Read Online Murder Sends a Postcard (A Haunted Souvenir) by Christy Fifield - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Christy Fifield
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stairs. We walked silently to the front door so as not to wake Bluebeard. I locked the door and watched Jake lope across the street and around the building to where he parked his car.
Bluebeard, however, wasn’t nearly as cooperative. He stuck his head out of his cage and glared through the dim light.
“Trying to $&#$&$% sleep here.”
I took the hint and went back upstairs.
Chapter 8
A FREAK SUNDAY MORNING THUNDERSTORM CHASED the tourists off the beach and into coffee shops and stores like mine. As soon as the sun broke through, though, the shop emptied as the crowds headed for the water.
In the lull that followed, I straightened and restocked the shelves, filling in the bare spots with merchandise from the warehouse. The shirts were stacked, the mugs and glassware lined up, and I was refilling the postcard rack when I heard Bluebeard mutter, “Uh-oh.”
I glanced at him, realized he was staring at the door, and turned to see what caused his distress.
Peter.
Peter was coming through the front door, with his family close behind. Peggy waved at me, a harried look on her face as she headed directly for the back of the shop, seven-year-old Matthew clinging to her hand. Judging from Matthew’s awkward gait, I suspected they were headed for the small bathroom tucked into a corner of the warehouse. Eleven-year-old Melissa followed at a more leisurely pace, her expression making it quite clear that she considered her brother’s distress an affront to proper etiquette.
“Peter?” My voice came out with a quaver. I swallowed hard and tried again. “Peter, what a surprise! What brings you here?”
Peter shrugged, not meeting my eye. “We were visiting the folks for the weekend, and the kids wanted to come to the beach, so we figured we’d come down for the day.”
There was more to it than that, I was sure, but I knew Peter—and he would take his time getting around to the real reason for his visit. Meanwhile, I was stuck with him, Peggy, Matthew, and Melissa in the store.
I asked Peter how he’d been, and let him rattle on about his job while I worked on the postcard rack. I wasn’t listening carefully, but I gathered his success was just beginning and he would undoubtedly be running the company soon.
After a few minutes of Peter’s chatter, Peggy returned from the bathroom with Matthew still in tow.
Melissa trailed behind, as though trying to keep as much distance between herself and the rest of the family as possible without risking a public scolding. Clearly, adolescence had hit full force. Going to the beach was good. Going with your parents was barely tolerable. Going with your little brother was clearly unacceptable.
I’d always gotten on well with Melissa when she was younger and I was the cool independent auntie with an apartment, a store, and a parrot. But I hadn’t seen her in nearly a year, and it looked like I had joined the ranks of the other adults in her life.
The verdict was crystal clear when she greeted me with “Hello, Aunt Gloryanna. It’s good to see you.” Gone were the excited hugs, the “Auntie Glory,” the begging to feed Bluebeard. I bit back a sigh. Most kids went through this stage; I had just hoped it would be different for Melissa and me.
“Good to see you, too”—I hesitated—“Melissa.” Somehow, calling her Mel, which I had always done, felt wrong. She gave me a perfunctory hug, immediately pulling away as though anxious that someone might see her. With a shock I realized she was nearly as tall as me. When did that happen?
When you were busy avoiding her father, Martine.
Fortunately for my bruised ego, Matthew still thought I was cool. He waited impatiently until I released Melissa, then charged up and grabbed me around the waist. “Hi, Glory!”
Peter cleared his throat and looked hard at Matthew. His smile slipped and he released me. “Hello, Aunt Gloryanna,” he said.
Ignoring Peter, I crouched down to Matthew’s eye level and gave him a quick hug.
Bluebeard, however, wasn’t nearly as cooperative. He stuck his head out of his cage and glared through the dim light.
“Trying to $&#$&$% sleep here.”
I took the hint and went back upstairs.
Chapter 8
A FREAK SUNDAY MORNING THUNDERSTORM CHASED the tourists off the beach and into coffee shops and stores like mine. As soon as the sun broke through, though, the shop emptied as the crowds headed for the water.
In the lull that followed, I straightened and restocked the shelves, filling in the bare spots with merchandise from the warehouse. The shirts were stacked, the mugs and glassware lined up, and I was refilling the postcard rack when I heard Bluebeard mutter, “Uh-oh.”
I glanced at him, realized he was staring at the door, and turned to see what caused his distress.
Peter.
Peter was coming through the front door, with his family close behind. Peggy waved at me, a harried look on her face as she headed directly for the back of the shop, seven-year-old Matthew clinging to her hand. Judging from Matthew’s awkward gait, I suspected they were headed for the small bathroom tucked into a corner of the warehouse. Eleven-year-old Melissa followed at a more leisurely pace, her expression making it quite clear that she considered her brother’s distress an affront to proper etiquette.
“Peter?” My voice came out with a quaver. I swallowed hard and tried again. “Peter, what a surprise! What brings you here?”
Peter shrugged, not meeting my eye. “We were visiting the folks for the weekend, and the kids wanted to come to the beach, so we figured we’d come down for the day.”
There was more to it than that, I was sure, but I knew Peter—and he would take his time getting around to the real reason for his visit. Meanwhile, I was stuck with him, Peggy, Matthew, and Melissa in the store.
I asked Peter how he’d been, and let him rattle on about his job while I worked on the postcard rack. I wasn’t listening carefully, but I gathered his success was just beginning and he would undoubtedly be running the company soon.
After a few minutes of Peter’s chatter, Peggy returned from the bathroom with Matthew still in tow.
Melissa trailed behind, as though trying to keep as much distance between herself and the rest of the family as possible without risking a public scolding. Clearly, adolescence had hit full force. Going to the beach was good. Going with your parents was barely tolerable. Going with your little brother was clearly unacceptable.
I’d always gotten on well with Melissa when she was younger and I was the cool independent auntie with an apartment, a store, and a parrot. But I hadn’t seen her in nearly a year, and it looked like I had joined the ranks of the other adults in her life.
The verdict was crystal clear when she greeted me with “Hello, Aunt Gloryanna. It’s good to see you.” Gone were the excited hugs, the “Auntie Glory,” the begging to feed Bluebeard. I bit back a sigh. Most kids went through this stage; I had just hoped it would be different for Melissa and me.
“Good to see you, too”—I hesitated—“Melissa.” Somehow, calling her Mel, which I had always done, felt wrong. She gave me a perfunctory hug, immediately pulling away as though anxious that someone might see her. With a shock I realized she was nearly as tall as me. When did that happen?
When you were busy avoiding her father, Martine.
Fortunately for my bruised ego, Matthew still thought I was cool. He waited impatiently until I released Melissa, then charged up and grabbed me around the waist. “Hi, Glory!”
Peter cleared his throat and looked hard at Matthew. His smile slipped and he released me. “Hello, Aunt Gloryanna,” he said.
Ignoring Peter, I crouched down to Matthew’s eye level and gave him a quick hug.
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