Well Read, Then Dead (Read Em and Eat Mystery)

by Terrie Farley Moran

  “Has Augusta seen it?”

  “Sure has. Mr. Beech at the funeral home has a habit of showing each obit to the survivors before he okays it to go to print. I can only imagine he must have really screwed up an obit once upon a time, because it’s a rule he never breaks.”

  He checked his phone.

  “I have to get back. See you later?”

  “I don’t know. We have a book club and then, well, I haven’t been very hospitable to Ophie. I thought I’d spend the evening with her.” It was a big fat lie, but I knew I had plans for later; I just wasn’t sure what they were. Bucket Hat’s threats made me more determined to follow Augusta’s lead and try to find out what happened to Delia. I’d wasted too much time already.

  Cady took my hand and kissed the top of my head. He advised me to take care of myself and to remember this was a difficult time for everyone. I was struck again by how comforting it felt to have him around. Then he ruined it all by whispering in my ear, “And, promise me, no sleuthing.”

  I managed a feeble smile and a slight nod of my head. What he didn’t know would keep us from arguing.

  Two snowbirds had picked up the book club list the first time they came by for breakfast and said they’d be back for the Potluck Club. Sure enough they were the first to arrive.

  I greeted them, led the way to the book nook and introduced myself.

  “I’m Connie and this is Iris. Come from a little town a few miles north of Ottawa. We spent a few winters on the east coast. Much as I love the ocean, friends recommended we try the Gulf. Our husbands will go anywhere they can play golf in January, so here we are.”

  “Not happy about the murder, though.” Iris shook her graying locks and her shoulders quivered as though a chill wind went by. “Does that happen a lot around here?”

  “No. Of course not. Never, actually.” I was relieved that the door opened and a couple of regulars bounded inside.

  Maggie, dressed in her “I’m a yoga instructor” uniform of stretchy cropped pants and an oversized tee advertising her studio, Zencentric, was carrying a bouquet of greens tucked into a tall paper cup. “I brought some chervil, fresh from my garden. I thought we could talk about how nicely it goes with cheese in omelets and breakfast pastry.”

  That was what I loved about the Potluck Club; each book led us to delve into all the possibilities of the kitchen.

  And after the Books Before Breakfast fiasco, I was delighted that Lisette Ortiz had decided to try us again. While tucking her sunglasses carefully in their case, she introduced herself to the two newcomers, confiding, “This book was such a fun read. I can’t wait to talk about it.”

  The four ladies began chitchatting, which gave me a few minutes to consider my discussion points and decide how to present them, although it didn’t look like this was going to be one of those rare meetings where I’d have to drag observations out of the participants.

  The front door opened and we all turned to see who was going to join us. My smile faded the moment I saw her strawlike hair and determined thrust of chin. Jocelyn.

  She tore into me the second she had me in sight.

  “Aha! I knew I’d find you here. John is over at the funeral home right this minute with Augusta and where are you? At book club! I suppose it didn’t occur to you that the poor man might need a bit of respite. Too self-absorbed, trying to sell your books, keep this rickety place afloat. Doesn’t seem to bother you that one of your book club members has been murdered.”

  That triggered a rustling of chairs and a loud gasp from one of the snowbirds.

  I wasn’t slow to stand up and face her down. Jocelyn was the second person to rant at me in less than an hour. If this was “Pounce on Sassy Day,” I was tired of it.

  “Well, bless your heart, did you say you brought chervil?”

  Aunt Ophie had charged out of the kitchen and grabbed Jocelyn by the arm.

  “Let’s wash it off and make something tasty from it. Not enough time for soup, but I’m sure we can have a flavorsome treat ready in two shakes of a sheep’s tail.” Ophie beamed a thousand-watt smile, as if we were all the best of friends.

  Jocelyn sputtered, but before she could conjure up a response, Maggie jumped in.

  “Pardon, ma’am, but the chervil is from my garden.” She proffered the paper cup. “I brought it to share. Take what you need.”

  Ophie spun on today’s impossibly high black sandals worn to match her tightly cinched tiger-striped shirtwaist.

  “Well, aren’t you a darlin’ girl?” She patted Maggie’s cheek, then she spun back to Jocelyn and gave her the same nose to nose treatment that Bucket Hat had given to me. Her southern drawl was softer, but her manner was every bit as intimidating.

  “Seems like these ladies are ready to start talking about their book. You’re welcome to join me in the kitchen or you can sit in on the meeting. Those are your choices.”

  Those were the words Ophie spoke, but we all heard her true meaning. Your only choices. Carrying on is not an option.

  Even though she’d stopped sputtering, Jocelyn was agitated, and visibly annoyed that Ophie had outflanked her. We all watched as her determined chin weakened and began to rock from side to side. She was struggling for control of the situation against an unknown force. Then she primped her hair, gave Ophie her best barracuda smile and allowed herself to be guided gently but firmly away from the book nook.

  Ophie tossed a triumphant smile my way, but I knew one way or another Jocelyn would settle the score. I picked up a copy of The Long Quiche Goodbye and in my most cheerful voice asked, “What did you think about Charlotte Bessette as the protagonist of this story?”

  Sliding to the edge of their seats, the snowbirds seemed torn between wanting to run straight out the door and sitting tight in the hopes they’d hear more about the murdered book club member.

  No one answered me. I held my breath for a heartbeat or two, and was about to ask the next question from my list, when Lisette bubbled cheerfully, “I liked her so much,” and as she told us reasons why, we all followed her into the family-owned cheese shop with all its charm and mystery. Even the newbies relaxed, leaning back in their chairs.

  Within a few minutes Jocelyn came out of the kitchen and walked straight out the door. I heaved a deep sigh of relief and began passing the cheese and cracker platter.

  The café was quiet, as it usually was in midafternoon. Some swimmers, with hair towel dried and noses sun red, came in for a light snack, and folks stopped by for a take-out order or two. We’d reached the “choose the next book” part of the meeting when Aunt Ophie came out of the kitchen carrying a large tray with ramekins. She walked right into the middle of our circle and announced, “Chervil soufflé.”

  She nearly placed the tray on the bottom bookshelf, but Bridgy, who was right behind her with a pitcher of sweet tea and napkins, quickly steered her to Dashiell Hammett. And while the Potluck Book Club members crowded around eating soufflé and praising Ophie’s talent in the kitchen, we settled on Dinner: A Love Story by Jenny Rosenstrach for our next meeting. I asked if anyone wanted me to call the library to put a hold on any copies they might have, but Lisette said she’d heard it’s the kind of book she’d definitely want to own. The other clubbies agreed. The snowbirds bought the two copies I had on hand. I promised to order more and call when the books came in.

  Ophie was in her glory, explaining how making soufflés in small portions cut the baking time so drastically that you could “whip ’em up” at a moment’s notice for those occasions when guests arrived unexpectedly. She was sharing her culinary expertise, which included measurements like “somewhere around a cup and a half” and “if there’s a little bit extra in the package, mix it on in.”

  She was up to “Don’t forget to chop the chervil into specks. The more you chop, the more you release that wonderful licorice-like flavor” when the door opened.

/>   Ryan and Lieutenant Anthony were gracious enough to stop at the counter and not barge into the middle of the ladies, for which I was immensely grateful. Ryan signaled me discreetly and I slipped away from the soufflé conversation.

  “Don’t look so fretful, Sassy. This time I have the best news.”

  My heart leapt. Please let the nightmare be over.

  “You caught the killer?”

  “I only wish.” Ryan frowned, then brightened. “But we did bring you some measure of solace.” He reached into his pocket.

  Chapter Thirteen ||||||||||||||||||||

  Ryan handed me a tan envelope with a neatly typed white label. It said “Delia Batson.”

  “Go ahead, open it.”

  I pulled the flap, and a gold rectangle on a slim chain slid into my hand. Could it be? Delia’s locket?

  “Where did you find . . . ? How?”

  Ryan was grinning like the Cheshire cat, and even the lieutenant flashed a broad smile, which showed off teeth so straight and even that I wondered if he had an orthodontist in the family.

  “For a piece of pie, I’ll tell all.” Ryan snatched the chain out of my hand and headed to Dr. Seuss. Frank took a step back to let me go in front of him, murmuring, “Ladies first.”

  I brought two large slices of buttermilk pie and set a plate on the table in front of each deputy. Ophie sidled over from the book nook and waited to see their reactions to her pie. Ryan’s mmm-mmm-mmm-ing was long, loud and not unexpected. Frank Anthony took a large bite of pie and began swooning in mock ecstasy. He demanded to meet the baker. The never-shy Ophie pranced forward with a beatific smile. Frank took her hand, raised it to his lips and said, “Please tell me you are not married so I can scheme to make you my own.”

  Ophie giggled and let her hand linger in Frank’s for an extra moment or two, then before slipping through the kitchen door she looked over her shoulder at the lieutenant and with a kittenish wink, told him to stop by anytime, the pie would always be on the house. Ryan doubled over, and as upset as I was about all the chaos in our little world, I couldn’t help laughing.

  I walked the book club ladies to the door, and then I brought coffee to the table. Ryan ordered me to sit, waving the locket provocatively.

  “I thought we had one last chance to find the locket. Suppose Miss Delia was wearing it when she . . .”

  He let me fill in that blank.

  “So the lieutenant called the Medical Examiner’s Office and asked them to let us examine her personal effects. Her clothes were still in the dryer.” At my perplexed look, he clarified, “Not that kind of dryer. Morgue dryer. It’s special, er, different. Doesn’t matter. Anyway, the tech mentioned that they were finished with her jewelry, prints, fluid tests and all. Turns out she had the locket pinned to her, er, unmentionables.”

  I smiled, remembering a time in high school when I had a college boy’s frat pin. Since my parents didn’t know about the “older man” in my life, I pinned it to my bra strap when my parents were around. I guess all women use the same hiding places, which begs the question, was Delia hiding the locket or keeping it close to her heart?

  Ryan continued, “We took a ride over the bridge to Fort Myers and the ME’s Office released the locket so we could return it to the family in time for the burial.” He sat back with a broad, satisfied smile and handed me the locket and chain. “We thought you should be the one to give it to Augusta.”

  Although I hadn’t known of its existence until a few hours ago, it felt oddly poignant to have the locket and the delicate gold chain in my hands.

  “You’re looking at the back. Turn it over.” Ryan was eager to see my reaction.

  I flipped the locket and there it was, one graceful swamp lily, with six thin petals arching from the center like swimmers diving in an elegant curve off the high board.

  “How lovely.” I stroked it ever so gently with my index finger. “It looks like the etching was done by hand.”

  “That’s what I think, too.” Frank’s voice rose a notch. He was as energized as the rest of us. This was a more likable side of his personality. “I wonder why it’s that particular flower.”

  Ryan didn’t hesitate. “Easy peasy. The swamp lily blooms year round. Hopefully so does whatever this locket represented to Miss Delia.”

  Frank said, “Sassy, there’s more to come. Open it.”

  My hands shook a little as I tried to work the delicate clasp. The locket was old and had been so precious to Miss Delia, I didn’t want to break it now.

  When it popped open, I guess I shouldn’t have been as surprised as I was to see an old black and white picture inside, so ancient that the person’s features had all but faded away. An old-fashioned snap-brimmed fedora was still clearly defined.

  “Who do you think? Maybe her father? Look at that hat. Men haven’t worn hats like that since, oh, way before I was born.” Ryan was clearly up for a guessing game.

  I called Bridgy from the kitchen and of course Ophie tagged along. Bridgy was thrilled at the adventure of it all even as she pronounced the man unrecognizable.

  Ophie wiped her hands on her apron and took the locket carefully. She moved to the window and gazed at the picture in the streaming sunlight. After a while she handed the locket back to me.

  “For heaven’s sake, that’s not her father. It’s her lover.”

  We gaped. She rendered every single one of us positively speechless.

  Satisfied that she had us all agog, Ophie continued her thesis. “She might have kept pictures of both parents in her locket, but why only one parent? When a woman keeps a picture of a man for decades and decades, he was important. Someone she could never quite let go.”

  Then she waggled a finger between Ryan and Frank, saying, “You two rascals can only hope some pretty young filly will be carrying around your picture fifty or sixty years from now.”

  “You think the picture is that old?”

  “Oh, easily. Soon after John F. Kennedy showed up for his presidential inauguration without a hat in 1961, men eased out of the habit of wearing them, and that was years after folks started using color film in their cameras. Between the black-and-white film and him wearing the fedora, I’d say this picture was taken mid-1950s or earlier.”

  “I suppose Miss Augusta will know who he is,” Bridgy ventured. “But, do you think she’ll tell us?”

  Frank gave a one-shouldered shrug. “She’s more likely to tell you than us. That’s one reason we thought Sassy should bring her the locket.”

  “One reason?”

  “Yes. The other is that the man in the picture could be our killer and we can’t waste time grappling with Miss Augusta Maddox for information. You make a practical go-between.”

  Go-between! I swear that man is not happy unless he is tweaking my nose. Still, I smiled sweetly and said I’d be happy to help.

  At that moment Ryan’s shoulder radio began to squawk. He walked to the doorway, had a short conversation and when he turned back, his face was all business. Frank was already on his feet and they hustled out the door.

  Bridgy looked at me. “Did you tell them about Bucket Hat and his threats?”

  I got defensive. “I meant to, I swear I did, but they were in and out so quickly, and this is quite a distraction.” I held the chain high in the air and the locket twirled slowly, the swamp lily dancing in the sun.

  Bridgy huffed. “Honestly, Sassy. You could be in real danger. We”—she made arm circles wide enough to encompass every person on the island—“could be in real danger. And, what happened, you didn’t think to tell the deputies, even though they were sitting right here eating our buttermilk pie?”

  “My buttermilk pie,” Ophie interjected.

  I knew better and stayed absolutely silent waiting for the storm clouds to pass. Bridgy’s temper was like a south Florida thunderstorm in August. Loud and threatenin
g for about ten minutes, then the warmth of the sun burst through once again. In a few minutes it would be like there was no storm at all.

  But the “no storm at all” part still seemed far off as Bridgy planted her hands in the dreaded elbows out, fists on her hips position. She was about to go back at Ophie and then she hesitated. Perhaps she was thinking of all the meals she’d have to cook until Miguel recovered if Ophie wasn’t here. Bridgy dropped her hands and began clearing the pie plates. I reached for the coffee cups, and, hoping the storm had passed, I asked if she wanted to come with me to bring the locket to Augusta. Bridgy brightened immediately.

  “Oh, I’d love to hear what she has to say about the picture. Let’s get this place cleaned up.”

  We sent Ophie home on the trolley. Bridgy and I scrubbed and polished until every chore was done. Then we piled in the Heap-a-Jeep and drove a few blocks south to Miss Augusta’s house. Augusta’s Chevy was still in the driveway, probably exactly where I’d left it.

  We climbed the porch steps and knocked on the door. No answer. Bridgy tried again, banging a little harder.

  A stout woman wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat and carrying a garden trowel came around the hedge separating her house from Augusta’s. She took off one thick red gardening glove and offered to shake hands.

  “Afternoon. I’m Blondie Quinlin. I live over there.” She pointed to the weather-beaten house on the other side of the hedges. “If you’re looking for Augusta, she drove off with Pastor Kendall a while ago. Not back yet.”

  Bridgy and I exchanged looks, both thinking that Jocelyn must be irritated to no end.

  Blondie wasn’t done with us. “Lots of coming and going. I suppose it’s about Delia?”

  When we acknowledged it was, Blondie leaned in like she had a great secret to tell.

  “You know, I play Mexican Train Dominoes. We rotate houses. Twice a month we play on Delia’s block. I usually walk over. Exercise for the heart.” She tapped her chest. “Anyway, that old man in the canoe. The one with the skull. He hangs out around there in the evenings. Used to see him all the time. Someone should ask him if he knows what happened the night Delia was . . . done in.”