Read to Death (5 page)

Chapter Eight

I was tempted to ask him to wait until I'd finished cleaning the floor, but why prolong the agony? I set the broom aside, and before I could reach the kitchen, Frank stopped me.

“No need for privacy. This isn't an interview, it's more my observation.”

I could almost see Ryan's and Miguel's ears perk up. They were curious to find out what Frank observed, while I wasn't sure that I wanted to know what he
thought
he had observed. With my hands clasped behind my back like a schoolgirl in the principal's office, I stood in front of him and waited impatiently.

He raised a hand and ruffled his dark hair. I was always intrigued that when he was out of sorts Frank ruffled his hair; while Cady, in a similar situation, would repeatedly smooth his hair front to back. And they say women are hair obsessed.

Frank's tone was gentler than I was used to. “I know how close you and Bridgy are, and I know you thought you were being helpful when you sent for Owen to represent her. But she discovered the body, which makes her a key witness, vital to our inquiry. I am asking nicely. Please don't jump into this investigation with both feet and no thought.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but he held up a hand. “I know you mean well, but for Bridgy's sake, I am telling you to stay out of this.” He did one of those military about-face turns and said, “Ryan.”

The two of them were gone in a flash. Ryan scarcely had a chance to wave good-bye.

I was livid. I grabbed the electric broom, turned it on and was pushing it around the floor with such ferocity that Miguel came up behind me, took it out of my hand and shut it off.

“
Chica
, he is doing his job. Believe me, he was not put on this earth specifically to annoy you. Just as you were not put on this earth to investigate murders. And yet, he annoys you and you stick your nose in where it doesn't”—when I squinted my eyes at Miguel and pursed my lips, he changed his direction. “Er, you stick your nose in where
he
doesn't think it belongs.”

Good editing on Miguel's part.

“Why don't you go find Bridgy, and I will finish up here.” He lifted the electric broom. “With the mood you are in, you are using this as a weapon with the floor as your worst enemy.” He gave me a soft smile. “Go,
chica.
I can take care of this.”

I knew Miguel was right. I really needed to see if Bridgy was okay. I gave him a kiss on the cheek and gathered my
things. When I left the Read 'Em and Eat, the parking lot was much less frenetic. Most of the county vehicles were gone, but a large part of the parking lot, including Oscar's van, was surrounded by yellow crime scene tape. I could see several rubber-gloved technicians moving around both inside and outside the van. Two sheriff's deputies stood at either end of the parking lot, keeping a watchful eye on the area. It took me a moment to realize that, under the broad-brimmed Smokey Bear hat, Tina Wei was the deputy nearest me. I waved and started to walk over to the Treasure Trove when I realized I'd better ask about our morning rush, so I turned back.

Before I could ask my question, Tina said, “I know it was a rough day for you. Sorry if I made it rougher. It was just, well, I was surprised to see Cady. Besides, none of us knew you'd called a lawyer.”

I shaded my eyes from the sun and decided to put it all behind us. “It was a difficult day for everyone. Especially Bridgy. I'm worrying about tomorrow. I have the Books Before Breakfast Club meeting in the café. Are we going to be able to open in the morning? Or should I call the club members and cancel?”

“What did Lieutenant Anthony say?”

I sighed. I hadn't thought to ask. “He didn't.”

Tina asked for my cell phone number and assured me that she would find out the status of both the parking lot and the café. She promised to call me within the hour.

Aunt Ophie unlocked the Treasure Trove door and peeked over my shoulder. “No one followed you, did they?”

I was about to say, “Who? Who would follow me?” when Cady surprised me with a kiss on the cheek and asked, “What happened after I left?”

I nudged him away. “Nothing happened. The interviews went on forever. Then we were finally allowed to leave. Miguel is on cleanup duty, and Tina Wei is going to let me know if the parking lot will be back to normal by the time we open in the morning. Nothing sharpens folks' appetite for breakfast like a wide expanse of yellow crime scene tape blocking off the parking lot. I guess we should be grateful that there isn't a chalk body outline on the ground.”

To distract myself from the thought, I looked around the Treasure Trove, which was part consignment shop and part boutique with just enough beachy shtick thrown in to have something to attract every shopper. I noticed that the wide glass jewelry case held several new pieces of shell and wire jewelry made by a handyman named Tom Smallwood who traveled the islands by boat, selling his labor and his wares. A while back he found a human skull on Mound Island. It seems he carried it around with him for months before the sheriff's office found out and took it away. It turned out to be an ancient Calusa Indian skull and now sits in a museum somewhere. As a result, some people around here call him Skully, but he doesn't seem to mind a bit.

Ophie offered me a cup of chamomile tea. “Or would you prefer dandelion? I think I have some lemongrass, and I know I have peppermint . . .”

She was halfway to the back room when I stopped her by saying, “No. No tea, thank you. I'm really looking for Bridgy.”

Ophie waved me along behind her. “Well, y'all come on back, then. After we called her momma, I sent Bridgy and Owen into the back room. Cady and I were giving them some privacy to talk about Bridgy's case.”

That stopped me. “Bridgy's case? I wanted her to have a lawyer as . . . as a preventative measure. And now there is a case against her? How did that happen? Was Frank Anthony here?”

Even as I asked the question, I knew it wasn't possible. He'd only left the café a few minutes before I had.

Ophie waved my fears off like so much nonsense. “Don't go getting your feathers ruffled. No one is bothering Bridgy. Not if I can help it. We do need to be prepared, and that is what Owen is doing. Preparing her. Y'all know that handsome lieutenant is going to come looking to ask her more questions. It's just a matter of time. Bridgy needs to know how to answer.”

“Answer? She tells the truth. She hasn't done anything wrong.”

Cady stepped up. “It's not always that simple. Owen is coaching Bridgy how to answer. Things like why did she wait until Oscar was alone to go out to the van?”

“Because that's when she noticed her sunglasses were missing. Duh. Bridgy going to the van had nothing to do with Oscar.”

“Take a breath.” Cady could tell I was getting worked up. “
We
know
that's why she went outside, but
we don't know
how the lieutenant is going to ask the question. It's not likely that he'll just ask why she went outside. That's what the prep is for. To get her ready to answer whatever questions are asked with the complete truth but in a way that the truth puts Bridgy in a favorable light.”

Before I could absorb the intent of his words, Bridgy came bounding out of the back room and fell on me the way Rosie, a part shepherd, part terrier mix we had for most of my years in elementary school, used to do. I could
barely get in the front door and there was Rosie jumping on me. Bridgy not only did the same jump-on-me thingy, she had the same look on her face that Rosie had: “I'm so happy you are home. I'm so glad you didn't abandon me.”

She squeezed just short of breaking at least a few of my ribs, then Bridgy let go and stretched out to hold me at arm's length. “You are the best friend ever. I owe you a zillion quarts of butter pecan ice cream. Thank you. Thank you.”

I was starting to think Ophie had slipped some happy pills in Bridgy's herb tea when Owen came out of the back room. “Sassy, I'm glad to see you. I've been getting all of Bridgy's thank-yous, but I keep telling her the reason I'm here is because you sent for me.”

“Well, like Bridgy, I'm grateful you came to help.” I'd watched enough courtroom dramas on television to know that I shouldn't ask about what he and Bridgy had discussed. So, with us all thinking about lawyer/client confidentiality, the conversation fell flat in a hurry.

Ophie came to the rescue by offering tea and steering us into the back room. We crowded around an antique French Provincial coffee table that she used to both impress and entertain her more upscale clients. Before I had a chance to admire the inlay design, Ophie threw a length of thick quilt on the table and covered it with a strip of green oilcloth. I was willing to bet that her clients never had to deal with balancing their teacups on the lumpy, bumpy combination of quilt and oilcloth, but, then again, we weren't clients.

I asked Cady and Owen how their golf game went.

“To be honest”—Cady blushed ever so slightly—“I was glad to get your call. Even playing scramble, I was the worst player of the foursome.”

Bridgy asked who completed their foursome.

“Mark Clamenta and some friend of his from the VVA.”

As soon as he mentioned Mark's name, I stole a glance at Ophie. We all met Mark some time ago, but I suspected she and Mark had become friendlier in recent months. She never said, so I was never going to ask. Still, at the mention of his name, she lowered her eyelids and controlled a smile so that it stayed teeny, almost unnoticeable.

Bridgy raised a questioning brow. “VVA?”

Owen answered, “Vietnam Veterans of America. When they came home, a lot of the Vietnam vets didn't feel comfortable in the American Legion or the VFW, you know, the Veterans of Foreign Wars. They felt that their war was different from the wars that came before, so finally, in the late 1970s, they formed their own organization.”

Cady chimed in, “My editor is a member. They do a lot of great work both for the vets and in the community at large. We give them a lot of press.”

I was relieved he didn't add his usual, “You'd know that if you read the
Fort Myers Beach News
.” Cady's job as a reporter depended on readership, and he wasn't above reminding me that I had a responsibility to read the news.

As we finished our tea, I could see Bridgy was fading fast. “Owen, I was wondering . . . would it be all right if Bridgy and I went home? It's been such a long day.”

He grinned. “I'm sure it has. If you should hear from Lieutenant Anthony, Bridgy has my cell number. I put it in her phone. Here, let me put it in yours.”

As Owen handed my phone back to me, it rang. It was Tina Wei with good news. I hung up and said, “The parking lot will be cleared within two hours. No remnants of the crime when we come to work tomorrow.”

It was the first sign that we were on our way back to normal.

Ophie refused my offer to help tidy up, so we said our good-byes. We walked across the parking lot, avoiding the yellow-taped area. An unfamiliar deputy was now standing where I'd seen Tina earlier.

When we got to Bridgy's shiny red Escort ZX2, she handed me the keys. “I can't.”

I wasn't the least bit surprised. She curled up in the passenger's seat, and right before she closed her eyes, she asked, “Can I borrow a pair of your Winnie the Pooh footie pajamas? I need to feel snuggly tonight.”

Chapter Nine

The café was busier than usual the next morning, with every table occupied, and within five minutes after we opened, there was a line of customers outside the door. Some folks came for breakfast. Many more came for gossip but were willing to order breakfast as a side benefit. Bridgy and I could have used roller skates to speed around the dining room.

At one point we nearly collided at the end of the service counter.

“We could really use an extra pair of hands today.”

Bridgy shook her head. “Remember how that turned out the one time we tried? Ugh.”

“I remember, but the Books Before Breakfast Club will be here soon. I don't like to leave them on their own, but with this crowd I've barely been able to save empty chairs in the book nook. One of the men sitting at Ernest
Hemingway commandeered a chair from the nook to pile up his beach towels and laptop.”

Behind me I heard the front door open, and in waltzed Ophie wearing a frilly little French maid apron over a 1950-ish magenta circle skirt topped by a white lace bolero jacket over a shimmery pale plum shell. Today's spiky, strappy high heels were white with a blush of lavender. Obviously, Ophie had dressed for the crowd.

“I thought y'all might need some help this morning. I woke up, and when I checked the messages on the Treasure Trove phone line, why, half the island wants an appointment today to look over my wares.”

I blinked; did she actually puff out her chest on the word “wares”?

She came right to the counter. “If my telephone was ringing off the hook, I knew you would be overwhelmed for the breakfast rush. The Treasure Trove doesn't open 'til later in the morning, so here I am.”

Ophie to the rescue. I remembered the time Miguel broke his leg and Ophie drove all night from her home in north Florida to be here to help with the breakfast rush. Now she lived only a few blocks away, but the offer was no less meaningful.

“You, my adorable aunt, are a lifesaver.” Bridgy and Ophie did a brief version of their big ole bear hug. “Sassy has the Books Before Breakfast Club meeting in . . .”—she looked at the large-faced round clock over the front door—“in about ten minutes. And I do love your apron.”

Ophie beamed. “I took extra care knowing folks would be looking us over.” She pointed to the copies of the
Fort Myers Beach News
piled by the cash register. “The witness
list is in the newspaper for everyone to see. I can tell y'all, we're going to be very popular 'til the fussin' dies down.”

Only Ophie would think being witness in a murder investigation was a surefire path to the Miss Popularity crown. We'd been so busy, I never even thought to look at the newspaper. I hoped Cady had kept his word and hadn't crossed his personal friendships with his professional duties. He was always scrupulous, but he did have unusual access yesterday. While Bridgy and Ophie were deciding who would serve which tables, I picked up a paper, but before I could open it, Jocelyn Kendall, pastor's wife and general irritant, came through the café door.

“It's absurdly crowded in here this morning. I hope you saved our book nook from encroachment by your, ah, customers.” She pushed her straw-colored hair out of the way and cupped a hand over her ear. “Just listen to the clatter and chatter. A discussion of the work of a literary figure of Anna Quindlen's stature deserves a quieter, shall we say, ambiance.”

I said a silent prayer that I would be able to tolerate an hour of Jocelyn's company and offered her a cup of coffee.

“Oh heavens no. I find caffeine makes me edgy lately, so I'm cutting back. I will take some herbal tea.” And she marched past me, off to settle herself in the book nook.

I was pouring hot water over a tea bag that provided a nice blend of cinnamon, orange and raspberry when Lisette Ortiz stepped up to the counter and said, “Excuse me, Sassy . . .”

She'd come in so quietly I hadn't noticed her. That's the way I like my book club members, quiet and polite.

I put the kettle down and gave her my full attention.

“I was wondering how Bridgy is doing. I am amazed to see her here working. That must have been such an unspeakable experience yesterday . . . Well, I just want to say how sorry I am that you had to go through such a tragedy. To think a simple trip to the Edison and Ford estates could end like that.” She wrinkled her brow. “If there is any way I can help make the burden lighter, just let me know.”

I couldn't help but smile. For every Jocelyn, there were two people like Lisette, or so it seemed. People who made my life easier, happier.

As I walked to the book nook with Lisette, I scanned the dining room. Bridgy and Ophie had things well in hand. I served Jocelyn her tea and got my copy of
Still Life with Bread Crumbs
along with some pencils and paper for the clubbies. Augusta Maddox and Blondie Quinlin came in together, and as always, Augusta's voice filled the room. “I'm just saying there are better books we could be spending our time on.”

I could barely hear Blondie's laughing reply, but I thought she said, “You have no romance in your soul.”

Irene Lester, our newest book club member, was right behind them. I offered tea and coffee and set out a plate of Harper Lee Hush Puppies and honey butter. When everyone had a chance to take a bite or a sip, I opened with my usual question. “So, what did everyone think?”

Nothing.
Nada
.

It often took a while to get the conversation started. I tried again. “How did
Still Life with Bread Crumbs
compare to other books by Anna Quindlen you may have read?”

I was patient and counted in my head . . . one Mississippi, two Mississippi. In a very few seconds, Lisette raised
her hand and said, “Until now I've only read her nonfiction. I had no idea that she wrote such beautiful fiction.”

I asked what nonfiction she'd read, and Lisette gave us a wide smile that displayed her dimples. “When I graduated from college, my grandma, Josefina, gave me a slim volume titled
A Short Guide to a Happy Life
by Anna Quindlen. Grandma said that I should remember to live every moment, both the good and the bad. She insisted the book would help me do so.”

Irene Lester leaned so far forward I thought she would tumble off her chair. “And did it help? The book, I mean. Do you live life to the fullest?”

Lisette laughed. “I certainly try to, but I think the definition of ‘to the fullest' is different for each of us. And yes, I definitely think the book helped. I still browse through it from time to time.”

I made a mental note to order a couple of copies of
A Short Guide
for the bookshelves and an extra copy for myself. On days like today I could use some direction. I brought the conversation back to
Still Life with Bread Crumbs
. “And what about Rebecca Winter? Did she live life to the fullest?”

Jocelyn sniffed. “Well, if you count playing footsie with a younger man, I suppose you could say she did.”

Irene pushed back, a first for her. “Forget about the romance for a minute. Let's talk about her professional life. That certainly moved forward.”

And then conversation around me took off with a lot of back-and-forth among the clubbies. I could finally relax. I let my mind wander to the events of yesterday, wondering how much trouble would rain down on Bridgy before the murderer was caught.

“Isn't that right, Sassy?” I heard Jocelyn demand. I looked at her, and she was nodding her head for me to agree. Of course I had no idea what she was asking me, which turned out to be fine, because she went right on talking. “I mean, if Anna Quindlen was a journalist, isn't it likely she stole other people's lives and turned them into a story?”

“I doubt . . .”

I was cut off by Miss Augusta, who had far less patience with Jocelyn than any of us. “Stealing lives? Writers can't do that. It's like perjury, plagiarism, one of those things. Anyway, it's wrong, plain and simple. I think she is a respectable writer who makes up good stories.”

Blondie Quinlin added: “And I sure do like her last name. We are only a couple of letters apart from being sisters.”

While everyone but Jocelyn laughed at Blondie's joke, I made a few suggestions for next month's book from a list of books that had recently arrived on our shelves. As soon as I mentioned
Murder, She Wrote: Killer in the Kitchen
by Jessica Fletcher and Donald Bain, one of the newer books in the ongoing series, I got a quick response.

“That's it.” Augusta slapped her knee. “I love Jessica Fletcher. Is it a Cabot Cove mystery? I watch the reruns on television all the time. The stories that take place in Cabot Cove are my favorite.”

Irene chimed in. “That Doc Hazlitt. He's an eccentric one, he is. Oh my yes. Let's read it.”

Heads nodded all around. I told them I had a few copies for sale and I would call Sally Caldera at the library and ask her to reserve any copies she might have.

Jocelyn looked at her wristwatch. “Oh, it's late. I must fly. Pastor John is hosting an ecumenical prayer service.
How would it look if I didn't attend?” And she hurried out the door without so much as a wave good-bye.

Lisette and Irene opted to buy the
Murder, She Wrote
book before leaving. I got two copies down from the shelves and took a quick peek at the dining room. The crowd had thinned out. We even had one empty table. I prayed the “scene of the crime” nosy parkers were finished coming around. Their business wasn't worth the stress. Hopefully the lunch rush would be normal customers trying to decide whether they wanted a
Swiss Family Robinson
Cheeseburger, an
Old Man and the Sea
Chowder or a
My Secret Garden
Salad.

Miss Augusta and Blondie Quinlin often stayed for breakfast. I suggested they move over to the Barbara Cartland table since it was the only one available. Augusta was partial to the Emily Dickinson table, so I wondered if she was going to opt to wait for her favorite. But I guess the theme of the Anna Quindlen book caught her spirit, and she followed Blondie to Barbara Cartland. I heard her say, “This ain't so bad.”

I was straightening the book nook when Bridgy tapped me on the shoulder. “I need you in the kitchen.” I followed along, ready for the usual “We're running low on this and are already out of that” conversation that we often had several times a day. But as soon as I got a good look at her face, I knew it was something more.

Miguel was busy moving between the stove and the counter, plating a couple of orders of
Green Eggs and Ham.
We stayed by the door to be completely out of his way as he ran back and forth.

“Listen, Ophie went back to the Treasure Trove to
cancel her appointments for the day. She'll be back soon and can help out until closing.”

“I don't think it's really necessary. The endless trail of lookie-loos seems to have tapered off. We can handle it.”

“That's just it. It wasn't necessary when she left but now there is no ‘we' for the rest of the day. Owen called about ten minutes ago. Frank Anthony wants to speak to me again. This time he wants me to come to the sheriff's office. Owen will be here in a few minutes.”

And Bridgy burst into tears.