Murder Sends a Postcard (A Haunted Souvenir) (10 page)

I SHOOK MY HEAD, REFUSING TO BELIEVE WHAT SHE’D
said. “Are you kidding? She wasn’t taking drugs.”

“Depends on what drugs,” Jake said. “
Drug overdose
covers a lot of different possibilities.”

“Glory’s right, though,” Karen said. “I was out there. I saw her and I saw that house. I’ve talked to a lot of people over the past few years, and I think I’ve seen about every kind of drug use around. She didn’t have any of the signs.”

“But it might have been something you
haven’t
seen,” Ernie said. “Maybe something that isn’t common around here.”

Karen shook her head, her expression stubborn. “I don’t think that’s likely, Ernie. Remember, we had a steroid problem here just last year.” She shot me a sympathetic glance. I’d learned far more than I had ever wanted to know about ’roid rage, dealing with Julie’s ex-husband.

“And this is a tourist town,” she went on. “We get everything around here. Besides, she just wasn’t the type.”

“Type?” Felipe laughed, not an amused sound but a harsh bark. “There’s no type. Not everybody who uses drugs is a meth head with their teeth falling out.”

“He’s right,” Jake said. “And a drug overdose doesn’t mean she was even doing anything illegal. People overdose on legal drugs. They take the wrong prescription, or they combine things they shouldn’t. They forget they took their pills and take them again. Saying it looked like an overdose can mean a lot of things.” He put his arm around me and patted my shoulder. “We won’t really know until they get the lab results.”

“Wouldn’t Felicia Anderson just love that?” Ernie said. “Get rid of the auditor and discredit her all at once.”

“You don’t really think . . .” Riley’s unfinished question, the same one that had occurred to me, hung in the air.

Ernie waved a dismissive hand. “Not really. Felicia wouldn’t dirty her hands. But it sure wouldn’t break her heart either.”

“I still can’t believe it was drugs,” I muttered.

“Let’s wait and see,” Jake said softly, so close to my ear I could feel the warmth of his breath against my cheek. “The doctor could be wrong, too.”

I nodded, just a slight brush of my face against his.

“Did you find out anything else about the brother?” I asked Karen, pushing the topic of drugs out of my mind. “Like when he’ll get here, or what he does for the bank?”

Karen shook her head. “Boomer is being pretty closemouthed about the whole thing.”

“Then he’s the only one,” Ernie drawled. “Everyone else is certainly quacking their fool heads off about it.”

Felipe nodded. “While Felicia was in the store today, she must have had a dozen calls. The rumor mill was working overtime, I can tell you that.”

“Did you hear anything interesting?” Karen asked.

“Not much,” Felipe said slowly as he stopped to think about it. “I tried not to eavesdrop, but it isn’t easy when she’s screeching away.”

Ernie reached over to pat his partner’s knee. “You could hear her all over the store,” he said. “A lot of people noticed. You couldn’t help hearing her entire conversation.”

Felipe nodded at Ernie, grateful for his loyal defense. “She kept talking to people about how she’d heard that Bridget was on drugs. She was convinced that Bridget had gone to Biloxi because she certainly couldn’t have bought anything like that here, in our fair city.”

“Yeah, right.” Ernie muttered.

Karen’s derisive whoop of laughter interrupted Felipe’s story. “Is she crazy?” She turned to me. “You remember a couple years ago, when Boomer had to shut down a party at the pool house? Right in the development where she made Billy build her that big new house? There were plenty of pills and powders and Lord knows what else out there that night, practically next door to her!”

I had to think for a minute, but I remembered the incident she was talking about. “I think it was more like four years,” I said. “They built that house out there about the time I took over Southern Treasures completely. I remember because Shandra—my old manager—she went to work at the bank just in time to be invited to the housewarming.”

“You sure?” Karen said.

“Yep. She bought the housewarming gift from me. Some old chamber pot I found up near Campground.”

“Campground?” Jake asked. “What campground?”

“Not
a
campground,” I explained. “Campground. It’s a little town a ways north of here.”

Felipe broke out laughing. “She gave them a
chamber pot
for a housewarming gift?”

I nodded. “She said she’d put flowers in it and Felicia wouldn’t know the difference. And she was going to tell her she thought it had belonged to the General.”

Jake whistled softly. “Wow! Apparently her employees don’t like her very much.”

Karen and I launched into an explanation of Felicia, and the Anderson family history, starting with the General. After a couple minutes, Jake held up his hand. “Much as I love your stories about everyone’s family,” he said, “if you don’t skip a few generations, I will still be sitting here when the sun comes up.”

“Okay. Fast-forward about a hundred years. Billy returns from college with a girlfriend. They announce their engagement at Christmas, and get married a year after Billy finishes grad school.

“Billy comes home and settles down to doing not much of anything, except collecting—and spending—dividend checks. His granddaddy had just passed—” The look on Jake’s face stopped me in midsentence. “Sorry. Fast-forward another ten years. Felicia wants a new house, so Billy gets the bank board—basically his parents, him, and his younger sister—to raise the dividends. And he borrows a pot of money, too, if what I hear is right.”

I explained about Felicia’s fake drawl, her constant references to “the General,” and how she put on airs around town. “Memaw always said, ‘Pretty is as pretty does,’” I told him. “And by that standard, all the beauty salons in the world couldn’t help that woman.”

“So that’s how the dreaded Felicia came to town,” he said dryly. “I can see why she’s so popular.”

Karen picked up the story, telling Jake how Billy’s ambition and greed had got him into some risky business ventures, culminating with the Bayvue Estates development.

“They got a couple model homes up, sold a bunch that weren’t built yet, and then the bottom dropped out. They held on for a bit, but there was no way they could recover. So now we have this auditor for the new owners, and no one’s happy.”

Jake sighed. “What a mess.”

“Oh, that’s not all,” Felipe said. “Not only are there people who bought houses that were never built—”

“We met one of them,” I interjected. “Sort of. Friday night when we were out at Bayvue. Some man showed up looking for Andrew Marshall, and when he couldn’t find him, he started yelling at us. He never did tell us his name, but he said he wanted his house and he made some pretty direct threats.”

“I doubt seriously if he’s the only one,” Karen added.

“Exactly,” Felipe said. “And there’s a developer who’s out of business, construction crews thrown out of work, a bank manager who lost his job—”

“And his house,” Riley added.

“Really? How awful!” Karen’s concern was genuine. We all knew Francis Simon had been fired over the Back Bay scandal, but we hadn’t heard about the house.

Riley nodded. “My mom works with his wife at the drugstore. She heard the Simons have to move this month, that since Francis got fired, the bank is calling in their loans, and taking over their house.”

Jake looked from one person to another around the room.

“This is more than just a mess,” he said. “That development is jinxed for sure.”

WE LET THE SQUEAL AND BOOM OF FIREWORKS DRAW
us out of the screened porch and into the backyard, leaving behind the discussion of Bridget, Back Bay, and the Andersons.

We stood there, three couples watching a visual display that we had each contributed to. Although the city collected a “donation” from those sitting in the stands, the majority of the cost was underwritten by the annual arm-twisting of the Merchants’ Association. Members put donation jars on their counters for months beforehand, and we all tossed something in.

I had my differences with the Merchants’ Association, but I still supported the fireworks. There was something about the scream and thunder, the shower of glittering lights, and the multicolor explosions that reminded me how much I loved this holiday.

In spite of the grown-up problems of traffic and crowds, noisy neighbors with too much beer, and the inevitable mess the morning after, on the Fourth I was nine years old again, sitting in the stadium with Mom and Dad, watching the fireworks.

The final volley launched into the sky with clusters of brilliant light and color. We stood transfixed, listening to the growing quiet as the final sparkles faded from view.

After a moment, Felipe broke the silence. “Dessert?”

Everyone agreed it sounded like a great idea.

Felipe disappeared into the kitchen and emerged seconds later with a shallow bowl full of halved peaches. I had almost expected watermelon to top his grilled meal, but he had a bigger surprise in store.

With a flourish he raised the lid on the grill he’d heated while we were watching the fireworks, and laid the glistening peach halves on the rack.

He turned them once, the aroma of caramelizing sugar and pungent cinnamon teasing our noses as we watched. Within minutes he dished the halves onto elegant dessert plates, topping each with a dollop of sweet whipped cream.

For the next few minutes, conversation stopped except for an occasional question about his recipe. We were all too busy eating and murmuring approval to actually speak.

Finally, when the last plate had been scraped clean, Riley stood and stretched. “Wonderful meal, Felipe. A perfect Fourth of July.” He reached for Karen’s hand and pulled her up off the turquoise cushions of the sofa they had shared. “But some of us have to get up early.”

Karen sighed and nodded. “Unfortunately.” She made the rounds, saying good night with hugs. When she got to me, she gave me an extra squeeze. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything,” she promised.

Jake and I soon followed their lead. It was getting late—the fireworks hadn’t started until well after dark—and we both had to work in the morning. At least we had waited out most of the traffic from the stadium.

“Just be patient,” Jake said when he parked in front of my store. “Boomer isn’t a fool. He’ll get to the truth.”

“I hope so,” I answered with a sigh.

“He will.” Jake came around and opened my door, taking my hand to help me out of the car. I was perfectly capable of getting out of the car on my own, but I appreciated his gesture and liked letting him act the gentleman.

He waited while I unlocked my front door, and he followed me inside. It was a habit he’d developed after my break-in last year. I’d installed an alarm system, but Jake still wanted to check for himself, and I had to admit it was kind of nice to have someone looking out for me.

“Trying to #$$^$%$ sleep here!” Bluebeard hollered, sticking his head out of his cage.

“Just checking the alarm, Bluebeard,” I said as I walked through to the storeroom, where the alarm lights glowed green. Set and secure.

I was about to head upstairs after saying good night to Jake when I remembered the postcard spinner. It had been a mess before I left, and I should go clean it up and restock it. But I was exhausted, and it was already way past my bedtime. I told myself the tourists would be getting a late start tomorrow after tonight’s celebration. The postcards could wait until morning.

• • •

MORNING CAME FAR TOO EARLY. I WOKE BEFORE
dawn from a fitful sleep filled with unpleasant dreams, and couldn’t stop thinking about Bridget. How long had she been alone in that house, in the middle of an abandoned construction site? Did she suffer? Couldn’t she have called for help?

Questions chased each other around my brain in the gray light until I gave up and crawled out of bed. I was still tired, but I knew I wouldn’t get back to sleep.

If I had to be awake, I should do something constructive with the time. I promised myself a latte from Lighthouse, and maybe even one of Pansy’s muffins, while I worked.

With that incentive, I was showered and dressed in just a few minutes. Lighthouse didn’t open for another half hour, but Pansy, the eighty-one-year-old owner, came in every morning at three thirty to do the baking. Chloe, the barista, often came in early to help, in the hopes of someday prying Pansy’s recipes out of her. So far she hadn’t succeeded, but Chloe was ever optimistic.

Sure enough, when I went out my back door, I could smell the heady aroma of fresh cinnamon rolls wafting from Lighthouse.

I tapped on the open back door and stuck my head in. Chloe was just taking a tray of scones from the oven and sliding them into the cooling rack. She nodded at me to come in.

“You’re up early,” she said. “Need coffee?”

Pansy, all four-feet-nine of her, glanced over from the industrial mixer that was nearly as tall as she was. Dough hooks the size of cantaloupes slowly turned and stretched a batch of sweet dough that would become trays of sticky pecan buns. “Good morning, Gloryanna,” she called cheerfully, waving a hand gnarled with arthritis as though being up before the sun was cause for celebration.

“Morning, Miss Pansy.”

Chloe disappeared to the front and returned a minute later with a vanilla latte. She handed me the coffee, and a sample-sized scone. “We’re trying out a new recipe,” she explained. “Florida citrus is what Miss Pansy calls it, but she won’t tell me exactly what’s in it.”

“Take two,” Pansy said, hobbling over with another tiny pastry resting on her palm. “One for that handsome fella of yours. I’d like to know what he thinks, too.”

I shook my head. “He’s not my
fella
. He’s just a friend,” I lied. I had begun to secretly hope he was my fella, but I wasn’t about to admit it. Especially to Pansy, who guarded her recipes like a dragon guards its treasure, but thrived on local gossip.

Pansy arched an eyebrow and made a disbelieving face. “Oh, he is. Don’t you think for a minute you can tell me otherwise. I see the two of you in here, looking all googly-eyed at each other. I might have been born in the morning, but it wasn’t
this
morning.”

She went back to her mixer, throwing her last words over her bony shoulder. “You mark my words, girl! He’s your fella.”

Chloe just shrugged. “She’s never wrong.”

“Googly-eyed? Did she really say that?”

“Well . . .” Chloe drew the word out, as though hesitant to answer. “You
do
pay a lot of attention to each other.”

“I may have to start getting my coffee somewhere else,” I said darkly.

Chloe laughed. “We’re the best, and you know it. Besides, it’s the most convenient place for you and”—she drew a deep breath—“where else can you get a free latte before six
A.M
.?”

She had me and she knew it. “You win,” I laughed. “But I’ll have to be more careful about how I look at Jake from now on. And thanks for the coffee.”

I went back to Southern Treasures and let myself in the back door. I still had to face the postcard mess, and get ready for what I hoped would be a busy Friday.

On my way through the storage area, I filled a box with postcards and note cards to restock the spinner and carried it out front.

“Coffee?” I don’t know how Bluebeard knew I had coffee. No, I did know. I
always
had coffee first thing in the morning, although it was usually a mug from my French press upstairs, not a paper cup from Lighthouse. Generally, my latte intake began later in the day.

“No coffee,” I answered. “But I will give you a treat.”

I set my cup on the counter with the box of cards and broke off a small piece of my scone. Parrots shouldn’t have much fat, and no sugar, but it wasn’t toxic like coffee. I offered him the crumb of pastry, followed by his usual shredded-wheat biscuit.

The tiny treat earned me a head bump.

I pulled the spinning rack across the shop so I could spread the cards out on the counter—another reason to do this before the customers arrived.

Several of the wire pockets were empty, and a couple more had no postcards, only note cards without envelopes, which was odd. I was used to a few of the cards going missing each time I filled the rack. People picked up the cards, admired the pictures on the front, and walked out with them, leaving the empty envelope on the rack. And sometimes I found note cards mixed in with postcards in other pockets.

But I didn’t usually find cards without envelopes. Who would take an empty envelope?