Read to Death (3 page)

I nearly knocked over a chair and ran to the door, thinking,
Please, don't let her be having a heart attack.

Ophie put her finger to her lips and whispered. “Listen. Is that . . . ?”

“Help me. Please. Someone, help me.”

It was Bridgy. I pushed past Ophie and ran out the door.

Chapter Four

The van. Bridgy said she was going to look in the van for her sunglasses, but I didn't see her, or Oscar, for that matter. Then I heard her again. “Someone. Anyone. Please. I think he's dead.”

I ran to the van. Oscar was lying across the middle row of seats. Bridgy was kneeling at his side, her face soaked with tears. She looked at me and said, “He's dead. I'm so sorry.”

I patted my pockets but couldn't find my phone. I heard Ophie coming behind me, her spiked heels tap-tapping on the pavement. I yelled, “Call 911,” and when I heard her gasp, I reassured, “It's not Bridgy. It's Oscar.”

It didn't take more than a glance to see that Oscar was, indeed, dead. His jaw was slack and his eyes opened and unfocused. The pallor of his skin looked ghostly. Heart
attack, I thought. Then I saw the pair of scissors protruding from his neck. Oh dear Lord.

There was nothing I could do for Oscar, so I turned my attention to Bridgy. Her sunglasses were lying on the floor. I picked them up and held out my hand. “Come on. Ophie called for help. Let's go inside and wait.”

Bridgy started sobbing. “We can't leave him alone.”

I heard the wisdom in her words. There would be an inquiry. We certainly would be questioned.

“Listen, you go to the café with Ophie, and I'll wait here until the, uh, ambulance comes.” In truth I had no idea what Ophie said when she called or who would respond first, but I was hoping for an ambulance. I was positive an emergency medical technician should take a look at Bridgy, so I hoped one was on the way.

I handed her out of the van into Ophie's waiting arms. Of all the big ole bear hugs I'd seen Ophie give Bridgy through the years, this was the most heartfelt. Ophie stroked Bridgy's hair and crooned, “It will all be fine, baby girl. You wait and see. Let's get your face cleaned up and maybe a soothing cup of tea. I have some chamomile in the Treasure Trove. Let's walk over.”

I realized Ophie was right. The café, with the clubbies sitting in the book nook and waiting to begin a meeting, was the wrong place to bring Bridgy. I watched as Ophie loosened the hug, wrapped her arm solidly around Bridgy's shoulders and began leading her off to the Treasure Trove.

Bridgy looked back at me. “I don't want to leave you alone with . . . Oscar.”

As the sound of sirens came closer, I reassured her,
“Don't you worry. I'm going to stand outside the van. Hear those sirens? Help is on the way.”

A white car with “SHERIFF LEE COUNTY” stenciled in green across the front and back doors pulled up beside the van. Deputy Ryan Mantoni jumped from the driver's seat. He grabbed me by both arms and stared into my eyes. “Are you all right? Where's Bridgy? Who's hurt? When we heard the address . . .”

Behind him, Lieutenant Frank Anthony was speaking into his shoulder radio. I didn't know if I should wait to tell them both at once. Past experience had taught me that the lieutenant was a stickler for getting information exactly as he wanted it.

“It's Oscar Frieland, the van driver. He drove a group of us to the Edison and Ford Winter Estates. He's in there.” I pointed to the van. “And he's dead.”

Ryan immediately moved toward the van until I continued. “He's been murdered.”

That stopped him. “How could you possibly . . . ? Never mind.” He climbed into the van and came right out again. He leaned past me. “Loo, we got a homicide.”

Ryan and Frank locked eyes and did that telepathic thing they do. Ryan took me by the arm and began steering me to the front door of the Read 'Em and Eat. “Sassy, it's going to be a long day. Why don't we go inside for a glass of sweet tea and a piece of buttermilk pie?”

We hadn't quite reached the door when it opened and Miguel came out. He sensed trouble immediately. “
¡Dios mío!
What is wrong? Are you hurt? Where is Bridgy?”

I was too frazzled to answer. Ryan said, “Oscar had an, er, accident. Sassy is fine.” Then he looked at me. “If she's not with Miguel and she's not with you, where
is
Bridgy?”

I head-butted toward the Treasure Trove. “She's with Ophie.” No point in getting into anything else for the moment. All I wanted was to sit down and have a drink. I thought wine would be nice. Fat chance.

As we walked in, the chatter from the book corner ceased instantly. I wondered if I looked bad enough to stun the clubbies or if they picked up on how solicitous Ryan was being. Whichever, their curiosity was piqued. Ryan led me to the Emily Dickinson table and pulled out a chair. Grateful, I sat, or rather, buckled onto the chair. He leaned in and asked if he could get me anything. If it wasn't for Oscar's murder I would have thought the scene comical. Here was Ryan offering to serve me in my own café.

Miguel told the clubbies there had been a slight mishap and they were free to conduct their meeting without me, or they could go home and we could reschedule. A couple of the members glanced my way, but when they saw no obvious signs of injury, the ladies started talking among themselves.

Ryan, who had followed Miguel across the room, straightened to his tallest. “Excuse me . . . did you ladies all go on the trip to the Edison and Ford estates?”

“It was a book club field trip. We always have one before the snowbirds go home. We were all there. Together. What's your point? Did that Ivy person complain about us? I'd have to say we were better mannered than she was.” Augusta stood up and rested her hands on the rope belt that held up her ancient jeans, ready to take on Ivy in any argument.

Ryan raised his hands defensively. “Miss Augusta, I don't know anything about how your trip went, and I don't know anyone named Ivy.”

Augusta sat down and flashed a small but triumphant smile.

Ryan continued. “There's been a problem, so I am going to need you to stay here for a while.”

“Problem? What sort of problem and how long? I have a hair appointment.” Angeline fluffed her salt-and-pepper curls. “I certainly don't want to spend the rest of the week looking like this. Do you know how hard it is to reschedule an appointment with Nancy over at Creative Hair? She is always booked solid.”

Ryan deflated slightly. Even watching him from behind I could see that the gentleman in him wanted to tell her she looked lovely, but the deputy wrestled for control and won. “Sorry, ma'am, but . . .”

“We all have errands. I'm sure this won't take too long.” Blondie Quinlin tried a peaceful approach.

The door opened, and Frank Anthony walked in. Ryan took a giant step backward. “All these ladies were on the outing.”

Glancing out the window, I saw several additional sheriffs' cars and an ambulance in the parking lot. Oscar's van was the epicenter of boundless activity. I raised my hand, because I was sure that if I spoke prematurely, Frank would accuse me of speaking out of turn, an accusation he'd made a time or two in the past. Of course still other times he blamed me for withholding information. Honestly, I couldn't win with that man. To avoid even the appearance of conflict, I wanted to give him complete information as quickly as possible, even if I did look like a schoolgirl in need of a hall pass.

He bobbed his head, which I presumed was permission to speak.

“Bridgy and Ophie were also on the trip with us.”

He crossed his arms, never a good sign. “Where are they now?” His voice sounded like I'd let Bonnie and Clyde escape after still another bank robbery.

And I answered, completely forgetting that the clubbies had no idea what had happened. “At the Treasure Trove. You see, Bridgy found the body—”

The entire book club jumped from their chairs. Everyone started speaking at once, with noisy versions of “Body?” “What?” “Who?” “That can't be.” It was their unique adaptation of “Liar, liar pants on fire.” I wanted to throw a pitcher of lemonade on them. That would quench their curiosity.

Frank Anthony ignored them for the moment and instructed me to put the “Closed” sign on the door and to lock it for good measure, then he crossed the room with a powerful stride until he was nose to nose with the clubbies. He held up one hand, silencing them instantly. It occurred to me that I could have used him at some of the more rambunctious book club meetings.

“Ladies, there has been an incident in the parking lot. The driver of your tour van is being . . . cared for. I am sorry to inconvenience you, but it is imperative that you all remain here until my deputies have an opportunity to speak with you.”

I was more than a little surprised he didn't get the same back talk that Ryan was subjected to a few minutes earlier.

There was a knock on the door. I stood, but Ryan waved me back into my chair and opened the door to a deputy I didn't recognize. He stepped inside and spoke in hushed tones. “Tell the boss we've set up a perimeter. The medical
examiner is on the scene, and the DOA will be transported to the county morgue as soon as the photographer is done.”

It sounded like I was living in an episode of
Major Crimes.
If only Flynn and Provenza would come out of the kitchen squabbling while they chomped on purloined
Cubano
sandwiches. Then I'd know I'd hit the play button on the DVR and fallen asleep on the couch.

Ryan nodded. “You better stay here for now. Control the door. Don't let anyone in or out without the lieutenant's say-so.”

Miguel came out of the kitchen. “I straightened the kitchen. I have two apple pies in the oven. I can take them out in a few minutes. Then the kitchen will be ready.”

“Ready?”

He read my blank stare correctly. “
Chica,
Ryan and Lieutenant Anthony are going to want to talk to all of us . . .”

“Us? You weren't even on the trip.”

“But I was here. Whatever went on, it happened right here after you got back from the museum. So they will want to talk to all of us. They will want privacy, and we have only the kitchen to offer. Unless you want them to use that cubbyhole you and Bridgy insist on calling an office.”

I envisioned the oversized desk and chair cramped into the tiny room, maybe five square feet larger than the desk. Then I saw all the papers scattered on top of the desk and the ever-present array of tanks and shorts that Bridgy and I left hanging on wall hooks in case we needed a quick change after a kitchen mishap. And if I remembered correctly, there was something I kept forgetting to bring home tucked in the well of the desk—a denim laundry bag holding a few odds and ends of dirty clothes. Okay. I'd rather not have Lieutenant Judgmental conduct his interviews in the office.

I stood and grabbed the back of my chair. “You're right. Let's bring a couple of chairs into the kitchen.”

Miguel grabbed a chair under each arm and followed me through the swinging door. As always, the kitchen was immaculate. I marveled at Miguel's ability to prepare such tasty food while keeping the kitchen in tip-top shape. I shuddered at the thought of how it had looked when Miguel had an accident a while back and Aunt Ophie filled in for him. Oh, the food was delicious, but the kitchen looked as though an F3 category tornado spun through every twenty minutes or so. Miguel opened the oven, and the aroma of apples and cinnamon filled the room. He placed the pies on cooling trays and turned off the oven.

Ryan pushed the door open. “Lieutenant is looking for you two. Oh, do I smell fresh pie? Um-um.”

Miguel knew Ryan was one of his biggest fans. “Perhaps when your work is done, there will be time for pie.”

Ryan widened his eyes. “Sounds as good as the pie smells. Sassy, Lieutenant Anthony wants to talk to you first.”

My interrogation was about to begin.

Chapter Five

Miguel took my arm, and we approached the lieutenant together.

“We can put some chairs in the kitchen so you will have privacy for your interviews. Will you require anything else? A table? Perhaps some lemon water and cups?” Miguel was always a cordial host, no matter how trying the circumstances.

“All good suggestions. Ryan will give you a hand.”

Miguel picked up one end of the Robert Frost table, and Ryan grabbed the other. Frank Anthony and I followed them into the kitchen. Miguel filled a pitcher with ice, lemon slices and water. He set it on the counter next to a tray of glasses, then he excused himself, saying he would wait in the dining room.

At least with Ryan in the room I felt like I had a friend
nearby, but that was short-lived. The lieutenant asked Ryan who was on the door. Ryan answered, “Doyle.”

Frank Anthony thought for a moment. “New, but competent. He should be able to handle this group. Leave him on the door and go to the Treasure Trove. Bring Bridgy and Miss Ophelia here.”

As I watched Ryan leave, I could only imagine what Bridgy and Ophie would think when they saw the commotion in the parking lot. Then I realized that after seeing Oscar's body, nothing was likely to shake Bridgy. Ophie was another matter entirely.

Frank indicated that I should sit down. I countered by offering a glass of water, which he declined. I poured myself a glass and sat at the table. The lieutenant stood over me for what seemed like eons. Finally, he sat opposite me.

I half expected some flippant remark about me attracting murder like honey draws flies, but he was direct and to the point.

“Tell me exactly what happened. How you found the body.”

When I said I wasn't sure what he wanted to know, he said, “Start at the beginning.”

Where was the beginning? I organized my thoughts and found a place I thought would work. I told him how Oscar teased us about Thomas Edison really being from New Jersey and entertained us with stories about Atlantic City on a slow ride home due to the car breakdown on McGregor. I even mentioned Angeline Drefke's tale of marital woes. That caught Frank's attention.

“Let me be clear. This woman's husband ruined their life by gambling in the same place Oscar used to work.”

I sighed. “Well, in the same city where Oscar worked. Atlantic City. Oscar and Angeline each mentioned a few casinos. You'd have to ask her about that.”

He made a note in that small black leather-bound pad he always carried. Come to think of it, Ryan had one, too. Must be standard-issue. Oh, he was asking another question.

“What happened when you pulled into the parking lot? Who got out of the van first?”

“Everyone sort of tumbled out. Someone suggested that the ladies store their things in their cars so as not to have to lug them into the café and out again.”

“Who? Whose idea was that?”

I thought for a few seconds. “Margo. No. It was Tammy. Oh, not really. She was responding to Sonja, who said . . . I remember exactly. Sonja said: ‘I'll put my things in my car and meet you inside.' Everyone thought she was brilliant, and they scattered around the parking lot and then, I guess they drifted in here.”

“You guess?”

“I was settling up with Oscar . . .” I could see everything clearly. Bridgy was carrying the remnants of our snacks to the café. The clubbies were laughing back and forth across the parking lot while they stowed their gear in car trunks and backseats. And Oscar and I were alone in the van. He was sitting in the driver's seat, and I was standing on the bottom step counting out his payment and adding in a hefty tip. My stomach lurched. I may have been the last person to see him alive.

Frank slid my glass of water right across Frost's fruit poems that were laminated on the tabletop. It landed next
to my hand. I took a long drink followed by a deep breath. The panic didn't subside.

“This may have been my fault . . .”

“How's that?”

“I paid Oscar in cash. Right out there in the parking lot for all the world to see. For any thief to see. Did he have the money I gave him?”

Frank scribbled on his pad. “We'll find out.” And he began to ask me detailed questions about everything I'd told him right up to when I finished paying Oscar and went to the café. “When you got inside, who did you see? Were all the ladies present?”

“There were some clubbies . . .” He raised an eyebrow of enquiry. “Book club members already seated in the book nook. I don't remember who exactly. I went into the kitchen to get them a pitcher of lemonade. Bridgy, Ophie and Miguel were all in the kitchen. Ophie was deciding what to take home for dinner. That I do remember.”

“And then,” Frank prompted.

“I fixed the lemonade and brought it to the clubbies.”

“Were all the ladies here?”

“Yes. They were sitting and chatting. Waiting for me to start the formal meeting, I guess.”

He changed direction. “If you were in here with your book club members, how is it you were outside next to the van when Ryan and I pulled up?”

“Bridgy's sunglasses.” I explained how Bridgy went looking for her glasses and Ophie heard her call for help. “So I ran out to see what happened.”

He made me repeat at least three times what I saw and heard when I got to the van. It was like having a jackhammer
rat-a-tat-tat inside my brain. After I repeated my story for the final time, we sat quietly for a few seconds. I was hanging on to my composure by a thread. My brain was tired, too tired to keep answering Frank's questions.

Suddenly, he seemed to relax and tilted his chair back, raising the front legs right off the floor. I took it to mean that my ordeal was over. The inquisition was done. Then he dropped forward. The chair legs banged on the floor, startling me from my fugue state. “Tell me again. What did Bridgy say?”

“She said, ‘He's dead. I'm so sorry.' Oh.” For the first time I realized how he was hearing what Bridgy said. “No. No. She wasn't saying she was sorry because she'd . . . done anything. She was sorry he was dead.”

Frank persisted. “But she didn't say, ‘I'm sorry he's dead.' According to you, she said, ‘He's dead. I'm so sorry.' Correct?”

I tapped my fingers on the tabletop and began tracing the picture of a carefree Robert Frost smiling at me from the cover of an ancient issue of
Life
magazine. There was no way around it. I hung my head. “Yes. That's what Bridgy said.”

Finally, the lieutenant thanked me for my time and stood up. Rather than dismissing me, he walked me into the dining room and pointed to the Emily Dickinson table. Ophie was sitting at Robert Louis Stevenson. Bridgy was leaning against the counter near the register, with Ryan by her side. I wondered if he was guarding her. When she wasn't dabbing at her reddened eyes, Bridgy was shredding a tissue.

Frank asked Bridgy to come into the kitchen and told Ryan to join them. Just before he went through the kitchen
door, he told Doyle, who had moved from the doorway and was standing by the clubbies, to call for another deputy to come into the café.

I sat quietly for a few moments, straining to hear whatever I could from the kitchen, but except for the occasional unintelligible rumble of Frank Anthony's baritone, there was nothing to hear.

I hadn't noticed Miguel sitting in the book nook. He poured a glass of lemonade and set it in front of me. I smiled my thanks and looked at the kitchen door. “I'm worried about Bridgy.”

He patted my hand. “
Chica
, I promise, all will be fine.”

There was a knock on the door. I half rose from my seat, ready to answer it, or at least tell whoever that we were closed, but Deputy Doyle was Johnny-on-the-spot. He opened the door, and a female deputy about my age came in. She looked familiar. Then I remembered Bridgy and I met Deputy Wei, a soft-spoken Asian woman, when we first came to Fort Myers Beach. In fact, we met her the day we moved into our first apartment in the Beausoleil near the northern tip of the island. I was glad to see a familiar face. I couldn't hear what the deputies said to each other, but he went back to stand near the clubbies, and she stood by the door.

Clearly, we were under guard. It wasn't a great feeling. I supposed the lieutenant sat me here, all alone, for a reason. Still, I was debating moving over to sit with Ophie when Ryan opened the kitchen door, looked at Wei and waved her into the kitchen.

I took the opportunity to move over to Ophie. As I pulled out a chair, I looked at the deputy, but he remained motionless, his face immobile. Apparently, he hadn't been told to keep us apart.

“How was Bridgy? I mean before Ryan went to get you.”

Ophie shook her head. “The poor lamb. She was trembling, not that I blame her. And she kept saying how sorry she was.”

“Sorry Oscar was dead?” I had my fingers crossed.

“No. Just sorry. Y'all have to admit this is a sorry mess we're in.”

“Bridgy's in the sorriest mess. She keeps apologizing as if she had something to do with . . .”

Ophie's sharp intake of breath told me she got my point. “She has trouble swatting at flies. Bridgy'd never hurt a living thing.”

“We know that. How do we convince the law?”

The kitchen door opened. Deputy Wei had Bridgy by the arm and walked her into the alcove leading to the restrooms. Bridgy never glanced in our direction. The dazed look on her face told me all I needed to know.

Ophie whispered, “That poor child needs our help.”

Not our help
, I thought. Bridgy needed a lawyer. And she needed one right away. How long could the deputies keep badgering her? Her interview with Frank was already much longer than mine had been. And since they'd given her an escort to the bathroom, Bridgy was likely to be under the deputy's watchful eyes for a while yet to come.

I pulled out my cell phone and hit speed dial. Cady Stanton, reporter for the
Fort Myers Beach News,
answered on the second ring. “Hey, Sassy, how was your tour of the Edison and Ford estates?”

“Forget about that. Why aren't you here? There's been a murder and Bridgy is a suspect and where are you? We need help. Bridgy needs a lawyer. Shouldn't you be covering this for the paper?”

“I'm off today. I'm on the mainland hacking my way through the golf fund-raiser for Pastor John's church. Thank goodness it's a scramble. Golf's not my best sport. But I don't look so bad when we play best ball. If only they'd have a soccer fund-raiser. Now there I would shine.”

I lost patience. “Cady, about Bridgy . . .”

My tone brought him back to reality. “Who could suspect Bridgy of doing anything wrong? Murder? Don't be silly.”

“Frank Anthony.” I tossed the right name at him. Cady wasn't a fan.

“I'm playing with Owen Reston. Do you want me to ask him to come by and talk to Bridgy? You know he doesn't really do criminal.”

Owen was an Afghanistan war vet and an attorney who served as counsel to some of the veteran support groups on the island. He may not be well versed in criminal law, but I was desperate.

“Bring him, if he'll come. Someone has to stop the lieutenant. He's badgering Bridgy and making her sick.” I knew I was poking Cady with the “Frank Anthony” stick, but I needed to get help quickly. I clicked off the phone and watched Deputy Wei guiding Bridgy out of the restroom alcove. They were heading toward the kitchen again. Bridgy was ashen and looked as weak legged as a newborn calf. I'd had enough.

“Deputy Wei, Bridgy's lawyer is on his way. He's directed that there be no further questions until he arrives.”

Wei looked confused for a moment and waved Doyle to stand by Bridgy while she went inside, I guess to confer with the lieutenant. In two seconds she was back with Frank at her heels.

He stood over me, arms crossed, never a reassuring pose. “Who's the lawyer?”

“Owen. Owen Reston.”

He nodded. “If Miss Mayfield needed an attorney, we would have advised her of such. Still, leave it to you to stick your nose in where it doesn't belong.”

Miss Mayfield? Bridgy was in deeper trouble than I thought.