“Out of sight, out of mind, even for the smokers. They come and go, never notice the ashtray so they don’t smoke outside the building. Who wants cigarette smoke overtaking the fresh scent of a breeze off the Gulf of Mexico?”
I laughed. “Tanya Trouble, for one.”
“I think she likes to show off that fancy lighter of hers. Claims her husband paid nearly a hundred thousand dollars for it as a gift for their first anniversary. She tells anyone who will listen that all those sparkly bits are hundreds of tiny diamonds and set in eighteen-karat white gold with platinum inlays. Carries it everywhere, even in nonsmoking spaces. Odd.”
All this talk of cigarettes reminded me.
“By any chance does she drive a blue Corvette?”
“She left the top down again, right? Last week ashes were swirling around and flew right into a woman’s eye when she stepped out of her car. I’m going to have to speak to her about the car, and about Alan. Here she comes. See you soon.”
I headed toward the door, and as I passed Tanya, I got a good look at the lighter in her hand. It seemed too flashy to be real gold and diamonds. I would have thought it came from the dollar store. No accounting for taste.
In the parking lot, once I brushed away some ash that had twirled from Tanya’s ashtray to my windshield, I dismissed her completely. I hurried back to the Read ’Em and Eat determined that as soon as the lunch rush was over, I’d call George Mersky to ask if he had a relative named Alan living in Florida.
Chapter Two ||||||||||
Within five minutes of walking through the door of the Read ’Em and Eat and tying on my apron, I forgot all about Alan, the library and Tanya Trouble. We were that busy.
Miguel had his Old Man and the Sea Chowder on the menu and from the way folks were ordering, I hoped he made enough.
Maggie Latimer, owner of our local yoga studio, Zencentric, came in with a woman who was as tall and lithe as Maggie but with dark auburn hair cut in an adorable pixie in contrast to Maggie’s blond ponytail. They sat at the Robert Frost table. Maggie was pointing out the various Frost memorabilia laminated to the tabletop, copies of poems, pictures of the author, an article or two, when I brought over their menus.
“See the fruit poems, the one about apple picking and the one about blueberries?” Maggie pointed to the menus still in my hand. “You’ll find Robert Frost Apple and Blueberry Tartlets on the menu and they are yummy.”
As I set the menus on the table Maggie introduced me to her sister, Karen.
“Karen is here for a month recovering from a too-long bout of pneumonia.”
I welcomed Karen and she responded with an earnest smile.
“Maggie tells me that besides scrumptious food, you also serve fascinating conversation at book club meetings. I look forward to attending one or two while I’m here.” She glanced at the bookshelves that lined two walls of the café. “I’ll probably want to browse a little after lunch.”
The sisters decided on Old Man and the Sea Chowder with Catcher in the Rye Toast and sweet tea. I set the order request on the pass-through shelf, and while I was pouring the sweet tea, I decided to get a copy of this month’s book club calendar for Karen. I was reaching for the flier when the door flung open and Jocelyn Kendall, her strawlike hair even more askew that usual, stepped in. She looked around, confusion mounting in her eyes.
“I didn’t think I was that late. Did I miss it completely?”
I made the mistake of taking a step toward her. I was close enough that she grabbed my shoulders and shook me.
“Why didn’t you send out an email? Why didn’t you call me? I have so much to say.”
When don’t you? I kept that thought to myself and asked, “Jocelyn, what are you talking about?”
“The Tea and Mystery Afternoons. The Circular Staircase? Mary Roberts Rinehart? For goodness’ sake, Sassy, you’re in charge of the book clubs; I shouldn’t have to tell you what I’m talking about. You should know.”
Then like an errant preschooler, she stamped her foot and fixed a bold, defiant stare at the book corner where the book clubs hold their meetings.
How convenient that I was holding a book club calendar in my hand. I thrust it at her and picked up the two tall glasses of sweet tea and walked to Maggie’s table.
Behind me I heard Jocelyn groan.
“Tomorrow. The meeting is tomorrow! I rearranged my entire day for nothing.”
I knew if I looked at her, I’d be subjected to a harangue of epic proportions. The fact that the error was hers was of no consequence.
As I set the tea on the table, Maggie whispered, “Don’t turn around. Uh-oh, she’s heading this way.”
Feeling trapped, doomed even, I grasped for the handiest lifesaver.
“Jocelyn, have you met Maggie’s sister, Karen?”
Jocelyn morphed instantly from offended book club member to helpful pastor’s wife and greeted Karen as if she was a brand-new parishioner being welcomed to the flock.
“Maggie, you must bring your charming sister to late service on Sunday.” She patted Karen’s hand. “It’s not that late, of course, ten fifteen. But the eight o’clock service seems so early. Still, some of the parishioners like it. Attend worship and get on with your day. I do envy the up-and-at-’em types. I’m a bit of a slug in the morning.”
She drew a breath, smiling ruefully, and I took the opportunity to switch the topic entirely.
“I was at the library earlier and I noticed a poster for a palm frond weaving class.”
“What do they weave? Grass skirts?” Maggie’s laugh had the vibrancy of jingle bells.
“The pictures on the poster were of flower shapes. We should think about going. Karen, how long are you staying on the island?”
“Oh, I’m here for a month or until Maggie tires of my company, whichever comes first.”
Both sisters laughed and it was a double jingle for sure.
Jocelyn sniffed. “I’ll have to check the date. Busy, busy you know, pastor’s wife. Lots to do.” She waggled a finger at Karen. “Remember late service—coffee after.”
She curved toward me and her “I’ll see you tomorrow” sounded like a not-so-veiled threat.
The three of us silently watched her flounce out the door and on to terrorizing her next victim, who was more often than not her long-suffering husband, Pastor John.
As soon as the door closed behind Jocelyn, Karen opened her mouth but Maggie cut her off with a nod.
“Yep. She’s always like that, a special combination of brusqueness and self-absorption, as irritating as sand in your sneaker.”
“What’s this about The Circular Staircase? It’s one of my all-time faves.”
Maggie pointed to me.
“Sassy is the book-meister for the book clubs that meet at the Read ’Em and Eat. Lots of different topics. At the Potluck Book Club we read foodie books; the Tea and Mystery Afternoons—Golden Age women mystery authors; Books Before Breakfast, well, I’m teaching a meditation class at that hour but that’s more of a mix of all types of books, wouldn’t you say, Sassy?”
“Yes, but all the clubs are open to suggestion. Sometimes I recommend a book, sometimes the members choose among themselves. It’s all very casual.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“Oh, it is,” Maggie assured her sister. “Come with me tomorrow afternoon. You already know the book. You can refresh with my copy.”
When Maggie paid the check, I gave a book club calendar to Karen, who thanked me and then commented on how unusual but fitting she found my name to be.
“Mary Sassafras Cabot, that’s my whole moniker, but my mother is a flower-power, earth-child type and called me Sassy from day one. It stuck.”
The sisters left, promising to come back tomorrow afternoon.
Two sunburned surfer types lingered over a second round of orange
juice at the Ernest Hemingway table while a young mother at Dr. Seuss was watching her preschooler dawdle as he played with his grilled chicken strips and apple sauce. I asked Bridgy to keep an eye on them all while I went outside to make a phone call.
I sat on a bench in front of the café and whipped out my cell phone. This was one of those times I was super glad that I’d always been neurotic about keeping any and all phone numbers in my phone. If I met someone three years ago, and we exchanged phone numbers so that the first one to hear about the next major sale on Celebrity Pink clothes in Belk’s Department Store could call the other, believe me, that number is still in my phone.
So it was no surprise that even though I hadn’t spoken to George Mersky in a couple of years, his number was right there, waiting for me to push a button and connect.
He answered on the second ring and sounded harried as always.
“Mersky.”
“Hi, George, this is Sassy Cabot.”
“Sassy! What a pleasant surprise. How is life along the Gulf of Mexico?”
I could almost see his eyes move to the clock while his brain calculated how many minutes he could spare for social nice-nice before he cut me loose and went back to the stacks of papers filled with numbers that were his accountant heart’s true love.
“Everything here is fine. I was wondering . . . it’s none of my business . . . but do you happen to know someone named Alan? Someone who looks like you.”
The silence was palpable for more than a minute.
“You’ve seen my brother Alan? Oh my God. Is he okay? Is he hurt?”
I hesitated. How could I explain the agitation I’d witnessed?
“He seems fine physically, but . . .”
Again I was at a loss for words.
“Sassy, Alan served three tours in Iraq. He suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder. Is he living on the streets? Does he need help?”
I was sure George was tugging on his ear as he always did when something upset him.
“No. No, he’s fine. Nothing like that. I saw him at the library—”
“Then he’s back to his old self, reading those adventure books he always loved?”
The hope in George’s voice was distressing. How could I explain? Clearly, Alan still had problems. I gave it my best shot and George understood instantly. I ended by saying that when I called Alan “George” and he turned around, I felt compelled to get in touch with George on the off chance they were related.
“I’m so glad you did. And you say the librarian knows him? Wonderful. Perhaps she could ask him to call me. When we don’t hear from Alan for long stretches of time, we try to find him but aren’t always successful. And, even if they know where he is, the Veterans Administration can’t give out that information—even to family.”
I could hear such frustration in his voice that I offered to look for Alan. I heard myself telling George that Fort Myers Beach is a small town and once I started looking, I was sure to find out where Alan was staying and what he was doing.
By the time we said good-bye I was already certain I’d bitten off more than I could chew.
I went inside and gave the surfer dudes their check. I smiled at the toddler who’d fallen asleep in his chair and poured the mom another cup of green tea to enjoy along with the quiet. I bussed some dishes into the kitchen. Bridgy was loading the dishwasher and listening to Miguel go on and on about the wonders of Bow, his gorgeous black Maine Coon.
“She is the most extraordinary cat. Yesterday I was sitting on the patio when I heard a splash. Bow was roaming around, wandering back and forth between the house and the edge of Estero Bay but I thought no. She wouldn’t jump in the water. Cats and water, ay, never. And a few minutes later, there she is on the patio, shaking her dripping-wet coat, with a fish in her mouth. She enjoyed it for her dinner.”
“You let her eat raw fish?” Never a sushi girl, I shuddered at the thought.
“Of course not, chica. I skinned and boned the fish and sautéed it in olive oil. First, though, I dried and combed my beautiful girl’s coat.”
Behind Miguel’s back Bridgy gave me an “okay” sign. We had been instrumental in getting Miguel and Bow to be roomies. The sleek, gorgeous but extremely uppity Bow once belonged to a frequent book club member, and when the woman died unexpectedly, Miguel adopted the cat. It turned out to be a true love match.
I thought I heard the toddler stirring so I stuck my head out the kitchen door. But he was still asleep and his mother was browsing the bookshelves. She gave me a wave and went right back to leafing through the fiction section.
“Don’t run away just yet,” Miguel commanded. “I have an idea for tomorrow’s book club.”
I turned my attention back to the kitchen.
Done with the dishwasher, Bridgy was pouring herself a glass of water. She held the pitcher, filled with lemon and lime slices, high in the air, as if asking if I wanted some, and I nodded.
Miguel motioned me over to the pastry work counter.
“Tomorrow the mystery ladies meet and I have a special treat for them.”
He eyed a plate covered with a yellow gingham dish towel.
I made sure to “oh” and “ah,” lavishly applauding his thoughtfulness. Finally, he waved two fingers, signaling permission to remove the towel.
Having gotten in trouble before, I knew to lift the towel carefully with both hands so as not to disturb the goodies underneath. And there they were—question mark cookies.
I clapped my hands.
“Goodness. Perfectly shaped question marks! And the icing!”
Miguel nodded. “I thought color would make the shape pop.”
Every cookie was iced in white, but each one was edged with orange, red or yellow gel, clearly defining the shape. The display was guaranteed to wow the book club members, or as I called them, the clubbies.
I was still praising Miguel when I heard a wail from the dining room. The toddler had woken up. I rushed in. His mother was bundling him and his toys back into his umbrella stroller.
She handed him a plastic action figure, one I didn’t recognize. He cooed and began to bang the toy on his knee.
“I was wondering. My mother lent me Winds of War by Herman Wouk and I loved it. I’m dying to know what happens to Pug and Rhoda and oh, just everybody. Could you order me a copy of War and Remembrance? I’ve got to know.”
I took her phone number and tucked it on the bulletin board so I could call her when the book came in. As I wrote War and Remembrance next to her name, I thought of the soldier I’d promised to find.
Chapter Three ||||||||||
The Tea and Mystery Afternoons Book Club discussed The Circular Staircase peacefully with Jocelyn on her best behavior, perhaps because she considered Maggie’s sister, Karen, to be a guest. But at the Books Before Breakfast meeting a few days later, she started a raging debate about the relevance of the novels written by D. E. Stevenson in general and her wildly popular Miss Buncle’s Book, in particular.
“Compared to Stevenson’s Mrs. Tim books, Miss Buncle lacks an element of adventure.” Jocelyn smacked her hand on the book in her lap to emphasize her point.
“Writing under the nom de plume ‘John Smith,’ Miss Buncle published a thinly disguised book about her neighbors. That doesn’t strike you as a daring exploit for a middle-aged spinster?” Ever since Blondie Quinlin had begun accompanying her neighbor Augusta Maddox to the early-morning book club, she’d delighted in tweaking Jocelyn’s nose at every possible opportunity.
“Well, I wouldn’t have the nerve.” Lisette Ortiz shook her curly dark hair.
Irene Lester, the newest member, leaned over and patted Lisette on the arm. “You’re far from middle-aged, honey, and I doubt you’ll ever be a spinster.”
Irene slid her reading glasses down from her forehead and opened her book. “You’ve only to look at
the description of Silverstream in the first couple of pages. That bakery woman—ah, here she is—Mrs. Goldsmith, knows the morning breakfast habits of the entire village. Do you really think anything goes on in the village that everyone doesn’t know? And while living in that atmosphere Miss Buncle chose to write a book with characters based on the local residents. I call that brave. And the book was funny. I love humor now and again. Anyway, I have a hair appointment. Can we choose next month’s book?”
I sat back and let the clubbies wrestle among themselves until they narrowed down to two books. Most heads nodded when Lisette mentioned a fairly new Nora Roberts book, The Collector. Irene suggested that the eternally classic O Pioneers!, written by Willa Cather more than a century ago, still had a lot to offer.
Jocelyn snapped, “Willa Cather belongs at the Classic Book Club, not here.”
I jumped in for the rescue. “Over the past few months the Classic Club has become more of a Teen Club with Maggie Latimer’s daughter Holly and some of her friends. And Books Before Breakfast is the one club that has no theme. We read whatever strikes our fancy.”
I beamed what I hoped was a gigawatt smile.
I was saved from having Jocelyn jump on me by Bridgy, who called me over to the counter.
She was talking to an attractive mid-twentyish woman dressed in what could have passed for a uniform of some sort. Her white man-tailored shirt, complete with button-down collar, was tucked neatly into a black pencil skirt. And, rather than the open-toed sandals that were de rigueur all over the island, she wore black low-heeled pumps. I wondered what she was trying to sell, and I guessed Bridgy wanted my opinion on whether or not we should consider buying.
I was still a few feet away when Bridgy started introductions.
“Elaine Tibor, this is Sassy Cabot, co-owner of the Read ’Em and Eat. Sassy, Elaine is a graduate student at FSU and waits tables during the dinner shift at the country club. Schedule permitting, she’s looking for an occasional breakfast or lunch shift to supplement. You know how grad school goes.”
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