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

by Terrie Farley Moran

  And she shuffled back to her own side of the hedge.

  I scrolled through my cell phone to call Pastor John, but my call went immediately to voice mail.

  “Do you think they’re at the Rest in Beech?” Bridgy always giggled when she used the old-time islanders’ colloquial name for the funeral home.

  I shrugged. “They could be anywhere. Wait, I think I have Fern’s cell from when we worked on the library book sale together.”

  Fern said Pastor John and Augusta had been there but she wasn’t sure where they were going when they left. I told her we had a necklace that we knew Augusta would want to add to the burial outfit. Fern promised to tell Mr. Beech before he did, what she called, “the finishing touches.”

  We decided to sit on the porch swing and wait a bit, in case Pastor was driving Augusta home. The sleepy feeling induced by the gentle gliding of the swing was offset by the invigorating breeze coming in from the Gulf. I felt my mood shift from chaos to perfect harmony.

  After a few minutes Bridgy asked, “What does Pastor’s car look like? Do you remember? We could ride around and see if we can catch up with them. I really want to find out what Augusta has to say about the locket.”

  I vaguely remembered dark blue, but that was about it. Still Bridgy persisted, “The island’s only so big. They can only be in one of a few places.”

  So we drove past the church and the florist. Then we rode aimlessly.

  I was ready to give up, but Bridgy was still a bundle of energy, so I shouldn’t have been surprised when she said, “Let’s call off the search. I have a better idea. Drive on over to Bowditch.”

  Best idea ever. It was a beautiful afternoon, perfect for a shoreside stroll in the park, which curved around the northernmost tip of the island.

  When we pulled into the parking lot, Bridgy pointed away from the side where we usually left our car. “Over there, park over there.”

  As I slid into the spot she indicated, Bridgy gave me a broad smile. “Gorgeous day, smooth water. Let’s grab a double kayak and look for Skully.”

  Chapter Fourteen ||||||||||||||||||||

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  But she wasn’t. To hear her tell it, our taking a kayak out into the bay and scouring the canals and inlets looking for Skully was a logical next step.

  “First Jocelyn tells you that Skully has been hanging around Delia’s house all the time. Now Blondie tells us the exact same thing. We know Skully. Decent guy. Wouldn’t squash a spider. But he may have seen something and he didn’t know he saw something important.”

  Her emphasis on those last two words included a sharp look that said only a fool would refuse to see the common sense appeal of her idea.

  This caper was sure to make driving around the island stalking Pastor John’s car seem reasonable by comparison; still, it was a lovely afternoon to be out on the water, no matter how crazy the reason.

  We opened the back of the Heap-a-Jeep and I pulled out my ready-for-anything crate. When we first moved to the “land of sunshine,” Bridgy and I learned a lot of local rules. Keeping a stash of “hurricane food” along with gallons of water and assorted-sized batteries is the law of the land, as is keeping a container or gym bag in the car trunk to hold all outdoor essentials. I use a green plastic crate I’d bought at the Dollar Tree. It’s loaded with umbrellas, long- and short-sleeved sweatshirts and tee shirts, a worn pair of sneakers, assorted flip-flops, mismatched socks, sunscreen, bug spray, antibiotic ointment, binoculars, a bicycle horn and a half dozen hats and visors, some with long brims, some with short.

  We slathered on the sunscreen and I stashed the bug spray and binoculars in my bag, along with the bicycle horn, which comes in handy whenever alligators swim too near low-slung watercraft or come up onshore to catch a few rays. Bridgy grabbed a long-sleeved tee and slipped it over her spaghetti strap top. We both snatched visors to wear front and back, to cover our faces and necks.

  I couldn’t resist a little dig. “Bridgy, do you remember the theme from Cagney and Lacey? How about we hum it as we paddle around the bay trying to ‘detect’ Skully?”

  I didn’t flinch when she whacked my butt with a handful of visors.

  We walked over to the boat basin and were dazzled by the colorful array of canoes and kayaks hanging on boat racks and lying along the shore.

  “Help you, ladies?”

  A giant of a man with a perfectly waxed Hercule Poirot mustache, much grayer than Poirot would have ever allowed, was standing behind us, a clipboard in his hand. He was wearing a faded blue Fort Myers Beach tee shirt with “Boaters Do It on the Water” stenciled across his massive chest.

  Bridgy must have flashed on Ryan’s collection of “Deputies Do It Safely” shirts, because she asked in a soft undertone, “Do you think he knows Ryan?”

  There was just enough of a breeze coming in off the water to carry her question farther than intended.

  The man raised his eyebrows. “Ryan the Deputy or Ryan the Busker who sings in Times Square on Tuesdays? Know ’em both. You?”

  Bridgy was all tongue-tied at being caught mid-whisper, so I answered, “We only know the deputy.”

  “Nice feller. Helpful, too. Gave me this shirt when I donated some prizes to a Christmas party for the children of fallen deputies. Good man. So am I, come to think of it. Name’s Tony. What can I do for you gals?”

  I told him we were looking to rent a kayak, and I casually pointed to a long two-seater.

  “The green one looks like we could handle it.”

  Before he agreed to let us have the kayak, he grilled us, making sure we knew the differences between a kayak and a canoe. Then he asked when we’d last been out on the water, where we’d paddled and had we ever gone on our own without being part of a flotilla. We had to fudge our answer to the last question since our on-the-water experience was limited to group tours of Lovers Key and Bonita Beach. He seemed satisfied we were experienced enough to handle his craft safely, and showed us a couple of kayaks and talked about the differences.

  “You looking for speed or stability?”

  It didn’t garner his confidence when Bridgy shouted, “Speed,” while I landed firmly on the side of stability. He scratched his head and then muttered something about “women” under his breath before saying aloud, “Well, since you two don’t agree, a sit-on-top model is out of the question.”

  He pointed to a silver kayak with no cockpit and a black seat and backrest much higher than I was used to riding. It looked far less secure than I’d like. Gentle though the bay was, I was afraid sitting high could lead to overturning in the wake of even the smallest speedboat. I’d be worried about balance the entire ride.

  We settled on a fourteen-foot recreational boat, a compromise that sacrificed some of Bridgy’s need for speed and gave in to my yen for stability. It was about five feet shorter than the green kayak, and the difference in length might slow us down but would give us a more secure ride. The two cockpits were wide and roomy for easy access getting in and out.

  We rented the ubiquitous bright orange life jackets, loaded a couple of water bottles, a bag of chips and a pack of M&M’s under the covered deck and pushed off, with Tony yelling after us, “Don’t go too far, you two. I close at six sharp.”

  We balanced our double-bladed paddles and synchronized our movements until we had a smooth roll, barely moving the water’s surface and gliding through the mangrove trees that spread out from the shoreline. I asked Bridgy exactly where we should look for Skully.

  She laughed and lifted the right side of her paddle in the air, while dragging the left in the water, throwing my careful rolling strokes off-kilter.

  “Look around. Who cares where we go? We’re in paradise. We work too hard and don’t play enough. Paddle away. And keep your eyes peeled. Maybe we’ll get lucky.” And she dipped her blade back in the water, reducing my fear of caps
izing.

  We had nearly reached the end of the mangroves when Bridgy commanded, “Oops, paddles up. Duck crossing.”

  Kayak paddles barely disrupt the water, so kayakers could often get quite close to the bay’s natural inhabitants.

  “Darn. I don’t have the nature book. Can’t check the species.”

  Bridgy was quite forgiving. “Hey, we really aren’t on a nature trip. We’re looking for bigger game.” And she laughed at her own silliness. We sat still watching a brown and white mama duck lead her ducklings from the shade of one black mangrove tree across the waterway to another. The mama swam a deliberate route, going far wide of the trees, to keep her babies from getting tangled in the maze of roots.

  As soon as the ducks were safely out of our path, we swung out into Estero Bay. We’d entered the bay forty or fifty yards south of the northernmost tip of the island, Bowditch Point, where the salty water of the Gulf of Mexico started to become brackish as it flowed into the bay and met the inflow of freshwater creeks and rivers.

  I have to confess that as much as I adore the beachy atmosphere of the Gulf side of the island, with its miles of pristine sand dotted with umbrellas, beach chairs, volleyball nets and the occasional outdoor bar, it can’t compare to the freedom of skimming along on a kayak in the bay.

  Bridgy suggested we paddle up to the bridge that connected Estero Island to San Carlos Island. Called Matanzas Pass, it was the narrowest waterway on the bay side of Estero Island, and once we were there, we could steal a quick look into canals and inlets, in the hopes of finding Skully or at least his canoe.

  “Ryan told me the canoe was green with black buoyancy barrels held by rope on both sides. Should be easy to spot, right?”

  “Only if he’s here, Bridg, only if he’s here. Didn’t you hear Ryan explain to Rowena? Skully travels up and down the coast from island to island for no purpose I can determine, but it is his life and his work. Who’s to say he’s not halfway to the Keys by now?”

  “Don’t be such a Debbie Downer. It’s a fabulous day. And looking for Skully gives us an excuse to hang out with the ducks and, oh look, is that the, what’s it called, the poisonous stingray we learned about at the library seminar on ‘what to stay away from in the water’?”

  Naturally, she lifted her paddle so she could point, and I had to scramble for balance, not wanting to go splat on top of a poison fish. An extremely large diamond-shaped fish swam alongside our kayak. It was dark with light spots, and I remembered the slide presentation immediately. I could even see the name in the lower left corner of the picture of a brown fish with yellow-white spots.

  “Spotted eagle ray. And it’s dangerous if approached, but not aggressive, as I recall.”

  Bridgy turned and looked at me in alarm. We pulled our paddles out of the water as quietly as we could and sat waiting until our new friend was well out of sight.

  We crossed under the bridge and continued to paddle for another couple of hundred yards farther along the coast. It didn’t take long for us to realize that we were getting tired, it was getting late and there was no sign of Skully or his canoe.

  We stopped to admire a flock of great white herons high above our heads. If Skully was anywhere to be seen, the herons were high enough and circling wide enough to see him. But those of us in the kayak gliding along the water were plain out of luck. So we turned and headed back to Bowditch Point.

  When we got to the basin we jumped out and pulled the kayak completely onto dry land, then we removed our gear and placed the paddles across the boat, the same way we’d found them.

  “You’re my kind of customers, coming back right before closing. Them folks think they can stay out on the water until they decide it’s time to come in, well, I don’t rent to them a second time. No siree. The annoyance ain’t worth havin’ their business.”

  Bridgy preened as though we’d gotten a gold star on a spelling paper in second grade. But while Tony was congratulating our promptness, I was staring at a green canoe with black buoyancy bumpers.

  So I may have sounded a bit distracted when I told him how glad we were that he was pleased, when all the while, I was trying to figure out how to bring the green canoe into the conversation. I needn’t have worried. Bridgy must have followed the direction of my pointed stare, because she screeched, sounding not unlike Jocelyn on the phone earlier.

  “That canoe. Right there. Was it there all the time?”

  Tony looked in the direction of Bridgy’s outstretched hand.

  “Oh, Tom Smallwood left that here. You know him? Another great guy.”

  I forced myself to speak in normal, measured tones. “We do know him. In fact we’ve been looking for him all day.”

  “I get it. Need some man’s work done, huh? Tom’s the best. Him and me built that deck. Ever see better craftsmanship? Not likely.” And he stroked his mustache in a rough, very un-Poirot-like gesture.

  Bridgy started, “Er, actually—”

  But I jumped on top of her words. “Exactly! We need some work done and Skully came right to mind.”

  Tony laughed, a jolly thunderous sound. “So you heard about that? Then you know he’s a mite peculiar for all that his work is near enough perfect.

  “He come in right after you gals went out. I’m surprised you didn’t see him. Though to tell the truth, I think when he don’t want to be seen, he’s damn near invisible. Anyway, he left the boat for the overnight. Does that once in a while when he has places to go, people to see. Guess this is one of those times. He’ll be back tomorrow. Can I tell him where to find you?”

  We gave Tony our information. As we walked back to the car, Bridgy was talking about our glorious time on the water while I was wondering how a man and a canoe could hide in plain sight.

  Chapter Fifteen ||||||||||||||||||||

  We drove back to Augusta’s house and saw Pastor John coming down the wooden steps from the porch. He kept walking toward his car until I hollered, “We have wonderful news.”

  That brought him to an abrupt stop.

  “Have to hurry. Jocelyn has called twice in the past half hour.” He tapped his wristwatch with his index finger. His face was flushed and he looked as harried as the White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland who was “late for a very important date.” Proof positive that Jocelyn could instill panic in even the kindest of souls.

  I hurried to his side and whispered, “Ryan found the locket. I want to show it to Augusta before we bring it to Fern. Delia will be wearing it at the viewing.”

  “Viewing, oh my, no.”

  “She can’t wear it? But Fern said . . .”

  “Of course she can wear the locket.” Pastor John was close to losing patience, although I was sure that had nothing to do with me. “But there will be no viewing.”

  Bridgy and I both looked at him blankly. No viewing?

  “Augusta has decided.” His voice was as unyielding as if Augusta were speaking. “The funeral service is tomorrow morning at the church. Ten A.M. sharp. Now I really must go. Have to put the finishing touches on my sermon. And coordinate with the organist. And the choirmaster. And find out why Jocelyn requires me to be home this very minute.”

  Clearly at the end of his tether, Pastor bid us a hasty good-bye and drove away.

  “No viewing?” Bridgy raised her eyebrows.

  “Don’t look at me. This is the first I heard. Fortunate that he told us, though. This way we won’t bring up the topic of a viewing and all will be serene.”

  We were on the porch about to knock on the screen door when we heard Augusta bellow, “You will not stay in Delia’s house. You will not step one foot inside Delia’s house. Go ahead, get a lawyer. What do they know, anyway? If you are coming tonight, rent a room. We got an island full of them.” And we heard her slam the receiver of her telephone hard into the cradle.

  I silently counted to ten and then tapped lightly. />
  “Miss Augusta? It’s Sassy and Bridgy. May we come in?”

  “Come on in. I’m just after talking to Delia’s nephew, Josiah, who’s ’bout as dumb as a sack of hammers. Don’t want to drive up for the funeral in the morning. Too cheap to pay for a hotel room for him and his brother if they drive up and stay tonight. Wanted the key to Delia’s house. Like I’d give him anything. Humph.”

  “No problem there. I think the sheriff still has the house sealed. Crime scene and all.”

  Bridgy gave me the elbow at the words “crime scene,” but Augusta actually smiled. “Forgot about that. Should have let them go to Delia’s and get themselves arrested for whatever the sheriff can think of.”

  “Disturbing the peace?” Bridgy was nothing if not helpful.

  “Disturbin’ my peace, that’s for sure. Anyway, where’s my manners? Come set down. Help yourself to a snack or a drink. People been right neighborly. My kitchen probably has more food in it than the Read ’Em and Eat.”

  My laugh wouldn’t have been quite as forced if I didn’t have an immediate vision of Aunt Ophie wildly tossing hundreds of pounds of recipe ingredients hither and yon.

  Bridgy came back from the kitchen with a plate of cheese and crackers and a pitcher with orange slices floating in a cheerful-looking red liquid, and pointed out the white tape on the front labeled “nonalcoholic sangria.”

  “Clever, huh?”

  “That’s Blondie next door. Nice enough woman. Can’t leave well enough alone in the kitchen, though. Always dropping an ingredient or adding something extra to tasty recipes been in the family for generations.”

  “Her family?”

  “Anybody’s family. Wish I had a nickel for every time she asked me for a recipe and then, a week or so later, brought over a sample to show me how she ‘improved’ it. Does it all the time. You better hope she don’t come into the café. She’ll beg you for recipes; then she’ll be giving free samples of her ‘fix up’ of your food. Probably right from that little table in front of your door.”