The Gallery of the Dead (Tropical Breeze Cozy Mystery Book 3) (4 page)

“I’m not personally promising anything, Bernie. These are showbiz people. We’ll see if anybody actually shows up, and what condition they’ll be in if they do. If Teddy wants to do the show on the actual anniversary, though, they had better show up in the morning.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow then. You’d better let Teddy know I’m coming. Make a note of it. Come on, Ed, write it down.”

I did. “There. Satisfied?”

“Yup.”

Now that the interview was over, she lit up a cigarillo and waved it around airily. “Nice seeing you Ed. Go ahead and let yourself out.”

From the Journal of Edson Darby-Deaver

The Bookery was right next door to the animal shelter’s resale shop, Girlfriend’s, so it was a toss-up where I’d go first. Coming from Bernie’s house on Palmetto, it was only a block over to Locust, the main drag. Though I was still rattled at the image of my new co-star and her whip, I was holding my current objectives firmly in mind: find out about the Whitbys from Barnabas, and interview Florence about Misty.

Barnabas always closes the book store between noon and 1:00, then goes up to the second floor of the building to his apartment for lunch. I checked my atomic watch: 12:42. Not wanting to bother him while he ate, I proceeded to Girlfriend’s.

They were having a sale on women’s tops ($1 each if you bought three or more), and the showroom was moderately busy. Florence was at the counter ringing up a sale, but I was in luck: Taylor Verone had come in to help out and a volunteer with long black hair was standing behind the counter with Florence.

Taylor saw me and came over, smiling.

She’s a tall blond woman with very green eyes, and is quite lovely, in my opinion. Strangely, she has never made me nervous. That may be because at 61, she is some six years older than me, and has a boyfriend. Not that the age thing matters, but for some reason, I have never felt threatened by her. We have a business relationship that stretches back a few years, and I have been able to help her on several projects, to our mutual satisfaction, I believe. My Halloween Haunted House was a particular success as a fundraiser for Orphans of the Storm, her shelter. I’m quite proud of that one.

“I heard you and Teddy were doing your first show in town,” she said.

Every pair of eyes in the shop became riveted upon me, all motion stopped, and after a few seconds, whispering began.

Taylor gestured with a smile. “You’re a celebrity now.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said more gruffly than I’d intended.

She came closer and lowered her voice. “Don’t be nervous. You’re not the only male in the shop. Wicked is a boy, too.”

“Wicked?” I said, adjusting my glasses.

“The shop cat.” She indicated a black and white creature that was crouching behind me on an entertainment center, preparing to launch.

“Wicked – no!” Taylor said. “Be good, now. He likes to jump,” she explained vaguely.

I stared at the cat and it stared at me. Then I looked around at the women’s clothing, handbags, glassware and vases, enough jewelry for a Las Vegas revue, and about a million cute paintings, many of kittens.

“I’d like to interview Florence,” I said, remaining composed. “Apparently she knows Misty McBain. Is there somewhere else we can go? Someplace . . . quiet?”

“Someplace a little less feminine?” she hazarded. Before I could protest, she said, “As you can see, we’re pretty busy right now.”

“It’s an emergency,” I blurted, attracting attention. I lowered my voice. “We’re going to begin filming tomorrow night, and we don’t know what in the world we’re doing – you know, about the
thing
up in the
you-know-what
over there at the
place
. Teddy’s not giving me much time to research.”

“Ed, Ed, Ed,” she murmured, shaking her head. “Why on earth would you mention that man’s name in the same sentence as the word ‘research?’”

She had a point. During another of his investigations, several months prior, he had overrun her new property with disastrous results, so she knew what she was talking about.

“Yes,” I admitted. “As a documentarian, his methods are – what’s the word? – carefree.”

“He’s an airhead,” she said succinctly. I couldn’t argue.

She gazed around the shop, where more eavesdropping than shopping was going on by now. As a businesswoman, I could see her making the decision that she needed to get me off the showroom floor. “All right, Ed,” she told me. “I think we can spare Florence for a minute or two. How about the back room?”

“Excellent,” I said, hoisting my messenger bag. “I’ll try to be brief.”

Addressing the shop at large, with a curt nod, I said, “Ladies,” by way of an exit line. They tittered. I breasted the curtains to the back room like a runner going over the finish line.

“Would you like some tea?” Florence said as she came into the back room. “I don’t have any cookies, but there may be some crackers in the desk here somewhere.”

She began to root around in a drawer full of old pens, loose paperclips, small pads of paper, eraser crumbs and the little packages of crackers they give you over at Don’s Diner with bowls of soup.

“Oh look! Multi-grain.”

“No thanks, Miss Florence. And please don’t bother to make tea. This isn’t going to take long.” I had my recorder set up, had dictated the date, time, place and Florence’s name, and was prepared to begin. When I glanced up, ready with my first question, she was seating herself comfortably on an old upholstered swivel-rocker, which she proceeded to rotate gently throughout the remainder of the interview.

Florence looks innocent enough – one of those pink-and-white fluffy types in polyester pastels – but the information that resides under that curly perm would make the CIA envious. For gathering intel, her position at the head of Girlfriend’s is ideal. All the women of Tropical Breeze come in and tell her everything while sorting through one another’s cast-offs. I know of no parallel situation involving men, unless it happens at gun shows, which I do not frequent.

“You’re aware of our investigation?” I began.

“Oh, yes! We’re all so excited about it, we just can’t wait to see it on TV. We’re already planning a party to watch the one about The Royal Palm. Taylor says we can come out to Cadbury House on the river and fit everybody into the great room to watch. You’re invited, of course. We’ll have a goodie table and everything.”

It was turning out to be a day of unpleasant shocks. I quickly said I’d be busy – whenever it was – and tried to get her to focus. She was still rocking, but I wasn’t going to let that to make me queasy.

“There seems to be some doubt as to Misty’s claims of a haunting.”

She laughed gaily. “You’re not buying that, are you Ed? An experienced investigator like you!”

I put my pen down, sat back, then turned the recorder off. It’s not often I get discouraged, but what with Carmilla’s face still haunting me, a contract over my head, five or six women in the store straining to hear what we were saying (I saw them texting their friends before I left the showroom, so there might be even more of them out there by now), and everybody’s favorite grandma telling me I was on a wild goose chase, I began to lose heart.

“Now don’t let it get you down, Eddie,” she said kindly. “Maybe you’ll find a ghost, but I doubt it’s got anything to do with Misty. She just needs to get some business for the B&B before she goes under. The house is mortgaged up to the rafters, and there are so many other expenses: insurance, real estate taxes, electricity. With what it takes to keep a household going these days, it’s a wonder we’re not all wandering the streets going through dumpsters for food,” she added cheerily.

I fantasized about quitting the show and going back to my quiet life by the beach, but I’m a man of honor, so I pulled myself together.

“Have you known Misty McBain for long?”

“Since she was a little girl,” she said. “She was Misty Something-else then; I didn’t know her family, and if I ever knew her maiden name, I’ve forgotten it.”

“It was Howard,” I informed her.

She shrugged. “Whatever. When she was a kid she used to come to Tropical Breeze and practically live here all summer long. Her best friend, Nancy Pratt, lived not far from me on Palmetto Street. I think I actually babysat for them a time or two.”

I turned the recorder back on. “Nancy Pratt, childhood friend of the subject,” I told the recorder, catching it up. Then I pressed on. “Them? Nancy and Misty?”

“And Nancy’s little brother Victor. Victor was a brat, but Nancy was nice.”

“And Misty?”

She screwed up her eyes, trying to remember. “She was sort of a negative child. Neither here nor there. Not bad or good. Just
there
. The kind of a child you can hardly remember. I actually wouldn’t remember her at all if she hadn’t moved back to Flagler Beach twenty years ago. She came into Girlfriend’s one day and started talking to me about the good old days.”

“And you enjoyed reminiscing?”

“I didn’t know who the heck she was. It wasn’t until she mentioned the time Victor put a centipede down her back that I knew who she must be. Once I made the connection, I realized she hadn’t changed all that much. Same mousy brown hair, same washed-out blue eyes, same tendency to ramble on and on and never say anything interesting.”

“Ah. I thought I noticed a tendency toward confabulation.”

She stared at me a moment, then said, “If you mean she was a bit of a liar, you’re wrong. Misty was never a liar. She just couldn’t always tell what was real and what was her little fantasy world. She was one of those girls who drift around in a dream all the time.”

“I see. Did Misty and – yes, Nancy – play with the Allen girls? The daughters of the summer people who bought the Whitby House?”

“All the time,” she said, nodding. “The Allen girls were popular. Not just because of the mansion, and that big old yard to play in, but because they were nice, smart girls. Well brought-up. I liked them. There were two of them. Don’t remember their names, because they weren’t here more than two or three months out of the year. But they were nice girls. Pretty, too. All the other girls wanted to be friends with them.”

“Including Misty?”

“Definitely including Misty. Didn’t she tell you? The Allen family always had a volley ball net and croquet wickets set up around the yard. Before they left at the end of summer, they’d have wienie roasts. You could have an open bonfire, and we’d eat watermelon and put marshmallows on sticks and toast them, and the whole town would come and socialize. They would bring the girls’ grandmother along for the summer, and she made the best banana cream pies. The family was very friendly. A few times the Allen girls had pajama parties, and any girls who didn’t get invited would just about die.”

“And Misty went to these events?”

“Either that or she tagged along with Nancy, because she definitely went to parties at the Whitby House.”

“Outside at the bonfire and inside in pajamas?”

“Oh, yes.”

Lie number two: Misty had denied ever being in the house as a child.

I was beginning to think I should talk to Teddy about looking for another subject. This definitely could turn into a disaster if we got blind-sided by a nut case on our very first show.

“You’re sure about that?”

“I could give Nancy a call later. Her name’s Nancy Patterson now. She’s living in Michigan and she has three grown children. One of them is a dentist,” she added impressively.

“Please. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble. And call me with any information you get. Here’s my number,” I said, handing her one of my business cards. “I want to impress on you that time is of the essence. We’re shooting tomorrow.”

“Isn’t that nice.”

“I’d like to know before then – tonight if possible.”

She took my card and gazed at it, fascinated. “My, my, will you look at that? ‘Edson Darby-Deaver.’ Such an impressive name. ‘Paranormal Investigator. Discreet. Professional. Reasonable Rates, by the Hour or Day.’” She looked up brightly. “Would you autograph it for me?”

Celebrity was grinding me down already.

“Well, dear,” she said, ceasing her rocking at last and rising awkwardly from the chair, “I’d better get back to the showroom.”

“I appreciate your time, Miss Florence, and –
what the hell is that?
” I blurted, forgetting myself in the presence of a lady. There had been an explosion of noise in the shop, roughly the effect you’d get if you threw a firecracker at a henhouse.

Miss Florence was not concerned. “Oh, the girls are excited about something, aren’t they? Let’s go see.”

“Is this a back exit?” I asked, looking at the door to the alley.

“Now you come on, Ed. Aren’t you curious? You’re supposed to be an investigator.”

“I’m sure it’s just somebody with a plate of brownies,” I said desperately. She had me by the arm, so I ended up back in the shop.

The women were clustered around an attractive young lady I had never seen before. When Taylor saw me, she took the newcomer by the arm and brought her over.

“Ed, this is one of you new co-workers. We were all so excited to meet her. Lily, meet Edson Darby-Deaver. Ed, this is Lily Parsons.”

“How do you do,” I said with automatic good manners, offering my hand.

Lily was youngish, not more than thirty, and had the kind of peachy complexion that tans prettily. Her eyes and hair were a light caramel brown, and she was lithe – slim and athletic-looking. She was laughing at me just then, showing nice, even teeth. She glanced down at the hand I was offering, and when I realized I was still holding my messenger bag in it, I set the thing down and she took my hand.