Murder Sends a Postcard (A Haunted Souvenir) (17 page)

SLY’S STORY EXPLAINED A LOT ABOUT UNCLE LOUIS.
He must have been one stubborn son of a gun to come back to Keyhole Bay after his stint in the Army.

“I don’t know if I’d’ve ever come back here,” Riley said. “Even if my mama and daddy were here. I’d’ve hightailed it west so fast you wouldn’t have seen me go.”

“West?” Jake asked. “I’ve been there. Not that much different from here, unless you’re in one of the big cities. Otherwise it’s the same; good people and bad, rich and poor, happy and miserable. From what I’ve seen, people are the same wherever you go.”

“True, that.” Sly nodded his agreement. “I saw a lot of places courtesy of my uncle. Uncle Sam. Good people and bad, wherever you go. Whatever you go looking for, that’s what you’re gonna find. And I found good people, generous and helpful people, everywhere I went.”

I got up from my chair and walked over to Sly, and knelt down next to him. Tentatively, I reached out and put my arm around his shoulders, and gave him a one-armed hug. “That’s because you’re a good and generous man, Sly. Like goes to like, as Memaw would say.”

Sly reached out with one callused hand and ran his fingers along my cheek. “Louis would be proud of you. I think he
is
proud of you. You’re a good girl, Miss Glory.”

“Thanks.” I stood up and blinked back the tears that threatened to spill over. Sly had given me a fresh look at the only family I had in Keyhole Bay, and I was grateful. Uncle Louis and Bluebeard could be mighty annoying, but I was still glad to have them in my life.

“Speaking of Uncle Louis,” I said to my friends, “have I told you about his latest antics?”

I launched into the story of the postcards, lightening the somber mood with the tale of his mess and of the epic pout that followed. “He was still pouting the next day,” I said, “when Buddy McKenna came in. I think that was some kind of record, even for Bluebeard.”

It was good to be among friends, people who knew about Uncle Louis, and be able to speak freely. I had kept the secret of my ghostly roommate for a long time, unwilling to admit it, even to myself. But now everyone in the room knew about Louis, and accepted his presence in my life.

Soon Karen and Riley announced that they had to leave. They thanked Jake for dinner, and a few minutes later we heard Riley’s truck pull away.

Sly hugged me good-bye, a real hug. Somehow it felt right this time. Sly’s connection with Uncle Louis made it feel like we were family, and I was happy to add another person to my little family circle.

“I’ll see you later in the week,” he said to Jake, “and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Lunchtime,” I agreed. “And I’ll be sure to bring a treat for Bobo.”

We watched the T-Bird pull away, and Jake and I were left alone.

“Time for me to go, too.”

“You’re welcome to stay a little longer,” Jake said. But when I didn’t accept the invitation, he walked me to my truck and said good night.

“I’ll stop by in the morning,” he said, “and see if Bluebeard is still pouting.”

“Probably will be.”

I started the engine and drove the few blocks back home. I parked in the back and let myself in, checking the locks and alarms twice. All the talk about Andy Marshall had left me uneasy, and I still wasn’t ready to accept the police’s explanation of Bridget’s death.

I peered through the dim light in the shop, but everything was in its proper place, and Bluebeard didn’t even complain about me disturbing his sleep.

I was about to head upstairs when I noticed the box of postcards still behind the counter. I picked up the box and carried it upstairs with me. I could turn on the TV and finish resorting the cards before bed, and then I wouldn’t have to look at the mess in the morning.

I found a sappy romantic comedy on a local channel and set to work on the postcards.

I was halfway through when I found another card with Bridget’s precise printing. Like the first one, this one also said Edina, MN, on the address side. But where the first one had only a few letters in the message space, this one had two complete words.

Let’s talk.

Who did she want to talk to, I wondered. There was only one person who might be able to tell me, but good manners told me it was far too late to call anyone, and especially someone I only knew casually.

Good manners, however, didn’t prevent me from sending e-mail. Buddy might not get my message until tomorrow, but it could wait that long.

I grabbed my laptop and opened the e-mail program. Using the address on Buddy’s business card, I typed in my question:

Who did Bridget know in Edina, Minnesota?

I set the computer aside and got up for a glass of sweet tea before I went back to my sorting.

To my surprise, the computer chimed with an incoming message just a few minutes later.

Just my dad, as far as I know. Why?

I debated how to answer him. If Bridget was actually sending a postcard to her father, offering to talk to him, then maybe she was trying to mend their broken relationship. Perhaps working with Buddy had somehow convinced her to reach out to her father, even if it was only a postcard.

But that wasn’t something for an e-mail in the middle of the night. It was a message loaded with emotional baggage, and I wasn’t going to trust it to pixels on a glowing screen.

Nothing critical. Just something she said. I’ll tell you about it the next time I see you. Good night!

I closed the e-mail program and shut down the computer. If Buddy answered my e-mail, if he asked any more questions, I could honestly say I hadn’t seen the message.

I thought about how I’d found Bridget’s message while I finished sorting the postcards and got ready for bed.

Of all the things Bluebeard had said, all the clues he’d dropped, why this one?

I put the box of postcards, now carefully sorted again, at the top of the stairs so I would remember to take them back downstairs. The one with Bridget’s message I left in the middle of the coffee table. I’d try to remember to give it to Buddy next time he was in the shop.

I FLOATED IN THAT HALF-DREAMING STATE BETWEEN
the first soft beeps of the alarm clock and the “I have to be downstairs in fifteen minutes” freakout, savoring the last few minutes of peace and quiet before the onslaught that was a summer Monday.

The early morning warmth made me kick off the light blanket, but the slow whirring of a box fan kept the bedroom reasonably cool for now.

Although I didn’t have to get up for another few minutes, my brain had already kicked into gear. Julie would be here with Rose Ann, so I could get out of the shop for a little while. There was a short list of absolutely necessary errands, and I considered how best to make use of my time.

The bank was a high priority after a holiday weekend. And groceries. No one who lived in Keyhole Bay went near the market on a summer weekend. My Friday morning visit had been problematic; Saturdays were impossible, and by Sunday the shelves were picked clean.

I remembered my date with Sly. I had promised to bring the truck for an oil change, and I’d said I would bring lunch. Which meant I either had to make something, or stop for takeout. But if I didn’t get groceries, there weren’t a lot of options in the making-something department.

Takeout it was.

I didn’t like carrying around cash, so I’d go to the bank first, pick up lunch, get the truck taken care of, and swing by the store on my way back. That way I didn’t have to leave too early, and Frank and Cheryl should have restocked by early afternoon, which would make my shopping easier, too.

I lingered in bed a moment longer, pretending to think about what to wear. I knew I was stalling; my work wardrobe was jeans and sneakers. In the winter I wore T-shirts or polos, in the summer I wore T-shirts or tank tops. I could probably qualify for one of those wardrobe makeover shows.

I forced myself out of bed and into the shower. I was toweling dry when I heard my phone beep with an incoming text. I finished dressing and retrieved the phone on my way downstairs with my coffee.

“Coffee?” Bluebeard said the instant I appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

“No coffee,” I answered. Why did he even bother asking? He got the same answer every day. I gave him some apple slices and part of a banana instead, and changed his water.

Slipping back behind the counter, I checked the phone messages. There was only one text, from a number I didn’t recognize. I almost deleted the message unopened, but there was something vaguely familiar about the area code.

I turned on the computer and did a quick search. Area code 952 covered an area south and west of Minneapolis. That was why it looked familiar: I’d seen it on Bradford McKenna’s business card.

Reassured, I opened the message. Sure enough, it was from Bridget’s brother.

Found something I need to show you. Meet me at Bridget’s.

Buddy

I glanced at the clock. Julie would be here in half an hour, but I didn’t want to wait. I could get out to Bayvue and back before we opened, if I left right now.

I texted back,
On my way
, scribbled a note to Julie, and left it on the counter in case I wasn’t back when she got here.

“Mind the store,” I hollered to Bluebeard as I headed out the back, stuffing my wallet in my pocket. “I’m gonna go see what Buddy wants.”

I was in the truck and on the road before it struck me. Buddy. Sure, Jake called Bluebeard “buddy,” but I’d never heard the parrot use the word in reply.

Not until Buddy McKenna came to town.

Maybe Bluebeard wasn’t talking to Jake. Maybe he was talking about Bradford McKenna, the “Buddy” I was on my way to see.

The traffic was still light this early in the day, and I was able to take the highway out to the county road and turn north toward Bayvue Estates. In a couple minutes the brick gateposts appeared on my right, and I turned in to the abandoned development.

I hadn’t seen another vehicle since the smattering of traffic on the main drag, and the empty roads made the vacant lots and unpaved streets seem all the more deserted.

It felt like the main street of some Western movie, just before the big showdown, with brittle palm fronds in the dusty road instead of tumbleweeds. I almost expected to hear the lonesome whistle of a distant steam engine.

But this was the twenty-first century, I was in Florida, not the Wild West, and I wasn’t heading for any kind of confrontation, just trying to help out the family of a friend.

I parked my truck in front of the house where Bridget had stayed and stuffed the keys in my pocket. I stepped carefully around the jagged edge of the concrete walk where the crew had apparently just stopped pouring and let the wet cement puddle and dry in a lump.

The front door was ajar when I reached the porch, and I pushed it open. “Buddy?” I called out. “You in here?”

A muffled voice answered, “Upstairs. C’mon up.”

I walked through the entry hall and started up the stairs. “What’d you find?”

“Up here,” he answered.

At the top of the stairs I turned down the hall past the sagging cabinet door. I pushed it closed, even though I knew it would just fall open again.

“Where are you?”

“Here,” the voice, high-pitched with excitement, came from the back bedroom. The one with the unfinished closet.

But I didn’t find Buddy McKenna in the bedroom.

Instead I found myself face-to-face with Lacey Simon. And she didn’t look happy.

“Lacey? What are you doing here?”

“Trying to talk some sense into this, this Yankee!” She spat the last word. “But it doesn’t seem to be working.”

Who was she talking about? There didn’t appear to be anyone else in the room. But just then a groan from the closet drew my attention. There on the floor was Buddy McKenna, blood pooling under his head.

I turned to run but Lacey was ahead of me, blocking the door, a length of cedar plank in her hand.

“Francis was too squeamish to take care of his own mess,” she said. “But someone’s got to clean up after him and his damned fool friends. It was good of you to come so quickly when I asked you to.”

The outline of a cell phone bulged in the pocket of her shirt, and I guessed it was Buddy’s. My stomach knotted as I realized
anyone
could send a text message.

I saw her swing and tried to duck, but it was too late.

The timber caught me in the temple and I collapsed on the floor.

I looked up at Lacey. I wanted to ask her why, but I couldn’t decide which Lacey to talk to. There were at least three angry women looming over me.

And all three held needles.

Even my addled brain knew what came next.

A prick against my skin.

Heat sliding through my veins.

Darkness.

Eternity.

“YOU JUST COULDN’T LEAVE IT ALONE, COULD YOU?”
the Laceys said, each of them waving her needle. “We all told Boomer it had to be an accident, had to be her own fault.”

They filled the needles from identical bottles of clear liquid, pulling the fluid into the syringes. Tapping the side of the tube. “But you couldn’t accept that and move on.

“I saw you, you know. Right after I was in your store. Couldn’t wait to go running to your new best friend and tell him all about my business. We just needed a couple days, but the two of you wouldn’t let us have it, would you? If you’d just waited a little bit, ’til I sold our stuff, we’d have been long gone. But oh no, not you. Not little Miss Busybody.

“So now I have to clean up another mess.”

The needles came closer, and I tried to squirm out of the way.

I felt a hand grip my arm, roughly shoving my T-shirt sleeve toward my shoulder. A rubbery strap slid around my arm and pinched it tight. My fingers went numb, and I felt something poking the soft flesh on the inside of my elbow.

For an instant the three needles merged into one, its tip pressed against my vein.

Fueled by panic, adrenaline surged through me. I wrenched my arm away from the needle and heard a tiny snap, followed by a string of curses that would have made Bluebeard blush.

“I can’t find another needle,” the Laceys muttered, digging through identical black bags. “Maybe in the car . . .”

The echoing voices drifted toward the door. “Don’t go anywhere,” they said. “I’ll be right back.”

Go anywhere? It took all my strength and concentration to remember to breathe. How could I go anywhere?

But if I didn’t, she would be back. With another needle, and another vial.

I tried to raise myself up on my elbow, but my arm didn’t want to cooperate. Sharp pain stabbed me in the joint and I had to lay back down.

I straightened my arm and found pieces of the needles sticking out of the veins, the ends broken off an inch above my skin. Blood seeped from the veins that bulged around the broken needles.

I closed one eye, hoping I could figure out which needle was the real one. The three needles blended into two, but not one coherent image.

I dragged my other arm across my body, clumsy fingers grasping for the sharp points.

In the distance I heard a car engine start. Lacey was leaving. I could just take a little nap, then I could try again.

From the closet, Buddy groaned. I remembered the pool of blood. I might have time for a nap, but did he?

The double images refused to come together, and I closed my eyes against the nausea-inducing sight. If I couldn’t see, I would have to rely on my other senses.

I ran my hand up my arm, reaching for the strap. I found a rubber tube, like the nurses used at the blood bank. I tugged on the short end, and was rewarded with a sudden loosening of the pressure on my arm.

The warmth of returning circulation flooded my arm. But there was still a needle to deal with. I ran my hand back down toward my elbow, feeling the slick of blood that covered my arm.

I was bleeding. A lot. Just like Buddy.

I shoved the terror into the back of my brain and slammed a lid on it. No time for panic.

My fingers slipped in the blood. Pain shot through my arm as my hand brushed against the needle, pushing it sideways. Instinctively, I drew my hand away, releasing the pressure on the needle.

Slowly, gingerly, I reached again. I inched my fingers closer, trying to find the needle without causing more pain.

At last I felt the fine metal against my fingertip. I squeezed my eyes tighter, and held my breath.

My hand trembled, and I clamped it into a fist to control the nervous tremor, then reached for the needle again.

The slender shaft was slick and difficult to grasp. I tried to pull on it, but my fingers slipped off. A second time, same result.

The pain didn’t matter. I had to pull the needle out of my arm, if I wanted any chance of getting away from the Laceys.

I tugged at the bottom of my T-shirt, wiping off my arm. The needle dug into me, and I bit my lip to stifle the scream that rose in my throat.

On the third try I managed to keep hold of the needle, and I finally pulled it out. The sharp pain gave way to a dull ache and a heaviness in my arm, but the needle was no longer piercing my skin.

I rolled over, using my good arm to push myself to my knees. As I did, something dug into my thigh. I still had my cell phone in my pocket.

I grabbed for it, but I couldn’t focus on the keys. I tried punching numbers, but all I got was a sharp tone that pierced my skull and a voice telling me to hang up and dial again.

I managed to stop the voice after some random button pushing, and began crawling toward Buddy. I didn’t know how long we had before the Laceys came back, but I was sure it wouldn’t be long enough.

Buddy’s breathing was ragged, but at least he was still drawing breath.

That was the good news.

The bad news was that he didn’t respond when I spoke to him.

I leaned closer, putting my mouth against his ear, and called his name. He moaned and shifted slightly.

“Buddy! You have to wake up!”

Nothing.

I had to leave him here. I couldn’t wait any longer.

I managed to get to my feet, and staggered toward what I hoped was the door. I missed the doorway the first time, but made it into the hall on my second try.

I inched along, holding on to the wall for support. I had no idea how I’d get down the stairs, but I had to keep moving.

I heard running footsteps on the stairs. Lacey, several Laceys, appeared on the landing.

With an angry shout, they launched themselves in my direction. The cabinet door sagged open, hanging between us. I grabbed the door, leaned my weight against it, and leaped at the Laceys.

The door connected with a satisfying crunch, and bodies crumpled at my feet.

I didn’t stop to try and sort things out.

I ran for the stairs, grabbing for the railing with my good hand. I touched a solid piece of wood, sloping away into the jumble of stairs that swam in front of my eyes.

I held on tight and let gravity pull me down, stumbling and bumping my way to the bottom.

The open front door was a blaze of light against the cool interior of the entry. I aimed for the light and kept moving, trusting I would find my way outside.

I staggered onto the porch and down the walk. I tripped over the jagged cement jumble I had avoided so easily before. I went down, banging my knee painfully against the concrete walk.

My truck, several trucks, sat at the curb, but there was no way I could drive. Even if I could manage to get in, and get the key in the ignition, I wouldn’t make it to the county road before I drove into the ditch.

I had to stay on foot.

The bare lots around me offered no place to hide. I struck out across the unpaved street, heading for the swamp at the edge of the development.

Someone would miss me, and help would come.

Julie knew where I was. Somebody would find me. I just had to stay safe until help arrived.

But Buddy couldn’t wait.

And I couldn’t abandon him.