Augusta shook her head at the thought of our inevitable ruination.
I took the envelope out of my pocket and sat down on the couch next to her recliner.
“Ryan and Lieutenant Anthony found Miss Delia’s locket.”
Augusta’s hand touched her chest, resting at the base of her throat as if to check that she was still breathing. Then she slowly extended her arm and I placed the locket securely in her palm.
She clutched it so tightly that I feared its corners would cut her skin. She shut her eyes. Then she relaxed her hand, opened her eyes and took a long look. As I had done a few hours before, she caressed the swamp lily etching with her index finger.
“Delia will be pleased as punch to wear this locket into the everlastin’. I owe Ryan a heap o’ gratefulness. Where’d he find it? I’d almost given it up for gone.”
“Miss Delia had it . . . among her clothes when she . . . died. It was in the Medical Examiner’s Office.” I tried to sound chirpy, as if, silly us, we should have realized where it would be.
“Hmm. Didn’t know that was Delia’s habit. Happy to have it, though. And in time for the funeral. Praise be. Guess I should let Mr. Beech know.” And she started to reach for the phone.
“All taken care of. We called Fern and they are waiting for us to drop it by.”
Augusta relaxed deep into the recliner. “Delia can go in peace dressed as she’d want to be.”
Bridgy gave me the big eyes and her head nudged toward the locket. I’d forgotten about the picture.
“If you open it, there’s a picture inside. We were wondering who the man might be.”
Augusta looked startled. “Delia never showed me any picture. Could you open it? And let me get my cheaters on.” She picked up a pair of Ben Franklin half glasses from the coffee table.
I leaned in and popped the clasp. Augusta pulled the locket close and stared at the picture.
“I can’t believe it. In all these years, Delia never showed this to me or even hinted that the locket had a space for a picture. I never knew it opened. Who can this be?”
Augusta said we’d find a flashlight hanging on a hook by the front door and asked if one of us would bring it to her.
Shining the light directly on the photograph as she held the locket less than an inch from her nose, Augusta scrunched her eyes and peered through her glasses. Finally she flipped off the light.
“Nope,” she said definitively. “Never seen him before.”
Bridgy sighed. “I guess the mystery man will go with Delia to her grave.”
I shot her a warning look, but rather than upset Augusta, Bridgy’s romantic nonsense perked her right up.
“Dang it. You’re a smart one. That’s who he is—the mystery man.”
Augusta looked at our blank stares and explained, “You wouldn’t know the story. No one this far north of the Ten Thousand Islands would know. It was a long time ago, when we lived on farms near Everglades City. Things were different. Folks had obligations. Delia, especially. Her mother died when Delia was a young’un, and she did the cooking, the cleaning, the washing and all for her father and three brothers. It was her life and it suited her well, leastways that’s what everyone thought.
“Not like today. You young girls own businesses, live away from your family and make decisions for yourselves. I don’t approve or disapprove, just saying it’s a different way of doing things.”
“Now to tell the rest of Delia’s story I’m relying on my memory of letters from my great aunt Sarah. Aunt to me on my mother’s side and to Delia on her father’s. It was the year I was away with a church group doing missionary work in the low country of the Carolinas.” She stopped for a beat or two. “I’m a bit parched.”
Bridgy reached for the pitcher of sangria, but I warded her off and went in search of the Buffalo Trace. I brought back a glass with a full two fingers and under Augusta’s approving nod, sat down for the rest of the story.
“Delia was always a bit flighty. Unreliable-like. She’d be out hanging the laundry and the flutter of an orange sulphur butterfly would catch her eye and off she’d follow until a peregrine falcon caught her attention, then she’d follow him right along. Might be an hour or more before she’d get back to the laundry.
“Many a time her father and brothers complained that supper was late because she’d run off to pick a bunch of wild yellow sea daisies or that lavender lobelia she took a likin’ to. Come back long after the men were home from the day’s chores. The time came when Delia was missing more than she was home and her excuses were thinner.”
Augusta took a deep swallow of her Buffalo Trace.
“Then he came knocking at the door. The mystery man. Said he met Delia at a church square dance and wanted to come courting all proper-like. ’Course her father turned the man away. Delia had responsibilities, like I said.”
I’m sure that Bridgy was as horrified as I was. We needed to remember that this was another time, another place. We sat perfectly still, barely breathing, as Augusta continued.
“Next thing, Delia run off with him. Dang near to Miami. Her father and her brothers followed along, shotguns in hand, and found Delia before any damage was done, if you catch my meaning. She come home and no one ever mentioned the mystery man again. He up and left these parts. Or her brothers shot him dead. Hard to say which. Don’t much matter. I’m guessing all that’s left is this picture.”
Augusta washed the end of her story down with a healthy sip of the Buffalo Trace and then turned the topic to another missing creature.
“Anyone found Delia’s cat? That Bow is a sweet little kitten. Cats make me sneeze, but I’m sure Blondie next door would give her a safe home.”
I told her Ryan was actively looking for Bow. But Augusta decided we needed a flier to help search for the missing cat, and Bridgy offered to help make one.
Augusta was looking through her photographs for a large, clear picture of Bow that could be centered on the flier, when the phone rang.
I reached for it, but August said, “No, I’ll get it. Probably that pesky Josiah asked his cousin, Edgar, the one with the likable singin’ voice, to try and sweet-talk me out of Delia’s house key.”
She said hello and was quiet for a few seconds. Then she exploded.
“You listen to me. Listen good. No one is buying any part of the Ten Thousand Islands. Not you. Not some resort company. Not for any amount. Show some respect to Delia and stop this tomfoolery.”
With the old-fashioned metal telephones, the call can be disconnected with a really loud slam. The other person may only hear the usual click, but for the slammer the satisfaction doesn’t fade. Well, Augusta cracked that receiver down with an explosion that could be heard on the mainland.
Then she took a long sip of Buffalo Trace, set the glass down and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“That Rowena is a bothersome one. Why’d she think I had any of Delia’s land to sell? And if I did, why’d she think it’s any of her business?”
My cell phone rang in the middle of her rant.
It was Ryan calling to say that no one had seen so much as a whisker of Bow since Delia was found.
Looks like we’d be circulating those “Have you seen this cat?” fliers after all.
Chapter Sixteen ||||||||||||||||||||
A portly man in a dark suit with an appropriately subdued demeanor opened the door of the Michael J. Beech Funeral Home. He gave us a tight smile and pointed the way to Fern’s office, even as he was plastering the somber mask back on his face and widening the door for an elderly couple who had come up the front walk a few steps behind us.
Fern jumped out of her chair-on-wheels and it bounced off the wall behind her, something that, judging by the scuffs on the paint, had happened dozens of times. She hustled out from behind what looked like a genuine oak desk and grabbed Bridgy and me fo
r a group hug.
“I hate when we get clients who I know really well. Delia was such a sweetie. We’re all going to miss her.”
Then she stepped out of the hug and slid back into her professional self.
We were so used to seeing Fern around town in her brightly colored tees and tanks spattered with flowers and chunky plastic jewelry that I marveled at how official she appeared in her work clothes, a dark gray skirt, black shell with matching sweater and low-heeled black pumps. I took a closer look and realized she did indeed have panty hose on, an item I’d not worn more than half a dozen times since we’d moved to Fort Myers Beach. Decorum or no decorum, I couldn’t imagine having to wear them every day.
When I handed her the locket, she held it in her palm and examined it thoughtfully.
“I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Delia wear this, and you say Augusta wants it buried with her? That’s odd.”
“Not really. Augusta said Delia always wore it on special dress-up occasions. Delia kept it pinned to her bra on ordinary days, which even Augusta didn’t know. The medical examiner found it.” I pointed to the clasp. “Open it.”
As soon as she saw the picture Fern smiled. “A long-lost love. I wonder who he is.”
My eyebrows shot up to the ceiling. Bridgy laughed out loud. Fern was as sure as Ophie was that the man in the fedora had once been Delia’s lover. Of course Augusta’s tale of the mystery man had us inclined to believe they were right. Still, I asked, “Why a lover, why not her father or maybe a brother?”
Fern gave us a “don’t question my wisdom on this” look, followed by a conciliatory smile. “We deal with bereavement all day, every day. However people spend their lives, they want to spend eternity with whatever they cherish most, be it a wedding ring, a favorite book, an algebra medal from sixty years ago, their childhood pet’s favorite toy. You wouldn’t believe the variety. But when it comes to pictures . . .”
Fern lowered her voice. We leaned across the desktop, anxious to hear her expert opinion.
“Speaking hypothetically, let’s say someone dies.”
She stopped. It took a minute for me to realize she needed us to accept that whatever she said was no more than a theory.
“Hypothetically, of course.” I nodded in agreement.
Satisfied, Fern continued to whisper. “By all accounts the deceased has had a happy and fulfilling marriage for decades and decades. Yet after the family comes in to make the final arrangements, a longtime friend will show up with a picture of an old flame and beg us to place it in the coffin. Sometimes they even have a note from the deceased, expressing that wish.”
Fern raised her voice back to a conversational tone.
“It used to bother me, fooling the family like that, but the older I get, the more I realize how complicated life is. Why should death be any less so?”
She snapped the locket shut and looked at the swamp lily etching. “A true barrier island memento. Well, that alone would make it worth burying with Delia. The old-time lover is a glorious bonus. I wonder why they never married. Do you think he died in a war?”
The story of Delia and the man pictured in the locket wasn’t mine to tell, so I shrugged. “I guess we’ll never know.”
Fern signaled it was time for us to let her get back to work by standing up, her chair once again hitting the wall. In the midst of another group hug, we agreed that we’d all be at the service in Pastor John’s church the next morning.
As she opened her office door, Fern said, “I imagine a lot of Delia’s friends are upset that there isn’t going to be a viewing. Even that scruffy looking handyman, you know the one with the skull in his bag, came in to check on viewing times. Wouldn’t believe it when Roy at the door told him there wasn’t any. I had to go out and tell him that it was quite true. Church service. Burial. That’s it.”
And she ushered us out.
We barely had our seat belts on when Bridgy said exactly what I had been thinking. “Is it me, or is all this moving along too fast? Delia’s dead body was found yesterday morning, and by tomorrow she’s gone for good.”
I shook my head. “Not gone. Remember your catechism. We all reunite in heaven.”
“I know. Why else would people want to bring pet toys with them? They’re planning to play with the pet again in the afterlife. But what about pictures? What good is a picture?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps if it’s a picture that you’ve always used to help you remember the long-ago past, you want to make sure the memory doesn’t fade in eternity.”
“So, what would you take? In case I need to know someday.”
Out of the corner of my eye I caught her impish grin. Turnabout is fair play.
“I’d take a copy of Aunt Ophie’s buttermilk pie recipe. In case the angels want a sweet treat now and again.”
Bridgy lightly punched my arm. “Hey, she’s my aunt.”
“I’m declaring that henceforth the recipe is the property of the Read ’Em and Eat. So there. Whoever goes first gets the buttermilk pie.”
We were haggling playfully over custody of the recipe when I realized we had a more important question to consider. Why was Skully, who was undoubtedly the least sociable person I’d ever met, interested in attending Delia’s viewing?
When I asked Bridgy what she thought, she deemed it a coincidence of geography.
“Delia and Augusta have lived on these islands their entire lives, and from what we heard Ryan say to Rowena, so has Skully. Probably their paths crossed a thousand times and he thought to pay his respects since she happened to die while he was here. If he was down on Big Pine Key or up on St. George Island, he wouldn’t know she died and wouldn’t be asking about the viewing and the service. Timing and location, that’s all.”
Somehow I wasn’t so sure.
* * *
The next morning I was shifting hangers from side to side in my closet looking for an appropriate outfit for Delia’s funeral service. I was mindful that Ophie would require us to pass well-mannered ladies inspection, so I avoided sleeveless tops, short skirts and pants of any length.
Shoved off to the left I found a black cotton man-tailored shirt with three-quarter sleeves. It had been on a hanger for so long that the front would need a quick touch with the iron, but I thought it would look classy if I wore a slim gold chain around my neck. I took out a gray knee-length A-line skirt but put it back, deciding that the color combo would look too much like I was Fern’s clone. Two hangers past the gray skirt I found a long-forgotten olive pencil skirt. I moved to the window and held the skirt next to the blouse in the morning light. Perfect.
I stumbled to the kitchen in search of coffee and found the table set with a pitcher of orange juice and a bowl of mixed berries for starters. Ophie was at the stove scrambling eggs with one hand and turning slices of bacon with the other.
“Good morning, honey chile. No matter you think your appetite is fit or poorly, you have to eat hearty to get through this most distressing day.”
And she set a plate piled high with bacon and eggs in front of me, backing it up with a smaller plate of whole wheat toast.
It was a rare morning that Bridgy awoke later than I did, but I took one look at her stretching in the kitchen doorway and knew she hadn’t been out of bed long.
Ophie placed a cup of coffee on the table and held off her cheerful “Good morning” until Bridgy sat down and took a sip or two.
With her elbow resting on the tabletop, and her chin supported firmly by the palm of her hand, Bridgy stifled a yawn.
“Worst night of sleep I’ve had in years. You’d think that would happen on the day we first found out . . .”
Ophie held a plate of bacon and eggs and set it down when Bridgy nodded. We ate in fret-filled silence until Ophie said, “Okay, enough of that feeling down in the dumps. We are going to put on our best clothes and go to church. We w
ill sing. We will praise the Lord. We will celebrate Miss Delia’s life. So you two put a smile on your faces. Well-mannered ladies know that a funeral provides us the opportunity to comfort the living. There’ll be plenty of time to mourn the dead for years to come.”
I laughed out loud. Bridgy looked at me as if I’d gone mad, and perhaps she was right. On the other hand, Ophie gave me a wide smile of approval.
I smiled back. “Comfort the living! That’s what I’ve been thinking since, well, since I saw how worn down Augusta has become over these last couple of days.”
Ophie had begun to clear the table, but I put my hand on her arm and motioned her to sit.
“What is the one thing we could do that would provide the most comfort to Augusta?”
To Bridgy, most difficulties could be solved by attending an amusing party or meeting a new friend, so her answer was quick and sharp. “Find her a new BFF?”
“Bridget!” Ophie used her schoolmarm voice. “Would you go running out looking for a new best friend before Sassy was even in the ground? Where are your manners? Apologize at once.”
Bridgy was genuinely startled. “Oh, Sassy, I didn’t mean . . .”
I grinned when I saw the dismay in her eyes. Evidently I’d be missed.
My grin was contagious. We both started laughing, a low chuckle at first, and then we were holding our stomachs and wiping our eyes.
“Land sakes, I’ll never understand you two.” But Ophie’s schoolmarm voice was gone, as was the tension in the air.
“I’ve been thinking that what Miss Augusta wants most right now is to find out who did this to Miss Delia. And I think we should try to make that happen.”
“Shouldn’t the sheriff . . . ?”
I cut Ophie off before she could finish the sentence. “Oh, they should and they will, over time I suppose, but if the three of us work together, we can find out more than they can. We’re in a café with folks coming in and out all day long. We hear what people say. They don’t even realize we’re listening. And we have friends in both the sheriff’s office and on the newspaper.”
Well Read, Then Dead (Read Em and Eat Mystery) Page 11