Caught Read-Handed (9 page)

O'Mally answered George's phone on the first ring and she was whispering. Before I had a chance to think how strange both those things were, O'Mally said George was asleep. She raised her voice to normal. “Sorry, Sassy. I would have turned his iPhone off after he went to bed, but he ordered me to leave it on. Ordered! Can you imagine George ordering me to do anything? I tell you, Sassy, this entire situation is taking a toll on my poor Georgie. Anyway, he had a gut-wrenching conversation with that shyster lawyer. Gave George a headache. Are you sure that Swerling is the best around because, personally, I'd fire him for insolence or impudence or one of those things.”

She finally stopped for a breath, allowing me a chance to talk. “I wanted to check and make sure you are all right. What is on the agenda for tonight? Tomorrow? Anything I can do to help?”

“Well, George is hoping that by some time tonight the sheriff's office will be able to give us a contact person at the hospital. We need to know who will be observing Alan so George can follow up with them and maybe cross-refer Alan's VA records.”

“Perhaps Pastor John could help with that.”

“Great idea. Do you have his number? I know he and George exchanged phone numbers but I don't want to search around. Anyway, I'd rather use my phone. Keep George's free for incoming.”

I could certainly see the wisdom of that, so I rattled off cell numbers for me, Bridgy and Pastor John, plus our home number in the Turret. I took a quick look in a local directory we kept under the front counter and found the number for Pastor John's church.

I hung up and looked at Bridgy. “Boy, for all her ‘nutty as a fruitcake' demeanor, O'Mally is one tough gal when it comes to taking care of George.”

“Obvi. All you have to do is see the way she looks at him when he's busy doing something else. It's totes adorb.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Okay. Okay. I'm practicing. Next time the Teen Book Club comes in, I want to sound ‘with it' when I serve the refreshments.”

“A suggestion here. If you want to relate to the kids, the first thing you should do is stop saying ‘with it.' Makes you sound like you're ancient. Isn't that from like the disco age or something? Next you'll be saying ‘my bad.'”

We spun into one of our giggle sessions and, before we knew it, Bridgy passed me a napkin and we were wiping tears from our eyes.

She looked at me and said, “Man, we needed that. Oops. Another hokey saying, right?”

“Ah, but totes appropriate. And you know what would also be appropriate—an hour at the beach.”

“Great idea. Let's lock up and I'll race you home.” Bridgy turned off the light switch. “You know what would also be a great idea? We should start keeping bathing suits and beach towels in the office so we could go for a swim after closing once in a while.”

I gave my head a “why didn't I think of that” smack and we locked up for the day.

It only took a few minutes to drive both cars home and change into swimsuits. We wandered through the rear deck of our building, fancifully named the Beausoleil, although no one could argue with the fact that we basked in the beautiful sun most days of the year.

We plopped on towels we'd spread on the sand and looked up and down the beach. It was nearly dinner hour for everyone. Even tourists have to eat, thank goodness, or we'd be out of a job.

“Do you want to swim first, or do your meditation?”

Bridgy's question had startled me, so I realized that I'd probably begun my “look at the horizon” meditation as soon as I sat down.

“Meditate first.”

“Great. I'm going shelling along the shore. Back in twenty.”

Bridgy walked along the shoreline carrying the mesh cosmetics bag she used for her shell collecting. She bent down a time or two but nothing she examined made it into the bag. I watched her for a couple of minutes before shifting my eyes to a mother standing at the water's edge with two
toddlers. Each time the Gulf tide washed up on the sand, the little girl shrieked gleefully and splashed with her hands and feet, while her brother took any number of steps backward until the water retreated once again.

Finally, I turned to the horizon, calmly sitting at the distant edge of the Gulf, waiting for me. I shifted into the butterfly pose that Maggie had taught me in my first yoga class. I brought my knees in to my chest and then dropped them out to each side. I slid my feet together and leaned forward slightly until I was comfortable. I began to breathe deeply, never allowing my eyes to leave the horizon. When the occasional thought slipped into my mind, I mentally swatted it away, keeping my mind open and focused on the exact spot where sky meets sea.

After a while, I closed my eyes and let the events of the recent days reemerge in a finer semblance of order. I looked around and Bridgy was only a few feet away, using her hand as a visor and staring up at the sky. I twisted my head and followed her gaze. She was gawking at the bright red canopy of a parasail pulled through the air by a towline attached to a speedboat.

“Get anything good?” I was referring to the shells.

But Bridgy was captivated by the parasail. She pointed skyward. “We should try that. And soon.”

“Not a chance. Now let me see the shells you found.”

She fell to her knees beside me and unzipped the shell bag. She lifted out two shells that looked like tiny ice cream cones. “I found two flawlessly shaped Florida Cones. Almost identical. Aren't they perfect? I have one like them at home but the beige is a little darker and it doesn't have as many yellow stripes. If I put these two on either side of the one I have, they'll make a gorgeous necklace.”

She tucked the shell bag into her beach tote, and we ran into the water for a brief but invigorating swim.

*   *   *

The café was super busy the next morning. There was a continuous line on the benches outside the door of people waiting for tables. Three separate groups of fisherfolk came in to have their thermoses filled with coffee or sweet tea to go along with the takeout meals or boxes of pastry they wanted packed for later in the day. Bridgy and I couldn't have moved any faster if we had ridden around on skateboards. At one point I reached over for the water pitcher that sat at Bridgy's elbow as she was filling thermoses with fresh coffee. I couldn't help but observe, “We are going to have to get that young woman. Elaine, was it? We have to get her in here for a trial run as waitstaff. We need help.”

Bridgy nodded but I flew off to fill water glasses before she had a chance to answer me. We were less pressured once the takeout crowd was gone. And within a half hour, there were no more customers enjoying the salty aroma of the breeze coming in off the Gulf of Mexico while they sat outside our front door awaiting a breakfast table.

I was bussing Robert Louis Stevenson—piling the dirty dishes and cutlery in a plastic bin—when I realized there were no customers hovering to jump in the seats as soon as I finished the scrub down. I glanced at the clock. It was nearly a quarter to eleven. The breakfast crowd was slowing to a drizzle and the lunch crowd had yet to begin. I was deciding to use our break time to talk to Bridgy about bringing on part-time help, at least for breakfast, when I heard the front door open.

I gave the Stevenson tabletop a final swipe and turned to invite the customers to sit, but it was only Cady Stanton. I smiled whenever I thought of him by his full name or saw it as a byline in the
Fort Myers Beach News
. I am sure her friends and family were surprised when Cady's radically feminist mother had voluntarily taken her husband's last name. But of course she married a man whose last name was Stanton, so she was able to name her children Cady and Elizabeth after the founding feminist Elizabeth Cady Stanton, one of the authors of the “Declaration of Sentiments” that came out of the Seneca Falls Convention held long before the Civil War. If she'd fallen in love with a man named Smith or Jones, I wonder if she'd taken his last name.

Cady marched over, stood in front of me rubbing his hands together and said, “Okay, I did my part. Bring on the breakfast, and—” He stopped to look at the specials board. “Great, Miguel made Ophie's buttermilk pie. I'll have a piece.”

He had pulled out a chair and sat down before I realized that he was talking about Tanya Trouble's funeral arrangements. I kept my voice low so as not to bring our exchange to the attention of the other breakfasters. I wasn't going to have a repeat of the chaos that occurred when Ryan and Ophie talked in the dining room about the murder. The victim's funeral would be no less sensational. “You found out the arrangements for, er, Tanya?”

He nodded. “Bridgy asked me to, remember? And offered free breakfast. With pie.” He looked around. “Where is she?”

“The kitchen. Come on, we can talk there.”

I saw the reluctance spreading across his freckled face and added, “It's where great breakfasts are made.”

He followed me into the kitchen, but of course as we
walked in, Bridgy walked out with an armful of food-laden dishes. “Tell Sassy,” she directed as she moved passed us. Miguel gave Cady a wave but kept his cooking on track. No interruptions tolerated.

As a reporter, Cady was nothing if not concise. He listed facts in descending order of importance. “Tanya Lipscome's funeral will be held tomorrow morning at ten o'clock in the Peace of Heart Chapel in Fort Myers. Invited guests only. No flowers, please. Donations may be made to the American Cancer Society. Her mother was a victim.”

Cady checked off the mental list in his head and decided he told me all he knew or at least all he thought I needed to know.

Bridgy came into the kitchen, put a handful of dishes in the rinse sink and gave me an inquiring glance.

I nodded and gave Cady an “atta boy” pat on the shoulder. “Feed the man, Bridgy. He brought all the information we need.”

Cady looked perplexed. “Why would you need the funeral information? Didn't you hear me? Invitation only. Oh, Sassy, you aren't going to snoop again, are you? Don't you remember what happened the last time you decided to do a bit of investigating on your own? Nearly got yourself killed.”

Definitely not a conversation I wanted to have, so I cut him off. “We have empty tables if you'd like something to eat.”

Bridgy intervened. “Sassy, be nice. Cady is helping us. Oh, and I called Elaine Tibor. She is going to help out with the lunch shift. Sort of a trial run.”

I gave Cady my widest smile and head-nodded toward the dining room. “Go sit down and I'll bring you some hot corn bread and honey butter while you decide what you want for breakfast.” And I started putting together a plate.

Miguel looked up from the vegetables he was chopping. “Cady, you want the veggie omelet,
sí
? With all that corn bread, you need veggies to be healthy.”

“Never argue with the chef,” Cady said with a smile. “Veggie omelet, it is.”

I followed him into the dining room. He took a seat at Robert Frost and motioned for me to sit. I put the corn bread platter in front of him and took a quick look around the room. Everything seemed under control, so I sat opposite him.

“Sassy, I meant what I said. Everyone remembers what happened the last time we had a murder in town. I know you are friends with Alan Mersky's family but you cannot get involved any further than you already are. And for goodness' sake, no sleuthing.”

I intended to humor him. I really did, but instead I wound up telling him that while I thanked him for getting the information requested, I was a grown woman and would do as I pleased. “Besides, I'm too busy to sit and listen to one of your lectures. We have a new employee coming in for training and I have the Potluck Book Club this afternoon.”

I pushed back my chair and stood straight up.

Then Cady said, “You do know that Tanya Lipscome was the woman in the lawsuit, right? You heard about that, didn't you?” And he flashed a gotcha grin when I sat right back down in my chair.

“What lawsuit?”

Cady pointed to the copies of his employer's newspaper, the
Fort Myers Beach News
, stacked by the cash register. “Don't you read the
News
? Folks don't buy the paper, then I'm out of a job.” He patted my hand. “Only kidding. I'm not the reporter following it so I don't know the story in its entirety but . . . our murder victim, Tanya Lipscome, and her husband own a big house just around the bayside curve of Moon Shell Drive. You know, it's one of those streets that goes straight east off Estero Boulevard and then juts to the south and runs along Estero Bay.

“They own a wide expanse of bay-front property and apparently the original builder, for the Lipscomes or somebody else, I don't know, decided to put the house on the extreme south end of the property to give the homeowners maximum privacy. You know, kept it away from the houses before the curve.”

I was tapping my toes with frustration. Would he never get to the point? “What has this got to do with anything?”

Cady held up a hand. “Honestly, Sassy, you have no patience at all. I'm telling you what led up to the lawsuit. In my business, background information is extremely important.” He sat silently waiting for me to agree.

Instead I leaned in and jabbed my index finger in the air directly in front of his face. “Don't give me any more of your ‘I have the floor and I'll take as much time as I please.' In my business, I have to be on my feet and serving customers. And I may have to start serving again at any moment. Now get to the lawsuit.”

He ripped a piece of corn bread in two, then saw the look on my face and thought the better of testing my tolerance any further. He put both pieces back on the plate.

“Okay, the bottom line is that the Lipscomes—although from what I hear it was her pushing the idea, not him—decided they wanted to build one of those elevated swimming pools. You know what I mean. It's a ten-foot-high concrete enclosure where they can build a six-foot-deep pool above ground because the water table is too high to put it in the ground.”

I rolled my eyes. “Is there a bottom line?”

“Okay I'll skip to the end. The Lipscomes filed for permits and the neighbors on the eastbound part of Moon Shell Drive filed a lawsuit trying to prevent the Lipscomes from building the pool on their property that sits on the top of the curve. The pool would block the neighbors' view of Estero Bay and the shoreline foliage.”

Now he had my interest. “Who are these neighbors? Any homicidal maniacs among them?”

“Sassy, you really should read the
News
. One of the
neighbors is a former pro wrestler named Otto Ertz. He's been so confrontational with Tanya that the sheriff's deputies had to be called. Twice. No one seemed to fight with Barry about it. I don't know if he cared whether they built the swimming pool or not. It's like it was Tanya's pet project.”

The door opened and I started to get up, ready to move into waitress mode. But instead of customers, it was Elaine Tibor, our potential part-time waitress. Once again she was wearing a black knee-length skirt. This time her white man-tailored shirt had short sleeves. I looked down at my denim shorts and green tank top covered by a white bib apron and realized we forgot to tell her how informal we are here at the Read 'Em and Eat.

I greeted her warmly but was grateful when Bridgy offered to show her around. I volunteered to watch the dining room. I made the rounds of the few occupied tables with a coffeepot and a pitcher of sweet tea and offers of “Can I get you anything else?” Then I returned to Cady.

“What else do you know about the lawsuit? How dangerous is this wrestler? And who else is involved?”

Cady swallowed a mouthful of corn bread and leaned back in his chair. “Well, Goddard Swerling is the lawyer representing the neighbors. Although how that works along with him representing Alan Mersky, I have no idea. I don't know why you're asking me all these questions; your book club and yoga pal, Maggie Latimer, is one of the plaintiffs in the suit. She'd know more than I do. Can I have my omelet now?”

I had a lot more questions but we'd run out of time. Customers were coming through the door and I had to get back to work. I seated a couple at Dashiell Hammett, gave them menus and then went into the kitchen to get Cady's omelet.

Miguel gave me a broad wink. “Ay,
chica
, I thought you would never let the poor man eat. Are you pumping him for information about the murder?”

I noticed Elaine watching us from where she and Bridgy were standing near the office door. I didn't want to have her think we were morbid gossips, so I laughed off Miguel's remark and told a complete lie. “Actually, we were talking about taking a trip to St. Augustine sometime in the next few weeks. Historical Florida, you know.” I grabbed Cady's omelet off the steam table and fled.

Lunch patrons began surging through the door. I led them to seats and poked my head in the kitchen pass-through to let Bridgy know we had a crowd building. She and I had agreed that for this trial period, Elaine would work the dining room for the entire lunch shift. Bridgy would stay in the kitchen with Miguel instead of running back and forth as she usually did. I'd handle the dining room and keep an eye on Elaine. Later on Bridgy and I would switch. This way we could both evaluate Elaine and, as the lunch crowd dwindled, I could focus on getting ready for the Potluck Book Club. This month's book,
Fictitious Dishes
by Dinah Fried, was so different from anything we'd read before so I was extremely curious to hear how the clubbies interpreted the author's concept.

Elaine was a quick learner. When she had a question, she asked it, took in the answer and retained it. She never asked the same question twice. And she was a meticulous server, which is a trait I knew would make a good impression on the patrons. The early lunch crowd ate briskly and rushed out again, anxious to get on with whatever plans they had for the rest of the day. The folks who came in later were more casual
about their meals and tended to linger over dessert or a second cup of coffee.

Bridgy and I switched places about an hour before book club was due to start. She asked me what I thought of Elaine, and I told her that this could work out well for us. “In fact, see if she can come in tomorrow morning around nine so we can go to Tanya Trouble's funeral.”

Bridgy looked surprised. “Did you wangle an invitation?”

“Don't be silly. We don't need an invitation to watch who comes and goes.” And I shooed her out of the kitchen.

I filled the dishwasher and washed down the work counter Miguel wasn't using. He asked me to chop and slice onions and celery for his famous
Old Man and the Sea
Chowder. While I cut the vegetables, I watched him move from the counter to the stove top and back again, effortlessly putting together a meal and then placing it on the steamer tray or in the pass-through and immediately moving on to the next meal and the next. Within an hour there were few requests for new meals, and I guessed the lunch rush had subsided to a near halt.

I went into the office and took my copy of
Fictitious Dishes
from the shelf next to our tiny desk
.
There were bookmarks stuck in several places. Miguel was busy bagging and refrigerating the chopped vegetables. I waved the book in front of him. “I see you've been marking pages. Have you decided which fabulous treat you are going to make for the book club meeting this afternoon?”

“
Sí
, but you must not be nosy. I am preparing a surprise that you will all enjoy. You will see it when I bring it to the dining room near the end of your meeting.”

Miguel loved to whip up special dishes now and again for our book club meetings. As much as he reveled in the
praise he received from the book club members, he also enjoyed the opportunity to be more creative than our café menu generally allowed.

I went into the dining room to begin setting up the chairs for the Potluck Book Club meeting and saw that there were customers lingering at two tables. Bridgy was doing a quick all-purpose tidy-up. I looked around.

“Where's Elaine?”

Bridgy looked up from washing the countertop. “We're not busy. I told her she could leave. She was professional, wasn't she? Having her help out once in a while would benefit us and she can make a couple of tuition bucks. Win-win.”

“Sure is. Did you ask her if she can work tomorrow?”

“Oh, I forgot.” Bridgy dropped her cleaning cloth on the counter. “She walked out the door two seconds ago. Maybe I can catch her in the parking lot.” And Bridgy hurried out the door.

I checked with the folks at the two occupied tables and when they didn't need anything, I went back to setting up the book corner—chairs in a circle, extra copies of
Fictitious Dishes
under my chair, pencils and paper on the bookcase ledge in case anyone wanted to take notes.

I looked up when the door opened, half expecting it to be Bridgy, but it was Sally Caldera waving a copy of
Fictitious Dishes.
“Extraordinary book. Really extraordinary. I didn't want to hear secondhand what the book club members have to say about it, so here I am.”

She came and sat in the book club circle. “How are you doing? Sassy, I'm really sorry that I had to give your name to the deputies, but they wanted a list of who was in the library when Tanya and Alan had their . . . flare-up. And,
well, I knew you'd shine a sympathetic light on Alan. But I didn't know you are friends with his family. That was a complete surprise. I heard you brought them to town.”

I was saved by Lisette Ortiz from having a conversation that was bound to take up the tiny bit of time left before book club started. Lisette came in carrying a bright red bowl. She popped the lid and gave us a peek at the heap of fresh blueberries inside.

“I soooo had to bring some berries in a red bowl. Life imitating art. I know the picture in the book was really a red pail but I needed a bowl with a top for the car ride.” Her dimples were playing hide-and-seek on her cheeks as her joyful enthusiasm got the best of her. “
Blueberries for Sal
has been one of my all-time favorite books since I was a toddler. I have bought a copy for each of my nieces and nephews as a present on their second birthday, and every year I donate a few copies to the Children's Toy Fund, as you well know because you order them for me.”

Sally and I were relishing Lisette's joy as she continued to beam while marveling at the fact that the author had included some children's books in
Fictitious Dishes
.

Bridgy finally came back into the café and signaled that we needed to talk. I started to walk over to her but a customer at one of the still-occupied tables stopped me.

“Miss, could I ask what is going on back there? Oh, and could we have our check?”

I explained about the book club meetings that we hosted in the café and gave her a book club flier along with her check. By the time she settled her bill, Bridgy was busy filling a takeaway order for two young girls who had walked in a minute earlier. I stood by the counter and asked what was up.

“Elaine can't work tomorrow.” Bridgy put the finishing touches on tying the pastry box shut. “And there's plenty more you need to know, but not now.” She nodded toward Maggie Latimer and her sister, Karen, who'd just walked through the café door chatting animatedly with Augusta Maddox and Blondie Quinlin.

It sounded like they were talking about the anaconda snake swimming in Estero Bay.

I smiled and ushered them back to the book corner, all the while wondering what had Bridgy so peeved and how I was going to separate Maggie from her sister long enough to glean information about her lawsuit against Tanya Trouble. Fair to say, it was going to be difficult for me to concentrate on book club with all this whirling around in my head.