Murder Sends a Postcard (A Haunted Souvenir) (15 page)

BUDDY STAYED IN THE SHADOWS AS WE LISTENED TO
Andy and Bear make their way to the edge of the woods. Bear barked again, a lonely, mournful sound, in the distance.

Jake pointed his flashlight in the direction they’d gone, but the light faded before it reached the tree line, and I couldn’t see anyone.

I heard the door open and turned around. Buddy stood with the knob in one hand, waving us back inside.

Back in the kitchen with the lights on, I suddenly felt very exposed. The few low-watt bulbs hadn’t seemed very bright before we went outside. But now I realized it was the only light around, and it felt like we were a target, shining in the dark.

Clearly, Buddy and Jake had the same feeling. Buddy shut down the laptops and closed them. He stacked the two computers with several bunches of paper, and put them next to the doorway.

“Maybe I’ll work in the study. There are blinds on those windows.” He sounded sheepish, as though embarrassed by his decision to hide behind the covered windows, but I didn’t blame him. I wouldn’t want to be on display either.

We went back to the lists on the counter, but we had all been unnerved by the encounter with Andy Marshall. We tried to concentrate on the names in front of us, but it was no use.

“I tell you what,” I said to Buddy. “I have to work tomorrow; we both do.” I gestured at Jake. “I wish I could help more, but I am going to have to get home.”

“No problem,” Buddy said. “I need to spend some time going over Bridget’s notes. Maybe I can come up with some specific questions, things I need to verify.”

He walked us to the door, apologizing all the while for taking up our evening with his problems, as though he’d forgotten it was us who had come to see him.

We were standing in the entry when his phone rang. He pulled it off his belt and looked at the display.

“I had no idea it was this late,” he said. “I better get this. Time to say good night to the kids.” He chuckled self-consciously. “My wife lets them call me before bed every night if I’m not home. Kind of a little family ritual.”

We waved our good-byes and let ourselves out as he answered the phone. We heard him greet his wife, and promise her that everything was just fine.

As I dug out my keys and followed the beam of Jake’s flashlight toward the truck, I sincerely hoped it was true.

We stowed the flashlights back in the glove box. “You might want to change those batteries,” Jake said, closing the door. “It was getting kind of weak near the end there.”

“I will. And thank you for everything you did tonight.”

“I didn’t do much.”

“No, you did.” I pulled away from the model homes, one dark, the other with a faint light coming from the back of the house. “You put up with my lousy mood, cleaned up my kitchen, and came with me out here.

“And you didn’t overreact when Andy got a little crazy,” I added. “A lot of people would have.”

I couldn’t see Jake’s expression in the dark. “That was easy,” he said. “You’ve known the people around here your whole life. You said to trust him, that he’d run down, and you were right.”

I pulled onto the empty county road, our headlights the only bright spots visible. “I hope he doesn’t come back,” I said. “He seemed pretty angry at the bank. What if he decided to do something stupid?”

“Do you really think he would?” Jake asked.

I thought about it for a minute as we neared the highway. I stopped at the intersection, waiting for traffic to clear so I could turn.

“I wouldn’t think so,” I answered. “But I didn’t think Bridget would take drugs. So what do I know?”

The thought that I had been wrong about Bridget bothered me. But what other explanation was there? Jake was right. She didn’t accidentally fall on a hypodermic full of drugs.

What bothered me even more were all the unanswered questions.

“I wish we knew more about the medical examiner’s report, like what drug actually killed her. And if she was using, were there other needle marks? And if she wasn’t, then how else would they get in her system? You don’t just sit there and let somebody shoot you full of something that kills you.”

“I agree,” Jake said.

“Then how?” I persisted. “Either she did it herself, or someone did it to her. And if someone tried to inject her and she didn’t want them to, she would have fought with them.”

“And the police said no signs of foul play, right?”

“Right,” I said. “So we’re right back where we started.”

I turned off the highway and made my way along the back streets to the lot where Jake had parked his car. It was the least I could do after dragging him out to Bayvue.

“Will you be okay?” he asked before climbing out of the truck.

I assured him I would, and kissed him good night. I bit my lip as he closed the door, fighting the impulse to invite him back to my place.

I drove home thinking about Jake, and about Bridget. Buddy said she’d been married three times, but he didn’t mention children. And he was the person taking care of everything—a half brother she barely knew. I remembered thinking she seemed lonely, and I wondered if there had been anyone else in her life, anyone she was close to.

I was afraid I already knew the answer.

There wasn’t.

I unlocked the back door and reset the alarm. Through the doorway I could see the streetlights casting soft shadows in the front of the store, but I didn’t see the night-lights I usually left burning.

I’d better go check them.

But when I stepped into the front, I discovered that the problem wasn’t just the night-lights.

Bluebeard had gone on one of his rampages. Either that or I’d been vandalized.

No broken windows. No tripped alarms. The register stood open and empty, just as I’d left it.

Nope. This was all on Bluebeard.

I turned on the overhead lights to examine the shop and assess the damage. Piles of T-shirts littered the floor, postcards spilled from the spinner, and plastic water bottles had fallen from the shelves and rolled away into all the nooks and crannies.

As the lights revealed the extent of the mess and the work I had ahead of me, Bluebeard stuck his head out of his cage.

“Find the postcards,” he said.

He glared up at the overhead fixtures, with all the fluorescent tubes burning brightly. “#%&$%#$^ lights! Trying to $#%#&# sleep!”

He stomped back into his cage and refused to come out or to say anything more. He didn’t respond when I asked him about the postcards, and he even ignored the offer of a banana. He was done talking for the night, and there was nothing I could do to change that.

I started picking up the shirts, inspecting them for dust or tears, but Julie had swept the floors at the end of the day and all the shirts were clean and intact. I had to marvel at how Bluebeard had managed to completely destroy the display, strew merchandise around the shop, and create havoc—all without actually damaging any of the inventory.

I told myself it was part of his charm, and set to work cleaning up the mess he’d made.

I piled shirts on the front counter to be folded and tracked down the water bottles. As I placed them back on the shelves, I straightened the rows. It reminded me of helping Guy stock shelves at the Grog Shop, and made me smile. I’d been training to take over Southern Treasures since I was a kid.

I gathered up the postcards and put them in a box. They would have to be sorted,
again
, and put back in the proper slots on the spinner rack. That much, at least, could wait until morning.

I sorted the shirts by design, turning the big pile into several smaller ones. It was tedious work, and my mind wandered as I set about refolding each shirt and putting the sizes in order.

I thought about Buddy, talking to his kids every night before bed. I’d heard his warm, happy tone when he answered his wife’s call. He had people in his life, people who would know if something was wrong. People who would notice and care.

I remembered what he had said about Bridget, that the saddest part was that he didn’t miss her more. That everyone deserved to be mourned.

Was that why I’d thought about inviting Jake back here?

I pushed the thought aside. The answer was simpler than that, if I was honest about it. Jake was gorgeous and smart, a rare combination in my experience. Of course I was attracted to him. Any woman with two eyes and a brain would be.

Simple.

I finished folding shirts and carried the tidy stacks to the shelves, filling in the bare spaces where Bluebeard had emptied the display.

As I reached to slide a stack of back-stock shirts into the bottom shelf, something caught my eye.

I reached into the space between the stacks and felt around. My fingers closed around a piece of stiff paper, and I pulled it out into the light, where I could examine it.

The address side of the postcard had just a city and state, like somebody had started to write the address and had been distracted. Edina, MN, and the message side had only part of one word, as though the writer had been interrupted before she could finish. I had no idea what she meant to write.

The handwriting, though, was perfectly clear.

And it matched Bridget McKenna’s precise block printing on the lists I’d looked at earlier in the evening.

THE POSTCARD MESS WAS WAITING FOR ME WHEN I
came downstairs the next morning with my coffee. I brought Bluebeard’s breakfast down, but I wasn’t quite ready to forgive him for trashing the shop while I was gone.

“Was that really necessary?” I grumbled as I cleaned his dish and changed his water.

“Find the postcards,” he said, as though that explained everything. As far as I was concerned, it explained nothing. I’d found one postcard that had fallen behind a T-shirt display, and despite being possibly written by Bridget, it didn’t have anything useful on it.

“You were just being cranky,” I told him. “You think you have the right to trash the place and waste my time cleaning up after you.”

He didn’t answer me, just turned his back and pouted.

I swear, sometimes that bird was more trouble than a two-year-old. Of course I’d never had a two-year-old, but I’d heard stories about the Terrible Twos.

Those kids had nothing on a parrot in a foul mood.

Bluebeard was still ignoring me when Julie and Rose Ann came in. Someday Rose Ann would be a Terrible Two, but right now she was only a few months old.

She looked adorable in a ruffled sunsuit and a tiny bonnet, with a light flannel blanket covering her bare arms and legs.

I worried aloud that she might be cold without a sweater.

“It’s seventy degrees outside.” Julie laughed. “And it’ll be ninety-five by noon. She’s fine.” She carried Rose Ann and her diaper bag through to the back. “She’s had breakfast already,” Julie called from the nursery area. “Let me put her down for a nap and I’ll be right out.”

It took her about ten minutes to get Rose Ann settled, while I started sorting the postcards that I’d left on the counter the night before.

“Didn’t you just do that?” Julie asked, slipping behind the counter and taking a handful of the jumbled cards.

“Yes, I did. But
someone
decided they had to mess up the rack again last night.”

“I see,” she said. She quickly shuffled cards onto the stacks I’d started and took another handful. “And do I need to guess who that might have been?”

“I think you know.”

I didn’t tell her what he’d said, or what I’d found. Julie might have her suspicions about Bluebeard, although we had never actually discussed Uncle Louis. I didn’t know how much longer I could put off telling her, but today wasn’t the day for that conversation.

We got enough of the cards sorted to refill the rack before it was time to unlock the front doors. I stashed the box of unsorted cards under the counter. If there was time later in the day, I would finish the task. If not, it could wait until after closing.

The morning started with a steady stream of customers, and they continued coming well into the afternoon. Somewhere around noon I managed to slip upstairs and throw together a ham sandwich, but Julie called from downstairs before I took the first bite.

“There’s someone here who wants to talk to you,” she said over the intercom. “Can you come down, please?”

Her manner was in such sharp contrast to her usual friendly chatter that I didn’t stop to ask questions. I slipped the sandwich into a plastic bag and tossed it into the refrigerator.

The shop was quiet when I got downstairs, with a few tourists milling around the souvenir racks.

A woman waited at the counter, fiddling with her cell phone and glancing up at the clock every few seconds. Her curly, dishwater blond hair had turned into a frizzy halo in the humidity, and a deep tan branded her as a local who spent a lot of time in the sun.

It took me a minute to place her. She worked someplace with a uniform, but in jeans and double-layered white tank tops, she wasn’t familiar. I was used to seeing her in a lab coat. At first I thought she might be from my dentist’s office, but then something clicked. The pharmacy. Lacey Simon.

“Lacey,” I said, approaching the counter with my hand out.

She took my hand and leaned in with an air kiss. It wasn’t my style, but I’d learned long ago to tolerate the familiarity.

“Good to see you. How are you and Francis doing?”

Not that I really needed to ask. From her appearance, it was clear they weren’t doing well.

Lacey had a reputation as a health nut, finishing first in every local walk-a-thon and leading beach runs for visiting snowbirds during the winter.

No wonder I hadn’t recognized her. Dark bags under her eyes spoke of sleepless nights, and the muffin top that spilled over the waist of her jeans and strained at her shirt told me she hadn’t been eating right. Or exercising.

“Can I talk to you?” she asked, looking around the store at the scattering of customers. Clearly she meant privately.

“Sure,” I said. “Come on back.”

I led her into my storage area, putting a finger to my lips as we passed the slumbering Rose Ann. Lacey glanced at the baby in her crib and attempted a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

We moved past the partition that marked Rose Ann’s nursery, and stopped a few feet beyond. “She’s a sound sleeper,” I said softly. “But I’d still hate to disturb her.”

Lacey nodded her understanding. “Sure thing,” she whispered.

“So what can I do for you, Lacey?”

“I, uh . . .” She gave an embarrassed laugh and tried again. “I need to, well, to sell some stuff. We’re moving to a smaller place, and I need to get rid of some of the clutter.”

I didn’t let on that I already knew she was losing the house. Let her keep some shred of dignity for as long as possible. “What kind of stuff?” I asked.

“Some knickknacks. A few of the larger pieces of furniture.” She swallowed hard and I could see her pulse pounding in the hollow of her throat. “I’ve got some antique quilts that I’m ready to let go,” she continued, “and some Fiesta ware. Oh, and a big collection of Bakelite, including some jewelry.”

I knew I would take the Fiesta ware, if I could get it at a reasonable price, but I struggled with the idea of benefitting from Lacey’s troubles. On the other hand, I couldn’t overpay for merchandise I was going to resell; if I wanted to stay in business, I needed to turn a profit.

“I might be interested in some of that. But this is a small shop; I don’t have room for furniture, especially if it’s very big.”

She rolled her eyes. “The dining room set seats a dozen,” she said. “And there’s a grandfather clock that’s about eight feet tall.”

“Have you thought about an auction house? I can help you find a reputable one.”

She shook her head. “They take forever. Weeks to set things up and advertise, and then a month or more before they actually
do
anything. And I don’t have enough to justify doing a private sale, so I’d have to wait until they got enough sellers together to make it worthwhile.

“Besides, they charge a fortune, and they add more fees and charges for every little thing. It’s worse than the airlines.”

Since I hadn’t flown anywhere in many years, I had no idea how bad the airlines were, but the rest of her arguments were valid. An auction house couldn’t afford to stage a sale for a few pieces of furniture. Not unless they were from Versailles, or Buckingham Palace. She would have to wait and be one of a group of sellers, and I knew why she was in a hurry. She had to move next month, and she didn’t have the luxury of waiting.

“I can’t handle the big stuff,” I repeated. “But Felipe Vargas, over at Carousel Antiques, specializes in that kind of thing. He loves dining room sets. Does yours have a china hutch? Felipe’s a sucker for china hutches.”

Lacey lifted the corners of her mouth in another attempt at a smile, only slightly more successful than the last one. “It does. It’s monstrous, takes up an entire wall of the dining room. And there’s a sideboard that goes with it.”

I tried to imagine how big her dining room must be to hold the massive pieces she described. Bigger than my entire apartment, I’d bet. They didn’t support a place like that on the salary of a bank manager and a pharmacy tech. Not unless the pharmacy paid a lot better than I thought.

Or Francis had some income on the side. Like investing heavily in real estate developments. If he’d been riding Andrew Marshall’s coattails, he could have afforded a great house. Right up until he couldn’t.

His name had been on the investor list, after all.

All of which led to a desperate attempt to liquidate what they could, before their creditors came calling.

“Let me call Felipe and see if he’s available. And come back with the Fiesta ware and the quilts and let’s see if we can work something out.”

I called Felipe. I filled him in, choosing my words carefully. He said to send her over, and I saw the relief in her eyes when I told her he was interested in the furniture. Desperation like hers was not pretty.

I felt like a fraud accepting Lacey’s thanks. I’d buy the quilts and kitchenware at a fair price, and I knew Felipe would take the furniture, but we wouldn’t do her any favors.

Deep down I didn’t think she, or Francis, deserved any. They’d done plenty for themselves.

I watched Lacey leave, trying to hold her head up and pretend her life was still somewhere near normal. I knew the truth was far different that the image she wanted to preserve.

The phone in my hand buzzed, and I pushed the answer button without looking. Probably Felipe calling back after he figured Lacey was gone.

“Good afternoon, Southern Treasures. How can I help you?” I almost said, “Hi, Felipe,” but I stopped myself at the last second.

“Miss Gloryanna, is that you?” The voice wasn’t Felipe, and I was glad I had used our standard greeting. It sounded a lot like Peter’s nasally whine, but it wasn’t him, either. Thank heavens.

“This is Gloryanna,” I replied. “How can I help you?”

“It’s Francis Simon. I, uh, well, I was looking for Lacey.” He sounded almost scared, like a kid looking for his missing mom. “She said she was coming by your place, and I, um, need to talk to her. Is she still there?”

“I’m sorry, Francis,” I said. “She just left. I think she’s going down to Carousel, to talk to Felipe. Maybe you can catch her there. Do you need the number?”

He declined my offer, mumbling that he was sure he had the number, and hung up. As I put the phone back in its base, I wondered why he hadn’t called Lacey on her cell phone. Were things so bad she didn’t even have a working phone?