It didn’t take long for even the ever-optimistic Bridgy to realize we were on a fool’s errand.
“At least we got a reminder of how beautiful the bay side of the island is,” Bridgy said with a sigh.
I nodded and headed for home, hoping that tomorrow would bring better luck. We could help George find Alan and this whole mess would be straightened out.
Of course, poor Tanya Trouble would still be dead.
Chapter Eight ||||||||||
At four thirty the next morning, a large flock of birds began chirping their version of “Here Comes the Sun.” They probably assembled for reveille in Bowditch Point Park but they sounded as if they were inside my bedroom. I pulled a pillow over my head but it couldn’t block the noise. Eventually the birds stopped, confident I’m sure that they had woken every sleeping soul from Bonita Springs to North Captiva Island. I tried to get back to sleep. For a few minutes I dozed fitfully. Then my eyes popped open of their own accord. I continued tossing and turning for the next hour and finally gave up the effort.
I padded into the kitchen and found Bridgy at the table, sipping freshly brewed coffee. She was never a cheerful riser and I could only imagine getting up this early would intensify her sense of cranky.
I was hesitant but decided to risk inquiring. “The birds?”
She nodded and pointed to the empty cup waiting for me next to the coffeepot. I poured my coffee, added a drop of milk and sat down. After a few healing swallows, I ventured, “I guess it will do us good to get an early start. Busy day with George coming in. Oh, I wrote down the rental address that Ophie left on the answering machine. I forget where I put the paper.”
“It’s in your purse and don’t worry, we didn’t erase the message. Sounds like a nice place, an efficiency right on the boulevard and close to Publix. That will come in handy if they need anything, especially since they’re leaving home in such a rush.” Bridgy stretched her arms high over her head. “I guess we better get a move on and face the day. It’s sure to be a doozy.”
Bridgy had that right.
We decided it best that we each take our own car to work on a day when I would be making an airport run and trying to help George and his family settle in comfortably. I swung into the café parking lot and slid my Heap-a-Jeep right next to Bridgy’s shiny red Escort ZX2.
Walking across the parking lot, Bridgy looked at the café, all lit up, bright and welcoming. “How does Miguel manage to get up so early every day and not be grumpy by noon? If it was me, Lord knows . . .”
I smiled. “We are so lucky to have him. If we learned nothing else when he broke his leg, we learned that.”
“Ah! Hurricane Ophie wreaked so much havoc on the kitchen I thought we’d never recover. She’s my aunt and I love her dearly but good as the food was—”
“It was delicious,” I interjected.
“It was exhausting to contend with the messy kitchen, the lack of organization, not to mention Ophie’s drama, drama, drama. We get along so much better when she spends her days forty yards away at the Treasure Trove. And I think she’s happier there, too.”
I was nodding in agreement while I bent over to pick up the pile of the Fort Myers Beach News that a delivery van dropped off each morning. I glanced at the front page, gave an involuntary squeak and dropped the papers.
Bridgy grabbed my arm. “What is it? Did you hurt your back?
In response, I picked up the newspapers and showed her.
The page-one headline screamed, “CAUGHT,” and right below was the picture of Alan Mersky we’d seen yesterday on Cady’s phone.
“Ugh.” Bridgy said what I felt. “What are you going to do, Sas? Should you call George now?”
I shook my head. “If George and his family aren’t at the airport already, they are heading that way. Maybe in a cab or even a limo. Either way, there’s no privacy wherever they are. I’d rather wait and tell them at the airport. Then when I take them to the rental agency and George picks up a car, they will have private time to talk while they follow me back here.”
We slouched into the café and I dropped the newspapers on the counter. We went into the kitchen to stash our purses and find our aprons.
“Good morning, chicas.” Miguel was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for omelets so he’d have plenty when the breakfast rush started. I glanced at the round clock over the stove. Hungry folks would start arriving in a few minutes.
I stopped in my tracks and sniffed. “Something smells delicious.”
“Ay, banana bread baking.” Miguel waved his hand, along with the very sharp knife it held, toward the oven. “When I got here this morning, your bananas were looking, eh, kind of old. Certainly we couldn’t serve them in the dining room, so I made banana bread. Don’t forget to put it on the specials board. I would not want it to go uneaten.”
Bridgy and I often laughed about Miguel’s take on ingredients. If we had a gorgeous bunch of salad greens, he would talk about his arugula, his lettuce. But let the ingredient not meet his extremely high standards and it became ours. He had nothing to do with it.
* * *
I was tying my apron around my waist and Miguel was in mid-turn, his attention moving back to the vegetables, when he got a good look at my face.
He put the knife down, wiped his hands on a towel and moved directly in front of me. “What is it? Bad news from home? Oh, I’m so sorry. How can I help?”
Impulsively I gave him a hug. “Miguel, you are such a sweetheart. No, my family is okay, but do you remember the murder that Ophie was carrying on about yesterday?”
He laughed. “I am not laughing at the murder, oh no, but believe me, it will spin Ophie’s drama-mill for a long, long time. Until she finds something else to get crazy about.”
I couldn’t deny that Miguel had Ophie’s number. I assured him my trouble had nothing to do with Ophie and gave him the quick version of my friend George and his brother Alan.
Miguel looked directly in my eyes. “You do not have an easy job today. Again, let me know if I can help.”
Bridgy moved to the kitchen door and opened it a crack. “I thought I heard noise in the dining room. Customers. We’re on, team.”
As soon as I went into the dining room I wrote “homemade banana bread” on the specials board and threw a price next to it. I didn’t even think about costing it out. If I had underestimated, our customers would get a special treat at a special price. The thought of that small gift to the people who enabled us to pay our bills was enough to cheer me. Within minutes the tables filled up and I had no time to think of anything but keeping the customers happy.
Eventually the breakfast crowd slowed to a trickle. I was refilling the sweet tea pitcher and Bridgy was right next to me, packing up a box of muffins. She offered to hold down the fort if I wanted to leave for the airport. It was a little early but it would be best to make sure that I was waiting next to the showy 1908 Cadillac displayed in the main terminal when George and his family got off the plane. The Caddy was one of the many perks of having Thomas Edison and Henry Ford spend their winter months hereabouts a hundred or so years ago.
I was totally at ease until the arrivals board indicated that George’s plane landed. Then the butterflies in my stomach started to flutter at warp speed. I began pacing back and forth, unable to put my thoughts in any semblance of order. How do you tell a friend that his brother has been arrested for murder? I couldn’t seem to figure out a kind way to say it.
I was still rehearsing and rejecting potential speeches when I saw George walking directly toward me. I waved and a woman dressed in a periwinkle blue tank dress pushed passed George. Her hugely teased black hair was the exact color of her thick eyeliner and heavily drawn brows. She had a long, neon orange scarf wrapped carelessly around her neck, and it fluttered this way and that as it trailed behind her.
As if it were opening night on Broadway
and she’d managed to see the show destined to be the season’s smash hit, she started clapping her hands. Moving closer to me, she began shouting “Honey, I love you.” I stepped to one side, not wanting to get in between the Queen Mary and her dock.
“Honey, I love you.” She repeated and stopped in front of me. “Don’t be shy. Give me a hug. You know how hard it is to get this guy to take a vacation. You worked with him; you know. Thank you. Thank you for getting me a trip to the beach.”
I yelped when she threw her arms around me, gave me a gigunda bear hug and planted any number of kisses on both of my cheeks. I could imagine them covered with smears of her orangey lipstick that didn’t quite match the scarf.
How could I have forgotten George’s flamboyant wife, O’Mally? The great, never-resolved mystery that stymied everyone who knew them was how placid George and high-flying O’Mally had ever gone on a first date, much less got married and lived happily ever after for the past twentysomething years.
I wriggled out of her grip.
George gave me a shy smile. With a hand on the small of her back, he gently guided the woman who walked a few steps behind him toward me. “This is my sister, Regina.”
I immediately thought of her as colorless. Not the kindest description perhaps. And maybe it was seeing her in contrast to her bright and shiny sister-in-law. Regina’s dark hair had wide streaks of gray, matching her gray pantsuit. Her tightly laced walking shoes were black and matched her large over-the-shoulder purse.
Regina extended a shy hand. “Thanks for letting us know where to find Alan. We’ve been so worried.”
Before I could respond, George was giving me a restrained hug and thanking me profusely.
I tripped over my words at first but got quick control. “The thing is, we have to talk.”
I ushered the Merskys to a quiet corner of the terminal and told them as unemotionally as I could that Alan had been arrested. Regina stifled a sob.
O’Mally immediately became comforter-in-chief. She put her arm around George and softly murmured, “It will be fine, you’ll see. We’re here now to straighten this out.”
George turned toward her. I watched as their eyes met, and the confidence in hers swam into the worry in his. At last I understood how these two oddly different people were entwined. It was such a warm, fuzzy moment that I almost forgot the horrible news I’d delivered.
George asked me when they could see Alan. I had no idea but said I’d find out.
O’Mally, displaying her practical side, suggested that we collect the luggage and set off to get the rental car. Within a few minutes we were transferring suitcases from the Heap-a-Jeep to a spiffy Buick LaCrosse with less than three thousand miles on the odometer. George was nervous about using a strange GPS so I gave him general directions, which O’Mally jotted on a small pad she pulled out of her sparkly silver purse.
I ended by telling him that I’d keep him in my rearview mirror but if he lost sight of me, he should call my cell. Happily, there wasn’t much traffic along Daniels Parkway or Summerlin Road. San Carlos Boulevard was a little crowded but we got over the bridge fairly easily, and turned onto Estero Boulevard.
When I turned into the parking lot of Breezy Beach Apartments, I realized at once that Charmaine of Mid-Beach Realty had outdone herself. The lot was roomy and the entrance to each of the four apartments was alcoved for privacy. When we got inside, the two-bedroom rental apartment was clean, bright and sunny. Several windows had a view of the beach. While the Merskys were settling in, I excused myself, went out to the parking lot and stood by the Heap-a-Jeep.
I punched speed dial and within two rings, he answered in clipped official tones.
“Lieutenant Anthony.”
“Frank, it’s Sassy Cabot. I’m with Alan Mersky’s family. They just arrived from up north. Could you tell me how to arrange for the family to visit Alan?”
As Frank talked, I was comforted because the procedure didn’t seem at all complicated, but then he shook me out of my comfort zone when he ended by saying, “Tell them to get a lawyer. Things aren’t looking good for Alan Mersky.”
I punched the “End” button and walked slowly back to the building. I hoped O’Mally had a deep reserve of the confidence she’d imbued in George a little while ago. He was going to need a lot more of it.
Chapter Nine ||||||||||
I stopped dead in my tracks in the middle of the parking lot. How could I go inside and tell George he needed to hire a lawyer? He’d been on the island less than an hour. Where was he supposed to find one? The yellow pages?
I still had my phone in my hand and I hit the speed dial for Cady Stanton. As a newsman, he’d know the who’s who of the legal system.
“Hi, Sassy, how’d it go? Are your friends settling in all right?”
I had no time for small talk. “Cady, I need a lawyer. Pronto. Who should I call?”
His response was louder than my request warranted. “What on earth did you do now?”
“I didn’t do anything. I need to make a recommendation to Alan Mersky’s family and I want to recommend the best. Who do you think that would be?” I hoped I responded sharply enough that he would think twice the next time before assuming I was stirring up trouble, when all I was trying to do was help a friend.
“Oh, of course. Let me think a minute . . .”
I was tapping my toe in an ever-increasing cadence. I didn’t have the patience to wait for Cady to mull over a list of possibilities. I wanted the best and I wanted it now.
“I got it.” Cady sounded jubilant. “Goddard Swerling. I did a feature on him once. He’s a top-rated defense attorney. He centers his practice in Fort Myers, but works trials all around the state. He guest lectures at Florida A&M College of Law in Orlando and a couple of other top schools. Given his line of work, he keeps his home address under wraps but I know he has a beach house near the south end of the island. He’s your guy. Hold on. I’ll get you his phone number.”
I found a dog-eared receipt from Walgreens in my purse and fished out a pen so when Cady came back on the line I was ready to scribble the phone number across the back.
He was slower than I liked in getting me the information but I finally had what I needed, so I was gracious with my thanks.
When I rang the doorbell of the Merskys’ temporary home, Regina opened the door instantly. “Sassy, you’ve been such a help. And this apartment is so nicely kept. It is a charming place to stay while we get Alan’s troubles . . . sorted out.”
I gave her shoulder an encouraging squeeze and went looking for George.
O’Mally was sitting at the kitchen table, writing a grocery list. “George, do you want me to look for some fish, maybe a nice piece of snapper, while I’m at the market? And I suppose you’ll want your cocoa for nighttime?”
George was staring absently out the window but he managed to nod at each of her suggestions.
O’Mally looked up as I walked into the room. “Sassy, darlin’, I was thinking Regina and I could run to that supermarket you said was around here someplace while you and George have a little tête-à-tête about, er, whatever you’re going to do about Alan.”
Shouldn’t it be O’Mally talking to George? I didn’t want to get any further absorbed into their family problem than I already was. I’d be more than willing to do chores such as shopping, but O’Mally had already stuffed the shopping list in her sparkly silver purse and called Regina to be ready to go. She stopped in the kitchen doorway. “Sassy, where exactly am I going?”
I gave her directions to Publix, about a quarter of a mile down the boulevard, and she flew out of the kitchen, her orange scarf swerving back and forth like a rudder.
When the door closed behind his wife and sister, George gave a deep sigh. He walked over to the table and sat with his elbows on it and his head buried in his hands. Finally he looked up at me.
“S
assy, what am I going to do? Regina and O’Mally are counting on me to make this right. I don’t even know how to start. I guess I should find out how to visit Alan, see if he needs anything . . .”
I waited half a beat and then told George the procedure Frank Anthony had outlined over the phone. I ended with, “The lieutenant said they don’t like hordes of visitors. You and Regina may be able to visit Alan together or may have to go in separately. It’s likely they won’t let O’Mally in to see Alan at all.”
George waved my comment away as if the visiting regulations were inconsequential. He’d already moved on to the next item on his list. “I can’t figure out what I should bring him. Oranges. He always liked oranges. I should have asked the girls to buy some. And I guess he needs a razor. Oh, will they let him have a razor? Maybe an electric? Better yet, battery operated.”
He leaned back in the chair and placed his hands on top of his head and began staring at the ceiling. When we worked together at Howard Accounting, I’d watched him stretch into that position a thousand times while he puzzled out a client’s finances when the numbers didn’t add up. Apparently that was how he tried to work out all his life issues large or small, personal or professional.
I admit it was nostalgic for me to sit watching him ponder. In the old days, the signal that he had unraveled a knotty problem was a slam of his fist on the desk, and a suggestion that we break for a cup of tea. Sure enough in a few minutes he punched the table and said, “I hope O’Mally remembers to get tea and fresh lemons.”
“Okay, now I have a plan. I wonder if there is any paper around here.” He got up and opened the kitchen drawers one after the other and came up with a lined pad with more than half the pages missing. “This’ll do.”
He sat down at the table and in that half-print, half-script penmanship that was so hard for me to read when we first started working together, he began to write.
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