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Chapter Sixteen

I consider Holly's mother a friend. Not only is Maggie a talented instructor of yoga and meditation who has taught me wonderful approaches to both, she's also an enthusiastic member of several of our book clubs. I found Maggie in my cell and was just about to press the picture of the little green phone under her name when Miguel came out of the kitchen and asked if I needed a ride home.

I told him I was driving Bridgy's car home.

“Then you heard from her?”

“I did. She's fine. I think this meeting was Owen's way of preparing her so that if she needs a criminal lawyer down the road, it won't be such a shock, since she now has the lawyer on retainer. Not like bringing in a stranger.”

“
Ay!
May she never need this lawyer. Still, for the peace of mind, it will be money well spent. Can I get you anything before I leave?”

“No, thanks. You were a huge help today, and the potato chips were a stroke of genius. Calmed those kids right down. They are such fun, but they can be a handful, especially when I have other things on my mind.”

Miguel laughed. “Think how their poor mothers feel.
Mañana, chica
.”

I locked the door behind him, sat down and called Maggie. She answered the phone immediately. “Sassy, good. Holly swore she would deliver my message, but, well, you know kids. She might actually think she delivered the message, but . . .”

“Miguel and I were just talking about the difficulties of raising kids, which is pretty funny considering neither of us have any. So what's up? Holly made it sound serious.”

I could picture Maggie leaning her head toward her left shoulder with her shiny blond ponytail dangling. I'd observed it dozens of times. The deeper the lean, the more serious her thoughts.

“Well, it could be nothing, but Tammy Rushing has, how can I say this? She's disappeared.”

“Disappeared, as in vanished?”

“Without a trace. The cottage she rented for the season is empty. She's gone and so are her belongings and her lease isn't up for another two weeks. I heard it directly from Jake Gilman, who owns the cottages. He takes my “Yoga for Arthritis” class. You know Jake's cottages, the ones near the bay, past the library? Anyway, Tammy's been complaining about a dripping faucet. It was interrupting her sleep. Not the speediest of landlords, Jake finally got around to sending the plumber this morning, but Tammy didn't answer the door. Plumber called Jake, who went over to let the plumber in with a passkey. Tammy was gone. Not
a good-bye to anyone, and she didn't leave so much as a hairpin behind.”

I was stunned. “She didn't tell Jake she was leaving?”

“No. He said that was the weird part. When people have to leave early, they always try to get some money back. Tammy didn't even ask for the return of her security deposit. Left the key on the kitchen table and a quart of milk turning sour in the fridge.”

I thought for a second or two. “Maybe she had a family emergency and was too distracted to think about money. She just needed to get home ASAP.”

“Noooo. There's something more. I was at the community center a little while ago, dropping off some old jigsaw puzzles for the rec room. The sewing class was letting out, and I bumped into some of Tammy's pals. You know that Margo and her friend Sonja. There was another woman . . .”

“Could it be Angeline Drefke? She takes the sewing class with them. I know because they are all in the Cool Reads/Warm Climate Book Club. They once did a little show-and-tell with some aprons they made. And every one of them was with us at the Edison and Ford estates.”

“Exactly. They were all on the trip when Oscar was killed, and now Tammy has bolted for no reason anyone can think of. Well, I can tell you the ladies thought it was highly suspicious. They didn't think she was scheduled to leave so soon and were more than willing to point a finger straight at her. Seems to me, she didn't have a true friend among them. Snowbirds.”

I couldn't help but notice that Maggie used the same tone of exasperation when she talked about snowbirds that Holly did when she talked about mothers. It was totally comical. Although Tammy Rushing's disappearance was not.

“Maggie, do you think, er, is it possible that Tammy had a falling-out with Jake? We all know he can be a tad gruff. Maybe she just found another rental for the last few days of her stay. Under those circumstances she wouldn't be looking for a refund. She'd just go.”

Maggie's “Well . . .” was drawn out into several syllables. Then the rest of the sentence tumbled out. “Why isn't she answering calls, texts or emails from her snowbird buddies in the sewing club?”

She had me there.

Then she dropped the bomb, and it wasn't made of yarn. “Could her leaving so hurriedly have anything to do with Oscar's murder? Do you think we should tell Ryan?”

I didn't hesitate. “Great idea. I'll let Ryan know. He and Frank Anthony can worry about Tammy Rushing. I have enough on my mind with Bridgy being questioned all the time.”

Maggie said she would be coming to the Potluck Book Club and asked if Miguel was going to make any special Julia Child dish. I think she was disappointed that I had no idea.

*   *   *

Every time I turn my key in the lock and open the door to the Turret I get a warm feeling in my heart. Not only are Bridgy and I lucky enough to live in paradise, we also have an expansive view from five stories above. I opened the verticals that kept the afternoon sun from fighting with the air-conditioning for control of the apartment temperature, and I sighed. Yep. It was all still there. Sea, sand and greenery.

I headed for the shower, still thinking how lucky we were.
I found myself humming the theme from
Star Trek
. For a moment, I wondered how the music came to be rattling around in my brain. Usually, I was more of a country music singer in the shower, a little Carrie Underwood, or some Martina McBride. Then I remembered the men on the
Fisherman's Dream
teasing their friend Kirk. I quoted, “To boldly go where no man has gone before,” and turned the water full blast, ready to scrub away the stress of the day.

Of course, the thought of the
Star Trek
groupies reminded me that I hadn't had any success in finding out anything about the fight Oscar had with his shipmate. I still didn't know if there truly was a fight. If so, who was the other deckhand? It was like the entire trip had been a waste of my time.

I was massaging conditioner into the ends of my hair when I heard my smartphone. I loved my new ringtone, Cookie Monster singing his theme song. It rang again while I was tidying the bathroom, and I sang along, but not before yelling, “I'll call back,” as if Cookie could relay the message.

Much as I wanted to slide into my footie pajamas, there was always the chance Bridgy might bring Owen home with her, so I opted for clean shorts and a bright pink tee, while I decided how to spend my evening.

I remembered that Bridgy's mom's idea of crisis resolution had always been to fill the days with busywork until the crisis went away. While we were waiting for our college applications to come back yea or nay, she found dozens of chores to keep us occupied. First, Bridgy's grandma needed her closets cleaned, then a neighbor needed babysitters for her five-year-old twins, and of course Sister Cornelius was running a bake sale for the elementary school summer
camp and needed dozens and dozens of cupcakes, along with a pineapple upside-down cake or two.

Once Bridgy's mom got to town, I wouldn't have the time or the peace and quiet to keep up with my book club reading. I decided to get through a few chapters of
My
Life in France
while I waited for Bridgy to come home.

I barely had the book in my hand when Cookie Monster started singing again. Cady. I told him that Bridgy was on her way home. Then I complimented him on his terrific handling of the kids earlier in the day.

“You really connect easily. That is quite a gift.”

I could almost see him blushing right through the phone. Then he said, “Ah, listen, Sassy . . .” and I knew he switched from blushing to running his palm across his head, smoothing his hair front to back as if he'd managed to survive a windstorm.

I gave him a noncommittal “Uh-hm.”

“I thought it was a bad idea for us to go on the
Fisherman's Dream,
because I knew you would start nosing around, and I was afraid you would get into trouble. That's why I went with you.”

He paused, and when I didn't respond, he continued, the relief in his voice palpable. “As it turns out, I'm glad we went, because you didn't get into trouble, and now you have no reason to go near the boat again.”

When he stopped talking, I knew I'd have to say something. “Cady, thanks for indulging me today. I promise to give you no further cause for worry.”

We chatted for a few more minutes, and when we hung up, I was satisfied that he bought my shtick. Whatever I chose to do, it wouldn't be his concern.

I found
My Life in France
to be a fascinating book.
Julia Child may have written it with her grand-nephew, but her voice shines through every page. The history buff in me was captivated by the descriptions of life in post–World War Two France and the role of her husband, Paul, in what was essentially the American diplomatic corps. Nothing could prepare me for the fact that there was a time when Julia Child was a terrible cook. So I enjoyed her journey through the schools and kitchens of France.

Along with Julia, I was happily accompanying Paul on a business trip to Cannes when I heard Bridgy's key turn in the lock. I jumped from my corner of the couch and met her in the foyer. I looked over her shoulder. No Owen. And when I took a good look at her face, I was glad that she was alone. I took her arm and guided her into the kitchen.

“Sit.” I poured a glass of orange juice and placed it on the table in front of her. “Here.”

I noticed her hand was shaking as she picked up the glass. I sat opposite her.

“Bridgy, what is it? You look like you've been shot out of a cannon.”

She drained the glass and slammed it on the table so forcefully I thought it might crack.

“Everything was going so well. I actually like Georgette, and crazy as she is when it comes to Clarence Darrow, I think she is a competent attorney. But I never thought I'd actually need her to represent me.”

She held out her glass for more juice. I filled it from the container on the counter and placed it in front of her. This time she only sipped.

“Anyway, after our meeting, Owen and I went to Bahama Breeze for something to eat. We were hardly in our seats when his phone rang.”

She took a long sip of orange juice. “It was Frank Anthony. He said . . . he said that he wanted to give us a heads-up. Someone from the state attorney's office would be calling to ‘invite' me to their office to ‘discuss' Oscar's murder. Frank ended the call by warning Owen that it was time for the criminal lawyer.”

She put her head on the table and began to cry.

Not knowing what to say, I petted her head and crooned, “Don't worry, your mother will be here tomorrow. Everything will be all right.”

Chapter Seventeen

The next morning when I told Bridgy that she looked great and asked how she pulled herself together, she winked. “It's all a façade. Mom will be here in a few hours, and that is my first priority. I'll let Owen and Georgette worry about the state attorney for now.”

We got to the café extra early, probably because we were both so tense that we were moving at lightning speed. Bridgy threw the Escort's gear into park. Then she tapped my arm.

“Before we go in, I want you to come to the airport with me to pick up Mom. Okay?”

Instead of answering, I looked across the parking lot to the café. Bridgy followed my gaze.

“Oh, it'll be fine. Ophie is willing to work at the café. I asked if she wanted to ride over to the airport with me, but she said I should take you and offered to move her appointments around again to help us at the café.”

When I didn't reply, Bridgy read the big question mark on my face correctly and answered as if I had asked.

“I told you Ophie would be edgy with Mom around. She probably doesn't want to feel trapped in the car with only me to run interference between the two of them. They usually do really well if they are surrounded by lots of people in a large space.”

“And you need someone to come with you to pick up your mother because . . . ?”

“Because I might not be able to drive safely while she bombards me with questions about . . . about Oscar. Suppose I start to cry, right in the middle of all the traffic on Daniels Parkway? You know how crowded Daniels can get.” Bridgy gave me a look that was half pleading, half direct order.

I knew I had no choice. “Of course I'll go. And I'll drive. Now let's get ready for the breakfast crowd.”

The café was mobbed for most of the morning. Judge Harcroft, always set in his ways, came in at his usual time dressed in a dark blue suit complete with white shirt and a patriotic red, white and blue tie. No matter that he had retired from traffic court ages ago, he generally dressed as if he might be summoned to handle an emergency hearing at any moment. I came out of the kitchen with a tray stacked with breakfasts, and he stepped in my path, nearly causing a calamity. I stopped dead.

“Can I help you, Judge?” Although I knew exactly what his complaint would be.

He harrumphed not once but twice and pointed to the area of the café right next to the book nook. “You can see the problem for yourself. Someone is sitting at Dashiell Hammett. We have an agreement. That table is reserved
for me.” He looked at his wristwatch. “Especially at this time of the morning.”

I set my tray on the counter and looked him steadily in the eye. “Our agreement is that we will
try
not to seat guests at the table you prefer to use, but when we have an overflow crowd such as we do this morning, it is not always possible. Now, would you like to take a complimentary copy of the
News
and sit on the bench outside to read it until the table is vacant?”

He harrumphed once more, probably for emphasis, turned on his heel, took a newspaper from the pile by the cash register and walked out the door. I hustled to serve the food before it got cold.

Things eventually began to slow down. Soon enough, Judge Harcroft was able to spread his copy of the
Fort Myers Beach News
across the top of the Dashiell Hammett table while he waited to be served his standing order of Hammett Ham 'n Eggs over hard. He lingered longer than usual, and when I collected his payment at the register, he didn't forget to say good-bye with his standard, “Enjoy your day. I must
Dash
.” He took a step toward the door and then stopped. “Er. I hope we won't have this confusion about my table ever again.”

I looked to heaven for patience. Bridgy was a few feet down the counter packing a to-go order. She rolled her eyes and shrugged flamboyantly. If she could shrug off the judge's nonsense with all the turmoil she faced, I mentally dismissed him as one of life's minor irritants.

During the lull between late breakfast and early lunch, I refilled the salt and pepper shakers and lined the ketchup and mustard bottles where they would be easily accessible.
Bridgy was making the rounds of the few remaining occupied tables with the coffeepots, brown topped for regular in one hand, orange for decaf in the other. I heard her say, “More tea? Sure, no problem.” I poured hot water from the electric kettle into a carafe and pushed it across the counter to her.

She served the tea and walked slowly back to the counter, fiddling with her iPhone. I hoped she wasn't getting a troubling message from Owen or that criminal lawyer, what was her name? Georgette. I didn't want the state attorney's office spoiling Bridgy's first day with her mom.

When she got to me, she slipped the phone back in her pocket and beamed a smile wider than the countertop. “According to the airline app, Mom's plane is in the air. I'd better call Ophie and give her a deadline. Otherwise she'll come waltzing in whenever she chooses. I don't want Mom hanging out by the information desk waiting for me.”

The café filled up once again. Running from table to table, I didn't notice the time until the door opened and Hurricane Ophie blew in. My brain instantly paraphrased Bogie in
Casablanca
. Of all the outfits in all the world, she had to show up in black. Black lace yet. On a day we were all trying to cheer Bridgy up, Ophie was dressed as though she was about to attend Abraham Lincoln's funeral. Her black wrap dress was trimmed with black lace, and her waist was cinched with a black patent leather belt at least as wide as the three-inch heels on her matching spiked sandals. Black lace fingerless gloves reached her elbows, and her shoulder-length oat-colored hair was gathered up in some kind of black hairnet.

“Ophie's here to save the day. And don't y'all worry about my finery. I brought a full-length apron to protect my dress against spills and whatnot.”

Of course every head in the room turned toward her. Ophie did a couple of “look at my pretty dress” pirouettes into the center of the room and then stood still and gave a royal side-to-side wave to her adoring audience. I was surprised no one clapped. She pulled a gauzy white frou-frou apron from her enormous black patent leather tote. Then she tossed the tote at me from five feet away. I lunged and caught it, remembering that Ophie's well-mannered ladies' rules included “No well-mannered lady should carry a purse indoors.”

Bridgy came out of the kitchen and affected the southern drawl that sometimes overrode the cultured voice she developed in college when she was working at diminishing her Brooklyn accent. “Why, Aunt Ophie, look at you. Stunning, darlin', absolutely stunning.” And they did the big ole bear hug that they'd perfected long ago.

I heard Ophie whisper, “It will all be fine.” I hoped she was talking about Bridgy's predicament and not her own anxiety because Emelia would be landing shortly in Fort Myers.

Ophie pulled away from Bridgy and turned around, shaking her head back and forth. The lacy pouch resting on her neck captured her hair as it wiggled from side to side. “So, y'all tell me. What do you think of my snood?”

“Your . . . what?” I couldn't help myself, even though I really knew better.

“My snood. Don't you pay attention to fashion? A snood is the latest thing in headwear.”

Maybe in the 1940s
. I wisely kept my thoughts to myself.

A few minutes later, Bridgy pulled the Escort onto Estero Boulevard. “Unless the bridge is jam-packed, we
should get to the airport in plenty of time. Maybe we can relax. Have a cuppa before the plane lands.”

“Sounds terrific. So tell me, what is it with Ophie and her super outlandish getup? This mournful outfit is way over the top, even for her.”

“Don't even think about it. She just wants to shock Mom. If she didn't have to work today, she might have shown up in a bikini. We are only at the very beginning of the battle of the Brice babes.”

“Brice babes?”

“Their maiden name is Brice. The Brice babes is what Grandpa called them.”

I wondered how tough the fighting would get but was distracted by the miniature golf course as we approached Summerlin Road. I pointed off to the left. “Isn't that the ‘golf with the gators' place? That would make a nice outing for you and your mom. I bet she's never fed live gators before.”

“Come now. You've been at my mother's table for Thanksgiving. Feeding gators would be easy compared to trying to get my cousin George's twins to settle down and eat their dinner.”

We both laughed long and loud. It was wonderful to see Bridgy carefree if only for a while.

“Of course, the newly constructed connection from I-75 to the Terminal Access Road at Southwest Florida International Airport got us a bit confused, and it took us a little longer than we expected, but when Bridgy parked the car in the airport parking lot, she looked at the dashboard clock and whistled. “We have plenty of time to spare. We'll check the arrivals board, but I think Mom will be coming in on Concourse B.”

“Great. Isn't there a bagel place somewhere along there? We can get a coffee and maybe a nosh.”

“A nosh? Toto, we're not in Brooklyn anymore.” Bridgy gave a high-spirited laugh, stepped out of the car and rushed to the elevators. Energized by the thought of seeing her mother in a short while, she never even looked back to see if I was behind her. Although she did yell over her shoulder, “The bagel place is behind the TSA station. You're going to have to settle for a donut.”

I caught up with her just as the elevator door opened, and we rode down to the terminal walkway and entered the building. Bridgy headed right for the arrivals and departures boards, but a large white sign caught my eye. It said the Port Authority was in the midst of celebrating the tenth year of its partnership with Lee County Alliance for the Arts. They were sponsoring a decorative project called
Art in Flight,
and visitors would find paintings of talented local artists hanging on the walls along Terminal B and Terminal D.

“Mom should land in about twenty minutes.” The exhilaration in Bridgy's voice was palpable.

“Great. Let's take a look at the paintings.” I pointed to the sign. “Local talent. It's always so exciting to discover homegrown artists.”

“I thought you wanted coffee.” Bridgy grabbed my arm and tugged me toward the coffee bar nearest the spot where her mother would be deplaning.

I resisted. “We can always get coffee. These paintings aren't going to be here forever.” I tried to spend a few moments enjoying each painting, but Bridgy made it clear she was humoring me and hurried along as if her mother would magically appear next to the final canvas. She came
to a sudden stop in front of a cherubic blonde with lilac wings standing in a lush flower field. The fairy was waving to others who were flying far into the sky. I could feel her turn was coming, and coming soon.

Bridgy nudged me. “Look at the title.”
Let the Fairy in You Fly
. “When we left Brooklyn, everyone said we were looking for a fairy-tale life. And we found it here in Fort Myers Beach.” Her tone hardened. “And I'm not going to let Oscar's murder ruin it.”

Mentally, I saluted the artist. As a painter, Paula Eckerty has the ability to touch the soul.

Bridgy's phone pinged. She read her mother's text out loud. “On the ground. Hugs in a minute xoxo.”

We scanned the trickle of travelers coming around the TSA barrier. As the crowd swelled, we stretched on our tippy toes, as if our being an inch taller would make Emelia easier to see. Abruptly, Bridgy ran into the crowd waving wildly and shouting, “MOM. MOM.”

The second I saw her, I realized what Bridgy had been trying to explain about the difference between the sisters. I don't know why I never noticed it all these years. Emelia was dressed in a tan Chanel styled suit with broad-heeled sensible shoes. Barely there pearl button earrings set off her short pixie cut with longish side bangs that kept her gray hair neat and tidy. I doubt there were ever any “she took my best sweater” fights between these sisters.

Then I saw the woman striding confidently alongside Emelia. She had wild red hair, many shades brighter than my own, and was wearing a flowing caftan highly reminiscent of Van Gogh's
Starry Night
. Suddenly, I was the one waving wildly and shouting, “MOM. MOM.”