This was awkward. How much did I want to tell? I made an instant decision to leave Alan out of it for now. “Sally calls her that.” I hoped I didn’t sound defensive.
Ryan looked directly at me. He’d gone from friend to deputy in two seconds flat. “Sally?”
“Sally Caldera. Tanya Lipscome is a library volunteer. And she smokes.” I could still see Ryan waiting for the tie-in to the nickname. “Cigarettes. She smokes cigarettes and once got ashes in a library patron’s eye. See, trouble,” I finished lamely.
“Okay, thanks.” Ryan was anxious to get out the door. “If you think of anything else I should know, call my cell.” And he was gone.
Of course Bridgy was all over me the second the door closed behind Ryan. “You know something. I can see it all over your face. Good thing Ryan doesn’t know you as well as I do or you’d be on your way to an interrogation room.”
I waved her off. “What could I know? Until two minutes ago we didn’t even know who the victim was.”
I turned toward the kitchen but Bridgy wasn’t having it. “Mary Sassafras Cabot, you stop right there. What did you not tell Ryan?”
I knew she’d haunt me until I fessed up. I sighed and gave in. “I saw Tanya at the library the other day. She was having a monumental fight with a patron. That’s all.”
Bridgy placed her hands on her hips, and glowered. Once she pursed her lips and tilted her head to the side, I knew I was done for. I raised my hands in surrender. “Okay, I didn’t tell Ryan because it didn’t mean anything. Alan wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
Ophie pushed back her chair and stood facing me with the exact same body language as her niece. Easy to see they were related. “Who is this Alan?”
From the doorway, Cady Stanton answered. “Alan Mersky. Here, I have a picture.”
He took out his iPhone.
Chapter Five ||||||||||
He was dressed in his usual Florida work clothes, khakis and a golf shirt; this one was light green and I thought it made his brown eyes appear more hazel. He ran one hand over his sandy hair, a habit he’d had for as long as I’d known him, and then held out his iPhone for all to see.
Bridgy and Ophie crowded around Cady, both eager for a close look at the picture. I held back. If Cady, a reporter for the Fort Myers Beach News, was carrying a picture of Alan Mersky on his phone, then I knew Alan was in serious trouble. I pulled my own cell out of my pocket intending to call George, but then realized I had nothing concrete to tell him. I dropped the phone back in my pocket and patted it for good measure. I’d make the call as soon as I’d gotten as much information as I could out of Cady.
After taking a long look at the picture, Ophie took a step back and exonerated Alan of any and all wrongdoing. “He doesn’t look one bit dangerous to me. Maybe a tad lost, is all.”
Hoping to keep the conversation focused on the picture and away from any more criticism of me for withholding information from Ryan, I agreed, perhaps a little too loudly. “That’s what I thought. Why waste everyone’s time pointing at a person who couldn’t possibly be a killer?”
Cady gave me a sharp look. “What are you talking about? I’m not pointing at Alan Mersky. A little less than an hour ago the sheriff declared him a person of interest. How do you think I got the picture? The techs took it from the library security tape, and deputies are asking everyone to be on the lookout. If Mersky is on the island, I’m sure the deputies will have him secured at the station within a few hours.”
Ophie shuddered and then shook her head. “Well, I hope they treat him well when they find him. I swear I can’t see a smidgeon of danger in those eyes.” She pushed the phone back toward Cady and planted her hands firmly on her hips, ready to defend Alan from any and all comers.
Since Ophie was usually more of a conspiracy theorist, Bridgy was confused by her defense of Alan. She shook her finger in Ophie’s face. “Don’t be so sure that the look in a person’s eye is telling you the whole story. You never even met the man. And that reminds me.” She turned to me. “What’s your story? You know this Alan?”
I was grappling for an answer when the kitchen door swung open and Miguel leaned through the doorway. His white chef’s hat was tilted at a rakish angle and covered most of his dark curly hair. “Cady, I thought I heard your voice. I have an apple pie straight from the oven. It’s a new recipe. You want to try a piece, sí?”
We all knew Miguel wouldn’t have to ask twice. Cady immediately sat down at Robert Frost. He nodded when I asked if he wanted a cup of coffee. When I put the cup and saucer in front of him, Cady latched on to my wrist, pressing gently, signaling me to sit. He spoke in a “whispering in church” voice that was destined to attract the big ears of both Bridgy and her aunt.
“Okay, Sassy, tell me. What do you know about Alan Mersky?”
Before I could make up an answer that would appease him, Bridgy was standing in the space between us with Ophie right behind her.
“Maybe she’ll tell you what’s going on. She’s been keeping secrets from us, from Ryan, from everybody.” Bridgy shook her head and raised her eyes heavenward as if my behavior would be incomprehensible even to the Lord Himself.
“That’s so not true. I didn’t get a chance to tell you, that’s all. I didn’t think it was that important.” I sat back in my chair, crossed my arms and attempted, with not much luck, to stare the three of them down.
Once again, Miguel saved me. He burst through the kitchen door carrying a dessert plate rendered nearly invisible by a supersized wedge of apple pie that filled the entire café with the aroma of an orchard in early autumn with a tinge of cinnamon. In his other hand he held a glass bowl brimming with freshly whipped cream. He swung around both Ophie and Bridgy until he could easily set the pie in front of Cady. Then Miguel extended the glass bowl and raised a questioning eyebrow. At Cady’s grin, Miguel waved his spoon with a grand flourish, scooped up a healthy dollop of whipped cream and splashed it on top of the pie. Cady instantly forgot about me, Alan Mersky and everything else in the universe. He picked up his fork, broke off a chunk of pie and opened his mouth wide.
Bridgy demanded, “Is that what you’re going to do, sit there and eat, while Sassy is in trouble up to her ears?”
Cady’s fork wavered for a few seconds in midair. Then, as if moving on its own accord, the fork disappeared into Cady’s mouth.
“Mmm, mm.” Cady gave Miguel a thumbs-up. “Best ever, hombre.”
Miguel broke into a wide, satisfied grin. Nothing pleased him more than high praise for one of his new kitchen creations.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ophie give a tiny push to Bridgy’s arm, as if directing her to reclaim the spotlight so they could keep the focus on my flaws.
Bridgy tried to charm Miguel with assurances that Cady was only the first of many customers who would adore his new apple pie recipe. She piled the compliments higher than Miguel had piled the whipped cream. It was evident that she wanted him to bask in glory for a moment or two and then retreat to the kitchen. I could see Miguel wasn’t having it. There was something else on his mind, and he wasn’t heading back to the kitchen until he said his piece, whatever it may be. Bridgy’s voice trailed off. Miguel never budged.
Oblivious to us all, Cady savored his apple pie. Eventually the tense silence punctured his bliss. He looked at us warily and decided Miguel was the safest choice. “Miguel, I don’t know how you can keep developing recipes, each one better than the last.”
Ophie made a humph noise deep in her throat, and I made a mental note to remind Cady the next time he came in to order Ophie’s buttermilk pie, which was a staple on our menu. Miguel surprised us all by doing something he rarely does. He pulled out a chair and sat down. “It is hard to create new recipes when I am so worried about the snake.”
We all blinked simultaneously. Snake?
Cady had just taken a sip of coffee and he managed to get
it down without choking.
Ophie leaned over Bridgy’s shoulder, directing her questions to Miguel. “Y’all know how to cook a snake? Are y’all making snake soup? I’ve heard it has potent medicinal uses.”
Miguel looked at Ophie as if she’d gone insane. “Not the kind of snake that people eat. The big snake that eats other animals. I’m worried about a green anaconda eating my beautiful little Bow. She’s a feisty cat, sí, but she’s no match for one of the biggest snakes in the world.”
We all exchanged puzzled looks. Even Ophie was rendered speechless— a rare achievement for Miguel, or anyone else for that matter.
Cady’s reporter instincts took over. “Miguel, why would Bow go up against a green anaconda? And where in Sam Hill would she find one?
“Ha! Don’t you read your own newspaper?” Miguel stood, reached under his apron and pulled a folded scrap of newssheet from his pocket. He spread it on the table. “A giant green anaconda has been spotted swimming, happy as you please, in Estero Bay between Mound Island and San Carlos Island. He’s huge. He swims very fast. And my yard borders Estero Bay. Every day my pretty Bow scampers along the edge of the bay exploring the mangrove roots, sea grapes and swamp grass. She swats at tree crabs, chases those tiny green lizards. Once she found a sea turtle, she tapped and tapped on the shell. She thought she was inviting the turtle out to play, but the more she tapped, the more the turtle refused.” Miguel smiled broadly at the memory, and then he swiftly returned to the present day and the topic at hand. “That area beside my house is her playground. As long as the snake is in the bay, who knows where he will turn up next? My Bow is in great danger. Every pet on the island is in danger.”
He pushed the clipping toward Cady and flopped back in his seat so hard the chair’s legs thumped.
Bridgy had the temerity to ask, “When you say ‘giant,’ how big are we talking about?”
Miguel pointed to the article. “The newspaper says that green anacondas grow anywhere from twelve to fifteen, twenty feet. And when fully grown, they weigh more than two hundred pounds.
Ophie gasped. “And here I’m thinking of something along the lines of a big garden snake, two, maybe three feet long.”
Cady scanned the article. “I remember this now. There were a couple of sightings two or three weeks ago. Last week there were a few more and my editor asked Joe Slaney, who covers fishing and tides and such, to write up a notice.” He slid the paper back to Miguel. “As I recall, he wanted to be sure the boaters and fishermen were aware so they wouldn’t be startled if they spotted her swimming around. As the article says, Joe contacted the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission. They told him if the green anaconda becomes a nuisance here, they’d come and round it up. The person Joe spoke to says it’s most likely the anaconda came north from the Everglades and will eventually swim back south.”
“Swim?” In my mind snakes were slitherers, not swimmers.
“Oh, yeah, big-time swimmers. According to Joe, green anacondas are aggressive swimmers, not landlubbers like pythons, who can swim but don’t love the water like the anacondas. ‘Landlubber’ is Joe’s favorite word. Believe me, he uses it freely. He calls me a landlubber and I own a boat and take it out whenever I have a chance.” Cady stopped, sniffed and then shook off the insult. “Because I’m not out on the bay or the gulf every nonworking minute of the day, Joe doesn’t consider me a true boater.”
Miguel was sitting with his hands patiently folded, set at the angle where copies of Frost’s two fruit poems, “Blueberries” and “After Apple Picking,” sat side by side sealed to the tabletop by heavy lamination. I guess he was losing tolerance for Cady’s rambling on and on about Joe Slaney, landlubbers and snakes, because he started tapping his fingers in three-quarter time.
I give Cady credit; he caught on fairly quickly. “I can see why you are concerned but I’m sure Bow will be fine. The anaconda seems to like the far side of the bay. At least that’s where the sightings have been.”
“Those Fish and Wildlife people do not seem to have any concern for the safety of our domestic animals. Did your reporter friend even ask about that?” Miguel pointed to the article. “There is no mention of it here.”
Cady shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know much about this, Miguel. I only know what I heard around the office while Joe was doing his research and writing his article. I promise. I’ll check in with him first thing.”
The door opened. I stood and took out my order pad, glad to have customers come in and get me out of this ongoing conversation about a problem with no apparent solution. Then I saw the two people coming through the door and realized I was going from one problem to another. Deputy Ryan Mantoni was back. Lieutenant Frank Anthony was with him. And they were wearing their serious faces.
Chapter Six ||||||||||
Still, I tried. With as bright a smile as I could muster, I asked if they wanted a table or needed a takeout order. Ryan took a step back and let the lieutenant answer.
Frank Anthony glanced over at the Robert Frost table, where conversation had ceased. Every pair of eyes was fixed on him. He swung his eyes back to me. “I expect you know why we’re here. You were witness to an incident the other day and I need to go over your recollection. Is there a place we can speak privately?”
He head-butted toward the kitchen door, which made Miguel half rise from his chair, think the better of it and sit down again. But from the look on his face, if I allowed the deputies into Miguel’s kitchen, I’d have to answer for it.
I shook my head. “No, the kitchen’s very busy.”
Frank raised both eyebrows. He looked once more at Bridgy and Miguel. “Doesn’t seem busy to me.”
That was enough for Miguel to pop out of his seat. He told Cady they would have to speak again soon and then he marched purposefully into the kitchen. From the look on Bridgy’s face, I could see she was torn between following Miguel to reinforce the café kitchen as a “busy” place or staying where she was in the hopes she could overhear some juicy gossip. Even better, she might get the chance to hear Frank Anthony ream me out for not being forthcoming with Ryan earlier in the day.
The lieutenant made her choice easier when he said, “Okay, Sassy, let’s go.” And he turned and headed for the door.
Cady jumped up, his chair scraping across the floor. “Where are you taking her?”
Frank gave a tight smile. “Don’t worry. We’re not taking her far.” He pointed through the wide glass window. “We’ll be at the seating area right outside the door.”
I hadn’t taken so much as a step, so Frank signaled me to hurry along. I hesitated, but knew I really had no choice. I followed behind Frank and Ryan, with Chopin’s Funeral March playing in my head. Dum dum da dum . . .
I sat in the middle of one bench so that neither of the deputies could sit beside me. I knew I’d be less on edge facing them head-on.
Ryan gave me a slight smile of encouragement. In past encounters I’d noticed it was always uncomfortable for him when he had to interrogate—the deputies call it interview—a friend. And we’d been friends since almost the first day Bridgy and I opened the Read ’Em and Eat more than three years ago.
Frank Anthony remained standing. Since we’d done this before, I wasn’t surprised when he didn’t say anything for a couple of minutes. As he was about to speak, an older couple approached. They were regular customers so they recognized me. I guess they assumed that the three of us were outside for fresh air and a social chat, because the husband decided to tease.
“You finally got her, huh, deputies? Pretty gals are always trouble. Like my missus here.” He laughed and opened the door for his wife, who told us to “pay him no mind” before she walked into the café. Still laughing, her husband followed behind.
Frank gave the old gentleman a slight nod and then he turned to me. “I appreciate a man who knows trouble when he sees it.” As he watched me
bristle, Frank held back a smile but he couldn’t keep his blue eyes from crinkling. Then he took out his black leather notebook and moved into deputy mode.
“I know you’re aware that there was a murder last night. The victim is Mrs. Tanya Lipscome, age thirty-eight. She was killed by an intruder on her property.”
He waited for me to nod in acknowledgement of the facts and then he continued. “I understand you were at the library when our victim had an argument with a man who we now consider a person of interest in this case, name of Alan Mersky.”
I crossed my arms defensively but said nothing. Frank took my silence for acquiescence.
“Okay. Now, when did you first see Alan Mersky? Was it in the library?”
I shook my head and told him about my seeing Alan in the parking lot. I tried to move on to hearing Tanya Trouble screaming like a banshee inside the library, but Frank slowed me down with another question.
“Who entered the library first, you or Alan Mersky?”
And so it went. Questions. Answers. Repeat the questions. Repeat the answers. A conversation, or as he calls it, an interview, that should have taken ten minutes lasted for more than half an hour until the lieutenant was satisfied that he’d wrung every shred of information out of me. The fact that I didn’t know a single thing related to the murder was of no consequence. The man likes to waste time and annoy me.
By the time he closed his notebook, said we were done and asked me to get in touch if I remembered anything else, I was seething. Both deputies were in a half turn heading to their car across the parking lot when I found my courage, or insanity, not sure which. I stood up.
“Wait one minute. You may be done, but I’m not.”
Frank’s head swiveled toward me. “Really? You said you told us everything.”
“I have one more thing to say.”
Ryan’s “Uh-oh” told me he had a sense of what was coming. Frank was still opening that darn notebook when I let him have it.
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