Read to Death (12 page)

Chapter Twenty-two

The disaster that struck immediately wasn't the disaster I was expecting, but in some ways it was much, much worse. We settled the moms at a glass-topped table surrounded by pretty wrought-iron chairs. It took them a few minutes to decide how far from healthy eating they wanted to stray, but finally, we had the order straight. When Bridgy and I came back with two scoops of pistachio with granola in a cup for Sage, a double scoop of chocolate chip mint in an extra-large sugar cone for Emelia and our own ice cream, the moms had their heads bent together and were giggling like two schoolgirls.

“We had a really grand idea, and we have put it in motion. Are you ready for a surprise? We . . .” Emelia started then hesitated. “Sage, do you want to tell them?”

Sage reached out and grabbed Emelia's hand. “Don't be silly, we'll tell them together. One. Two. Three.”

“Surprise! You're going to Key West.” In perfect unison, they were loud enough to turn heads. A couple at the next table started clapping and then stopped abruptly when no one else joined in.

Emelia said, “We did some investigating and booked you a round trip on that Key West boat that leaves from somewhere here in Fort Myers Beach.” She circled her hand loosely above her head. “And you don't have to come back the same day you go, which is a very good thing because . . . Sage.”

“We also booked you a three-night stay at a charming hotel on Duval Street, a few blocks from Mallory Square,” Sage added cooperatively.

Bridgy looked as if she'd been struck by lightning. She was in the midst of raising her butter pecan ice cream cone with the hard chocolate shell to her mouth, aiming, I thought, for a quick bite of chocolate so she could nibble her way to the butter pecan. The moms spoke, and Bridgy's hand froze at shoulder height. Her eyes opened wider than I'd ever seen, and a deep red sheen crept up her neck and covered her face.

I had no choice but to recover first. “What are you talking about? We can't go anywhere. We have the bookstore and the café to run.” I thought it best not to remind them we were involved in a murder investigation, and while Lieutenant Anthony had not yet said the immortal words “don't leave town,” we probably shouldn't leave town.

“Oh, the café,” Emelia sniffed. “We can do that. Ophie claims that she helps out all the time. If she can do it, how hard can it be? After all, Miguel does the cooking. All we'll have to do is to wake up early and be polite to customers. Difficult? I don't think so.”

The chocolate coating on Bridgy's cone cracked, and one thin ribbon of ice cream dribbled across her fingers. I passed her a fistful of napkins, and in that instant I was happy that I sacrificed the calories of a cone for a small scoop in a cup. This conversation might cause my ice cream to melt, but it would melt neatly and not ruin my new white tank top with dolphins leaping across the hem.

I was struggling to think of an appropriate response to Emelia's observation about how easy running the Read 'Em and Eat must be. Finding none, I would have settled for any response at all, but I was startled by a hand clamping down on my shoulder.

“Sorry we took so long.” Ryan Mantoni was looking down at me apologetically. “The bridge.” He said those last two words as if that explained everything, and to islanders, it certainly did.

Frank Anthony was standing behind Ryan. They both wore white pin-striped softball shirts with green letters declaring: LEE COUNTY SHERIFF. The shirts were dusty enough to show that they'd played hard. I jumped up, determined to do a quick introduction in the hope that I could grab on to the conversation and then remain in charge.

“I don't know if you've ever met our mothers. This is Emelia Mayfield and Sage Cabot.” I indicated who was which. “These are our
friends
, Ryan Mantoni and Frank Anthony.” I emphasized the word “friends” in the hope that Ryan and Frank would catch on.

I didn't count on Sage deciding to impress them with her psychic impressions. “Look at those auras. Nearly identical. So much blue. Calming. And peace. Such peace. Are you peace officers, by any chance?”

Sure, like she hadn't read their shirts and figured that out.

Ryan responded with a snappy, “Yes, ma'am.”

By this point Bridgy had tossed her ice cream in the trash. I'm sure she was as antsy as I was. We wanted to give our information to the deputies and be relieved of the burden. Then we wanted them to go away. The moms complicated everything. If they heard us talk about Bert, Lolly and the Dirty Pirate, there would be no end of questions. Not to mention the fact that Tammy Rushing disappearing would be a great excuse for them to hire private security guards to protect their little girls.

I was trying to find a way out of this potential calamity when Bridgy stood. “I am so stuffed after that delicious meal you fixed.” She beamed at the moms. “I need more exercise. Maybe a longer walk on the pier would do me good.”

I caught on immediately. “Why don't you sit here and relax while we stroll along the pier for a bit with Ryan and Frank.” I gave Sage a sly wink, and her thoughts immediately turned to romance. I'm sure she was trying to figure out which man was the match for me and which one was for Bridgy.

Emelia started to get out of her seat, but Sage patted her arm. “I couldn't move a muscle. Let's just sit here.” She shooed us toward the pier. “You run along now. We'll be right here when you get back.”

Before the moms changed their minds, Bridgy and I led Ryan and Frank away as fast as we could.

As soon as we were out of earshot, Frank turned all lieutenant on us. “Okay, you sent for us. Now what is going on?”

Much as I resented his tone, I gave up my news immediately. “We have some new suspects.”

“
You
have some new suspects? I don't remember deputizing you. I do remember telling you to stay out of this case, which, no matter how often I say it, no matter how much I emphasize it, you seem loath to do.”

He had a point, but when he heard what we had to say, I was sure he'd be glad we'd nosed around. “One of the ladies who traveled to the Edison and Ford Winter Estates with us has disappeared.”

That got his attention. He looked at Ryan, who indicated a discreet “I know nothing” with a slight shake of his head.

Frank put his hands on his hips and stretched an inch or two above his full height. “Who disappeared and how do you know this to be true?”

Bridgy took a step back. This one was all mine, and I relished the job. I started with the Teen Book Club. “You know Holly Latimer, don't you?”

“The yoga teacher's daughter. What has she got to do with the disappearance?”

I babbled about
I Am the Messenger
, the yarn bomb and Miguel's homemade potato chips. The longer I talked, the more irritated Frank got, which pleased me no end. Finally, I told him Holly asked me to call her mom, and I summed up Maggie's conversation with Jake Gilman as confirmation that Tammy Rushing had left town suddenly.

Frank looked at Ryan, who nodded and said, “I know right where Jake Gilman is.”

I watched Frank relax, pleased that he'd gotten information from me with a minimum of fuss. It was time to slam him with the other news we'd dredged up.

“And then, of course, there was the fight.” I smiled perhaps a bit too triumphantly.

“This Tammy Rushing had a fight? Who'd she fight with?”

“Not Tammy. All she did was up and disappear. It was Oscar who had the fight. He got into a brawl with a deckhand on the
Fisherman's Dream
. Sailor called Lolly.”

Ryan was using a stub pencil to take notes along the margins of his softball scorecard. He spelled aloud. “L-o-l-l-i, as in lollipop?”

“I don't know. In my head it's L-o-l-l-y. But I'm sure Ernie, the bartender at the Dirty Pirate, would be able to give you his full name. Lolly hung out there all the time.”

Frank leaned in so far and so fast that I felt slightly menaced. He jabbed the air in front of my face with his index finger. “How do you know the bartender in the Dirty Pirate? For that matter, how is it you know about the Dirty Pirate at all? That den of wharf rats is a world apart from the Read 'Em and Eat. Completely different universe.”

I kept my eye on Bridgy and was glad she didn't flinch at the word “rats.” In fact, she wore a tiny smile. She was never happier than when Frank Anthony and I were waging war. Never mind that this time I was doing battle to save her. She liked watching us get on each other's nerves. On the other hand, Ryan was getting more fidgety by the minute. For a deputy, he really couldn't take confrontation. Or maybe he just didn't like witnessing conflict between his lieutenant and a good friend like me.

I adopted as prim a stance as I could manage. “You needn't worry. Bridgy and I had an escort. An impeccable gentleman.”

Frank turned away, looked out over the Gulf for a while and then waggled his hand back and forth between
me and Bridgy. “I don't know what you two think you are doing wandering around the docks. And Cady had no right to tag along as if he was protection enough.”

I'd always suspected Frank Anthony didn't care for Cady any more than Cady cared for him. Now I could tuck it away as a fact. I'd probably be able to use it to my advantage someday in the future. Not today. Today I was going for mystery. “Cady? Cady had nothing to do with this. He's not the only man we know.” I tossed my head, hoping my auburn hair fell attractively back in place. “Are we done here?”

Frank crossed his arms, assumed his “I'm in charge of the world” stance and pressed me for a name. “We're not done here until you tell me who took you to the Dirty Pirate and why.”

Bridgy gave me a sharp poke in the back that, roughly translated, meant “just tell him.”

“Bert Wyatt.”

“Who is Bert Wyatt?”

Well, if he didn't connect Bert to Oscar, then our information was valuable. Keeping that in mind, I doled it out in crumbs.

“He's a deckhand on the
Fisherman's Dream
.”

“So you were snooping around and got caught by a deckhand.”

“Don't be silly. It's a charter boat. I went fishing and happened to meet Bert. We got to talking about Oscar. The next day, he invited Bridgy and me for a drink. If that's all you need to know, we'd better go back. Our moms are going to be worried.”

“Okay. It's not like we don't know where to find you. Tell your mothers we're sorry for the interruption.”

There was no way for the four of us to walk from mid-pier back to Times Square without walking together. Always more socially adept than I was, Bridgy immediately asked Frank and Ryan about their softball game.

Ryan was gleeful. “We trounced Charlotte County, and your friend Tina Wei was a star.” He proceeded to recount the game hit by hit until we were back in the plaza and approaching the moms. Frank and I walked along silently. I think we were both glad the grilling was finished, at least for today. The deputies said a quick good night and headed back to Estero Boulevard.

Sage raised an eyebrow. “Well?”

“Well what?”

Sage stood and linked arms with me. “Did you invite your friends? Are they going to Key West with you? Tell me about it while we walk. There are a bunch of shops right around the corner that I want to explore.”

Life wasn't complicated enough. Oscar had been murdered. Bridgy was a suspect. Both Tammy and the boisterous Lolly had disappeared. Yet I was positive that Sage playing Cupid was going to be the thing that pushed me right over the edge.

Chapter Twenty-three

I woke up the next morning to the smell of coffee and a hum of whispered conversation from the patio. When I opened the sliding glass doors, Sage said, “Good morning, daffodil. Isn't it a glorious day?”

I looked out over the Gulf of Mexico and our neighboring islands to the north. And, as most days are, this one was superb.

Bridgy popped out of her chaise lounge. “I'm off to the shower. Here, take my seat and I'll bring your coffee. We have to leave for work in twenty-five minutes.” She tapped the imaginary watch on her wrist.

I've often thought she would have made an exemplary drill sergeant.

“Your aura looks tired. Kind of fuzzy. Did you sleep well? I feel terrible pushing you out of your bed and onto
the couch. Perhaps I should sleep in the living room. Or we could alternate.”

I patted Sage's hand. “Don't worry. I am fine. It's just . . .”

Bridgy slid the door open, handed me a steaming mug of coffee, and warned, “Twenty-three minutes.”

Sage laughed. “Bridgy inherited Emelia's efficiency gene. I wish she had more of Ophie's amusing gene.”

“Bridgy is lots of fun. You know that. It is a really stressful time for her. For all of us.” I gulped down my coffee while Sage murmured the momisms that always made me feel better.

Bridgy stood holding the apartment door open with one foot while she stage-whispered, “Hurry up.” Apparently, by showering and jumping into shorts and a tee shirt I'd missed her deadline by four minutes. She wasn't happy that I had to run back into the living room to get my copies of
Julie and Julia
and
My Life in France
for the Potluck Book Club.

In the elevator, she watched me stuff the books in my tote, befittingly stenciled with a long, fat, curly worm sprawled below the word “BOOK.”

“I'm glad you got those books out of the house. If Mom doesn't see them she may forget about the book club and we can avoid a clash between her and Ophie.”

Once we got to the café, there was no time to think about Emelia, Ophie, the Potluck Book Club or anything else. Within five minutes of opening the door, every table was full, and the dining room stayed busy for several hours.

The breakfast crowd was thinning out and I was at the counter pouring a cup of tea when the landline phone next to the register rang. It startled me and I splashed hot water on my fingers. I grabbed an ice cube with my burnt fingers and answered the phone with my other hand.

Pastor John Kendall was one of my favorite people. Caring and generous to a fault, he considered everyone he met to be part of his flock and was always ready to help no matter what the problem. His one flaw as far as I could tell was that in what must have been a moment of insanity he married the cranky and demanding Jocelyn, often the bane of my book club meetings.

“Sassy, I am in such trouble. I've invited several of the local clergy to lunch today, and it seems . . . it seems I forgot to tell Jocelyn. Well, clearly, she had a right to be upset and she . . . well, she went off to the community center . . .”

“And you need lunch in a box for how many?”

The relief in his voice was palpable. “Oh, could you? Really? I can pick it up if that's convenient.”

I looked around. More than half the tables were now empty, and according to the big clock above the door, we had a while until the lunch crowd descended on us. I'd rather run a basket over to Pastor than prepare for a book club meeting that might well prove disastrous.

“Don't be silly, Pastor. We deliver.” Since when? Well, we do now.

He was having three guests, all from the mainland. I suggested
Old Man and the Sea
Chowder with Drunken Raisin Scones,
My
Secret Garden
Salad and one of Miguel's fabulous pecan pies. “Do you need a jug of sweet tea or coffee?”

“Sweet tea would be splendid.” Then his voice tremored slightly. “Let me ask you about the drunken scones . . .”

I had to laugh. “Don't worry, Pastor, only the raisins are drunk. I mean, Miguel soaks the raisins in a tiny bit of whiskey to plump them up and then mixes them in the scones. No one will be the slightest bit impaired.”

“In that case, I can only say you are a lifesaver.”

I went into the kitchen to prepare the order. When I told Miguel that it was for Pastor John and his friends, he said, “I made fresh whipped cream this morning. Let me put some in a bowl for the pecan pie. Shall I sprinkle cinnamon? No. Let me . . . Ah, shaved chocolate. That will make the dessert festive.” And he put an ounce or so of shaved chocolate in a small container.

I always got a kick out of Miguel. Not only was he extraordinarily particular about how the food he prepared tasted, he was totally fussy about the way it looked when served.

“
Chica
, write down these instructions. On paper, not in your phone. You have to leave them with Pastor John. Oh, and I included two different salad dressings. Make sure they are labeled.” He dictated precise heating and serving directions that would make the pastor's luncheon that much easier.

A few minutes later I pulled into the church parking lot. I parked as close to the pastor's house as I could and was struggling to get everything out of the car in one trip.

“Can I help you there, Little Miss?”

I knew that voice. Tom Smallwood, my favorite handyman.

We didn't often cross paths, so I was happy to see him. He'd bestowed the title “Little Miss” on me after an adventure we once shared, and I wore it with pride.

“Sorry to hear about Oscar. Must have been a shock for you and Bridgy.”

It never occurred to me that he knew Oscar, but the island was a small community, and everyone knew about the murder within minutes of Bridgy finding the body.

I was handing him the cardboard box that Miguel had packed so carefully, and I nearly dropped it when he asked if anyone knew what happened to Oscar's boat.

“Oscar had a boat?” I recovered the box and pressed it securely into Tom's hands.

“Old tub. He was refitting it, mostly by himself. Called it the
Jersey Girl
.”

“I had no idea. Where does he . . . did he moor it?”

“He used to keep it at Tony's, but Oscar made so much noise and mess with his repairs, not to mention that he was using the boat to store odds and ends, so Tony made him leave. You know how particular Tony is. Oscar had the boat towed to a repair dock on Pine Island.”

Pastor John met us at the front door. He took the box from Skully, who pastor always called Tom, and thanked me profusely when I gave him Miguel's notes.

“Come inside and visit for a minute. Company's not due for a while. Join us, Tom?”

Skully shook his head and pointed to a small building toward the back of the churchyard. “No thank ye. I want to get that crossbeam seen to before the end of the day. That will give me all of tomorrow to work on the others.” He turned to me. “Fine to see you, Little Miss.”

“You, too. Stop by the café before you leave the island. Miguel is in the mood to bake lots of pies, and I'm sure there'll be a piece that suits you.” Then I turned to Pastor John. “Sorry, I can't stay even for a second. Any minute the café will be bursting with the lunch crowd and then there's the Potluck Book Club.”

“Busy, busy. I do know that feeling. Thanks for your help. Oh, and the bill?”

“It's in the box. Got to run.”

I made it back to the café just as the lunch rush was moving into full swing. I knew I'd be caught short at the book club meeting if I didn't find time to squeeze in a final review of topics I wanted to cover, but helping Pastor John was a special pleasure, mostly because he spent so much time helping everyone else. I wrapped an apron around my waist and got to work.

A young family came in. I sat them at Dr. Seuss, and the mom asked me if I would heat a jar of baby carrots. When I went into the kitchen, Bridgy was huddled over the sink on her iPhone. Miguel signaled me to be quiet.

I popped the lid on the baby food jar and put it in a pan of water. I turned the burner to simmer, moved next to Miguel and head-butted toward Bridgy.

He mouthed,
Owen
.

More lawyer stuff. This needed to end. I stirred the carrots carefully until the contents of the jar were warm but not hot, and when I left the kitchen, Bridgy was still on the phone.

When the café quieted down, I began to set up for the Potluck Book Club. I set out extra copies of
Julie and Julia
and
My Life in France
along with notepads and paper. I started to write the questions I would use to move the conversation along if it stalled. That rarely happened, but I liked to be prepared.

I wrote my first question: “What do you think would move you to spend a year of your life cooking every recipe from a specific cookbook?” and was brainstorming for a second when the moms burst through the door.

“Ah, my sweet begonia.” Sage planted a loud kiss on my forehead. She was wearing a flowing white chiffon caftan that looked more like a nightgown than day wear. Luckily,
we are a beach community, so nearly any outfit is doable. I know people who, nine months a year, wear bathing suits and tee shirts every place they go except church. In January, they change into shorts and a sweatshirt.

Emelia, elegant in dove gray capri pants and a matching pullover, took one look at Bridgy's face, grabbed her for a hug of smotherly love and asked what was wrong.

“Nothing, really.” Bridgy was fighting back tears. “Same old, same old. This time I have to go to the state attorney's office for still another interview. It's just—I can't understand what they could possibly want. I've already given a voluntary DNA sample, been fingerprinted and answered every question under the sun.”

Emelia began wailing at “DNA” and showed no signs of stopping. Thank goodness there were only three tables that were still occupied. Of course, the diners were very busy pretending not to notice the drama, but I could tell Bridgy and Emelia had everyone's rapt attention. I guided them into the kitchen, went back to the dining room, picked up the coffeepots and made the rounds offering regular and decaf while asking if there was anything else they needed. I was thankful that all three, including the young couple with the baby, who had barely sat down, asked for their checks.

The book club members began to arrive. Maggie Latimer walked in raving about
Julie and Julia
and then gave me a wink. “But some of Julie's language. What will the ladies say?”

I was surprised when I saw Angeline Drefke was carrying both books. She held the door open with her hip until Augusta Maddox and Blondie Quinlin came in behind her.

“All I'm saying,” Augusta boomed, “is that it ain't my
concern if she talks like that, but no lady should write that kind of language.”

I made a quick decision to address the language in
Julie and Julia
at the very beginning of the meeting; otherwise, it was sure to come up over and over again.

When Jocelyn Kendall, the final group member, came in, I hurried everyone to the book nook, anxious to get the meeting started.

Jocelyn wasn't even in her chair when she pushed her strawlike hair out of her eyes, looked around and scowled. “Who on earth picked this book?” She waved
Julie and Julia
in the air. “I am a pastor's wife. I cannot read this smut.”

I looked at her, my eyes goggled in amazement. “Jocelyn, weren't you the one who objected to
Julie and Julia
in the first place? Didn't you say you preferred to read a book written by Julia Child herself? Isn't that why you picked
My Life in France
?”

Heads nodded all around. Clearly, I wasn't the only one dumbfounded by Jocelyn's outburst. Maggie and Angeline each swatted Jocelyn in less than dulcet tones.

“Really? I read both books because of you.”

“The bad language was right in the beginning. You could have stopped reading.”

The battle would have reached high gear except at that moment the front door opened. It was Owen Reston with what was a wonkish-looking woman dressed in a tan suit. Owen signaled Bridgy. It was time to go.