Free Murder Sends a Postcard (A Haunted Souvenir) by Christy Fifield

hand on my arm. I turned and found Peggy standing at my side. “Sorry,” she said, a blush in her cheeks. “I just saw the crib, and I thought . . .” She hesitated, then shook her head. “I didn’t know quite what I thought, or how to ask about it. I’m sorry.”
    Melissa’s attitude relented. “That is so cool, Aunt Glory! You really let your employee bring her baby to work?”
    I nodded. “Rose Ann usually stays with her grandma, but some days her grandma can’t keep her and she comes here. She’s a very good baby.”
    I turned to Peter. “Do you have any other questions?”
    Peter didn’t answer. Not that I expected him to.
    In a too-bright voice, Peggy tried to change the subject. “Have you been busy, Glory? There was a lot of traffic on the way down.”
    “It was a pretty good morning,” I answered. She was trying desperately to ignore the tension that remained after her husband’s outburst, and I went along. But in the back of my mind another strike was added to Peter’s list of offenses. It was growing into a long list. “You’re getting your reports and checks all right every month, aren’t you?”
    “Of course we are.” Peter spoke up again, now that his wife had smoothed things over. “In fact, that was one of the things I wanted to talk to you about.” He looked at Peggy, a clear reminder that she had a specific role to play in his little performance.
    She looked relieved, and called to the children. “Let’s go!” She turned back to me, her cool, impassive mask back in place. “I promised the children ice cream when we got here. We’ll be back in a jiffy,” she said with an insincere smile.
    Obviously, her moment of embarrassment had passed. She took Matthew by the hand and led the way back to the sidewalk, Melissa trailing along in her wake.
    Melissa looked at her father and me over her shoulder, her expression telling me quite clearly that she would rather listen in on our conversation than hang out at the ice cream shop with her mother and little brother.
    A rush of warm air flowed through the door, then the three of them were outside and the door closed behind them.
    The old air conditioner droned on, battling against the heat, its constant whirring the only sound in the shop. Even Bluebeard remained silent, waiting to see what fool thing would come out of Peter’s mouth next.
    But I didn’t get a chance to find out why Peter had dropped in. He got as far as “I wanted to talk to you,” when the bell sounded over the door and a trio of thirtysomething women came in.
    I smiled at the new arrivals. “Can I help you find something?” I asked in a friendly voice. Even if Peter had angered me beyond endurance, I couldn’t let it change the way I treated my customers.
    “Thanks,” said a leggy blonde, clearly the alpha of their little group. “Just looking for some souvenirs for the family before we have to head back.”
    The other two giggled in a way that said “girls’ weekend” more clearly than their sunburns and the slight air of one-too-many umbrella drinks last night that clung to them.
    “Anything in particular?” I asked, stepping closer. “Kid stuff, or something for the men in your life?” I had stopped using
husband
and
boyfriend
a few years back, in a moment of extreme caution, and the habit had stuck.
    “Kids,” the blonde’s companions said in unison, and burst into giggles again, which the blonde didn’t share. I revised the umbrella drink hypothesis to mimosas with brunch, with the blonde as designated driver.
    I moved to the spinner rack full of T-shirts and hoodies with garish slogans emblazoned across them. I was already wishing I had Bluebeard T-shirts. These women would have snatched them up. “Boys or girls?”
    Before the giggling women had a chance to answer, Peter clamped his hand on my arm. “We need to talk,” he said. “But this isn’t the time. Let’s have dinner together. I’ll call and tell you where to meet