Caught Read-Handed

by Terrie Farley Moran

  “Okay, the bottom line is that the Lipscomes—although from what I hear it was her pushing the idea, not him—decided they wanted to build one of those elevated swimming pools. You know what I mean. It’s a ten-foot-high concrete enclosure where they can build a six-foot-deep pool above ground because the water table is too high to put it in the ground.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Is there a bottom line?”

  “Okay I’ll skip to the end. The Lipscomes filed for permits and the neighbors on the eastbound part of Moon Shell Drive filed a lawsuit trying to prevent the Lipscomes from building the pool on their property that sits on the top of the curve. The pool would block the neighbors’ view of Estero Bay and the shoreline foliage.”

  Now he had my interest. “Who are these neighbors? Any homicidal maniacs among them?”

  “Sassy, you really should read the News. One of the neighbors is a former pro wrestler named Otto Ertz. He’s been so confrontational with Tanya that the sheriff’s deputies had to be called. Twice. No one seemed to fight with Barry about it. I don’t know if he cared whether they built the swimming pool or not. It’s like it was Tanya’s pet project.”

  The door opened and I started to get up, ready to move into waitress mode. But instead of customers, it was Elaine Tibor, our potential part-time waitress. Once again she was wearing a black knee-length skirt. This time her white man-tailored shirt had short sleeves. I looked down at my denim shorts and green tank top covered by a white bib apron and realized we forgot to tell her how informal we are here at the Read ’Em and Eat.

  I greeted her warmly but was grateful when Bridgy offered to show her around. I volunteered to watch the dining room. I made the rounds of the few occupied tables with a coffeepot and a pitcher of sweet tea and offers of “Can I get you anything else?” Then I returned to Cady.

  “What else do you know about the lawsuit? How dangerous is this wrestler? And who else is involved?”

  Cady swallowed a mouthful of corn bread and leaned back in his chair. “Well, Goddard Swerling is the lawyer representing the neighbors. Although how that works along with him representing Alan Mersky, I have no idea. I don’t know why you’re asking me all these questions; your book club and yoga pal, Maggie Latimer, is one of the plaintiffs in the suit. She’d know more than I do. Can I have my omelet now?”

  I had a lot more questions but we’d run out of time. Customers were coming through the door and I had to get back to work. I seated a couple at Dashiell Hammett, gave them menus and then went into the kitchen to get Cady’s omelet.

  Miguel gave me a broad wink. “Ay, chica, I thought you would never let the poor man eat. Are you pumping him for information about the murder?”

  I noticed Elaine watching us from where she and Bridgy were standing near the office door. I didn’t want to have her think we were morbid gossips, so I laughed off Miguel’s remark and told a complete lie. “Actually, we were talking about taking a trip to St. Augustine sometime in the next few weeks. Historical Florida, you know.” I grabbed Cady’s omelet off the steam table and fled.

  Lunch patrons began surging through the door. I led them to seats and poked my head in the kitchen pass-through to let Bridgy know we had a crowd building. She and I had agreed that for this trial period, Elaine would work the dining room for the entire lunch shift. Bridgy would stay in the kitchen with Miguel instead of running back and forth as she usually did. I’d handle the dining room and keep an eye on Elaine. Later on Bridgy and I would switch. This way we could both evaluate Elaine and, as the lunch crowd dwindled, I could focus on getting ready for the Potluck Book Club. This month’s book, Fictitious Dishes by Dinah Fried, was so different from anything we’d read before so I was extremely curious to hear how the clubbies interpreted the author’s concept.

  Elaine was a quick learner. When she had a question, she asked it, took in the answer and retained it. She never asked the same question twice. And she was a meticulous server, which is a trait I knew would make a good impression on the patrons. The early lunch crowd ate briskly and rushed out again, anxious to get on with whatever plans they had for the rest of the day. The folks who came in later were more casual about their meals and tended to linger over dessert or a second cup of coffee.

  Bridgy and I switched places about an hour before book club was due to start. She asked me what I thought of Elaine, and I told her that this could work out well for us. “In fact, see if she can come in tomorrow morning around nine so we can go to Tanya Trouble’s funeral.”

  Bridgy looked surprised. “Did you wangle an invitation?”

  “Don’t be silly. We don’t need an invitation to watch who comes and goes.” And I shooed her out of the kitchen.

  I filled the dishwasher and washed down the work counter Miguel wasn’t using. He asked me to chop and slice onions and celery for his famous Old Man and the Sea Chowder. While I cut the vegetables, I watched him move from the counter to the stove top and back again, effortlessly putting together a meal and then placing it on the steamer tray or in the pass-through and immediately moving on to the next meal and the next. Within an hour there were few requests for new meals, and I guessed the lunch rush had subsided to a near halt.

  I went into the office and took my copy of Fictitious Dishes from the shelf next to our tiny desk. There were bookmarks stuck in several places. Miguel was busy bagging and refrigerating the chopped vegetables. I waved the book in front of him. “I see you’ve been marking pages. Have you decided which fabulous treat you are going to make for the book club meeting this afternoon?”

  “Sí, but you must not be nosy. I am preparing a surprise that you will all enjoy. You will see it when I bring it to the dining room near the end of your meeting.”

  Miguel loved to whip up special dishes now and again for our book club meetings. As much as he reveled in the praise he received from the book club members, he also enjoyed the opportunity to be more creative than our café menu generally allowed.

  I went into the dining room to begin setting up the chairs for the Potluck Book Club meeting and saw that there were customers lingering at two tables. Bridgy was doing a quick all-purpose tidy-up. I looked around.

  “Where’s Elaine?”

  Bridgy looked up from washing the countertop. “We’re not busy. I told her she could leave. She was professional, wasn’t she? Having her help out once in a while would benefit us and she can make a couple of tuition bucks. Win-win.”

  “Sure is. Did you ask her if she can work tomorrow?”

  “Oh, I forgot.” Bridgy dropped her cleaning cloth on the counter. “She walked out the door two seconds ago. Maybe I can catch her in the parking lot.” And Bridgy hurried out the door.

  I checked with the folks at the two occupied tables and when they didn’t need anything, I went back to setting up the book corner—chairs in a circle, extra copies of Fictitious Dishes under my chair, pencils and paper on the bookcase ledge in case anyone wanted to take notes.

  I looked up when the door opened, half expecting it to be Bridgy, but it was Sally Caldera waving a copy of Fictitious Dishes. “Extraordinary book. Really extraordinary. I didn’t want to hear secondhand what the book club members have to say about it, so here I am.”

  She came and sat in the book club circle. “How are you doing? Sassy, I’m really sorry that I had to give your name to the deputies, but they wanted a list of who was in the library when Tanya and Alan had their . . . flare-up. And, well, I knew you’d shine a sympathetic light on Alan. But I didn’t know you are friends with his family. That was a complete surprise. I heard you brought them to town.”

  I was saved by Lisette Ortiz from having a conversation that was bound to take up the tiny bit of time left before book club started. Lisette came in carrying a bright red bowl. She popped the lid and gave us a peek at the heap of fresh blueberries inside.

  “I soooo had to bring some berries in a red bowl. Life imita
ting art. I know the picture in the book was really a red pail but I needed a bowl with a top for the car ride.” Her dimples were playing hide-and-seek on her cheeks as her joyful enthusiasm got the best of her. “Blueberries for Sal has been one of my all-time favorite books since I was a toddler. I have bought a copy for each of my nieces and nephews as a present on their second birthday, and every year I donate a few copies to the Children’s Toy Fund, as you well know because you order them for me.”

  Sally and I were relishing Lisette’s joy as she continued to beam while marveling at the fact that the author had included some children’s books in Fictitious Dishes.

  Bridgy finally came back into the café and signaled that we needed to talk. I started to walk over to her but a customer at one of the still-occupied tables stopped me.

  “Miss, could I ask what is going on back there? Oh, and could we have our check?”

  I explained about the book club meetings that we hosted in the café and gave her a book club flier along with her check. By the time she settled her bill, Bridgy was busy filling a takeaway order for two young girls who had walked in a minute earlier. I stood by the counter and asked what was up.

  “Elaine can’t work tomorrow.” Bridgy put the finishing touches on tying the pastry box shut. “And there’s plenty more you need to know, but not now.” She nodded toward Maggie Latimer and her sister, Karen, who’d just walked through the café door chatting animatedly with Augusta Maddox and Blondie Quinlin.

  It sounded like they were talking about the anaconda snake swimming in Estero Bay.

  I smiled and ushered them back to the book corner, all the while wondering what had Bridgy so peeved and how I was going to separate Maggie from her sister long enough to glean information about her lawsuit against Tanya Trouble. Fair to say, it was going to be difficult for me to concentrate on book club with all this whirling around in my head.

  Chapter Eighteen ||||||||||

  As everyone was settling in their chairs, Maggie introduced her sister, Karen, to any clubbies she hadn’t already met.

  Lisette pulled small paper cups and a large spoon out of her bag. “Would anyone like some blueberries? I thought we could nibble while we talk.”

  Only Sally didn’t take a cup of berries. As the rest began munching, I asked a starter question. “What did you think of the concept of Fictitious Dishes and the layout?”

  Augusta Maddox boomed her response. “When we talked about picking this ’un, I wasn’t inclined but I went along with the group.” She stopped, looked at the other clubbies for a beat or two and then smiled. “Mighty glad I did. Top-notch idea, taking snippets about food from other books and then doing a fancy picture to show what the food might look like.”

  Maggie nodded in agreement. “And the array of books! When we first spoke about this book, it never occurred to me that the assortment would include children’s books like Bread and Jam for Frances, and go all the way to classics like On the Road by Jack Kerouac and One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez.”

  Lisette agreed. “The variety was stunning. I have to admit that I read this on my e-reader, and I was wondering if, later, I could borrow someone’s book so that I could see the pictures. I’m sure they are larger, more detailed than on the e-reader.”

  Blondie Quinlin handed hers over immediately. “Keep it for a while. With Augusta’s copy right next door, I can holler over the fence if I want to look at something again. Speaking about rereading”— she looked at Sally—“I’ll be coming down to the library in the next day or so to check out a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. The scene we have here”—she pointed to the book she’d just given away—“is so touching. Sums up the whole story, the Finch family eating a breakfast including the chicken Tom Robinson’s father sent as payment for services.” She sighed. “I need to read that book again.”

  Karen noted that she had never read East of Eden but was intrigued enough by the piece in Fictitious Dishes to try it. “I was never a fan of John Steinbeck, but the description of the relationship between the Trasks . . . well, I might give the book a try.”

  I could see how excited Sally was getting. Anything that encouraged people to read more books warmed her librarian soul.

  Conversation flew around the group with ladies laughing and turning pages to take another look at a passage from a particular novel and the accompanying picture. I couldn’t help but think how much nicer book club meetings were when Jocelyn Kendall wasn’t among us.

  Thinking of Jocelyn reminded me of Pastor John, which led me directly to Alan Mersky. I glanced at the wall clock. As soon as this meeting was over, I needed to talk to Maggie about the lawsuit, then call George to see how his day was going and, oh, what were we going to do about Tanya Lipscome’s funeral? I had a long afternoon ahead.

  The conversation was moving along without me so I looked around for Bridgy, wondering if I might slip away for a few moments and find out what had upset her when she went to look for Elaine. A couple, mid-fifties, and their inquisitive grandson were sitting at Robert Frost. The grandfather was patiently reading “The Road Not Taken” from the laminated tabletop, and the child kept stopping him to ask questions like “Why was the wood yellow?” and “What is ‘undergrowth’?”

  Honestly! They should have sat at Dr. Seuss. It gave me a good excuse to leave the book corner. Bridgy came out of the kitchen with a plate of black bean dip and crackers, and I was able to stop her before she reached the family. “Did you suggest Seuss?”

  She sighed. “I did, but according to Grandpa, sonny boy is too advanced for such childish things.”

  I gawked at them and pivoted back to Bridgy. “The boy can’t be more than six or seven. How is that too old for Dr. Seuss? I still love to read Seuss.”

  “You also wear Winnie the Pooh footie pajamas, and I bet they wouldn’t let the kid have those, either.”

  While I had her attention, I decided to ask. “Elaine? You looked, I don’t know, disturbed.”

  As she shook her head, her golden hair circled into a halo and then fell back into place. “Later. But I warn you, it’s a long story.”

  I slid back into my seat, wondering how long the story could really be. Bridgy was only outside for a few minutes. I was drawn back into the conversation when Sally asked how we enjoyed the footnote-ish sentences about each author, book and food that fell between the quote from the book and the picture of the food.

  Lisette said she loved the section on Beverly Cleary’s Beezus and Ramona. She had no idea that there were eight Ramona books spanning Ramona’s age from four to ten. “More books to entertain the nieces and nephews.”

  Completely switching topics, Lisette continued. “Am I the only one who didn’t know that Patricia Highsmith referred to her Tom Ripley books as the ‘Ripliad’? How many Ripley books were there, anyway?”

  We all knew The Talented Mr. Ripley. Then it got dicey. I seemed to remember a title where Ripley was under something. Out loud I tried “under trees” and “under rocks” but nothing sounded right.

  Sally, ever prepared, did a quick search on her phone and read off all five titles. I was pleased that Highsmith wrote both Ripley Under Ground and Ripley Under Water. I felt like quite a smart book maven.

  Maggie was still interested in why Highsmith called the collection of Ripley novels the “Ripliad.” “Do you think she started out thinking she’d write a trilogy and merged the word ‘triad’ with Tom Ripley’s last name, and then when the public clamored for more, well by then she’d already coined ‘Ripliad’?”

  We were murmuring about the possibility when Bridgy came and leaned over my shoulder. “Excuse me, ladies, it sounds like you’re having a grand time. I hate to interrupt but Miguel has made a delicacy based on one of the foods in the book and he sent me out to take orders for drinks.”

  Augusta and Karen opted for water while the rest of us asked for sweet tea.
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  Blondie looked directly at me. “What did he make?”

  I shrugged. “Miguel never said a word and I didn’t see any signs of anything out of the ordinary when I was in the kitchen earlier.”

  “Well, I’ll be happy as long as it ain’t that gruel from Oliver Twist.”

  Maggie shuddered. “So true. Even the picture of the bowl of gruel was depressing.” Then she glanced toward the kitchen door and whispered, “Well, if Miguel chose to cook the gruel, we should all be polite about it.”

  That set us into gales of laughter.

  Bridgy served the water and sweet tea and Miguel, his toque blanche sitting on his head at a rakish angle, came out of the kitchen carrying a tray of avocado halves stuffed with crab salad. Each avocado half was plated on a large lettuce leaf with sliced cucumbers and a sliver of orange, exactly as pictured in Fictitious Dishes.

  Sally clapped her hands in delight. “The Bell Jar. Oh Miguel, this is so wonderful. That was the one book that I was determined we would speak about and then we got swept away in other books, other issues and well, now you’ve reminded me.”

  I got up and helped Bridgy serve while Miguel stepped to the side and waited for the clubbies’ responses after they tasted his surprise. I was pleased that he’d made enough so that Bridgy and I could each have one. I loved trying his “off menu” specialties, any one of which could easily become “on menu” stars.

  I nibbled on the crab salad and it was tangy and delicious. Then I took a bit of smooth, cool avocado on my fork along with a dab of salad and oh, the melding of flavor was delightful.

  The clubbies were silent for a bite or two and then Augusta Maddox spoke for all of us when, in her deep baritone, even louder than usual, she said, “This is the best danged crab concoction I ever ate. Only thing that could make it better would be a couple of fingers of corn likker.”

  Everyone laughed. Augusta’s fondness for Buffalo Trace was well known among her friends and acquaintances.