Caught Read-Handed

by Terrie Farley Moran

  As soon as I pressed the “End” button on my cell, Bridgy asked what I thought of the young Lipscomes.

  “Arrogant comes to mind. And obnoxious. You’d think they’d at least pretend to be sorry their stepmother is dead. I mean, if their father’s net worth is as large as the boys imply, Tanya’s death increases their inheritance, doesn’t it?”

  “You’ve seen the father. Is he tottering at death’s door?”

  “Nope. He looks healthy enough, but the Menendez brothers spring to mind.”

  Bridgy was shocked. “You mean those brothers who killed their parents for their fortune when we were, like, babies? I saw the story on some sort of ‘where are they now’ television show. Maybe Larry King Live before it went off the air.”

  “We studied the case in my family psych course junior year. Really creepy. Not that I think the Lipscomes are Menendez weird, but money is a strong motive and they disliked their stepmother so much that they can’t even put on a show of being sorry she’s dead.”

  Bridgy parked the car in front of the Read ’Em and Eat, and the Lipscomes were largely forgotten until we’d unloaded and stored our supplies. The supply room was stuffed to the gills, but I knew within a week we’d use up a third of what we’d dragged home. Bridgy opened a bottle of root beer and waved it at me. I nodded and she filled two glasses with ice and led me into the dining room. When we’re closed and the cleanup was finished, we often sat and enjoyed the silence around us. Both Bridgy and I were still astonished by how much our lives had improved in the three-plus years we’d been the proud owners of the Read ’Em and Eat. We liked to sit quietly and look around at our domain. The thrill never got old.

  Bridgy took a sip of her root beer and started rummaging in her sea green cross-body purse. She’d added a dolphin pin to the clasp and every time she opened the bag, the dolphin wobbled, but he never fell off. Bridgy pulled out a stack of papers and pushed them across the table.

  “I know you don’t have much interest in kitchen supplies, but we really have to talk about the ice machine. We’ve had it repaired twice and it is puddling again. It’s time to invest in a new one.”

  I nervously traced the edges of the picture of Dickinson’s house, which, along with a picture of the poet and copies of several of her poems, sat under layers of lamination on the tabletop. I hated when we had to talk about money. After expenses, the Read ’Em and Eat was providing just enough income for Bridgy and me to survive. As long as we continued to share the apartment we liked to call the Turret, because it was five stories high overlooking the beach and had miles of gorgeous views, we were fine.

  I made a show of thumbing through the papers and then set them down. “Honestly, have you looked at these prices? How can we afford . . . ?”

  “We can’t afford not to. We serve cold drinks all day long. Do you realize how many customers order sweet tea rather than coffee for breakfast? And nearly everyone wants a glass of ice water with their meals. We have to have good-quality ice.”

  As our bookkeeper, or “resident money guru” as Bridgy liked to call me, I knew the purchase would crimp our budget for a few months. But the café wouldn’t survive if we suddenly stopped serving ice. I caved gracefully.

  “Okay, how about this. Have Miguel look these over with you. Pick two or three you think would suit our needs. Call a couple of the restaurants our size, you know, like the Sandwich Shack and Estelle’s Eatery. See what kind of machines they use. I’ll find the money for whatever model you think is best. Royal gives us a ninety-day line of credit, right?”

  Bridgy jumped up. “Oh, I thought this conversation was going to be a lot tougher. That accountant’s mind of yours puts everything in order lickety-split.” She leaned in and gave me a hug.

  Bridgy’s use of the word “accountant” reminded that I couldn’t go home without checking in to find out how the Mersky clan was managing. While Bridgy gathered up all the ice machine papers, I pulled out my cell phone and began searching for George’s number.

  Chapter Sixteen ||||||||||

  O’Mally answered George’s phone on the first ring and she was whispering. Before I had a chance to think how strange both those things were, O’Mally said George was asleep. She raised her voice to normal. “Sorry, Sassy. I would have turned his iPhone off after he went to bed, but he ordered me to leave it on. Ordered! Can you imagine George ordering me to do anything? I tell you, Sassy, this entire situation is taking a toll on my poor Georgie. Anyway, he had a gut-wrenching conversation with that shyster lawyer. Gave George a headache. Are you sure that Swerling is the best around because, personally, I’d fire him for insolence or impudence or one of those things.”

  She finally stopped for a breath, allowing me a chance to talk. “I wanted to check and make sure you are all right. What is on the agenda for tonight? Tomorrow? Anything I can do to help?”

  “Well, George is hoping that by some time tonight the sheriff’s office will be able to give us a contact person at the hospital. We need to know who will be observing Alan so George can follow up with them and maybe cross-refer Alan’s VA records.”

  “Perhaps Pastor John could help with that.”

  “Great idea. Do you have his number? I know he and George exchanged phone numbers but I don’t want to search around. Anyway, I’d rather use my phone. Keep George’s free for incoming.”

  I could certainly see the wisdom of that, so I rattled off cell numbers for me, Bridgy and Pastor John, plus our home number in the Turret. I took a quick look in a local directory we kept under the front counter and found the number for Pastor John’s church.

  I hung up and looked at Bridgy. “Boy, for all her ‘nutty as a fruitcake’ demeanor, O’Mally is one tough gal when it comes to taking care of George.”

  “Obvi. All you have to do is see the way she looks at him when he’s busy doing something else. It’s totes adorb.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “Okay. Okay. I’m practicing. Next time the Teen Book Club comes in, I want to sound ‘with it’ when I serve the refreshments.”

  “A suggestion here. If you want to relate to the kids, the first thing you should do is stop saying ‘with it.’ Makes you sound like you’re ancient. Isn’t that from like the disco age or something? Next you’ll be saying ‘my bad.’”

  We spun into one of our giggle sessions and, before we knew it, Bridgy passed me a napkin and we were wiping tears from our eyes.

  She looked at me and said, “Man, we needed that. Oops. Another hokey saying, right?”

  “Ah, but totes appropriate. And you know what would also be appropriate—an hour at the beach.”

  “Great idea. Let’s lock up and I’ll race you home.” Bridgy turned off the light switch. “You know what would also be a great idea? We should start keeping bathing suits and beach towels in the office so we could go for a swim after closing once in a while.”

  I gave my head a “why didn’t I think of that” smack and we locked up for the day.

  It only took a few minutes to drive both cars home and change into swimsuits. We wandered through the rear deck of our building, fancifully named the Beausoleil, although no one could argue with the fact that we basked in the beautiful sun most days of the year.

  We plopped on towels we’d spread on the sand and looked up and down the beach. It was nearly dinner hour for everyone. Even tourists have to eat, thank goodness, or we’d be out of a job.

  “Do you want to swim first, or do your meditation?”

  Bridgy’s question had startled me, so I realized that I’d probably begun my “look at the horizon” meditation as soon as I sat down.

  “Meditate first.”

  “Great. I’m going shelling along the shore. Back in twenty.”

  Bridgy walked along the shoreline carrying the mesh cosmetics bag she used for her shell collecting. She bent down a time or two but nothing she examined
made it into the bag. I watched her for a couple of minutes before shifting my eyes to a mother standing at the water’s edge with two toddlers. Each time the Gulf tide washed up on the sand, the little girl shrieked gleefully and splashed with her hands and feet, while her brother took any number of steps backward until the water retreated once again.

  Finally, I turned to the horizon, calmly sitting at the distant edge of the Gulf, waiting for me. I shifted into the butterfly pose that Maggie had taught me in my first yoga class. I brought my knees in to my chest and then dropped them out to each side. I slid my feet together and leaned forward slightly until I was comfortable. I began to breathe deeply, never allowing my eyes to leave the horizon. When the occasional thought slipped into my mind, I mentally swatted it away, keeping my mind open and focused on the exact spot where sky meets sea.

  After a while, I closed my eyes and let the events of the recent days reemerge in a finer semblance of order. I looked around and Bridgy was only a few feet away, using her hand as a visor and staring up at the sky. I twisted my head and followed her gaze. She was gawking at the bright red canopy of a parasail pulled through the air by a towline attached to a speedboat.

  “Get anything good?” I was referring to the shells.

  But Bridgy was captivated by the parasail. She pointed skyward. “We should try that. And soon.”

  “Not a chance. Now let me see the shells you found.”

  She fell to her knees beside me and unzipped the shell bag. She lifted out two shells that looked like tiny ice cream cones. “I found two flawlessly shaped Florida Cones. Almost identical. Aren’t they perfect? I have one like them at home but the beige is a little darker and it doesn’t have as many yellow stripes. If I put these two on either side of the one I have, they’ll make a gorgeous necklace.”

  She tucked the shell bag into her beach tote, and we ran into the water for a brief but invigorating swim.

  * * *

  The café was super busy the next morning. There was a continuous line on the benches outside the door of people waiting for tables. Three separate groups of fisherfolk came in to have their thermoses filled with coffee or sweet tea to go along with the takeout meals or boxes of pastry they wanted packed for later in the day. Bridgy and I couldn’t have moved any faster if we had ridden around on skateboards. At one point I reached over for the water pitcher that sat at Bridgy’s elbow as she was filling thermoses with fresh coffee. I couldn’t help but observe, “We are going to have to get that young woman. Elaine, was it? We have to get her in here for a trial run as waitstaff. We need help.”

  Bridgy nodded but I flew off to fill water glasses before she had a chance to answer me. We were less pressured once the takeout crowd was gone. And within a half hour, there were no more customers enjoying the salty aroma of the breeze coming in off the Gulf of Mexico while they sat outside our front door awaiting a breakfast table.

  I was bussing Robert Louis Stevenson—piling the dirty dishes and cutlery in a plastic bin—when I realized there were no customers hovering to jump in the seats as soon as I finished the scrub down. I glanced at the clock. It was nearly a quarter to eleven. The breakfast crowd was slowing to a drizzle and the lunch crowd had yet to begin. I was deciding to use our break time to talk to Bridgy about bringing on part-time help, at least for breakfast, when I heard the front door open.

  I gave the Stevenson tabletop a final swipe and turned to invite the customers to sit, but it was only Cady Stanton. I smiled whenever I thought of him by his full name or saw it as a byline in the Fort Myers Beach News. I am sure her friends and family were surprised when Cady’s radically feminist mother had voluntarily taken her husband’s last name. But of course she married a man whose last name was Stanton, so she was able to name her children Cady and Elizabeth after the founding feminist Elizabeth Cady Stanton, one of the authors of the “Declaration of Sentiments” that came out of the Seneca Falls Convention held long before the Civil War. If she’d fallen in love with a man named Smith or Jones, I wonder if she’d taken his last name.

  Cady marched over, stood in front of me rubbing his hands together and said, “Okay, I did my part. Bring on the breakfast, and—” He stopped to look at the specials board. “Great, Miguel made Ophie’s buttermilk pie. I’ll have a piece.”

  He had pulled out a chair and sat down before I realized that he was talking about Tanya Trouble’s funeral arrangements. I kept my voice low so as not to bring our exchange to the attention of the other breakfasters. I wasn’t going to have a repeat of the chaos that occurred when Ryan and Ophie talked in the dining room about the murder. The victim’s funeral would be no less sensational. “You found out the arrangements for, er, Tanya?”

  He nodded. “Bridgy asked me to, remember? And offered free breakfast. With pie.” He looked around. “Where is she?”

  “The kitchen. Come on, we can talk there.”

  I saw the reluctance spreading across his freckled face and added, “It’s where great breakfasts are made.”

  He followed me into the kitchen, but of course as we walked in, Bridgy walked out with an armful of food-laden dishes. “Tell Sassy,” she directed as she moved passed us. Miguel gave Cady a wave but kept his cooking on track. No interruptions tolerated.

  As a reporter, Cady was nothing if not concise. He listed facts in descending order of importance. “Tanya Lipscome’s funeral will be held tomorrow morning at ten o’clock in the Peace of Heart Chapel in Fort Myers. Invited guests only. No flowers, please. Donations may be made to the American Cancer Society. Her mother was a victim.”

  Cady checked off the mental list in his head and decided he told me all he knew or at least all he thought I needed to know.

  Bridgy came into the kitchen, put a handful of dishes in the rinse sink and gave me an inquiring glance.

  I nodded and gave Cady an “atta boy” pat on the shoulder. “Feed the man, Bridgy. He brought all the information we need.”

  Cady looked perplexed. “Why would you need the funeral information? Didn’t you hear me? Invitation only. Oh, Sassy, you aren’t going to snoop again, are you? Don’t you remember what happened the last time you decided to do a bit of investigating on your own? Nearly got yourself killed.”

  Definitely not a conversation I wanted to have, so I cut him off. “We have empty tables if you’d like something to eat.”

  Bridgy intervened. “Sassy, be nice. Cady is helping us. Oh, and I called Elaine Tibor. She is going to help out with the lunch shift. Sort of a trial run.”

  I gave Cady my widest smile and head-nodded toward the dining room. “Go sit down and I’ll bring you some hot corn bread and honey butter while you decide what you want for breakfast.” And I started putting together a plate.

  Miguel looked up from the vegetables he was chopping. “Cady, you want the veggie omelet, sí? With all that corn bread, you need veggies to be healthy.”

  “Never argue with the chef,” Cady said with a smile. “Veggie omelet, it is.”

  I followed him into the dining room. He took a seat at Robert Frost and motioned for me to sit. I put the corn bread platter in front of him and took a quick look around the room. Everything seemed under control, so I sat opposite him.

  “Sassy, I meant what I said. Everyone remembers what happened the last time we had a murder in town. I know you are friends with Alan Mersky’s family but you cannot get involved any further than you already are. And for goodness’ sake, no sleuthing.”

  I intended to humor him. I really did, but instead I wound up telling him that while I thanked him for getting the information requested, I was a grown woman and would do as I pleased. “Besides, I’m too busy to sit and listen to one of your lectures. We have a new employee coming in for training and I have the Potluck Book Club this afternoon.”

  I pushed back my chair and stood straight up.

  Then Cady said, “You do know that Tanya Lipscome was the w
oman in the lawsuit, right? You heard about that, didn’t you?” And he flashed a gotcha grin when I sat right back down in my chair.

  Chapter Seventeen ||||||||||

  “What lawsuit?”

  Cady pointed to the copies of his employer’s newspaper, the Fort Myers Beach News, stacked by the cash register. “Don’t you read the News? Folks don’t buy the paper, then I’m out of a job.” He patted my hand. “Only kidding. I’m not the reporter following it so I don’t know the story in its entirety but . . . our murder victim, Tanya Lipscome, and her husband own a big house just around the bayside curve of Moon Shell Drive. You know, it’s one of those streets that goes straight east off Estero Boulevard and then juts to the south and runs along Estero Bay.

  “They own a wide expanse of bay-front property and apparently the original builder, for the Lipscomes or somebody else, I don’t know, decided to put the house on the extreme south end of the property to give the homeowners maximum privacy. You know, kept it away from the houses before the curve.”

  I was tapping my toes with frustration. Would he never get to the point? “What has this got to do with anything?”

  Cady held up a hand. “Honestly, Sassy, you have no patience at all. I’m telling you what led up to the lawsuit. In my business, background information is extremely important.” He sat silently waiting for me to agree.

  Instead I leaned in and jabbed my index finger in the air directly in front of his face. “Don’t give me any more of your ‘I have the floor and I’ll take as much time as I please.’ In my business, I have to be on my feet and serving customers. And I may have to start serving again at any moment. Now get to the lawsuit.”

  He ripped a piece of corn bread in two, then saw the look on my face and thought the better of testing my tolerance any further. He put both pieces back on the plate.