I backpedaled and sat on the dry sand, wiggling my fanny until I was comfortable enough to concentrate on the horizon, one of my favorite focus points for meditation. No verbal mantra. No physical yoga or tai chi. Just the horizon, always present and always endless. It never failed to settle my mind into peaceful contemplation of nothing other than the meeting of sky and sea. The gentle lapping of the waves provided a cadence of serene harmony.
After twenty or so minutes, I closed my eyes, let the horizon recede while the events of the day slowly resurfaced in my freshly ordered mind. I stood, brushed the sand from my shorts and walked north toward the pier, my sandals bobbing and banging against my hip. I was a few yards away from the pier when the sun glinted off the gold letters on a red and blue striped shirt. There were bound to be any number of Messi fans roaming the island. Still, I noticed this Messi fan was part of a group surrounding a man in a bucket hat. I hurried closer, and as I stood next to the pier in a spot right below them, I recognized a voice from yesterday. Bucket Hat.
“Don’t worry about idle threats from silly old women. I told you, I know where the ship is and I guarantee no one is going to get between me and this treasure, especially not a broad so old that she could easily be dead and buried before we ever leave port.”
I gasped and took a quick step back from the pier. I looked up, hoping to memorize the faces of the men I hadn’t yet seen, and was startled to see Bucket Hat staring directly down at me. Without the mirrored glasses, his eyes were dangerously penetrating.
I ducked under the pier and out the other side, hurried up to the street and headed for home, looking over my shoulder the entire time.
Chapter Eight ||||||||||||||||||||
The apartment was happily quiet. Who knew how long that would last? Bridgy and Aunt Ophie were bound to be back soon. My cell! I turned it off when I began taking my walk, and I never turned it on again. By now Bridgy would be calling every five minutes, and getting more frantic each time voice mail picked up the call. As soon as I turned it on, the phone rang. I pushed “Talk” and began speaking without looking at the caller ID.
“I’m sorry. I know you hate when I turn my phone off. I needed time alone. But I have climbed the turret and am in for the night so I’ll be here when you get here.”
“Turret? Oh, I get it. Some sort of code for Prince Charming like in Rapunzel.” I couldn’t quite recognize the male voice. “When you feel like Cinderella, I guess ‘glass slipper’ is the code.” Ah, the mocking tone. Lieutenant Frank Anthony.
I was grateful he couldn’t see my reddening cheeks. I almost explained that I thought he was Bridgy but decided he didn’t deserve an explanation or even a conversation after he unceremoniously ordered me out of Augusta’s house. I settled on a crisp, no-nonsense, “How can I help you, Lieutenant?”
“Actually, I was calling to thank you for your assistance today. I think it was easier for us to talk to Miss Maddox because you stayed nearby. I got the impression from Ryan that she could be quite difficult if anyone stirred her feathers. So I’m grateful that the interview was no worse than it had to be under the circumstances.”
A few hours before I was some kind of annoyance and now he’s all nicey nice? I wondered what he really wanted.
“Miss Augusta is a unique and treasured friend, the same as Miss Delia was. I thought it was fitting that I stay with her.” I sniffed, hoping I sounded frosty rather than defensive.
“I’d like to interview you sometime tomorrow morning. I know you have a business to run . . .”
Interview? Like I was a suspect? What was I supposed to respond No problem, stop by anytime? Fat chance.
“Actually, we’re shorthanded at the café . . .”
“But you do want us to catch the killer.”
He had me there.
“How about elevenish? We usually have a lull between late breakfast and early lunch. But if we get busy . . .”
“I’ll see you at eleven.” And he hung up without as much as a good-bye.
I tossed my sandy clothes into the hamper, used a wet paper towel to wipe up the grains of sand scattered on the tiles of the bathroom floor and jumped into a hot, relaxing shower. In a few seconds I washed away Lieutenant Frank Anthony’s commanding attitude. Then I snuggled into my Winnie the Pooh pj’s, snatched up the latest issue of the University of Florida magazine, Subtropics, and settled on the patio with a fresh cup of lemongrass tea.
I was reading a soothing poem about horses and dogs when the peace and quiet was shattered by Bridgy and Ophie clattering into the apartment laden with suitcases, assorted totes and multiple plastic bags.
Ophie opened the slider and thrust a plastic bag at me.
“We brought you dinner. Mind you, I would have broiled the snapper rather than . . .” She stopped abruptly and I watched her face morph as though something had shocked her into silence. But of course silence was never Ophie’s strong suit. “What ARE you wearing? Come in here before someone sees you.”
Behind Ophie’s back, Bridgy stood in the center of the living room. She tilted her head and stuck out her tongue while making a hanging motion with one raised arm. We both knew I was done for.
When I didn’t hop up immediately, Ophie pointed her finger at me and shook her entire arm as her voice changed into strict schoolmarm, a tone I hadn’t heard since the last time she came to town.
“Well-mannered ladies do not appear outdoors in their nightwear. What on earth has gotten into you?”
It did me no good to point out that we were on the top floor of the highest building for miles around. I tried to soften her by joking, “That’s why we call this place the turret. It is high and private. No one can see us.”
Ophie wasn’t having it. “Every boat pilot in the Gulf from here to Sarasota need only train his spyglass up at the light and you and your nightwear are on full display.” With that she flicked the light switches, leaving the living room and the patio bathed in nothing but moonlight. “And what kind of nightwear is that? Well-mannered ladies wear feminine gowns, not children’s footie pajamas.”
I closed my magazine with a sigh and decided I was too tired to defend Winnie and Tigger as an adult clothing motif, so I obediently got up and walked into the living room, turning on the light as I headed to the couch. I would have flopped into a cozy corner but didn’t want another well-mannered ladies lecture on how to sit.
Of course Ophie followed behind me, the bag holding my dinner still in her hand.
“You have to eat. In times of sorrow we need to keep up our strength.”
Bridgy ran interference skillfully. Taking the package out of her aunt’s hands, she offered to heat up my fish and tactfully suggested Ophie get herself settled in the guest room, which was little more than a home office with a futon covered by a shocking pink quilt and a half dozen flowered pillows.
I followed Bridgy into the kitchen. While she tossed a salad and nuked my fish and veggies, I told her about the conversation I’d overheard on the pier.
She remembered the two young bicyclists, but of course in the midst of all the angst about Miguel, I never did tell her about the man with the bucket hat inquiring about Miss Augusta and Miss Delia.
I sat at the kitchen counter, and as she placed my dinner in front of me, Bridgy said, “Surely you don’t think . . .” and stopped dead as Ophie spun into the room wearing a bright yellow caftan with mangroves along the hem and sparkles scattered around the V-neck collar.
“Don’t think what?” Ophie looked at Bridgy, and when she didn’t get an instant response, she turned to me.
“Come on, honey chile, whatever game’s afoot, don’t have me be the last to know.” She sat opposite me and propped her elbows on the table, determined that all further conversation would include her.
Bridgy raised an eyebrow and I gave a slight nod, then I cut an oversized piece of baked snapper and shoved it in
my mouth, signaling that the discussion could go on without me.
When Bridgy finished her brief rundown of the events involving the wreckers, Ophie clutched her chest as if in the throes of a massive coronary.
“The sheriff. You call right now, hear?”
Bridgy glanced back to me for guidance, but I kept stuffing fish in my mouth. I couldn’t decide whether Bucket Hat and his cadre of wreckers were all full of bluster or if they were dangerous. I decided to let Ophie and Bridgy battle it out. But there was no disagreement. In a split second they were staring at me, each with that single-minded gaze that runs in their family. It was as though they took a solemn vow, right then and there, to poke and prod me until I told them what little I knew about the treasure hunters.
They were somewhat placated when I told them I had an appointment with the sheriff’s department the next morning. I was relieved they let me crawl off to bed with my magazine, without having to pinky-swear that I would tell Frank Anthony about the wreckers.
* * *
The morning setup was easier with three pairs of hands instead of two. I spent my time in the dining area taking breakfast orders and refilling coffee cups. I was quite happy to leave the kitchen to Bridgy and Ophie, thus avoiding their constant reminders to “tell the sheriff’s office about the wreckers.” In the fresh morning sunlight, the memory of Bucket Hat and his hard stare seemed a lot less ominous than it had yesterday.
I always enjoy the breakfast rush, some folks back from a long walk or bike ride, others eager for a swim or a long session in a lounge chair on the sand.
I’d finished helping a snowbird grandma pick out a few books to send north to the grandkids when Rowena Gustavsen came through the front door, making an entrance that even Ophie would envy. Rowena’s usually bouffant lilac hair was sticking out wildly in all directions as if someone had taken a leaf blower to her head. She was struggling with a large suitcase in one hand and a cardboard box balancing precariously on the other. She dropped her keys and her ten-gallon purse on the floor with a clang and thump demanding, “Why are you standing there? Help me.”
Her command was directed toward me but was so loud and disruptive that several breakfasters jumped up to give her a hand.
I ran to the doorway, barely beating out an octogenarian who probably weighed less than the suitcase. He certainly weighed less than Rowena.
Bridgy came out of the kitchen, her hands covered in flour. “What in heaven’s name . . .”
When she saw the source of the noise, she tried to head back to the safety of the kitchen, but it was too late. Rowena caught her on the turn.
“Don’t run away. I need help. I’m locked out of the Sand and Shell and I have to go home for my keys. My car won’t start. Don at the service station says the tow truck is busy over by the Mound House. I have to open now. I can’t lug my merchandise back and forth on the trolley, and I can’t leave it in the car. Who knows what kind of people the winter season brings? Thieves? Vandals?”
It didn’t help that in a dining room filled with winter residents, her voice rose at least two octaves on those final words. There was only one solution. Get her out and get her out fast.
“Here, give me that.” I took the suitcase and began to slide it behind the counter. “You can leave your things here, nice and safe. I’ll drive you home to get the keys to your shop, and you’ll be open in a heartbeat.”
Bridgy tossed me a look of sympathy and quickly volunteered to take over serving. Anything rather than be trapped in a car listening to Rowena whine.
Rowena lived in a condo on the south end of the island near Lovers Key, a short enough trip, but I’d have to drive her back and forth. I gritted my teeth and moved Rowena out the door and into the Heap-a-Jeep.
Channeling Aunt Ophie’s comments from our early-morning ride to the Read ’Em and Eat, Rowena sniveled, “You really need to think about getting a new vehicle. And this one could certainly use a trip to the car wash.”
I was sure Ophie would have given me well-mannered ladies points for not dumping Rowena out on the street right then and there.
“It’s this thing with Delia. Her dying and all. It’s so upsetting. I’ve known her and Augusta since I first opened my consignment shop, nearly fifteen years ago. I’ve been begging her to allow me to sell some of the piles and piles of bric-a-brac strewn all over her house. But, quiet as she was, that’s how stubborn she could be.”
I had trouble thinking of Delia as stubborn, but even I could see that she was deeply attached to all things related to her past.
“What happens to all her old junk now, I wonder. It’ll probably be tossed to the curb and go out with the trash. Such a waste.” Rowena sighed. “We could have made a fortune. Not to mention the island. Did I tell you that World of Luxury Spa Resorts sent a vice president here all the way from California to buy Delia’s island? Delia wouldn’t even meet with him. I tried to help smooth a path to conversation, but she wasn’t having it. I could have gotten quite the tidy commission brokering that deal. Now I suppose he’ll have to talk to Augusta, and we both know that she’s far more mulish than Delia.
“Here we are. Make a left in the driveway and head to the building on your right. Anyway, trying to reason with Augusta isn’t going to be easy. You can wait here. I’ll be right down.”
I could have mentioned the nephews, but Rowena’s soliloquy was so self-absorbed, so irritating, I decided not to give her the teensiest bit of information. She’d only run back to the Spa Resort guy and try to curry favor by being first to tell him the latest gossip. She’d find out soon enough.
I sat in the car thinking that I could chalk this ride up as the worst part of my day. Then I had a dark thought. Lieutenant Anthony was coming to interrogate me. That would be worse. Still, I managed to plaster a smile on my face as I watched Rowena walk out of the building and back toward me.
Chapter Nine ||||||||||||||||||||
By the time I dropped Rowena in front of the Emporium the tow truck was on-site. The driver, a young, skinny guy in surfer shorts, had popped the hood of her boxy Ford Flex and was running cable from one of those portable battery chargers to her car battery. I offered to deliver her suitcase and package rather than have her follow me back to the Read ’Em and Eat. I needed to be done with her, at least for the day. I parked the Heap-a-Jeep, ran into the café, and dragged Rowena’s clumsy box and overweight suitcase across the parking lot. I dropped them by the front door of the Sand and Shell Emporium where Rowena was still yammering at the mechanic while he was putting away his tools. His eyes pleaded for a rescue, but Bridgy needed me more.
“Rowena, here’s your stuff.” I pointed to the doorway. “Enjoy your day.” And I turned on my heels and half jogged back to the café before she could stop me. I heard her yell something. I pretended it was “good-bye.” I knew it wasn’t “thank you.”
The breakfast crowd was pretty much gone except for three surfers who’d worked up huge appetites out on the Gulf this morning, judging by the piles of food on their table, and the lovey-dovey newlyweds who’d become late breakfast regulars.
I took one look at the kitchen and realized that there were worse things than driving up and down the island listening to Rowena’s mercenary drivel.
It seems Ophie’d been cooking up a storm of her own special recipes ever since the early morning rush died down. One glance and I remembered from past visits that Ophie’s razzle-dazzle in the kitchen ended at the stove. It’s like she was appearing in her own cooking show on the local public television station. She added ingredients and chucked the dirty bowls, spoons and whatnots wherever they might land. There were no sinks and sponges, no brooms and dustpans and definitely no dishwashers in her methodology. Cleanup was strictly for minions, not for master chefs. Bridgy was ecstatic to see me. I imagined she’d been running in circles like a Roller Derby queen trying to keep the customers satisfied while encouraging Ophie
to at least try to meet minimum Board of Health standards in the kitchen.
If we weren’t in southwest Florida, I would have thought we were mid-snowstorm in Brooklyn, that’s how white the kitchen was—the floor, both work counters, the stove, even a swath of wall. My first thought was food fight. But no. A food fight would require cooked food. This mess looked like someone took bags of flour, slit the sides, held them at arm’s length and shook. Crushed eggshells and spilled liquids added stringy globs of stickiness, and there were food containers of assorted sizes and shapes strewn everywhere, some empty, some not.
Ophie looked up from her culinary task and brandished a sharp-looking boning knife in my direction.
“Sassy, bless your heart, I’m glad you’re back. Bridgy is, what do you northerners call it, a bit ‘wired’ without you, although I can’t imagine why, seeing as how I’m here to help.” Completely clueless to the havoc she was causing, Ophie went right on filleting chicken breasts, no matter that our freezer held a half dozen boxes of easy-to-cook, evenly sized chicken cutlets.
I gave her a wide berth, gathered my cleaning supplies and started with the wall. Then I moved on to the work space Ophie wasn’t using. I rubbed and scrubbed. I was making real progress when Bridgy called me into the dining room. I grabbed a dish towel and was drying my hands as I pushed the swinging door. There, all official in his uniform, stood Lieutenant Frank Anthony.
I frowned at Bridgy. She couldn’t have given me a hint? She couldn’t come into the kitchen and whispered? Her grin told me that she knew I was annoyed and she didn’t care a whit. She picked the coffeepot off the warmer and walked over to the surfers, offering to refill their cups. And if, later, I complained, she’d say, “You made the appointment.” And she’d be right.
Well Read, Then Dead (Read Em and Eat Mystery) Page 6