Read Murder Sends a Postcard (A Haunted Souvenir) for Free Online

crush of motels, restaurants, and souvenir shops. Most people never got off the main drag, never saw the homes and schools that made Keyhole Bay a real town.
    We passed the city limit, turned north on a county road, and spotted the brick gateposts that marked the entrance to Bayvue Estates. They guarded the entrance to an unfenced swath of bare land with a single paved road leading away from the highway.
    There weren’t many estates, just two model homes surrounded by empty lots. And there wasn’t a view of the bay either.
    A tall magnolia tree, its base hidden beneath fallen leaves and waxy white blossoms, stood in front of one house. The rest of the front yard, overgrown with tall grass, gave the new construction an air of defeat and abandonment. The only sign of human occupation was a midsize sedan parked in the driveway.
    The paving petered out a few yards beyond the model homes, the remainder of the streets in the development nothing more than graded dirt paths wandering between the vacant lots.
    I pulled the truck up next to the sedan, and we clambered out with the bags of food. As we approached the front door, it swung open and Bridget called out a greeting, as though she had been listening for our arrival. She had changed from her suit and stilettos into a pair of fashionable jeans and a casual tank top that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.
    “Hi,” I answered. “We brought a cold supper, since it’s too hot to cook.” I nodded to Karen. “Bridget, this is my best friend, Karen Freed. If you’ve listened to WBBY since you’ve been here, you’ve probably heard her newscasts.
    “Karen, this is Bridget McKenna.”
    Karen managed to shift the grocery bag to her left hand and extended her right hand to Bridget.
    “I’m that evil woman from up North,” Bridget said with the same warm smile I’d seen the day before. “Glad to meet you.” She glanced over at me. “And yes, I have heard her on the radio.” She held the door for us. “Come on in.”
    I waved away Bridget’s offer to take my bag and followed her toward the kitchen with Karen right behind me. As we crossed the two-story-tall entry, I took in the marble floor and the view across the broad living room to the backyard.
    Without landscaping, the backyard looked even more desolate than the front. I could imagine what it might look like if a professional landscape architect had been able to finish the job with native grasses, flowering bushes, and tropical plants.
    Bridget led us through the empty dining room and into the kitchen. Speckled black granite counters topped honey-colored wood cabinets. Glass doors, meant to display china and crystal, exposed empty shelves. A six-burner gas range under a top-of-the-line microwave–range hood combination dominated one wall, and a three-door refrigerator stood within easy reach of the butcher-block-topped central island. I could see where a big chunk of Back Bay’s money had gone.
    Next to the deep farmhouse sink, a roll of paper towels stood on end by a cheap toaster and coffeemaker, which seemed out of place in the high-end kitchen. They were the only things that looked as though they had been used.
    “Cold supper sounds like an excellent idea,” Bridget said as we unpacked the bags and laid out plastic boxes and bowls on the island next to a collection of plates and silverware. “Food first?” she asked. “Or would you rather have the grand tour?”
    I didn’t wait for Karen’s answer. “Tour first.”
    We stuffed the food into the nearly empty refrigerator, battling the door that closed on us the minute we let go of it.
    “It needs to be leveled,” Bridget said. “It’s on my to-do list.”
    Karen shot her a quizzical glance.
    “The bank wants to liquidate as soon as possible, to get our money back out. They asked me to evaluate the property—get an appraisal if I need to—and see what it will take to unload the houses and the empty lots.”
    Bridget led us through the