Caught Read-Handed (4 page)

Still, I tried. With as bright a smile as I could muster, I asked if they wanted a table or needed a takeout order. Ryan took a step back and let the lieutenant answer.

Frank Anthony glanced over at the Robert Frost table, where conversation had ceased. Every pair of eyes was fixed on him. He swung his eyes back to me. “I expect you know why we're here. You were witness to an incident the other day and I need to go over your recollection. Is there a place we can speak privately?”

He head-butted toward the kitchen door, which made Miguel half rise from his chair, think the better of it and sit down again. But from the look on his face, if I allowed the deputies into Miguel's kitchen, I'd have to answer for it.

I shook my head. “No, the kitchen's very busy.”

Frank raised both eyebrows. He looked once more at Bridgy and Miguel. “Doesn't seem busy to me.”

That was enough for Miguel to pop out of his seat. He told Cady they would have to speak again soon and then he marched purposefully into the kitchen. From the look on Bridgy's face, I could see she was torn between following Miguel to reinforce the café kitchen as a “busy” place or staying where she was in the hopes she could overhear some juicy gossip. Even better, she might get the chance to hear Frank Anthony ream me out for not being forthcoming with Ryan earlier in the day.

The lieutenant made her choice easier when he said, “Okay, Sassy, let's go.” And he turned and headed for the door.

Cady jumped up, his chair scraping across the floor. “Where are you taking her?”

Frank gave a tight smile. “Don't worry. We're not taking her far.” He pointed through the wide glass window. “We'll be at the seating area right outside the door.”

I hadn't taken so much as a step, so Frank signaled me to hurry along. I hesitated, but knew I really had no choice. I followed behind Frank and Ryan, with Chopin's Funeral March playing in my head.
Dum dum da dum . . .

I sat in the middle of one bench so that neither of the deputies could sit beside me. I knew I'd be less on edge facing them head-on.

Ryan gave me a slight smile of encouragement. In past encounters I'd noticed it was always uncomfortable for him when he had to interrogate—the deputies call it interview—a friend. And we'd been friends since almost the first day Bridgy and I opened the Read 'Em and Eat more than three years ago.

Frank Anthony remained standing. Since we'd done this before, I wasn't surprised when he didn't say anything for a couple of minutes. As he was about to speak, an older couple approached. They were regular customers so they recognized
me. I guess they assumed that the three of us were outside for fresh air and a social chat, because the husband decided to tease.

“You finally got her, huh, deputies? Pretty gals are always trouble. Like my missus here.” He laughed and opened the door for his wife, who told us to “pay him no mind” before she walked into the café. Still laughing, her husband followed behind.

Frank gave the old gentleman a slight nod and then he turned to me. “I appreciate a man who knows trouble when he sees it.” As he watched me bristle, Frank held back a smile but he couldn't keep his blue eyes from crinkling. Then he took out his black leather notebook and moved into deputy mode.

“I know you're aware that there was a murder last night. The victim is Mrs. Tanya Lipscome, age thirty-eight. She was killed by an intruder on her property.”

He waited for me to nod in acknowledgement of the facts and then he continued. “I understand you were at the library when our victim had an argument with a man who we now consider a person of interest in this case, name of Alan Mersky.”

I crossed my arms defensively but said nothing. Frank took my silence for acquiescence.

“Okay. Now, when did you first see Alan Mersky? Was it in the library?”

I shook my head and told him about my seeing Alan in the parking lot. I tried to move on to hearing Tanya Trouble screaming like a banshee inside the library, but Frank slowed me down with another question.

“Who entered the library first, you or Alan Mersky?”

And so it went. Questions. Answers. Repeat the questions.
Repeat the answers. A conversation, or as he calls it, an interview, that should have taken ten minutes lasted for more than half an hour until the lieutenant was satisfied that he'd wrung every shred of information out of me. The fact that I didn't know a single thing related to the murder was of no consequence. The man likes to waste time and annoy me.

By the time he closed his notebook, said we were done and asked me to get in touch if I remembered anything else, I was seething. Both deputies were in a half turn heading to their car across the parking lot when I found my courage, or insanity, not sure which. I stood up.

“Wait one minute. You may be done, but I'm not.”

Frank's head swiveled toward me. “Really? You said you told us everything.”

“I have one more thing to say.”

Ryan's “Uh-oh” told me he had a sense of what was coming. Frank was still opening that darn notebook when I let him have it.

“How dare you, even jokingly, refer to me as ‘trouble'?”

That stopped him. He shut his notebook and froze stock-still for a full thirty seconds or more. He stared at me but I refused to squirm. Then he looked up at the sky, moving his eyes from cloud to cloud.

“You know what's interesting, Sassy Cabot? I'll tell you. During the time I've been assigned to this division, this is only the second murder in Fort Myers Beach. Need I remind you that you were far more involved in the first murder than you should have been? And now, lo and behold, here you are on the witness list for the second murder. So pardon me for thinking of you and trouble in the same sentence.”

He strode toward the patrol car without waiting for a response.

Ryan stepped closer to me. “Sassy, it was a joke and it wasn't even his joke. The old guy started it. And too bad you didn't hear the word ‘pretty' as interchangeable with ‘trouble' in what the old man said. Might change your tune.”

I heaved a sigh as I watched them drive out of the parking lot. Lieutenant Frank Anthony was a true annoyance, but Ryan was a friend. I was sorry he'd seen me lose my temper. Still, I knew Ryan would get over it in a day or so. Bridgy and I had both lost our tempers countless times, often with each other, and we're still besties.

The thought of Bridgy reminded me that I'd have to face an inquisition and a lecture from her as soon as I walked in the door. I prayed for a few more customers to show up and delay the inevitable, but when I looked around, there was no one in sight. Time to face the music.

The older couple who'd entered when my interrogation had begun were finished with their meal, and Bridgy was refreshing their sweet tea and asking if they wanted dessert. The gentleman asked if “that scrumptious buttermilk pie” was still on the menu, which made Ophie, still sitting with Cady, throw her shoulders back and sit a little straighter. I thought she might saunter over and introduce herself as the baker who developed the recipe. Unfortunately, when she looked up at me, her face filled with expectation, I realized that any gossip I could provide would trump pie accolades.

Cady seemed honestly concerned. He stood up and pulled out a chair for me.

When I sat, he patted my hand. “I hope the interview
wasn't too awful.” And he turned the tables on me by asking if I'd like a drink or something to eat.

Bridgy, anticipating my answer, set a glass of ice water with lemon slices in front of me. I would have thanked her but she bent down and whispered, “Don't tell them anything until I come back.”

Really?

Like aunt, like niece. They both wanted to hear the gossip and hear it before anyone else did.

Well, I thought, at least Cady waited for me to come back out of friendship, not nosiness. Then he leaned in toward me. “So did you learn anything?”

I was about to tell them all off when the door opened and a large family group—infants to grandparents—walked in. I got up, counted noses and realized I'd have to push two tables together. By the time I got the family seated and served them glasses of water, I noticed Cady standing by the door patiently waiting for my attention. He waved and left. Ophie could sit there as long as she liked. I was busy and glad of it.

And then the door opened again and again. All the tables were filled and there was a line at the door. A pair of roller skates would have really helped me hustle around the dining room.

Bridgy and I silently crossed paths at the counter or the pass-through, even once at the kitchen doorway. Since Bridgy always had a quip or two, her silence was making me nervous. I broke out in a relieved smile when halfway through the afternoon she was able to bring herself to tell me she hoped my interrogation wasn't too terrible. Later, as I was passing her a pitcher of green tea, I whispered, “I'll tell you all about it after the rush dies down.”

Soon after my arches started to feel as if they were about to drop, the flow of customers curbed down to a dribble and within half an hour only three tables were occupied. I made the rounds with a pitcher of water and a pitcher of iced tea. One lady asked for a refill on her Diet Mountain Dew and then all was quiet. I signaled Bridgy that I was going to take a quick break and headed for the door.

As I stepped outside, a salty fresh breeze drifted inland from the Gulf of Mexico. I took a deep breath and felt my stress level drop a thousand percent. I sat on the same bench where I had endured my interrogation and pulled my cell phone out of my pocket. I scrolled to George Mersky's number, hesitated and then punched the “Send” button.

He answered on the second ring.

We'd worked together long enough that George instantly recognized my “we're in trouble” voice when he heard it in my hello.

“Sassy, what is it? Is it Alan?”

I plunged into the whole story. I reminded George of our earlier conversation about Alan's problem with Tanya. When I told him she was murdered last night, he stopped me.

“Say no more. I'll be there as soon as I can get a flight. And Sassy, thank you for calling. If it wasn't for you, Alan would be going through this all alone. Now I'll be there to help. I'll call you when my plans are set.”

The Diet Mountain Dew lady and her friend came out of the café. Each had a book club flier in her hand. They had a few questions and were delighted to learn that all the book clubs were small and informal. I invited them to stop by for any meeting that appealed to them, and they assured me they would.

I took another deep breath and went back into the café.

Bridgy gave me a questioning look and I signaled her over to the counter. In a hushed voice so as not to disturb the remaining customers, I asked, “Do you remember George, my old boss when we lived in New York?”

“George from Howard Accounting? Sure. Nice man, kind of dour. I seem to recall from your office holiday party that his wife was a very funny lady. The old ‘opposites attract' thing. Are they coming down?” Always the social one, Bridgy brightened at the thought of company.

“Um-hm. But it's not a social visit. The man the deputies are looking for. He's George's brother.”

And I watched Bridgy's face morph from happy to bewildered as she took in the news.

We were momentarily distracted by the man sitting at Agatha Christie who gave the universal hand signal for “check, please.” Instead of making the check mark sign with his index finger, he lifted his arm and waved his entire hand, looking for all the world as though he was leading an orchestra. He only needed to be wearing tails and a bow tie. Bridgy gave him his check, then walked over to ask the two couples sitting at Hemingway if they needed anything else. Since they were all wearing Fort Myers Beach tee shirts, Bridgy made an educated guess and asked if they were having a good vacation. The ladies giggled when one of the men said, “This is the most invigorating vacation I've had in years. I feel like I'm forty again, and these two”—he pointed to the women—“are acting like teenagers. Isn't that right, Herb?”

While the women protested, Herb replied, “Oh yeah. You
had to see them at Times Square trying to make the mime talk. They were ruthless, but he didn't break.”

Laughter all around.

Then Herb continued, “We all think it's a hoot that you plant a clock in a plaza and call it Times Square. I guess New York doesn't have a monopoly on the name.”

In between chuckles, they asked for more scones and sweet tea. Bridgy and I assumed they'd be with us for a while so rather than having a hurried, whispered conversation, we commenced with our afternoon cleaning.

I loved the peace of our ritual. We each had assigned tasks. Bridgy helped Miguel tidy up the kitchen, which was usually a brief exercise as he managed to keep his entire work area nearly immaculate, even during our busiest hours. After his broken leg had healed and he returned to work, I was constantly grinning from ear to ear every time I walked into the kitchen. Ophie had been a Godsend when she filled in as “head chef” while Miguel was on sick leave. She was excellent with the cooking and baking part but never acknowledged that mops and brooms or even dishwashers existed. Bridgy and I did double cleanup duty during those months but the food was scrumptious and the customers were happy, which was all that mattered. Still, life became easier for us once Miguel was back to work and restored order to the café kitchen.

Miguel came out of the kitchen. He was a man of such strict habits that I knew his stark white tee shirt, apron and chef's hat had been tucked into the laundry bin and a pristine set of chef's wear now hung on a hook ready for tomorrow. His bold floral tank top, all greens and yellows, and his baggy tan shorts gave him the surfer look he cultivated. When he saw we still had customers, he tiptoed over to me
and said in a low tone, “I am not finished talking about this snake. Something must be done.
Mañana, sí?
”

I nodded. What was I going to say? The green anaconda swimming around Estero Bay was the least of my problems. I waved good-bye and continued scrubbing the chairs around the Dashiell Hammett table. The door had barely closed behind Miguel when my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. During our busier hours I turned off the ringer to avoid the distraction. Often, like now, I forgot to turn it back on. I answered with a quiet “hello” and rushed into the kitchen, where Bridgy was mopping the floor. I pointed to the phone and mouthed the word “George.” She set the mop aside, wiped her hands and went out to the dining room in case the vacationing foursome needed anything.

It was disappointing to tell George that I had no further news, but he subscribed to the “no news is good news” school of thought.

“Sassy, with any luck I can get down there before the cops pick him up. Once I explain how agreeable and kind Alan really is, I'm sure they'll realize he couldn't possibly have hurt, much less killed, anyone. My wife and my sister are both coming with me.”

“Give me your plane information. I'll pick you up. And you are welcome to stay with Bridgy and me while you are here.”

“Thanks but I think three guests would be a squeeze for anyone, and we're hoping to find Alan and have him stay with us for a few days, at least until we can evaluate what he needs. Could you find us a nice rental or perhaps a bed-and-breakfast that would take us knowing that we are unsure of how long we'd need the accommodations? We need at least two bedrooms.”

“Sure, I'll take care of it.” I immediately thought of the woman who had helped Ophie track down someone who'd been renting on the island a while ago. Charmaine was a young, cheerful woman starting out in real estate. I'd give her a call as soon as we closed the café.

George gave me his travel information. I wished him a safe flight and told him I would be waiting at Southwest Florida International Airport when his plane landed. I tapped the “Off” button on my phone and went to find Bridgy, who was bussing the dishes from the Hemingway table, the vacationers apparently gone off to their next fun-filled activity.

As soon as she saw me, Bridgy put down the dishes she'd picked up seconds ago and waved me to sit at Emily Dickinson.

“Water?” she asked.

I shook my head. Bridgy sat opposite me and prodded.

“Okay, now tell me the entire story. Start to finish. I promise I won't interrupt.” She gave me a wink. We both knew it was extremely unlikely that I'd be able to talk for more than two or three minutes without Bridgy having a question or a suggestion.

I told her I'd first seen Alan outside the library and then what I'd witnessed with Tanya. I repeated everything Sally told me and then I finished with my two conversations with George Mersky. In fairness, Bridgy only interrupted me twice. Once to ask me to elaborate on my description of the lighter that Tanya purported to be mega-expensive and once to give her opinion of anyone who wouldn't go the extra yard to be kind to one of our veterans.

I ended by saying, “I'll take that glass of water now. And do we have any Miss Marple Scones left?”

Bridgy brought water and scones to the table and, lost in thought, we both nibbled and sipped.

“I think we should try to find him.” Bridgy put her half-eaten scone back on its plate and, using both hands, she pushed the plate toward the middle of the table.

I hated to admit that the thought had crossed my mind. The last time we went looking for someone, we spent an extraordinary hour of tranquility while kayaking in Estero Bay. Of course we didn't find the person we were looking for but since he was a master boater, the bay was the right place to look.

“Bridgy, this isn't someone whose habits and haunts are familiar to us. Where would we even start?”

“Well, would you recognize his car?”

“Absolutely. The car is unforgettable. You should see it. An ancient, beat-up black Mustang filled with boxes and junk. There's even part of a tree stretched from the front seat to the back. A four- or five-foot-long limb with branches still attached and dead leaves all withered and curled. Inside the car.”

Bridgy leaned her head forward, eyes open wide when I described the huge limb straddling the console and covering the backseat. She banged one hand on the table. “Well now, a car like that shouldn't be that hard to find.”

I shook my head. “Bridgy, the sheriff's deputies have been looking for him all day and they haven't found him. What makes you think we can take a quick drive and come right across him?”

“Well the deputies have a picture and a description of the man. You, on the other hand, know what his car looks like.”

I tried to squirm out of the hunt.

“I have more important things to do. I need to find George and his family a place to stay. On such short notice . . .”

“Oh stop. We can turn that job over to Aunt Ophie and she'll have them lodged in the Palace of Versailles in the snap of a finger.”

I laughed. Ophie did have a way with miracles of that sort and she was friendlier with Charmaine than I was.

Bridgy gave me her “puppy pleading for a treat” look. I took a deep breath.

“Okay, if Ophie will take care of the housing issue, we can go for a brief ride around town in the car. No kayaks. No boats of any sort.” I had to lay down some sort of rules so she wouldn't be confident that she could talk me into any crazy thing she wanted to do, which of course she could.

We finished cleaning the café, and then reviewed our closing checklist. Stove off. No water dripping in any of the three sinks. Freezer door shut tight. Ditto with the refrigerators—one for food already prepared, one for ingredients. At long last we turned off the lights, locked the door and stood for a moment enjoying the glorious Florida sunshine before walking across the parking lot to Ophie's Treasure Trove.

A consignment shop had occupied the site for many years. When it closed, Bridgy's aunt decided to take over the space and turned it into what she liked to describe as an “old and new shop with élan.” Ophie was very selective about the items she agreed to sell on consignment. She opted for upscale and unusual, although she had a small corner set aside for the strictly kitschy items that lots of tourists loved to buy and bring home to show off and possibly win the neighborhood tacky souvenir award of any given year.

She frequently traveled up and down the Gulf looking for unique items and when she fell in love with something,
she didn't hesitate to buy outright if she couldn't talk the owner into consigning.

“I hope Aunt Ophie is feeling better,” Bridgy whispered to me a second before she opened the door to the Treasure Trove.

She needn't have worried. Ophie was breezing around the shop waving a feather duster. Occasionally the duster actually touched an item or a countertop, but mostly Ophie was waving it in the air, chasing motes that could only be seen when they danced through rays of sunshine.

Ophie gave us a big smile and then immediately frowned. I was afraid we were in for another harangue about serial killers invading Fort Myers Beach, but she was off on a different tangent.

“Have either of y'all seen Tom Smallwood lately? His shell and fishbone jewelry is selling quick as a hot knife cutting through butter, and I'd dearly love to restock.”

Tom Smallwood was a jack-of-all-trades who rowed a weatherworn boat up and down the Gulf of Mexico, stopping here and there on the mainland and barrier islands. Most folks called him Skully because he'd once found a fifty-year-old skull up on Mound Key and carried it around for half a year before Ryan Mantoni and two other deputies could finally talk him into giving it up. He kept to himself, worked excellent craftsmanship on anything made of wood and was a man I much admired. Over the brief time I'd known him, he'd shown both character and grit.

Bridgy shook her head. “He hasn't been in to fill his thermos in a while. Last time he told me he was off to rebuild a staircase on Sanibel. That was weeks ago. He's probably traveled farther afield since. Auntie, dear, we need a favor.”

Bridgy explained that the Mersky family was making an
unexpected trip to the island and would need a place to stay with an open-ended leave date. Did she think her friend Charmaine could help out? She finished by saying, “The thing is, they're coming in tomorrow.”

Ophie was in the middle of a string of “of course, no problem” comments when she suddenly thought to ask why the Merskys were making such an impulsive trip. She was pleased with the answer.

“I told y'all when Cady showed us the picture there isn't a lick of danger in that poor man's eyes. A bit of family will do him good. Now y'all go do what you're doing and I'll see to the lodging.”

Back in the parking lot Bridgy and I got into my trusty Heap-a-Jeep. Based on what I'd seen so briefly, we decided that it was Alan's nature to avoid the beach, public parks and tourist attractions like Times Square or Lovers Key. Our best bet was to search the side streets off Estero Boulevard and those that edged Estero Bay. We ambled around and about, dead-ended in a cul-de-sac, followed a few loop-de-loops and always wound up back on the boulevard.

It didn't take long for even the ever-optimistic Bridgy to realize we were on a fool's errand.

“At least we got a reminder of how beautiful the bay side of the island is,” Bridgy said with a sigh.

I nodded and headed for home, hoping that tomorrow would bring better luck. We could help George find Alan and this whole mess would be straightened out.

Of course, poor Tanya Trouble would still be dead.