Murder Hooks a Mermaid (26 page)

From inside the kitchen he looked back at us and motioned for us to follow him.

I looked at Jake, who imitated the guy’s shrug.

We followed him into the kitchen.

A restaurant kitchen just shortly before opening is a study in controlled chaos. Everyone was focused on what they were doing, and no one paid any attention to us.

The dishwasher pointed around a service area, and went back to his dish bay.

We went around the service area and spotted a door leading into the bar. But when we went through, there was no sign of Megan. The only person in the place was a guy
with a toolbox and a shirt that proclaimed him an employee of Big Al’s Aquarium Service. “Robert” was embroidered over his pocket, if it could be trusted.

“Robert?” I asked.

“That’s me. Something I can do for you?”

“We were just looking for Megan, the bartender.”

“Sorry, nobody’s here yet. They don’t come in until after I finish servicing the tank.” He nodded at the back bar space. “Gets a little cramped back there when I’m working.”

Curiosity got the better of me, and I moved closer, trying to see what he was doing. “I remember when there were mermaids in that tank,” I said, “but just barely.”

“Me, too.” He stuck out his hand. “Bob Bailey. I’ve been taking care of this tank for a long time. But not back to when there were mermaids,” he added hastily.

I chuckled. “Not unless you started when you were in preschool.”

“Feels like it sometimes, but no.”

Jake moved up next to me, his curiosity piqued. “How does this work?” he asked.

Our original objective abandoned, we peppered Bob with questions. Delighted with such an attentive audience, he answered our questions, even volunteering a little bit of history.

“When the mermaids were here, part of the pool was open, like the one at Weeki Wachee Springs. But when they converted to a reef tank, they had to completely close it in, because the fish need a constant temperature. Too hot, or too cold, and they can’t survive.”

“Is that what you’re checking?” I asked.

“Oh no. That’s monitored automatically. There’s sensors
in the tank, connected by cables to a controller that keeps the temperature in the proper range. If it goes too high or too low it triggers an alarm, and I come running, sort of like when a burglar alarm goes off.”

“But what if a sensor fails?”

“There’s enough of them that one won’t matter. It would take a bunch of them to trigger the alarm. Never had that happen in any of the tanks we service.” There was a distinct note of pride in his voice. He took his work seriously.

We watched him fiddle with an electronic box tucked inside a control panel behind the bar while he talked. It turned out Big Al, the owner of Big Al’s Aquarium Service, was his dad, and he’d been servicing the pool since the mermaid days. “There isn’t an inch of this tank I don’t know. Been coming in here with my dad since I was a kid.”

I wondered aloud why I had never crossed paths with Bob, as small as Keyhole Bay was. I guessed we were near the same age.

“Oh, we lived over in Pensacola when I was growing up. Dad was a Navy diver before he started the aquarium service. I moved over here a couple years ago, when I got tired of living in the city.”

I could have stayed and asked questions for a while longer, and I suspect Bob would have happily answered, but I had promised Jake I would keep my visit to half an hour. Even though he hadn’t said a word—and in fact seemed as fascinated as I was with the things Bob was telling and showing us—I knew we had to get back to our shops.

I got Bob’s business card, telling him I’d love the chance to talk to his dad about the mermaid shows. “I was obsessed with them when I was a kid,” I explained. “I told my father I wanted to grow up to be a mermaid.”

Bob nodded. “I was jealous of the girls,” he admitted. “There weren’t any boys in the show back then, and I was bummed out that I couldn’t be a performer.”

“Thanks,” I said, sticking the card in my pocket. “See ya around.”

By then the front door was open, and we didn’t have to go back through the kitchen. I hadn’t seen Megan come in, but it would be too late to talk to her, anyway. I would have to catch her later.

Chapter 32

JAKE DROVE BACK TO BEACH BOOKS, DETOURING
past Curly’s drive-through window to pick up lunch. I offered to buy his burger as a thank-you, but he declined. “I don’t want you to get the idea you can rope me into these things with a cheeseburger,” he said. “Or a latte.”

“Darn, you figured out my evil plan.”

“Sure did.” He handed me a paper bag with my lunch and pulled back into traffic. Two minutes later, we parked behind Beach Books. When Jake unlocked his front door, it was sixteen minutes after eleven.

I’d kept to the schedule I’d promised.

As I crossed the street, I noticed a truck parked in front of my store. The lines of the rounded hood and tall cab were from an era before tail fins and protruding headlights. Old enough to be an antique, it looked both original and pristine.

The forest green paint gleamed, the chrome twinkled, and the glass was perfect. It looked like it must have the day it rolled off the showroom floor.

As I approached, I recognized the driver.

Sly was sitting behind the wheel.

He hopped out when I reached the truck, bouncing the key in his hand as though he were gauging the weight.

“What brings you here?” I asked, opening the door and turning the sign over.

Sly followed me inside. “Your truck.”

“My truck?”

“My truck!” Bluebeard said.

“It’s gorgeous, Sly. But I can’t afford that.”

“My truck!” Bluebeard insisted.

“You got that right, Mr. Louis,” Sly said.

“My truck.” Bluebeard was practically cooing, looking out the window at the truck sitting at the curb.

Sly took my hand, turned it palm up, and placed the key there. “It was Mr. Louis’s truck before it was mine. Seems only right that it come back here.”

“How am I going to pay for that? It’s got to be worth a fortune! Sly, you know I can’t afford this. Besides, what are you going to drive?”

“You looked around my place, girl? I got prolly three thousand vehicles out there. Most of ’em’s just parts, but I’ve tinkered with a few over the years. Got a garage out back with a couple dozen in running order. Some of them older’n that one.” He waved at the truck.

“My truck,” Bluebeard repeated.

“I tell you what. You can buy the truck back for what I paid for it, plus the parts I put in it. Won’t take any more
than that. I did the work myself—for fun, not for profit—so that don’t count.

“That’s the deal.”

I stared at the truck. It was beautiful, and I was already in love with it. I could imagine myself driving it around town and out on the back roads, searching for merchandise for the shop.

“Are you sure? You might have to take it in payments.” I was hesitant to commit to the deal, not knowing how much he’d put into the thing. I was sure some of the parts were rare, and he might have had to pay dearly for them.

“Whatever you need to do, girl. I think you need to have this truck.” He cocked his head in Bluebeard’s direction. “And I think your uncle agrees.”

Bluebeard bobbed his head up and down, an emphatic signal of his approval.

“All right,” I said slowly. My stomach clenched in anticipation of the answer to my next question. “How much?”

“Well, seeing as most of the parts came off things that got towed to the yard for scrap, I figure there’s about seventy-five dollars in parts. Throw in fifty for the paint—built me a paint booth back when I was doing a lot of repairin’—that’s hundred and a quarter. And then there’s what I paid Louis for it.”

He turned and looked at Bluebeard. “You remember our deal, old man? Course you do.” He turned back to me, a nostalgic smile on his face. “Your uncle sold me that truck when I turned sixteen, rather than let the dealer take it as a trade. Told me it was wore out and I’d need to fix it up, but he knew I could do it.

“He charged me twenty bucks, and let me work it off by
taking care of his new truck. So I never really paid him anything. Then there was, lessee…”

He paused and counted on his fingers, deliberately dragging out the time, making me wait.

I tried not to fidget.

Finally he shook his head. “Nope, can’t think of nothin’ else. I guess you owe me ’bout a hundred twenty-five. You need to make payments on that?”

I think my bursting into tears was answer enough.

I tried to talk him out of it, tried to tell him the offer was much too generous, but he wasn’t having any of it.

“What goes around comes around. Your uncle did me a big favor sellin’ me that truck when I needed it. Now I can return the favor by selling it back to you and getting it out of my garage.”

He patted my shoulder. “I’m gonna go over and get me some of Miss Pansy’s baking,” he said. “Then maybe you could do an old man a favor and give me a lift home.”

I could hardly believe my good fortune. The truck was perfect, and Sly’s sincerity convinced me to accept his offer. He gave me the title and a bill of sale in exchange for a handful of bills from the register, and I had a new/old truck.

While he went next door to The Lighthouse for pastries, I called my insurance agent and arranged coverage for my new ride. They still didn’t have the final report on the Civic, but with a replacement vehicle I wasn’t nearly as distressed by the delay.

I tried to call and share my news with Karen, but my call went directly to voice mail. I hoped that meant she was busy talking to her friends in Jacksonville and would have some answers soon.

I was still on the phone when I saw Jake cross the street. I didn’t leave a message, figuring Karen would call when she could. But instead of coming into Southern Treasures, Jake disappeared through the door of The Lighthouse.

A few minutes later, he emerged with Sly. Jake had a coffee in each hand, and Sly had his own cup and a bulging white paper bag. It looked like he’d spent the entire payment for the truck on Miss Pansy’s baking.

They stopped on the sidewalk next to the truck, sipping their coffee and talking. Jake caught my eye through the window and motioned me to join them, hoisting one coffee cup to indicate it was for me.

There are some definite advantages to living next door to the best coffee in town.

I walked outside, and Jake handed me a coffee cup. “Vanilla latte,” he said, “to celebrate your new truck.”

I ran my hand along the curve of the back fender, feeling the smooth paint beneath my fingertips. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” I looked over at Sly, who beamed behind his coffee cup. “I still can’t believe she’s mine.”

“All yours,” Sly said. “I signed that paper, and now she’s your responsibility. There is one thing, though.”

“Anything,” I replied instantly. Whatever it was, I owed Sly more than I could ever repay.

“If she needs anything, you bring her to me, you hear? Don’t let any of those boys over at Fowler’s get anywhere near her. You let
me
take care of her.”

I agreed immediately. Given the age of the truck—the registration said it was a 1949—I’d been a little worried about finding someone I could trust if she needed work.

Now I knew where to go if I needed help.

We stood on the sidewalk for several minutes, sipping
coffee and admiring the truck, until Guy Miller stuck his head out the door of his shop.

“Cool truck,” he said, walking over and taking a closer look. “Whose is it?”

“Mine.”

He looked at me, eyes wide. “Are you kidding? That’s an amazing truck! Where did you get it?”

“I just bought it from Sly, to replace the Civic.”

“Yeah, Linda told me about the fire. But this”—he waved an arm at the truck—“this is great.”

“I think,” Jake said, “she should have the name of the store painted on the side. In old-fashioned script letters.”

“Absolutely,” Guy agreed. “Gold lettering on that dark green. Great idea.”

I wasn’t sure how Sly would feel, but when I turned to ask him, his grin gave me the answer before he said a word. “I was hopin’ somebody would think of that. Mr. Louis had the store name painted on there when he owned it. But I didn’t want to be telling Miss Glory what to do with her truck.”

My inner twelve-year-old couldn’t contain herself any longer. “That,” I said, “would be made of awesome.”

A few minutes later, Linda came out of The Grog Shop, looking for Guy. The minute she spotted the truck, she rolled her eyes and shook her head. “I should have known that was where my husband disappeared to,” she said. “He can’t resist.”

Eventually the impromptu block party broke up. Jake, Guy, and Linda all had to get back to their stores, and I needed to get Sly home. He said Bobo was waiting for his treats from Pansy’s bakery case.

I told my neighbors I was closing up, but I’d be back in
half an hour or so. I knew I wouldn’t be able to just drop Sly at the junkyard and come right back. I had to drive my new truck, even if it was only a ten-minute cruise through town.

For one crazy minute I considered taking Bluebeard with me. But I didn’t want to take him without a carrier, there wasn’t room for both him and Sly in the cab, and I wasn’t going to let him ride in the back. He’d have to wait for his ride.

I stuffed my driver’s license in my pocket with my shop keys, grabbed my cell phone, promised Bluebeard I’d be home soon, and went off to drive my new truck.

Chapter 33

THE DRIVE FROM SOUTHERN TREASURES TO SLY’S
junkyard was way too short. After I left Sly at his gate, thanking him again and again, I drove through town.

The engine purred like it was brand new, the clutch was like silk, and everything felt solid and stable. It was like the answer to a prayer.

I turned off the highway, using the side streets to make a blocks-wide U-turn. On impulse, I took a detour past the docks. I suppose I wanted to run into someone I knew to get a chance to show off my new acquisition.

As I cruised past Mermaid’s Grotto, I remembered Bob telling me that Megan would be in for the lunch shift. The parking lot was nearly as empty as it had been that morning, the lunch rush having come and gone.