Caught Read-Handed

by Terrie Farley Moran

  I remembered well.

  Elaine took a quick step to cover the distance between us and reached out to give my hand a strong and confident shake. She had a self-assured, personable way about her, which made me think she’d relate well to the customers. When I said so, I loved her response.

  “I heard along the beach that you serve the best breakfast on the island. Everyone talks about the Read ’Em and Eat as being relaxed and fun. I thought it would be a nice relief from the stuffiness of my dinner job.” Her smile was framed by two charming dimples.

  Well, if she wanted a flavor the direct opposite of country club, she’d applied at the right place. Breakfast and lunch with a casual literary twist—our tables were named for authors with samples of the author’s work, photographs and articles laminated on the tabletops. Lots of menu items with authors’ names or book titles worked into the offerings. Two walls were covered with bookshelves filled with books of every description from chick lit to deep-sea fishing guides. The books and the book corner encouraged participation in the book clubs, which meet here regularly.

  Impulsively, I decided we should give Elaine a trial. I exchanged a look with Bridgy, which she read instantly and correctly.

  The voices coming from the book corner were getting louder and more insistent. I thanked Elaine for coming in and excused myself, leaving Bridgy to work out the details.

  I stood behind my chair and listened to Augusta Maddox, never one for compromise, lay down the law. Tiny as she was, her booming baritone filled the room.

  “We voted. Everyone wants to read O Pioneers! ’cept you.” She gave Jocelyn a stern face. “Don’t be such a horse’s patootie. Lisette’s willing to wait a month for the Nora Roberts book. Why can’t you?”

  Jocelyn opened her mouth and shut it. She gave her watch a swift glance and began to gather her things.

  Crisis averted.

  Everyone wanted me to order enough copies of the Cather book for the club members, except Jocelyn, who mumbled something about the library as she headed to the door.

  Lissette asked me to order a copy of The Collector.

  “My sister in Kansas City read it and was so gushy in her recommendation. I really don’t want to wait. It doesn’t matter when the club decides to read The Collector as long as I get it soon.” And she waved good-bye.

  Augusta and Blondie stopped at the counter, waiting for Bridgy’s attention, so rather than straighten out the book corner, I popped behind the counter.

  “Not staying for breakfast this morning, ladies?” I asked with a cheery smile. I had a special affection for Augusta and was growing fonder every day of Blondie, who had stepped up and filled in gracefully when Augusta’s cousin and best friend died suddenly. It was nice to see two seventysomethings hanging out and having fun. I hoped that would be Bridgy and me in fifty years.

  “Ecology meeting got pushed up. Usually later in the day but our space at the community center is being painted. Carrie Trotter arranged for us to have a meeting room at that big hotel down toward Lovers Key. Free, o’ course.” Augusta hitched her jeans. “Can’t expect us to volunteer our time to save the Earth and pay for the privilege.”

  Blondie nodded in agreement.

  “We’d like to bring a dozen of those Robert Frost Apple and Blueberry Tartlets to the meeting. Could you cut them in half? One or two diabetics in the crowd. Some of the others are always on diets. We don’t want to tempt them with too much sweet stuff.”

  “How about I add two or three Miss Marple Scones. Less sugar.”

  That seemed to please the ladies. When I came out of the kitchen with their box of pastries, Elaine Tibor was gone and Bridgy was taking an order from two women she’d seated at Barbara Cartland. A couple of fisherman came in, the salty smell of the Gulf of Mexico still clinging to their clothes. I sat them at Robert Louis Stevenson. The man with the beard and a half dozen colorful fishing flies stuck on the patch pockets of his well-worn gray vest looked at the tabletop and began reading the poem we had laminated there among other Stevenson quotes and pictures.

  “You expect me to believe that the same guy who wrote Treasure Island and Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde wrote this little kiddie poem?”

  I laughed and quoted, “When I was down beside the sea . . . it’s called ‘At the Sea-Side.’ What better poem for a café at the beach?”

  He shook his head. “Doesn’t sound like the same guy who made up Mr. Hyde.”

  “That’s the beauty of fiction,” his tablemate interjected. “It’s all made up.”

  He turned to me.

  “How about some coffee while we check out the menu?”

  I brought their coffee, then passed their orders to the kitchen.

  Judge Harcroft, retired from traffic court not so very long ago, came in, picked up the Fort Myers Beach News from the counter and went directly to his usual table, Dashiell Hammett. He opened the broadsheet and ignored the world around him. I placed a cup of coffee on the table and turned away, knowing he’d signal imperiously when, having read the menu two or three times from top to bottom, he was ready to order his usual, Hammett Ham ’n Eggs.

  So I was surprised when he stopped me.

  “Er, Sassy, I was wondering . . .”

  I stood, waiting for the rest of the sentence. After a while, it came.

  “. . . about Augusta Maddox. How is she doing since, er, you know.”

  A while back, during a really stressful time, the judge and Miss Augusta had a falling out. He’d been studiously avoiding her ever since.

  I dropped into the seat opposite him and said softly. “Of course Miss Augusta won’t ever forget the tragedy, but the rest of what went on, well, wasn’t that all a big misunderstanding?”

  He nodded. “I didn’t mean to cause difficulty. I was the nephews’ lawyer. I thought they were in the right. I was representing their interest.”

  “You haven’t been to any book club meetings in a long time. Why not come back to one or two? We could use your level head.”

  Knowing the judge could take only so much intimacy, I stood up and held my order pad and pencil at the ready.

  I put the judge’s order on the pass-through and picked up the fishermen’s breakfast, when the door flipped open with the force of Category Three hurricane winds. I nearly dropped a plate of toast. I hurried to Robert Louis Stevenson and was pleased that I set the orders down correctly. Double order of bacon and eggs for the poetry skeptic and Green Eggs and Ham for his fishing buddy.

  When I turned toward the door, I was grateful that I’d served the food before I looked. Aunt Ophie was leaning against the jamb with her hand, palm outward, resting against her forehead like a 1940s femme fatale. Still as a statue, she was waiting for attention. She’d block any and all doorway traffic until someone, or more to her liking, everyone, started to worry over her. I was debating whether to give in or ignore her, when Bridgy came out of the kitchen with a plate of oatmeal. She took one look at Ophie, thrust the plate at me with such force that I nearly didn’t catch it and whispered, “Cartland, the woman facing front.”

  Then she turned, and in a voice that could surely be heard from the beach to the bay, she said, “Aunt Ophie, my darlin’, what on earth is wrong? Come over here and sit down. You look like death.”

  Ophie began to preen like a beloved kitten, delighted that she now had everyone’s attention, until she heard Bridgy utter that final word. In that exact second, she started to wail.

  Bridgy took her arm gently and led her to Emily Dickinson.

  “Sit down, poor thing. What on earth has distressed you so?”

  Every customer in the café was murmuring, voices filled with concern, but I’d seen Ophie carry on worse than this when she broke a fingernail, so I walked on back to the Barbara Cartland table to serve the oatmeal. Thank goodness I had set the plate on the table, or the oatmeal might have landed in the
customer’s lap when Ophie began wailing again. This time there were words.

  “It was murder, y’all. She’s dead. And it was murder pure and simple.”

  Chapter Four ||||||||||

  Nothing like shouts of “Murder!” to stir up a crowd. One of the ladies at Barbara Cartland let out a scream so bloodcurdling that you would think she was sitting in the first row of a 3-D movie and the ax murderer had jumped out from behind the bureau.

  The two fishermen stood up, looked around, realized we were not under immediate attack and sat down again. Judge Harcroft continued to turn the pages of the Fort Myers Beach News. I guess he was almost as used to Aunt Ophie as I was.

  Bridgy took a deep breath and by the time I reached her, she was whispering to Ophie. “Who is dead? Who was murdered?”

  Ophie swung her eyes back and forth between Bridgy and me. It wasn’t like her to be the least bit hesitant, and yet, she was. Unless she was heightening the drama.

  “I don’t know who. I only know that right here in Fort Myers Beach a woman was murdered. In. Cold. Blood.”

  I was always less tolerant of Ophie than Bridgy was. I wanted to end the spectacle sooner rather than later. I asked Bridgy to fetch a pitcher of sweet tea. She headed for the counter and I sat down.

  “Ophie, how do you know this?

  I kept one ear on our customers but I kept my eyes firmly on Ophie.

  Again, a slight hesitancy. Finally her shoulders sagged and she let out a sigh. “Never occurred to me that she’d tell a lie that bold in order to get out of a meeting.”

  Bridgy set a glass of tea in front of Ophie and sat down. “Who, Ophie? Who told you there was a murder?”

  “Remember that upscale designer? Y’all fixed us that nice box of Miss Marple Scones. Anyway, her assistant called early on to say something came up and did I have time to reschedule later in the day. Well, of course I agreed. Pays to accommodate a client of her stature.”

  Ophie leaned to her right and peered over my shoulder, checking to be sure that all the diners were following her story. I heard the rustle of Judge Harcroft’s newspaper and Ophie gave a slight frown, followed by a shrug. She’d have to be satisfied with having the attention of nearly everyone in the room.

  “I took the opportunity to tidy up some and rearrange a thing or two. Next thing I know the time of our second appointment has come and gone. So I called Frederica, that’s her name, the designer. Pretty isn’t it? She didn’t answer right away and when she did, she was crying loud enough to call the farmhands in for supper. That’s when she told me about the murder.”

  The ladies at Barbara Cartland both gasped as if their purses had been snatched and one of the fisherman gave a loud, “Whoa.” That’s when I realized we should have had this conversation in the kitchen. Too late now.

  Ophie sat back and relaxed, having told her tale and received a grand reaction in return. But we still had no idea who, if anyone, had been murdered.

  I threw out a prompt. “What exactly did Frederica say?”

  “Between sobs she told me that a woman she knew had been murdered right here on the island. Frederica said she hoped she’d be able to pull herself together and perhaps we could meet tomorrow.”

  Bridgy’s turn to try. “Did she tell you the woman’s name?

  “She might have mentioned a name, but with all that crying . . .”

  The door opened and Lee County Sheriff’s Deputy Ryan Mantoni strode into the room. He took one look at the three of us huddled around the Emily Dickenson table and recognized a problem when he saw it. “Miss Ophelia, what’s worrying you?”

  “There’s been a murder.” And Ophie dramatically flung her arm across her forehead once again.

  “So you already heard ’bout that. Not surprising. News travels around this island at warp speed. We’re never on beach time when it comes to gossip.”

  I was relieved. Gossip. The murder was only a rumor.

  “So there wasn’t any murder?”

  “There was a murder all right. Over on Moon Shell Drive. At the end of the road, past the curve. It’s a little isolated there. A lady was sitting in her hot tub when someone snuck up behind her and cracked her skull. No one noticed for a long while. She was hard-boiled by the time her husband came home and called us. Emergency medical services couldn’t do a thing. She’s at the medical examiner now.”

  Totally unaware of the impact of what he said had on everyone in the room, Ryan switched topics.

  “Could I get a sandwich to go? Bacon and egg on whole wheat toast. And a container of coffee. Maybe a muffin?”

  He looked back and forth between Bridgy and me, and it slowly dawned on him that neither of us was writing down his order. “What?”

  I stood, took his arm, pulled him over to the counter and whispered, “You announced that a woman was bludgeoned to death a mile or so down Estero Boulevard and then moved right on to ‘Can I have a sandwich?’ That’s one way to stir up the crowd.”

  Trying to distract the remaining customers, Bridgy made the rounds offering more coffee or water. The ladies at Barbara Cartland were completely unnerved. One grabbed Bridgy’s arm and told her they wanted to ask Ryan if they’d be safe in their rental bungalow until the end of season. Like anyone was willing to tell them they wouldn’t be.

  I looked at Ryan. “See what I mean?”

  He nodded. As he ambled over to the Barbara Cartland table, I called after him. “I’ll get Miguel started on that sandwich.”

  The fishermen were suddenly anxious to pay their bill, but not before telling me that we really should consider wiring the doors and windows with an alarm system. I guessed they were heading out to spread the word of the unfortunate victim’s demise. If they mentioned hearing the news in the Read ’Em and Eat, it was sure to bring in an afternoon rush of customers wanting to find out what else we knew about the tragedy. I made a mental note to make sure we had plenty of sweet tea and pastries.

  I noticed Ophie’s shoulders slump. She usually didn’t lose her audience so quickly. Ryan escorted the two Barbara Cartland ladies to their car, telling me he’d be right back for his sandwich.

  As soon as the door closed behind him, Ophie brightened. “Ryan knows more than he’s saying. I bet we can get him to tell us all the gory details.”

  I already envisioned a bloated body with a smashed skull. Honestly, how much more gore did we need? I held off answering Ophie because Judge Harcroft came up to the counter, bill and cash in hand. As I rang up his total, he shook his head.

  “I remember a time when no one in Fort Myers Beach ever locked their doors. My father never worried about losing his car keys. He left them in the car, right in the ignition. And now, well, I’m glad I don’t have a hot tub.” He separated two one-dollar bills from the change I’d given him and slid them, his standard tip, across the counter to me. “Sad state of affairs.” More head shaking and then he spoke his customary exit line, his homage to Hammett. “If you’ll forgive me . . . I must Dash.”

  Ryan opened the door and held it as the judge walked out. Then as he stepped back inside, he took a look at the empty tables and raised his hands in front of his face in mock horror. “Was it something I said?”

  “Honey chile,” Ophie commanded Ryan, “you sit yourself down right here and tell me all about this horrible murder. I need to decide if I should order new locks. And the gentlemen who left a few minutes ago suggested alarm systems for everyone.”

  “Sorry, Miss Ophelia, duty calls. I’ve got to get back to the Lipscome house—still lots to be done.”

  Ophie and I both jumped on him as soon as he said the name Lipscome.

  “Is Tanya Lipscome dead? The woman who volunteers in the library?”

  “Lordy me.” Ophie clutched her chest. “Is this dead woman related to the folks at Lipscome Builders?” Then she dropped her hands and gave me a look steeped in pique
. “How do you know any of the Lipscomes?”

  At that moment Bridgy came out of the kitchen carrying Ryan’s meal all neatly bundled in a brown paper sack. I heard her murmur, “Uh-oh,” under her breath. If she thought she could get away with it, I’m sure she would have run back into the kitchen. Instead she tried a diversionary tactic.

  “Ryan, you didn’t say what kind of muffin you wanted so I packed a double-chocolate chip.” And she picked up a pot of coffee and started to fill a takeaway cup.

  Ophie and I were glaring at Bridgy but she continued to put the finishing touches on Ryan’s coffee as though she hadn’t walked in the room and interrupted a conversation that was important to both Ophie and me.

  Ryan was waiting at the cash register but when Bridgy started to hand him his meal, Ophie stood up and shouted.

  “Don’t you dare give him that food. He’ll waltz out of here. We want answers.”

  Ryan laughed while pretending to duck as if Ophie had thrown something at his head. “Miss Ophelia, the victim is the wife of Barry Lipscome, who owns Lipscome Builders. What else what would you like to know?”

  Ophie sat back down and, elbows on the table, she dropped her head in her hands and began rocking back and forth. “There goes my money.”

  Bridgy rushed over and put an arm around Ophie’s shoulders. “Don’t worry, sweetie, I’m sure it will take some time for him to recover from this loss, but sooner or later Mr. Lipscome will have to pay attention to his business or he’ll starve. Before you know it Frederica will be designing gorgeous rooms with your treasures as focal points.”

  Listening to Bridgy soothing Ophie, I was getting antsier by the minute. Ryan hadn’t answered my question. He had his hand on the door handle when I asked again, “And her first name? What was Mrs. Lipscome’s first name?”

  “Tanya. Her name was Tanya Lipscome. I have to get back to work. See you later.”

  “Tanya Trouble.” The name burst from my lips. Everyone looked at me. Ryan let the door close and turned toward me. “You know her?”