Read to Death (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-eight

“That sounds like a fine trip.” Ophie patted her sister's hand. “Such a colorful place. Y'all will love it. And the shops. I can tell y'all the shops are charming. Some of them are the closest thing to my Treasure Trove to be found anywhere in Lee County. But I can't join in. I'm having company tonight.”

Emelia actually looked disappointed for a split second. “No problem. Now that we've got our little wrinkle ironed out, as Grandma would say, we'll have plenty of time to play.” Then she flabbergasted us by asking, “Isn't that right, y'all?”

Ophie laughed first, and we all joined in.

Bridgy and I finished tidying the café and loaded the dishwasher. Bridgy hung a sign she'd made months ago out of a chunk of driftwood—“Dirty—please press
start”—so that when Miguel came in the next morning, he would start the washer first thing.

As Bridgy stepped away from the dishwasher, she mused, “I wonder what Miguel will think when he finds out his ice cream trick instantly dissolved a battle between Mom and Ophie that has been going on for my entire life.”

“Seriously? Why wouldn't it work? He uses it on us all the time.”

We went to round up Sage and Emelia, who were browsing through the bookshelves.

Emelia was looking at the Mystery section. “Sassy, do you have any of those books . . . ? I've been watching the show on public television . . .
Vera
?”

“You mean the Vera Stanhope books by Ann Cleeves? I just sold our last copy of
Harbour Street
yesterday. I have more on order. I do have one of Cleeves's Shetland books,
Thin Air
, in stock. Jimmy Perez is the detective in those. That is an excellent series as well. Why don't you try it for now? I'll set a copy of
Harbour Street
aside for you when it comes in.”

“Done. Now let's get to the fantastic and colorful shops Ophie told us about.”

I had to smile at Emelia's sudden enthusiasm for all things Ophie. Bridgy was positively beaming. A major stress had dropped from her shoulders. Now if we could find out who killed Oscar, life would go back to normal.

Rather than take two cars, we decided to take the Heap-a-Jeep. It might be crowded, but I could open the top, and the gorgeous weather would more than make up for bent knees. We crossed the San Carlos Bridge and, soon after, the Cape Coral Bridge. Within a couple of
miles we were on a longish ride on Pine Island Road, crossing over wetlands and water. Sage and Emelia were enchanted by the countryside. When we got to the tiny island community of Matlacha, it was jam-packed with sightseers and art aficionados. Beach shacks, long ago painted bright colors and turned into shops, art studios and restaurants, lined both sides of the street. The crowds milling back and forth across the street often stopped traffic entirely. It didn't take long to figure out there wasn't a parking spot to be had. It was one of those problems that presented an opportunity.

“What a mob scene,” Sage observed. “I see lots of happy aurae, though.” Only Sage would hark back to the Latin root instead of using “auras” like everyone else.

Emelia chimed in, “If it isn't convenient . . .”

Bridgy was almost pleading, afraid she wouldn't be able to add fuel to her mother's festive mood. “Any chance of finding a spot?”

“No problem. I have an idea. Bridgy and I have been talking about checking out a new supplier on Pine Island, just down the road another mile or two.” I gave Bridgy a look so she'd know not to ask what I was talking about. “Why don't we let you two out? You can shop and explore while we take care of business. We'll come back and meet you.”

Sage was always up for a spontaneous moment, but Emelia was hesitant. “Where will we meet? We could get lost. It is so crowded here.”

Then I spotted an excellent distraction. “We'll pick you up in front of the post office.”

Heads swerved. Sage and Emelia were searching every storefront while Bridgy gave me an evil grin.

“I don't see . . .”

Bridgy jumped in. I guess she didn't think I should have all the fun. “Look across the street. See that building with the huge orange fish with the big green eye painted along the side wall? American flag? Mailbox out front? Do you see the emblem on the wall above the fish's head? Voilà, post office.”

Instant delight. “It has island art all over the front, too. Sage, let's go see if they sell postcards. I'd love to mail some from that quirky little building.”

And the moms were pushing the seat backs out of the way so they could get out of the jeep. No one worried about crushing me or Bridgy.

“Careful crossing. We'll pick you up in an hour,” I shouted after them, but they were busy locking arms and laughing while they dodged cars. Their only response was a backhanded wave from Sage. I got the feeling they were no longer concerned about getting lost. Island time and island spirit had grabbed them.

I eased the Heap-a-Jeep into the never-ending line of cars heading for Pine Island.

As soon as we were moving, Bridgy asked, “So what's really going on?”

“Oscar has a boat in a repair dock on Pine Island. I checked online, and there are only a few places it can be. Wouldn't it be cool to take a look?”

“Wouldn't it be cooler still to tell Frank or Ryan?” wasn't the reaction I expected from Bridgy, but it was the reaction I got. “And how will we know the boat when we see it?”

“Skully said it's a cabin cruiser named
Jersey Girl.
Come on, we've got some extra time. Can't we spend it
looking for the boat? Maybe there is something that could help identify the killer.”

“Oh sure. So once we find the boat, you want to search the boat. Breaking and entering? Great idea. The killer probably left a selfie on Oscar's spare cell phone. Please. We already witnessed one miracle today. Mom and Ophie made peace. Let's not push our luck.”

“Don't be such a drama queen. We're not breaking into the boat. We're just looking. Maybe we want to buy it from Oscar's heirs. Stop worrying.”

“It's hard to stop worrying when I'm interrogated and re-interrogated every day.” Bridgy tossed her blond curls and stared out the window.

I crossed onto Little Pine Island, and the lush scenery kept us both occupied for a while.

I decided to offer a compromise. “I have the names of four repair docks. How about we look at two of them, and if we don't see the
Jersey Girl
, we go back to get the moms.”

Silence. Then Bridgy let out an exaggerated sigh. “Okay. But I'm not getting out of the car. You are on your own, and if you get arrested, I'm going back to Matlacha without you.”

There she was—the drama queen again. There were moments that it was so obvious that Bridgy and Ophie were related. This was one of them. Still, we were so physically close to the repair docks that it would have been a shame to turn around. So, I thought,
Let her sit in the car if that's what she wants to do. Didn't she realize I was doing this to clear her name?

I turned left on Stringfellow Road, which was the north/south spine of Pine Island, and in no time at all I saw a
directional sign identifying Rudy's Repair Dock. I made a right turn and followed an endlessly winding road that suddenly opened up into a parking lot. There were only a few dozen boat slips, and more than half were empty. I'd know in a minute if Oscar's boat was here.

I squinted around a really wide dwarf palm in order to check out the front of the massive repair shed, blue paint flecked with chips of rusty metal. The doors were closed and belted with chains. If the
Jersey Girl
was inside, I was plain out of luck. But at least I could snoop without getting caught by a boat mechanic. I ran up and down each dock, checking all the occupied slips. No
Jersey Girl
to be seen.

I ran back to the parking lot, and when I opened the driver's side door, Bridgy handed me a bottle of water. I guess she'd been watching me run around. “Thanks. The next place is a little farther south.”

I backtracked on the winding road and turned south on Stringfellow Road. Bridgy's phone dinged a text message, and she took a peek. I made another right, heading toward a row of boat sheds each with “BOAT REPAIRS” and a phone number stenciled in letters and numbers about four feet high on each shed.

“Mom sent a text. They're having fun and we needn't hurry back.” Bridgy slipped her phone back in her purse. “That doesn't mean we can search every repair dock on Pine Island. We agreed on two. This is the second.”

Honestly, sometimes she acts like I can't count. This parking lot was three times the size of the lot at Rudy's. Ten or so cars were parked near the water by the boat sheds, and I followed suit. I told Bridgy I would be right
back and walked with more certainty than I felt toward the nearest dock line of slips. It was long and stretched far out into the Gulf, but it didn't take much time for me to realize that
Jersey Girl
wasn't among these boats, which ranged from several two-seater motorboats to one so big that it could easily be considered a yacht.

I made my way to the second row of slips, and a blue flat-bottom boat caught my eye. It wasn't the boat I was looking for, but I stopped for a minute, envisioning lazy days cruising Estero Bay on the flat boat instead of in a kayak. I shook the thought from my head. No time for fantasies.

Two slips down on the left-hand side. There she was. A cabin cruiser about thirty feet long with “
JERSEY GIRL
”
stenciled in curlicue letters on the bow.

I looked around the boatyard. Except for Bridgy waiting in the Heap-a-Jeep, I didn't see a soul. I crept over to the
Jersey Girl
and looked around again. Still nobody. The boat was moored securely to the dock, so I grabbed on to the boat rails and hoisted myself aboard. I opened the cabin doors and bent down to peek inside. A few weathered copies of
Salt Water Sportsman
magazine were wedged to prop open the door of the galley refrigerator. Coffee mugs and some papers that looked like bills and handwritten notes littered the countertop. And there were three or four large plastic storage bins that looked to be stuffed. My foot hadn't even touched the first step when I heard a growly voice. “What do you think you're doing?”

I turned around slowly to face my accuser, who turned out to be a twentysomething security guard, clipboard in hand, who'd obviously deepened his voice to startle me.

Now that he had my attention, he fell back to his normal tone. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

A bit of fibbing was probably my best option. “This is my uncle's boat. He passed suddenly, and my aunt can't find his Marine Corps ring. She knows he wanted to be buried wearing it.”

“Uncle's name?”

“Oscar. Oscar Frieland.” I looked as solemn as I could.

He tapped a ballpoint pen on his clipboard. “Yeah, I got it. Now what's this about a ring?”

“Uncle Oscar always took his ring off when he was cleaning fish or scrubbing the boat. Now it's missing. My aunt sent me here to see if I could find it and bring it over to the ‘Rest in Beech.'”

“Where?” The guard scratched his cheek with the pen.

“Oh, that's the nickname of the Michael J. Beech Funeral Home over in Fort Myers Beach.”

He relaxed. “Sorry, I didn't know you were an island girl. You'd be amazed at the tourists who show up here and begin wandering on and off the boats, taking selfies and Vine loop videos, shouting, ‘Great vacation,' to friends and family. It's like theft of imagery or something.”

I was relieved to know the crime he was policing. “Well, that's not me.” I gestured to the cabin below. “If I can just look for the ring. I'll be out of your way in a . . .”

He tapped the clipboard again. “Sorry. You're not on the approved list for this boat. You have to get off and stay off.”

Bridgy was much better at faking her way through these kinds of situations than I was, but I tried my best. I squeezed my eyes shut and stuck my lower lip out as far as I could and wiggled it as if I was going to sob.

He melted. “Stay here. I'll look.”

There was nothing I could do but listen to him open and shut cabinets and drawers belowdecks. It wasn't hard for me to project disappointment when he couldn't find the ring. I was disappointed—disappointed that I hadn't had a chance to rummage among Oscar's papers in the hope of finding a clue to his killer.

Chapter Twenty-nine

I told Bridgy about my run-in with the security guard, and it totally brightened her mood. When she wasn't snickering, “Uncle Oscar's Marine Corps ring,” she was laughing out loud. Pleased as I was to see her happy, it was tedious to have her make fun of me all the way back to Matlacha.

We pulled off Pine Island Road into the parking lot next to the Matlacha Post Office. Emelia and Sage had their arms loaded with packages. Sage carried a new tote bag, which sported a colorful picture of the Earth as it looks from outer space.

Like children exhausted after a day at Disney World, they tossed their packages into the jeep and tumbled in after them, both laughing and talking at once. They weren't even settled in their seats when they began demanding that we schedule another trip to Matlacha.

“There is so much to see and do here. It would take days
to spend enough time meandering through every shop. Oh, and I'd like to come back for a lesson at the art studio. I'd love to paint a big orange fish like the one on the side of the post office.”

I had no idea Emelia was interested in becoming an artist.

More laughter from the moms.

Sage chimed in, “I'd like to paint a mermaid, surrounded by seashells. Speaking of shells, could we stop in Times Square? I looked at some shells here, but I remember a few I saw for sale in the shop there. I'd like to compare while they are still fresh in my mind.”

I was ready to call it a day, but Bridgy was all for heading to Times Square. “My muscles could use a stretch. While you two ‘shop 'til you drop,' Sassy and I can walk on the beach. It's always so soothing.”

The main plaza of Times Square was extra crowded. A group of teens with matching tee shirts that read “SAVE THE DOLPHINS” came off the pier and tried to scatter in all four directions, but their chaperones herded them into an untidy group and moved them toward the ice cream and candy store.

A busker, wearing pirate garb complete with a patch over one eye, was singing sea shanties next to the tall four-sided clock. We listened to him sing for a while. The moms were especially happy to clap along to “Blow the Man Down,” and I wasn't surprised that Sage knew most of the words to “Fiddler's Green,” an old Irish song describing a fisherman's view of heaven; a song I remember my grandfather singing.

The moms went off to do more shopping while Bridgy and I headed under the pier. We took off our sandals and buckled them around the belt loops on our shorts.

“Wriggling your toes in the sand never gets old, does it?” Bridgy pushed her sunglasses on top of her head and looked over the Gulf of Mexico lapping at the shore straight out to the horizon. “Look at that sky.” She pointed to the horizon. “Seems to be getting ready for another dazzling sunset. I'm going to walk the water's edge.”

“Enjoy. I'll meditate for a while.” I sat in the sand and twisted and turned until I found a comfortable spot. I watched Bridgy walk to the shoreline. She stopped and bent down here and there to look at an interesting seashell.

I stared at the horizon. Streaks of white clouds in a light blue sky rested on the straight edge of the dark blue water of the Gulf. A few boats sped across the scene, no more than tiny images that didn't add so much as a ripple to the water lapping gracefully on the shore.

A thousand thoughts crowded around me. Oscar's murder. Bridgy as a prime suspect, no matter how much the deputies denied it. The stress between Ophie and Emelia. Then watching the tension between them evaporate over a bowl of ice cream. I swatted each and every thought away, intent on the horizon. The word “peace” rolled across my mind, and then, as happens so often, there was nothing but the horizon. I closed my eyes and focused on relaxing each body part, starting with my toes, then my ankles, my calves and so on. In a while, my body and mind felt refreshed.

Gradually, I opened my eyes. The sun was slightly lower on the horizon. I heard voices calling my name. I turned, and the moms were leaning over the railing of the pier, waving.

“Yoo-hoo. Wait until you see what we bought.”

“Come on up. Let's watch the sunset. Where's Bridgy?”

Through the openings in the pier's wooden side slats, I could see large shopping bags resting at the moms' feet. They were certainly doing their part to support the economy of our little town.

I pointed down the beach to Bridgy, who was doing stretching exercises. The moms called louder, and Bridgy turned and began walking back. When she reached me, I said, “It's great to see them having so much fun.”

Bridgy laughed. “It's hard to believe they are here to support me if I got arrested for murder. They seem to have forgotten all about Oscar.” Her blue eyes darkened. “But I haven't forgotten.”

“Don't worry, sweetie, neither have I. Now let's go show the moms how fabulous the sunset is from the far end of the pier. It will be a colorful end to a fabulous evening.”

*   *   *

The moms insisted on coming to the café with us the next morning. Bridgy and I were dreading the interruptions and confusion, but having them around was surprisingly easy. They took turns walking among the tables, offering refills of coffee and tea. At one point Emelia introduced herself to two regulars sitting at Robert Frost, and when they asked if she was related to Ophie, Emelia stood up straight and answered with gusto, “I sure am. She's my favorite sister. Of course, she's my only sister.” And she laughed, delighted that she could finally joke about her sister.

I had a moment of panic when I went into the kitchen and found Sage hovering around Miguel's workstation. Then I realized Miguel was laughing and chatting while he rolled dough for piecrusts. Sage was looking through
the photo album Miguel kept on a shelf in the office. The album was filled with dozens of pictures of Bow, his black Maine Coon, who, true to her name, wore a different-colored neck bow every day.

“She is adorable. Her personality shines right through. It's like she's standing in front of us.”

“
Sí,
she is quite a character. I have some newer pictures on my phone. I will show them to you when we have time.” Miguel looked at me. “Sassy, your mother has offered to bake some healthy treats for my sweet Bow. Isn't that so generous?” I lavished praise on Sage as I began hurrying her out of the kitchen. “Time to go. Today is your visit to the herb garden, remember?”

I invited Emelia but she said she would rather stay and help Bridgy. Fine with me as long as I was able to get Sage out of Miguel's kitchen.

When I pulled the Heap-a-Jeep into the church parking lot, Tom Smallwood and Pastor John were repositioning a high-backed bench.

Sage was enthralled. “What are those lovely fan-shaped bushes?”

Sage might be in her earth phase, but I was the one who could name a saw palmetto. When she heard the name, Sage turned gleeful. “An excellent source of support for men's health.”

“Shush. This isn't the herb garden. This is the church lawn. You can talk herbs with Hector when you meet him. Don't bother Pastor John with your . . . your voodoo.”

As soon as the word was out of my mouth, I knew I was in trouble.

“Mary Sassafras Cabot. Voodoo represents spiritual folkways. Herbs are tangible. They grow in the earth and
sustain other life-forms. I'm shocked you don't know the difference.”

I was saved from answering by Pastor John, who walked across the grass to meet us. I introduced him to my mother, and he was kind enough to tell her what a joy it was to know Bridgy and me. He talked about how we added pleasure and enjoyment to the community with what he called our “story-themed” café. “I only wish my wife, Jocelyn, was here to meet you. She always says that Sassy's book clubs are a wonderful source of what Jocelyn likes to call ‘cerebral exercise.'”

I was thanking my lucky stars that Jocelyn was nowhere to be seen. I was sure she'd have a much different speech to make about the book clubs now that she was on her language tear.

“Little Miss, is this your mama?”

I reached out an arm to the weathered man in overalls. “Sage, this is my friend Tom Smallwood.”

He stuck out a hand. “Honored to meet you, ma'am. Please, call me Skully. Just about everyone around these parts does.”

Sage warmed to Skully instantly. “Your aura is amazing. Greens, blues and yellows all swirling around one another. You're self-sufficient but rely on nature. It looks like . . . perhaps the sea?”

If I could have dropped right through a hole in the ground and been covered with daisies, that would have been fine with me. I never knew when Sage would recite one of her aura interpretations, but surely even she should know that the church lawn was not the best place to go into her psychic energy routine.

I was totally surprised when Pastor John laughed and
slapped Skully on the back. “She certainly has your number.” He turned to Sage. “Self-sufficient doesn't even begin to describe Tom. He's an indispensable part of the barrier island community. He can fix anything whether need be for himself or for others. Without his help, my church would be tumbling down. As to the sea, he travels by canoe from island to island.”

Sage looked exceptionally pleased with herself while I breathed a sigh of relief that we had avoided calamity. I moved the conversation along.

“We better get going. I need to be back at the café before the lunch crowd.” I hustled Sage and Skully into the Heap-a-Jeep.

Sage pulled out her finest manners. “I can't thank you enough for arranging for me to visit a real herb farm. Florida weather has such a grand ability to grow so many crops.”

“My pal Hector's been planting and experimenting 'round these parts since he was a lad. He'll be happy to have a visitor who takes an interest in his work. Sage, Hector will want to know how you got that name.”

I nearly drove off the road when Sage answered, “And I'd like to know why you told me to call you Skully. Is it Skully or is it Tom?”

I hadn't heard it often, but I recognized his good-natured laugh. There was nothing artificial about Tom Smallwood. “Baptized Thomas, mostly called Tom until a few years back I found a human skull over on Mound Island. Looked to be ancient. I carried it in my duffel for a few months while I decided what to do about it. Talked to Sassy's friend Ryan. You know, the deputy? Anyway, he said there was a rightful place for it, and some professor agreed. Now it
sits in a museum up at the state capital, and there is a little sign saying I discovered it. Since then most folks call me Skully, and I'm right proud of the name.”

By the time I dropped them off, Sage and Skully were chatting and laughing like old friends, and I could see a fun afternoon ahead.

I waved good-bye. “Call me when you're ready to be picked up.”

When I pulled into the parking lot, a couple of people were standing by the bench outside the Read 'Em and Eat. That usually meant there were no tables available inside. Of course Emelia was there to help Bridgy, but how much help could she really be?

I raced toward the café with the words, “Thank you for waiting, I'm sure we'll have a table for you soon,” on the tip of my tongue. As I got closer, I recognized Maggie Latimer talking to a man who looked vaguely familiar.

When she saw me, Maggie hurried forward and grabbed me by both arms. “They found Tammy Rushing. She's under arrest somewhere up north.”