I looked at Maggie, who translated, “Awesome.”
“If we were at the Classic Book Club meeting together, she would always slip me a couple of hard candies. Butterscotch. My favorite. Once when I stopped by her house to drop off a book I borrowed, Miss Delia invited me in for cookies and she gave me this.”
Holly held out her arm to display a bracelet with tiny shells threaded on delicately woven fishing line. While we were admiring it I stole a glance at Bridgy, who read my mind and nodded in agreement. The bracelet looked an awful lot like Skully’s work.
One of the apron-wearing ladies invited us to the buffet sumptuously laid out on the long tables. As we stood up, I looked around. Augusta still had a crowd buzzing around her, each one wanting to give personal condolences. At first I didn’t see the nephews, and then I did—off in the corner with Rowena, Judge Harcourt and the vice president from the resort. I was incensed. I thought about marching over and breaking up their “meeting,” but out of respect for Miss Delia and especially Miss Augusta, I decided to ignore them.
Miss Augusta made a different decision. I didn’t see her get up from her chair, but clearly her energy was renewed. By the time I noticed, she was marching, spine straight, shoulders back, directly toward the group that included the nephews. I jumped from my chair, hoping to head her off, but she didn’t wait to get up close.
Still half a room away from them, she yelled, “Vultures. That’s what you are, a thieving bunch of vultures.”
The silence in the room was louder than a sonic boom. Pastor John and I, both on the move to head off Augusta, froze in our tracks.
Rowena took what I’m sure she thought was a conciliatory step toward Augusta, which only increased her rage.
“Stay away from me and mine you biggety troublemaker. I know what you’re fixing to do. Talking those foolish boys into throwing away everything that was important to Delia. For shame.”
Rowena opened her mouth but seemed to have thought better of getting in a battle with Augusta in front of half the town. She clamped her jaw shut and backed away, trying to slide behind Judge Harcroft.
Augusta shook her finger at the judge. “You’re no better. In cahoots with the likes of her. Stealin’ Delia’s land for money. Honorable judge! Ha!”
Judge Harcroft’s eyes nearly popped out of his head, but he, too, decided that only discretion would save his reputation, and he stayed silent. When I looked around, the resort vice president and Delia’s nephews had completely disappeared.
Pastor put his arm around Augusta’s fragile shoulders and led her back to her seat. Blondie Quinlin broke from the crowd of gray-haired ladies, moved closer, leaned over Augusta and whispered. Augusta nodded, a little smile playing on her lips, and she seemed to regain her composure. Deciding I wasn’t needed at that exact moment, I turned back to my table.
“‘Biggety’! Miss Augusta called the Emporium lady ‘biggety.’ What does that mean?” Holly shrugged her shoulders and circled her hands from side to side, beside herself with excitement for having witnessed so much spectacle among the adults.
“Why, honey chile, biggety is southern for ‘full of yourself,’ possibly even ‘overbearing’. And that pushy lilac-haired woman is nothing if not biggety.” Ophie was always happy to provide language lessons along with her well-mannered ladies lectures and cooking advice. Her encyclopedic wisdom knew no bounds.
Maggie watched her daughter’s face as she absorbed the meaning. “See, Holly, you and your friends have a language all your own and sometimes so do your elders.”
“Biggety!” Holly was gleeful. “I know a lot of kids who are biggety! Can’t wait to intro the word on Twitter.” She pulled out her cell phone and began tapping the keyboard.
Cady came over, pulled up a chair and asked what the kerfuffle was all about. When Bridgy and I explained the resort company expressed an interest in an island Delia supposedly owned, Cady said it all made sense.
“The newspaper received a letter from some company asking for any biographic information we had on residents who were at least third- or fourth-generation Floridians. They were primarily interested in ‘family land.’ I bet it was the same company.
“The request for land information struck my publisher as odd, so he responded that we don’t have anything like that available. I guess they had other resources.”
Blondie stopped by and I introduced Cady. After hellos all around I asked what she had said to Miss Augusta that helped her regain her self-control so quickly.
“I told her that Willie Harcroft wet his pants in the schoolyard during recess in third grade. I know it for a fact because I was there when it happened. And now when Augusta looks at him, she’ll see a little boy wearing enormous black spectacles and sodden dungarees who spent the rest of his grammar school years known as Wee-wee Willie.” Blondie’s high-pitched voice trailed behind her as she moved on to spread the story.
Our entire group exploded with laughter, which snapped Holly’s attention away from her keyboard. “What?”
Ophie patted Holly’s hand. “Never you mind. We’re being silly is all.”
The crowd thinned out and Augusta held her own in a social sense, shaking hands and thanking everyone for their kindness. The nephews never came back to take up their share of the responsibilities, so Bridgy and I decided to ask Miss Augusta if she needed us to help.
Her smile was soft and gentle.
“Delia is buried with her locket thanks to you gals. Past few days have been easier for me with all you done. If I could ask one more favor, please see if you can find Bow. Delia loved that cat. We need to find her a home where she can roam free but still have a place to get her neck ribbon changed and get a taste of vittles.”
It was the last gift Augusta could give Delia. Bridgy and I were determined to make it happen.
I left Bridgy talking to some of our café regulars and went off to wash my hands. Rowena waylaid me as soon as I stepped out from the women’s room. “Sassy, you must help me.”
Before I could answer, she glanced all around.
“Not here, but soon. It’s a matter of life and death.” And she hurried out the side door into the parking lot.
Chapter Nineteen ||||||||||||||||||||
I took my seat next to Bridgy, who said, “Don’t you look mystified. Are you pondering the meaning of life?”
“Almost. I met Rowena in the hallway and she wants to talk to me about a matter of life and death. What can she possibly mean? And why me of all people?”
Bridgy’s response was brittle. “Cold hard cash is the only thing important to Rowena. She says ‘life and death’ but she means ‘help me make money.’ Maybe she wants us to do some consignments for her.”
As soon as she said it I knew she was right. Bridgy’s acute understanding of people’s faults and weaknesses never ceased to amaze me. Here I was thinking Rowena feared for her safety, but more likely, she was worried about her cash register. The tragedy of Delia’s death had me thinking drama, drama, drama.
Ophie came back from the dessert table with two paper plates each piled with homemade brownies. Cady and Holly were both reaching before Ophie sat down but leaned back in their chairs as soon as she cleared her throat.
“That’s better.” Ophie nodded her approval. “Excellent table manners all around. Now”—she pointed to the plate on the left—“these have walnuts. The others are plain.”
We all chose from one plate or the other, and I was smart enough to say, “These are all right, but something’s missing. Not quite as yummy as yours.”
Ophie beamed. “Why thank you, darlin’. Let me have a taste.” She nibbled, pronounced the brownie to be short on cocoa and then proceeded to polish it off. As she wiped a crumb from her lip, she glanced around the hall.
“This space isn’t much bigger than the Read ’Em and Eat. Yet it seems roomier. Hmmm. I bet if you got ri
d of those ugly old bookshelves, you would have a wide-open dining area just like this. More comfortable for the customers. Easier for the servers to move around. Yesterday I bumped my hip, not once but two different times, squeezing between tables.” And she smoothed her skirt from waist to thigh as if she had Miss America–sized hips, which hadn’t been true for decades.
“Are . . . ?” Before I could finish asking if Ophie was crazy, Bridgy clamped her hand on my wrist, signaling immediate silence.
“Aunt Ophie, that is quite a suggestion. Isn’t it, Sassy?” Everyone at the table, except apparently Ophie, knew that the bookshelves were the heart and soul of the café for me. With all eyes pointed in my direction, I managed to echo, “Quite a suggestion.”
Ophie nodded, satisfied that the matter was settled. I could only pray she wouldn’t arrange for carpenters to start tearing the café apart at sunrise.
Working harder to distract me, Bridgy announced that she and I were going to visit Miguel and asked Maggie if she would mind giving Ophie a ride home.
Oblivious to Bridgy’s motive to keep us apart until I calmed down, Ophie said, “Why, I wouldn’t mind visiting Miguel myself,” even as Maggie agreed to drive her back to the turret.
Bridgy signaled “no” by fluttering her hand a little too close to Ophie’s face, which might have started a well-mannered ladies lecture, but Ophie was distracted by Cady, who chose that exact moment to ask if Ophie would be willing to be interviewed for a public interest piece for the Sunday edition of the newspaper.
She was so busy nodding and batting her eyelashes that she barely noticed when Bridgy and I stood, mouthed a silent thank-you to Maggie and left the table.
We spent a few moments assuring Augusta that we would be available for any help she might need, and as we left her in the comfort of a circle of women from the church, she boomed, “Sassy, don’t forget your promise.”
I stopped dead still, turned and gave her a solid thumbs-up. She smiled and returned the salute. We were coconspirators until Delia’s killer was found.
Bridgy raised a questioning eyebrow, but I shushed her and nodded toward the heavy oak front door. She read that correctly as “I’ll tell you outside.”
The door to the parking lot opened. The sunshine was so blinding, I didn’t recognize the two men coming through the doorway.
Bridgy leaned in. “Now’s your chance. Tell them about Skully.” And she stepped farther back into the vestibule, determined to avoid a difficult conversation in the blazing sunshine. It was then that I recognized Ryan Mantoni and Frank Anthony, both still dressed in street clothes.
I wavered. I didn’t mind talking to Ryan, but Frank Anthony was bound to be trouble. He’d get all uppity, accuse me of hiding evidence or some such. Still, there was probably no way I could avoid it. We were all crowded in the vestibule, and Bridgy was never going to let me walk through to the parking lot without talking about Skully.
Ryan asked how Miss Augusta was managing, and that gave me a chance to describe the scene between Augusta and the nephews. In the interest of delay, I was toying with the idea of sharing Judge Harcroft’s third grade misadventure, when Bridgy, totally out of patience, said, “For goodness’ sake, Sassy, tell them about Skully.”
Was it my imagination or did their ears twitch? I took a deep breath and then charged forward with a jumble of words crossing the stories from both Jocelyn and Blondie.
An older couple walked into the vestibule from the reception but hesitated when I suddenly stopped talking. Ryan, always the gentleman, opened the door to the parking lot and made a “come right this way” gesture. The man took the door handle from Ryan with a nod of thanks, and they left us to our conversation.
Frank Anthony decided that we were in the worst possible spot and told Ryan to find us a better one. We stood mutely until Ryan came back with Pastor John, who shook Frank’s hand.
“Lieutenant Anthony, so nice to finally meet you. Why not use the parsonage? Jocelyn and I will be busy here for at least another hour. The side door is unlocked.”
Jocelyn! After all her oohing and aahing about the handsome new “sheriff,” I was amused at the thought of her coming home to find him sitting in her own house, albeit with guests. Well, I could always hope that this interview, as the sheriff’s deputies liked to call it, would be quick.
The side door was indeed unlocked, and we sat in a cozy den adjacent to the kitchen. I wondered if everyone else was as uncomfortable as I was at being in Pastor and Jocelyn’s home without them present. Remembering my foraging through Miss Delia’s house with Ryan, I decided that the deputies were probably used to going wherever their jobs took them.
And of course there was no host or hostess to offer a glass of sweet tea, or even a sip of water.
Following the same routine I noticed when they interviewed Miss Augusta, Ryan looked to Frank, who gave a slight nod. Then Ryan asked me to tell them what I had heard about Skully and reminded me to start from the beginning and include what I told them before we were interrupted in the vestibule.
I had finished recounting my first and second conversations with Jocelyn and was about to say that Blondie told us basically the same thing, when my phone pinged. I glanced down in my lap involuntarily, and when I saw a text message from Maggie I opened it without thinking. Of course I stopped talking as I did so. We were together when we met Blondie, so Bridgy started to fill in, but the lieutenant wasn’t having any of it.
He shushed her with a curt “We’ll get to you soon enough.”
Two can play that game. I deliberately leaned over to show Bridgy the text.
OPHIE HOME WE R 2 CYA
Bridgy, never one to take being silenced lightly, said, “Great news,” and grinned as if she’d won the Florida State Lottery.
“Can we please get back to Skully?”
Ryan’s pleading outranked Frank Anthony’s impatience, so I politely repeated what Blondie had told me, including the rotation of her regular Mexican Domino game, which was the reason she frequented Delia’s street.
And with no discernible signal, Ryan and the lieutenant shifted roles. Frank became the questioner and Ryan the observer. Frank got out of his chair and stood with legs akimbo and arms crossed. By now I knew he liked the height advantage as an interrogation technique, but he looked for all the world like Yul Brynner in The King and I, a movie Bridgy and I watched a gazillion times during our junior year in high school when Bridgy played the role of Lady Thiang, the King’s head wife, in the school drama club. I kept expecting Frank to burst into song. “Shall We Dance?” or, more likely, “A Puzzlement.”
That would have had entertainment value, but instead I had to sit there and listen to Frank hammer away at the fact that I had my first conversation with Jocelyn before he interviewed me and I neglected to tell him.
Then he had me painstakingly outline a timeframe connecting my second conversation with Jocelyn, my conversation with Blondie and the visit he and Ryan made to the café to bring me the locket.
In his mind, I’d been withholding information again. Still, he was civil until Bridgy told him we’d kayaked out in the bay hoping to find Skully so we could ask if he saw any unusual people around Delia’s house. Then he hit the roof.
He threw his hands up in the air and turned to Ryan. “You call these women your friends. How do they not understand that murder is serious business?”
Frank ran his fingers through his hair, but unlike Cady, who used it as a smoothing mechanism, Frank ruffled his hair until it looked like a rooster comb.
By the look on Ryan’s face, if he could have shriveled up and blown away like a fallen needle from a sand pine tree, he would have done so and gladly.
The ordeal ended with a clearly frustrated Frank Anthony telling us to “cease and desist.” Yep, he actually said those exact words, ordering us to stop interfering with an official murder investigation. As if we
were interfering. We couldn’t even find Skully no matter how hard we tried. Glad to be out from under the repetitive blast of questions, Bridgy and I strode across the parking lot to her sporty Escort, anxious to get on with our afternoon. As she hit the clicker that flashed the lights and unlocked the door, I clapped my hands and shouted, “Freedom!” much to the surprise of the few mourners walking from the parish hall to their cars.
I jumped into the passenger seat.
Bridgy flipped on the air conditioner. “Freedom? Really? We were only being questioned. We weren’t in jail.”
I dismissed the deputies with a back flip of my hand. “Oh, not that. Freedom from a backseat that was clearly designed to carry a couple of grocery bags or a tennis racket, not a full-grown person no matter how I twisted and bent.”
Bridgy slid her iPod in the car dock and hit “Scramble.” We hummed along to the Black Eyed Peas and then I played air guitar accompanying Brad Paisley. When “Love on Top” by Beyoncé popped out of the speakers, we sang along, hit “Repeat” and sang again until we crossed onto the mainland. I was luxuriating in the space the front seat gave me to wiggle and bounce in time to the music. I kept an eye on Bridgy. Dancing while driving was as dangerous as texting while driving, but she seemed content to sing along, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel.
Just as Bridgy turned into the Medical Center parking lot, I realized we didn’t have a get-well gift.
We decided she’d drop me off so I could run into the gift shop while she parked the car. It was a great plan until I stepped out of the car. As I turned to close the door, Bridgy held up her hand, “wait a minute” style. I leaned down to hear whatever she’d forgotten to tell me and was instantly sorry.
“Why don’t we ask Miguel what he thinks about expanding the café floor space? I mean, can he comfortably cook for a greater number of customers with only us to help out in the busy times? That’s definitely part of the equation.”
She laughed as she said it, but that didn’t make it any easier to take. Too stunned to answer, I slammed the car door, hoping it rattled her molars. Did she seriously think I’d consider turning the Read ’Em and Eat into a café without books?
Well Read, Then Dead (Read Em and Eat Mystery) Page 13