Caught Read-Handed

by Terrie Farley Moran

  I looked at Bridgy. “I wonder what flavors we have.”

  “Vanilla, for sure. Miguel has apple pie a la mode on the specials tomorrow. Probably chocolate and strawberry, too. The basics. Let’s skip the fight. You sit. I’ll serve.”

  Ice cream. The one thing guaranteed to nip any potential skirmish in the bud. In a flash Bridgy was back with two glass bowls each holding scoops of all three flavors. “I assumed you want whipped cream and chocolate sauce?”

  “But of course.”

  She sat down and we both savored the cool and creamy treat. When we’d scraped the last bit of sweetness from the bottom of our bowls, Bridgy laughed. “Miguel sure knows how to get us to do what he thinks is the right thing.”

  “Food. Duh. He’s got our number. Bridgy, I’m sorry I snapped.”

  She dismissed my apology with a flap of her hand. “I listened, you know, when you were, shall we call it, ‘talking’ with Frank Anthony. What do you think the concern is? Is there a connection between the lawsuit and the murder?”

  “I have no idea, but I know one thing. Before I go home today I am going to visit the scene of the crime.”

  Bridgy, who is usually hesitant about anything to do with sneaking around, especially when it comes to gathering information we have no business collecting, shocked me by shouting, “Field trip.”

  Chapter Twenty-two ||||||||||

  I had driven us to work this morning, so we piled into my Heap-a-Jeep. I pulled out of the parking lot and headed for Moon Shell Drive. Bridgy was impressed I knew exactly where it was. “There are so many tiny streets on the island, some with only a house or two. How do you happen to know this one?”

  “I’ve dropped books at Maggie’s house more than a few times. I had no idea that the road curved. I thought it ended in the foliage leading to the bay.”

  “Sassy, what are we looking for?”

  “Nothing, really. It’s just, well, if the Lipscomes’ house is so close to Maggie’s, how come I don’t know it? I’ve been on the road. It’s the first turn off Estero Boulevard south of Pastor John’s church. The Lipscome house must really be hidden for it not to come to mind. I guess I’m curious.”

  “Yes, well, remember what curiosity did to the cat.” Bridgy was always quick to remind me of the potential consequences of my weaknesses. “Speaking of cats . . .”

  “I know what you’re thinking. Ophie’s offer to keep Bow in the Treasure Trove during the day is a temporary solution at best. Miguel is at work before the crack of dawn while Ophie . . .”

  “She’s my aunt and I love her, but Ophie saunters to work whenever she feels like it, unless she has an appointment, and she rarely schedules those before ten in the morning. What is Miguel supposed to do with Bow until Ophie shows up in the midst of the late breakfast rush? We can’t allow Bow to roam around the café. The Board of Health would never allow it.”

  “Maybe we could set up a fenced-in area for her in the book corner . . .” But even as the words came out of my mouth, I was shaking my head. Bow is used to being free, wandering as she pleases, which is why when her previous owner passed suddenly, Bridgy and I couldn’t take her to live in the Turret with us. A fifth-floor apartment is no place for a cat who likes to luxuriate in the sunny spot on a patio and chase small critters around and about the mangrove roots. Miguel’s house had been a regular stop on Bow’s daily walkabout and when she needed a new home, she settled in with Miguel without much difficulty. But now we had a problem.

  I turned onto Moon Shell Drive and drove slowly past Maggie’s house on the right and two bungalows on the left. Straight ahead there was nothing but scrub pines and mangroves leading directly to the bay. I slowed to a crawl and we drove past the houses. I was thinking we were better off in the Heap-a-Jeep than in Bridgy’s Ford Escort ZX2, because there was a good chance we’d land in a mud patch and the Heap-a-Jeep would manage to get out again. I wasn’t sure the Escort could do the same.

  We were about ten yards past Maggie’s driveway and nearing what looked like the end of the street when the road took a sharp right turn and dead-ended in front of a three-story villa of epic proportions. It could easily have been an upscale waterfront hotel. When Bridgy finished oohing and aahing, she said, “Aunt Ophie did say the Lipscomes have lots of money.”

  I pulled over to the side of the road. “This house screams ‘lots and lots and lots’ of money. Want to get out? We’ll get the lay of the land. Whatever happened back there”—I gestured toward the house and its lush surroundings—“certainly couldn’t be seen from here.” I looked behind me. “Or from any of the houses around the curve.”

  Bridgy made fun of me in her spookiest voice, while rubbing her hands together with great exaggeration. “Aye, dearie, ’tis the perfect spot for murrrderrr.”

  I smacked her hands and started to cross the street to the bay side, when a flamboyant cobalt car came tearing down the driveway from the Lipscome house. It screeched to a halt. Uh-oh. Barry Lipscome. I pushed Bridgy forward while whispering in her ear, “He knows me from the day I brought George to visit Alan.” I was glad I had my big wire-rimmed Ray-Ban aviators on. Still, I dropped my head for good measure. Maybe he wouldn’t remember me.

  “You’re trespassing. This is private property. If you are with the press, get out now.” He stood with legs spread and folded his arms like a stern father. He must have realized that the arm fold would wrinkle his blue linen blazer, because he suddenly dropped his arms to his sides. But he didn’t lose the stern look. He knitted his eyebrows and glared as if he could make us disappear by sheer force of will.

  Bridgy decided to go with her “I’m too adorable for you to stay mad at me” routine, while I stayed behind her, looking at the ground, kicking pebbles in the road and trying to become invisible.

  She lifted a hand and started twirling her blond curls. Even though I was behind her, I knew she was raising her big blue eyes to heaven. I’d seen this act before.

  “I’m so glad you’re here. We’ve been on every road on this island. We are sooo lost.”

  Barry Lipscome snarled. “Well, whatever you are looking for, it isn’t around here.”

  Bridgy must have widened her eyes to the max because by the end of the sentence, his snarl was gone.

  Then she took a half step forward and dusted a piece of imaginary lint off the lapel of his blazer. “Perhaps you could direct us to the country club. We’ll never find it on our own.”

  “The country club?” His tone was skeptical. He gave us the once-over but was more interested in our shorts and tank tops than what was underneath them. “You can’t go the country club dressed like that. Oh wait, are you new staff? Kitchen help, huh? Well, didn’t you have to go for an interview?”

  As fascinated as I was by his desire to protect the country club from riffraff like us, I was more concerned that our story was wearing thin.

  Bridgy saved the day. She looked down as if realizing for the first time that rather than a ball gown, she was wearing striped shorts and a salmon-colored tank decorated with, what else, dozens of leaping salmon. “Oh, no, no, no. We’re not going to the country club. We’re picking up someone. His car is in the shop. He rode over with friends, but they are staying for dinner. He has to get home. Family from up north driving down. They called to say they’re in Tampa.”

  Lipscome nodded as if all Bridgy’s fictitious drivel made perfect sense. And in a Florida beachy way, it did. Everyone on the island was used to being called to help out a friend who had company already here or about to arrive. All the wonderful things that made Fort Myers Beach such a delightful place to live was exactly what made it a magnet for visitors, especially folks who knew they could get free bed and board because they were related to you, had been your neighbor when you lived up north, or sat behind you in fourth grade. That’s one of the reasons I’m careful whose Facebook friend request I accept. Facebook friend today, ho
useguest tomorrow.

  My mind stopped wandering when Bridgy grabbed my arm and said, “We’re in luck. This nice gentleman is going to lead us to the country club. Let’s get going. “

  We tumbled into the Heap-a-Jeep while Barry Lipscome glided into the plush driver’s seat of his fully loaded gazillion-dollar-bill on four wheels. As soon as he started his engine, I said to Bridgy, “The country club? Seriously. And that story! I can’t believe he fell for it. Apparently even a widower whose wife is barely cold can’t resist your big blue eyes.”

  Not the least bit miffed, Bridgy tossed her head. “And don’t forget my curly blond hair.” She turned the rearview mirror and started to fuss with her hair. “I think my blond is starting to fade. Should I do something about it?”

  “Do what?” I pushed the mirror back in position. “What you have to do now is figure out what happens when we get to the country club and no one is waiting for a ride. Or do you want me to peel off into the next mini-mall lot and hope he doesn’t notice we’re not behind him?”

  “Oh, please. Have you no imagination? I’ll make this all go away like that.” And she emphasized “that” with a snap of her fingers. She tapped her cell phone a few times. “Ah, there it is.” She dialed a number and then spoke in a voice I’d never heard before. It had no trace of her Brooklyn roots and none of the southernisms she’d picked up from Ophie. “Yes, good afternoon. A Ms. Bridget Mayfield will be inquiring at the front desk for Mr. Atwell. Please tell her that her services are not required today. We are sorry for any inconvenience.” She listened for a minute. “I’m Ms. Cabot, Mr. Atwell’s personal assistant. Thank you.”

  We were stopped for a red light right behind Barry Lipscome. His car looked so expensive and yet vaguely familiar. Then I saw it. A silver shape, like the pilot’s wings a flight attendant gave me on my first airplane trip when I was seven. But this one had “ASTON MARTIN” emblazoned in the center. James Bond. I smacked Bridgy’s arm. “Look. Look at the car.”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s the car Pierce Brosnan drove in . . . which movie was it? The one when you fell in love with him?”

  “Die Another Day. Years ago, but wow, you’re right. Though, Pierce had the classic taste to drive a silver Aston Martin Vanquish, not this gaudy blue. Do you have any idea what a car like that costs?”

  “Forget the cost of the car. You can Google it when we get home. For now, tell me how you’re going to pull off this country club stunt. Do you even know that anyone named Atwell belongs to the club?”

  “Sassy, stop obsessing. If someone called the Read ’Em and Eat and left that message, would you say, ‘Sorry, I don’t know anyone named Atwell’? Would you? No. You would not. You’d take the message and if no one claimed it, you’d toss it in the recycle bin during cleanup.”

  “But this is a country club. The staff should know the members’ names.”

  “And who said we were picking up a member?”

  Barry Lipscome pulled up the circular driveway and when the valet opened his car door, we saw Lipscome point to the Heap-a-Jeep, which was looking dingier by its proximity to highly buffed Lincolns and Porches. The valet nodded and came directly to my door, holding out a red and white valet ticket as I watched Barry Lipscome step up on the sidewalk.

  “Oh, I won’t be getting out. Just my friend. We’ll only be here a minute.” The valet pointed to a spot a few feet past Lipscome’s Aston Martin and told me I could pull in and wait for no longer than ten minutes. He ended with, “club rules” as if that explained everything.

  Lipscome was walking slowly toward us, so Bridgy hopped out of the Heap-a-Jeep before he could get a good look at me. I was starting to feel like I was in the witness protection program. I heard him say, “I thought I’d escort you inside. Perhaps I know your friend.” He held out his arm and Bridgy hooked it with her hand. They walked into the country club side by side. I moved the jeep to its assigned spot and sat in my seat, hand hovering over the ignition key while I waited for Bridgy to come running out yelling, “They’re right behind me. Gun it.”

  And I pictured the parade behind her: Lipscome, a couple of brawny club security men, an elderly well-uniformed concierge and perhaps even a chef with a toque like Miguel’s. I kept my eye on the clock. With nearly two minutes left in the ten-minute countdown, Bridgy strolled out of the club’s front door, smiled at the doorman and waved to the valet. The country club posse I imagined to be following her was nowhere to be seen.

  She opened her door and before she was even in her seat she was giving me that “How cool am I?” smile.

  I wasn’t falling for it. “So you got away with fooling Lipscome. Big deal.”

  “Oh, that was nothing.” She made Mr. Atwell and his fake assistant disappear with a flap of her hand. She clearly had something more significant to reveal.

  I leaned back in my seat. “What? Don’t keep me in suspense.”

  “It’s the ‘on a need to know basis’ conversation that I didn’t need to know but heard anyway that is important. Now let’s get out of here.” She pointed to the clock. “Our ten minutes are up.”

  Chapter Twenty-three ||||||||||

  I kept quiet until we drove off the country club property, then I said, “So? Am I going to have to beg?”

  “Of course not. I’m organizing my thoughts. I want to get this right.” She left me hanging for another fraction of a minute. “Okay, so I walked up to the desk with ‘Barry Baby’—”

  “Barry Baby? Seriously?” I raised my eyebrows.

  Bridgy giggled. “As in ‘call me Barry, baby.’ He’ll be Barry Baby to me forevermore. Anyway, he was hovering over me like one of those helicopter moms. Does he know your name? I was nervous, wondering if he’d pick up on the name Cabot if the young guy at the desk recited the message word for word. I needn’t have worried. Just as the desk clerk asked if he could help us, a voice louder than Miss Augusta could ever manage thundered, ‘Barry Lipscome, is that you? Last person I expected to see here tonight.’ Lipscome muttered good-bye to me and practically sprinted over to a man with a wide handlebar moustache and a cowboy hat. Oh, I never looked at his feet. I should have checked for western boots. You know how I love outlandish footwear.

  “Anyway, I had to talk to the desk clerk. He didn’t doubt who I was or that Mr. Atwell existed. I thanked him for the message and headed to the corner where Barry Baby and the cowboy were jawing. I was hoping to get an earful before I said my thank-yous and good-byes. Did I ever.”

  She was preening because she knew something that I didn’t. The look of delight on her face was every bit as annoying as if she were shouting, “Na, na, na, na, na.” I slid to a stop at a red light and turned to her. “Bridgy, tell me right now, or you can get out here and walk home.”

  “You take all the fun out of everything. Okay, so . . . Barry Lipscome filed for divorce a few days before his wife was murdered. She didn’t even know. Hadn’t been served with the papers before . . . before she was conked on the head and out for the count.”

  I was glad Ophie wasn’t around. That line would have earned a well-mannered-ladies lecture for sure. “How did Cowboy Hat know about this if Tanya Trouble didn’t?”

  “Cowboy Hat is named Glenn something or other and he is Barry Lipscome’s lawyer. I heard him say, ‘As your personal attorney, I am advising you to allow me to withdraw the papers before anyone discovers you were planning to discard your wife a few days before she wound up dead.’ Shook Barry Baby up. I knew that because his face blanched like boiled almonds.

  “Then he said, ‘Good point. Do you need me to sign anything?’

  “Glenn said he wanted permission but he didn’t want a paper trail back to Barry Baby. That way if the lawyer is ever asked, he’d say the petition became moot so he withdrew it. What with clogged calendars and all.

  “They were so wrapped up in their talk that neither of them not
iced me, so I tiptoed away without saying good-bye.”

  My mind was doing somersaults. A man wealthy enough to own a palatial house and vain enough to drive an Aston Martin Vanquish might not be willing to share a fortune by divorcing his ex-wife, when he could keep it all if she conveniently died.

  Never one to be ignored, especially when she’d discovered a fascinating nugget of information, Bridgy was bouncing in her seat and pressing me to share my thoughts. At that exact moment the thought consuming me was that Ellison Lipscome sure knew his father. Made me wonder what else he knew.

  “Maybe you’ll find out when you ‘spy’ on the guests at the funeral service. Be interesting to watch the tension between the father and his sons.”

  That made me think of the suspicions we had after meeting the sons. With Tanya dead, Ellison and Abbot Lipscome had no one standing between them and their father’s money—except their father.

  “Are you cray-cray?” Bridgy squealed. “Why are we turning here?”

  But her complaint was too late. We were back on Moon Shell Drive. I drove up the road, made the quick right and parked in the same spot we’d been in less than an hour ago. I hopped out of the Heap-a-Jeep, went around to the passenger side and opened Bridgy’s door. “Come on. You know you don’t want me to go exploring alone.”

  Bridgy made a face that, loosely translated, said, “Meanie, meanie, tangerine-y” and then slid off her seat. “Okay. We’re here. Now what?”

  I threw my hands in the air. “I don’t know. It’s not like I have a plan. I want to see the place. Get a feel for it.”

  “We’ll get more than a feel if Barry Baby comes back. We’ll be spending the rest of the evening explaining to some deputy why we’re trespassing on a crime scene.”

  “Crime scene?” I snapped back at her. “Do you see any yellow tape? We’re on a public street, for pity’s sake. No harm in that.”