-time clerk, coming from the storage area behind the shop. “Rose Ann’s settled down, I can take over,” she said.

Rose Ann was Julie’s daughter, born just a few months earlier. In an effort to keep Julie working at the store, we had set up a small nursery—really little more than an alcove with partitions—for Rose Ann. The baby spent several days a week with her grandmother, but there was a place for her on the days Anita Nelson wasn’t available.

“You sure?” I checked the time. Julie still had a couple hours on her shift.

She nodded.

I trudged up the stairs to my apartment over Southern Treasures. Summer had hit full force, and this morning’s rain shower combined with the midday ninety-degree heat to drain all my energy.

Unfortunately, it was my turn to host our regular Thursday dinner. My three best friends would arrive at six thirty, expecting a traditional Southern meal, and it was too blasted hot even to think about cooking.

Fortunately, I had remembered something my mother used to make when I was a kid.
Cold supper
, she called it. A meal that involved very little actual cooking, all of it done in advance.

So while Julie watched the store, I was headed upstairs to put the finishing touches on tonight’s meal.

I’d left the apartment closed and dark when I opened the store at nine, but by midafternoon the heat had seeped in around the tightly drawn drapes.

In an attempt to capture the afternoon breezes, I opened the windows overlooking the main drag in front of the store and the sliding door to my miniature balcony in back. From the balcony I could watch the boats in the tiny bay that gave Keyhole Bay its name.

The cross-ventilation helped, though the open windows also let in the traffic noise. A week before Fourth of July there was a lot of traffic.

I should be grateful, I told myself. It was exactly that traffic that kept me in business. Tourist season provided the revenue to keep our small town going through the quiet months.

We all complained about the traffic, and the noise, and the stupid tourist tricks, but we also knew they were the source of our income.

It was a love-hate relationship common to tourist towns everywhere, but most of the people who came through Southern Treasures were actually pretty nice. Like the woman downstairs with the three kids she kept from tearing up my display.

And at least the ones who weren’t so nice made for funny stories later.

I checked the fresh peach ice cream in the freezer. It was set, ready to serve with the no-bake cookies I’d made the night before.

I turned up the volume on the intercom system I’d recently installed, in case Julie needed me. In three months, Rose Ann had settled into a routine, and she should sleep the rest of the afternoon. But as I was learning, babies didn’t always do what they should.

The refrigerator was packed with an array of cold dishes: deviled eggs for an appetizer, chicken salad as the main course, potato salad, coleslaw, three-bean salad, and macaroni salad. I just needed to put together a fruit salad, and make a fresh batch of sweet tea.

I put a big jug of water on the balcony, and dropped in a half-dozen tea bags. Memaw would have pitched a fit about me not properly boiling water for the sweet tea. But Memaw passed many years ago, so I figured I was safe.

Then again, I knew there was at least one ghost in Southern Treasures. I hoped he was the only one.

I cut the chilled melons and popped fat green and red grapes off their stems. With the addition of sliced kiwi, an array of fresh berries, and slices of perfectly ripe peaches, the salad was ready to go back in the refrigerator to allow the flavors to mellow.

We could debate all evening whether it was traditional Southern cooking, but I had managed to avoid heating up the apartment, so I called it a win.

I was starting to set the table when I heard Rose Ann fussing. Her nursery was at the bottom of the stairs, just a few steps from the sales counter, where her mother worked.

I abandoned my preparations, grateful to have accomplished as much as I had, and hurried back downstairs to relieve Julie.

Glancing up at the black-and-white cartoon cat clock on the wall of the store, I realized Julie’s shift had ended half an hour earlier. I felt a stab of guilt for keeping her past her quitting time.

“Sorry!” I said, sliding behind the counter. “You should have hollered.”

Julie laughed. “And wake up the baby? Not a chance! I figure if she wants to sleep, I’ll let her.” She tucked a strand of long blond hair behind her ear and grinned at me.

From across the shop, a sharp whistle caught my attention. “Baby crying,” Bluebeard said.

Julie shot him an amused glance. He turned into a real nag where Rose Ann’s care was concerned. Like an indulgent old uncle.

“By the way,” she said as she packed up her various bags, “your cousin called. He wanted to talk to you about something, but I didn’t want to bother you while you were cooking. I told him I’d have you call back later.”

“Thanks,” I said. I was looking forward to a fun evening with my friends; there was no way I was going to call Peter tonight. Whatever he had to say, I wouldn’t like it. It could wait until tomorrow. Or next week. Or next month. Heck, maybe I would just wait until he phoned me again.

A few minutes later Julie called out to tell me she was leaving. She went in and out the back door a couple times, carrying baby gear to her car before she liberated Rose Ann from her crib. With a final shouted “Bye!” they were gone. I listened to make sure the door locked behind them.

A late rush of customers kept me busy through the last couple hours and left a satisfying stack of bills in the cash drawer at the end of the day.

I locked the front door, flipped the sign from “Open” to “Closed,” and emptied the cash drawer into the big safe under the stairs. I was still taking care of Bluebeard when I heard a knock at the front door.

I looked over to see my best friend, Karen Freed—otherwise known as “The Voice of the Shores” newscaster on local radio station WBBY.

With her shoulder-length auburn curls and a body that still fit into her high school jeans—though she wouldn’t be caught dead in anything that out of style—she could have been a TV reporter. If she’d been willing to put up with the restrictions that went with the job. Instead she stayed at the local radio station, where she had a larger say in what stories she reported.

Bluebeard wolf-whistled when I let Karen in. She immediately went over and gave him a scratch on top of his head. He rubbed against her hand, enjoying the attention.

“You’re only encouraging him,” I complained as she talked softly to the bird. “I can’t get him to stop whistling, and you just reinforce his bad behavior.”

I relocked the door. Ernie and Felipe weren’t due for another half hour. I signaled Karen to follow me and headed for the stairs. She gave Bluebeard a last pat and came up the stairs behind me.

While we waited, Karen finished setting the table while I added sugar to the tea and put it in a big spigot jar with lots and lots of ice.

“No Jake tonight?” she asked, counting the four places at the table.

“He’s keeping the store open late,” I answered. Jake Robinson owned Beach Books, across the street from Southern Treasures. We were edging closer to being a couple, although there were still a lot of unanswered questions. He’d been a frequent visitor at our Thursday dinners, but he wasn’t a permanent member of the group. Yet.

“How about Riley?” I countered. Karen’s ex-husband wasn’t so
ex
lately, and he’d been to several of our dinners in recent weeks. “You said he couldn’t make it tonight?”

“Family obligation,” she said. “Bobby’s birthday is Monday, so they’re celebrating tonight, before the holiday weekend craziness.”

I had to admit the Freeds had a lot to celebrate. Bobby, Riley’s younger brother, had been accused of murdering a federal agent a few months earlier, and the Freeds were only now getting back to a semblance of normal family life.

“Too late,” I said, thinking of the crowds I’d seen earlier in the day. “And you didn’t go with him?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t want to miss dinner. It’s the only time I see Felipe and Ernie once summer starts.”

Felipe Vargas and Ernie Jourdain owned Carousel Antiques. Once the summer crowds arrived, the two of them worked nearly every waking hour. The four of us rotated hosting duties every Thursday—had for several years—and it was the only night they closed early during the lucrative summer season.

The phone rang and I picked it up.

“Hello, darlin’,” Ernie drawled. “We’re running a few minutes late getting out of here, but we are on our way. Felipe is driving like a crazy man, so in two minutes we will either be at your door or we will be dead.”

I laughed. “I’ll open the door.”

Karen started down the stairs before I could hang up the phone. “Got it,” she called over her shoulder.

Minutes later I heard the three of them coming back up. Ernie looked elegant as always, the pale green of his crisp Oxford cloth shirt contrasting with his dark skin, his long legs covered with fashionably faded denim.

The man made blue jeans look like a tuxedo. I sighed. Some people just knew how to exude style, and I wasn’t one of them. I kept my wardrobe simple—jeans and T-shirts mostly. I tried to look approachable when someone came in the store. That meant dressing just a step above the beachwear customers, with a casual hairstyle, light makeup, and minimal jewelry. Felipe was right behind his partner, carrying a six-pack of frosty longnecks, and Karen brought up the rear. Felipe immediately open four beers and passed them around as we all exchanged greetings.

Ernie instantly took in the lack of activity in the kitchen. “Where’s the food?” he asked. “Did you give up and order out?”

I put the plate of deviled eggs on the table and planted my fists on my hips in mock outrage. “How dare you? I’ve been cooking for two days.”

Behind me, Felipe swung open the refrigerator door to stash the last two beers. His startled “Wow” was all the corroboration I needed.