Caught Read-Handed

MORE PRAISE FOR

WELL READ, THEN DEAD

“A terrific new spin on the culinary cozy—with a great story, plenty of heart, and compelling characters. Sassy—who really is sassy—and her cheeky roster of friends sparkle as brightly as the sun on the Gulf of Mexico.”

—Laura Childs,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Ming Tea Murder

“BOOKLOVER ALERT:
Well Read, Then Dead
celebrates books, food, laughter, friendship and, oh yes, dark dire doings. Clever, original and sure to please.”

—Carolyn Hart,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Don't Go Home

“Solving crime with Sassy and Bridgy is nothing short of delightful.”

—Laura Bradford, national bestselling author of
Suspendered Sentence

“With perfect pacing, a cast of eccentrics, a wealth of Florida color and history and a testament to friendship, Moran opens her projected series with a winner, one in which the reader can feel the breeze through the palms.”

—
Richmond Times-Dispatch

“I've long enjoyed the short fiction of Terrie Moran, and I'm thrilled to see her expand her talents to the novel with
Well Read, Then Dead
. Set in a paradise Florida island town, with lovable and quirky characters and a combination bookstore/café that I wish was in my own hometown, Terrie's well-plotted novel tells a tale of murder, old secrets and friends-for-life who will do what it takes to protect their loved ones and way of life. Very much recommended.”

—Brendan DuBois, two-time Shamus Award–winning author of
Fatal Harbor

“[A] fun change of pace for Florida cozy readers looking for a series that offers an alternative to the hustle and bustle of Miami or the laid-back calypso beat of Key West. The close-knit cast of characters in
Well Read, Then Dead
should appeal to fans of Elaine Viets's Dead-End Job series, while food-loving fans of Lucy Burdette's Key West Food Critic mysteries will find their mouths watering at the mention of
Old Man and the Sea
Chowder and buttermilk pie (for which a recipe is included). I look forward to the next pun-filled book in the series.”

—
Florida Book Review

“The mystery is a good one with plenty of suspects, motives and opportunities to have done the murder. The characters are likeable and full of quirks, making the Read 'Em and Eat a place readers wouldn't just like to see but a second home where they can hang out with friends. Pull up a chair during the Potluck Book Club, have a glass of sweet tea and relax. It's Florida, good books and good food.”

—
Kings River Life Magazine

“I can guarantee I'll be visiting again with these characters and the charming Read 'Em and Eat Café and Book Corner. Terrie Farley Moran does a marvelous job at drawing the reader into her world and creating a cozy mystery that is delightful and makes me want to read the next one right away.
Well Read, Then Dead
is easily recommended!”

—
Fresh Fiction

“Kudos to Terrie Farley Moran . . .
Well Read, Then Dead
is a triumphant first novel . . . Very well planned with enough twists that kept this reader happily on her toes. The characters are a delightful mix from the very prim and proper to the eccentric . . . The next offering in this series is sure to be an even greater delight!”

—
Open Book Society
(5 stars)

“[A] well-written, fast-paced page-turner of a read. I liked these characters as soon as I met them. What a wonderful location for a new series—a warm beachy setting in an eatery/bookstore. I would never leave.”

—MyShelf.com

“I had a great time meeting all these characters and getting to know the surroundings and the shop, and I can't wait for my next trip back to Fort Myers Beach!”

—CriminalElement.com

Berkley Prime Crime titles by Terrie Farley Moran

WELL READ, THEN DEAD

CAUGHT READ-HANDED

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

CAUGHT READ-HANDED

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2015 by Terrie Moran.

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

For more information, visit penguin.com.

eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-63950-4

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / July 2015

Cover illustration by S. Miroque.

Cover design by Rita Frangie.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

PUBLISHER'S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

Joan Moran Schlereth:
best daughter ever

Bridgy Mayfield's aunt Ophelia tapped her extra-long, shocking pink fingernails impatiently on the countertop beside the cash register.

“Really, how long can it take to pack a few scones and fill a thermos with tea?”

I held my tongue, reminding myself there was no point in answering Ophie. She never paid the least attention to what anyone had to say unless they were spouting lavish words of praise directed at Ophie herself. Everything else flew right past her.

Bridgy came out of the kitchen. She placed the tea-filled thermos and a box of scones in front of her aunt. “I tied your pastry box with a fancy lace ribbon. When you open the box, each scone is resting in its own little doily. Do you want cocktail-sized napkins rather than lunch napkins? More festive, I always think.”

Ophie's mood swung from frozen latte to southern syrup.

“Here you go gussying up the tea I'm sharing with a new client to make it look like I fussed to the moon and back. Why, honey chile, it's no wonder you're my favorite relative.” Ophie reached across the counter to pat Bridgy on the cheek and spotted a cardboard box half filled with assorted books. “What is that? A new shipment? Shouldn't you get those books on a shelf? How can folks buy them if they don't know you have them?”

She turned to me. “Sassy, you're the book maven. What are you waiting for?”

I tried explaining that we were donating some used books from home and a few unsold books from the café bookshelves for the library fund-raising book sale, but Ophie was having none of it.

“Isn't that like helping the enemy stock up on weapons? Honey chile, if everyone got their books at the library, who'd buy books from you?”

Remembering it wasn't so long ago that Ophie suggested we expand the café and get rid of the bookshelves altogether, I needed to change the subject, and fast. I pointedly looked at the wall clock and asked, “What time are you meeting your new client?”

“Oh Lordy, I've only got about two minutes.” She picked up her thermos and package. “Y'all know the smartest thing I did when I opened the Treasure Trove was mix local art with eclectic consignments. The interior designer I'm meeting this morning has the exclusive to decorate the model homes and apartments for Lipscome Builders. And they are plenty big. Right now they're building an apartment complex here on the island, and a private home development in Bonita
Springs. I've got some great pieces, guaranteed to make the models look beachy yet elegant. Moving down here from Pinetta is the best thing I could have done. It'll be raining money over at the Treasure Trove.”

As I watched her trot out the door on impossibly high, spiky yellow sandals, I thought back to when she'd barreled in the front door of the Read 'Em and Eat, eager to help as soon as she heard that Bridgy and I were in serious trouble because our chef, Miguel Guerra, broke his leg. Hard to run a café without a chef. By the time Miguel was back at work, Ophie had fallen in love with Fort Myers Beach, its friendly residents and peaceful vistas. She rented a vacant store in our plaza and was soon earning enough to allow her to buy a tiny cottage on Estero Bay.

Bridgy and I hustled for another hour serving breakfast, which included book-related items like Agatha Christie Soft-Boiled Eggs and
Green Eggs and Ham
. When we finally hit the brief lull between the breakfast and lunch crowd I grabbed the box of books and headed over to the library.

I carefully edged my ancient but beloved Heap-a-Jeep into a parking space tucked between a well-polished silver Lexus and a flamboyant blue Corvette sitting with its top down. An overflowing ashtray in the Corvette's dash was wide open and as each gust of wind blew through the dwarf palms lining the parking lot, cigarette ash swirled around the seats and console, scattering gray and white specks on the smooth navy leather. The tiny whirlwinds caught my eye.

For a second, I toyed with the idea of leaning over the passenger side door of the Corvette to close the ashtray, but decided that could spell trouble if the owner came out of the library and thought I was fiddling, or worse, with the car.

The expansive glass façade of the Beachside Community Library always made me smile. The library was every bit as warm and welcoming as the Read 'Em and Eat. The staff worked tirelessly to meet the reading needs of the full-time residents of Fort Myers Beach and the ever-changing snowbird community—winter residents who came to the Gulf Coast of Florida from all parts north. A car door slammed, breaking my reverie. Involuntarily, I looked toward the noise. The man who'd shut the door of a faded black Mustang covered with rusted-out dents and dings looked surprisingly familiar.

“George. George Mersky?”

When he turned toward me, I realized that he was not my former boss at the final job I held before Bridgy and I left Brooklyn. For one thing, this man was more disheveled than the always-neat and tidy George. Still, the resemblance was startling. The man shook his head, muttered something to himself and stared at the ground as he limped his way into the library.

I pulled the box of books from the rear of the jeep and hoisted it until I had it balanced on my forearms. When I passed the ancient Mustang, I couldn't help but peek. The entire car was jumbled with the fragments of a topsy-turvy life. Stuffed in the front passenger seat, I saw the jagged edge of a large tree limb. It crossed over the console, and its branches, most bare but some with dead leaves still clinging, straddled an assortment of bags and boxes piled on the car floor and spread across the backseat.

I shook my head. George would never tolerate such unsightly clutter. A few steps closer to the library door, I began maneuvering the box of books until I had it poised on my hip,
leaving one hand free to reach for the handle. The box began to slip but I juggled it back to steady, and managed to open the door a few inches. From inside I heard a woman yelling something that began, “You can't . . .” Her screech threw off my equilibrium and the box began to slide to the ground.

The voice got louder, the words less intelligible, and then stopped abruptly when something metal crashed, followed by dead silence. A wave of whispers by patrons and staff quickly crescendoed to a flap of confusion. My box landed on the ground with a thump, and several books spilled to the concrete. As I bent to pick up the books, the man who looked like George pushed through the door, knocking into my shoulder. He was muttering incoherently.

He tripped over one of my books, and I couldn't help but say, “Oh, careful.”

The man stopped short and looked directly into my eyes. He nodded his thanks for the words of caution, then he picked up the book and handed it to me. I felt an instant connection arise and then disappear when he dropped his head and went back to whispering indistinctly.

I gathered my books and went inside the library. Sally Caldera was assuring patrons that all was well while trying to straighten a book cart that was lying on its side. An elderly man, dressed in a loud Hawaiian-print shirt, kept insisting that he could lift the cart if Sally would get out of the way. I set down my box and rushed to help her set the cart back on its wheels before the old gentleman pulled a muscle or had a heart attack.

“Looks like I've come at a bad time.” I pointed to the box I'd set down on the floor near the doorway. “I brought books for the book sale. Where do you want them?”

Sally pushed a mass of curly russet-colored hair off her forehead.

“Let's put them behind the desk for now. Do you want a receipt? For taxes?”

Great idea
, I thought. I followed Sally to the reception desk and couldn't help but mention the man who looked like George.

“Alan. His name is Alan. He comes in all the time to use the computers. He doesn't bother anyone and we pretend he has a library card. I never forced the issue because I doubt he has an address he could use for identification. Still, he is clearly living somewhere on the island because I see him around town every now and again.”

“No address?”

Sally nodded. “I think he is one of the veterans who've migrated south. They live outdoors, often in isolation, sometimes in small camps of three or four. They don't bother anyone and we certainly owe them our support. So if a vet needs to use our computers to write to the Veterans Administration or email family or friends . . .”

“I had no idea.”

“Most people don't. That's one problem. The other is the people who don't care. Like Tanya Trouble. She was filling in for Marcie in the computer section a few days ago and—”

“Tanya Trouble?”

Sally discreetly pointed to a buxom brunette dressed in mile-high wedge sandals and a too-tight red skirt. She was helping a student-type go through research material.

“New volunteer. Thinks she's in charge of the whole place. Anyway, last week Alan came in and asked for computer time, but when he couldn't produce a library card,
Tanya went ballistic. He told her he needed to do some veterans business and she started yammering about no special privileges. She went on and on.”

Sally shook her head.

“Confrontational isn't in Alan's DNA. I was in the back while this was going on but one of the clerks told me Alan ran out the door before anyone could intervene.”

“Same as he did today?”

“He's skittish around people and would rather avoid interaction. I did have a heart-to-heart with Tanya, and explained how we liked to extend courtesy to our military veterans. She yessed me, made all the appropriate noises, but it was obvious she thought I was making a big deal out of nothing.”

“If she's not interested in helping people, why volunteer here?”

Sally shrugged.

“Husband's a high-powered guy who spends all his time making pots of money. He golfs with the head of the library board of trustees . . .”

“So she may be here more to please her husband than to help patrons.”

“Exactly. Oh, there she goes. She spends more time on cigarette breaks than being useful.”

Sally's eyes slid toward the doorway. I turned and saw Tanya Trouble moving through the doorway, tottering on her wedges with far less grace than Aunt Ophie on spike sandals. She had a cell already at her ear and was carrying a small, shiny object I couldn't identify.

“You rarely see people smoking anymore,” I said to Sally, who laughed.

“I'm not sure how much actual smoking Tanya does.
Mostly she waves the hand holding her cigarette while she talks on her cell phone. We've requested that all smokers stand away from the entrance, and we reinforced that by putting the upright trash can with the ashtray top at the far corner of the building.”

I shrugged off the smoking area as something I'd never noticed, and that pleased Sally to no end.

“Out of sight, out of mind, even for the smokers. They come and go, never notice the ashtray so they don't smoke outside the building. Who wants cigarette smoke overtaking the fresh scent of a breeze off the Gulf of Mexico?”

I laughed. “Tanya Trouble, for one.”

“I think she likes to show off that fancy lighter of hers. Claims her husband paid nearly a hundred thousand dollars for it as a gift for their first anniversary. She tells anyone who will listen that all those sparkly bits are hundreds of tiny diamonds and set in eighteen-karat white gold with platinum inlays. Carries it everywhere, even in nonsmoking spaces. Odd.”

All this talk of cigarettes reminded me.

“By any chance does she drive a blue Corvette?”

“She left the top down again, right? Last week ashes were swirling around and flew right into a woman's eye when she stepped out of her car. I'm going to have to speak to her about the car, and about Alan. Here she comes. See you soon.”

I headed toward the door, and as I passed Tanya, I got a good look at the lighter in her hand. It seemed too flashy to be real gold and diamonds. I would have thought it came from the dollar store. No accounting for taste.

In the parking lot, once I brushed away some ash that
had twirled from Tanya's ashtray to my windshield, I dismissed her completely. I hurried back to the Read 'Em and Eat determined that as soon as the lunch rush was over, I'd call George Mersky to ask if he had a relative named Alan living in Florida.