Murder Buys a T-Shirt Read online

  Read My Beak

  Overhead fluorescents flickered for a second—I needed to replace one of the tubes—then came on bright and clear.

  The shop was trashed.

  The vintage magazine rack lay on its side, blocking the path to the counter. A quilt, fallen off the wall, draped across the jewelry display case. Antique newspapers covered the counter, their pages spread open as though someone had been interrupted while reading.

  Behind me I heard Karen’s soft “Oh no!”

  I set the box of bakeware on the floor and turned to take the quilts from Karen, placing them on top of the box before I picked up the magazine rack.

  Bluebeard woke up from his nap, glaring at me as though I were the intruder. He muttered something cranky and spread his wings to their full width before settling back down. He fixed his eyes on me and ruffled his feathers, then he spoke again. This time his voice was clear and precise.

  “It wasn’t an accident.”

  Christy Fifield

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME, NEW YORK

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL,

  England • Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin

  Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community

  Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive,

  Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books

  (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require

  medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the

  recipes contained in this book.

  MURDER BUYS A T-SHIRT

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / March 2012

  Copyright © 2012 by Chris York.

  Cover illustration by Ben Perini.

  Cover design by Sarah Oberrender.

  Interior text design by Kristin del Rosario.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or

  electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of

  copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  EISBN: 9781101576991

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is

  stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the

  author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  In loving memory of my father,

  Gerald Eugene Fifield.

  I miss you.

  Acknowledgments

  My sincere gratitude to:

  First reader and friend Colleen, for your cheerleading, support, and attention to detail.

  Agent Susannah Taylor, a consummate professional and my personal champion. Thanks for being on my team.

  Editor Michelle Vega. Your help and understanding make my job as a writer a real joy.

  Pal Cindie, for the parrot.

  Husband Steve, for, well, just everything.

  And to all the friends and family who helped me through an incredibly tough year. You know who you are.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  “NO, PETER. IT IS NOT A GOOD IDEA.”

  I gripped the phone tightly and rolled my eyes. My cousin Peter Beaumont owned half of Southern Treasures—well, he owned 45 percent and I owned 55 percent—and he thought he knew everything about everything, just because he had a master’s degree from the University of Alabama.

  Never mind that his degree was in mechanical engineering, he’d never worked in retail, and he lived more than a hundred miles away. He was educated.

  “But Glory, honey, coffee is big money. Do you know how many Starbucks there are, just here in Montgomery?”

  “That’s not the point—”

  “There’s seven, Glory. In just a couple miles, I swear. And plenty of others, too.”

  “And there’s a coffee shop right next door to me, Peter.” The Lighthouse was so close I could get a caffeine high just from the aroma of fresh-roasted beans. “We don’t need an espresso bar.”

  I glanced around the crowded store: odd bits of vintage furniture, books and magazines from the turn of the previous century, and shelves crowded with a jumble of knickknacks and oddments. Collectible midcentury kitchenware vied for shelf space with a display of the latest in silly souvenirs. A spinner of postcards stood near the front door, and handmade quilts covered most of the walls.

  Even if I wanted to put in a coffee bar, there was no place for it.

  “Coffee!” squawked Bluebeard, the middle-aged Amazon parrot I’d inherited from our great-uncle Lo
uis Georges, along with my 55 percent. Bluebeard wasn’t allowed to have coffee, but that didn’t stop him from demanding it.

  “No coffee, Bluebeard,” I called to him.

  He ruffled his feathers and loosed a string of angry chatter, laced with an occasional clear profanity.

  I sighed. “And no coffee, Peter. It just doesn’t make sense for Southern Treasures.”

  “But, Glory,” Peter started up, a faint whine creeping into his voice.

  The bell on the front door rang as someone pushed the door open.

  “Gotta go,” I interrupted him. “Give my love to Peggy and the kids.”

  I flipped the phone shut, cutting off Peter’s protest, and shoved it in my pocket before looking up to see who had come in.

  Bluebeard wolf whistled as I caught sight of Karen Freed, my best friend and “Voice of the Shores” for WBBY, the local radio station in Keyhole Bay, Florida. With her wavy shoulder-length chestnut hair and willowy build she was wolf-whistle material and Bluebeard seemed to know it.

  “Shut up, Bluebeard,” Karen laughed.

  She set two tall paper cups on the counter, the aroma of espresso and chocolate teasing my nose.

  “Hot, not iced?” I asked, eyeing the cardboard sleeve with The Lighthouse’s logo.

  “It’s Tuesday after Labor Day, Martine,” she said. “Officially the end of tourist season. I’m pretending it’s fall.”

  I grinned and took a sip.

  “It’s only September, but I’ll play along for a free mocha.” I sighed. “I hope the season isn’t over yet. I could use a few more busy weekends.”

  The shop had been empty all morning, and I’d been working on the books and straightening shelves when Peter called. It seemed like there was always something out of place in the store.

  Initially, I had blamed it on customers, but lately I was beginning to wonder. I had even suspected Bluebeard for a while.

  Now I had some new suspicions about the constant shuffling of merchandise. But I wasn’t about to tell anyone I thought the shop was haunted.

  Even Karen.

  “I guess we are in the quiet time, though, aren’t we?” I continued.

  “Yes. But that isn’t why I stopped by,” Karen said, pausing to sip her own drink. “My calendar is a mess, and I need to double-check who’s hosting dinner Thursday. Do I have to get ready for company?”

  We had dinner every Thursday with Felipe Vargas and Ernie Jourdain, each one of us taking a turn at hosting and cooking. Karen claimed it was the only way she could make herself clean house.

  I laughed. Karen was the most organized person I knew when it came to her job and her news stories. She had files within files and a color-coded labeling system to organize all her contacts and sources.

  But when it came to her personal schedule, she couldn’t keep track of anything. Without the deadline of company every fourth Thursday, her house sagged under multiple layers of clutter. I called them her middens and told her someday an archaeological dig would unearth all the things she’d lost over the years.

  I often wondered why her organizational skill didn’t translate, but I’d given up trying to find an explanation. It was just part of her charm.

  “I’m hosting,” I said, the schedule fresh in my mind. “Felipe next week, and you the week after.”

  I went back to sorting T-shirts. “Not sure what we’re eating yet. It’ll depend on what kind of fish I can get fresh.”

  Recently, we’d decided to concentrate on traditional Southern dishes. I knew there would be field peas with cornbread and fried fish, and banana pudding for dessert. A second, or third, vegetable would be good, but that would depend on Thursday morning’s grocery shopping.

  I slid three size-small shirts back into their proper place on the rack. Why couldn’t people put things back where they belonged?

  “Going to visit my ex?” Karen sounded worried. “You looked like you were about to belt his deckhand when the four of us went looking for fish last month.”

  “He was a jerk.” I shrugged. Karen’s ex, Riley Freed, ran a fishing boat. He usually had the best, and freshest, catch. But a couple of his deckhands were redneck idiots. “Not everybody thinks Ernie and Felipe are a cute couple.”

  “Well, I don’t think I’d seen you that mad since Cherie Gains made a play for Keith Everett.”

  I planted my fists on my hips in mock indignation. “He was my boyfriend! And that’s very important when you’re fourteen.”

  “Yeah, right.” Karen set her cup down and helped me finish sorting the T-shirts. “But it didn’t last.”

  I gave a dramatic sigh. “My first lost love,” I said.

  “At least you found out early,” Karen said, stepping back to admire our handiwork. “Saved yourself a divorce.”

  “Oh, please!” I walked to the front of the store, and cast a critical eye on the merchandise in the window. It needed something; I wasn’t sure what. Maybe I’d step outside later and try to come up with a new display.

  “You and Riley are still friends, Karen. It wasn’t exactly the end of the world.”

  “True.” Karen’s usual sunny outlook had replaced her earlier concern. “Riley isn’t a bad guy. I actually kinda like him—just as long as I don’t have to live with him.”

  She took a last pull on her mocha and tossed the cup into the trash can behind the counter. “So, Thursday? You need any help?”

  “If you’re offering, I won’t turn you down.” I grinned at her. “About six work for you? I told Felipe and Ernie we’d eat at seven.”

  Karen nodded. “Got an appointment,” she said, waving over her shoulder.

  As she reached for the door, it swung in. A middle-aged couple, south of retirement age but past the kids-in-tow stage, stood in the doorway.

  Karen moved aside, holding the door for the couple. “See you Thursday,” she called over her shoulder as she walked out.

  I smiled at the new arrivals and went back to my paperwork. I’d learned early that one sure way to drive customers right back out onto the sidewalk was to make them feel like they were being watched.

  Even when they were.

  Southern Treasures was the kind of place where customers had to wander to investigate the one-of-a-kind pieces that were my specialty. Not upscale antiques like Ernie and Felipe carried at the Carousel Antique Mall, with price tags to match—my treasures were quirkier. And cheaper, except for the handmade quilts.

  I did carry the standard stuff—postcards, shells, and shot glasses—to fill out the shelves when my inventory ran low and provide a steady cash flow. Still, nothing matched the thrill when a customer’s eyes lit up over one of my garage-sale finds.

  I kept an eye on the couple’s progress, glancing up at the concave mirrors in the corners of the store. The woman was especially taken with several of the quilts, but her husband was clearly not opening his wallet this morning.

  As I watched-without-watching, the woman made her pitch, but hubby kept shaking his head. The only thing in the shop he appeared to like was Bluebeard, and he wasn’t for sale.

  They spent half an hour wandering around, occasionally arguing in lowered voices over an item but never actually carrying anything to the counter. In the end, she bought a single postcard “for the grandkids” and slipped it in her giant purse as they headed out the door.

  I shrugged. Typical. All that drama for a lousy fifty-cent postcard. And she’d made a mess of the postcard spinner.

  Oh well. It needed restocking, anyway.

  I straightened the cards, lining them up in the pockets of the spinner. I didn’t realize I was muttering to myself until Bluebeard chimed in.

  “Dammit.”

  I glanced up at the bird. “Language, Bluebeard.”

  He ruffled his feathers and turned away, pretending I wasn’t speaking to him.

  Bluebeard had a salty vocabulary, and I wondered where he had learned it. From Uncle Louis?

  I barely remembered him. I was only ten when he die
d, and my mother didn’t talk about him much as I grew up. I always assumed I’d get the real story when I was older, but my parents were killed in a hit-and-run when I was in high school, and no one else seemed to know much about Uncle Louis.

  Now I wondered about the man who had left me 55 percent of the store that supported me—just barely—and a foul-mouthed parrot.

  If only Bluebeard could really talk.

  BY THE NEXT MORNING, THE MYSTERY OF UNCLE Louis had been tucked back away. One of these days, when I had some free time, I would try to find out more about him.

  And pigs would fly. Running a small business in a tourist town didn’t leave a lot of free time, and what I did have, I used to treasure hunt for the oddities that gave Southern Treasures its personality.

  I used to have a hired manager, but eventually I knew the store better than anyone I could hire. Three years ago, I let my last paid manager go and quit my job as an elementary school office aide in Pensacola. Now I just had part-time help in the summer.

  The phone rang before I could make it to the front door to turn over the “OPEN” sign.

  “Southern Treasures; how can I help you?”

  “Play hooky,” Karen said without preamble.

  “Uh, Freed? Hello? I have a store to run.” What if my quilt lady from yesterday managed to pry some money out of her husband? The sale of a five-hundred-dollar quilt would sweeten my week a lot.

  “Linda will cover for you. Besides, it’s the quiet time; you said so yourself. Your inventory is down, and you need a treasure hunt. And I just got called to go over to DeFuniak on a story this afternoon. We could treasure hunt on the way.”

  I hesitated. She was right about the inventory. The shelves were full but only because there was an extra load of T-shirts. The walls of my tiny stockroom were empty and the shelves bare.

  The invitation was tempting. I just hated to impose on Linda.

  Linda Miller and her husband, Guy, owned The Grog Shop next door. She was more than a neighbor; she was as close to family as I had in Keyhole Bay. She had been my babysitter and a friend of my mom’s. She had also been my guardian during the months between my parents’ deaths and my eighteenth birthday, and we were closer than many “real” sisters.

  But Linda had her own business to run.