“That month’s book was Dracula by Bram Stoker. Holly impressed Sally when she offhandedly mentioned that Stoker’s real first name was Abraham. By the time the meeting was over, Sally suggested that since the kids didn’t seem interested in showing up, we change the name to Classic Book Club and open it up to everyone. It’s become quite popular.”
Bridgy chimed in, “Ophie, you might want to drive your own car to the café in the morning so you can leave at the normal closing time. I usually stay for the meeting in case customers wander in.”
Ophie thought about that for a minute, her chin resting in her palm. Then she smiled. “Great idea. I can use the free time to track down the elusive Mr. Bucket Hat.”
And on that cheerful note, we said good night.
* * *
When the afternoon rush ended, I took some time to review my well-worn copy of The Turn of the Screw by Henry James, a masterpiece of gothic psychological drama. I checked my notes and crib questions carefully and then circled the chairs in the book nook. I wondered how many readers would show up. Usually I remind the members as I see them. Occasionally I send out cheery emails or notes. But with all the chaos that surrounded us since Miguel’s accident, I hadn’t had time to draw a breath, let alone do any outreach.
Bridgy asked if I wanted to serve sweet tea or iced decaf coffee. We had plenty of each so I decided on both.
Maggie and Holly were deep in an animated conversation when they walked through the door. They headed straight for the book nook. Their chatter sounded like mother-and-daughter Sturm und Drang, with Holly wheedling and Maggie using the no-nonsense mom voice.
Lisette Ortiz came in carrying a bunch of mixed flowers. “I thought we should brighten up the book nook since we are discussing such a dark story.”
I thanked her and brought the flowers into the kitchen. Ophie offered to arrange them, and when I walked into the dining room, Judge Harcroft and Jocelyn had joined the group sitting in the corner.
I looked at the wall clock, put on my brightest smile and took my seat. I was pleased at the turnout. I started by asking if anyone had to struggle to accept the fundamental theme that James was striving to reveal.
Holly giggled. “You mean the whole ‘corruption of innocence’ thing? With the kids? I think that was way more horrifying in the dark ages when he wrote the book than it is today.”
Lisette hesitated and then jumped in. “I wasn’t sure if we were supposed to believe that these events were actually happening in the lives of the governess and her charges or if the governess herself had some mental stress that made her imagine these ghosts and tragedies. After all, we were getting the entire story from a narrator who communicated with her by letter at the time.”
Ophie placed a vase overflowing with Lisette’s bouquet on Dashiell Hammett. Judge Harcroft sat straighter and started to object. Then he must have realized that he doesn’t own the table but only uses it for meals.
Wishing us a satisfying meeting, Ophie fluttered her fingertips and gave me a meaningful glance. “I have an assignment, so I can’t stay. In a bit Bridgy will be bringing out a treat I whipped up for y’all. Enjoy.”
Jocelyn, who’d been quiet a tad longer than I’d come to expect, took over the conversation with a lengthy harangue. Lisette was absolutely wrong. James did not intend us to doubt the governess’s sanity. Yada, yada, yada.
I found myself wishing Rowena had shown up. When she and Jocelyn battled with each other, at least they left the rest of us alone.
Maggie, who is the sweetest, most polite person, decided to take on Jocelyn.
“Well, let’s remember that the governess was awfully young, perhaps too young to be left in charge of such a forbidding household. The children’s uncle put too much on her shoulders. Of course being so young, she thought she was capable of more than she actually was. Time equals maturity.”
From the look on Holly’s face, I could see that Maggie’s comment, with its emphasis on youth, was a double-edged sword. The discussion continued until Bridgy brought out a tray of mini cream cheese tarts. I started to ask, but she headed me off. “Ophie made them during the morning lull.”
As usual, the sight of food brought the conversation to a grinding halt, so I suggested we decide on our next book.
Holly jumped and picked up the plate of mini tarts, offering to serve. Judge Harcroft graced us with one of his louder “clearing of the throat” noises, before suggesting we consider The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas. He assured us that we would find the adventures of D’Artagnan and friends to be uplifting and filled with adventure, a sharp contrast to the Henry James book, which the judge declared to be tedious.
We all looked at one another nodding in agreement. I was rummaging through the bookshelves in my mind’s eye when Jocelyn snapped, “The Three Musketeers. That’s rich. Who are they? You and Delia Batson’s two mealymouthed nephews, all colluding to steal everything that woman loved most. You should be ashamed.”
Bridgy was at the counter. She lifted two pitchers, one of sweet tea and one of iced decaf. She put them right down again and glared at me as if I were the troublemaker. Clearly we would be denied our drinks until I stopped the coming battle.
“I think The Three Musketeers is a great choice. Does anyone else have an opinion?”
Holly, who was passing out paper plates, each with three mini tarts, handed one to Lisette and held the plate in her other hand just out of Jocelyn’s reach. “I think that’s a great idea. I saw the movie with Orlando Bloom when I was a kid. I’d love to read the book.”
Then she slowly handed the plate to Jocelyn, who said, “Thank you,” and pushed a tart between her lips, which I sincerely hoped would keep her mouth shut.
As if I, rather than Holly, had been the victor, Bridgy gave me an “atta girl” smile and brought over the pitchers. I stood to help her serve the drinks and glanced at the classics shelf. I was grateful to see three copies of Dumas’s book. I would hate to have to decide between giving one to the judge and one to Jocelyn. Now I had enough books for them and Lisette. I could catch up with Holly and Maggie later in the week.
The front door banged open and Ophie roared in like a hurricane.
“Thank the Lord y’all are up to the snacking part of your meeting. I need Sassy and Bridgy in the kitchen right away.”
Ophie disappeared into the kitchen while Bridgy and I exchanged “what now?” looks.
I smiled at the book club members, suggested they help themselves to drinks and followed Bridgy to the kitchen. We barely got through the doorway when Ophie puffed out her chest triumphantly.
“I found him. I found Ellis Selkirk.”
Chapter Twenty-eight ||||||||||||||||||||
Bridgy and I stopped in our tracks, absolutely bug-eyed. Whatever we were expecting Ophie to say, that wasn’t it.
“How—?”
Ophie reached over her shoulder and gave herself a pat on the back.
“It takes a lot of cunning and womanly wiles to track down a cheating husband. And this fella is a different slice of the same pie. I sat outside the café, whipped out my cell and started calling, hoping to find this Bucket Hat by the end of your book club meeting, and darned if I didn’t.
“Here’s his address.” Ophie handed me a piece of paper, one edge all jagged as if she snatched it hard from a pad. She’d scribbled notes and phone numbers and then methodically crossed them out, but one phone number had an address written underneath it. Ophie had circled the address with multiple rings pressing the pen harder with each go-round, as if savoring her success.
I still wanted an answer.
“How did you find Ellis Selkirk’s address?”
“I told you last night. If we couldn’t find him in a hotel or B and B, he must have rented a house or a condo. If he has those young fellas you were talking about staying with him, the whole group would be far less not
iceable in a house. So I looked on my pages from the phone book and started with any Realtors whose ads suggested houses rather than apartments. Found him on the sixth call.”
She stopped, plainly waiting for applause, which we dutifully gave her.
“I spoke to Charmaine at Mid-Beach Realty, who was eager to help me resolve the dilemma I was using as my cover. Isn’t that what they call it on television? A cover? Sounds so much better than ‘a lie,’ don’t y’all think? By the by, I invited Charmaine to stop at the café for lunch on the house any old time. I’d love her to come on a Wednesday so she can enjoy my chicken salad.” Ophie looked at me directly. “Have you found me a spectacular chicken name yet? Wednesday is right around the corner.”
“You wait. Sassy’ll come up with a humdinger of a name.” Bridgy jumped in and shifted focus. “I’m dying to know about the ‘cover’ you used.”
“Why, I told her that Mr. Selkirk had ordered catering platters for a business gathering he’s hosting and that, silly me, I lost the work order that included his address. Here we are with the food all prepared and no idea where to deliver it.”
Bridgy gave Ophie a big ole bear hug, while I chortled, banged my hands on the counter and declared her to be brilliant.
Blushing with pride, Ophie pointed to the paper in my hand. “I’ve done my part. What’s our next step?”
I took a good look at the address.
“Bucket Hat lives only two blocks from Miss Delia’s house. When I first met him, he told me he’d seen Miss Augusta and Miss Delia leave here and drive off in Augusta’s car. That beat-up Chevy isn’t hard to spot. He could have followed them around town anytime.”
“But why would he go after Delia and not Augusta?” Bridgy had a valid point.
I had no concrete answer.
“Maybe Miss Delia was more convenient. He might have found her by chance. Perhaps he saw her sitting on her porch one day and decided to talk to her alone rather than tackling Augusta and Delia together. Divide and conquer.”
Lisette knocked on the kitchen door. “We’re leaving.”
OMG, I’d abandoned my clubbies. Awful. I hurried back into the dining room. Jocelyn was gone. I offered copies of The Three Musketeers to Lisette, Holly and the judge, who surprised me by saying the book is so long, he’d rather download it to his e-reader. Who would have guessed that Mr. Lives-in-the-first-half-of-the-twentieth- century would own an e-reader and actually use it?
Maggie said she and Holly usually shared the books they read for book club but by sharing they’d never both be able to finish The Three Musketeers before the next meeting, so she bought two copies. I gave her a whopping discount and hurried all the clubbies out of the café. By the time I locked the door, Bridgy and Ophie were straightening the chairs in the book nook. Bridgy asked what our next step was going to be and popped the last of the mini tarts in her mouth right as I was going to grab it.
I poured a half glass of iced decaf and sat at Dashiell Hammett, thinking about how to approach Ellis Selkirk. My brain was in gear but it was a sluggish gear. I was dithering with any number of alternatives.
As I sipped slowly, the primary choice became more obvious. I had to walk up to his house, knock on his door and speak to him directly.
Once I said it aloud, I knew it was what I needed to do.
Bridgy and Ophie disagreed.
Bridgy used her schoolyard voice to remind me that Bucket Hat threatened not only me but all my friends.
Ophie was calmer and politely suggested that we get “one of those handsome young men” from the sheriff’s office to go in my place.
“No. I have to take care of this myself.”
Bridgy screeched for a minute or two and used words like “crazy” and “irresponsible.” I sat patiently until she ended her tirade with, “If you insist on going to his house, I suppose I should go with you. Let’s get this place cleaned up and do the deed.”
Ophie threw up her hands. Bridgy and I scrubbed and straightened in peaceful silence. Ophie hummed tunelessly as she jangled cutlery and moved condiments from here to there without actually cleaning a thing. Still, we were done quicker than I thought we’d be.
We locked up the café, and I was relieved that Ophie didn’t offer to come along. I was apprehensive enough without having to listen to her remind me that I’d get more flies with honey or some other well-mannered ladies riff on how to deal with a potential murderer who, I was sure, was capable of carrying out the threats he made to me.
Bridgy suggested that we call Cady to meet us, and since I was driving, I handed her my phone.
“Speed-dial eight.”
She was leaving a long, convoluted message. I told her there was no need, he’d call back in a few minutes, but by the time I parked the Heap-a-Jeep in front of Ellis Selkirk’s house, we hadn’t heard from Cady.
There were two cars in the driveway, so I was sure we’d find someone at home. I hoped it would be Bucket Hat himself.
“Ready?”
Bridgy nodded.
I knocked on the front door more forcefully than necessary, but I wanted to sound strong—at least to myself.
Without his hat and sunglasses, Ellis Selkirk looked like any retiree wintering at the beach. But his eyes turned to hard steel when he recognized me.
“You have some nerve coming to my house. Haven’t you caused me enough trouble?” He gave Bridgy the once-over. “Who’s she? Tell me why I shouldn’t throw both of you right off my porch.”
Next to me, Bridgy shrank back just enough to force me to have courage for the both of us.
“Mr. Selkirk, there’s no need to bully us. You came into the café and asked me about our friends, who they were and where you could find them. One of those women was murdered a few hours later. Makes me wonder if you found her.”
“You’re not only nosy, you’re stupid.” And he started to close the door.
I couldn’t believe I had the brass to stick my foot between the door and the threshold.
Selkirk looked down, and I could see him contemplating whether to crush my foot or answer my question. He released the pressure on the door.
“I’m going to tell you what I told them sheriff’s boys. Then you go away and don’t bother me or my crew. Deal?”
I nodded.
“Worth the talk just to get rid of you.”
My head reared up like a startled hawk, which was enough to make him tell me to calm down.
“Thanks to the young guys who run their mouths, you already know we’re wreckers. I had no interest in any land the old ladies owned or didn’t own. The kids were afraid that the old ladies could actually stop our project so they came running to me. I wanted to placate them all until we got our State permits and then it’s off to work we go.”
I half expected him to sing “heigh-ho, heigh-ho.” Instead he narrowed his eyes, peering to see if we were buying his story. I held my face in neutral and didn’t dare look at Bridgy.
“Okay, let’s end your little Encyclopedia Brown routine right now. There’s been too many stories floating around the wrecker circuit about the discovery of treasure from the 1715 flotilla over on the Atlantic coast. You know, a trinket here, a plate there. Few thousand bucks at most. The young ones were becoming anxious, talking about moving over to the east coast.
“Like I told those two from the sheriff’s department, the night the lady was done in, me and the boys sailed down to the Dry Tortugas. We dropped anchor and I regaled them with beer, grilled fresh fish and stories about the Atocha and its multimillion-dollar treasure. Needed to let them know there was plenty of good wrecking in the Gulf. I couldn’t afford to lose a crew I worked so hard to recruit and train.
“Now go away.” He started to push the door closed. I hastily removed my foot.
Back in the car, I checked my phone. Cady hadn’t returned Bridgy’s call. I tri
ed again.
When Cady didn’t answer his phone, I left a message asking him to meet us in Times Square for ice cream in an hour.
Bridgy liked the idea. “Any opportunity for an ice cream break. Why an hour?”
“I thought we’d want to talk between the two of us. I mean, if what Bucket Hat says is true—remind me to ask Ryan if that is what he told them—we can eliminate him as a suspect. Those young wreckers might behave like something out of The Goonies, but they’ll hold up as an alibi.
“And I want to do a little shopping on Old San Carlos. Get some Fort Myers Beach flip-flops, shirts, visors for Miguel’s family. You know, fun gear. If they hadn’t come and stayed, we’d be doing his caretaking, which would make running the café that much harder.”
We finished our shopping and were walking to Times Square when I realized that Cady never called back. Bridgy doesn’t pay attention to people’s particular habits and was inclined to think he’d gotten her message and would show up.
“That’s so not Cady. He answers every call within minutes and, annoying though it may be, he expects the people he calls to do the same.”
I picked up my phone and hit speed dial eight. Cady answered on the second ring.
“Where have you been? I’ve been calling.”
Bridgy’s hands were flapping up and down in our “tone it down” signal.
I softened my scolding. “I was beginning to worry. Come on over to Times Square, I’ll buy you an ice cream.” I listened for a moment. “See you then.”
“His car charger broke. He didn’t even realize. His cell is always plugged in. Work, car, home. Phone died in mid-interview. He’s back at the office, using his landline to finish his calls. We’ll see him in a few.”
I decided on a double scoop of chocolate marshmallow in a cup, while Bridgy opted for peach ice cream in a sugar cone, topped with cookie bits. We sat at a table not far from the pier and savored our ice cream while watching a dozen or so swimmers splashing in the Gulf. Cady sneaked up on us.
Well Read, Then Dead (Read Em and Eat Mystery) Page 19