“Bless your heart, nothing makes me happier than to hear a cultured person such as yourself refer to my muffins as scrumptious, and you haven’t even tried one yet. Here you go.”
I couldn’t see what kind of muffin Ophie offered, but Rowena’s moan of ecstasy after she took a bite assured me that I had a couple of minutes to fuss over the day-trippers before Rowena would renew her demands for attention.
I offered refills of coffee to the remaining lunch customers, and as I moved closer to the counter, I heard Rowena say, “I knew it. I knew that man was nothing but trouble. How I let these girls talk me into doing business with him, I’ll never know.”
Darn. Ophie must have told Rowena that she’d heard us talking about Skully being seen near Delia’s house. Now she’d never stop whining. I stepped up with my order pad, ready to take my verbal slap on the wrist.
I listened to Rowena fume for a couple of minutes, accusing us of putting a possible murderer right in her shop, before she finally ordered The Secret Garden Salad (hold the onions, extra tomato, vinaigrette on the side) and a side of sweet potato fries (extra crispy). I handed the order slip to Ophie with a pointed look at the kitchen door. Much as she hated to miss any gossip, duty called. She patted Rowena’s hand and slipped into the kitchen, saying, “That’s comin’ right up, darlin’.”
Rowena turned back to me, but I’d grabbed a spray bottle and a wad of paper towels and was busily scrubbing the counter, chair backs and bottoms, anything I could clean so as not to have to listen to her complaints about Skully, who was rapidly being transformed into a serial killer during Rowena’s histrionics.
Rowena took her to-go bag and left, but not before issuing a general warning that “we’re not done talking about this, not by a long shot.”
The lunch crowd was thinning and I continued to clean, a mindless task that left me free to mentally organize the rest of my day. I had a lot to do. Get over to Augusta’s and find out what clothes she wanted Delia to wear, then figure a way to get into Delia’s house and locate everything. And Cady was coming with the obituary. Should we show it to Augusta, or had she helped prepare it? And if I didn’t talk to Frank Anthony about Skully, how much trouble would Jocelyn cause? I was exhausted thinking about all that I needed to get done. I was sliding the spray cleaner under the counter when Bridgy said, “I know you have a lot going on, but don’t forget the Potluck Book Club is meeting this afternoon.”
Book club! I was completely blank. I couldn’t even remember the name of the book we’d read this month. With everything else going on today, how could I lead a book discussion? Was it too early for a mojito? I stood in the center of the room not knowing whether to laugh or cry.
Then Ryan Mantoni walked in the door, looked me in the eye and said, “Sassy, come on. We need your help.”
And he turned on his heel, expecting me to follow.
Chapter Eleven ||||||||||||||||||||
I must have had a “what now” look on my face, because when Ryan glanced back to make sure I was behind him, he stopped in mid-stride.
“What’s the matter? Miss Augusta needs you. We have to go.”
“Augusta?”
“Pastor John told me he called you.”
“About the clothes, yes, but . . .”
“Come on.” He hitched a thumb on his gun belt and pointed his head toward the door. “Pastor got permission for me to take you into Miss Delia’s house to find an outfit for the service. The techs are done and I can escort you through the house as long as I never leave your side and make sure you don’t touch anything besides personal apparel and jewelry. Not that there’s much in the way of jewelry, from what I saw.”
“Ryan, I want to help but I don’t know exactly what Augusta wants Delia to wear.”
“No prob. We’ll stop by her house and get a list. Can’t be much on it.” And he whisked me out the door.
We shared a quick and quiet ride to Augusta’s house, while I tried to get my scrambled brain in order. When we pulled up in front, she was sitting on the porch swing, looked even tinier and more worn than she had yesterday. I guess the finality of the tragedy was beginning to sink in.
Pastor John came down the steps to thank me for bailing him out. Of course that wasn’t the phrase he used, but that’s precisely what he meant and we both knew it. I couldn’t blame him for being uncomfortable at the thought of rifling through a woman’s wardrobe, but couldn’t Jocelyn have helped? Isn’t that why Pastors have wives, to be helpmates? When I climbed onto the porch, Augusta gave me a wan smile and spoke in hushed tones I’d never heard her use.
“Come sit, Sassy.” She patted the other half of the swing. As soon as I was settled, she handed me a picture.
“I was up half the night until I found this in an album. Don’t Delia look nice all dressed in her finery?”
I looked at the picture. Delia had on a wide-brimmed straw hat that, given the angle of the sun, barely shaded her eyes. Her dress was a gentle teal blue, like the Gulf on a cloudless day. The empire waist hid her expanded midriff, and the puffed sleeves camouflaged the batwings I’d noticed when she wore sleeveless tops. The mid-calf length of the flowing skirt told me that the dress was a few decades out of style.
“She looks lovely, Miss Augusta, absolutely lovely.” I was struck by the joy and animation on Delia’s face. Something I’d rarely seen. “Where was this taken?”
“Few years back, we had a celebration at the church, anniversary of some sort.”
“Twenty-fifth anniversary of the choirmaster’s service to the Lord,” Pastor John injected, pointing to the edge of a banner partially hidden by Delia’s hat.
“Well, Delia and I had a grand time. Lots of singing. Delia always liked to sing in church. Never could talk her into joining the choir. Too shy. You know about that.”
I smiled, thinking of Delia at our last book club meeting.
“Anyway, Sassy, you take this picture to Delia’s house and find that dress, with shoes to match. Service is coming up and we need to make sure Delia’s as pretty as a picture. That picture. And don’t forget the locket.”
“Locket?”
“See for yourself.” Augusta picked up a magnifying glass from the side table. “Here it is. It has a swamp lily etched on it signifying the Ten Thousand Islands. Our family home. She wore it on every special occasion, long as I can remember. And if this ain’t a special occasion, I don’t know what is.”
The rounded glass enlarged the picture enough that I could see a small gold rectangle resting on the bibbed bodice of Delia’s dress.
I sat for a few minutes, assuring Miss Augusta that we’d get the things Delia needed, then Ryan and I headed off to Delia’s house and a chore I dreaded. Once we were in the car, I confided, “I feel funny doing this. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a dead person’s house before, and as for going through her clothes and jewelry, well, it doesn’t feel right. I’m not a relative or anything.”
Ryan cleared his throat. “About the jewelry. I didn’t want to say anything in front of Miss Augusta, but when we were searching the house, a box with a cracked lid, seemed to be a jewelry box, was lying on the bedroom floor. Except for a couple of unmatched earrings, it was empty.”
My head snapped in his direction, and he responded to my unasked question.
“Nope. I wouldn’t bet on our finding the locket. Whoever killed Delia probably took it. And be prepared, Sas; the house was ransacked pretty thoroughly. Afterward our techs went through it with a fine-tooth comb, and they’re far from neat.”
Ransacked was one word for it. The first thing I noticed was that Delia’s collection of bird figurines was shunted to one side of a bookshelf attached to the living room wall, and the books, well, they were tossed on the floor, scattered about; some had landed spine down, others had their dust jackets ripped off and dropped on top. Delia had always taken excellent care of her book
s. It broke my heart to see them left this way. And the furniture! Every piece was topsy-turvy. Why would anybody flip chairs, tables, even push the rolltop desk helter-skelter? It looked like a mess deliberately created by the stage crew for a murder scene in a television show. Except I knew better. This murder scene was real.
Ryan took my elbow and led me to the staircase.
“Come on. Let’s get what we came for and get out of here.”
I nodded.
Delia’s bedroom was at the top of the stairs. I ignored the disarray and opened the closet door. Each item of clothing sat straight on its hanger, and the hangers were in a tidy row. My eye swept from the muumuus I was used to seeing Delia wear, moved past a few pastel dresses, things Delia probably wore to church and on special outings to downtown Fort Myers or Naples. On the right-hand side of the closet, separated by a few inches from the rest of her wardrobe, was her one special dress, teal blue with an empire waist. I checked the shoe rack tucked on the closet floor, and found sandals, water shoes and sneakers. Not one pair of dress shoes of any color, much less blue.
Then a thought struck.
“Ryan, can we check the other bedroom, the guest room?”
He hesitated, so I explained.
“Closet space is at a premium for most women. So we often stash things we don’t wear frequently in places where they won’t be in our way.”
He nodded and led the way to a closed door a few feet down the hallway.
Sunshine filtered through lace curtains and brightened the room, which seemed to have escaped being torn apart like the rest of the house.
Next to the bureau opposite the daybed, a closet door stood slightly ajar. I opened it. Sharing the top shelf with some neatly folded quilts I spied a plastic box labeled “fancy shoes.” I couldn’t quite reach. I stepped out of the way so Ryan could take it down, and that’s when I noticed the square pink leather box on the bureau.
I picked it up, opened it and was instantly disappointed. No locket. No gold at all. Curiously, I found two shell and fishing line bracelets. I didn’t recall ever seeing Delia wearing any bracelets like them. In fact, I didn’t recall ever seeing her wear any jewelry at all, not even the missing locket. I closed the box and set it back on the bureau. Perhaps the bracelets were keepsakes, gifts her nephews made for her when they were children.
Ryan handed me the shoe box, and inside I found a pair of barely worn teal blue shoes with sensible one-inch heels.
Back in Delia’s room I found her undergarments neatly folded in the dresser drawer. I took out a set and then realized I didn’t have anything to carry them in. I told Ryan we were ready to go but I’d need to stop in the kitchen for a bag.
Still carrying the shoe box, he led the way downstairs, took a few steps to the rear of the house and through an archway into the kitchen. That’s when I saw the kitty litter box sitting in the hallway.
“Bow! Oh Lord. Where is Bow?” And I crouched close to the floor calling, “Bow, here kitty, kitty, Bow. Here sweet girl.”
I saw her food and water dishes, little white bowls with a paw motif, sitting in a far corner. Neither was empty.
“Ryan, where is Delia’s cat? Augusta doesn’t have her. Where is she?”
Ryan looked at me as though I’d gone quite mad when I ran to the cupboard and took out a can of cat food and pressed it under the electric can opener.
“She’ll come when she hears a fresh can being opened,” I explained. But even when I sent the can spinning around the opener a second time, Bow didn’t scamper into the room looking for a meal. We searched the entire house, upstairs and down, looking for any out-of-the-way space where Bow might be sleeping.
“Cats are nocturnal; they sleep a lot during the day,” I told Ryan since I seemed to be the cat authority of the moment. Finally we ran out of places to look and gave up the search. Then I had an idea.
“Ryan, is it possible that one of your colleagues called Animal Rescue to come take care of Bow?”
He wasn’t aware of any such call, but he told me he’d check at the district.
“Sassy, I was first on the scene, and even with everything going on, I’m sure there was no cat in the house. Don’t forget, the front door was open when we got here.”
I fretted all the way back to Augusta’s house. How could I tell her that I couldn’t find the locket and that Bow was missing as well?
Miss Augusta perked up a bit when she saw me get out of Ryan’s car carrying the blue dress on its satin-covered hanger. Ryan grabbed the packages we’d put in the trunk and handed them to Pastor John. Then he took the dress from me and hung it on a planter hook screwed into the porch overhang. I took my seat on the swing once again.
Augusta patted my hand. “Thanks for taking care of this. Delia’ll be so pleased to be dressed proper.”
I took a deep breath and told her about the missing locket. She was quiet for a long time and then sighed. “You tried your best. Delia’ll miss the locket, still, there’s nothing to be done.”
When I told her Bow was missing, too, I was shocked when she dismissed the idea.
“Missing, my foot. She’s out gallivanting is all. Try the coral clapboard house directly across the street from Delia. Woman who lives there had a yen for Bow from the first day we found her in Bowditch Point Park, all hungry and scraggly-like.
“Delia brought her home, cleaned her up, got her healthy and gave her a place to live. But Bow liked to be on her own. Now and again she’d sashay down to the water’s edge for some exercise. She’d leave with a green bow tied to her collar, and hours later she’d come home with a yellow one and a full belly to boot. I can’t swear it was always the lady in the coral house fussin’ over her, but I can swear it was her most of the time. I bet she took advantage of the situation to get what she always wanted—Bow.”
Ryan tapped his watch. I gave Miss Augusta a kiss on her weathered cheek and reminded her that she had many friends willing to help. I was surprised to see a tear glide down her cheek, as she squeezed my hand in response.
I had scarcely enough time to get back to the café for the Potluck Book Club. On the way, Ryan promised he’d check with the owner of the coral house and call Animal Rescue to try to find Bow. I thanked him and jumped out of the car at the bottom of the driveway, hoping to get settled before the book club members arrived. At least I’d finally remembered the book we’d read, The Long Quiche Goodbye by Avery Aames, a cheese shop mystery that mixed murder with fine cheese and interesting recipes, guaranteeing our meeting would be great fun.
As I grabbed the handle of the café door, a bear paw–like hand clamped over mine.
“Saw you get out of the sheriff car. Causing more trouble, eh?”
Bucket Hat’s eyes were far more threatening when we were nose to nose.
Chapter Twelve ||||||||||||||||||||
I yanked my hand from underneath his and gave him as defiant a glare as I could muster. “Go away.”
He maneuvered himself so that he was planted in front of the door and I couldn’t brush by him.
“You listen to me, girlie, and listen good. You can’t go around accusing folks of murder. Keep it up and there’ll be consequences aplenty for you and your friends. You mind what I’m saying.”
“Leave me—and my friends—alone.”
“Sassy, is everything all right?” Cady was only a few feet away and walking right toward us.
“No trouble here,” Bucket Hat called out, then he lowered his voice and growled at me, “Don’t forget—consequences aplenty for all concerned,” and he hurried away.
Cady could see how shaken I was. He put his arm around me, walked me inside the café and plunked me in a seat at Robert Louis Stevenson.
“Bridgy, could you get Sassy a glass of water?”
She was busy setting up the book nook for the meeting, but she only needed one look at my face
and she practically ran to the kitchen.
She came out with a glass of water and a slice of Ophie’s buttermilk pie, set them on the table in front of me and sat down.
“What happened? Is it Miss Augusta?”
I shook my head and pushed the pie off to the side. “No, she’s about as good as she can be. It’s that wrecker, Bucket Hat. He grabbed on to me right outside our front door and threatened me. No, that’s not right. He threatened us all.”
She looked at Cady, who said, “He was blocking the doorway but he took off when I came along.”
She stood up. “I’m calling Ryan.”
“No,” I said. “Please don’t. He’s spent so much time helping me today . . .”
“Sassy, that’s his job, helping. He needs to know about this. Someone at the sheriff’s office needs to know.”
“Okay,” I relented, suddenly too tired to argue. “Let’s get the book club meeting behind us and then we can talk to Ryan.”
She went in the kitchen and brought out a lace doily–covered plate of diced cheese, some pale yellow, some dark orange, along with a half wheel of brie. I snatched the sleeve of crackers that was dangling from her fist and followed her to the nook.
“This is a nice touch.”
I noticed a couple of plum and gold paperbacks tucked under the chair I usually sat in. “Thanks for remembering to put a few extra books on the side. Someone nearly always forgets their copy.”
Cady came right along behind me.
“I have the obit. Do you want to take a look?”
I sat down and took the typewritten copy he offered. A few short sentences strung together in one paragraph summed up the life of Miss Delia Batson, fourth-generation Floridian, who was active in her church, the food pantry and the Animal Rescue League. She was survived by two nephews and her cousin and dearest friend, Augusta Maddox. Finally, it noted that donations in Delia’s name could be made to the Animal Rescue League or the food pantry.
I was thankful there was no mention of how she died. Let the sensationalism stay on the front page. She would want her obituary to be dignified. I passed the paper over to Bridgy and thanked Cady for bringing it.
Well Read, Then Dead (Read Em and Eat Mystery) Page 8