Caught Read-Handed (3 page)

Nothing like shouts of “Murder!” to stir up a crowd. One of the ladies at Barbara Cartland let out a scream so bloodcurdling that you would think she was sitting in the first row of a 3-D movie and the ax murderer had jumped out from behind the bureau.

The two fishermen stood up, looked around, realized we were not under immediate attack and sat down again. Judge Harcroft continued to turn the pages of the
Fort Myers Beach News
. I guess he was almost as used to Aunt Ophie as I was.

Bridgy took a deep breath and by the time I reached her, she was whispering to Ophie. “Who is dead? Who was murdered?”

Ophie swung her eyes back and forth between Bridgy and me. It wasn't like her to be the least bit hesitant, and yet, she was. Unless she was heightening the drama.

“I don't know who. I only know that right here in Fort Myers Beach a woman was murdered. In. Cold. Blood.”

I was always less tolerant of Ophie than Bridgy was. I wanted to end the spectacle sooner rather than later. I asked Bridgy to fetch a pitcher of sweet tea. She headed for the counter and I sat down.

“Ophie, how do you know this?

I kept one ear on our customers but I kept my eyes firmly on Ophie.

Again, a slight hesitancy. Finally her shoulders sagged and she let out a sigh. “Never occurred to me that she'd tell a lie that bold in order to get out of a meeting.”

Bridgy set a glass of tea in front of Ophie and sat down. “Who, Ophie? Who told you there was a murder?”

“Remember that upscale designer? Y'all fixed us that nice box of Miss Marple Scones. Anyway, her assistant called early on to say something came up and did I have time to reschedule later in the day. Well, of course I agreed. Pays to accommodate a client of her stature.”

Ophie leaned to her right and peered over my shoulder, checking to be sure that all the diners were following her story. I heard the rustle of Judge Harcroft's newspaper and Ophie gave a slight frown, followed by a shrug. She'd have to be satisfied with having the attention of nearly everyone in the room.

“I took the opportunity to tidy up some and rearrange a thing or two. Next thing I know the time of our second appointment has come and gone. So I called Frederica, that's her name, the designer. Pretty isn't it? She didn't answer right away and when she did, she was crying loud enough to call the farmhands in for supper. That's when she told me about the murder.”

The ladies at Barbara Cartland both gasped as if their purses had been snatched and one of the fisherman gave a loud, “Whoa.” That's when I realized we should have had this conversation in the kitchen. Too late now.

Ophie sat back and relaxed, having told her tale and received a grand reaction in return. But we still had no idea who, if anyone, had been murdered.

I threw out a prompt. “What exactly did Frederica say?”

“Between sobs she told me that a woman she knew had been murdered right here on the island. Frederica said she hoped she'd be able to pull herself together and perhaps we could meet tomorrow.”

Bridgy's turn to try. “Did she tell you the woman's name?

“She might have mentioned a name, but with all that crying . . .”

The door opened and Lee County Sheriff's Deputy Ryan Mantoni strode into the room. He took one look at the three of us huddled around the Emily Dickenson table and recognized a problem when he saw it. “Miss Ophelia, what's worrying you?”

“There's been a murder.” And Ophie dramatically flung her arm across her forehead once again.

“So you already heard 'bout that. Not surprising. News travels around this island at warp speed. We're never on beach time when it comes to gossip.”

I was relieved. Gossip. The murder was only a rumor.

“So there wasn't any murder?”

“There was a murder all right. Over on Moon Shell Drive. At the end of the road, past the curve. It's a little isolated there. A lady was sitting in her hot tub when someone snuck up behind her and cracked her skull. No one noticed for a
long while. She was hard-boiled by the time her husband came home and called us. Emergency medical services couldn't do a thing. She's at the medical examiner now.”

Totally unaware of the impact of what he said had on everyone in the room, Ryan switched topics.

“Could I get a sandwich to go? Bacon and egg on whole wheat toast. And a container of coffee. Maybe a muffin?”

He looked back and forth between Bridgy and me, and it slowly dawned on him that neither of us was writing down his order. “What?”

I stood, took his arm, pulled him over to the counter and whispered, “You announced that a woman was bludgeoned to death a mile or so down Estero Boulevard and then moved right on to ‘Can I have a sandwich?' That's one way to stir up the crowd.”

Trying to distract the remaining customers, Bridgy made the rounds offering more coffee or water. The ladies at Barbara Cartland were completely unnerved. One grabbed Bridgy's arm and told her they wanted to ask Ryan if they'd be safe in their rental bungalow until the end of season. Like anyone was willing to tell them they wouldn't be.

I looked at Ryan. “See what I mean?”

He nodded. As he ambled over to the Barbara Cartland table, I called after him. “I'll get Miguel started on that sandwich.”

The fishermen were suddenly anxious to pay their bill, but not before telling me that we really should consider wiring the doors and windows with an alarm system. I guessed they were heading out to spread the word of the unfortunate victim's demise. If they mentioned hearing the news in the Read 'Em and Eat, it was sure to bring in an
afternoon rush of customers wanting to find out what else we knew about the tragedy. I made a mental note to make sure we had plenty of sweet tea and pastries.

I noticed Ophie's shoulders slump. She usually didn't lose her audience so quickly. Ryan escorted the two Barbara Cartland ladies to their car, telling me he'd be right back for his sandwich.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Ophie brightened. “Ryan knows more than he's saying. I bet we can get him to tell us all the gory details.”

I already envisioned a bloated body with a smashed skull. Honestly, how much more gore did we need? I held off answering Ophie because Judge Harcroft came up to the counter, bill and cash in hand. As I rang up his total, he shook his head.

“I remember a time when no one in Fort Myers Beach ever locked their doors. My father never worried about losing his car keys. He left them in the car, right in the ignition. And now, well, I'm glad I don't have a hot tub.” He separated two one-dollar bills from the change I'd given him and slid them, his standard tip, across the counter to me. “Sad state of affairs.” More head shaking and then he spoke his customary exit line, his homage to Hammett. “If you'll forgive me . . . I must
Dash
.”

Ryan opened the door and held it as the judge walked out. Then as he stepped back inside, he took a look at the empty tables and raised his hands in front of his face in mock horror. “Was it something I said?”

“Honey chile,” Ophie commanded Ryan, “you sit yourself down right here and tell me all about this horrible murder. I need to decide if I should order new locks. And
the gentlemen who left a few minutes ago suggested alarm systems for everyone.”

“Sorry, Miss Ophelia, duty calls. I've got to get back to the Lipscome house—still lots to be done.”

Ophie and I both jumped on him as soon as he said the name Lipscome.

“Is Tanya Lipscome dead? The woman who volunteers in the library?”

“Lordy me.” Ophie clutched her chest. “Is this dead woman related to the folks at Lipscome Builders?” Then she dropped her hands and gave me a look steeped in pique. “How do you know any of the Lipscomes?”

At that moment Bridgy came out of the kitchen carrying Ryan's meal all neatly bundled in a brown paper sack. I heard her murmur, “Uh-oh,” under her breath. If she thought she could get away with it, I'm sure she would have run back into the kitchen. Instead she tried a diversionary tactic.

“Ryan, you didn't say what kind of muffin you wanted so I packed a double-chocolate chip.” And she picked up a pot of coffee and started to fill a takeaway cup.

Ophie and I were glaring at Bridgy but she continued to put the finishing touches on Ryan's coffee as though she hadn't walked in the room and interrupted a conversation that was important to both Ophie and me.

Ryan was waiting at the cash register but when Bridgy started to hand him his meal, Ophie stood up and shouted.

“Don't you dare give him that food. He'll waltz out of here. We want answers.”

Ryan laughed while pretending to duck as if Ophie had thrown something at his head. “Miss Ophelia, the victim is
the wife of Barry Lipscome, who owns Lipscome Builders. What else what would you like to know?”

Ophie sat back down and, elbows on the table, she dropped her head in her hands and began rocking back and forth. “There goes my money.”

Bridgy rushed over and put an arm around Ophie's shoulders. “Don't worry, sweetie, I'm sure it will take some time for him to recover from this loss, but sooner or later Mr. Lipscome will have to pay attention to his business or he'll starve. Before you know it Frederica will be designing gorgeous rooms with your treasures as focal points.”

Listening to Bridgy soothing Ophie, I was getting antsier by the minute. Ryan hadn't answered my question. He had his hand on the door handle when I asked again, “And her first name? What was Mrs. Lipscome's first name?”

“Tanya. Her name was Tanya Lipscome. I have to get back to work. See you later.”

“Tanya Trouble.” The name burst from my lips. Everyone looked at me. Ryan let the door close and turned toward me. “You know her?”

This was awkward. How much did I want to tell? I made an instant decision to leave Alan out of it for now. “Sally calls her that.” I hoped I didn't sound defensive.

Ryan looked directly at me. He'd gone from friend to deputy in two seconds flat. “Sally?”

“Sally Caldera. Tanya Lipscome is a library volunteer. And she smokes.” I could still see Ryan waiting for the tie-in to the nickname. “Cigarettes. She smokes cigarettes and once got ashes in a library patron's eye. See, trouble,” I finished lamely.

“Okay, thanks.” Ryan was anxious to get out the door.
“If you think of anything else I should know, call my cell.” And he was gone.

Of course Bridgy was all over me the second the door closed behind Ryan. “You know something. I can see it all over your face. Good thing Ryan doesn't know you as well as I do or you'd be on your way to an interrogation room.”

I waved her off. “What could I know? Until two minutes ago we didn't even know who the victim was.”

I turned toward the kitchen but Bridgy wasn't having it. “Mary Sassafras Cabot, you stop right there. What did you not tell Ryan?”

I knew she'd haunt me until I fessed up. I sighed and gave in. “I saw Tanya at the library the other day. She was having a monumental fight with a patron. That's all.”

Bridgy placed her hands on her hips, and glowered. Once she pursed her lips and tilted her head to the side, I knew I was done for. I raised my hands in surrender. “Okay, I didn't tell Ryan because it didn't mean anything. Alan wouldn't hurt a fly.”

Ophie pushed back her chair and stood facing me with the exact same body language as her niece. Easy to see they were related. “Who is this Alan?”

From the doorway, Cady Stanton answered. “Alan Mersky. Here, I have a picture.”

He took out his iPhone.

He was dressed in his usual Florida work clothes, khakis and a golf shirt; this one was light green and I thought it made his brown eyes appear more hazel. He ran one hand over his sandy hair, a habit he'd had for as long as I'd known him, and then held out his iPhone for all to see.

Bridgy and Ophie crowded around Cady, both eager for a close look at the picture. I held back. If Cady, a reporter for the
Fort Myers Beach News
, was carrying a picture of Alan Mersky on his phone, then I knew Alan was in serious trouble. I pulled my own cell out of my pocket intending to call George, but then realized I had nothing concrete to tell him. I dropped the phone back in my pocket and patted it for good measure. I'd make the call as soon as I'd gotten as much information as I could out of Cady.

After taking a long look at the picture, Ophie took a step back and exonerated Alan of any and all wrongdoing. “He
doesn't look one bit dangerous to me. Maybe a tad lost, is all.”

Hoping to keep the conversation focused on the picture and away from any more criticism of me for withholding information from Ryan, I agreed, perhaps a little too loudly. “That's what I thought. Why waste everyone's time pointing at a person who couldn't possibly be a killer?”

Cady gave me a sharp look. “What are you talking about? I'm not pointing at Alan Mersky. A little less than an hour ago the sheriff declared him a person of interest. How do you think I got the picture? The techs took it from the library security tape, and deputies are asking everyone to be on the lookout. If Mersky is on the island, I'm sure the deputies will have him secured at the station within a few hours.”

Ophie shuddered and then shook her head. “Well, I hope they treat him well when they find him. I swear I can't see a smidgeon of danger in those eyes.” She pushed the phone back toward Cady and planted her hands firmly on her hips, ready to defend Alan from any and all comers.

Since Ophie was usually more of a conspiracy theorist, Bridgy was confused by her defense of Alan. She shook her finger in Ophie's face. “Don't be so sure that the look in a person's eye is telling you the whole story. You never even met the man. And that reminds me.” She turned to me. “What's your story? You know this Alan?”

I was grappling for an answer when the kitchen door swung open and Miguel leaned through the doorway. His white chef's hat was tilted at a rakish angle and covered most of his dark curly hair. “Cady, I thought I heard your voice. I have an apple pie straight from the oven. It's a new recipe. You want to try a piece,
sí
?”

We all knew Miguel wouldn't have to ask twice. Cady immediately sat down at Robert Frost. He nodded when I asked if he wanted a cup of coffee. When I put the cup and saucer in front of him, Cady latched on to my wrist, pressing gently, signaling me to sit. He spoke in a “whispering in church” voice that was destined to attract the big ears of both Bridgy and her aunt.

“Okay, Sassy, tell me. What do you know about Alan Mersky?”

Before I could make up an answer that would appease him, Bridgy was standing in the space between us with Ophie right behind her.

“Maybe she'll tell
you
what's going on. She's been keeping secrets from us, from Ryan, from everybody.” Bridgy shook her head and raised her eyes heavenward as if my behavior would be incomprehensible even to the Lord Himself.

“That's so not true. I didn't get a chance to tell you, that's all. I didn't think it was that important.” I sat back in my chair, crossed my arms and attempted, with not much luck, to stare the three of them down.

Once again, Miguel saved me. He burst through the kitchen door carrying a dessert plate rendered nearly invisible by a supersized wedge of apple pie that filled the entire café with the aroma of an orchard in early autumn with a tinge of cinnamon. In his other hand he held a glass bowl brimming with freshly whipped cream. He swung around both Ophie and Bridgy until he could easily set the pie in front of Cady. Then Miguel extended the glass bowl and raised a questioning eyebrow. At Cady's grin, Miguel waved his spoon with a grand flourish, scooped up a healthy dollop of whipped cream and splashed it on top of the pie. Cady
instantly forgot about me, Alan Mersky and everything else in the universe. He picked up his fork, broke off a chunk of pie and opened his mouth wide.

Bridgy demanded, “Is that what you're going to do, sit there and eat, while Sassy is in trouble up to her ears?”

Cady's fork wavered for a few seconds in midair. Then, as if moving on its own accord, the fork disappeared into Cady's mouth.

“Mmm, mm.” Cady gave Miguel a thumbs-up. “Best ever, hombre.”

Miguel broke into a wide, satisfied grin. Nothing pleased him more than high praise for one of his new kitchen creations.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ophie give a tiny push to Bridgy's arm, as if directing her to reclaim the spotlight so they could keep the focus on my flaws.

Bridgy tried to charm Miguel with assurances that Cady was only the first of many customers who would adore his new apple pie recipe. She piled the compliments higher than Miguel had piled the whipped cream. It was evident that she wanted him to bask in glory for a moment or two and then retreat to the kitchen. I could see Miguel wasn't having it. There was something else on his mind, and he wasn't heading back to the kitchen until he said his piece, whatever it may be. Bridgy's voice trailed off. Miguel never budged.

Oblivious to us all, Cady savored his apple pie. Eventually the tense silence punctured his bliss. He looked at us warily and decided Miguel was the safest choice. “Miguel, I don't know how you can keep developing recipes, each one better than the last.”

Ophie made a
humph
noise deep in her throat, and I made
a mental note to remind Cady the next time he came in to order Ophie's buttermilk pie, which was a staple on our menu. Miguel surprised us all by doing something he rarely does. He pulled out a chair and sat down. “It is hard to create new recipes when I am so worried about the snake.”

We all blinked simultaneously. Snake?

Cady had just taken a sip of coffee and he managed to get it down without choking.

Ophie leaned over Bridgy's shoulder, directing her questions to Miguel. “Y'all know how to cook a snake? Are y'all making snake soup? I've heard it has potent medicinal uses.”

Miguel looked at Ophie as if she'd gone insane. “Not the kind of snake that people eat. The big snake that eats other animals. I'm worried about a green anaconda eating my beautiful little Bow. She's a feisty cat,
sí
, but she's no match for one of the biggest snakes in the world.”

We all exchanged puzzled looks. Even Ophie was rendered speechless— a rare achievement for Miguel, or anyone else for that matter.

Cady's reporter instincts took over. “Miguel, why would Bow go up against a green anaconda? And where in Sam Hill would she find one?

“Ha! Don't you read your own newspaper?” Miguel stood, reached under his apron and pulled a folded scrap of newssheet from his pocket. He spread it on the table. “A giant green anaconda has been spotted swimming, happy as you please, in Estero Bay between Mound Island and San Carlos Island. He's huge. He swims very fast. And my yard borders Estero Bay. Every day my pretty Bow scampers along the edge of the bay exploring the mangrove roots, sea grapes and swamp grass. She swats at tree crabs, chases those tiny green lizards.
Once she found a sea turtle, she tapped and tapped on the shell. She thought she was inviting the turtle out to play, but the more she tapped, the more the turtle refused.” Miguel smiled broadly at the memory, and then he swiftly returned to the present day and the topic at hand. “That area beside my house is her playground. As long as the snake is in the bay, who knows where he will turn up next? My Bow is in great danger. Every pet on the island is in danger.”

He pushed the clipping toward Cady and flopped back in his seat so hard the chair's legs thumped.

Bridgy had the temerity to ask, “When you say ‘giant,' how big are we talking about?”

Miguel pointed to the article. “The newspaper says that green anacondas grow anywhere from twelve to fifteen, twenty feet. And when fully grown, they weigh more than two hundred pounds.

Ophie gasped. “And here I'm thinking of something along the lines of a big garden snake, two, maybe three feet long.”

Cady scanned the article. “I remember this now. There were a couple of sightings two or three weeks ago. Last week there were a few more and my editor asked Joe Slaney, who covers fishing and tides and such, to write up a notice.” He slid the paper back to Miguel. “As I recall, he wanted to be sure the boaters and fishermen were aware so they wouldn't be startled if they spotted her swimming around. As the article says, Joe contacted the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission. They told him if the green anaconda becomes a nuisance here, they'd come and round it up. The person Joe spoke to says it's most likely the anaconda came north from the Everglades and will eventually swim back south.”

“Swim?” In my mind snakes were slitherers, not swimmers.

“Oh, yeah, big-time swimmers. According to Joe, green anacondas are aggressive swimmers, not landlubbers like pythons, who can swim but don't love the water like the anacondas. ‘Landlubber' is Joe's favorite word. Believe me, he uses it freely. He calls me a landlubber and I own a boat and take it out whenever I have a chance.” Cady stopped, sniffed and then shook off the insult. “Because I'm not out on the bay or the gulf every nonworking minute of the day, Joe doesn't consider me a true boater.”

Miguel was sitting with his hands patiently folded, set at the angle where copies of Frost's two fruit poems, “Blueberries” and “After Apple Picking,” sat side by side sealed to the tabletop by heavy lamination. I guess he was losing tolerance for Cady's rambling on and on about Joe Slaney, landlubbers and snakes, because he started tapping his fingers in three-quarter time.

I give Cady credit; he caught on fairly quickly. “I can see why you are concerned but I'm sure Bow will be fine. The anaconda seems to like the far side of the bay. At least that's where the sightings have been.”

“Those Fish and Wildlife people do not seem to have any concern for the safety of our domestic animals. Did your reporter friend even ask about that?” Miguel pointed to the article. “There is no mention of it here.”

Cady shrugged helplessly. “I don't know much about this, Miguel. I only know what I heard around the office while Joe was doing his research and writing his article. I promise. I'll check in with him first thing.”

The door opened. I stood and took out my order pad, glad to have customers come in and get me out of this ongoing conversation about a problem with no apparent solution. Then I saw the two people coming through the door and realized I was going from one problem to another. Deputy Ryan Mantoni was back. Lieutenant Frank Anthony was with him. And they were wearing their serious faces.