Caught Read-Handed (7 page)

“Truth be told”—Mark Clamenta broke the silence—“we're not sure how we can help. I can tell you that the night the woman was killed Alan attended a meeting at the church hall. It's not much of an alibi—a short meeting during a long night. As far as the, ah, incident goes, we only know what we read in the paper and saw on the television news. But we do know Alan and it doesn't seem likely . . .”

Pastor John latched on to Mark's wrist. “Let me.”

Mark nodded.

Pastor looked directly at George and then widened his gaze to include Regina and O'Mally. Then he folded his hands on the table and began talking in the soothing tone I'd heard him use so often when someone needed to be comforted.

“Sometimes when people come home from war, the experience changes them.” He paused. “More than a decade ago members of the local clergy council discussed their desire to
help veterans returning home from the Iraq and Afghanistan wars. We wanted to provide definitive assistance for those suffering from the mental and emotional distress.”

George interrupted. “My brother was fine after his first two tours. It was during the third tour that something happened.”

Pastor John took a sip of sweet tea and continued. “The short version is that we met with experts from the Veterans Administration and other organizations, and those of us who have churches with room enough opened day programs where all vets would be welcomed. No questions asked.”

Owen added, “Word spread and the vets living on the island stopped by. Some of us stayed to help or be helped. The retirees haven't forgotten, either.” He tossed a hitchhiker's thumb Mark's way. “Back in the Stone Age this old man spent some time in Vietnam.”

Mark laughed and pushed Owen's arm away.

Regina took George's hand and squeezed tightly as if signaling she was ready to hear the worst. George threw back his shoulders and said, “Okay, tell us what you can. We know that Alan has spent time in mental hospitals but then he is off on his own again. We've never seen him at his most troubled. Is he capable of . . . Could he have done this?”

Pastor John wanted to comfort them but looked helpless as he tried to dredge up an answer.

Owen Reston had no such problem. “From what I saw on the news, Alan had a run-in with this woman, Mrs. Lipscome, at the library. Based on that very public row, the deputies brought him in for questioning and then detained him. After any kind of confrontation, the Alan I know would have avoided that woman like the plague. He would mutter
about her for days but he would never seek her out. Heck, according to the newspaper report, when they had the argument in the library, Mrs. Lipscome was the loud one. Alan never raised his voice.”

I bounced in my chair excitedly. “That's true. I don't think he spoke to her at all. She was screaming but Alan walked out and was talking to himself under his breath.”

Everyone looked at me like I had announced the winning lottery numbers.

“You were there?” Pastor John was incredulous.

“When you called me, it was because you saw Alan with this woman?” George looked like someone had blindsided him.

I felt terrible. I thought I'd explained it all clearly when I picked the Merskys up at the airport. Thinking back, perhaps I was more vague about Alan's arrest than I should have been. I guess I didn't want to give George any more bad news than necessary.

“Well, I wasn't
inside
the library . . .” And I recounted exactly what happened, ending with Alan being kind enough to pick up one of the books I dropped.

O'Mally, who'd been extra quiet since we arrived at the café, pinched George's cheek affectionately. “Didn't I tell you? He's still the old Alan?” She swung her head around, meeting everyone's eyes one by one. “Does that sound like the behavior of a killer to any of you?”

Pastor, Bridgy and I all spoke at once, assuring her that Alan's actions bore no resemblance to a homicidal fiend. I noticed that the veterans remained silent. I'm sure some of the things they lived through may have taught them that there is a speck of killer instinct in us all.

George turned the conversation around another bend. “The deputies have taken Alan to the hospital for observation.”

Pastor rubbed his hands together. “Excellent news. A clinical evaluation will certainly confirm that Alan has no violent tendencies. Absolutely none. Do you know where he is? I can try to make a pastoral visit in the morning.”

George took a scrap of paper out of his pocket and slid it across the table. Pastor glanced at it and passed the paper back to George, saying, “Fine place. Great care. I'm sure I'll be able to see Alan and perhaps I can make arrangements for you to speak with his doctor.”

“I was wondering . . .” Regina began, stopped and began again. “I was wondering if any of you know where Alan lives.”

Pastor stared at a spot somewhere high above Regina's head as though he was praying for guidance. The two veterans exchanged a look and then Owen sat back. Mark Clamenta cleared his throat. “You know that Alan is a real loner, right? Keeps to himself. He'll always pitch in to help another vet, but won't take help for himself. Just his way.”

Regina nodded hesitantly, as if she wasn't sure exactly what she was agreeing to.

“If you read the newspapers anywhere in this country, it won't surprise you to learn that there are a lot of homeless veterans. When we came home from Nam, there were some soldiers, well, people would say they couldn't adjust to being home. There was no diagnosis of the problem. Post-traumatic stress wasn't recognized until the early 1980s. The war was long over. Thousands of guys went untreated. We're trying to make that different today.”

George interrupted. “We know Alan has PTSD, we just don't know how to help him.”

“Your brother gets nervous around people. There are a few vets who live in the woods down island. Not many, five or six. They built huts and lean-tos. Not really a social group, but I guess you could say communal. Alan lives near them. Not with them. He built his hut out of branches and palm leaves, about thirty, forty yards away from the group. He'll help out if asked but otherwise stays on his own.”

“His hut. That's what he was talking about. He barely spoke to us, but when he did he kept asking to go back to his hut. We didn't know what he meant.” George put his head in his hands. “Why is it so hard to understand my own brother?”

O'Mally put her arm around him and pulled him close.

I heard the word “branches” and had to ask. “Is that why Alan had that big tree limb in his car? Is he building another hut?”

Owen replied. “No. No. Alan is one of the finest wood carvers I've ever seen. His hut is filled with pieces of art. He has a beautiful hand-carved chess set. It must have taken him a year to make it but he won't play with anyone. Just sits in his hut staring at the board.”

“Grandpa!” For the first time, Regina was animated. “Remember, George? Grandpa carved a chess set. We used to play chess with him all the time. He even showed us how to carve a pawn.”

Now George was excited, too. “I remember. We had great times with Grandpa. What about the time he carved that flute? He played. We sang and danced. That summer in Maine. I was about eight. You and Alan were younger.” He drifted back in time and no one said a word until he came back to the present.

“That might be it, you know. Alan is carving wood, staring at a chess set. He's looking for happier times so he can be happy again. Why didn't I see it sooner? We could have helped.”

Pastor John leaned in and patted George's hand. “Be proud. You might have found a key that may help your brother get well again, but for now we have to deal with his present problem. Did he mention Tanya Lipscome? Did he say anything at all?”

“I can tell you he was amazed that we're here. He asked if it was Christmas. He seems not to know that he's in trouble. We did ask about the lady. The very mention of her made Alan wildly distressed. He kept mumbling and muttering. All I could understand were the words ‘loud' and ‘glittery.' Not sure of the context.”

I got it immediately. “Well, she was so loud that I could hear her screaming through two sets of double doors while I was outside the library and she was inside. ‘Glittery' would certainly describe Tanya Lipscome's expensive gold and diamond cigarette lighter. According to Sally Caldera”—I looked at the Merskys—“she's the librarian I mentioned. Well, according to Sally, Tanya carried the lighter everywhere, even in nonsmoking areas, and she flashed it every chance she got. Do you think that's what Alan meant?”

“Could easily be.” I could see George was thinking about numerous possibilities.

O'Mally opened the clasp on her silver purse and started searching with great mock effort. She said, “I don't understand. There is no gold and diamond anything in my purse. That's what I get for marrying an accountant.” And she heaved an exaggerated sigh.

Her knack for breaking the tension and easing the conversation back to social was, I'm sure, appreciated by one and all.

George started to stand up. “Listen, you folks have been great, but I really think I should get these two ladies back to our apartment for some rest. We have rough times ahead, no doubt.”

“But no. Not yet.” Miguel had come out of the kitchen holding a tray of mini cupcakes, decorated so lovingly that they were almost too pretty to eat.

George dropped back into his seat and laughed. “Well, I don't think any of us is so tired that we'd pass up the chance to taste one of your gorgeous creations.”

Mark Clamenta said, “You'd have to drag me away from this table, kicking and screaming. I love cupcakes, especially minis—I can eat several different flavors and I don't feel like a pig, because they are so small.”

The conversation turned to everyone's love of desserts. While Bridgy and I bussed the table and replenished the sweet tea, our guests voiced their opinions about favorite desserts. Carrot Cake. Banana cream pie. Any kind of ice cream.

O'Mally added, “Anything with chocolate” as she reached for a chocolate mini with mocha frosting.

The conversation had been so stressful, I was delighted to have everyone joking about sweet treats and expanding waistlines.

Eventually everyone exchanged phone numbers and got ready to leave. I went in the kitchen to get my purse so I could drive the Merskys home, but when I came out, Mark Clamenta had already offered and George had gratefully
accepted. I had a twinge of guilt because I was so tired that I may have been more grateful than George.

When everyone left I sat down and drained my glass of sweet tea. Bridgy was cleaning around me and I guess I looked somewhat dejected, because she sat down next to me.

“You okay?”

“Tired.” I pulled out my cell phone. “And I have to call Frank Anthony and ‘confess' I inadvertently kept some information from him. That never goes well.”

The lieutenant gave me some version of “you couldn't tell me this when I saw you earlier today?” and then told me not to leave the café until he got here.

When I hung up, Bridgy arched an eyebrow.

“That went well,” I said with a grimace.

“Do I detect a soupçon of sarcasm?”

“I'm sure you do.” I stood and grabbed a pile of dirty dishes that Bridgy had stacked and brought them into the kitchen.

“Your friends are gone?” Miguel looked up from his task of scrubbing the main work counter.

“Yes. One of the other veterans offered to drive them home.”

Bridgy followed me into the kitchen and put another pile of dirty dishes in the sink.

Miguel cleared his throat. “While we are all together, we have to talk about that horrible snake. Yesterday it was seen on this side of the bay. It swam close to the mangroves at the end of Bayland Road. Many people saw it glide along.”

Bridgy interrupted. “If we're going to all be in here, let me turn the lock on the front door. She was back in a flash. “No point locking the front door. A sheriff's car just pulled
into the parking lot. Miguel, I think you have been trumped by an interview Sassy feels she has to give right this very minute so that she can stay on the good side of a certain lieutenant in the sheriff's department.”

Miguel raised his eyebrows. “Now that surprises me. Sassy never strives to get on anyone's good side.”

Bridgy and Miguel were both laughing at what he considered to be his witty comment but I decided to ignore them and walked into the dining room just as Frank Anthony and Ryan Mantoni came through the front door. Ryan started off giving me a little tough love about leaving the door unlocked when I was alone in the café, but the clatter from the kitchen of what sounded like dozens of pieces of cutlery hitting the floor corrected him before I had a chance to.

“Ah, not alone I see.” Ryan grinned while pretending to duck. “Crash. Bam. Did you let Miss Ophelia back in the kitchen?”

“Don't be silly, that's Bridgy and Miguel cleaning up.”

The lieutenant didn't find our chitchat the least bit interesting or amusing. He asked me to sit at the Emily Dickinson table and I countered by offering them coffee and a slice of
pecan pie. Ryan was happy to accept but Frank settled for a glass of water.

I went to the kitchen for Ryan's pie and told Miguel and Bridgy that we did indeed have company. Miguel flashed a look of annoyance. This would further delay the conversation he was trying so hard to have with Bridgy and me about bringing his cat, Bow, to work to save her from the threat of the anaconda.

“What is so important that we must, once again, delay discussing how to best protect Bow from a fifteen-foot snake?”

I told him Ryan and Frank had come to speak to me on official business. I guess I sounded somewhat prissy because Miguel the Unflappable turned into Miguel the Excitable.

“Official business. I will give them official business. Every pet on this island is in danger and the sheriff's office does what? Nothing. Nada.” Miguel took off his puffy white chef's hat, plopped it on the counter and marched out of the kitchen.

Bridgy and I looked at each other but said not a word. We could hear that Miguel was emphatic in explaining the dilemma as he saw it, but Frank responded in such a low voice that we both moved to the kitchen door so we could hear what he was saying.

“. . . so Dr. Mays brought together a number of veterinarians from the communities surrounding the waterways from here to the Everglades and they meet with the law enforcement officials from the impacted towns and counties. The lead agency is, naturally, the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission.”

Miguel became calmer once he heard there was some
action being taken, but his goal was to protect Bow. “Fine, they are meeting, but tell me exactly what is being done to guard our pets. You know what that snake can do? He can wrap himself around a small sweet animal like my Bow and crush her. Then he will swallow her whole, in one big gulp.”

Frank started to say, “If you keep the cat in the house . . .”

Ryan knew better and decided to move in a different direction. “Miguel, you know Dr. Mays. You and she volunteer together on the hurricane committee. You can be sure she will do everything she can to make sure that the small free-roaming animals are protected until the anaconda is removed from Estero Bay.”

“Removed? No. There was a meeting at the community center last night and the overwhelming majority of people want that snake killed.
¡Dios mío!
There were men willing to take a boat out at first light and hunt the snake down. I've been here all day. Perhaps you heard? Did they succeed?”

“Why are we first hearing about this excursion now? We
are
only hearing about it now, correct?” Frank Anthony was reaching his boiling point.

I could almost hear Ryan snap to attention. “Absolutely, Lieutenant. This is the first whisper. If I'd heard, you'd know.”

“Go check.” Frank dismissed Ryan. “Miguel, I promise we are doing everything we can to assist in the capture of the anaconda. I know that's not what you want to hear but until our orders change, the multi-agency mission is to capture, not to kill. I suggest you talk to Dr. Mays and see what she can tell you.

“And now if Sassy would stop listening at doors and come back in here, I could ask her about her encounter with Alan Mersky.”

Bridgy whispered, “How'd he know . . . ?”

I rolled my eyes at her. Of course he didn't
know
. But if I was behind the door, he wanted to get me rattled, hoping it would help his interview. We'd played these games before. The lieutenant's interview technique was to take charge quickly and keep the interviewee off balance by any available means. Accusing me of snooping would certainly work,
if
I heard him say so.

Miguel nearly hit us with the door when he came back into the kitchen. He laughed when he saw that Frank had been absolutely right, and then said, extra loudly. “Sassy, it is your turn now.”

I gave Miguel a big smile and Bridgy started giggling uncontrollably. I knew I better get out of the kitchen before I wound up in fits of laughter, which would only make the interview more difficult. I pushed the door and walked into the dining room. I'd like to say I strode in like I was a million-dollar glamour girl, but I didn't have the energy. I'd need all my strength to verbally joust with the bound-to-be-annoying lieutenant.

Ryan was nowhere to be seen. I guessed he was tracking down information about the boaters who went looking for the anaconda this morning.

Frank was standing next to the Emily Dickinson table, and he immediately gestured for me to sit. I hesitated and then thought,
oh, why not.
I knew from previous experience that he was going to do his “stand tall and try to intimidate me” routine, which never worked. I don't intimidate
.

Normally I would enjoy any conversation with a man as attractive as Frank Anthony. But his strong “take charge” attitude was a real turnoff. Then I reminded myself not to
be confrontational. After all, he was the one with the badge. And this time I was smart enough to offer to talk to him before he found out I was “meddling” in his case.

He stood a few feet away from me and folded his arms across his chest, which made his biceps all the more prominent against the short sleeves of his uniform shirt. I steeled myself. The grilling was about to begin.

And then it didn't. He stood. I sat. No one said a word.

Ryan came back inside and told the lieutenant there was no report of any boaters finding or even searching for the anaconda. I realized that was going to annoy Miguel to no end, but he wasn't my immediate problem.

Ryan stood a few feet from Frank and looked from me to Frank and back again. It was like we were playing “who can stay silent the longest,” and I was determined to win. Finally Frank said, “Okay, Sassy, we're here because you have information regarding the Tanya Lipscome case. Is that correct?”

“Almost.” Obviously he hadn't listened carefully to me. “What I wanted you to know is that Alan Mersky has a support system here on the island. Pastor John and members of the veterans organization that meets at his church are willing to do anything they can to help prove that Alan is innocent.”

“That's your urgent information? Mersky has friends. That's what you want us to know?”

Well when he put it like that . . .

“Of course not.” I reached for the right words, words I hoped would help Alan. I decided to try for some flattery before I proceeded. “The family is so grateful for your decision to seek medical help for Alan.”

Frank shook his head. “Sassy, a medical evaluation is
nowhere near the same as medical help. An evaluation tells us and the state attorney's office whether the accused is mentally aware enough to participate in his own defense should a case be brought forward.”

Why couldn't he just smile and say, “Aw, shucks, I'm happy I made you happy”?

I tried again, deciding to start in agreement this time. “I appreciate the legal system is working to protect Alan's rights. And the family is pleased to no end that Alan will get medical attention of any sort. I think it is important for you to know that the Merskys are not alone in this fight.”

Frank bristled at the word “fight” but didn't correct me, so I plunged on. “Pastor John has a very active veterans group at his church. Pastor and any number of vets are planning on working hard to help Alan in any way they can.”

Now I had Frank's attention. “You aren't going to run amok with one of your fact-finding missions, are you? Look how that turned out the last time you tried. Almost got yourself killed. And who are you are recruiting now? The Estero Boulevard Irregulars?”

I was pleased to note that he read Sherlock Homes. Not so pleased that he adapted the Baker Street Irregulars to use as a dig at me.

“Don't be silly.” He was acting like I was the Pied Piper, leading the innocents away. “We aren't going to go hunting for clues and criminals like Scooby-Doo and the gang. Our goal is to help the Mersky family take care of Alan. It's
your
job to catch the real killer.”

Ryan shrank back as if I'd thrown a cup of cold water at him. Frank Anthony had no perceptible reaction. He let my words float away on the rays of afternoon sunshine streaming
through the wide glass windows. Then he gave me a smile that was very close to a smirk, and said, “That's something we certainly agree on. You and your junior G-men stay out of our way and we'll solve this case sooner rather than later.” He touched his brow with two fingers and tossed me a half salute as he turned and marched out the door with Ryan close on his heels.

Bridgy came out of the kitchen as soon as she heard the front door close.

“Were you listening at the kitchen door?” I teased.

“But, of course. Without listening at the door how could I be sure that the deputies hadn't dragged you off in handcuffs?” She giggled, plopped down in a chair next to me and asked, “So?”

“What?”

“Did he do that whole ‘stand over you with his arms folded while he asked the questions' routine?”

I nodded.

Bridgy shrugged. “What a waste. Good-looking guy. If only he wasn't so officious. If he had a sense of humor and was less bossy, we could all be friends.”

Miguel came out of the kitchen, ready to leave for the day. “I am going to visit Cynthia Mays. If this big snake is not on the ‘endangered' or the ‘threatened' list I see no reason why it cannot be killed to save my Bow and the other pets.”

Neither of us knew quite how to respond, so I told him we'd see him in the morning. Bridgy sighed and waved.

“Did you change your mind about asking Ophie to come over and meet Alan's family? It's not like her to miss a gathering of any sort or size.”

“No, she had a client scheduled. I guess this one showed
up.” Bridgy pulled a piece of paper from her pocket. “I had a few minutes so I made up a list of things we need from the restaurant supply house: dish towels, disposable gloves, twelve-ounce glasses. We might want to try a different glass; the ones we have now chip too easily.”

“Can't we just call in an order and have it sent?” I was too tired to drive over to the mainland and back.

“We could, but the real problem is that our ice machine stopped working today. I plugged and unplugged and then jiggled the switch and it came back. I know it's a big-ticket item but I thought we should take a look at what's out there, then we can decide on the value of repair versus purchase.”

Sensible. I agreed to take a quick ride provided Bridgy drove. We agreed to stop in and tell Ophie about Alan's family and the veterans. Otherwise it wouldn't be long before she started haunting our every move to make sure she had up-to-the-minute news.

“It's not like she'll have gotten any information on her own.” As usual, I'd underestimated Bridgy's aunt Ophelia.