Murder Sends a Postcard (A Haunted Souvenir) (7 page)

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 expecting 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.

“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.”

“But there must be something,” Peter replied.

I should have come up with an alternative, but I couldn’t think of anything that would pacify Peter. Which gave him time to come up with something on his own.

I could see the wheels turning as he searched for another plan. Clearly he hadn’t been prepared to discuss other ideas, and didn’t have a Plan B. But that didn’t stop him from saying the first thing that popped into his head.

“What if Peggy comes down for a few weeks? While the kids are out of school.”

“What?”
Peggy clearly hadn’t heard this idea before, and judging from her tone, she wasn’t on board with it. “I can’t possibly be away from the children.”

Peter glanced over at her. “You could bring them with you. It would be like an extended vacation for all of you.”

I glanced at Peggy, assuring myself she would be my ally in shooting down this latest scheme.

“There are about a million reasons that is not a good idea,” I said. “It’s obvious Peggy has a few of her own, and I could give you a long list. Starting with, where will they stay? Summer rentals are completely booked, and even if you found a cancellation, the rates are massively expensive.”

Before I could offer any other arguments, Peggy spoke up again. “Peter, there is no way I am going to spend the rest of the summer down here with the children, staying Lord-knows-where, and leaving them alone while I work in some tacky shop.”

She tossed me an apologetic glance. “Not that
your
shop is really tacky, Glory, but it’s the idea of the place.”

She turned her attention back to Peter. “That is not a good idea, and you should have at least talked to me first.”

She looked toward the children, then back at her husband. “We can talk about this. Later. But spending the summer down here simply isn’t going to work.”

Sly had held his tongue all through the conversation, though his presence had helped calm me. Now he spoke up. “I knew your uncle, Mr. Peter,” he said quietly. “He was a good man, but he knew his limits. That’s why he never made that store no bigger. Kept it small enough to run by hisself; or with his little sister helping.” He nodded in answer to the question he saw on my face. “That was your granny. But he never did hire anyone else.”

Peter tried to interrupt, but Sly waved him to silence. “Mr. Louis was plenty smart. Knew what he was about, all the time. And he made a success of that little shop. Still in business all these years later, isn’t it?

“So you might want to think real careful before you go messing with what Mr. Louis started. You know the old saying, ‘If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.’”

Sly sat back and fell silent. He’d spoken his piece, and he was done. He pulled a worn leather wallet from his pants pocket, counted out some bills, and left them on the table.

“I believe I’ll wait in the car, Miss Glory. If that’s okay with you?”

I nodded, ignoring Peter. “I’ll be right along, Sylvester. Just let me say good night to my family.”

Peter tried to draw me into another discussion after Sly walked away, but I had nothing more to say. “I understand that you want the shop to grow,” I said. “But there isn’t a good way to do it, and this isn’t the time. Maybe in the future, if Pansy decides to close up Lighthouse, or Guy and Linda want to retire, then we can talk about it. But not right now.”

I added some bills to the stack Sly had left by his plate. “It was good to see all of you, but I have to be up early tomorrow.”

I turned to Peter with a sober expression. “You have a demanding job. So do I. I have not had a day off since before summer started. And I won’t have one until at least September or October. That’s what keeps your earnings checks coming every month. I love it, and I’m darned good at it.

“Just trust me, Peter. I know what I’m doing.”

With that I turned my back and walked toward the door. I had held my temper in check for as long as I possibly could. If I didn’t get away from Peter—and out of the restaurant crowded with bad memories—I was going to explode.

When I got to the truck, Sly had the doors open, letting the evening breeze cool off the interior. I ducked my head into the cab and quickly popped back out. It would be a few more minutes before we’d be going anywhere.

“You did good, Miss Glory,” Sly said. “Mr. Louis would be proud of you.”

“Thanks. You didn’t do so bad yourself.”

“Just speakin’ the truth. A man’s got to know his limits, that’s all.”

We climbed in the truck, Sly behind the wheel, and he started the engine. Peter and his family hadn’t come out of the restaurant when we pulled out into traffic and started back to Sly’s cottage in the junkyard.

“There is one thing I still don’t understand,” I said as Sly expertly maneuvered through the crowded streets. “Uncle Louis left the store to Peter and me instead of our parents, his niece and nephew. And he didn’t leave us equal shares. That’s never made any sense to me.”

Sly didn’t answer right away. He finessed his way between two carloads of way-lost tourists, one trying to turn left across the steady stream of traffic and the other waiting to turn right while a gaggle of teenagers straggled across the street in front of them, oblivious to the traffic.

We turned into the lot at Fowler’s Auto Sales and drove around back to the fenced-off junkyard before Sly finally answered me.

“It was because of the tuition,” he said, as though that explained everything. It explained nothing.

“What tuition?” I asked.

“Your uncle Andrew’s.”

“Peter’s dad?” I asked. “What does his tuition have to do with anything?” I paused and thought for a minute. “He didn’t even go to college, did he?”

“Nope.”

Sly parked the truck outside the gate and jumped down out of the cab. He walked up to the gate and dragged a key ring from his pocket. Selecting a key, he opened the padlock that held the gate closed.

At the sound of the key, Bobo came running from somewhere deep in the shadows of the junkyard. Even though I knew and loved Sly’s dog, I had to admit he looked pretty intimidating coming at us out of the dark. If I didn’t have any good reason to be in that yard, I would have been running. Fast.

Sly climbed back in the truck and pulled into the yard, leaving the gate open behind us. He knew I wouldn’t be staying long.

“So,” I said once the truck stopped inside the gate, “what about Uncle Andrew’s tuition? What has that got to do with Southern Treasures?”

Sly stared into the darkness, as though looking at something only he could see. In a way that was true; he was looking at memories from before I was born.

“Mr. Andrew took a long time figuring out what he wanted to do with hisself. He tried a couple things around here, even thought about lettin’ me teach him mechanicing.” He grinned as though remembering an old joke. “Bet you can just imagine how popular
that
idea would have been.”

He shook his head and went back to his story. “But nothing ever quite took. Not until he started messing with that old aeroplane. Pretty soon he was out at the airfield every spare minute. It was real clear that boy purely loved planes, and there weren’t nothing else he wanted to do.”

“I know he works on planes,” I said. “But I always thought he was kind of an airplane mechanic. Isn’t it all the same thing?”

“Yes and no,” Sly answered. “The engines work the same way. Sort of. But they’re more different than they are the same. At least according to Mr. Andrew.

“Anyway, when he put his mind to a thing, that was the end of it, and he decided he wanted to work on planes. But to do that, he had to go to school, and school cost money.”

“Which Uncle Andrew didn’t have?” I guessed aloud.

“Which Mr. Andrew didn’t have,” Sly agreed. “And his daddy didn’t have it, neither. So he went looking for some way to come up with the money.”

“And Uncle Louis had something to do with it?”

“You’re right smart, girl.” Sly chuckled. “Yep, Mr. Louis helped him out with the schooling. Lent him money and didn’t pester him about paying it back.

“Your mama, though, didn’t borrow anything from Mr. Louis. Mr. Andrew did fine; he got married, then your mama got married, and Peter came along and then you.”

“Uncle Andrew still owed Uncle Louis the money?” I asked.

“Yep, but he didn’t forget about it. The two of them worked out a deal when Mr. Louis went to do his will: everything would be divided between you two, but you got a bigger share to make up for the tuition money.”

He turned and looked at me. “So you can stop feeling guilty about getting more than Peter. The fact is, Peter got a lot more than you in the long run. And he keeps getting it without doing any work.”

Sly’s explanation made a lot of pieces fall into place. Things that had bothered me since I was a kid suddenly made sense. As I thought about it, I realized something else.

“Peter doesn’t know, does he?”

“I doubt it,” Sly answered. “Mr. Andrew kept things pretty close to his chest. Doubt he would have told the boy.”

“Thanks, Sly,” I said. “It helps a lot to know why things happened the way they did.”

“Don’t you let Mr. Louis know I told you,” he said. “I don’t know as he’d want me to be talkin’ about all this.”

I promised, and pulled out of the junkyard with my head spinning. I was more determined than ever to buy out Peter’s share of Southern Treasures.