Read to Death (7 page)

Chapter Twelve

The bridge was jam-packed with cars heading on and off the island. Traffic was at a crawl. I was glad we were going to San Carlos Island rather than continuing on to the mainland. I was nearing the turnoff when Bridgy distracted me.

“What are we going to ask him?”

“Ask who? Oh, you mean Captain Jackson?” I maneuvered the Heap-a-Jeep smartly to the right, and in a few seconds we were out of the traffic jam and on San Carlos Island.

“Well, I guess we'll ask him why he fired Oscar, and when he mentions the fight, we'll ask about the other person in the fight.”

“Sassy, you make it sound so easy. Two complete strangers walk up to a man and ask why he fired someone who was found murdered yesterday. Why would he talk to us? I mean, seriously, would you?”

I was searching for a parking spot near the marina, so I was half ignoring Bridgy's chatter until I heard her screech. “Stop. There it is.”

She was pointing to a huge boat with “FISH___AN'S DREAM” stenciled across the stern in letters about three feet high. The “E,” the “R,” and the “M” in “FISHERMAN'S” were missing because the gangplank was lowered. Good news for us. The ship was in dock, and there was someone aboard.

I parked rather crookedly in the first available space and jumped out of the jeep. Bridgy hesitated.

“What?”

“I told you. I don't think this is a good idea. If you insist, I'll go along, but this is
your
plan, so if it comes to naught . . .”

I got it. My plan. Any problem would be my fault.

“Look, we're here now . . .”

Bridgy got out of the jeep and led the way to the gangplank, but I knew once we got there the next move would be on me. And that is exactly where I was stymied. I had no next move planned.

We stood on the dock looking up at the enormous white ship. It was several stories high, wider than our entire apartment and longer than most mini malls.

“Well?” Bridgy was losing patience.

“I'm short on decorum. It's not like there's a doorbell. Should we just barge in? We could stand here shouting ‘Permission to come aboard' from now until doomsday, but unless someone is standing right at the edge of the stern, I can't believe anyone up there”—I waved toward the upper decks—“will hear us.”

We heard some banging and clanging just above our
heads, and a man whose face was largely obscured by a pair of oversized round sunglasses and a faded denim bucket hat started down the gangplank. His tank top screamed “FISHERMAN'S DREAM” in big letters. He was carrying at least a dozen fishing rods along with a few tackle boxes, which knocked against the stern as he cleared the boat and headed down the gangplank.

Standing where we were, we definitely blocked his way. Bridgy took a few steps, but I figured this might be the best way to start a conversation.

“Ladies, you wanna move, please?” And he swung the fishing rods to his right since we were on his left.

“Oh, sorry, I didn't realize we were in your way. We're looking for Captain Jackson. Is he on board?”

He heaved an exaggerated sigh. Once he hit dockside, he dropped the tackle boxes and spread the rods on the gangplank. He pulled a radio out of his pocket.

“Lorgan to bridge. Lorgan to bridge. Over.”

“Bridge here. Over.”

“Hey, Scotty, is the captain around? He has some visitors.” Lorgan glanced up at the wide glass windows of the uppermost deck, and I did the same. I thought I saw a face take a brief glance and then disappear. The radio crackled.

“Captain's busy. Tell them if they want to book a trip to go to the website or give the office a call.”

Lorgan started to put the radio back in his pocket. “You heard the man.”

We sure did. I decided to give it one last try. “Actually, we need to speak to the captain on a personal matter of grave importance.”

“Captain doesn't do ‘personal matters' on the boat.”
And Lorgan moved to the middle of the gangplank, crossed his arms and stood stock-still.

Mission failure.

I mustered what dignity I could, thanked him for his time and started to walk back to the car. I give Bridgy credit; she waited until we were out of Lorgan's earshot before she said, “Well, that certainly went well.”

I chose not to answer.

We got in the jeep, and I turned on the engine and the radio simultaneously. I gave a quick twist to the knob so the radio was louder than normal. Unfortunately, instead of a nice, happy song, the radio was broadcasting an unending commercial about the wonders of knee-replacement surgery.

Bridgy leaned in and pushed another button on the console. I was afraid she'd turn the radio off and as soon as the silence became deafening she would fill it with a lot of chatter beginning with “I told you so,” but instead she found Miranda Lambert singing “Crazy Ex-Girlfriend.”

We listened until Miranda morphed into a commercial for a shoe sale at Bealls.

Bridgy always loved that song. “She wrote it, she sang it, got married and then was gracious throughout her divorce. I guess Miranda channels her negative energy through her music. When my bonehead ex-husband blew up our marriage, only you and my mother kept me from beating him with a bat.”

I was happy Bridgy had dismissed the fiasco of my trying to speak to Captain Jackson, but I didn't think focusing on a cheating ex was a healthy place for her to be right now.

She went on. “With Oscar being . . . dead, I have to hope that you and my mother can keep me out of jail.”

That topic was even worse. I needed to switch gears fast. Fortunately, the radio moved from commercials to Lady Antebellum singing “American Honey.” We sang along.

“Childhood summers were the best, weren't they?”

I wasn't quite sure if Bridgy was asking me or musing aloud, but I answered with an agreeable “uh-hm” in case she wanted to talk.

“I'm glad my mother is coming. Sometimes a girl needs her mom. I think being a murder suspect is one of those times.”

“Stop it now. You are not a suspect. You're a very special witness.”

“Oh sure. Just like on
NCIS
when Tony introduces himself as ‘Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo.'” Bridgy snorted at me.

I ignored the snort. “Listen, anytime is a great time to have your mom around. It will be like a mini vacation.”

“I can see it now. Mom, me and Frank Anthony. We'll have loads of fun. At least with Mom around I don't need a lawyer. If she decides the lieutenant is being mean to me, she'll harangue him into complete silence. Remember the time those boys took our schoolbags and threw them up on Old Lady Kramden's fire escape and we were afraid to knock on her door and ask for them back? The moms not only got back our schoolbags, they went to see the fathers of each and every one of those boys. Say, why isn't your mom coming?”

I bit my tongue, deciding not to mention that I wasn't
the one in trouble with the sheriff's office. “Dunno. How did you find out your mom was coming?”

“You know Ophie made me call home yesterday. I didn't want to worry Mom, so I made light of the whole situation.”

I wondered how she was able to diminish the severity of discovering the dead body of a murdered man, but I didn't ask.

“This morning when I came out of the sheriff's office and turned on my phone, I found an email she sent me with her flight confirmation. I never expected her to come down here, but I'm so happy she decided she would.”

I was nearing the turnoff from the bridge onto Estero Boulevard and realized I didn't know if we were going back to the café or heading home. “Right or left?”

“Huh? Oh, I don't need anything from the café. I finished the cleanup and shut down before you came back, and we definitely locked the doors, so take the right. Home it is.”

We half listened to the radio asking everyone in earshot to attend a fund-raiser for one of the local nature sanctuaries.

Bridgy snapped to attention. “That sounds like fun. I am going to need a lot of activities to keep Mom occupied.”

“Can't Ophie . . . ?”

“Didn't you hear a word I said? They can't be left alone. They need a mediator at all times. Do you have any book clubs coming up that Mom might enjoy?”

“I might. Remember when the moms took that French cooking class at Brooklyn Community College? The Potluck Book Club is reading Julia Child.”

Bridgy clapped her hands. “That sounds perfect. Which book?”

“Well, we had a bit of a problem deciding that. Maggie Latimer suggested
Julie and Julia: My Year of Cooking Dangerously.
You know the one. It was written by Julie Powell who decided to cook her way through Julia Child's
Mastering the Art of French Cooking
.”

“I remember the movie, although we never did see it. I bet we could find it on Netflix. Meryl Streep and Amy Adams, wasn't it? Anyway, I know Mom would love to read it for the book club. She'd love the chance to talk about French cooking with the ladies.”

I turned the radio volume to barely there and said, “Well, it is a bit complicated. You see, Jocelyn . . .”

Bridgy laughed and flapped her hands like a toddler. “Say no more. If Jocelyn is involved, it's complicated.”

I turned the car into the parking lot of the Beausoleil Apartments and remained silent.

Bridgy nudged my arm.

“Hey, don't poke. I'm parking the car.”

“Tell me about the complications at the book club.”

“You said, ‘Say no more.'”

“A figure of speech.”

I turned off the engine and said, “Okay, let's get up to the Turret, and for a cold glass of just about anything, I'll tell you the whole dreary story.”

A few minutes later we were relaxing on the patio stretched out on side-by-side chaise lounges. Glasses of lemonade and a plate of sugar cookies sat on the round table at our elbows.

“Look at that view.” Bridgy sighed contentedly. “It never gets old.”

She was right. By a stroke of good fortune we rented an apartment on the fifth floor of the Beausoleil. Our patio
and most of our windows overlooked the Gulf of Mexico, the beach and the barrier islands stretching up the coast of Florida. Sanibel, home to the Ding Darling National Wildlife Refuge, is a haven for birders and folks who collect shells. Pine Island is a fishing mecca. North Captiva, Cabbage Key, Cayo Costa and other lush islands continued northward. We were forever enthralled by the view.

Bridgy snatched a cookie and took a bite before she asked me about the Potluck Book Club.

“It was no big deal. Just the usual fuss. After Maggie suggested
Julie and Julia,
everyone agreed except Jocelyn.”

“No surprise there.”

“True. She said that if we were going to read
about
Julia Child, we should read something written
by
Julia Child. Jocelyn suggested
My Life in France.
”

“So which book did the club pick?”

“The argument got heated, and Jocelyn dug in her heels wide and deep. Finally, I recommended that the club members could read whichever book appealed to them, and we would talk about Julia Child, her cooking and her influence on Julie Powell. That satisfied most of the clubbies.”

“Satisfied all but Jocelyn. She isn't happy unless she's triumphant.”

“Well, she may still wind up triumphant. There is some really strong language in
Julie and Julia.
Who knew? I don't censor the books. I read along with the clubs. I think the vocabulary will be a major topic of discussion.”

“Have you heard complaints?”

“Not yet, but I expect the meeting will be a raucous one.”

Bridgy chuckled. “Won't be the first time.”

A fishing boat pulled into a dock on Pine Island. We
watched a flock of seagulls flying in ever-narrowing circles waiting for the crew to toss the leftover bait into the Gulf. Two deckhands emptied a half dozen or so buckets over the side of the boat, and the seagulls dived and lunged, squawking at one another to get out of the way.

“That's it. We have to get someone on that boat.”

“That boat?” Bridgy pointed at Pine Island.

“No, silly. The
Fisherman's Dream
.” I pulled my cell phone from my pocket. “I'll call Cady. I'm sure I can get him to go on tomorrow's fishing trip. He loves to fish.”

Chapter Thirteen

Cady answered on the second ring. He instantly reminded me why I liked him so much when he opened with, “How's Bridgy?”

“She's right here beside me on our patio. We're watching a flock of seagulls devour the leavings of a fishing boat docked on Pine Island. For the moment, all is serene.”

“Let's hope it stays that way. Any news about Oscar?”

Just the opening I needed. “Actually, I have a lead that could give you the scoop of the century.”

His normally sweet tone of voice turned stern. “Sassy, what have you been up to? Please stay out of trouble.”

I put on my brightest smile, hoping he would hear innocence in my voice. “I haven't been up to anything. Unless you consider making a condolence call with a box of pastries being ‘up to something.'”

“Condolence call? Where? The paper hasn't been able to find any local relatives.”

Good. His nose for news was on the scent.

“I hired the van, you know, and Oscar along with it. I don't want his friends and colleagues to be afraid to work with us in the future, so I brought some treats for their break room. Let them know we share their sorrow.”

Cady's voice relaxed. “I'm sure everyone appreciated your thoughtfulness.”

He was hooked, so I continued on the thread of helpfulness. “I had no idea such lovely people worked at Gulf Coast Cab and Van. Darla, the receptionist, couldn't be sweeter. And did you know Blondie Quinlin's nephew works there? His name is Mugsy. He's a dispatcher.”

I may have laid it on a little too thick. Still, I could feel Cady's curiosity right through the phone. “Really? And you managed to meet him? I suppose with an introduction from his aunt. What did Mugsy have to say?”

That last question was tinged with sarcasm, but I stayed nonchalant. “He was shocked that Oscar was murdered and upset that his aunt—”

“Sassy,” Cady interrupted. “Cut to the chase.”

Hopefully I roused his interest enough to get him to do what I wanted. “Mugsy happened to mention that Oscar used to be a fill-in deckhand on a fishing boat but lost that job when he got into a fistfight with another crew member.” I skipped a beat. “No telling where a fight could lead.”

“And did Mugsy happen to mention which of the hundreds of fishing boats on this part of the Gulf—”

My turn to interrupt. “No, but Tony said it was the
Fisherman's Dream
out of San Carlos Island.”

“Tony? Boat basin Tony? Was he making a condolence call, too?” More sarcasm.

“No, but Bridgy and I ran into him after the condolence call.”

“Sassy, even through the phone I can see your nose growing like Pinocchio's. You've been snooping.”

“Okay. Just listen for a minute.” I needed his cooperation, so I was willing to plead guilty to assorted crimes. I kept it simple. “When Mugsy told me about the fight that Oscar may have had, he didn't know the name of the boat, so Bridgy and I went to ask Tony, because he knows everything about boats. He sent us to the
Fisherman's Dream
.”

“He sent you? You mean he put you in a cab and paid the driver twenty dollars to take you to San Carlos Island so you could snoop around a fishing boat?”

In need of his help or not, I was losing patience. “Skepticism doesn't become you. You know exactly what I mean. Tony told us where Oscar crewed part-time. He, too, had heard about the fight but didn't have details. He said Captain Jackson could tell us, so off we went.” Then I played my trump card. “Bridgy's future could be at stake.”

Cady was silent for a minute. “I'm sorry. I know you're concerned. It's just that I worry when you wander off on these investigations of yours. No telling what could happen.”

Time to snap the trap. “I know I'm impulsive, and I hate that everyone worries about me, which is why I called you. How would you like to go fishing on a charter with me tomorrow? My treat.”

He was silent for so long that I was afraid my smartphone had turned stupid and lost the connection. Then I heard a long, exaggerated sigh. “Well, I suppose I'd better
go along. Keep you out of trouble. And I'd feel better if we went dutch. What time should I pick you up? And where?”

“Time?” I had no idea. “Let me think, but we can definitely meet at the café.”

I'd noticed that Bridgy was fiddling with her iPhone while I was talking to Cady. I thought she was texting, probably with her mom. Then she held her phone screen in front of my face to show me that she'd searched and found the advertising page for the
Fisherman's Dream
. I finger scrolled until I found tomorrow's date. All the information I needed was right in front of me. I blew Bridgy a kiss and turned my attention back to Cady.

“The
Fisherman's Dream
departs at nine sharp tomorrow morning for a half-day run. Seems kind of late to start a fishing trip. I remember having to wake up when it was still dark the day you took Bridgy, Ophie and me out on your boat.”

Cady set me straight immediately. “When it comes to the charter boats, those going out for a full day leave early. Half days leave later. That prevents traffic jams in the harbor, since those boats have to follow a schedule. Small fry like me can come and go pretty much as we please.”

“So it
pleased
you to make us get up early. You
could have
let us sleep in and started fishing later in the day.”

“Really, Sassy? That was months ago. Did it ever occur to you I might have had a reason, like the weather or a report that the grunts or groupers were running early? As I recall, all three of you caught fish.”

Bridgy could see a fight was brewing, so she started giving me the “wrap it up” signal, rolling both her hands frantically, first forward, then backward.

I held up a hand, palm out, in the universal sign for “just a minute.”

“You're right. I'm sorry.” I hoped I sounded contrite. “What time did you want me to be ready tomorrow?” I added a sweetener. “And what would you like for breakfast?”

I was elated by the time we hung up. Captain Antoine Jackson would be trapped in his boat with me for hours. No way I wouldn't get the information I wanted.

Then Bridgy burst my bubble. “So, what happens when Cady shows up tomorrow morning and you don't have tickets?”

I grabbed her phone and headed for my laptop. In less than five minutes Cady and I were fully registered for the next day's excursion on the
Fisherman's Dream
.

*   *   *

Bridgy parked her snappy red Escort ZX2 on the opposite side of the parking lot from the café. I didn't question her motives. I suspected we'd both be hard pressed to park anywhere near the scene of the crime for some time to come.

I picked up the pile of today's
Fort Myers Beach News
that was always waiting at our front door. I put the papers on the counter by the register and slipped off the string that held them together. Our current bill was right on top. I headed through the kitchen to the office to put it in our bill folder before I lost it entirely.

Miguel had things humming in his usual orderly fashion. Something smelled fabulous. I reached for the oven door to investigate.

“Don't open the oven. You'll ruin my pies.”

I gave him a big grin. “Are we going to have something for the specials board today?”

“You remember my friend Benny? He's the sous chef at one of those elegant restaurants on Sanibel, and he got a bunch of us together for a great deal on pecans from a farmer up around Gainesville.” He pointed to a rumpled paper tacked to the bulletin board. “There's the bill for our order. Great price for pecans fresh from the farm.”

I inhaled deeply. “Pecan pie? Delish! Miguel, you are a marvel.” I continued on through to our tiny office. Behind me Miguel said, “You forgot the bill.”

I circled back to the bulletin board and pulled the pecan bill off without removing the pushpin. Naturally, the rumpled paper ripped in the process. I taped the torn piece and put it and the newspaper bill into the folder that held a few other things I knew I had to pay soon.

I could hear Bridgy telling Miguel that Cady was coming by to take me fishing.

“Ay, a date so early in the morning. What will they do for the rest of the day, I wonder?”

I could almost see him raise an eyebrow in expectation. I stepped back in the room.

“Not exactly a date. We're going out on a charter boat hoping to find the deckhand that got into a tussle with Oscar. We'll be back as soon as the boat docks.”

I didn't have to look at Miguel to see him roll his eyes.

“You better be back. The Teen Book Club is scheduled for this afternoon. I can't stay for even a minute. I have to shop. My mother will be here tomorrow.” Bridgy practically sang the last part.

I knew to grovel. “Don't worry. I so appreciate you
holding the fort down by yourself this morning, I wouldn't dare be late.”

“No problem. You're doing this for me. Anyway, I sent Ophie a text, and she'll pop in to help between her Treasure Trove appointments. We'll manage, won't we, Miguel?”

“
Sí
.” He gave me the same stern look that I usually got from Cady. “But don't think I approve of your antics. I am only free from worry because I know Cady will take care of you.”

I was saved from replying by the ship's bell attached to the side of our door frame. It clanged. Twice. The morning rush was about to begin.

I did as much as I could, all the while keeping an eye out for Cady. As soon as he pulled into the parking lot, I took off my apron and spent a moment telling Bridgy what the folks at my tables would need. By the time Cady came through the door, I had two large coffees and two Miss Marple Orange Iced Scones ready to go. I turned him right around, and we headed for San Carlos Island.

We were in the marina parking lot well before eight thirty, so I was surprised to see dozens of men, women and children wearing the latest fishing gear and carrying rods and tackle boxes milling around the main deck of the
Fisherman's Dream
looking for their perfect spot to cast off as soon as we were out in the Gulf.

Cady popped his trunk, reached in and tossed me a fisherman's vest festooned with hooks and lures. “Here. Put this on. You may as well look the part.”

Chagrined, I put on the vest. I suppose I wouldn't do well as a spy. I thought to bring sunscreen and a visor, but fishing gear never entered my head. Cady put on his own vest and a khaki bucket hat to match. He carried
three fishing rods and a beat-up metal tackle box. He slammed the trunk shut and took a few steps toward the charter boat before he asked if I had our admission tickets.

I harrumphed. I may not have thought a fig about fishing gear, but I wouldn't forget the tickets that would provide my best chance at access to information that could help point Frank Anthony far away from Bridgy. I took the tickets out of my cross-body bag and fanned his face with them.

The line was short. Two crew members wearing tanks with “FISHERMAN'S DREAM” plastered across their chests and backs were collecting tickets, so we moved quickly up the gangplank. Someone behind us yelled, “Hey, wait a minute.” For a second I had the wild thought that Lorgan spotted me and was going to drag me off the boat. But the call was for the family directly ahead of us. They'd handed in their rod and tackle rental slips with their admission tickets.

Cady and I leaned against the safety rope on the side of the gangplank to let the father run down to retrieve the rental slips, and then we followed his family onto the boat deck. The fisher-folk were in high spirits. A man in the group to my left was recounting the rules to win the wager they'd all agreed upon, when another man shouted him down. “C'mon, Kirk. It's the same rules every time we go out. Do you really need to spout 'em over and over?”

Someone shouted from the crowd, “Problem is, he thinks he's Captain Kirk. Well, this ain't the good ship
Enterprise
.”

Several of the men started da-da-da-ing the theme for the original
Star Trek
television show.

With all the raucous laughter and good-natured commotion around us, I began to feel happy and confident. Once I found the person Oscar fought with, Bridgy would be in the clear. I looped my arm through Cady's. “Let's take a stroll around the deck before we choose our fishing spot.”